#punishing it for discomfort when strangers pet it

[gulopets]

When a dog bites with 'no warning.'

[aemondslefteyeball]

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi (9)

Masterlist

[Modern!Aemond x Fem!Reader]

[Warnings: Aftermath of death, nonconsensual drugging, grief, sort of sexual content? dubious consent to it.]

[Summary: Florence and the Machine on darkmode]

Word Count: 5.1K

Chapter 9

Rocks clattered against each other as you took each individual footstep. In the distance, a fire shone and joy rang clear through the twilight. Low chanting danced on the breeze as you moved closer towards the firelight. The closer you got, the stranger the chanting grew. The tone had a phlegmy quality, and the beat of the music was supplemented with intermittent squelching. You restrained the shudder that wracked your body at the sound of it. Ducking behind a rock, you spied over towards the group dancing merrily around a bonfire. Behind them stood a menacing statue. It seemed to absorb every drop of light the fire put out, greedily awaiting more as the people before it contorted before the monstrosity. Unable to make out the statue, your gaze shifted to the people who danced before it. Each group member was short in stature and every single one of them bore a large, bald head. All concept of stealth was forgotten as you took a closer look. Standing up without command, each foot moved in front of the other. One of the men in the group waved you over, firelight bleeding through the translucent webbing between his fingers. Rapturous joy overtook you as you entered the circle, throwing your arms up before spinning in tandem with the others. Your feet ached with each rock you stepped over, but you were too caught up in your trance to notice. 

You opened your eyes slowly, releasing a long sigh as you did so. Another day here. The leaves were starting to shift in what few deciduous trees there were. Chill permeated the morning air now and nights grew longer. Emerson loved autumn. Would she be foraging by now? A lazy smile crept across your face at the thought of her gushing over mushrooms, a stray line of dirt smeared across her freckles. Did you haunt her the same way she did you? Did the thought of you make her days bearable the same way they did yours? It seemed the only comfort you could find these days was only reachable in your memories. Your jaw clenched as a single tear rolled down your right eye. You wiped it away before sitting up. There was work to be done.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aemond had gotten home from work, especially late that day but he wasn’t shocked to see a light on in the house. You had been a night owl since moving in with him. Opening the door, he was greeted with indignant meows from Vhagar and the sound of a heavy sigh. Aemond knelt down to pet his cranky old cat and smiled as she butted her head into his palm hard enough that her tooth was dragging against the padding at the base of his thumb. After Vhagar’s demands were met he made his way towards the lit dining room. You sat at the table, study materials consuming half of the surface. One hand rested up against your face and you looked ready to cry. Despite himself, Aemond actually felt bad and stared at you for a second. That exact moment was when you seemed to notice him and you shook your head, staring down at the sheet of paper in front of you. “Aemond. I have a lot to do right now.” You said, sighing before lowering your pencil to write. 

“You look burnt out.” He stated simply, placing one hand on the back of a chair. 

“Yeah, I’m really stressed right now.” While your earlier tone had practically been dripping with go away this was a more raw look at you. 

Discomfort twisted within Aemond. He had never been good with comforting people, but he wanted to at least try. Pulling his lips into a tight line, he swallowed his awkwardness. “You’ll figure it out.” He said in what he hoped was an encouraging tone. 

Every day was a loop of the same thing. The memories changed, but each tormented him all the same. But it was a fair punishment. It was Aemond’s fault that you were stranded out there. Four months of nothing. Search teams seemed more than content to keep cashing Targaryen checks, but produced no results. The Neck had turned up nothing and after the third fruitless month support was starting to dwindle. More and more people were beginning to believe that the plane had gone down in the Narrow Sea. Aemond refused to believe it, he couldn’t. You weren’t dead until a body was presented to him. The Baratheons were decidedly less sure, having placed a ceremonial grave in Floris’s name. For all his half-sister’s flaws, she was throwing herself as hard into the search and rescue as he was. Though he supposed she had lost the majority of her family to the disappearance. Aegon on the other hand seemed as indifferent as could be, but where he slacked his Mother came through. When he couldn’t meet with rescuers, she would. She matched his fervor and Aemond thanked the Gods once more that his Mother threw herself into this so hard. She barely even knew you and openly disliked Sara but was running herself ragged. How he got so lucky to have a mother like his, he didn't know. Helaena was getting busier with her classes starting back up, but she was still invaluable. But worry was starting to grow in him. Helaena’s words still nagged at him. Their last known location was Hornwood and she had said they were looking too far south. It only got colder as the days marched on and winter was coming. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The grubs popped into your mouth as you chewed dejectedly. Bon appetit. The taste wasn’t awful but the juice leaking out was. Practicality was paramount out here but the modern side of you still resented having to eat bugs. But if the alternative was starving it wasn’t like you had much choice. Silence hung over the cabin as everybody chewed. “Sar,” Floris said suddenly. “You have to eat.” She insisted, bringing one hand to lift the blonde’s bowl towards her. 

“Why?” She asked with a wry chuckle. “What does it matter, at this point?” 

Myri shook her head, bracing her hands on the side of her bowl. “Okay.” She said with another shake of her head. “I can’t do this anymore.” She then set her bowl down and rose to her feet, walking off and returning with a jar of…liquid surprise. 

“What is that?” Criston questioned, peeking his head up to look at the maroon jar. 

“It was some berries I was trying to save.” She answered, twisting the lid on the jar. “But I think it might’ve turned into booze?” She questioned, shooting him a tentative smile. “I don’t know about the rest of you but I could use a drink.” 

“Do we think it’s safe?” Aly questioned, her brows knit together as her lips pulled into a line. 

“Do we care?” Criston retorted with a small shrug. 

“I have a few more.” Myri offered. 

Sara looked at the jar for a few seconds, the gears in her head visibly turning. “If we have booze, let’s have a party.” 

“Yeah.” Aly let out a dry laugh. “‘Cuz we’ve got so much to celebrate.” 

“Do we need a reason?” Sara asked, her nose scrunched. “We’re gonna be dead in a few weeks.” She said as casually as possible. You could scarcely believe it. When did Sara stop being an optimist?  

“There’s a full moon tomorrow.” Rhaena offered, her hands clasped in front of her. 

“And it’s almost homecoming.” Nettles pitched in. You had forgotten she was younger than you and had another year before she got her bachelor's. 

“We packed dresses, right?” You asked. At least you had. Maybe you had packed four or so, but at least somebody could borrow one if they needed to. “Clothes to go out?” 

“There we go!” Sara piped in. “We have outfits, we have booze. We can decorate.” She offered, raising her brows as she continued. “Have a sort of...Moon homecoming.” 

“More like a doom homecoming.” Aly chewed on a grub, wiggling her brows as she joked. Sabitha got up and walked away. 

“A doomcoming.” You joked, popping another grub in your mouth and trying to ignore the juice. 

“Now that’s a party idea.” Baela laughed, raising a hand to gesture towards Sara. 

“Alright.” Sara mused. “Doomcoming.” She glanced around the room and you met her hollow eyes for a second before she smirked. “We’ll drink rotten berries and celebrate our impending death.” 

Everybody busied themselves with the macabre arts and crafts. Your hands twisted fur over a deer's skull, trying to fasten a pendant to it unsuccessfully. Sighing and setting it down for a moment, you caught sight of Rhaena who was scampering off towards the opposite end of the cabin with a makeshift boutonniere. Poor Criston. Turning back to your work, you cut holes in the fur to stick the horns through and pulled it down over the skull. When that was done you looked at it, one finger placed against your bottom lip. It was still missing something. Walking into the cabin, you beelined for your bag and pulled out a silvery crochet shawl. Nodding approvingly, you laced it through the horns how you wanted it and began to search for plants to ornament it. What was your Mom doing right now? You mused while snapping off a section of vines for your headdress. The two of you had a strained relationship but you had never wanted to hug her more. She was a wreck for over a year after your Dad died. You fed pine twigs through the holes in the shawl, fluffing them. If you didn’t make it out of the woods she would have lost her entire family. Dread filled your gut at the thought of her being all alone. Shaking hands weaved the last of the leaves into the piece. You set the headdress down on the porch and walked into the cabin. Your makeup proved to be an easier endeavor. Thankfully Sara had a compact mirror. It wasn’t ideal, but you didn’t want to waste your phone time on eyeliner. The naive side of you was still hoping that one of these times a signal would pop up in the corner but you saved your minutes regardless. You continued on with your makeup routine, letting your mascara dry. Although there wasn’t enough concealer in the world to hide what the last few months had done to you, you felt better. A bit more human. You smiled at your reflection. Your dress fit looser than it should have and you frowned after zipping it up. But you supposed that’s what was to be expected when you were stranded in the woods. 

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Aemond shot his sister a tight smile. Helaena set her bag down and pushed her silver hair off her face. “Sorry, I’m late. The King’s line was down.” 

Aemond shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” Unsure of how to broach his next question, he glanced down at his menu for a moment despite the fact that he ordered the same thing every time. Helaena had always been unique. Aegon called it weird, but his Mother avoided any mention of it. 

“Is… everything alright?” Helaena asked, squeezing the juice from a lemon wedge into her water and stirring it before taking a sip. 

“Yeah.” He answered after a second. The look on Helaena’s face told him she knew he was lying. “How are you?” 

Helaena shook her head, taking another sip of her water. “I’ve been having awful nightmares.” She muttered. Helaena always had… interesting dreams. She had a few right answers in the past but you always figured they were lucky guesses. Helaena had always been good at recognizing patterns others couldn’t. “A… stone prison.” She continued, running the pad of her finger around the rim of her glass. “A lot of really weird stuff.” She finished, offering a tired smile. Aemond nodded, wanting to be supportive. Besides, it’s not like he was getting the best sleep either. Helaena grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil from her school bag, drawing on it quickly before turning the paper towards him. “I keep seeing this thing.” She stated. 

As Aemond glanced at it, all he could offer was a shrug. It was some triangular symbol with a circle and lines. He shook his head after glancing at it another moment. “Doesn’t ring any bells.” He answered. “Looks like a weird stick figure.” 

Helaena’s face twisted in resignation, and she then neatly returned the paper and pencil to their spots in her bag. “Worth a try.” Taking another sip of her water, she glanced at Aemond for a second. “Do you want to talk about something?” She asked gently, concern plastered onto her face. 

Aemond chewed at the inside of his cheek for a second before regaining his composure. “You said they’re searching too far south.” Helaena looked skeptical at the mention. Aemond only supposed it was fair, she had been dismissed for months now. “Where do you think we should search?” He finished. 

Helaena’s brows knit together as she pulled her lips into a nervous smile. “It doesn’t work like a GPS.” She laughed nervously. What precisely ‘it’ was could be worried about another time. It’s not like many others were coming up with new ideas. And unlike the others, Helaena wasn’t in it for a paycheck. She actually cared. “All I know is it’s north. Deep into the north.” 

Aemond’s fist clenched under the table. Well, that sure was helpful. Guilt panged at Aemond as he counted to five in his head. Helaena was just trying to help. “Further north than Winterfell?” 

“I think so.” 

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You placed the candle into the centerpiece of the broken log. Smiling and adjusting your dress, you turned towards the rest of the group. “Let the Doomcoming begin.” You exclaimed with raised arms. Luke banged a smaller piece of shrapnel against a larger one in imitation of a gong. Candlelights flickered but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about conserving them. Luke continued to bang the gong as Sara and Floris stepped through the makeshift archway. They brushed tattered cloth out of their faces as they stepped through, Sara strutting in and Floris moving slower. The swell of her stomach was visible against the dress and she glowed. Nettles and Myri followed them, arm in arm. Criston crutched in after, a long-suffering look on his face as Rhaena beamed beside him. Sabitha and Aly entered next, with the former staring down at the ground. Aly grabbed her hand gently, guiding her towards the center of the clearing and kissing her. The lot of you cheered and clapped, and what little you could see of Sab’s face was flushed. You made your way over to the jar and poured yourself a mug of berry wine. Sniffing at it for a moment, you winced and made your way over towards the pot of stew. You decided to take a swig of the wine in the meantime, your face twisting at the intense bitterness. Despite the awful taste, the pleasant burn in your mouth told you it would get the job done. Rhaena glanced over towards you nervously. You raised a brow in her direction before Myri passed you your bowl and you thanked her, making your way over to the log near Baela. Jacaerys approached her and a small smile broke out across your best friend’s face. 

“You look nice.” He stated simply, an awkward smile on his face as one hand came to rest in his hair. 

“Jace,” Sara called. “C’mon. Get over here.” Fury twisted in your gut as he glanced back at Baela once more before turning towards Sara. An annoyed look came across Baela’s face as he walked off, and she nodded before turning towards you. You patted the spot next to you but Baela shook her head. You nodded at her. Baela talked about things at her own pace. Taking a bite of your stew, you chewed on the mushroom for a minute. Relishing the taste, you washed it down with a swig of terrible wine and cringed. Your heels dug into the dirt as you ate. The empty spot at the bench weighed heavily on you. If Baela wasn’t there, Barba always sat beside you. You still saw her death in your sleep, the ball of fire that consumed her entirely. She had put her faith in gods who used her as a firework show. You turned your mug to take another sip of wine before stopping to glance at it for a moment. Shaking the liquid in your cup, you rose to your feet. 

“We should have a moment of silence for Barba.” You stated, voice cracking as you glanced down at your cup. 

“Yeah.” Ser Criston nodded, and you pulled your lips back over your teeth. It felt like the light went out after she died. The camp seemed so much more somber without her unrelenting optimism. 

“To Barba,” Aly said, raising her mug. 

“Hear, hear,” Jace said. 

“Barba.” Echoed before everybody took a drink. You brought the bitter wine to your lips again and tried to swallow as much as you could stand. You sat back down on the log. Barba’s parents wouldn’t even get a body to bury. 

“So, what now?” Baela asked, shooting a smile in your direction. 

“Oh, now we just need a DJ to pump up the volume.” Sara quipped.

“What we need is a slow dance.” Rhaena insisted, staring at Criston with a wide grin as she did so. 

You hummed a tune softly, Baela’s face lighting up in recognition. “Shared my body and my mind with you. That’s all over now.” 

More voices piped in. “Did what I had to do, ‘cuz you’re so far past me now.” You got up and danced with Myri and Nettles. Your leg still protested at too much movement, but it was doomcoming after all. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sara dancing with Jace. Baela watched from behind them, resolution drawing across her face as she stepped away. You knew to give her space when she was upset like this as she was 100% Daemon Targaryen’s daughter. She stopped to talk to Ser Criston for a moment and you furrowed your brow. Well, he was older than everybody else. Maybe he would have some advice for her in regard to Jace. “Get a little bit of bourbon in ya.” You raised your arm so Myrielle could spin under it. You grew happier as time went on. The brush of Myri’s hand against yours felt insane as if it was the first time you had ever touched a person. You giggled as you glanced at her, a warm feeling filling you as the two of you continued to spin around. 

Eventually, you grew tired of dancing, fascinated by the swirling lines in the dirt. You had your head propped against a tree, a goofy grin on your face as laughter rang out. Sabitha was gripping her sides, joy lighting up her face. “Oh my gods, what?” Aly asked, rubbing one eye and looking over at her girlfriend. 

“No, no.” Sabitha guffawed, her face red. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She giggled again, raising one arm. “You look like a tree.” She mumbled dreamily. Aly giggled as she raised one arm, posing momentarily. “Like a really hot tree.” The more you looked at her, the more you could see it. The shifting pattern on her skin was fascinating, her tall frame stretched out like a statue. “Guys, doesn’t Alysanne look like a tree right now?” She asked, one hand gesturing towards her. 

“She kind of does.” Nettles agreed, her tone dreamy.

 “Or do the trees look like Aly?” Myri asked, gazing around the forest. You giggled as you curled back into your nest, feeling the comfiest you had ever felt. The bark felt amazing against your skin and you giggled stupidly as you brushed your hand over it repetitively. 

“I feel weird,” Luke moaned. You glanced over where he lay between two gnarled roots. 

Rhaena glanced around at the camp, berry wine staining her lips and chin as she muttered “Criston.” She grunted as she rose to her feet, wandering off. 

The sound of Rhaena’s footsteps was far too loud and you shot a disapproving glance in her direction. “Shh!” You exclaimed, pressing both of your hands against the forest floor. “Do you feel that?” You asked. The earth pulsed beneath your fingers, and it felt warm. Living. Loving, almost. 

“I think I do,” Nettles said, on her hands and knees as she ran her hand along the brush. “Like, energy…” She mused. “Coming up from the ground.” 

“Something’s coming.” Erupted before the conscious thought fully formed in your head. You closed your eyes and inhaled the autumn air deeply. Floris gasped and grabbed her belly.

“What’s wrong?” Aly asked, rushing to her side confusedly. 

“It…” Floris held a hand at the top of her belly. “It moved.” 

Aly pressed the side of her face to Floris’s belly. “You guys, something’s happening.” Her other hand came up to caress the swell. 

“No.” You shook your head. “Something’s coming.” Pacing towards the gnarled stump of a long fallen tree, you came to kneel before it. Staring into the moss-covered bark, a sense of ease overtook you. “We won’t be hungry much longer.” You glanced back at it, running your hands along the rough wood. Emerson would love this kind of tree. She loved all trees. But this one in particular would be her favorite. You had never seen a tree with swirling, multicolored bark. Making your way back to your feet, you curled back into the tree you had been sitting at, drawing little symbols in the dirt with your finger. 

“Where is everyone?” Myri asked, sitting up and looking around. You replied with a dopey grin and a shrug. 

“Bae and Ser Criston are friends?” Nettles asked, glancing in your direction. You shrugged in response. You figured she went to him for advice on men the same way you went to Sabitha and Aly when you missed Emerson.  “Rhaena won’t like that,” Nettles responded, leaning her head against Myrielle’s shoulder. 

“But she’s gone,” Myri responded, one hand petting Nettles’ arm. “And what about Sara? Or Jacaerys?” She questioned. 

“They left,” Luke said dreamily. 

“Together?” Aly asked, indignation in her tone as she sat up. “That’s so Sara.” 

“That’s very Sara.” Sabitha agreed. 

“She’s not doing anything wrong.” Floris defended, black hair tangling in her pine crown. 

“But what are they doing?” Luke asked, staring up at the sky. 

You sat up against the tree, lifting your gaze towards Aly and Sab. “We should find them.��� You immediately rose to your feet, relishing the stretch in your legs. R’hllor, you couldn’t remember the last time it felt this good to move. 

“Wait, why?” Floris asked, sitting up. 

You continued on your path, not sparing a glance towards her. The rage from earlier boiled in your gut. “He doesn’t belong to her.” You quipped, walking off. 

“Wait, Y/N,” Sabitha called out. One after one people began to follow you as you paced through the dark forest. You laughed as you continued on, weaving through the underbrush as your friends joined at your side. Wolves howled off in the distance and the group came to a halt. Terror seized you as the angry pink scar on your thigh twinged. 

“Listen,” Alysanne said, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. Seconds later Sabitha yelled out into the night, followed by caws from Myri. Soon enough all of you were shouting into the mountainside, the forest echoing with your voices. Now you all began to run through the woods, your leg burned in protest but you ignored it, honed in on your goal. The cabin shone in the distance, looming ever closer as the lot of you sprinted through the darkened woods, guided by familiarity. With your thigh aching you were the last to reach it and Myri had already burst through the door when you walked in. Her gaze was wild, planted on Sara. The blonde shot a bewildered glance at everybody, her gaze locking on you. Her sapphire eye caught the glint of light before you blinked and looked at her again, her eyes now gray. 

“What were you guys doing up there?” Myrielle demanded, expression feral. 

“None of your business.” Sara retorted. Her silver hair shone, patterns rippling through it. “What did you tell them, Floris?” She asked accusatorily. 

“Nothing.” Floris insisted. 

Alysanne stepped forward to grab Sara’s arm. “Why would you do this to Baela?” She asked, gaze focused. 

“We didn’t… I um…” Jace stuttered, looking half out of it. 

You shot a weary look at Jacaerys, nobody here was born yesterday. “They did.” You shot back flatly, Jace backing down. 

“It’s nobody’s business.” Sara insisted. You grabbed Sara’s arm, holding her in place. “Jace, do something.” She insisted while gesturing towards you. 

“None of us are here though, are we?” He asked, his gaze distant. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sara shot back, looking increasingly unnerved. Your hand came to brush against Jacaerys’ and you raised your hand to trace his. Leaning in, you pulled your husband’s nephew in for a kiss. Your other hand came to rest against his jawline, tracing along it as you enjoyed the sensation of his skin on yours. Though the kiss was pleasant, it didn’t do much for you. The sensation was amazing, but Jacaerys himself couldn’t be further from your type. 

“What, you’re just gonna stand there?” Sara asked from beside you. Suddenly Jace was pulled away from you and Floris kissed him next, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. You smiled and chuckled as Floris deepened the kiss, Sara seething. 

“Floris.” She cried out. “Hey! Stop!” She said, pulling at her best friend’s arms. “Stop it!” She commanded. 

You shoved her back in defense of Floris. “You don’t belong anymore.” Silver hair flashed in the candlelight as you stepped towards Sara. 

“Oh, what?” She asked, rolling her eyes. “Because I don’t commune with the spirits?” Sara asked with a roll of her eyes. 

“This has nothing to do with that.” You insisted, your tone darkening as you closed the gap between you two. You began to push her then, herding her back towards the cupboard. 

“Okay. Hey, Get off me you fucking psycho.” Sara insisted, offering a futile resistance. Your gaze hardened in his direction, and you glared into his violet eye. 

Sara’s gray eyes glanced back at you as you smirked for a brief moment. “Don’t you understand?” You asked. “You don’t matter anymore.” With that you shoved Sara into the cupboard and slammed the door in her face, making sure to latch it. 

“What? Hey!” Sara cried out, banging on the door. You returned to the living room where Jacaerys sat on a chair. Myri tore at his shirt and Floris kissed him. You glanced off into the corner where Sabitha and Aly were making out. Good for them. You glanced back over to where Nettles leaned in to kiss Jace, caressing his face while you kissed his shoulder. Myrielle pulled him in next, grasping his face with both hands and pulling back to bite at his lower lip. 

“Wait,” Jacaerys said, Nettles’ hands reaching towards his belt. You reached into where his shoulder was barely covered by the soft black material of his shirt. You bit onto the fabric and pulled back, relishing the tearing sound of the fabric. The mood shifted, primal madness filling the air as the group of you giggled. Floris pulled at his ear. “Stop.” Jacaerys insisted, shifting in his chair. Floris laughed and Myri tried to put him in a headlock. Jace escaped from it and rose to his feet, glancing back towards everybody. As quickly as he could, he ran out of the open door and stumbled onto his feet. You laughed as you stood up and glanced towards the rest of the girls, ignoring the banging from the pantry door. 

“The stag!” You said, a wide grin splitting your face. “We have to catch it.” You insisted, shooting off after him. The group of you bounded off back into the night, laughing as you chased the stag. Floris led the pack, butcher’s knife in hand. Jace looked back at you and you grinned madly, ecstasy filling your veins. That’s when Jacaerys fell. While Myrielle and Nettles tied him, you pulled your antler headpiece on. The skull sat awkwardly and had to be adjusted multiple times before it would properly stay on your head. Finally, it sat right and you strut over to where Jace stood, tied against a tree. You smiled before bringing your hands down. Staring Jacaerys dead in the eye, you let the smile fall from your face. “Stop fighting.” You commanded. 

“Y/N?” He asked, eyes wide.

You hushed him as soothingly as you could muster, grabbing a pinecone and grabbing his cheeks so his mouth would open. When it did you shoved the pinecone in and glanced back towards Floris. “You know what to do.” Floris held the dagger to the stag’s neck, pausing for a moment before she looked back at you. You smiled reassuringly, a warm buzzing filling your ears as chanting rang off in the distance. “It’s okay.” You murmured lovingly. “It wants us to.” Floris nodded, turning back towards Jacaerys and pressing the blade to his throat. 

“What the fuck?” Baela yelled out. “Stop!” She commanded, reaching towards Floris and trying to grab the knife. “Move.” She pushed you back, and your headpiece fell. Floris dropped the knife while you and Baela both made a dive for it. Baela reached it before you did, stepping back but holding the knife in your general direction. She turned and walked over towards Jace, who had wrenched the pinecone out of his mouth. “Are you okay?” 

Jace stepped away from her, nodding. “Yeah.” He muttered. “I’m fine.” He continued, walking back in the direction of the cabin. 

You moved next, slamming into Baela’s side and grabbing for the knife. “It’s in all of us, you know.” You muttered, your gaze feral as you stared into Baela’s lilac eyes. “Even him. Even you.” You said with a wide grin. 

Baela pulled the knife away from you and shoved you back. “That is enough of your weird fucking bullshit Y/N.” You laughed in response, rapturous joy overtaking you. “Haven’t you done enough?” She questioned. You just sat in the dirt and continued to laugh as she stormed off. Baela didn’t know, but she would with time. It was a part of all of them now. This place. The people and things that had lived here before. It was twisted into all of them irrevocably.

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Taglist: @chainsawsangel @neenieweenie

[obutsuwrites]

devotion (douma x f!reader)

summary: His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit.

"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused.

She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid. 

warnings: blood and injury, mild gore, vaginal fingering, cults, public humiliation, branding, yandere elements, dismemberment, loss of fingers, smut, etc. etc.

word count: 3.3k

shoutout to @calslaundry for the beta read

a/n: hello friends, apologies for the lack of content! i haven't written in a while + this my first kny fic 😭

twitter | masterlist

She came to him in a miserable state -- her delicate body broken. Blood, like ribbons, flowed from her stomach. The wound was deep and hideous. Yet, the woman before him wore a serene expression, as if unaware of her current state. The sight brought amusement to Douma. His thin lips pulled into the phantom of a grin. Rainbow eyes dilated and focused on her pitiful form. 

Behind her bounded a man; his skin filthy and caked in dried crimson. He looked disheveled, as if the listless woman struggled. Sweat kept his hair slick across his forehead. In his hand, his shaky little human hand, was a butcher knife.  

"Stay out of this! She's…" The man trails off, waiting for the words to materialize, "My wife." The word sounds slimy, uncomfortable, coming from him. To punctuate his love, a calloused hand gripped the woman. 

No sound came from her. Perhaps, she was his wife. Douma continued to observe the dramatic affair; fingers laced together. His expression was nothing less than curious. A carnal morbidity he wanted to see through. 

Suddenly, the woman collapsed. Her skin lacked the rosy pigment so beloved by mortals. The man stumbled and instinctively cradled her wound. Disgust formed onto his features -- the man seemingly unaware of her state. 

Douma felt blood drumming in his ears. This tiny, injured woman came to him near death, but didn't utter a single grievance. She had remained stoic despite her hideous wound. "Leave her." 

Without a second thought, the man abandoned his would-be wife. His rapid footfalls echoed down the hall as Douma examined his pet. He noted how elegant her kimono was -- its silk now reddened and ruined. Douma believed the blood complimented her, and brought out her softness. Softness Douma wanted to destroy. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly. The room was unlike her little hovel. Innate gold and rubies were encrusted within every aspect; nothing less of excess. A room fit for a god. Perhaps this was her afterlife. Delicate fingers prodded her stomach -- the flesh swollen and blemished. Her fingertips brushed against the barb of wire. Lifting the simple Yukata, the woman noticed how intricate the stitching was. Black wire woven into itself to mimic the intricate shape of a flower. 

"You're awake, my dear friend!" The voice was cheerful and deep. The sound not unlike the rumble in a summer storm. 

Silence marked their conversation. 

Floorboards creaked; a sign her mysterious caretaker was advancing. "Is my dear friend deaf?" This time, the man's voice held annoyance. A blatant disregard for his kind words left a rotten taste in the demon's mouth. 

"I apologize for the trouble I caused you," she confessed, head level with the floor. The newly stitched woman was bowing before him. Had she hoped to mimic his congregation? 

Unlike his devotees, her body didn't shake. No, her insignificant form stayed rigid. The slender curve of her back was straight, eyes still regarding the floor. Truthfully, Douma found himself savoring the view of this mortal. She seemed so obedient -- so unafraid of him. 

The damned sentence stumbled last Douma's lips, "Stay with us; with me." Suddenly, the woman sensed a large hand atop her head, "You need to heal, my friend." 

Tears began to foam at her eyes -- this man's kindness was unfamiliar. This rainbow eyed stranger not only stitched up her broken body, but offered sanctuary. 

"Thank you." Douma noted the monotonousness of her voice. Here this pitiful woman was, her briny tears reeking, and yet she remained stoic. The scent was pleasant; as if crushed roses and salt had been mixed. Douma had noticed her blood carried a similar scent. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

The days that followed were… familiar. Her days fell into structure. First, worship in the morning. Then, chores and her first meal followed by more chores. Finally, as dusk settled, her makeshift family gathered within the main hall for a special dinner. However, the dinner wasn't any fundamentally different. The menu still consisted of rich meats and exotic fruits, but their meal was special because of him. 

At the end of their long, gold flecked table sat the rainbow eyed Douma. His face carried his typical jubilant expression. A soft smile graced his face -- leaving his eyes bright and lively. He watched his flock with interest, his eyes all too often falling upon his wounded pet. 'Pet' seemed to fit this woman far more than any word; she was compliant. The woman finished every task created for her. Her devotion to him -- only him -- brought a budding flush to his cheeks. 

It was true the women of his cult would die for him. Their single-minded loyalty was stereotypical, expected. They chose to bleed for him, but once faced with their own mortality, his devotees lost steam. And yet this harpy had bled at his feet -- asked for his forgiveness. 

Douma watched as the woman carefully gripped her chopsticks. Her hands were slender, and as soft as blooming flowers. In another world, Douma would have described her as delicate, but all the demon could feel was disdain. There was something so innocent about her fingers. Douma's eyes continued to flick between her face and hands. Such soft things devoid of callouses -- devoid of humanity. 

His mind didn't typically race like this. Images of this woman seemed to plague him during dinner. She was a sickness that he couldn't shake. Her body had infiltrated him -- illustrating fantasies of him breaking her fingers and laughing as he ate them. Would she finally scream, finally allow herself emotion? Or would she succumb to him? 

Douma's thin lips curled into a grin. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

"I don't want to ruin the elaborate textiles, sir." It was a habit to call him sir as her eyes bore into the floor. The woman acted like she was… unworthy to even glance at the demon. She seemed to make herself scarce when Douma was around. But now, she was forced ⁸to meet his face. Forced to tailor his clothing, despite the woman having no seamstress experience.

Douma didn't mind if his clothes were ruined. He merely wanted to observe his pet create with her hands. 

A large hand rested atop her head, "Do not worry, my dear friend! I picked you for this. Do you not trust my judgement?" His question was more of a test than anything. He wanted to see more of her sickened devotion to him. 

"I trust you," the woman replied, her hands buried in rich fabric. His clothes made her hands itch. Yet, she hid any discomfort. This was a task bestowed upon her -- it was the least she could do. This man had saved her life. 

In the corner of his view, Douma saw it, the phantom of a smile. His emotionless pet still held humanity. However, the happiness stopped at her lips. Nothing seemed to reach her eyes. 

"That expression suits you," his breath tickled her ear, "little one." The sensation of him -- his warmth was enough to quicken her pulse. A blush rose to her cheeks. 

Before she could thank him, Douma vanished. She wanted to glance into his chromatic eyes. They held a light she hadn't noticed before. Something so spectacular and light. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Darkness naturally crept into Douma's eyes. The demon couldn't pinpoint a moment of emotion. It was as if he was born void of humanity. Perhaps that was his reason for being so disgustingly soft upon this woman. 

She was in a tangled mess before him; eyes perpetually to the floor. The more he saw her like this -- the more Douma longed for her gaze. He was the only one worthy of her. 

"This little runt broke the vase, my lord." Beside his little pet stood a woman; one of his most devoted. Yet, her very voice annoyed him. 

Douma shifted in his throne, "What of it?" His face was contorted into happiness, but there was a callousness to him. A viper waiting in the grass. 

The woman's expression hardened.

"Shouldn't she be punished, my lord?" Her question wasn't more than a whisper. This was common for his most loyal of followers; cowardly mortals that were afraid of him. 

Douma leaned forward, his rainbow eyes lacking any compassion, "Are you telling me what to do?" 

"N-no! I'd never, my lord! Please -- please forgive me, Lord Douma!" Her pleas flowed like a river; excuse upon excuse. Douma used to take pleasure in a maiden's distress. Now, he simply felt bored -- empty. 

Certainly punishing his pet and maiming her would bring relief. Mortals were for his enjoyment, after all. 

"Stand up," Douma commanded. 

His voice sounded of the gods; nectar too sweet for human ears. His wounded pet felt heat rise to her cheeks. Gently, she assumed a knelt position, hands folded in her lap. They looked so delicate, so perfect for him. Saliva pooled in his mouth. His fantasy of her seemed unending. 

"Sit," the demon motioned to his feet. "You are to stay until I find a suitable punishment, my dear friend." Without hesitation, his pet assumed her position. Her hands were now clear in Douma's view, tiny things clasped together. 

As if satisfied, his devotee blended back into the crowd. 

Even his presence was warmth; she could feel his radiance. Lord Douma was the opposite of her husband -- his chromatic eyes held nothing but comfort. He had opened his home to her, and allowed her to join his congregation. He was the sun; bright and nourishing. 

His pet felt as if her heart would burst. Being this close to him -- to Lord Douma was almost overwhelming. He practically dwarfed her; his frame tall and muscular. Lord Douma's presence was suffocating above her. Lewd flashes of her savior played on loop. Silver hair slicked back, his bare chest on display, muscles flexing. 

Quickly, she looked away from the demon with a silent curse on her lips. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Several days pass. Douma's pet had yet to leave his side. Her punishment was decided the second day she sat at his feet, but Douma found her presence… human. Slowly, she brought forth an emotion; serenity. Her very breathing seemed to lull him. In another life, she would have made a man very happy. 

The demon's eyes shifted to his maiden. Her face was stoic as ever. She looked… Miserable? The thought made Douma's blood burn; sitting between his feet was a privilege. No other woman of the cult had been so close to him before. 

Douma's thick brows knitted together in annoyance, "We should prepare for your punishment, shouldn't we?" Plastered on his face was the smile she yearned for. 

"Yes, my lord." 

Douma clapped his hands. Suddenly, his harem of women began to spill into the room. They looked to him like god; eyes wide and wanting. He cherished his cult for their devotion, something that would benefit him today. 

He tilted his head and pointed, "Strip her." Douma's instruction was materialized before him. Her body laid in the brood of his women. Bruises marked her body like bee stings; his most devoted had such vicious means. Her exquisite yukata was ruined. Shreds hung to her trembling form. 

She made him sick. 

"Hold her down, my dear friends~!" Douma's feigned happiness crinkled at his eyes. To any nonbeliever, he looked human, yet his followers knew better. They knew behind the facade was a monster; a man bent on misery. "Bring me the brand." 

His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit. 

"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused. 

She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid. 

The demon sauntered over to his pet, the brand now smoking. "Stay still," he murmured. It was her shred of justice before Douma plunged the brand between her breasts. First there was silence. Then came a cry unlike any before. Loud. Anguished. Heart wrenching. It was the sound of his pet bearing her soul. Something so private, meant only for him. 

He pressed the metal further into her flesh. Burnt skin reached his nostrils; her scent wasn't unlike roasted boar. Rich, gamey. His mind painted her nude and covered in sake. Underneath his regalia, Douma felt blood rush to his cock. Douma looked at her, waiting for another cry. Yet, she regained composure. Her skin was balmy and she trembled. 

Finally, her eyes met his. Douma sees the hint of relief -- as if she wanted this. "L-lord Douma," she slurred. His gaze shifted to her lips; anticipating her speech. Nothing left her except a heave. A soft little noise before she passed out, limp and vulnerable. Somehow, Douma felt sorry for her. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

The woman woke with a jolt; air burning her lungs. Gasping, she took inventory of the dimly lit room. The space was more of the caricature of a room. It was a bedroom, but looked almost unlived in. Everything was too perfect. The realization came as she touched her chest. This was Lord Douma's private quarters. A place reserved for his most devoted. 

...and here she was, laying in his bed. 

Her chest was tender. The skin was charred and bandaged. She wondered if Lord Douma himself had treated her. The fantasy brought a flush to her cheeks. She fingered the wound; gentle to trace its shape. Between her breasts was a delicate lotus; her body marked forever. 

"I can hear you, my dearest friend," his voice sounded like rainfall after a drought. "Come. Bring me more sake." 

Beside the futon was a gourd. The object was heavy; enough for two hands if not more. Truthfully, his pet struggled to lift it. The liquid inside sloshed around like the sea. It carried a sweet smell. Fruity. Radiant. The scent reminded the woman of Lord Douma. 

Soft humming filtered into the room, the source not far. Practically dragging the sake, his pet ventured towards the sound. Towards him. 

With the push of a door came humidity and steam. The atmosphere was sticky and too warm. Lord Douma had created a swamp instead of a bath. 

His booming tone shook the room, "Come closer, little one." The phrase sent goosebumps up her spine. 

She continued to drag the gourd across slick tile. His pet didn't want to make a fool of herself. However, with each step came unequal footing. She wobbled, trying to keep her grace and sake intact. One particularly heavy footfall was miscalculated. She fell onto the porous ground with a sharp bang; the gourd in pieces at her feet. 

"Clumsy, aren't we, little one?" His tone is lousy with arousal. The sentence vibrated from his chest. 

"I'm sor--"

Douma only uttered a simple phrase, "Join me, my pet." 

Her legs moved without authority. Douma had complete agency over her; bewitching his prey. It was the kindness she deserved, after all. She was his most devoted -- his most prized slab of meat. Partially, Douma believed she was plagued with bad luck. First the damned woman is stabbed, then she falls desperately into his lap. She was a fawn -- clumsy and aching for attention. 

Muscles were the first thing she noticed, followed shortly by ashen hair. Somehow, his chromatic eyes still shined within the haze. He had to be a deity -- someone special. 

Quickly, she averted her eyes. This sight wasn't meant for a mortal like her. Crimson hung to her cheeks like warpaint, the woman more blush than skin. His pet removed her yukata without ceremony. The elaborate fabric crumpled at her feet. Douma felt air pitch in his chest and blood rush to his cock. 

"Sit in my lap." 

His lover looked at him; her eyes curious and wanting and wide, pupils dilated. She shuffled into the bath, like a babe taking its first steps. Gingerly, she sat beside him. A hiss escaped her lips as the hot water meets her burn. Mortals -- as Douma knew -- were devoted to a fault. 

A cold arm encompassed her waist. Douma pulled the mortal closer, her smell mixing with the bath. Saliva dotted at the corners of his mouth. His polite aurora seemed to drop -- the predator now before her. "It's okay, little one," his breath tickled her neck, "you can relax. You're safe." 

Safe. He was safe. Her body untensed in his grip. The woman leaned into him, her bare back pressed into his chest. Her rapid heartbeat echoed into Douma; his body rang with her life force. It hurt to hold her like this. His instincts demanded he tear her apart, her blood diluting the water. Yet, he resisted. Instead, he took inventory of her hands. They were tender -- fragile. His broad hands engulfed hers as he rubbed circles into her palms. 

Douma -- with grace -- lifted her fore and middle finger into his mouth. His fawn exhaled a gasp. The sudden movement caused her to wobble atop his knee. A hand rubbed her stomach, as if to provide comfort. Slobber leaked down her hand. Lord Douma's saliva. She wanted to bring the spit covered hand to her chest -- to feel a part of him. Douma sucked at her fingers. His tongue rolled over her knuckles and savored her. 

"Lord Douma --"

Her words hung in muggy air. Only one sound penetrated through the room; a sob. The woman's blood mixed with unholy drool. In Douma's mouth were two delicate fingers -- her fingers. The sudden pang subsided, yet her heart continued to race. She was stuck; fear had collapsed in her veins. Her weak, mortal body shook. The sensation was uncontrollable. 

"Stay still, my pet," Douma mused, his voice obstructed by gore. He refused to relent; his tone still cheery. Her body demanded she move, but her mind screamed for him. Torn between heart and brain, she quaked in his lap. Her hand fell limp into the bath water. Red blossomed beside her. 

Douma's hands trailed down her body, as if to memorize her shape. His cockhead ached for stimulation -- for her. Without the air of a lord, Douma shifted his pet, her cunt now exposed to the heat. Carefully, he removed her disembodied fingers from his mouth. "Let me take care of you." His words were little more than a command -- no -- a threat. 

Harshly, the demon shoved a finger into her cunt; the very finger he bit off. Disgust and lust bubbled together in her stomach. Naive eyes looked down as Douma pumped into her. A bloodied chin rested on his pet's shoulder. His humming vibrated into her bones. Thunderous. Awful. 

Heat bloomed between her thighs. Lewd sounds of her core bounced off the walls. She bit her lip, stubborn and refusing to give into the demon. 

Rainbow eyes drifted to her face, "Are you not satisfied, little one?" His tone faltered before a second finger jams into her soaking cunt. The woman's mouth betrayed her. Out came a wanton moan. Loud and squealing. Douma's face contorted into a grin, his breath beating upon her. "What's that? You want me to go faster~?" His pace burst into an almost hellish speed. The fingers hit her walls, scissoring her entrance. Douma acted as if he knew her very body. Roughly, he tweaked her nipple. Another cry pierced the air; his reward for her devotion. 

"Come for me," Douma commanded, heavy humming now vibrating her jaw. "Show me your devotion." His voice wasn't more than a whisper, yet she felt the warmth between her thighs explode. The bundle in her stomach dissipated into bliss; eyes closed and breathing even. 

Douma rubbed her cheek. This was perhaps his only action of humanity -- of charity. As his most devoted, she was worthy.  

[spookyboywhump]

Pre-surgery Bad Timeline prompt mayhaps??? A bunch of pretty doll outfits being put in front of Cain and him being asked to pick one for Wren?

 Thank you so much for the prompt, anon!! I thought this was gonna be short and now it’s 1600 words-

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, forced to strip (nonsexual), noncon touching (nonsexual)

***

 The two pets knelt side by side as they had been ordered to, Cain more resigned, used to this by now, while Wren sat up straight, glaring at Nicholas from his spot on the floor. In a way he was used to it too, Cain had always made them kneel and he’d always try to make himself as small as possible. He didn’t like giving Nicholas that satisfaction though, even if he kept his mouth shut, he wanted him to know how pissed he was just based on the way he looked. 

 “Darling, come here.” Nicholas said, and almost instantly Cain was on his feet, obediently making his way over to his master. He was looking over some clothes laid out on the bed, Wren hadn’t been able to see what exactly they were and he didn’t particularly care either. It seemed like he wanted Cain anyway so it didn’t matter to him, once again he found himself thinking it was ridiculous he was here at all. 

 Cain on the other hand, was miserable. He had been ever since Nicholas had brought Wren in, and he hated to admit it, but he was jealous. Wren was everything that Nicholas wanted, he was small and pretty, he still had enough fight to be interesting, he seemed to remind him so much of his precious Doll. The little pup that Cain had tortured and berated, dehumanized and belittled, he was Nicholas’ favorite, even as he swore and snapped and lashed out. The only thing he could be thankful for was that he didn’t have to deal with that defiance. 

 He stared down at the clothing Nicholas had laid out, tiredly looking the outfits over. They weren’t for him, he already knew, even when Nicholas chose to dress him nicely it was usually dress shirts and tight pants, harnesses and restraints over clothing. This was all much nicer, much lighter, pretty clothing meant for a doll, pale blue colors among the black and white, nice silk and bows. Honestly it all looked ridiculous to him, and he found himself lucky that he wasn’t meant to wear it.

 “Would you do me a favor and pick something out for Love to wear tonight?” Nicholas said, his hand resting low on Cain’s back. He hated to hear him call Wren that, one of the sweet nicknames he used to use for him, and Wren didn’t seem to like it either, looking noticeably irritated when he said it. “You always had a good eye for clothing, I thought I could use your help here.” He said, and the praise did ease the sting of everything else, even if only a little bit. 

 He kept his arms crossed over himself, only briefly glancing between Wren and the outfits laid out in front of him. Honestly he found it hard to picture the boy in any of them, he always kept him in loose, plain clothing, that’s what he was used to seeing him in anyway. Wren might have been cute, but he didn’t see what Nicholas seemed to see in him, the more bitter part of him, the part of him that still felt like he owned Wren, felt like the boy didn’t even deserve this, not after how he’d been behaving. He didn’t own Wren though, Nicholas did, and he valued Wren far more than he did Cain. He forced himself to bury his feelings over the situation, for now anyway. He’d been given an order, after all, and he didn’t put much thought into the one he chose, that soft blue sweater that would likely still leave him cold paired with the short black skirt. He didn’t care, and he almost didn’t care how Wren felt about it either. Wren hadn’t done anything to him, but he found himself almost hoping he disliked it. 

 Wren didn’t really care what he chose, he knew he’d hate it no matter what. Anything Nicholas could’ve picked out had to be horrible, Cain’s input really didn’t matter. Still, he felt sick when he finally came to a decision, and a sick smile crossed Nicholas’ face. 

 “Love, come try this on for me.” He said, glancing over at him.

 “Nope.” He said bluntly, staying exactly where he was. 

 “Come here.” He said, much more stern this time, but Wren wouldn’t even look at him, sitting there with his arms crossed like a stubborn child. He hoped he was getting on the man’s nerves, it would be at least one small victory because he knew he wouldn’t just get away with this. Any small act of defiance felt better than giving in though, anything was better than earning praise from that bastard. His victory didn’t last long though, as he expected Nicholas left his spot by Cain, and though Wren tried to scramble away from him, he was roughly grabbed by the hair, dragged over to where Nicholas wanted him even as he cried out in pain, trying to free himself. He expected to be thrown to the floor, he was used to that by now, but instead Nicholas grabbed the hem of his shirt, wrestling it off him. 

 “Fucking- Let go of me!” He yelled, trying to jerk away even as Nicholas kept a tight grip on his thin arm, likely to leave a bruise. 

 “Darling, hold him still for me.” Nicholas said calmly. 

 “I swear to fucking god, Cain, if you touch me I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” He snarled when he got near him, and he was smart enough to back off, worriedly looking between him and Nicholas, who was quickly getting sick of Wren’s struggling, hitting him hard on the back of his head and forcing him to his knees. A different shirt was forced over his head, the material softer than the clothes he’d been wearing before. It was slightly too big for him, or maybe just designed this way, slipping off one shoulder to reveal his brand, and he tried to adjust it to hide that as best he could. He was dragged to his feet again, but he shoved Nicholas away when he tried to get his pants off him, trying to dart away only to be grabbed by the hair again, Nicholas roughly yanking him towards him.

 “Stay still.” He ordered him, sounding like Wren was on his last nerve though. “If you had behaved I’d have let you do this yourself, this is your fault he reminded him. He had to get Cain to hold his wrists behind his back, somehow through his struggling and kicking Nicholas got his pants off and the skirt on him, and while he didn’t actually mind the idea of wearing a skirt, the idea of wearing a skirt because Nicholas made him do it pissed him off more than anything. 

 “This is fucking ridiculous, I’m not your fucking doll to play dress up with!” He snapped, trying to get away from Cain who was genuinely doing his best to keep him still. He was caught off guard when Nicholas suddenly slapped him, his head snapping to the side as the stinging pain spread across his cheek, only for him to grab his face, forcing him to look at him. Despite the tears in his eyes he glared at the man, refusing to look anymore scared of him than he had to. 

 “I know you’re not very smart, Love, but you need to understand that you’re my pet, and I’m allowed to do whatever I fucking want with you.” He told him, his voice low and steady, threatening even. “It would be in your best interest to stop this little fit you’re throwing and do as you’re told.” He warned him, and rather than grace him with a response, Wren decided to accept whatever punishment this would earn him, he spit in his face without a second thought about it.

 Even Cain wasn’t able to keep him standing, he was on the floor the instant Nicholas hit him. 

 ***

 Wren stood there seething with anger, his wrists cuffed in front of him. He was just barely following Nicholas’ rules, staying quiet and not causing trouble for him or his guests, simply there to look pretty- and he hoped the scowl on his bruised face would be enough to ruin that. He hated everything about this, he hated the pretty clothing he’d been forced into, he hated that all of his struggling and defiance before hadn’t been enough to make Nicholas give up on him, and he hated that people kept looking at him. 

 “Well he’s certainly pretty.” A man said, one of Nicholas’ friends he assumed, he grabbed his face with no concern for the very obvious bruise and Wren winced from the pain, wanting nothing more than to give the man the same treatment he’d given Nicholas. He silently glared at him, but he seemed to find it more amusing than anything. 

 “He is, as long as he’s keeping his mouth shut.” Nicholas said, and while it was a relief to be pulled away from the stranger, he wasn’t happy with the way Nicholas kept an arm around his waist, holding him close so he could keep an eye on him, keep him from lashing out or snapping at anybody. Right now Wren wished he could trade places with Cain, the fucker had looked hurt to be left behind but Wren would’ve done anything to get out of this. He felt trapped with Nicholas’ arm around him, he wasn’t sure if it was his anxiety or if people were actually looking at him enough to make him feel uncomfortable, and the only way he could hide that fear and discomfort was with anger, a scowl plastered on his face, a tactic he picked up from somebody else he knew. He could only hope that it would be as effective for him, wanting nothing more than to keep people away.

[whumpinggrounds]

My Friend Jude

jamie is still learning and isabella is learning a few things with her :)

tagging @killtheprotagonist and @shapeshiftersandfire

CW: female whumpee, pet whump, but nothing actually happens bc jamie is a sweetie :)

“So, um, what do you want for dinner?” Jamie’s rattling around the kitchen, looking in cabinets and drawers to see what’s there. “Are you hungry yet? What, um. What did you have for lunch?”

“I didn’t eat lunch, Jamie.”

There’s a slowing, and then a complete stop to Jamie’s rummaging. She turns to face Isabella, looking deeply concerned. “You, um, didn’t eat? Because…I mean…we had breakfast at eight. It’s, um, it’s two now.”

Isabella offers her a bland smile. “I don’t have permission from my owner to eat without her.”

Hearing that, Jamie’s eyebrows draw together, and Isabella sees what anger looks like on this tentative, awkward woman. Drawing back, Isabella tries to steel herself for some kind of punishment, but Jamie just shakes her head, and as quickly as it appeared, the anger is gone. “Sorry I-sorry. That’s, um…huh. Okay. Just, um, as long as I’m with you, you have permission to eat whenever you’re hungry, okay?”

Uncertainly, Isabella nods. Whenever she’s hungry? That doesn’t seem right. But Jamie is in charge of her for now, so she just nods again. “Okay, Jamie.”

“So, um, do you have anything in particular you’d like? For dinner? I, um, I’m going to make you a snack and then we’re going to probably eat pretty early, because you’re definitely hungry.”

Swallowing, Isabella searches her head for an appropriate response. “Whatever…whatever you would like would be lovely, thank you.” She squeezes her eyes shut even as she says it, because that canned response does nothing but irritate Mara, though her owner usually tries to hide her frustration.

From Jamie there’s silence, and Isabella risks a peek at the redhead. Far from angry, she just looks like she’s thinking. “I…okay. Okay. I’m going to, um. Try something here.” Jamie sighs, turning fully to face Isabella and putting both hands flat on the counter, as if to steady herself. “I, um…I don’t know if Mara’s ever told you this, but I used to…I used to have a friend. We did, I guess. Mara and me. We had the same friend. Her name was…” Jamie clears her throat awkwardly. “Her name was Ju…”

Isabella winces without meaning to, and Jamie nods. “Yep, so, um, I think you know who I’m talking about.”

It was hard enough to have this conversation with Mara. Isabella doesn’t, truly doesn’t, want to have it with a new stranger, but she clears her throat to make it clear who and what she is. “My name is Isabella, and I am a Box Babe belonging to Mara Langford, designated combination Domestic-Platonic, Product Number 067-”

“N-no.” Jamie hesitates as she says it, but there’s force behind the word. “I’m…I’m sorry. I know…” Jamie sucks in a deep breath, as if new air will give her strength. “I know you’re not her. You’re Isabella.” Jamie tries for a smile, and Isabella returns one, tiny and nervous. “I just…if you don’t mind, I can cook something she used to like. Because you do remind me of her, a little. She was, um, she was a vegetarian, you know? I can…can make something vegetarian…if, um, if you…”

Isabella may not know Jamie, but she knows what rambling sounds like, and she can see the discomfort in Jamie’s eyes as she stumbles along. “That sounds good,” she agrees, and Jamie relaxes so visibly it’s almost comical.

“Oh. Good.” She smiles at Isabella, real and warm and relieved, and Isabella can’t help smiling back.

Isabella moves to join Jamie in the kitchen, but the redhead is washing her hands and getting out the cutting board herself. “I…I can do that,” Isabella offers uncertainly, but Jamie just smiles at her.

“I’ve got it.”

So Jamie will be holding a knife. Isabella wants to back away, but Jamie hasn’t dismissed her. Steeling herself, Isabella holds her place near the kitchen, every nerve tense and ready. When Jamie speaks, her quiet voice is enough to make Isabella want to jump. “Do you want to, um, tell me about your day?”

Brow wrinkling, Isabella examines Jamie hesitantly. “All I do is clean,” she explains. “And do some stretches, sometimes. Exercises. It wouldn’t be very interesting to talk about.”

Mouth turning down, Jamie focuses on the vegetables she’s chopping, and Isabella wonders if she’s angry. She wonders if Jamie’s thinking about using the knife for something besides making dinner. “Well, did anything different happen today?”

She doesn’t sound angry, but she doesn’t sound happy, either. Still – Isabella can’t lie to her. “No,” she answers honestly, eyes still on the knife.

“Don’t…don’t you get bored?”

Isabella’s eyes come up to meet Jamie’s. The question seems genuine, and Jamie’s face is open in the asking, but Isabella’s not about to criticize her owner to a stranger. “I’m very happy here.” Isabella’s smiling as she says it, even, but Jamie doesn’t look convinced.

“That’s…not really an answer.”

The smile starts to slip from Isabella’s face. She has the uncomfortable, heart-racing feeling that Jamie is trying to catch her out, and she doesn’t know what exactly to say that will get her out of trouble. She does get bored, she does, but that would sound like complaining. Should she go with the simple stupid pet route? Would that be lying?

The distress must show on her face because Jamie sets the knife down carefully. “Sorry – I’m sorry. Let’s, uh, let’s talk about something else.”

“Thank you, Jamie.”

“A’course.” Jamie gives her this crooked little half-smile, and Isabella smiles back, still tentative, careful. “It’s okay – my day wasn’t very interesting, either.”

The convention is to ask Jamie, now, what she does. Isabella can’t help finding it strange, this playing at conversation with a pet. Mara tried it for a time, but she’s mostly given up now, has slipped into guiding the conversation and letting Isabella ask her questions. Still, if a pretend dialogue is what Jamie wants, Isabella can try to oblige. “What did you do?”

“I, uh, I’m a caregiver, if you know what that is.”

Isabella just shakes her head.

“I help out people who can’t do things on their own. If they use mobility aids or something like that, older people…there’s stuff they can’t do by themselves.” Jamie shrugs. “Like I said. It’s not that interesting either.”

Maybe that’s why Jamie’s making dinner instead of having Isabella do it. Maybe she’s just so used to helping people that she doesn’t realize Isabella isn’t a person. “That sounds important.”

Jamie rewards her with another smile. “I…yeah, I guess it is. I don’t know. I like my new clients, so that’s nice.”

“Why…” Isabella marvels at her own bravery but reminds herself that this seems to be what Jamie wants. “Why do you have new clients?”

Now Jamie sets the knife in the sink, and Isabella wonders if she’s keeping it close, in case she needs it again, for something besides little piles of peppers and carrots, like, for instance, Isabella. When Jamie speaks, her voice is quiet, but it still startles the boxgirl, whose eyes are fixed firmly on the knife gleaming in the sink. “I, uh, just moved here. From a few…a few hours away. So. New clients.”

“Oh. Do you like it here?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Jamie shrugs again, shoulders hanging awkwardly even after she’s done, hunched up by her shoulders. If Isabella didn’t know better, she’d think that Jamie was almost…afraid. As if Isabella could do something to her. “It’s spring now, so I like that it’s brighter out, but I don’t think that has anything to do with the city. You’ve lived here longer – do you like it here?”

“I’m sorry; I couldn’t say. I don’t leave the apartment.”

She doesn’t. Isabella’s life begins and ends at the gray metal door that lets her owner into the hallway and keeps Isabella safe inside. Mara’s at work all the time, and when she’s not at work, she doesn’t want to be seen with a pet. For a lot of reasons, she tells Isabella, but that doesn’t stop her boxgirl wondering if it’s because of the scar on her chest.

Maybe Jamie agrees, because she’s frowning. “I’m…sorry. Do, um, do you want to?”

“I want what Mara wants,” Isabella answers simply, correctly. Jamie nods, still frowning.

“Well…uh…how’s…um…the weather?”

Isabella watches Jamie wince at her own awkwardness and feels a tiny spark of amusement, dangerous as that is. “Pretty good.” Other times, Isabella might wonder if that response is too informal, but she has a sense it might put Jamie at ease. “There was a bit of snow this winter. A lot of rain.”

“Which do you like more?”

It’s a harmless preference to have, Isabella is almost sure, so she thinks about it. “I think…I think rain?” she almost asks it, looking nervously to Jamie, who encourages her with a smile. “They’re both pretty, but I don’t like…I don’t like watching the snow get ruined. It makes me…um…sad.”

That’s…that’s a lot, even for trying to have a conversation, even for trying to put her tentative new pet-sitter at ease. Almost as soon as she’s done speaking, her muscles lock up, her eyes drop. Isabella’s nervous, though she doesn’t know exactly why.

Jamie sighs. “Yeah, that’s true. Snow is pretty, but slush is sad.”

“Yeah,” Isabella agrees quietly.

“Do you…do you like hot or cold weather better?”

“I…I…”

“Oh, and” – Jamie speaks up so suddenly Isabella flinches, just a little – “oh, sorry, if, um, if I’m asking something that you can’t answer…or don’t want to answer…you don’t have to, you know?” Her voice and face seem so earnest. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I’m happy to do whatever my owner wants me to,” Isabella reminds Jamie softly, and the redhead bites her lip.

“O…okay. But what if…maybe you could just, um, let me know, if there’s something that makes you uncomfortable.”

Nodding slowly, Isabella wonders how the hell she’s supposed to navigate that. As she puzzles it over, Jamie lets out a little self-conscious laugh. “I’m…I’m sorry I’m being so awkward.”

“O-oh.” Taken aback all over again, Isabella wonders how to approach this. “You’re…not, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression-”

“No, no, really, I, um, get a little nervous around new people.”

“I’m not a person,” Isabella reminds her softly, and Jamie winces.

“Oh, um…” Jamie bites her lip. “I don’t…feel that way.”

Isabella has no idea how to answer that. She and Jamie gaze at each other across the table, and Jamie is the first to look away. “Sorry,” she says quietly. “Sorry. I…I’m not…used to this.”

There’s movement in front of Jamie’s sweatshirt, and when Isabella drops her eyes, she sees that Jamie’s wringing her hands. If she’s faking her anxiousness, her awkwardness, Isabella decides, then the pet is meant to fall for it. The act is just too convincing, so…so Isabella will have to assume that it’s real.

“That’s okay.” It’s weird, weird, weird, reassuring an owner, but Jamie’s so unsure, so eager, it makes Isabella feel just a little safer. What does Mara say when Isabella’s anxious? “I…I don’t mind.”

And Jamie smiles, and Isabella feels a warmth, a relief. Is this how she’s supposed to interact with people? The talking, the warm feeling when someone smiles at her? The only person she ever sees is Mara, and this isn’t like Mara – her owner is quick, decisive, sure of herself. Jamie is anything but. It’s harder, this talking back and forth, and not what Isabella was trained for. But it doesn’t yet feel quite wrong.

Taking a deep breath, Jamie nods. “Thanks. Thank you.” Isabella just nods. “What, um…is there anything you’d like to do tonight? After dinner, I mean.”

Isabella could explain, once more, that she doesn’t have preferences, that that’s her owner’s job. Even Mara doesn’t like that, though, and Jamie has already confessed that she doesn’t know what she’s doing, so Isabella tries something else. “Usually, I clean up dinner and Mara finishes work from the day. Sometimes we watch a movie or a TV show.”

“Okay, well…well I don’t really have any work to do when I get home, so do you want to watch something? Is there anything you like?”

“I’m sorry, Jamie, I don’t know the titles.”

“Right…” Jamie seems at a loss, and Isabella wonders how much she’s going to have to teach this sitter after all.

Taking a deep breath, she tries to nudge the redhead in the right direction. “What do you usually do in the evenings?”

“Um, read, mostly.” Jamie shrugs. “Do you…do you read?”

Biting her lip, Isabella shakes her head. “I’ve been…encouraged not to,” she answers softly.

The look on Jamie’s face is strained again, stricken. “I’m…I’m sorry. I could…read to you? If you want?”

Her cheeks are pink – Jamie’s cheeks are pink, as if she’s embarrassed, making this offer to Isabella, to a pet. Now Isabella has to bite her lip to keep from smiling – Jamie’s strange, she decides, but…but kind. Perhaps it’s too early to say. Perhaps she’s making a mistake, failing some kind of test. Seeing the nervous hopeful look in Jamie’s eyes, Isabella doesn’t think so.

“That sounds nice,” she agrees, and Jamie’s cheeks go even pinker.

“Okay! Um, good. We can do that…then. After dinner?”

“After dinner,” Isabella agrees.

And after dinner Jamie does read to her. They sit on the couch – Isabella normally, hands folded in her lap; and Jamie crunched up in the corner, knees to her chest. Jamie’s bookmark is somewhere in the middle of the book, but she starts reading from the beginning, and Isabella isn’t sure if she should thank her for that.

She likes this, Isabella decides. It takes a while for her to relax, to lean back against the couch and tip her head back and listen. For a while, she looks at Jamie, and once more, that makes the redhead blush.

It’s a nice story. Jamie reads for a while, what feels like a long while, and when she needs water for her throat, she gets up herself, without even asking Isabella.

It’s strange, unaccountably strange, being with an owner, even a temporary one, that is so constantly looking for Isabella’s approval. That night, Isabella will turn it over and over in her head, trying to understand what’s going on. It must be, she finally decides, that like Mara, Jamie is making the mistake of treating Isabella like a person. It had taken several days for Mara to start losing the habit of asking for Isabella’s permission and approval and opinion on everything. Pretty soon Jamie will too.

Somewhere deep, deep in the secret heart of herself, a small, defiant part of Isabella hopes she doesn’t.

[rinasspookystories]

Fish Bones

I've heard a number of stories about gifts being bestowed upon kind hearted individuals. Trees, animals, mystical beings...just to name a few. This case, in particular, involves a young girl and gifts she receives from the bones of a fish. An odd thing to be able to grant wishes or gifts, but I suppose there's stranger. Maybe. Allow me to start this explanation with a story. In it, there is a man with two wives. Not an unusual sight. Especially among the higher class families in China. The wives each birth a daughter, both of which are as lovely as their mothers. I know this much based on the testimony of the father and the portraits he showed me of his family. Indeed, he was married to a pair of beauties. His first wife reminded me of a viper. Beautiful, angry, venomous. She would wear makeup to hide any flaws on her face (so perhaps she was not as lovely as she truly was). But then, that was merely what could be seen on the surface. Her eyes showed far more. You could see an inner cruelty, the venom, shining in her almond shaped eyes. Eyes that were too heavily lined and weighed down with far too much mascara which hid what could possibly have been rather attractive hazel eyes. And then she also wore too thick makeup that was one, maybe two, shades lighter than her natural complexion along with deep rouge on her lips that only accentuated how thin and tense her mouth was. Personally, I feel she may have been trying far too hard.

The second wife, whom this man has proclaimed to be his favorite, brings to mind wildflowers. There's a softness to her face and in her coal black eyes. A complexion matching someone who spends much time outside and tending to a garden (apparently a favorite pastime of hers). And not even a static image can hide the smile hidden in the corner of her full lips. I can certainly see why he's chosen her as his favorite. Were I the kind who might marry, I would certainly want this lovely creature. Such a shame that she had passed before her time. Now, for the daughters. As stated before, there are two of them. The elder being born to the first wife and the younger being born to the second. Both girls take after their mothers. Though it should be mentioned that the first, thankfully, doesn't share her mother's stern expression or penchant for heavy makeup. This first daughter has the same eye shape and color as her mother, but the lack of heavy makeup makes it much easier too see the color of them. The only difference is that the daughter's eyes are somewhat more slanted and makes her look like a fox. Not that that is such a bad thing. The vulpine-like features suit the girl quite well and give others the impression that she is far more cunning than she appears to be. Such a shame that her personality doesn't match her features. She could certainly be a force to be reckoned with in court if she was the sly creature she looks to be. Sadly, she's actually quite dim and as vain as her mother. And a horrid complainer. Although, I'm not certain there's any teenaged girl that wouldn't complain about pain and discomfort while going through the process of foot binding. Before I move on, I should explain that China does not favor foot binding much, anymore. While some families do still perform the procedure, it's usually started when a girl is much, much younger. While their feet were still growing. Not when the girl was nearly full grown. I believe that she may have also been dealing with an infection from the procedure when I first met her. Moving on now. The second daughter was the very image of her mother. Thick, black hair and wide, doe-like eyes the color of ebony. She even had that same little smile in the corner of her mouth. This girl, Yeh-Shen, is also the primary subject of this case. Which should be noted that she was very forthcoming with her side of the events. To begin, Yeh-Shen's mother died while she was still a young girl, leaving behind a beautiful garden with a fish pond. According to her father, she spent much time at the pond after her mother's passing. Apparently, she'd taken quite a liking to a particular fish in the pond. To say that this was the extent of things, though, would be wrong. Things get much worse in this story. As a merchant, the girl's father would often spend long durations of time away from home. During these times, the first wife, we'll call her Qiao, would treat Yeh-Shen as a servant. Forcing her stepdaughter to clean, cook and tend to her and her daughter's every need and whim. Qiao would even belittle her, calling her 'Lazy Girl' and whipping her if she didn't move as quickly as she wanted. For her own part, Qiao's daughter, whom shall be called Niu, wasn't as bad as her mother. She wasn't much better, but she also wasn't so abusive. Unless you counted kicking Yeh-Shen in the face when her feet were being cleaned and bandaged. Niu, though, would often thank her sister and didn't take part in the beatings or the name calling. That being said, she didn't exactly make it easier for her, either. Mostly by not offering to help with any of the chores and not speaking up against her mother for the woman's poor behavior. I suppose it can't be helped, though. Qiao can be quite intimidating. As mentioned, Yeh-Shen often spent her free time in her mother's garden and tending to a particular koi fish. I was fortunate enough to have gotten to see a painting of this fish, done by the girl in question. She's quite talented with paints and the fish was quite beautiful. Mostly white with a pale gold diamond between it's eyes. I imagine the fish must've looked as if it's scales were made of pearls while the marking looked more like fragments of amber. Even in the painting, you can see an intelligence in the animal that isn't commonly noticed in a fish of any kind. while we spoke, she told me tales of how the fish, called Bai, would often swim up to greet her and allow her to pet it as if it were a house cat. She also spoke of how Bai would 'dance' for her, as if performing for it's mistress in the hopes of cheering her up. No doubt, Yeh-Shen genuinely loved this little fish. She didn't even need to say as much as I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice. It's a shame that there must be one more bit of tragedy before a happier end comes. In this case, Bai was killed. As a form of punishment as well as to feed her own child and herself, Qiao scooped the fish from the pond and forced Yeh-Shen to prepare it as a meal. There's no doubt that the poor girl cried the entire time and continued to do so as she gathered every tiny bone and wrapped in silk. Yeh-Shen then spoke of how she cared for the bones as if they were a treasure, wishing nothing more than for her friend to return to her. As it happens, the festival celebrating the new year took place just a few, short months after this. Qiao was adamant that Yeh-Shen not attend. Considering this was also a time when young women and men often sought out a potential spouse, the woman didn't want the extra competition against Niu. I imagine anyone seeing that girl hobbling along in binding shoes would only bring about feelings of pity. Not exactly a great way to try and get a husband. However, this is not Niu's story. While she was forced to stay home, Yeh-Shen spoke to the bones of her beloved fish. Something she claims to have been doing since it's death as it brought her comfort. As she carried on a one-sided conversation, her garments changed from muslin rags to silk robes and golden slippers. While there's no evidence to prove it, it seems the bones of the fish were able to grant it's mistress's wish. She was able to go to the festival. The festival in question was a rather large event. One that I was unable to attend due to having holed myself up with my work. But I did hear a great deal about the spectacle afterwards. How a tiny golden slipper led to a simple servant girl marrying the son of one of the most powerful lords. It's at this point that the story's events were told from the perspective of the young lord, Li Shou. He had found the slipper shortly after parting ways with Yeh-Shen, having been talking with her for some time. He had hoped to get her name, but she had fled before telling him. A shame as that may have made it much easier for him to find her and return the little shoe. What should be noted is that I keep referencing the size of this shoe. There is a reason. The object appears to belong to a rather young girl, not an adult woman. Had I not been shown the size of her feet when shown the slippers, I would've believed that there was no way it belonged to her. During the search, Shou had all the unmarried ladies try the slipper on. Given a woman would've had to have had a severely deformed foot to fit into such a small shoe, it's no surprise that no one was able to fit into it. There was even moments when, according to those who witnessed it, the slipper would shrink whenever a girl would be close to the same size. No doubt there was some form of magic still involved and it was helping this young man find it's rightful owner. At some point, the slipper was brought to Yeh-Shen's home where Niu tried on the slipper, first. Naturally, it didn't come close to fitting the young woman's foot and no one was really keen on helping her force it on the infected appendage. Qiao tried to keep the true owner of the slipper from being seen, but since the lord and his men needed to pass by the garden and the pond in order to leave, she failed in her attempt. Lord Shou goes on to tell how he approached the frightened servant girl and asked her try on the slipper. Sure enough, the slipper fit her dainty foot perfectly. Now is the part that has me the most intrigued. For it was moments after Yeh-Shen put on the slipper that her beloved fish had reappeared in the pond. And, according to the young couple, Qiao dragged Niu into the garden to try and stop Shou from meeting her stepdaughter. When they reached a certain spot by the pond, the koi, resurrected by some unknown force, had leaped up and struck them with it's tail. The impact resulted in the two toppling into the pond where they transformed into a pair of koi fish. Lord Shou said that he had never heard screams such as theirs. Screams that indicated the change must've been quite painful. Thankfully, they allowed me to see these fish. The original koi was just as lovely as the original painting indicated. These two new ones, though... I'm not certain what to consider them to be. Both are a mottled black and orange with dull, black eyes set on their very human faces. The longest one, I assume was once Qiao, had a very thin face and would bite at anyone who tried to approach. The other, I can only guess to have been Niu because of the deformed tail fin. Certainly seems to be a fitting end for them.

[cruelfeline]

Do you think Hordak abused Catra, or was it a two-way exchange? I had this tussle with a Catra stan trying to claim she was innocent and it was Hordak doing everything wrong in the situation and wanted to hear what one of Hordak's biggest fans thinks.

Ah, anon, this is such an interesting question! And it’s definitely one I see people fight over time and again. I’ll give you my opinion, though I warn you and everyone who reads this: the nature of Catra and Hordak’s relationship seems to me to be a subjective one. How abusive, how reciprocal, and ultimately how distressing one finds it is often dependent upon one’s own views. That said, I shall give you mine. 

Official disclaimer: this is all based upon how I interpret these characters and how their interactions make me feel. Your mileage may greatly vary.

First and foremost, let me answer this question: does Hordak hurt Catra? Yes. Yes, he does. He uses a machine to suffocate her. It is bad. He also plans to send her to Beast Island. He should not have done it. He is a bad man with bad leadership methods.

Now, with that established: did he abuse her?

Ah. Hm. Hmm. 

To me, this is not “abuse” in the way that what Shadow Weaver does to Catra is “abuse.” And I emphasize “to me” because, again, your mileage may vary. I have a certain sense of what I interpret to be “abuse.” And my sense may not be your sense. Heck, it may not even be the showrunners’ sense! But it’s mine, and that’s what I’m going with when discussing this.

and yes, I am bringing Shadow Weaver into this, so prepare yourselves

Hordak’s treatment of Catra is wrong, of course, but it’s not the same thing as what Shadow Weaver does to her. And it’s not something that makes me uncomfortable in the way that Shadow Weaver’s actions make me uncomfortable. 

Part of the reason for this is the motivation behind it. Why does Hordak do this to Catra? Why does he physically harm her? Why is he so harsh? 

Well, short of asking him, we’ll never truly know, but in my opinion, he is harsh and draconic and violent partially because of his “upbringing,” and partially because he is afraid. He spies and attempts to control everyone because he is afraid. And he is afraid because, once someone learns his secrets and figures out how to turn off his life support, he can be smacked around and broken over one’s knee like the grumpy toothpick that he is.

And cruel as his methods are, evil as he is, he’s pretty much right, isn’t he? As we all know, Catra achieves this. She figures out the secret to Hordak’s armor and essentially usurps him. In all of twenty seconds. Violently. Painfully. With plenty of humiliation involved.

Add to this physical vulnerability Hordak’s tendency to be easily manipulated due to his own emotional issues, and it’s not difficult to see why he might feel the need to rule with an iron fist. Hordak has precious little room for error, not just in terms of keeping on top of the Fright Zone hierarchy, but in terms of keeping his life. He’s killable. He’s really, disconcertingly killable. And beyond being killable, he is manipulable and easily influenced.  

Even exile to Beast Island can be viewed as an extension of this: if someone is a legitimate, untrustworthy danger to him, then they must be eliminated. And Catra, due to her lies and her personal motives, ends up being an untrustworthy danger. 

So that’s one reason I don’t view this as traditional abuse: Hordak’s motivations appear less “abuse the child for a power trip” and more “I need to keep everyone in line because if I don’t, there’s a pretty legit chance that I’m going to die.” There’s a self-defense aspect to it. It’s a weird, fucked up form of self-defense, but it’s there. 

Shadow Weaver, on the other hand… well, I’m not entirely certain of her motivations. She doesn’t hurt a military-trained, dangerous teenage cat person that could kill her; she starts off very plainly hurting a frightened little girl. I have my own sort of pet theory why, but this isn’t really the place for it, and it’s entirely speculative. I feel like we-the-viewers don’t really get much of a reason for why she treats Catra the way she does. Oh, she claims that it’s to make Catra stronger, but that’s… kind of a weak reason, to me. Again, I have my thoughts, but this isn’t that post. 

The point is, whatever Shadow Weaver’s motives, I don’t read them as “messed up self-defense” the way I do Hordak’s. Which is why her torment of Catra reads as true abuse to me, while Hordak’s punishments read more as overzealous, maladjusted discipline. 

Now, one could definitely argue that the only reason Hordak needed to defend himself from Catra is because he wronged her in the first place, and this is a legitimate argument. However, I would counter that Catra ended up being dangerous not only to her enemies, but to her friends as well. She tazed Entrapta and all but killed her. She used Scorpia whenever it was convenient and otherwise threatened/neglected her. She pretty much made a game of one-upping and trying to kill Adora. Being kind to Catra wasn’t some sort of guarantee of safety, and really, I don’t think Hordak was in the sort of place to take that kind of gamble, physically or mentally. So to me, this is a bit of a moot point.

The other big factor in why Hordak’s treatment of Catra doesn’t read as traditional abuse to me is how it affects Catra. In short: it doesn’t seem to. Not really. Not beyond keeping her in line and ensuring that she is afraid of him enough so that she doesn’t try anything. It’s not like Shadow Weaver’s lifelong abuse, which causes severe, traumatic damage to Catra and is essentially responsible for her being the way she is. 

Catra is able to break off from Hordak with no emotional repercussions even before she physically bests him. What he’s done to her, while painful and morally wrong, doesn’t appear to have lasting effects. It doesn’t affect her view of herself. It doesn’t add to her pathology. She doesn’t feel the need to continue chasing his approval.

Compare this to how Catra responds to Shadow Weaver even after having “defeated her” and supposedly moved on: she’s still deeply hurt by her, still bound to seek her approval and esteem, still driven to tears when Shadow Weaver rejects her yet again. Nothing like this happens with Hordak; he hurts Catra, yes, but he doesn’t damage her, if that makes sense.

The reason for this is rooted, I think, in the roles these characters play for one another. Catra isn’t much affected by Hordak’s physical punishment because he doesn’t really mean anything to her. He’s her boss, not a father figure or anything like that. More importantly, he’s a means to an end: a source of respect and authority that will provide her with the ability to get what she actually wants: Shadow Weaver and Adora’s respect and approval. Shadow Weaver, on the other hand, is Catra’s mother. She’s supposed to be her source of affection, security, and emotional support. And so when she hurts Catra, it leaves legitimate emotional scars. Which is what marks it as abusive. Again: to me. 

Now, briefly: did Catra abuse Hordak? 

My assessment of that is a bit more difficult. It’s a little rougher, I think, because despite being a traumatized child, Catra was able to perform some heavy emotional manipulation on him, and I suppose one could argue that she causes more lasting damage by using his emotional insecurities and connection to Entrapta against him. I guess her motivations also seem to leave “self-defense” territory and wander into “using you for personal gain.” 

And in the end, he does end up forming an emotional attachment to her that leaves him distraught upon learning of her betrayal, so… hm. Hmm. I guess one could argue that she “abuses” Hordak the same way she “abuses” Scorpia and Entrapta. Perhaps. Her actions do give me a certain emotional discomfort that Hordak’s do not. So… maybe yes? I would personally classify it as some sort of abuse? Even though it distresses me to do so, because I know Catra is in pain. And it’s not the same as what Shadow Weaver does to Catra. And it’s definitely no where near the level of abuse Horde Prime visits upon Hordak. Like, not even close. 

So… yeah. It’s probably odd to read, but the way Catra harms Hordak feels stranger and more distressing than how he harms her. She’s certainly not innocent. To me. I cannot stress “to me” enough.

I suppose, to close this off, what I think of Hordak’s actions toward Catra is less “abuse” and more “assault.” He physically hurts her, because he is a bad man with leadership skills steeped in brutality, but it never goes beyond that. It doesn’t cross that line for me. That line is hard to define, of course, but I’ve tried to compare the Hordak/Catra situation to the Shadow Weaver/Catra situation to give you a better idea of where it lies for me. Catra’s actions toward Hordak are a little more difficult because of course she’s so young and so hurt, but they do feel different to me, enough so that I think they cross that odd line into abusive. But only just, I think.

My verdict: Hordak doesn’t abuse Catra so much as he assaults her, and Catra does some sort of weird emotional-manipulation-pseudo-abuse thing to Hordak that disturbs me, but it’s weird because he’s evil-man Hordak, and she’s a damaged child, so I get how odd that sounds. *sigh*  

actually I have a masterpost on that if you’re interested

So: that’s my answer, take it as you will. I accept all comments and angry screeching, so feel free!

[hollowtreesinhollowwoods]

okok whump idea: Creepy/intimate whumper, pet names (i like using 'doll' 'love' and 'pet'). I also looooove when the whumpee breaks and then is rescued by caretaker, but they need to be deconditioned. also just an abstract idea: collars and muzzles on wumpees who arent PET pets but still need to be obediant and shit. thanks so much for reading my little schpiel (i probably spelled that wrong) and i love your writing sm :D

Okay, let me first start out with: Oh my go sh you’re making me blush right now! I think you’re the second ask I’ve gotten ever so thank you so much?? I also love pet whump, especially when I have so many stories that I can implement it in!! I actually have this whole unexplored world of humans and fae that my SNQH series was gonna explore, with fae being a sort of controversial, grey area between human and animal(at least by the way humans see it). I’ve had a bit of writer’s block with that, but I feel like this is a great ask to introduce another of my characters 😈 I’m glad you like my stuff, so I hope you will like this, and thank you for giving me inspiration! (Also, at the time of completing this, I’m sorry it took so long! I had a lot of school to catch up on :’D)

My Little Dove

CW: pet whump, noncon(nonsexual? I mean not by human standards but by harpy standards its debatable but Imma just say nonsexual), drugging, implied drugging, creepy/intimate whumper, multiple whumpers, mentions of torture, forcing whumpee to wear certain clothes, headache, bindings, bound wings

“I’m going to have guests over again tonight, my little dove,” called Master’s voice behind her. By now, Pipeulae wasn’t sure if the squirming in her gut that she felt when he called her that was good or bad. She dismissed it, though, continuing in stirring the soup she’d been working on. That’s why he’d asked her to cook it, then.

“That sounds wonderful, Master,” she said quietly, in a hesitant voice that he could easily shut down or overpower if need be. At the old place she’d stayed, it was like walking on eggshells. Master, though, seemed to enjoy hearing her speak.

“These guests will be new, so I’d like you to be present and wear your best. Chaise lounge, as usual.” Master strode over to her side.

Pipeulae’s heart sank slightly, but she nodded, turning to look in his direction, “Of course, Master. Anything you like.” She turned back to look at the soup, twisting the dial down as the boiling broth retreated to a simmer.

“That’s my beautiful bird, so sweet and obedient,” Master said, running a hand up Pipeulae’s bare back--the shirt compromised there thanks to her huge wings, which were tied closed with scarves to keep them out of the way, and just tightly so that they ached mildly, but constantly. A small shudder ran up after his fingers, goosebumps prickling on her neck as his hand went to rest there. An almost inaudible gasp sucked into Pipeulae’s mouth, but she hid her discomfort, continuing to stir. “If you’re good, I’ll let you on a field day again. Wouldn’t want those wings to lose their luster, would we?”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Master.”

“Of course, my little dove.” Master strode out of the room.

As Pipeulae looked back down into the soup, though she’d been hungry for ages, she suddenly wanted to avoid food very much.

--

She’d gotten quite good at looking “pretty”, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Pipeulae laid with her wings limply yet gracefully outstretched to the tile below. She tried to look drowsy. Look like she did when Master gave her his tonic. Like he had each day at the start of her residence here. Back when she’d been unruly, unpleasant. That tonic, he said, made her beauty more... easily accessible. Made the punishments less harsh. Soon, she was well behaved enough not to need it, so he saved it instead. Perhaps for a new pet, if he ever got one.

It wasn’t hard to look tired--the silver jewelry that had been draped on her head and body and hung from her ears sent buzzing pain through her head. Like most other things, she’d gotten used to it, though. Most of the conversation between the partygoers drifted right past Pipeulae’s ears, and she didn’t bother trying to listen. Occasionally, they came up to admire her. They’d say things like, “What a magnificent beast!” or “So serene. You’d think she was a statue until she blinked!” and Pipeulae assumed this was good. It certainly sounded that way, from the tones of their voices.

This time, though, she noticed them all approaching, and realized that the sound of clinking silverware was gone. She felt a sudden jolt of fear, but shoved the feeling down.

Then came the words.

“Would you like to preen her wings? The feathers are like silk,” Master’s voice came through hushed discussion. Pipeulae could feel the hint of lust in his voice. He and her were the only ones who knew, and when her eyes roamed over to his, his smile widened. “Especially the inner parts. She has trouble reaching those. Don’t you, my little dove?” He purred.

A sick feeling formed in Pipeulae’s gut. Preening was an intimate act. It was kept between romantic partners. Sometimes family members. But never strangers. Never strangers.

“Oh, poor dear. We’ll get your plumes all straightened out for you. Don’t worry about a thing,” said one of the guests, brushing the hair out of her face. “Just go on back to being careless, now. You look so beautiful when you do.”

So she did. Or at least, she tried. One of the men pulled a little too roughly at one of her coverts and her wing jerked back in reflex. The man let out a startled noise, and Pipeulae froze.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, though Master merely shook his head in dismissal, approaching Pipeulae.

“She had a bad home at previous, so you must forgive that she’s a little skittish sometimes. I have a drink to help calm her, though,” he pulled out a small bottle, holding it close to her lips.

“Please, Master,” Pipeulae mouthed, only a slight breath giving the words voice.

“It’s alright. You’re safe,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear. Loud enough to continue the charade. He pressed the bottle to her lips, tilting the bottom up as she swallowed the liquid. What other choice did she have?

Everything went unpleasantly numb and limp, and Pipeulae remembered just how much she hated his tonic.

Before forgetting again as it sent her into complacent bliss.

Her eyelids drooped tiredly, and her wings became pliant under their touch. As their coarse, thick fingers pulled and poked under her feathers, her stomach twisted, and she let out a long, low moan. Their voices were just sounds, now. Not words. Another moan, higher this time, slipped out of her lips as they dug deeper with those fingers. It tickled, and the corner of her mouth twitched as a high, soft whimper came out.

Moans, whimpers. They seemed not to mind these noises. Maybe they even liked them, because sometimes they’d press their stout fingers harder under the crevices between feathers just to hear them louder, she thought. They became more frequent when they moved to the inner plumes near her back.

One finger stroked a scapular gently, and a rogue trill of pleasure slipped out. Then another. She wanted to ask them to stop, but she didn’t know why. This felt wrong. That was all she knew.

The fingers dug deeper, pulled and pruned and plucked as she twitched and whined and trilled. She felt like curling up in a ball in a dark closet away from those stubby fingers, nothing like her kind’s own spindly, delicate ones that never overstayed their welcome. But another part of her pushed up into the touches. She hated that it felt... good. She hated it so much. What was wrong with her? Her next trill came out sad.

Then they must have straightened the last plume, because the hands left. Only one returned to stroke her head. “Such a beautiful bird I have. So meek and willing. That’s a fair reward for such behavior, isn’t it, my little dove?”

Pipeulae uttered a low moan in reply when she realized he was talking to her. But it wasn’t a reward. Not a reward at all. It was just another form of torture in disguise. A party trick to impress his friends. A disgusting form of entertainment for him. She felt like she was covered in grime. She wanted to scrub it all off, rub her skin raw if she had to. Clip all her feathers.

The hand left her head, and she was alone. The drug made her ears fill like they were stuffed with cotton, and after a while, it dragged her drowsily under the spell of sleep.

[sierra-writing-blog]

Try This 1.2-Brooks

CW: Abuse, Sexual Violence, SA

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.

Things I have lost:

Friends, passion, pets, loneliness, grandparents, self esteem issues, abuse.

    Abuse is one of those things that everyone knows about, but few ever talk about it. I did not go through the worst that abuse has to offer, but I was also no stranger to lying, manipulation, gaslighting, shoving and gripping, sexual coercion. I can speak on this freely and it brings me no shame or great discomfort. Normalize sharing our experiences. Normalize baring our trauma to the world that we may be a beacon of light for others to step into from the darkness of shame and fear in which they often hide. Most abuse goes unreported. Few cases ever see court. Even fewer lead to legitimate convictions. #MeToo was a wake up call of the abuse that people in this society endure. It started as an emphasis on the trauma of cis women but it has since grown and flourished to include not only cis men but trans, nonbinary and gender-non-conforming individuals.  About 1 in 3 women and 1 in 6 men are victims of sexual violence at some point in their lives. A survey conducted in 2015 found that nearly half (47%) of their trans and nonbinary responders were sexually assaulted, and that stat was even higher (53%) for people of color.

friends are not around forever, and are often replaced with the changing of the seasons, but the marks they leave on our lives may stay with us our entire lives, for better or worse.

Passion and drive are difficult things to muster up and maintain when you battle ADD or some other disorder or disability, for me it’s a daily battle with hyper-fixation and lack of physical and emotional energy.

Pets bring indescribable joy to our lives, they show us unconditional love even as we may still struggle to love ourselves, and they show us how we should be treated with kindness even as we may feel it is undeserved.

Loneliness is a slow death, even as the introvert wishes to be alone, alone should be a choice; loneliness is the cruelest punishment that can be inflicted on a biologically social species.

Grandparents can be incredibly wonderful companions for the growing and learning child, they share life experiences that left a little girl with awe, and in their death taught her about the pain of grief very early on.

Self-esteem issues are quite constant in our world, they cause us to suffer the things we cannot change, and moving past them to find my self love was a difficult but rewarding journey.

Abuse changed my life in ways both good and bad, altering my perspective on abuse entirely and it made me a stronger and more confident person, but I can also acknowledge that some lessons shouldn’t have to be learned that way, I deserved to be safe.

[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 39

Author’s notes: This chapter took me a fucking week to write and im BEAT. No cutting chapters in half, we die like men.

Chapter 39

(Vergil POV)

Who the hell is that?

Vergil stared in blank confusion at the newcomer, not recognizing him in the slightest. Was this supposed to be another god, one who existed with the Outsider among the endless darkness of the Void? He...didn’t seem like it. This man was rugged in appearance, his eyes a clear brown and hair dark with hints of gray. Older in age, grizzled with an unshaven face and an air of tired annoyance as he stared at the black-eyed God. Speaking of that, this newcomer had normal eyes, and no appearance of ethereal energy to suggest he was anything other than human--nothing seemed amiss minus the clear mark of the Deity on his hand, glowing lightly so close to his presence. But how had he gotten here when the God clearly seemed surprised, and why did the Outsider look like he had been caught red-handed doing something he wasn’t supposed to be? 

What is going on?

Among the chaos swirling in his head, mingling with the sound of V protesting his choices and voicing that guilt and agony eating them alive...this new surprise definitely wasn’t appreciated, or needed. An interruption had arrived and prolonged his punishment, which was something Vergil found a twinge of exhausted annoyance in. God, he was so tired. Not himself, not sure who “Vergil” was anymore. Guilt was such a new thing, one he spent so long avoiding and pretending wasn’t there. It now bloomed inside him like vines gripping every organ, suffocating each breath and making his heart thud painfully. He had done wrong by you, by everyone in his life. Years and years of pride and foolishness had blinded him into thinking one way, plunging into fear and cowardice like they somehow protected him. 

They never did, and he was always found wanting.

The Outsider had opened up those wounds with serrated blades, flayed him alive and leaving him to bleed upon the ground. Vergil would have gladly gave every drop of that blood to you, like it would have somehow repaired the damage he did all those years ago. It never would, of course. How would he ever be able to look Nero in the eyes after this, and see every way he had wronged the boy? Causing the destruction of his mother, abandoning them in Fortuna, ripping off his arm for some selfish idea of power...Every encounter he had with the white-haired demon hunter had been rife with agony, and Vergil knew now that Nero’s hatred of him was far more deserved than previously anticipated.

He would live with that hatred, that agony. Now he only wished this newcomer would let him get to it.

Vergil, please--

He ignored V, staring between the Outsider and the unfamiliar man as the God visibly flinched. His black eyes widened, jaw tightened in a visible display of discomfort that shocked the son of Sparda. Who was this grizzled man, one who clearly had a hold over the black-eyed bastard? The stranger in question crossed his arms, narrowing his brown eyes at them both and seeming heavily displeased all things considered. This was all growing very confusing, Vergil half expecting another God or something to show themselves and stop the Outsider, not someone so unassuming and normal. Could the God sweat? He sure seemed like he was on the verge of it, almost sulky as he finally released his grip on Vergil and letting him collapse in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

The impact hurt, but Vergil couldn’t care less. He was resting on his knees again, body aching and lungs feeling like they had been doused in ice water. Why wouldn’t they just get on with his torture, so he didn’t have to listen to V yelling at him anymore? This is growing so tiring. The God paid him no mind, turning away to look at the dark-haired man and clasping his hands behind his back. Was that a nervous tick, the way his fingers tapped lightly in sets of three on his own skin? Seemed like it.

“What are you doing here?” The Outsider replied flatly, seeming definitely sulky as he kept that little tick going beyond the stranger’s view, “I did not summon you forth, and you are supposed to be aiding Emily with the young ones, are you not?”

The strange man rolled his eyes at the Outsider’s irritated tone, not seeming impressed or intimidated in the slightest bit. He merely rose a thick brow, muscles bunching and relaxing under his black jacket in a show of his athletic build. This man had seen combat, and it showed down to the little pink, faded scars on his face to the callouses on his fingertips.

“Am I not allowed to come and visit?” He replied with a snort, lifting the hand with the Outsider’s mark and wiggling his fingers meaningfully, “You are the one who gave me that option, bastard. Not any other black-eyed God’s called ‘the Outsider’ around here, are there?”

What in the world is going on?

The God in question blinked at his response, seeming to blanch even paler despite his already-light complexion. Those fingers twitched, digging into his palm hard enough that any normal person would bleed. Had he really forgotten granting one of his followers an ability? Why was this person throwing him so off balance? To allow someone to travel freely to the Void on will must mean he was important to the man, that was to be certain. 

Did he know you? Did he know what had transpired here?

The Outsider let out a low sigh, seeming thoroughly angry with himself as he clipped in response, “This doesn’t involve you, Corvo. Go home to Emily and your grandchildren.”

Corvo? Who the hell is this man?

 And Emily as well, there was so much Vergil didn’t understand.

“Its night time in Dunwall, Emily and Wyman have things under control without me,” The gruff man--now dubbed Corvo--clicked his tongue in aggravation, his eyes lingering on Vergil for a moment before slipping back to the God, “I had my suspicions that you were doing shit you weren’t supposed to, but I didn’t realize just how far you went through with them. A brat, as always.”

He called this God of the Void a brat? If Vergil wasn’t so broken already, he might have been shocked or amused. All that could flicker forth was confusion and astonishment, especially when the Outsider looked visibly put off by the comment. His poised stance faltered for a brief second, like the words had jolted up his spine before he settled back and rolled his head on his shoulders. Vergil was growing agitated with this, especially when he seemed like a partial focus for attention. Every second spent here was just prolonging the inevitable,was it not?

Regardless, the Outsider’s annoyance seemed to grow in spades, his bad mood from seeing your previous death only heightened. Like petting a cat the wrong way, he bristled and snapped back, “I see you are still prone to putting your nose where it doesn’t belong--” He raised his fingers, seeming intent on banishing Corvo away as he hissed, “--It matters not. You have no place in my business.”

Corvo rose a brow, quickly speaking up before the God could remove him, “Send me back and you’ll never hear from me again, Outsider.”

His tone was firm, unyielding and clearly telling the truth with that threat. It made the God freeze in place, wide eyes meeting Corvo’s with a shocking amount of hesitation.

Corvo’s presence must have been important to him, very important. Because he backed down a moment later, lowering his hand and glowering at the grizzled man with a hint of resentment and exasperation. Vergil was aghast--why was Corvo interfering, when the Outsider definitely had viable reasons for doing all of this? It made no sense, this conflict didn’t involve him and Vergil was reluctant to admit it. But...he would. He knew his place, wanted to make up for all the wrongs he caused. 

But...he also didn’t.

He didn’t want to stare at you, watching as you held V’s hand and kissed his cheek. Didn’t want to feel his love for you ache and ache while you gave away the affection once belonging to him, the very love he had thrown away. His human half was the only thing deserving of it, and that knowledge burned and clawed away at the remaining traces of dignity he had. God, how was he supposed to live with this feeling? These memories of you, of loving and wanting you under all those layers of pride? All he had wanted was to never be hurt again, and in turn had caused his own undoing. Selfish, why was he so selfish? This despair, this unhappiness, this fear...it was everything he deserved and more. Yet…

You fear like any other person, V whispered in reply to his thoughts, pressing lightly on the edges of his consciousness, Neither of us were deserving of her, yet we took anyway. I just...was a lot more honest with my emotions.

That was precisely why V deserved you more, at least in Vergil’s eyes. 

“Why must you interfere right when I so very wish you wouldn’t?” The Outsider’s hiss, laced with desperation drew Vergil out of his thoughts, looking up to see the God stalk up to Corvo with an arrogance in his step, “You test me, Corvo. After all I did to aid you in avenging your Empress, in saving your daughter Emily and helping her save you in turn…!”

There was clearly a lot of missing information here that Vergil was just now learning. This man seemed to have a story behind him, one the son of Sparda would not have minded hearing if the circumstances weren’t so dire.

Corvo rose that brow again, tone shockingly calm as he replied, “Which is exactly why I’m here, to help you in return,” He looked at Vergil again, several layers of understanding and recognition in those brown, tired eyes. This man clearly knew the son of Sparda, despite him having no knowledge in comparison. Regardless, Corvo let out a light sigh as he continued, “I had suspected you were scheming the first time around, when she almost lost herself in Fortuna. Is this really what Y/N wants, for you to punish Vergil for something she won’t even remember with relentless torture?”

He knows me by name. You as well.

And when you broke after Fortuna.

How did he know about that? 

Wasn’t that memory from several years ago? Maybe time passed differently in the Void, especially for those who only visited from time to time in comparison to staying there. Corvo had an intimate understanding of the situation, of what the Outsider had planned and what Vergil had done. Why was he interfering if he knew all that had transpired? What did he hope to gain, and how did this help anyone?

The Outsider tensed at Corvo’s declaration, voice whipping out sharply as he spat, “He almost took my child from me…! You of all people should know not to question my actions considering what was done to Emily--or have you forgotten how she was kidnapped twice, or how she was forced to fight Delilah to return her throne…?!”

Corvo still remained calm, staring at the Outsider’s face with his expression not changing. This man seemed...wise, showing his years in his poise and control whilst the Outsider seemed volatile in comparison. How was the God this lacking in control after so many years of being in existence? It didn’t make sense, not this level of anger or hostility. It was almost like he wasn’t used to dealing with emotion at all, which was all too similar to…

Corvo let out a slow breath, taking a step forward and placing both hands on the Outsider’s cheeks. The action surprised Vergil, and the God too by the looks of it. He froze in place, back tense in Vergil’s view and hands clenched at his sides. That motion looked oddly...tender? Romantic? Just what was the relationship between these two? It wasn’t in Vergil’s place to question or wonder, but just what else did he have left to do while sitting there and trying not to interfere?

Just hush. And wait.

“You’re right,” Corvo said simply, staring intently at the Outsider’s face and projecting an air of absolute reason, “And as a father, let me be the first to give you advice--I know you are still learning, and I know it’s hard for you to grasp what you’re feeling after sitting in this shitty place for years and feeling nothing. But...in regards to your child, forcing your wants upon her is never something that can work out.”

The Outsider was breathing quickly, shown by his shoulder blades moving every so slightly with the movement. The son of Sparda couldn’t see his face, but his low voice betrayed his emotions just as easily.

There was a pause, the God seeming to collect himself ever so slightly before whispering in response, “He hurt her. She almost crumbled away to nothing and he would have lived on in ignorance,” His tone was bitter, laced with anger and hatred as he hissed, “He deserved every ounce of pain he went through and more.”

That made Corvo frown, working his lower jaw lightly while a thoughtful expression made a home in his rugged features.

“...But did she?” He finally replied, tone low and gruff as he tried to reason with the volatile God, “You put Y/N through the wringer too, sent her to all those places and made her hurt more and more. Like making Y/N suffer constantly would somehow make her invulnerable to pain.”

Vergil could remember from V’s eyes, seeing how tired you looked when speaking about your God. Each praise tinged with hesitation, every memory lingering on the edges of trauma that you seemingly couldn’t grasp on to. He had worried about you, especially considering your nightmares that you could never remember afterwards. Taking away the memories of the things that hurt you was only a temporary solution, and not a good one--how could you work through and process traumatic memories if those memories weren’t there at all? You couldn’t hope to work through a feeling that had no roots, it would continue to plague you with no rhyme or reason.

Not that Vergil could talk. He was notorious for ignoring his problems, his trauma and past memories like they were weaknesses weighing him down. How ironic that of the two of you, it would be the woman he hurt most of all that would come out the other end stronger, more stable? You had been so bright, even to V and bouncing back from the bad things that happened to you. Where V gave up, you were determined to save him and fought with every ounce of strength to get him up the tree. And then...all those months later, you looked like the sun again. No trace of your death on the steps of the orphanage, heart still beating despite how they broke it and taking your happiness as you saw fit.

Where he had stayed stuck in his ways, you moved on and flourished. Like a lotus, blooming and beautiful even in the mud that tried to stifle you.

The Outsider sucked in a breath at Corvo’s calm-spoken words, indignation crackling like a physical force in the air as he ground out, “I made her strong, my actions worked…!” He yanked himself back from Corvo, forcing the man to let his hands drop to his sides, “Every pain she will feel after this will be like a fleeting sting now that she has felt the worst she will ever had…!”

Maybe...he and the Outsider were more alike than he thought.

If I grow powerful, so powerful that none can stand before me...maybe I will never feel pain again.

Corvo’s expression finally slipped into a hint of anger, lingering more toward exasperation as he took a step closer to the God and snapped, “Listen to yourself! Do you realize how messed up that is, to think hurting your own child is the only way to make her strong?” He grabbed the God by the collar when he tried to retreat another foot back, bringing them closer to Vergil as Corvo continued on forcefully, “I may not have been the best parent, but I know damn well that when you’re teaching your child to swim, you help them until they can do it on their own--not toss them into the ocean and hope they don’t drown…!”

When someone begins to drown, they are likely to drag down the ones who try and save them.

Vergil felt his gaze lower to the ground, remembering the tower with Dante, remembering every time he fought his brother from childhood to adulthood. What had driven him to such violence other then the intense hatred he felt at seeing Dante so content? How dare his brother come out the other end whole and capable? All Vergil had done was drag his twin down to the same level of misery he felt, taking glee in it like some sadist. How petty it felt, how idiotic. While he was wasting time searching for power, feeling cold and brooding...Dante made a business, made a life, made friends. And that was what had stung the most, realizing that at the end of the day he would always lose to Dante, always be a step behind and lacking in something.

But this wasn’t about him anymore--it was about you.

The Outsider reared back from Corvo’s harsh words, shoulders jolting like the man had visibly slapped him. No such action had occurred, but the meaning had come across loud and clear. He  said nothing, lips sealed shut with either regret or indignation, Vergil wasn’t sure which. Whatever it was made Corvo pause, anger starting to slowly drain as he stared at the black-eyed God with far more patience than he deserved, than any other human could probably muster. It was very clear the gruff male cared about the Outsider, made obvious by the how hard he was seeming to try. The Outsider must have looked unhappy, because he softened his approach in an instant.

“Think for a second what that would do to her,” He coaxed instead, letting go of the black-eyed bastard’s collar and instead placing a hand on his shoulder, right where it met his neck, “If you leave Vergil with his emotion for Y/N, their connection will never leave. It will confuse her, and complicate things more than they need to be and tear her in two. But--” Corvo glanced back at Vergil, narrowing his eyes a bit and saying in a very reasonable tone, “Sever the connection he has to her, take away the emotion he feels and leave the memories...things will right themselves automatically. She can be completely connected to V, and fate will deem someone new for Vergil in return.”

What…?

That wasn’t possible, was it? You were the one he was meant to be with, how could he possibly be allowed anyone else after screwing up the first person he was given? Not only that, but he didn’t deserve it, didn’t want to end up ruining someone else’s life like he had done to you. Those visions of the beach, the blood and the sand were so fresh, like daggers in his heart and mind that stabbed relentlessly. He had been the cause of all the suffering, even now sitting on the Void’s floating debris he was the source of the two fighting.  I am poison, aren’t I? Vergil couldn’t imagine wanting anyone but you, and look what happened then. Anger, heartache, death, agony. He grit his teeth at the memory, sucking in a sharp breath and digging into his palm with nails so hard they bled. Pointless, selfish--he could not want something new, it wasn’t...wasn’t…

But...would removing V from him still leave you loving Vergil too? He couldn’t take the risk of that connection remaining, of leaving you in conflict between loving one or the other.

“Enough…!” He hissed, drawing the attention of both men and making them turn to look at him. Corvo seemed surprised to finally hear him talk, and the Outsider merely looked annoyed--typical, all things considered, “Isn’t there a way to remove V... and still sever the connection to me without dragging in someone new?” 

I don’t deserve another.

I won’t hurt someone again.

Let me suffer like I deserve.

Corvo let out a light huff, seeming non-impressed by Vergil’s attempt at self-sacrifice, “No, it’s just how things work. Others have lost soulmates too, so it just finds you someone like that too,” He stepped around the incredulous Outsider, kneeling in front of the son of Sparda instead and staring into his icy blue eyes with stern, cold ones of his own. It made Vergil feel oddly...uncomfortable, like being scolded by his father when very young, “Mind you, some things will remain. You deserve to feel guilt, empathy--you deserve to keep those feelings of grief about what you did to her and Nero. But...she’s not yours to love any more, so why not let those feelings go so you can both move on?”

V was strangely quiet at this suggestion, not sure how to feel about it either. Because at the end of the day...he loved you so much, craved to touch you with hands that weren’t owned by another. If there was a chance that the poet could become your soulmate, full and unburdened by Vergil...was it so terrible to want such a thing, especially if his counterpart could end up free of his feelings for you? This solution worked out for everyone, didn’t it? V could have you again, Vergil could be free of his connection to you, everyone would be able to move on. But…

Vergil put a hand to his chest, clenching his fingers around the fabric of his jacket to make the ache go away. The son of Sparda...he loved you too, didn’t he? Just like V. His first love, the one who had been meant for him and him alone. The idea of no longer feeling this emotion, to no longer have someone like you to give him that hope and affection…bittersweet was the best word for it. Lonely. Someone new would be meant for him according to Corvo, but...would it ever be the same as this, so deep he felt like drowning? How could he hope to do right by anyone else, to fill that aching Void with anything but what you gave him?

Selfish. Poison.

Do right by her--you swore you would.

He closed his eyes, knowing the answer to all his emotion and swallowing it down like bile. This was no longer about what he wanted, what he felt. After being selfish and cruel his whole life...he needed to make a choice on someone else’s behalf, one that he knew would hurt. And that was the price he would pay for his mistakes.

Vergil--V whispered, sensing his thoughts and feeling hesitant despite how this proposal aided the poet--You...are you sure this is what you want?

I just want to do right by her.

Corvo was a human, plain and simple, but he read the fear and hesitation in Vergil’s expression easily enough. He rubbed at his beard, seeming a bit thoughtful as he said in a low voice, “After all that you did to hurt her...maybe it would be best to set her free--this works for everyone, yeah?” 

He looked over his shoulder at the Outsider, met with an annoyed glower from the man in question as he barked, “He still gets punished in the end--he lives with the guilt and regret for the rest of his life, and he has to search out his new soulmate after losing his old one. Is that tragic enough for you, brat?”

The Outsider bristled at that nickname, like icy crystals were shuddering along his shoulders as he growled, “Your insults don’t amuse me, Corvo Attano. You test my patience,” But...he hesitated, seeming swayed by the steady look the other man wore and the argument he had in place. Those black pits shifted to Vergil, flickering with a thousand emotions he could barely read. Hatred, anger, resentment, impatience, reluctance, but...ending on acceptance. He looked away, crossing his arms over his chest like a sulky child and muttering softly, “...So be it. Y/N has been through enough...she deserves to be set free from you and live her life as promised.”

This is the end, isn’t it?

The end of my story with her.

And isn’t it bittersweet?

Corvo nodded, seeming satisfied with the Outsider’s answer and rising to his feet in a fluid motion. He grunted, rolling his shoulders before turning to face the black-eyed God and putting a hand to his cheek again. Tender despite how they had just butted heads, loving. The God’s face was finally visible this time, expression softening and those eyes closing as he breathed deep and even.

It was clear the Outsider had two people he considered very precious in his life, you and Corvo Attano. As twisted as it was, all he had wanted was to do right by you, to fix what Vergil had so carelessly destroyed. And in the end...it was clear he had no idea what he was doing, so similar to the son of Sparda in many ways. Maybe that was why Vergil’s actions made him so angry, because he saw himself in Vergil’s struggles with emotion?

Difference was, Vergil was allowed to walk in the sun--The Deity was not.

“Do right by them,” Corvo instructed the Outsider, stepping back and watching with calm eyes that leveled on Vergil again, “No more suffering today, I think everyone has had enough.”

Enough to last a lifetime.

And several more after that.

The God opened his eyes again, seeming tired and reluctant as he too turned to the man kneeling before them both. The anger he had carried for so long was starting to drain, making way for regrets and hesitations now that his own actions had come into question. Maintaining that level of hatred for so long became a weight on one’s shoulders, a heavy and tiring burden. Vergil knew all too well of that weight, having carried so many with him for years that his shoulders ached. Everything hurt now, life full of exhaustion and uncertainties that he didn’t know how to face. You, Nero, whatever his future would bring...it was a lot to take in, far more than he had ever faced head on.

There were a lot of sins to make up for, more than he could ever hope to fix. A life of servitude could never bring back the lives taken by the Qliphoth tree, nor could years of trying to make things up to Nero fix what he did to you both. But...He was so tired, so exhausted with being angry, holding in emotion and trying to be strong and steadfast. It helped nothing and no one...things had to change, and he was not given a choice.

That was acceptable. He didn’t deserve one.

Wait--V said softly in Vergil’s skull knowing the Outsider could easily hear. It made the God stop mere feet from him, frowning as he stared at Vergil’s numb expression--Please. Do not take my memories of what happened to my Sparrow in Fortuna. Let me keep them.

He wanted to keep the memories of your suffering? Why?

“You wish to hold onto that guilt and pain?” The Outsider sounded just as perplexed as Vergil, tilting his head to the side and staring with cold, dark eyes, “Why is that?”

V paused, his consciousness hovering on the edge of Vergil’s like a tangible force. As if he was gathering thoughts, ones that the son of Sparda could not see or read.

Because they will serve as a reminder, He finally whispered, tone soft and filled with mourning as they both remembered that day. Seeing you on the beach, bloodied and drenched in rain as you gave birth to your child. It stung like nothing else, but V was resolute as he continued, It will remind me to give her every ounce of happiness we took away--I never want to forget that guilt. I played a part in it too.

The Outsider rose a brow, seeming perplexed by the answer as silence stretched between the two. Corvo looked on with confusion, not hearing the exchange but knowing well enough to hold his tongue and stay out of it. Vergil too--what V chose did not involve him anymore, despite how hesitant the choice made the son of Sparda. To have another share that guilt, to live with the aching memories of your suffering...it didn’t seem right, didn’t seem fair. But...V had been inside of him even then, it would make sense that he wanted to help shoulder the blame. And if he could translate that into more love for you...who was he to stop him?

After a few more seconds of silence, the black-eyed bastard nodded, a low smirk on his lips as he flicked his fingers upward. As he did so, black crystalline hands lifted out of the ground beneath Vergil, grasping his arms and legs to lift him up before the god. They were cold, so very cold--one could get frostbite being touched by fingers like these. He then turned to his right, another motion of his hand opening a portal in the chilled air.

Vergil felt his heart pound faster at the sight of your familiar form being lowered down from it, face now peaceful in comparison to before. The whale oil no longer stained your cheeks, body cradled by gentle black hands that held you upright. You were beautiful, weren’t you? Strong, resilient. Everything he had needed, everything he had turned away.

Had he swallowed his pride...would you both have been happy? Nero born somewhere safe, Vergil finding the will to let go of his past and accept the love chosen for him. Would he have found peace, solace? Maybe the son of Sparda could have found the will to seek out Dante with something other than malice, to make amends and help build up Devil May Cry. You would have gotten the chance to raise Nero, to give him all the love he deserved. As for Vergil...To teach Nero how to fight with a sword, to be a father...all the possibilities were laid out before him like a cruel joke, one that he deserved to have thrown in his face.

So many things could have been, but those choices were gone now.

The Outsider approached you with Corvo by his side, laying a gentle hand on your cheek and stroking a thumb over your soft skin. He leaned forward, putting his lips by your ear to whisper something softly, to the point that Vergil could barely hear it.

“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me,” His voice was gentle, filled with unspoken regrets as he lingered there for a moment with you, “And then...well. I still have much to learn about being your father, don’t I?”

He leaned back, staring at you with calm eyes and an expression of sorrow. They knew damn well what damage had been done to your relationship with him, but...all you had wanted was him to care, to be the parent you had never been allowed, that was very clear. You had it in your heart to forgive your father, that kindness was stronger than anything.

The God finally stepped away from your resting form, leaving Corvo to stand beside you and place a hand to your head. He was a father through and through, having more than likely played a part in bringing you up alongside the Outsider. To see you find happiness seemed like a relief, especially if he could help bring it about. His hand in things was needed,  bitter as it was. Vergil was grateful he had saved you from more pain.

No more suffering, no more heartache.

V will be all that you need, and I--

I will set you free.

The Outsider turned back to Vergil, steps careful and measured as he stopped a foot in front of his suspended form. V was quiet again in his head, those sensations of hesitation and worry fading into a dull roar under Vergil’s tormented swirl of emotions. He could still see you there, held up by those hands, oblivious to all that transpired between them. You would never remember loving him first, the pain you suffered in Fortuna, giving birth to your son. Never--you would never know Nero is your flesh and blood, that little boy you gave up everything for. And worst of all...that was for the best, the only way you could exist without agony and despair breaking you in two. He would take the secret to the grave, carry it as a reminder of all he had wronged and make sure you never found out.

Vergil, V finally whispered, sounding tired and hesitant as everything else seemed to quiet, fading into background noise, I...thank you. You are not the same person we were before, and that...is a good thing. For the record...I know you will do right for the next person meant for you, because I can feel how much you loved Y/N. If you can feel that deeply for her after all that transpired...you deserve to be free to love without me there to hurt you.

How could he be kind to Vergil after all the years he spent suppressing his humanity? He had tried to remove V from him entirely, cutting out his humanity like it was nothing but a burden or weakness. And yet...this human half had found kindness and empathy a lot faster than he had, willing to forgive years of stupidity in an instant now that they were being split apart. Seeing something that was once a part of him existing on his own will be strange, but...it would have to be accepted, no matter what.

Let’s both try to do better next time.

The Outsider raised his hand, placing it on Vergil’s forehead as the howling of the Void grew in intensity, filling the space around him with that all too familiar chill. It started seeping into his bones again, wrapping around the very culmination of his being and making his breaths heave out of his chest. It burned, it froze him inside out until he was certain there would never be warmth again, that this cold would carry with him for years to come. He was lucky you had introduced this energy to his human half, the demonic side was flinching away on instinct. But the Outsider was stronger, able to push past and latch onto both parts of him with absolute ease. Like icy fingers on his heart, lungs, organs. Gripping tight and preparing to pull him in half once more.

And through it all, Vergil stared at you with those icy blue eyes, chest aching with that throb of regret and agony. He memorized this feeling, this need and desire. To stroke your cheeks, to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness he didn’t deserve. The son of Sparda would never feel like this again, not for you. All those memories in Fortuna, of his first kiss, making love, falling in love with you bit by bit...They would be empty, memories there but without any substance. You had made him feel weak, so blessedly weak, and he had craved every moment of it. God, he had needed it so much--to let go of that felt so gut-wrenchingly painful, so wrong and agonizing. You were everything, and he was nothing. 

And now...now you would be meant for someone else.

This is the end of our story.

Isn’t the ocean beautiful, Vergil? You gentle voice flickered through his mind, accompanied by a memory of sitting beside you on the beaches of Fortuna. The sunlight had made you glow, smile so soft and filled with affection only for him, You should take time to relax more often--you’re bound to get wrinkles frowning like that.

I’m sorry.

It’ll be okay, You whispered that night, stroking his cheek after his nightmare and pressing your lips to his forehead, I am with you, Vergil. Always. You don’t have to hide your pain from me, you don’t have to be ashamed.

I failed you. This is what I deserve.

That warmth was dripping down his cheeks again, under the Outsider’s hand and down to his jaw. No sobs accompanied these tears, but that was for the best. He had no place to cry, not after what he had done. This pain was his punishment, and he would remember it till the day death came for him. Even if he found someone new, even if he somehow managed to move on...he would remember what this taught him, how you had showed him a love he didn’t deserve. He was losing you, his everything--and he would never open his mouth to complain. Not to anyone, never. After those emotions were gone and only the guilt was left behind...the scars would remain for a lifetime, and that was for the best, wasn’t it?

The Outside paused at Vergil’s tears, the God’s silence speaking volumes as he let his hand linger, that cold spreading deeper and deeper until he felt like he was being torn apart inside. Vergil could no longer tell which way was up, could no longer see your sleeping face, beautiful hair, and those lips he once kissed. The blackness was starting to fill him, like the Void itself swallowing whole all that he came to know and accept.

V wasn’t felt anymore, nothing was. Vergil Sparda became one with the dark, body feeling weightless in the pain and sensations pulling him in every direction at once. This was the end, this was the end to his story with you. And it was happening just how he deserved it--bitter, hard to swallow, but with you coming out the other side free of the burden he was. At the end of the day...the only weakness here was him, and you deserved to live with someone who could help you spread those wings.

You could be free. And he would remember where you could not.

“Goodbye, Vergil Sparda,” The Outsider’s whispers reached him in the darkness, low and full of warning as everything faded away, “I hope to the Void that I never have to see you again.”

And with that, came nothingness.

(Nero POV, Hours Later)

The white-haired demon hunter hadn’t stopped pacing since they abandoned the search for you both on the beach.

Seeing the ocean swallow you, seeing Vergil plunge into the water right after...his mind had practically went apeshit, Nero slashing his way through a horde of demons to try and help. As soon as Vergil was gone, the demons seemed to give up, taken down easy and crumbling to nothingness under the weight of his and Dante’s strength. The storm eased up too, rain fading to a drizzle and thunder quieting in the distance. What the hell had happened? What the hell had happened to you? He had dead-sprinted for the water, diving in with his uncle in unison to search for any trace of you or his father, but...nothing. No bodies, no sight of you floating down there or the fiery blue form of Vergil. Something had taken you both, and Nero had an idea of who it was.

Your Deity had played a part in this.

After hours of searching, Kyrie had begged them both to return home. And honestly...what else could they do but listen to her requests? Chilled to the bone, soaked and exhausted from fighting and searching... Nero felt awful, like he had somehow failed you. The boy had sworn that he would keep you safe, but was helpless in watching that fucking asshole snatch you and his father away. As for your familiars...they were even bigger messes than he was. Griffon and the others had went into a blind panic, screeching for you and circling the ocean for hours to find even a trace before Kyrie forced them all to wait on the deck. And that just made shit sadder--they claimed they couldn’t feel you, but the connection was still there. 

Shadow hadn’t moved from their spot, staring out at the ocean with sorrowful eyes and drooping ears. Griffon sat on their back looking forlorn, his gold eyes anxiously scanning the line of sand like he would somehow see you there. And Nightmare...he sat down nearby on the sand, shoulders hunched forward and completely silent. All three felt like even bigger failures than Nero--they were your familiars, damn it. It was their job to keep you safe, but they’d been useless too. Now all they could do was wait and hope, which wasn’t much to be honest. 

Dante was the one who set about trying to form a game plan, silently furious at the prospect of losing his brother and you at the same time. He called Trish and Lady over to help, contacting Morrison in the hopes of getting information on your God. But...the reigning fact was not much could be done without knowing his name, and that was the one thing you hid from the familiars. Morrison was trying to find shit out through books, looking up things on black eyes and the Void. They hadn’t heard much back, so it was now a waiting game, one that Nero didn’t particularly care for. Things were much easier when he had a target he could punch or shoot at, and in this case…

They had nothing.

Cut to present time, the sky now dark and Nero still pacing the kitchen with measured steps. Kyrie sat at the dining room table with her head resting on her arms, Nico stroking her back from time to time. Christ, there was a sense of dread in the air. The kids had, luckily, not caught wind that you were gone. Lady and Trish had kept them busy while the other adults talked, all the way up until they went to bed and still giving them their little camp out. They could sense something was wrong, but not know what--And each one was smart enough not to ask. Nero felt awful about their worry, but...there was not really any other choices left.

It was already going on ten o’clock, his legs starting to feel tired from the pacing. He leaned against a nearby wall, the cool air from outside blowing through the open door to the deck where Trish stood keeping watch with the familiars. How long were they supposed to wait? What if you and Vergil never came back? The very thought made him squeeze a fist tight enough to crack bone, jaw tight and uncomfortable. You were family, his family, and they all loved and cared about you. Honestly you and Nico were the closest things to sisters he was ever going to get, and that was enough for him. Nero wanted you home, they all did. And if that wasn’t going to happen on its own...he was willing to kick his way into the Void if need be.

“Shit, this sucks…” Nico croaked from the table, making him turn to see her flop down with a low thunk of her head on the wood, “What are we supposed to do? She said that jerk used to erase her memories...what if he does that?”

Nico was already going worse case scenario, which he understood. They had spent the past few hours reasoning and hoping, despair was starting to set in. 

The only one who seemed to remain steadfast in her faith was, understandably, Kyrie. She lifted her head from the table, those brown eyes soft and determined as she took one of Nico’s hands in her own.

“She will come home,” She said quietly, but firmly, turning to look at Nero where he stood nearby, “We have to believe in that, believe in her. She would never go quietly, not after everything that has happened.”

He knew that, they all did. These months of living together and working toward letting go of what happened in the Qliphoth tree had taught Nero just how resilient you could be. It would be downright disrespectful to throw in the towel this early on, to give up on you coming home. Morrison would find something out, he had to--and when that call came, they would enter the Void guns blazing if need be. Nero had fought something close to a god before, hadn’t he? He would curb stomp the bastard if it meant getting you home, making Kyrie smile and everyone happy again.

“Vergil isn’t the type to go quietly either,” Dante muttered from his spot standing by the phone, brow furrowed and arms crossed stiffly over his chest. Nero glanced at him, frowning as the older man continued, “Which could be both a bad and good thing. This God is arrogant, self-assured--he’s had a game plan from the start, it’s just shit that we don’t know it.”

Nero let out a light grunt of agreement, running a hand through his white hair as he sighed, “Y/N seemed reluctant to talk about him, she didn’t know his plans either in the long scheme of things and especially not after what he did in the tree.”

He remembered your recollection of that day, having been forced to stand prone by the Deity while V absorbed back into Urizen. The half-demon had noticed something was wrong, had found it odd that you were sitting back and letting V do something so dangerous without bouncing in to stop him. One glance at your face had revealed you pale and face blank, sweat dotting your brow like morning dew. Something had been wrong, but they was so much going on at the time that he didn’t know what to do, how to help. The rest had fallen to pieces, and he was left regretting not stepping in. The God had been there with you, holding you down like some monster and leaving you in desperation and terror. Nero should have done something, anything.

But that was the past.

Now he was left waiting again. Helpless. And that didn’t feel right at all. 

Nero let out an aggravated sigh, pushing off from the wall to start pacing again. He could feel Kyrie’s worried eyes on him, watching as he walked to the door and looked out along the beach. Like checking again would somehow change anything. The silence was heavy and stifling, sky now clear enough to showcase the stars above Fortuna in all their glory. Far too calm despite all that had gone down. The familiars had not moved from their posts, seeming glum and tired as they kept their eyes on the beach. Nero hated admitting it, but he felt bad for them--this had to be worrisome considering how dependent they were on you.

Griffon let out a low trill when the silence persisted, his sapphire feathers shuddering and showcasing all those glowing marks woven between as he muttered, “Shoulda done somethin, shoulda been faster. We said we’d keep her safe, but choked at the follow through,” He sounded forlorn, tail feathers drooping pitifully as he closed his golden eyes, “She was afraid something bad was gonna happen and I told her not to worry, like a fucking idiot.”

Your instincts had always been keen, there was no denying that. Now that Nero put some thought into it...things had worked out far too conveniently. 

He blew some air out from between his cheeks, leaning against the door frame to the kitchen as he replied, “Stupid is in your blood, chicken. You did come from Vergil, after all.”

Well, that certainly ruffled his feathers. Griffon puffed up in instant annoyance, glaring daggers at the white-haired boy as he snapped, “Is that your idea of comforting someone, slim? You are really bad at this shit, you know that right?”

Nero let out a slow, heavy sigh, looking away and scratching the back of his neck. Yeah, he knew pretty damn well that emotional support wasn’t his best feature. It was a lot easier when it came to Kyrie, she always knew exactly what people needed to hear and said it with enough faith and certainty to put her point across. He was a lot rougher around the edges, finding it easier to fight and protect people that way rather than with words. Maybe that’s why Kyrie evened him out so well?

Regardless.

“...I think that God would have taken her even if you had been attached at the hip,” He reasoned after a brief moment of silence, broken only by the sounds of the ocean rolling over the sandy beach, “That bastard would have ripped you off of Y/N in an instant. So...don’t beat yourself up too bad, chicken.”

Griffon paused at that, probably not expecting anything remotely resembling kind words to come from Nero’s mouth. On the ground, Shadow’s ears flicked upwards for a moment, mourning eyes drifting to the demon-hunter’s face.

The bird finally sighed, looking away toward the ocean and settling into his own feathers a bit, “Maybe,” He muttered, sounding glum and irritable, “But we wouldn’t have known until we tried.”

And that’s all we could have done--tried.

Nero let out another slow breath, turning to look back in the kitchen and leave the familiars to their musings. Talking wasn’t helping anyone. Well...at least not for him--Dante was back to theorizing with Lady and Trish at the table, a book open between them depicting stories of ancient beings and legends spoken by demonologists and religious nuts alike.

None spoke of anything close enough to you worth sticking to, your powers far too spread across several spectrums and different words and phrasing used for each one. The “Void” was a common term for so many things, some ranging from hell to purgatory, the latter sounding closer to what you described according to the ladies. The Void is a place where broken souls go when they die. Problem was nothing really mentioned that to such fine details.

As for your “God”...well, everyone was looking for a name. You not being able to describe him when last you spoke of him hadn’t helped, so they were at a standstill as to who he could be. Not of any legend or part of mythology Dante knew the specifics on. He had sensed your power when he met you, telling right away that you were the follower of a God that did not align himself with good or evil. Something dark and chaotic, mischievous--he had met beings like that before, ones who prided themselves on simply seeking entertainment and manipulation of human souls. Regardless, he had guessed right that the God didn’t come from any part of the known realms he was familiar with. The sensation that came when that portal had opened to grab you was one of darkness, the cold. Not demonic, not angelic. Something...else.

But where is this place, and how can we get there?

“You think we should perform a ritual even when we do find out?” Trish sounded displeased, lips drawn in a firm frown as she stared at Dante’s face, “I don’t trust this creature, it’s a risk we can’t take.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Trish,” Dante huffed in response, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. Now dressed in his own clothes, especially considering the ones he borrowed from Nero had been soaking wet after their searching in the rain, “You think I’m not ready to tango with a God? He doesn’t impress me with these little parlor tricks of his.”

“Oh I know--And that’s exactly what I’’m afraid of.”

Dante clicked his tongue at Trish’s heavily annoyed tone, looking away and rubbing a hand over his unshaven jaw. She wasn’t having any of his brazen, hot-headed stunts that day it would seem. Nero hated that he wanted to side with Dante, but the devil hunter was raring to go and put some action to this situation. If this God wanted to play ball, he was more than willing to come in swinging. And kicking. And shooting. Sitting back and waiting for things to change was making him irritable now, so if they didn’t come up with something...well, dangerous or not, if a lead came they had to take it. They owed it to you to at least try.

But...it would seem no ritual would be needed. 

Something...felt off. It was getting colder, the air taking on a strange chill despite how warm it had been during the day. It made Nero freeze, looking quickly at his uncle and seeing a similar realization echoing in his eyes. He felt that too, didn’t he? That eerie feeling, like something cold and dark was trying to--

“Dante…! Nero!” 

Griffon’s frantic screech made everyone look up, seeing the bird start flapping his wings and staring up at the sky with alarmed eyes. Shadow skidded to their feet, a roaring ripping its way from their throat as they took off out of sight, paws pounding into sand and faster than a bullet. Every person in the room stood in an instant, rushing outside to see exactly what had gotten the creature’s attention--but Nero already had a guess.

He had felt it in the air right as the bird spoke, the temperature started dropping rapidly and a prickle of energy had tapped its way along his spine. A similar feeling to how your powers felt when activated, but far stronger and stiffing. He took off out the door before everyone else, one hand already gripping the handle of the Red Queen before he had even lifted his eyes to the sky.

Something broke the clear night air, a fissure that extended like a black fracture between the stars and clouds. It was unnerving--resembling the jagged edges of a sadistic smile, its maw partially opened and leaking out a cold that did not belong in the waking world. Nero felt his heart rate speed up with the prospect of battle, hairs standing up on the back of his neck as hands started to creep their way out of the portal. There was no hesitation, he and Dante took off at the same breakneck speed down the beach with their feet digging into the sand, Griffon sailing on sapphire wings right beside them. Lady and Trish followed as quickly as they could manage, Trish yelling to Nico and Kyrie to stay behind where it was safe. That was for the best, none of them knew what they were dealing with at that moment. 

Dante skidded to a halt mere feet from the portal above, eyes sharp and attentive as a few more black, crystalline appendages weaved their way into the air. Both men had swords raised, in fighting stances like they were preparing for war. To be honest, the God’s level of unpredictability was part of the issue--if he couldn’t be understood, then no chances could be taken. But...the arms were not making any motions to attack, merely drifting and twitching without rhyme or reason in the night air. Nero exchanged a quick look with his uncle when a lack of violence persisted, a low hum of energy and whispers filling the space around them. Like a thousand voices where speaking in hushed voices, but making no sense.

Nero didn’t have the patience for the otherworldly shit. And neither did Dante.

“Not showing your face this time?” The older man taunted loudly to the open portal, taking a step forward and holding out his hands in challenge, “This theatrical shit ain’t my shtick, so let’s get to the show already…!”

His words were met with silence, only broken by the low whispers and the howling of wind. Griffon landed on Shadow’s back, both familiars staring up at the sky with desperation, a hint of hope and despair. This was the only sign they had received since you were taken, and it was more than they had hours ago. Nero was prepared to launch into the portal if he needed to, not willing to let this opportunity pass up with so much on the line. You were family now, and contrary to what he wanted and felt... so was Vergil. He wasn’t about to let some smug god take away his closure, his ability to tell that spiky-haired bastard exactly what he felt. And if that meant plunging into the unknown...he would do it, for you, for the kids, for Kyrie. She knew he could handle it, knew he always came back to her.

She trusts me. She always has.

The hands from the portal twitched before he could even begin readying himself, gripping the jagged edges of emptiness like they could somehow pry them open wider. Which they did--the portal opened several inches, exposing more of the dark to their eyes and sending the temperature down several degrees. Cold enough that Nero could see his breath, goosebumps rising on the flesh of his exposed arms. The appendages glittered like obsidian, holding there without moving another inch and seeming oblivious to the men down below. Shadow let out a low growl at Nero’s feet, baring their teeth skywards in a threatening manner. He doubted the two had any patience left to give either, not with their lives ridding on yours.

Griffon extended his wings, feathers rippling like he was contemplating flying up into the portal himself. A risky move, one that Nero knew you would not want happening. But there would be no need, not when something new started to slip out of the inky darkness above their heads.

That’s--

Both Nero and Dante gasped when a body fell out from the blackness above, landing limply on the sand in a flash of white hair and a familiar black and blue jacket--Vergil. He was unconscious again, but not looking hurt in the slightest save for his hair being messed up and discoloration in his cheeks. Dante didn’t hesitate like Nero did--he rushed forward in an instant, gripping the man by his coat to drag him away from the Void portal and not seeming hindered despite how heavy the half-demon was. Vergil let out a low grunt at the motion, head lolling to the side as he was rolled over and propped up into an awkward sitting position.

He looked alright, didn’t he? Just exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and hair draping down in messy pieces from his usual hairstyle.

“Vergil…!” Dante exclaimed, looking worried as he shook his brother by the shoulders and looked him over for wounds, “Talk to me, Verg--you alright? Can you hear me?”

Vergil let out a low groan, the sound raw and raspy. As if he had inhaled shards of glass, or had been screaming for hours. Nero watched in worry as he blinked his icy blue eyes slowly, seeming dazed and confused of his surroundings and…volatile, uneasy. Seeing such emotion on the stoic man felt strange, incredibly off. He watched as his father gripped Dante’s shirt for a moment, like he was testing the solidity of it, and stared at his brother as if he was several miles away. Even Dante seemed surprised by his siblings expression, more worry taking away his usually bemused demeanor and one of his hands resting on Vergil’s shoulder.

“Hey--you alright?” He repeated, firmer this time as he pinched a part of Vergil’s cheek, “Up and at ‘em, brother. We need to know what happened in there.”

Vergil swatted his hand away, the annoyance flickering across his expression more in tune to how he usually was. He turned away, resting one hand on the sand and taking slow, measured breathes through his teeth. 

Is he okay? 

“I...I am undecided on how I feel at the moment,” He muttered hoarsely, pressing his fingers to his temple and closing those tired eyes again, “And I...I…”

He trailed off, lifting his head to instead gaze up at the portal above with apprehension and a million other emotions on his face. Fear, anger, regret, sorrow, remorse...was that what Nero was seeing? Certainly not on Vergil, the cold and cocky man who seemed to feel nothing after causing the calamity in Red Grave, after discovering he had a fucking son. It was almost insulting to see such a level of emotion now, but it was far too tempered by his own shock and worry to be even remotely stinging. He lifted his eyes too, just in enough time to see more black, obsidian arms reaching out of the portal, but...this time they brought another body with them.

Oh thank God.

Griffon and Shadow let out varying sounds of relief and delight at the sight of you wrapped in those black arms, the bird springing up and meeting them halfway so he could anxiously press his beak to your face. You were unconscious too, skin pale and hair draped around your cheeks as the hands brought you gingerly to the floor. Far more carefully that they had with Vergil, who had been practically tossed out onto the sand.

Nero dropped the Red Queen instantly, lurching forward so he could put out his arms underneath you before your body touched the ground. Thank the Gods in heaven, you weren’t injured either--still breathing, heart still beating, but feeling chilled to the bone after your time in the Void. Nero let out a sigh of relief, crouching down at Shadow’s insistent cries to the cat could lick frantically at your face and hair.

They’re both fine--they’re both fine and alive.

“Toots…!” Griffon cawed in something close to a sob, hovering around you with worried eyes and feathers puffed out, “Is she okay? We can’t see what happened--everything in her head feels messed with…!”

Messed with? The God didn’t erase your memory, did he? That made Nero frown, unable to tell if anything had been taken just by looking at you. But what was the point of erasing your memories just to give you back?

“She good?” Dante asked, peering over Nero’s shoulder worriedly so he too could look at your face.

Nero paused, watching as Griffon landed on the ground nearby and pressed his beak into your limp, cold hand, “She’s freezing, but that’s to be expected,” The white-haired boy lifted his eyes upwards, noting that the portal still had not closed despite depositing the two people they had been looking for, “What the hell was the point of this? Yanking them in only to give them back unharmed hours later? I don’t get it.”

Vergil let out a bitter, bark of a laugh at Nero’s words, making both he and Dante turn to look at him. The older male was leaning forward on the beach, one hand bracing him while the other pressed to his temple like someone had cracked him over the skull. Something his son had said seemed bitterly amusing to him, the expression tempered with exhaustion and...what was that look? So faraway, so unlike the proud bastard to wear remorse on his sleeve in such a manner. 

What the hell had happened to him in there?

“The Outsider...got exactly what he desired,” Vergil whispered, lifting his fingers away so he could give them a light flex, “Everything played out exactly as he wanted it. There was no reason to keep us--it was never about that in the first place. And it feels...so very odd...very...”

His words trailed off, so low that it was almost impossible to hear. But Nero caught the back end of it, or at least what his ears thought they had translated from the jumbled mess that broke from Vergil’s lips.

“...Empty…”

Empty? What did he mean by that?

And what the hell is “the Outsider”?

Was that the God’s name, the one they had spent so long trying to figure out? So unassuming, something he never would have guessed. It was a bit mysterious and annoying too, absolutely fitting of this creature who became a steady thorn in everyone’s sides.

But that was a thought for another time. What the half-demon said was far more concerning to Nero.

Dante seemed troubled as well, putting an arm slowly around Vergil’s waist to help him up off of the ground, “Come on, you’re disoriented right now. We’d better get them inside, Nero,” He looked at you, still in the boy’s arms and showing no sign of waking, “We can ask questions tomorrow, neither of them are in any shape to answer anything.”

Much to Nero’s shock, Vergil did not protest his brother’s help. He let the other male lift him up, head still lowered and a look of exhaustion in his eyes. There was a conflicted tone in his expression, lacking the usual anger or pride that came with taking Dante’s assistance with anything. And he wasn’t oblivious to it--the seasoned devil hunter looked even more worried, pausing for a moment like he was waiting for Vergil to push him away, or maybe a snide remark about how he could “do it on his own”. No such thing came, and that was pretty unsettling to say the least. 

All they could do now was go home and try to piece together what had happened. Something big must have gone down to unsettle Vergil so heavily, to stomp down his pride and anger until something broken remained. Nero hated to admit how worried he was about his old man, but the sensation was there and growing. This incident was done, and he wanted nothing more than to go back to the orphanage and leave the mystery until morning reared its head the next day. 

But the portal was still open. 

And it was not done yet.

Nero had told himself that if it continued to remain open they would have someone keep watch, that it could be dealt with after making sure both of you were safe. He didn’t know what could be done, but leaving it to linger on the beaches of Fortuna wasn’t an option, especially not with the kids in the orphanage being so close. Morrison was still doing his research, they could try using the Yamato if needed to close it and bring so peace for a little while at least.

But...a crackling sound made them both turn, confusion in Nero’s expression as he saw the hands twitch and rotate in the portal above. A few retreated back, some lingering the keep it wide open enough to allow a person through. For a brief, horrifying moment Nero thought the “Outsider” would come out of it himself, to speak with his cursed lips or attack them while their guard was down.

But no…what did come out of the portal was far more jarring.

What the hell…? What the hell is that?

Nero felt himself tense up in shock and disbelief as another body started being lowered down by the hands of dark crystal. Recognition was working its way into the chorus of emotions in the boy’s head, skidding everything to a confused halt as he took in this new person’s appearance. He saw a flash of white hair draping in front of an all too familiar face, long arms dangling limply down from a naked body barely covered by the modesty of the hands. Pale skin, scars lining his shoulder from when the horseman attacked him all those months ago in Red grave. There was no way--There was no fucking way, that is impossible. The boy couldn’t believe his eyes, even when the hands laid the familiar body gently down onto the sand, his nude form easy to spot in the moonlight and laying on his stomach with his head tilted to the side. Allowing them both to see his face, but hiding the parts of him they’d rather not see.

That’s impossible--

He can’t be here, can he?

But there was no mistaking the man Nero had traveled and spoken with all those months ago. The image of his face had not faded in the slightest.

V was laying lying on the beach.

The hands set him down gently, retreating back into the portal and leaving his unconscious form to rest on the sands with that white hair drifting ever so slightly. The fingers gripping the portal to hold it open finally let go, the jagged maw snapping shut with a crack that rang through the night air. Slowly, painfully so, the edges of the portal fused together until it disappeared into nothing, a warm breeze washing away the cold it had brought moments prior.

The whispering was gone, the howling was gone, and all that was left in its wake was the blissful sound of rolling waves and the gentle thrum of the wind chimes the children had hung a few weeks ago around the deck. Neither made things feel any less chaotic--Nero looked between Vergil and the man on the beach in an almost comedic fashion, watching as his father turned to glance back at V with his own expression of recognition. And of clarity. 

He knew exactly who it was lying there, and didn’t seemed shocked in the slightest. Nor did he seem...incomplete, like Urizen was still absent and no longer split in two. No, Vergil seemed like his usual self minus the exhaustion and the complete whirlwind of emotion he was expressing. In fact, the only thing he seemed to show other than tiredness when looking at V was...satisfaction? Relief? Tinged with his remorse and guilt, one that did not fade as he lowered his head once more, eyes closing like everything had finally reached its conclusion. Dante was staring in absolute shock as well, a muscle twitching in his jaw as those gears in his brain tried to work out just what the hell was going on.

What the fuck happened in there?

How is he HERE?

How is this possible?

“Holy fucking shit…!” Griffon whispered in front of them both, reminding Nero that he and the big cat existed, “Is that...is that Shakespeare?!”

Shadow stared with wide eyes as well, ears pressing flat against their skull and now silent in the face of all the madness. Griffon exchanged a long glance with Dante, both seeming at a loss for words with V’s body lying there on the sand with no one knowing just how the fuck it was possible. There was no mistaking it though--that was V, in the flesh on the sands of Fortuna but without his tattoos or black hair. It made sense, the familiars were no longer connected to him after he went back into Vergil’s body. Nero couldn’t wrap his head around anything anymore, not a damn bit of it. All he knew was something had happened in the Void, and now Vergil was a trainwreck, and V was somehow alive as well.

While Vergil was still in existence.

Holy fuck, this is insane.

“How the fuck is this possible?” Nero hissed, turning to level his gaze on Vergil’s lowered face and feeling his anger spike back again. What were they supposed to think, to trust? How could his father be here while his human half was separated again?

Vergil let out a low sigh, opening his eyes so he could shift them over and stare at his son. He flinched for a moment, grimacing like Nero had reached out and slapped him and wearing a look on his face the boy didn’t...understand. Why is he looking at me like that? Like just staring at me is complete agony. Guilt was back again, a realization that made Vergil look a thousand times more tired than he did before. No more condescending stares, no more cocky attitude...Vergil was looking at his son like a man who had failed him in every single way.

And that...that was even more unsettling. 

It hurt, he didn’t like it.

“...The Outsider has a way of getting what he wants,” Vergil replied, low and hoarse as he held Nero’s confused gaze, “All of this was to...punish me, and to return V back to Y/N without me losing my humanity. He...simply made it so my humanity was rebuilt anew, and took V’s half-soul and made it a full one of his own.”

Was...was all of that really possible? Nero felt disbelief slipping onto his expression, but Vergil didn’t sound like he was lying. It would make sense as to why he was so messed up, anyone would be if they had their soul rearranged and altered in such a manner. Maybe what Nero saw as guilt was merely his father feeling unsettled, confused and messed up by the apparent punishments he received while in the Void. There were so many questions to ask, but this was not the time to do any of that--Not with everyone so on edge, not with Vergil looking like he was on the verge of falling over and passing out again.

Nero needed to stay level-headed, focused.

“Son of a bitch…!” He cursed, pulling his gaze away from his father and looking at Dante, “What the hell should we do? Is that possible?”

Dante blew out some air from between his cheeks, frowning and deep in thought as he replied, “With a God like this one? Sure is,” He turned away from the confusion boy, yelling to Trish and Lady staring from their defensive positions a few feet back. Both looked like they were in varying stages of shock, looking between you, Vergil, and V and at a loss for words, “Care to lend a hand? Nero, give them Y/N and carry V to the house for me--we can figure shit out later, I gotta call Morrison.”

Lady and Trish jolted when spoken to, exchanging a brief glance before putting their weapons away and rushing forward to help. Nero handed you to Lady easily enough, the woman not hindered by your weight in the slightest and just looking relieved to have you back. He felt the same way, but damn if he wasn’t at a loss for words right now. Griffon and Shadow followed both women when they rushed you back to the house, Kyrie and Nico meeting them halfway with cries of delight and joy.

Seeing his wife so happy for your return made everything worth it--he could worry about the confusing shit at another time. They couldn’t very well leave V alone and nude on the beach overnight, that would be cruel despite all that had happened. Contrary to how his father seemed, V had been his better half, his humanity. Despite Nero’s doubts...being angry could wait.

So he nodded at Dante, turning his back and heading toward V’s prone form and shrugging off his coat in the process. The former goth  was certainly out like a light, there was no denying that. But he looked...better than he did before. No longer carrying dark circles under his eyes, pallor more of a normal pale than the sickly one he carried whilst limping his way around the Qliphoth. Nero thought he would never see the poet again, so doing so now was...very odd, unsettling in a way. V’s black vest and slacks were long gone, it would seem, naked as the day he was born--wait, was V born? This was getting SO confusing. 

Nero shook his head, sighing as he rolled the poet over and draping the coat over him in one fluid motion. No offense to the guy, but he’d rather not carry him around with his dick out for all to see--nothing personal. Only then did he lift V up, noting that he pretty much weighed the same as the last time Nero had carried him. On the way to Urizen, holding up the poet’s form with one arm as they walked and spoke of who the demon was. All those half truths were pretty aggravating in retrospect. V had only given him enough of the story to make it sound believable, conveniently leaving out how he himself half also been Vergil too. Typical.

Regardless.

It was a quick trek back to the house, one filled with unanswered questions that hung in the air and weighed him down at the same time. Did...did you know that V was back? What did it mean for Vergil now that his human half had been removed and changed? You had loved V so much, to the point that your love extended to Vergil too despite how much you tried to deny it. Nero had seen it in your eyes the instant his father returned, a deep ache that refused to quit no matter how much you reasoned through it. But now...everything would change, everything. Hell, what did this make V in relation to him? A second father? An uncle? Brother? Christ, everything was a mess.

He tried to ignore it as he carried V inside, Trish closing the door behind him with an absolutely incredulous look. Nero didn’t blame her--he felt the same way.

He looked gazed the kitchen, not seeing his wife nor Lady in the warm glow of the light overhead. Vergil was sitting at the dining table, head held up only by his hands and quiet as a mouse. Those blue eyes didn’t open even when Nero came in, the man looking like an absolute mess all things considered. He would have to be focused on later.

“Where’s Kyrie?” Nero asked Dante, who was standing by the phone on the wall and patiently waiting on the line for Morrison, most likely.

The grizzled man pointed upwards, signals read loud and clear as he covered the mouthpiece of the phone in hand, “They took the kid to her room--I told her to bring down a few sheets for V as well, ‘cause no offense...I don’t wanna tackle dressing him.”

That was completely fair and understandable. Nero didn’t want to do that either.

Speaking of his wife, she came back downstairs in that moment, looking a bit frazzled and clutching a bundle of sheets wrapped around a pillow. Everything had grown incredibly chaotic in the past few hours, even Kyrie had her limits of where level-headedness failed to solve problems. She very carefully made sure not to look at V’s body as she followed Nero into the garage, placing the poet down on the cot and taking the items from her hands a moment later. Precious, adorable woman was trying so hard to protect V’s modesty, red cheeks and eyes making sure to look away until Nero had placed both sheets over his body, pillow under his head. 

“It’s safe to look,” He told her, holding a hand on her cheek and stroking his thumb on that soft, familiar skin, “I’m sorry about everything that’s going on, babe...shit has gone completely off the rails.”

She smiled at that, meeting his anxious eyes with her own warm, brown orbs. A light kiss to his lips followed, taking with it all his fears and worries in an instant like a breath of fresh air.

“Don’t worry,” She promised, turning to finally look down at V’s sleeping face with curious eyes, “I’ve never seen him before...but Y/N talked about him a lot. V is truly special to her, and now...now he’s back. And that...that’s what matters, we can figure everything out as we go.”

He nodded at her words, taking solace in how steady and reasonable she sounded. Always the voice of reason, his shelter in the storm. Things always worked out when Kyrie made them so, and he would hold faith to that despite how batshit insane everything seemed. 

Focus on the good for now, the rest would fall into place.

So, he kissed her hand, standing in the doorway and watching as she walked back into the kitchen to survey how everyone was doing. Trish was sitting at the table trying to question Vergil, getting barely anything resembling responses while Dante talked over what happened with Morrison over the phone. Nero still felt...uneasy about how his father was doing, watching as Vergil practically peeled his eyes open to stare in exhaustion at Trish’s annoyed face. The poor guy looked like he needed a round of shots and then some--there was no telling what kind of punishments a god could put in place for a man like him. Whatever had happened left him without the energy to even banter with Dante, left him...guilty.

Kyrie wasn’t oblivious to any of it either. She paused by the coffee table, eyes understandably concerned as she graced Vergil with that caring expression of hers. Kyrie was such a fucking angel, far better a person than Nero--despite all his father had done, to him and others...she was still willing to help, to try and ease his suffering. The only reason Nero hadn’t kicked Vergil’s ass again was due to his wife talking him down from that anger, reasoning out why he should try and talk to this man who was his father. Kyrie was so good, a shining light in comparison to both Nero and Vergil in kind. And he couldn’t talk her out of that kindness, even for those who didn’t deserve it.

It was why Nero held his tongue while Kyrie paused, hesitating as she stared at Vergil’s face like those motherly instincts were battling with the reasoning inside her head. But, as always, kindness would always be the victory in these types of inner conflicts. A second later, she inhaled, putting on her most gentle, hesitant voice as she placed a hand on the table to get Vergil’s attention.

“Mister Vergil?” She asked, smiling softly when his father tilted his gaze in her direction with a hint of surprise, “Would you like some tea? I have herbal remedies that might make you feel better, you must be very tired.”

Say one mean thing to my wife, and you’re dead meat.

Nero stiffened, narrowing his eyes at Vergil as he waited for a response. Kyrie’s kindness aside, he was more than ready to punt the man out the door for her sake even if he was going through some rough shit. She always took priority, and anyone without manners didn’t belong in their house anyway.

But...Vergil managed to shock him again.

He merely closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath and running a hand through his messed up hair. Tone tired, voice heavy and hoarse as he replied quietly to her question.

“If it doesn’t burden you...then I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

Cue shocked stares from Trish, Nero, and Dante in kind. Vergil’s brother especially, his mouth popped open in surprise and eyes practically burning a hole into the man’s back. Out of everyone in the room, the devil hunter knew Vergil the most, so this must have been incredibly out of character, to be even remotely polite in any circumstance. But...Kyrie didn’t seem to mind, looking downright tickled pink as she nodded and turned toward the stove, putting the kettle on to boil and searching for their tea set in the cupboard. Damn, things were just growing more and more confusing, weren’t they? A downright mess, one that had been preparing to blow up after months of peace and quiet for all of them. 

But...Nero looked back at V’s peaceful face, his chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. He looked at his father, seeing a change in him that was far beyond what anyone could comprehend. Everyone was back together, alive, whole. And you would get the love of your life back, after all these months of pain and suffering. He didn’t know what the God did, what transpired during those hours of time only you and Vergil had experienced. 

Regardless of all those uncertainties...he found himself far more relieved and happy than anything else. And if things tried to fall apart again…

Well. Then they would fix it.

(Your POV, the next Day)

Something...something is missing.

Something was taken.

Something was gone.

You had your memories altered frequently enough to know what your head had been fucked with. The sensation was unmistakable, more familiar than anything else as you started pulling yourself out of unconsciousness bit by bit. Back in that damned, dark pool of water again, the same one that weighed down your limbs and fogged out everything else. There were so many questions, so many swirling thoughts that constricted your mind like the flow of water. What had happened while in the Void with Vergil? Everything was so fuzzy after the second trial, cutting off abruptly after the Outsider started changing things over. Why couldn’t you remember? Did Vergil fail the third trial, is that why your head had been altered? For a brief, fleeting moment of panic that was the conclusion you drew, scrambling to pull yourself out of the darkness and back into waking once more. 

Get up, we have to do something.

Everything was so god damn heavy. It was like trying to yank your limbs out of mud, one appendage at a time, finger by finger. Waking came in bits and pieces, some faster than others, some slow and agonizingly patient. The sensation of warmth came first, a far cry from the Void despite that chill still lingering in your bones and limbs. Not that much time had passed, then--but the fact that you were no longer in the Void was startling enough. Or...was this another illusion, one brought about to make you feel a strange sense of comfort? You thought that living in the Void long enough gave you a good sense of reality, but...those trials had shaken your confidence a bit more than you’d care to admit. 

That uncertainty continued even as you regained feelings one by one, recognizing the softness of your own comforter under your shoulders and fingertips. My room? The taste of salt water was in the air, the sound of billowing curtains reaching your ears as the muffled feeling of being underwater faded away. Was it morning? How had you gotten home? And when? The breeze felt so real, so unbelievably welcome as it washed over your skin like a gentle caress. Illusion or not, you could have wept at the familiarity of your home, the sanctuary of your bedroom. It was on that comfort alone that you willed your eyes to open, flinching at the sunlight and lifting a hand to shield yourself from the glare.

Home...you were home.

You breathed slowly in and out as you watched the white curtains flow on the breeze, light and airy as they drifted above your bed. Dust motes danced in the sun’s rays, barely visible to the naked eye, but there nonetheless. Was...was this real? Were you really back, safe and sound? But...what about Vergil? 

Wait...something was off.

Worry...you were worried about Vergil, wanted to make sure he was safe after the ordeal he went through. The trauma of his mother’s death, of seeing the truths he fought so long to ignore...was he okay, after all of those terrible things? You still felt concerned about him, mind swirling with questions that weren’t answered. But...why did this feel off, different? Lacking its weight, lacking the spark it had before.

You waited for that sensation to return at the thought of him, that deep ache in your chest that longed for his touch and affections. Because V was a part of the surly man, and you longed to have him back even if it meant learning to love Vergil too. But...nothing came? You blinked, breath catching in your lungs as you searched inside yourself for those feelings, for that deep desire that had driven your emotions and actions for so many months. But...when you thought of Vergil, it felt strangely...disconnected. The worry for his well being existed, you still cared about his safety and his traumas after what happened...but something was very lacking, and you couldn’t figure out what.

That love for V was still there, thinking of him still made you ache and crave and hurt terribly. That was stronger than ever, a flame that would never go out inside of you for as long as you lived. If you were still in love with your poet, why did everything with Vergil feel so off now? Maybe...maybe that was what the Outsider altered, alongside your memories? But...he couldn’t have done such a thing, it would never benefit anything for either parties. The thought made your panic grow deeper, heartbeat speeding up at the idea of not being able to love V in his new form, the only opportunity you would get to have him again. Even if the son of Sparda had hurt you, even if he was cruel...you wanted to try, and that was never a choice you had wanted taken away.

Feeling that way felt so empty compared to before, lacking the conviction and focus. No reason to now, your mind told you, shrugging it all off like it was nothing. Didn’t it matter? Didn’t you want it to?

This should matter, shouldn’t it?

 You bit down on the confusing sensations, sitting up slowly and pressing a hand to your head. Upon further inspection, you were still wearing your clothes from the previous day, but the cuts on your arms were now gone. A frown marred your lips as you inspected them, lifting your palms to search for any trace of soot or ash from the fire--nothing, like none of the trials had even happened. There was no way all of it had been a dream, of that you were certain. The pain had been real, that raw, aching emotion. Your Deity had a hand in all of this, down to the last detail--you just didn’t know what he hoped to gain. It hurt to think of how complicated your relation with him had become, your father figure and only parent to speak of. He cared about you, didn’t he? It seemed like he did, at least from what memory you had. 

Christ, my head is all messed up.

You quickly surveyed your room, feeling a bit surprised at the sight of Lady asleep in an armchair, one tucked away near the steps leading up. When had she gotten here? The woman certainly looked...real. Leaning her head on one hand, lips parted with light breaths and wearing a tank top with black shorts. The sun made beautiful patterns on her thighs, dancing and swaying each time the curtains billowed. You hadn’t seen her in a month, having spoken and caught up during a visit to the orphanage not that long ago. Tears sprang to your eyes, heart aching now that she was there again like a life preserver in the sea of uncertainty. Waking up alone would have been awful in that moment, but...you realized that wouldn’t have been the case either.

Sitting up jostled a familiar cat-shape next to you, Shadow yawning and looking up at your face with bleary eyes. You breathed out a sigh of relief, hugging your arms around the demon and feeling that comforting purr in response--thank god, thank god. Real, solid, not an illusion. They felt happy to see you as well, seemingly unharmed by your time disconnected from them, which was a relief all its own. That connection was now loud and clear, a soundless cry and happiness coming from your familiar as you shared a brief moment of comfort.

Upon looking to your left, Griffon’s form was found huddled above your pillow, reflecting the light beautifully from his sapphire feathers and eyes still squeezed shut. Even in rest you could feel his worry and fear for you, stroking a hand down his back and smiling softly. Poor boy had a rough time when you were taken, that was for sure. It looked like he had preened his feathers one too many times in stress, quite a few missing from his tail. You felt so bad, forgetting your own woes for a moment in light of his as you gently scooped him up into your arms, the bird almost curled into a ball while sleeping. He gave a light trill when you did so, feathers shuddering out in delight when you scratched under his beak. So simple, as always. 

This is real, isn’t it? This is reality.

No more illusions.

For a few moments, things passed peacefully that way. You grounded yourself in reality, memorizing the sensation of Griffon’s silky feathers under your fingertips and counting each breath. That black strand of hair was back, which meant Nightmare must have returned to you while unconscious. His presence was most certainly there, gracing the edges of your mind in a low, wordless rumble of relief that made you give a gentle smile.The sun was warm, the breeze soothing, and both familiars were now held against you in a gentle, comforting manner. Enough to prove the truth before you, enough to shake off some of the fear and worry. But...not all of it--you still didn’t know what happened to Vergil, after all, and that was making your concern and hesitation grow like vines gripping your lungs and heart.

You heard low voices talking downstairs, barely audible through the floors and almost intelligible. It was uncertain if any of them were Vergil, but you were certain you heard Nero tell someone “Clothes first--then you can go see her.”

Clothes first? Her? Were they talking about you?

There wasn’t long to ponder it. Griffon started blinking awake in the next moment, squinting around the room before lifting his golden eyes up to your face. He earned a soft smile from you, his thoughts reached through your connection in a slow growth of shock and utter relief once he registered it was you holding him in your lap.

He jolted immediately, maw popping open as he squawked in surprise, “Toots….! You’re awake!”

“Shh…” You put a finger to your lips to shush him, looking up to see if he had woken up Lady at all.

 Unfortunately, it seemed like he had, unable to control his volume in such excitement. The woman in the chair started to stir, blinking awake right when Griffon pressed his beak insistently to your face, like doing so would somehow convey his level of urgency. Mind you, it did, but you felt a little bad about Lady being awoken by all the noise.

“You okay, toots?” Griffon squawked insistently, clawed feet gripping onto your arm as you let out a huff of air, “Hurt anywhere? Forgetting anythin’? What did the big bad bastard in the sky do to you?”

Well, that was a lot to answer, and worse so considering you had no idea how to respond to the ending two. No pain, but if you were forgetting memories how the hell could you know what they had been? Something was definitely missing, but...it was just that third trial, nothing else. Your mind still remembered V, your family in Fortuna, the familiars. Just what had Vergil seen that the Outsider felt the need to take away? It made no sense.

And trying to figure it out was...making you feel uneasy, like something was prickling its way along your spine. A warning, one that felt close to your Foresight and froze the thought before it had the chance to form. 

Bad, bad. You should stop doing that.

Don’t--just leave it alone for now.

“Y/N...!” 

You looked up in just enough time to see Lady launch herself from the chair, wrapping both arms around you and the familiars with a sigh of relief. Warm, she was warm and real. It was almost overwhelming for a moment, tears pricking your eyes and head leaning against her shoulder as the torrent of leftover fear and uncertainty tried to surge again. It had been so frightening, not knowing if you would be allowed to come home, trying to hold Vergil’s head above water through a flood of punishment and pain. You never wanted to lose what was here, this feeling of belonging and love. Nor did you want anyone to suffer that same fate, one of being thrown into the Void with no hope of getting out. 

Regardless.

“Y...you’re here…” You whispered to Lady, leaning back and letting her cup both cheeks, “What...what happened? How did I get home? Did Vergil make it back too?”

Please tell me he did--I don’t know if I could be allowed back there to find him.

But Lady smiled softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead and bringing an air of ease with it. There was no doubt she was sensing how overwhelmed you were, how worried. But if she wasn’t upset or concerned...things had to be alright, didn’t they? She would not lie.

“He’s alright,” She said soothingly, squishing your cheeks together lovingly, in a childish manner, “A portal appeared and spit you out onto the beach--he was downstairs with Dante and the others when Kyrie and I brought you up here last night.”

A gusty sigh of relief left you, head leaning forward to plop on her shoulder again as you muttered, “Oh thank God.” 

Vergil wasn’t in the Void, that alone was a huge blessing and a load off your back. The loss of memory, all the uncertainties...they could wait now, couldn’t they? To just make it out unharmed was enough of a victory to put you at ease.

But...was he alright? After all that emotional trauma, the trials, anyone could be severely messed up mentally. If the Outsider had freed Vergil, then something must have happened in that third trial to change his mind about punishment. What could have gone down? You were just hurting yourself trying to figure things out, not knowing if you had actually seen the trial at all--if your memory had been erased, it must have been something either the Outsider or Vergil didn’t want you to remember. Maybe the son of Sparda had done something truly terrible in his past that upset you? Something unforgivable. It both concerned you and released some of the ease on your half of the mystery. Maybe it hadn’t involved you at all, something super humiliating that Vergil just didn’t want you remembering.

Maybe.

You didn’t get the chance to bring anything up about it--Lady suddenly gasped, seeming to realize something and peeling herself off of you in the next instant, “Oh…!”

What had her so riled up? You blinked, watching in confusion as she kissed your cheek again, hurrying to your dresser and starting to rummage through clothes like her life depended on it. Did you miss something by chance, some sign or signal that they needed to get ready? A bit of nervousness remained, making the thought of seeing Vergil again seem...off. There was no more of that charged energy for whatever reason, but it was still going to be hard to face him after everything that happened. That kiss seemed pretty far away, more muted in intensity alongside all the other moments shared between you and the surly son of Sparda.

Oh lord. You’d have to tell the girls about that at some point.

But Lady didn’t notice your hesitation, nor the questioning looks thrown her way. There might as well have been a question mark above your head, but the older woman only held up a finger in a motion that said hold on. Well then. You instead exchanged a look with Griffon like he would somehow have the answers you sought, but were immediately startled when all three familiars blocked their thoughts out--What the hell was going on now? Shadow ignored the very loud thought pushed their way as they licked your cheek and excitedly trotted down the stairs, tail swishing back and forth. As for your favorite bird, he gave a low, ominous chortle, hopping out of your arms and to the dresser Lady was busying herself with.

What the hell was happening? And why did it feel like you were missing the punchline to a joke? 

“What are you guys doing?” You asked aloud, hopping off of the bed and pressing a hand to your head when a wave of dizziness hit like a baseball bat. Ugh, coming out of the Void always made you feel gross, like your sense of balance was thrown off. Shaking the sensation off slightly, you peeked over Lady’s shoulder and asked in deep concern, “I feel like you both are scheming--what have I missed?” 

And why did it involve your clothes?

Lady smirked playfully, turning to face you and shoving a few pieces of clothing in your hands, “You’ll see. Be a good girl and put these on.”

A frown marred your lips, eyes darting down to see a lacy, shoulder baring top and high-waisted shorts. Very pretty, very feminine and picked out for a reason if Lady’s careful searching was any indication of her motives. This was feeling far too theatrical for your tastes, and the reason for all of it was being very clearly hidden by your two friends. The schemers in question exchanged a quick glance, Lady winking at him before turning away to head for the stairs and ignoring your looks of bafflement. 

She paused at the top, blowing you a light kiss as she purred, “If we’re going to do this, we’re going all out.”

You opened your mouth to ask just exactly what “this” was, but Lady wasn’t waiting for a reply. She quickly trotted down to the second floor, the sound of her footsteps fading away and leaving you standing there in a state of dazed confusion. What...what was going on? They all seemed pretty excited about something, despite how dire everything had been just the previous day. 

You lifted the clothes Lady had deposited in your arms and gazed at them with wary eyes, not wanting to be difficult despite how strange everyone was acting. The whole state of this situation wasn’t helping your nerves, not after just convincing yourself that this was reality and not an illusion. Everyone was acting really weird, but...maybe you had just missed something big while being asleep?

You turned to level a look of annoyance of Griffon when he chuckled again, feeling a bit betrayed considering the fact that he and the others were making sure you got absolutely nothing from them. Whatever this was, they were in on it, and that so wasn’t cool.

Griffon rolled his eyes at your sour expression, tapping his claws on the dresser as he sang at you, “Don’t give me that look, toots--you should probably light a fire under that butt of yours.”

“I get sucked into the Void for a night and you guys have me playing dress up?” You replied shortly, tone clipped and very doubtful as you sat down on the edge of the bed to undo your suspenders. 

“Boy, you sure are cranky today, aren’t ya?” The bird rolled his eyes, shaking out his feathers and looking a bit impatient at your slow, hesitant process of removing clothes, “Just play along.”

Wasn’t like you had any other choice, right?

Griffon pointedly looked away while you undressed, always trying to be respectful of your modesty despite literally living in your body most of the time. He didn’t respond to your annoyed question in the long run, wearing the closest thing to a smirk that an avian demon could have. That beak was sealed up tight, wasn’t it? What a traitor--you rolled your eyes at the thought, shimmying out of your clothes piece by piece and putting on a completely fresh outfit despite the grievances weighing you down. There would be not point in arguing with everyone so dead set on not explaining, so the next best thing was to simply play along and get to the answer sooner rather than later. You didn’t mind just as long as people were honest when this big secret was revealed to your eyes.

Griffon seemed satisfied that you were now complying, letting out a low chuckle and turning only when he was sure you were decent. One hop later and he was perched on your bare shoulders as always, careful not to mark up your skin with his claws. You would admit it just felt nice to be back with them, those hours in the Void seeming like a lifetime with you not knowing if they were alright. And despite Griffon’s mischief, he seemed just as pleased to be right where he wanted to be again, leaning his beak on the top of your head and settling into the familiar pattern you both shared. It was almost enough to make you forgive him for hiding this big secret from you. Almost, but not quite.

“Let’s get movin’,” He insisted impatiently, tugging on a piece of your hair as you started slowly walking down the stairs, “I ain’t got all day, and I wanna see the show god damn it…!”

Show? What show? Things were only growing more and more convoluted.

“What on Earth are you going on about?” You sighed softly, making your way through the hall and down the main steps to the foyer of the house, “What show are you waiting for exactly?”

“You’ll see.” Griffon chortled, launching off your shoulders to sail ahead of you. Down the hall, toward the kitchen and out of sight. 

Well now. That was certainly ominous.

 You paused in the hallway, vaguely wondering where the children were at this time of morning, and if Kyrie and Nero were okay. It must have been past eight o’clock, usually the kids would be running around and chaotic at such an hour and getting ready for the day. There was no patter of little feet, no yelling or giggling to be heard of. You took the time to peer into the living room where their camping stuff was still set up, worrying that their evening events may have been further ruined by your disappearance and the demon attack. Christ, you hoped they weren’t too scared--things like that could be damaging to kids. But it still looked like they had slept overnight in the front room, a mess that would have to be cleaned up later.

You shook your head, finally resigning yourself to the fate waiting with the others. Each step felt measured and careful, the kitchen door ajar as you approached it and wafting out the lightest aroma of tea. That was the herbal stuff you and the girls had purchased from the market, scented with the faintest hint of chamomile and honey. Familiar voices were speaking, relief filling you when you recognized the soft voices of Kyrie and Nico with Nero adding in his two cents occasionally. They sounded calm, albeit slightly riled up about something you couldn’t identify by their light chattering. Well... If they were here and awake, then maybe there wasn’t so much to worry about, right?

Swallowing your sense of confusion, you pushed through the door. 

All eyes immediately turned when you entered, making you feel a bit nervous and out of place. Kyrie, Nico, Lady, Dante…and Vergil sat at the table, throwing you through a complete loop. You weren’t sure what to feel when your eyes locked with the silver haired male, taking in his normal clothes with a surreal sense of bewilderment. He was here, he was alive, and…

You felt nothing.

 It felt...off, seeing him now in comparison to before. Something was different, the air no longer charged with an energy you didn’t understand. Your eyes met, but you saw a similar lack of emotion coming from him, like whatever had bound you together was now...gone. And that was worrying to you, sending a ball of anxiety to your stomach and making you hesitate in the doorway.

Did the Outsider change us?

But...I didn’t want that, didn’t want to lose the part of Vergil that I cared about.

Is this what Vergil wanted, to not have to worry about our feelings anymore?

The man in question seemed to be sipping a cup of tea, donning a simple blue button up and black slacks instead of his fancy coat and vest. It looked strangely domestic, and there was definitely something different about him in comparison to before. He looked...tired, eyes meeting yours for that second and lacking the usual hardness he once showed you. No longer cold, just very heavy and...guilty? He didn’t look away, but didn’t show any indication of feeling for you what was shown in the Void and through those trials.

Christ. What the hell was going on?

“Y/N…!” Kyrie exclaimed in relief, standing so she could quickly walk around the table and hug you close. Her embrace was always so warm, so comforting and definitely needed in the moment of uncertainty you were experiencing. Nico came next, hugging you tightly and squeezing until you felt the need to wheeze at such an exuberant display of affection.

“You sure had us worried, sugar,” Nico huffed, leaning back and pinching one of your cheeks between her fingers, “How are ya feelin’ this mornin’?”

Well now. That was a very good question, wasn’t it? Confused, disoriented, uncertain ...but otherwise fine. There was no word that summed that all up in one fell swoop other than...strange.

You paused, looking around the kitchen for Griffon and Shadow only to find that they were absent as well. Where had the familiars gone now? Still no sign of the children either, something that was slowly beginning to worry you considering all that had happened in the night.

You let out a slow breath, trying to gather your racing thoughts together before replying, “I’m...I’m fine, just a bit disoriented is all,” Understatement of the century, but there were questions that needed answers, “Where are the kids? Are they okay?” You paused, looking between the two women to the spiky-haired male that went through the whole ordeal all the same, “Are you okay?”

Vergil paused in sipping his cup of tea, icy blue eyes meeting yours again with that same guilt you saw before, but...a lot more calm. He in general seemed a lot less tense, that rude temper he seemed to pride himself on dulled to the point that it was no longer present. Was that...normal? Had the Outsider done something to him too, maybe changed his memories or his mood? But if he meant to punish Vergil, why the hell would such a thing be done in the first place?

It didn’t make sense.

 The son of Sparda hesitated before replying to you, exchanging a short, knowing look with Dante as he sipped that tea.

“I am fine,” He finally spoke, tone low and unreadable as he closed his eyes and savored the flavor of his beverage like it was one of the most calming thing he had tasted, “You should focus on yourself, Y/N.”

You frowned at his response, feeling a tad uneasy with how simple and calm things felt. That familiarity you once shared with him, that deep need and affection...where had it all gone? It was all very strange, your body whispering of things long passed, and things that would never come again.

All of it felt very...final. Like the closing of a book, the pages able to rest after years of being plucked with no end. 

Kyrie grasped one of your hands to gain your attention, her brown eyes soft and kind when you turned to look at her, “Trish took the kids out to the bakery for breakfast--they were a little nervous about the demon attack last night, but Trish and Lady helped calm them down and keep the distractions going until they went to bed in their tent.”

Thank the Void for that at least. You released a light sigh, putting a hand to your chest and willing your heart to slow down just a tad. The children had still camped out in the living room, and they didn’t see any of the bullshit that went down when you were snatched away. This was for the best, you would hate for them to be traumatized by the day’s events after losing out on the festival and having their camp out disturbed. One worry checked off the list, now about a million more to tend to.

But there was no chance of asking any more questions.

Dante smirked over the rim of what looked to be a cup of coffee, one loaded with cream and sugar as he took a loud sip, “Your little birdie and kitty cat are out the beach--you should go out and say hi.”

Everyone took on a strange look of anticipation at his words, minus you and Vergil. The expression on your face was somewhere between wariness and confusion, whereas the son of Sparda looked calm and content in ignoring the whole situation and enjoying his tea. Just what the fuck was going on, and why were they all looking at you like there was a big secret to tell? It made you very nervous indeed, blinking as you met Kyrie’s eyes and felt her squeeze your hand encouragingly. There was something in her smile, something that made your heart start pounding faster and faster until you were sure it was trying to burst from your chest.

Why...why am I feeling this?

Vergil is right there, isn’t he?

So why is my heart aching so much?

Your mind refused, it was trying to protect you from anything it might try and conjure up as the source of all this madness. What could cause them to all look like that? What could be waiting for you outside that would require so much secrecy? There was only one thing you wanted, craved, needed more than anything. And he...he was gone, he couldn’t exist while Vergil was still here, living and whole. You were supposed to try for him, right? You were supposed to help him through his trauma and let him embrace V after years of suppressing his humanity.

But...your soul was starting to ache, to tremble. Not for you to stay with Vergil, but to walk out the back door and onto the beaches of Fortuna.

That can’t be right...can it?

Nero was watching you from the table, taking in the changes of your expression and probably reading the nervousness and hesitation there. You met his gaze briefly, seeing a steadiness there that you wished could be shared through the rising torrent of emotion trying to rise in your head. 

“Come on, kid,” He said after a few moments of silence, grunting as he stood up from the table and holding out a hand for you to take, “I’ll come with--trust me, this is definitely not something you wanna wait on.”

Nero knew you well, knew what happened in the Qliphoth tree and saw you at your most vulnerable. There was a level of trust shared that had not been broken, but...Why were you so anxious? Where was this uncertainty coming from? You didn’t know what was waiting for you out there, but...there was a ball of anticipation and worry curling in your stomach, heavy and showing no signs of leaving. 

This is reality, isn’t it? There’s no chance, there’s--

You swallowed, hesitantly taking Nero’s hand with unsteady fingers. For whatever reason, you could feel Vergil’s eyes watching as this happened, seeing only a glimpse of his expression out of your peripheral view. What was that look that flashed in his eyes, something like...remorse? But that couldn’t be right, could it? You didn’t get to focus on it long, Nero tugging you around the table and heading toward the door. Everyone was staring now, Nico and Kyrie smiling goofily and inching their way behind you as Nero clicked the door open, allowing a rush of warm, morning air to gust into the kitchen and curl around your form.

You paused in the doorway, feeling Nero’s fingers squeeze yours encouragingly as he stopped to look back at your conflicted face. The boy certainly looked wise beyond his years in that moment, the sun making his white hair glow as it swayed in the breeze and eyes steady and encouraging. He was your best friend, a brother in so many ways after all he had done to help you bounce back from the terrible events in the Qliphoth.

You had laughed with him, cried with him, and went on so many missions to both fight demons and improve Fortuna. Kyrie, Nero, Nico, Lady, Trish, all the kids...they were so very precious to you, filling up the void V had left behind and not faltering once despite not owing you anything in the first place. Dante too, and then Vergil...all these people formed pieces of your lives, and they should have been enough.

They were everything. Everything you wanted, needed, and adored. 

Why should you want more? Why was your heart throbbing in your chest, pushing you to look out at the sand, searching for the one thing you knew shouldn’t be there?

Nero gave you a crooked half smile, coaxing you forward with a little push to your lower back. You tried to keep your steps steady, eyes down on the sand and watching the way your toes sank into it, glistening warmly in the morning sun. Why couldn’t you bring yourself to look up? Why couldn’t you look out across the beach for the familiar shapes of Griffon and Shadow? You were no coward, not a fool and certainly not the type to hope for silly, impossible things. But there was a rising sense of energy in the air, one you recognized all too well. That drawl, the way your chest ached...swallow your fear, lift your head.

 You’ve come this far, haven’t you?

The worst case scenario is nothing will be there.

But somehow...that seems like more than I can take.

You breathed out a slow, shaking breath when Nero paused in front of you, releasing your fingers despite how desperately you wanted to hang on. Lifeline gone, eyes still down on the floor despite how much every part of you was screaming for the chance to look up. The silence was so...peaceful, usually calming but not so much with how frayed your nerves had become. The rolling waves, the summer breeze, and the sensation of being watched from all sides. Every person in the kitchen was more than likely watching out the window at you, eager to see your reaction to whatever awaited. It was incredibly nerve wracking, your heart thudding away very quickly and lungs feeling like they were aching in your chest. 

Look up.

Please, look up.

There was a sound on the beach in front of you, like someone was pulling themselves off of the sand. For a moment, you thought it was Shadow, hearing the padding of their paws as they settled around your feet. Black, shiny fur, red eyes. Now in your line of view, purring away as a means to try and comfort its host in such an obvious state of worry--but it wasn’t the mighty cat that was heard. A rustle of fabric, breath sucked between lips as someone stood mere feet away from you, their eyes locked on your face. And yet...you still couldn’t bring yourself to look up, the wind sending your hair waving in the breeze as a moment of silence passed uninterrupted by any of the people standing there.

Afraid. You were afraid everything around you wasn’t real, that when you looked up nothing would be here. Back in the Void, an illusion. Or maybe that it would be something else, not what you were hoping for more than anything in that moment. Things rarely worked out so easily, did they? Not for someone like you, born to taste the fruits of happiness but never be able to keep them. Things that were too good to be true generally always were, so how could you even begin to hope for what you wanted, what you craved more than anything? The thought of it alone made you want to cry, to wail and weep like you had all those months ago in the Qliphoth tree. Everything had come so far, the recovery process hard and filled with turmoil. 

It never stopped the desire, it never stopped the loneliness and longing.

Your fingers started to tremble when footsteps approached you slowly from the front, muffled and soft in the sand. Like whoever it was walked barefoot. Even then, you didn’t look up, heart pounding like fists on steel walls, sobbing and begging to see who it was, to embrace it. Shadow leaned their weight on your legs, the only proof of reality you could ground yourself in with the storm of emotion raging in your heart. They were solid, warm, fur soft as it brushed your bare skin and rumbling with a purr. Those red eyes lifted toward the newcomer when they stopped in front of you, feet away and still silent despite your terse refusal to look up yourself. You couldn’t even see their feet, but the presence was undeniably familiar. 

That energy, that sensation of being so close to home with it just out of reach.

You know who that is, don’t you?

Why not take the chance?

After everything that has happened...we can afford to be disappointed.

Nero took a few steps back, like he was passing you off to the person standing silently in wait. It felt...strange. He briefly put a hand on your shoulder as a sign of support, a light squeeze that was enough to remind you that someone always had your back. Whether it be him or the others, if you felt like falling there would always be people there to catch you. Good things had happened, didn’t they? A family, a home, a purpose...all things you never thought would come, but they had. You managed to lift yourself up, their hands supported you until each foot could move on its own. And now it felt like the impossible could become real, that you could somehow get everything you had hoped for.

But your mind still didn’t want to risk hurting you. Even when the silence was finally broken, when the person before you sucked in a soft breath, releasing it slowly before they spoke in a voice all too familiar. Like melted honey, soft and melodic. One that made your heart go into overdrive, so many emotions and feelings flooding inside that you felt like you might collapse, knees weakening and head feeling a bit dizzy. Mind over reality, hopes and dreams battling with the acceptance of that you thought was set in stone. 

But this was reality, wasn’t it? 

“He who binds to himself a joy, does the winged life destroy,” His voice was gentle, sounding just as hesitant and aching as you. Like he was putting a thousand apologies into those words, a million emotions that echoed yours in kind, “But he who kisses the joy as it flies, lives in eternity’s sunrise.”

It can’t--

It can’t be him--

That wasn’t possible, was it?

You were on the verge of collapse, tears burning in your eyes as the torrent of emotions threatened to rise. God, how long had it been since you heard his voice? Months, so many months of missing and craving that warm tone, of hearing him whisper and recite those same poems that you had read in the book Nero kept in the kitchen. V’s book, the one he left behind. Hearing it now was like being hit by a truck, threatening to make you fall to your knees and weep for all you had lost, for how much you wanted it back. Please--Please please please. Let this be real, let this not be a dream or an illusion.

I can’t take disappointment again.

You were starting to breath heavily, one hand raising to grip at the lacy blouse above your heart and clench around the fabric. What were you supposed to say? To feel? How could you begin to accept this as real?

How could you possibly get to feel this love again, after waiting for so long?

“Why do you hide your eyes from me, Sparrow?” His voice whispered softly when your silence persisted, aching like he wanted to reach over the distance and touch you. Waiting, not wanting to move too fast, not wanting to push it, “Won’t you look at me? Are you angry?”

This hurts. This is too much.

I want--

You swallowed down a sob, shoulders shaking delicately with the force of your restrained emotions as you whispered hollowly in response, “B...because...I’m afraid that when I look up, none of this will be real. I...I don’t want any more illusions.”

Not anymore. 

You can’t exist while Vergil does, can you?

He paused again, a shaken breath leaving his lungs at your soft, trembling words. He knew just as well what happened in the Void as you, having seen it from Vergil’s eyes. Each trial, each seemingly real image of other places and other times...surely making him seem there could be child’s play, as unrealistic as it would be for the Outsider to do that to you. But maybe all of this wasn’t real, an illusion created by the Void to put you at ease? It didn’t feel that way, it felt achingly warm and real, solid and lacking the instability those illusions had. No Void whispers, no occasional flicker of cold. Just the sun, the beaches, and…

 I’m scared. I’m want you so badly, and I’m afraid that you’re not really here. 

You had been hurt far too much the way it was, that was common enough knowledge. He knew that.

It was why he crossed the space between you both, slipping his warm fingers over your cheeks to hold them with a gentleness you recognized and ached for. His touch was like a jolt of electricity, making you gasp and those tears finally drip from your eyes, no longer held back like all the conflicted emotions. Solid, solid--that feels so real, so god damn real. It was like a breath of air after months of drowning, sending your heart racing and sobbing in absolute relief. More than that kiss with Vergil had been, more than anything you’d ever experienced. It was what finally made you knees give out, all of the emotions too much for you to handle and sending you to your knees like you were in prayer.

Or it would have. He caught you with those familiar arms, holding you up and against his chest as the first sob broke from your lips. His embrace was so warm, one hand holding you up while the other tilted up your chin, letting your eyes see him truly for the first time--and what a sight he was, illuminated by the rays of the sun, white hair drifting in the breeze and jade gaze staring into yours with so many apologies, so much emotion and adoration it made your heart break in two. There were tears in his eyes, glistening on his white lashes in the morning sun like diamonds.

Real--he is real, he is here. You could hardly fathom what you were seeing, taking him in through the tears in your eyes like he was the sun itself.

So many months spent imagining him, so many nights dreaming of what he looked like and if you would ever see that beautiful face again. This was everything--he was everything, and your imagination could never truly capture him. Your hands lifted on their own, tracing the soft lines of his lips, up his high cheekbones and through his soft hair. Real real real. Alive. You were feeling him, he was here--and that was enough to send your head spinning, eyes dropping more and more tears for him to brush away with his beautiful fingers. Illusion or not, real or not...this was everything. A balm on your wounded soul, like coming home after months of wandering lost. The last piece of your life’s puzzle falling into place.

He was back. You didn’t know how, but V was back and alive.

“Oh darling…” V breathed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead while sobs continued to leave your lips. He then kissed your cheeks, your hair, murmuring softly and sorrowfully, “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, not after how many times I have made you cry...I am sorry for everything that I have done, every lie that I told you, I…”

He was apologizing over and over, kiss after kiss grazing parts of your face and even sweeter than the last. You didn’t care, you didn’t care--All of the anger, the heartbreak, the betrayal you felt while processing the loss of the one you loved most...none of that seemed to matter anymore. You launched yourself at the poet, causing him to release a startled grunt as you knocked him back onto the sand with your arms around his neck. Griffon and Nero snickered at your exuberant display of affection, watching in amusement at V’s flustered expression. Making him blush was something you never thought would happen again, but it did when you pressed your lips to his, hands buried in his silken hair like he had never been gone at all.

You didn’t care who saw, either. All the eyes from the house were watching, but Christ you could never care.

It came with belated realization that V was no longer wearing his vest and slacks from the day he left. When you leaned back from kissing him, you realized he was in a baggy, black v-neck and jeans that both looked like they didn’t fit him very well. No more tattoos, but that made sense considering that they were on your body now--he looked healthy, a far cry from the cracking man in the Qliphoth tree. His jade eyes were bright when they met yours, lips tilted in that familiar smirk and skin glowing in the sun. Still skinny, but with steady meals and care he could probably start feeling a lot better. The idea of getting to do that with him, getting to live with him…

It made you positively lightheaded.

“How?” You breathed, putting a hand to his cheek and feeling giddy when he nuzzled into your palm, “I don’t understand--Vergil is still here, still whole. How can this be real?”

V let out a low hum, sitting up and kissing your fingers with gentle lips, “A gift from the Outsider...He was angry at Vergil for the things he had done, but…” His eyes went dark for a moment at mention of the Void’s events, but it disappeared as he added, “A man named Corvo stepped in to calm him down, and they both decided it would be best to separate me from Vergil and allow him to keep his humanity anew.”

Corvo had been there? You blinked in surprise, feeling a bit disappointed that there was no chance to say hello. You hadn’t seen him in ages, always off on missions when he visited or sleeping in the Void. The fact that he had to calm down the Outsider was surprising to you--the God had never seemed easily emotional, so hearing that he was angry was...strange. Everything was now. After all the mixed feelings you had for the man you considered a father, he had still come through in the end and brought V back, fixed everything. And that…that was more than you could hope for.

I’ll have to make a shrine at some point...talking to him about what happened might be best.

You shook your head to clear the thoughts, pressing a hand to his chest and feeling his heart thudding at a steady pace. Warm, alive.

“So...so no more crumbling…?” You murmured hesitantly, threading your fingers with his when he grasped with his own, “You...you’re not a part of Vergil anymore…?”

V smiled softly, white hair drifting over his lovely jade eyes as he confirmed, “No more crumbling--I share Vergil’s memories, but I am my own person now. Whole, with new memories to make and a life to live outside of him.”

Free.

You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck again, feeling his warm chuckle right by your ear as absolute relief and joy threatened to spill forth. No more lies, no more barriers, no more hesitations--V was himself, and yours to hold and love without worry. That was why the energy between you and Vergil seemed gone, why the surly man seemed indifferent now. The part of him that was in love with you was now free, separate to do what he wished and make his own life. And what better outcome could you ask for other than this? All your worries about the third trial missing from your memory, all the uncertainties and worries that had once been so loud...they were quiet now, buried under layers of overwhelming joy.

You kissed V again like he was the air your breathed, a soft sound of contentment brushing against his lips. There were several months apart to make up for, and things were starting to get carried away.

How could you help it?

Griffon let out a heavy, impatient sigh from behind you both, the sound of flapping wings coming next as he landed on the sand, “Alright kids, gettin’ too cozy for our liking. Are you forgettin’ you have an audience?”

You and V both blinked, looking up and behind to see Nero was no longer standing there by himself. Kyrie, Nico, and Lady were now with him, grinning as they watched embarrassment flash across your expressions. Dante and Vergil were now out on the deck, both still holding their cups and watching all of this go down as well. Dante smirking in amusement, Vergil looking impassive and blank. 

Did he willingly give up his human half for you, so V could be reborn again? At some point you might have been a bit wistful about that, wondering why Vergil just didn’t try to pick up where V left off, but it hardly mattered. There was no connection left for him, but you did hope to be his friend at the very least, or to thank him for what was done.

Regardless, you smiled at the bemused group, rising to your feet and helping V up. This all felt so surreal, but you were riding on a wave of so many good energies that there was no room left to care. 

Kyrie looked ready to bounce in place, hands clasped together in front of her chest and beaming with happiness, “We should have a celebration today--no better way to mark a joyous occasion, and It’ll make the children happy…!”

You nodded at that, feeling V come up behind you and wrap both of his arms around your waist. It was definitely odd--you he had ever been to a party before, and especially not one marking his return. Hell, this could be his birthday if they wanted it to--and judging by the looks everyone wore the idea of having a celebration was exactly what everyone needed.

Nero put an arm around Kyrie’s waist, pressing a light kiss to her brow as he replied, “Sounds good to me--just as long as we never let Dante near a grill again.”

“I heard that!” The man in question called from the deck, but he was still smirking as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips. 

You had no idea what Dante did to earn a ban status on the grill, but it was not the priority at that moment. Nico and Lady started tugging you both toward the house, Griffon landing on V’s shoulders this time and complaining at him about what a dumbass he had been, and about how they would be forced to have joint custody over the familiars because “there was no way in hell he wanted to lose out on the cool Void powers”. Shadow weaved between everyone’s legs, tail swishing excitedly and red eyes bright with interest as they all started making their way back in. You couldn’t blame them for being so energetic--things had gone from absolute madness and chaos to the best outcome you could hope for overnight.

V’s fingers entwined with yours while walking, determined not to let go after so long of not being able to have you. A lifeline, one that you never thought you’d have again. No more worrying about him falling apart, or about hidden secrets. There was so much room to grow even closer, no more secrets left to hide and everything laid bare. And you could tell he had realized the same, his jade eyes soft and deep when you glanced back at his lovely face. There was a hint of nervousness there with so much attention on him, especially with Nico and Lady making sure to lecture him on what happened.

But...your poet looked happy. There was an ease to him no, lacking in the driven, haunting looks he had in the Qliphoth tree. Peaceful--there were no more burdens to bear, no more sacrifices to make. Just time to heal, to grow better and start a new life. 

And for once, after years and years of fighting and struggling...the fruits of happiness were yours to take. No more reminders of pain, no more sleeping in the Void. It finally felt like you were home, surrounded by smiling family with V’s hand back in yours. The kids would come home from the bakery to a new member of the household, but somehow you had the feeling that V would be good with kids. To move on from Vergil’s memories wouldn’t be easy, but you knew he could handle it with everyone here to help. 

And Vergil...he was free of V, and of you. Something that might have been bittersweet, but he seemed content. Sipping his tea, quipping back at his son when he made a snide remark about his cooking too. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, lacking the bite he had before and seemingly trying to talk to Nero, to get along and learn about his son. The trials really seemed to change his mind about things, which might have been for the best.

You were happy. Content. And at the end of the day, that was all you ever wanted.

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Tagged: @nightshadow4713 @slightlylunatic @silentwhispofhope @efiicitia @just-call-me-no-name @raven-huntress @shaelin444

[gaasaku-fanfests]

Devil’s Due

Title: Devil’s Due Author: darkcivet Rating: M (just in case) Word Count: 3,313 Summary: They called him a monster. They said he was a demon. So he decided to summon one to kill them all. Warnings: Character death (not Gaara or Sakura). OOC. Author’s Note(s): (The title is a working title and I’ll change it if I think of anything better.) This is a bit of a creepy one-shot I guess: I’m numb to this kind of thing, apparently. Enjoy. ^_^

Trope: Dark Gaara or Dark Sakura

“Don’t touch that!”

Gaara jumped slightly, frozen in place; his arm outstretched and his fingers curled in a coaxing motion. He wanted the cat to come to him. He wanted to touch it. So bad. Just a tiny bit of warmth in this cold, empty house he was forced to live in.

“I said don’t touch that.”

That familiar voice had the gall to repeat itself.

Breaking out of his rigid stance slowly, he forced himself to relax and stood up; Gaara supposed he had looked quite suspicious, positioned like that. He felt it necessary to look like an animal on the hunt. Stretching his muscles in an almost cat like, lazy manner, he turned to face his irate sister.

Since his growth spurt, she hadn’t been able to look down on him in the literal sense, but Temari always maintained a commanding stature compared to him, nonetheless. Even next to Kankuro, who was also taller than her, she was never of lower standing. She was the only one that took after their father in that manner. But right now, she looked extremely nervous; her wide eyes and high pitched voice angered Gaara more than the demand. She was both angered and fearful of him. It annoyed him to no end that his siblings listened to the malicious rumours of his demonic heritage.

‘How else could he have turned out so monstrous?’ People asked. ‘His mother must’ve been taken by the devil to produce a child so vile.’ It was just a silly pack of superstitious lies. But sometimes, when the moon was full and his desire to watch blood drip from an open vein was strong enough, he believed them.

Years of neglect did that to a person. When he was a child, the ignorant villagers in town would pelt him; they took their cue from the great Sabaku clan that the youngest son to Rasa was just a lunatic who would grow up useless and insane. The story that his mother had been raped and gone mad was rampant among the lower class idiots.

Not that he would expect anything else from people who still traded goats for pigs.

Gaara refrained from frowning at his sister; he was used to the backwards superstition from strangers, but for some reason he just couldn’t stomach that his blood family would stoop to such idiocy. If he was indeed related to them at all.

‘We don’t have a lot in common.’

Perhaps he was just adopted? These kinds of questions swirled around in his head for years before he gave up asking them. It was only at times like this, when one of his siblings was glowering at him and telling him to stay away from the household pets (like he was going to kill them, sheesh), that the dissimilarities between them made him question his own parentage.

He was seventeen now, and almost old enough to leave home. If he had been born a peasant, he could’ve done so long ago, but his father would not let him go until it was appropriate.

‘Bastard.’

“Did you hear me, Gaara?” Temari waved a fan toward the cat, scaring it away. “Don’t touch the animals on the compound. You’re not supposed to be near them. You’re just a-”

He was a demon in her eyes, and always would be. The demon that killed her mother.

“Fine!” He screamed, startling Temari almost as much as he startled himself with the outburst; her hand went instinctively to the curved blade she kept hidden at her belt. “You want a demon? I’ll give you one!”

He ignored the sounds of his father and brothers’ approach, mixed in with the harsh whispers of nearby servants. The only silence in the area came from his sister. Their family was rich, renown, and powerful; and even a demon child among the clan couldn’t diminish their reach.

Gaara ran toward the only place he knew could help. The only source he knew of that could help him summon a real demon.

‘And kill them all.’

.:.

There were so many books on the occult in his father’s library that Gaara hadn’t known where to start; he’d been reading about demons for a while now, looking into the fables and folklore, trying to figure out which one the villagers viewed him as. There wasn’t anything in those books that would explain away his lust for violence, his predisposition toward lighting things on fire and fascination with the way blood travelled outside the body.

Rasa had a secret stash of black magic books that Gaara only knew about because he’d followed him that one time, in the middle of the night. Perhaps he’d collected them for the same reason the redhead perused them – to figure out what he was. Perhaps not.

All Gaara knew was the pounding of blood in his ears, the anger, the hate, and the desire to tear something limb from limb to be free of this place. Blood red spots obscured his vision as he rifled through the books as gently as his foul mood would allow him to. There were a number of books he remembered that talked about summoning imps and faeries to do favours, but he didn’t need something so low levelled. He wanted to enter a bargain with something that was dangerous and foul beyond words.

‘It’s not real. It’s all fake.’

His logical mind wouldn’t allow him to entertain the idea that he was just lashing out in vain. That if demons were real and could be summoned so readily, his father would’ve done so and gotten rid of Gaara years ago. His heart just wanted to hurt something.

‘Found it.’

A scroll that felt like leather; old, worn, and yellowed, it hadn’t been maintained well it seemed. But perhaps it was older than it looked, even. Gaara stared at it, unfurling the xuan paper carefully, almost like it could break under his hands.

“How to summon darkness.” He ran a finger over the intricate kanji. The title said it all.

He smiled.

‘I have it.’

“Gaara?”

His head snapped up at the sound of his brother’s voice, echoing through the library hallways. Kankuro couldn’t see him, but he was closing in on his position. Perhaps he’d been followed after all?

“A servant saw you enter here.”

That explained it.

“You know you’re not supposed to-”

Gaara blocked out his voice, feeling a new surge of anger rise with the familiar mantra of what he was and wasn’t allowed to do in this place. He’d contemplated summoning demons before – mostly out of fun – and even cast a few fun spells that were supposed to amplify the bad mood of everyone around him.

It never worked.

But something different was rising up in his throat this time; something far more disgusting than bile. He couldn’t explain it, but this time was going to end better. He was going to get his revenge.

Hugging the scroll to his chest and feeling far more immature than he should about this, Gaara fled the library. There were preparations to make and sacrifices to perform.

Blood to spill.

.:.

‘How did I forget the full moon?’

That was why he felt different. As the sun went down and Gaara found himself mesmerised by the faint light of the moon hanging over the Sabaku compound; a place that overlooked a maze of a town of sycophant peasants. It bathed the area in a soft glow that almost calmed him down enough to knock him out of his desire for blood and revenge.

‘Nothing will come of it; I’m just going to end up having to hand this scroll back and be punished.’

He wanted to avoid the morning, and the pain that would inevitably come with it. He’d snapped. He could feel it like a cord wrapped around his throat that had broken and clung to his skin in desperation. Something inside of him wanted to rip it apart and be done with this world.

But the blood sacrifice had to come first.

Carefully, he made his way to the loafing shed in the back of the estate; all kinds of animals were kept for slaughter or milking on the grounds, to funnel the resources through the pockets of his father. It meant that he controlled even the most domestic income of the region; and fear of him kept the populous from revolting.

Gaara found the goat house quickly, tugging on the hood covering his distinctive red hair, just in case one of those nosy servants spotted him. With the scroll in one hand and a double-edged knife in the other, he coaxed one of the goats forward and grabbed the chain that hung around it’s neck. The sharp sounds of discomfort were momentary; he started reciting the words the scroll dictated, holding the knife to the animals throat as he tried to concentrate on the summons.

With eyes wide open and expectant, Gaara slid the knife across the goat’s throat, making sure to cut across the full breadth of it’s gullet; deep, steady, and clean across. The goat gargled and thrashed for a moment, but he held tightly to the chain, transfixed by the trail of blood as it trailed down the length of the animal’s shoulder, down the brisket, and onto the ground. He watched as the blood began to move against gravity and common sense, slithering along the ground; forming what he couldn’t tell.

It spread out around Gaara, encircling him. He felt panicked, suddenly wary about this new development. Nothing in the scroll had indicated sentient blood.

‘Magic.’

That had to be it. Years of searching for a way out. Months of perusing and playing with low level spells that never worked out. Now it decided to heed his fury and revenge?

Gaara groaned when he realised the blood was forming a seal; it had a shape not dissimilar from the goat he had just killed. But the blood morphed again, leaving his enclosure and coagulating and stilling in a patch of grass, as though it had not been moving under it’s own will seconds before.

“What the hell?” This was getting out of control.

“Is that really a wise mantra, given the situation?”

Gaara dropped the scroll and knife in fright, his eyes blinking heavily. A woman stood before him, seemingly having materialised over the blood, a smile on her face, hands on her hips, and wearing the most strangest of scant clothes; robes made to cover so little, it was giving him ideas.

He cleared his throat. “You’re not the demon I wanted to summon.”

She was more like an angel. With pink hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that lit up her entire face.

“Oh?” His disappointment didn’t seem to bother her. “Who were you trying to summon?”

“The Tanuki.”

“You mean Shukaku?”

Gaara nodded.

She pouted; hands on her hips, lips pursing in what he decided was a very seductive manner.

“That trickster wouldn’t know a good summons if it bit him on the nuts.”

He couldn’t help the small, nervous laugh that bubbled up inside of him. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“That’s sad.” She moved slowly toward him and Gaara couldn’t move away. She poked his chest. “A young, strapping lad like you must be a big hit with the ladies at least.”

He shook his head.

The girl giggled. “A virgin? Well, no wonder Shukaku didn’t answer your summons, that rambunctious whore. You’re more my type, anyway.”

This was insane. “Uh...” Gaara realised all the anger and resentment that had been fuelling this encounter, was gone. In it’s place was wonder, bewilderment, and wariness.

‘With a hint of arousal.’

But that wasn’t important.

She chuckled. “Relax. I don’t bite unless you want me to. But I’m no sex demon, so get that lascivious look off your face. I’m joking,” she assured him when started to stutter at her. “Jeez. Kids these days. Alright!” She made a show of swishing her short robes and fixing her hair. “Let’s get this party started. What, mere mortal, is that deep desire that has caused you to summon me?”

Gaara glanced up at the full moon without thinking. This was why he’d summoned her… or at least, tried to summon a demon. Legend had it that Shukaku was the demon to call for a rampage. But, this girl who looked around his age, didn’t look like she was ready to slaughter hundreds of people. Her skin was soft and creamy. Her face was angelic and happy. She even had painted fingernails and toenails to match her outrageous outfit. She might’ve looked more at place in the nobilty – albeit one with a less strict dress code. She was also very beautiful, and delicate looking. Could she even grant this wish?

“Come on, don’t keep a girl waiting.”

He inhaled deeply. “I… wanted Shukaku to, uh… kill everyone.”

She blinked heavily at him. “Kill everyone? Like, your whole family and that little village nearby?”

He nodded.

She didn’t look convinced, and he wasn’t surprised. “Death and destruction? Are you sure?”

Was he, though? This wasn’t a request he could take back.

‘Why am I chickening out?’

The girl sighed. “Look, I am a demon, but I’m not here to carelessly slaughter people. If this is what you really want – to go full dark – then you should know you’ll suffer consequences too.”

“What consequences?”

She shrugged. “Oh, nothing compared to what the humans you want to kill will experience. Their end is nigh and I can help with that, but I need something from you.” She took his hand and held it palm up. “Blood.”

Gaara cried out, not expecting the open slash to his hand; she wasn’t even holding a weapon.

She smiled humourlessly. “Call me when you make up your mind.”

Gaara sighed, rubbing his wounded hand. “What’s your-”

She disappeared; her outline faded and blurred out of existence. Almost like she hadn’t even been there. How was he supposed to call her when he didn’t know her name? And what was this consequence she spoke of?

‘Probably for the best, anyway.’

He felt the sting on his hand as though he’d just awakened from some kind of dream. What had he been thinking, summoning a demon of all things? Even one as beautiful and seemingly harmless as her. He may be odd, and crazy, and a lover of all things macabre, but he was no killer. Not today, anyway.

.:.

The days following his break into Rasa’s library, and Temari once again ratting him out about trying to “commune with the beast”, were torturous. Locked away in one section of the compound, all Gaara could do was try to stave off boredom and hunger by trying to remember what the demon girl had looked like. It seemed the longer he went without seeing her, the less coherent his memory was. The wound on his hand had festered and was clearly infected, but nobody bothered to try to treat it. One servant even gave him a bewildered look when he asked for a healer for his hand. They were idiots, anyway.

Three weeks were all it took to break him.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, tied to the cellar and dankness of his prison, he felt the demon inside cry for release. The small bed in the corner of his new “room” beckoned him and he stayed, wrapped up in the thin blanket, reciting that summons that had infected him so. The call to the demon who had ignored his invocation.

When food came once a day and through the hands of yet another faceless servant, he could barely eat. Images of the townsfolk and his blood family writhing in pain and blood were his fuel now. His desire for retribution sustained him.

Twenty-one days on from his incarceration saw him summoning again; this time using his own blood. It wasn’t enough to sacrifice some insignificant animal. He had to give of himself. As he felt his life beginning to ebb under the cut he couldn’t remember making, Gaara was startled to hear her voice in his head. Out loud.

“You’re a right mess.”

He chuckled, looking up at her from the small comfort of the bed. “And you’re an angel.”

She scoffed. “Hardly. Come.” She leaned down to pull him to his feet. “Your desire for revenge awaits.”

“Hey...”

Seconds passed in which he wasn’t sure if this was a hallucination. It was the pink haired girl again.

“I… called for you?” He hadn’t called for her, had he?

She nodded. “You cried for me in your sleep. You must want me real bad.”

He lowered his eyes to the ground, fighting the blush warming his face. She slid an arm under his to support his weight.

“Don’t go gushing just yet,” she said. “I still have a promise to keep.”

A chill swept through his body; one moment he was in a dank room and the next they stood on the roof of the goat house where he’d performed the first summons.

“Tell me.”

Her voice was just above a whisper, tickling his ear, and slightly desperate. He couldn’t comprehend her urgency.

“Tell me to kill them.”

Ah. She was eager to get with the killing. He’d summoned her to slaughter his family, to kill the townsfolk who tormented him, and leave none alive. His anger had brought him to this moment, where he was bleeding out and only the cold arms of his demonic contractor might give him some reprieve before he died.

“Gaara-”

“Kill them.” His voice was croaky but he no longer cared. Whatever infection was festering in his body, it didn’t matter – the only thing he had left was the darkness in his heart. The evil she wanted to bring out in him. That demonic nature the people in his life were sure had been there all along, waiting for an excuse to butcher them all.

The girl smiled, tilted her head slightly, and pressed her lips to her summoner’s mouth. It wasn’t a kiss, but it sure felt like one – not that he knew what those felt like. As he opened his mouth to let her in, it occurred to him that this was probably how all her deals went.

He didn’t like that.

A foreign feeling of possessive jealousy boiled up inside him; screaming and wailing sounds in the distance couldn’t distract him from the fervour he attacked her mouth with. When she finally pulled away, breaking the contact he longed to prolong, Gaara’s brain began to clear.

Burning flesh, howling dogs, screaming women and children; the pink haired devil paid no attention to any of that. She just stared at him, running her fingers along his cheek. Her nails scratched his forehead and he hissed at the pain.

Was she marking him?

Gaara glanced toward the scene he hadn’t been cognisant enough to acknowledge was his own fault. He could hear his family screaming; there was an inhuman growl echoing throughout the compound. He could see, from afar, the village burning; something born of hellfire was rampaging in the streets tonight.

His heart broke in that moment, with the sounds of innocents. And he realised with clarity, that they had all been wrong about him.

“I was never a demon,” he said, tearing his eyes away from the carnage. He could no longer bear to look upon it. Instead, his naive eyes turned hard and dangerous, staring at the woman who now held him lovingly instead of in support. His body felt invigorated – reborn. He was something else, now.

Sakura smiled, brushing his fringe, and kissing the scar she’d left on his forehead to mark their new partnership. She growled; the sound was otherworldly.

“You are now.”

[youngjusticeslut]

Weakness

Fandom: She Ra and the Princesses of Power Links: FF.net // AO3 Characters:  Catra, mentions of Adora and Shadow Weaver Ships: Mentions of past Catradora Summary: Catra deals with her lingering feelings as she recovers from the portal. Rating: K+ Word Count: 1,632 Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters.

I can help you.

The hallways of the Fright Zone, once looming, bleak and immaculate, now lay covered in debris. The younger cadets cleaned up the mess, supervised by various Force Captains. Cleaning was beneath them, it seemed. Their pride came at a cost; little fingers could only lift and carry so much rubble. It would be ages before the Fright Zone was restored to its former glory.  

Catra supposed she had herself to blame.

At the moment, however, she was beyond guilt. The left side of her face ached and was beginning to swell. Her right arm tingled from the loss in the portal realm. A ringing noise permeated her ears, heightening her overall discomfort.  

Above all, the worst consequence was the memories. If Catra allowed herself to linger, she could still feel the softness of Adora’s hand in her own. The fleeting admiration in her blue eyes when things had been perfect. So perfect. The good memories didn’t last as long as she wanted them to. The kindness in Adora’s eyes would eventually change to confusion, then unfiltered rage, narrowing at her in a way that meant there would be no going back. Adora would never forgive her.

I can offer you a way out.

Her bedroom was only a short walk from Hordak’s sanctum, but between the destruction, the whispers and glances of the cadets cleaning up, and the burning pit in her stomach, it felt like ages before Catra finally reached it. She was careful to close the door as soft as she could, refusing to betray a hint of her bubbling emotions. Never again. In that regard, Catra was willing to accept all the blame.  

A sharp pain enveloped her arm, white-hot and sudden. She growled, her fingernails buried in her shoulder in an attempt to contain it, but the past few hours had taught her that there was nothing to do but wait. Slowly, the sensation dulled from a burning flame to a content ember, warm and not nearly comforting. When it had finally subsided, Catra let go of her arm, ignoring the sharp sting in her eyes from the refusal to cry.

No more.

Long ago, she’d been mocked for her tears. Catra didn’t remember much of where she’d come from, or her life before the Fright Zone. But she remembered the tears. Upon arriving, all she did was cry. Force Captains had punished her. Other cadets had teased her, dubbing her ‘crybaby’ until she’d grown bold enough to attack them. Shadow Weaver had taken a specific displeasure in her tears, often subduing Catra in agonizing waves until she had bigger problems to worry about, like breathing.

Still, it seemed that she had never quite learned her lesson. A dumb decision, really. It would have been in her best interest to learn. To stop succumbing to her pitiful emotions and toughen herself up once and for all. Yet despite the punishments, the names, the general disdain others had for everything about her, Catra had allowed herself to remain vulnerable. In this vulnerability, she had Adora.

Adora’s love had kept her going. When there were tears, Adora would be there with a comforting word and fingers running through her hair. With her, she could laugh and let herself be cared for. Within reason, of course. The harder she fought, the more Adora cared. Every fight was met with a scolding, every cut and bruise patched up with small, nimble fingers. The longer Catra thought about it, the more she wanted to collapse on her bed and let the grief overwhelm her.

She purposefully turned from her bed, yanking off her face-protector and tossing it to the side. Adora was gone; she’d left her. Adora left her behind to become a princess, to frolic around and save the day with her new friends. Like Catra had never even existed in the first place. Maybe she shouldn’t have; the world would certainly be better off without her. No one really needed her around. Shadow Weaver had Adora. Adora had her little friends and her new princess squad. Not even Hordak truly needed her around.

Her teeth clenched together, and she stopped herself just mere seconds before slamming her fist against the wall. Catra could make herself useful. Forget Adora. Forget Shadow Weaver. Hordak would see what she could do, especially now that she’d sent Entrapta away. Scorpia still listened to her, as did the rest of her Crimson Waste crew. There was still hope, still a way she could make her place in this world.

“They’ll see,” she muttered to herself, pushing herself off the wall and making her way towards the mirror. The reflection that met her seemed someone new, a stranger. She held herself straight, no longer slouching. Her eyes, once wide and clamoring for approval now seemed hardened, more cautious. It was as if she’d aged years in a matter of hours; she respected it. Yet, something was off.

Catra’s fingers found themselves in her gray tufts, tugging the short strands with a frown. The sensation reminded her of the last time she’d done this. Shadow Weaver had pulled her in, only to use her. It hadn’t been the first time, but this time it left a mark on her. This time, it had been a personal attack. A weakness, left and exploited for Shadow Weaver’s personal gain. For her to get back to Adora.

Don’t make me destroy you too.

Within moments she flung herself towards her dresser, rummaging in the first drawer for her knife from the Crimson Waste. How could she have missed this? She’d been so focused on the portal, on Adora, that she hadn’t even thought to consider Shadow Weaver’s claim on her. The moment the knife was in her hand, she returned to the mirror, anger shaking her to the core. She could still hear the soothing words. The delicate touch, oh so tender and sweet. Everything she’d ever wanted to hear and feel finally coming true.

Catra grasped a handful of the gray locks and brought the knife to it, hacking it forcefully and ignoring the pain. She refused to allow herself any weakness, not anymore. Not if she was to make something of herself.

As she cut, she heard Adora’s laughter. Flashes of their childhood surrendered themselves to her memory. Nights together, laying side by side as Adora smoothed out the tangled knots in her hair. Fighting each other, Catra growing stronger but Adora always having the upper hand. Shadow Weaver’s pets and praises and promises, all to her favorite ward and leaving Catra untouched, unloved.

Breathing hard, Catra hacked each gray lock to bits, everything in her mind screaming for the memories to go away. She didn’t want them anymore. She didn’t want to feel this way anymore, and not ever again. If there was anything left of her heart, it would no longer cry for Adora. It would never long for an unattainable love again, not from her, and especially not from Shadow Weaver. Not when it brought nothing with it but heartache.

When she was finished, Catra set the knife down. Her chest puffed up and down, needing air, but she ignored it in favor of staring at her handiwork. What remained of the gray tufts was nothing short of a disaster, abysmally uneven and comical to look at. Still, it made her smile. They were gone. Later, she’d steal Scorpia’s clippers and neaten it up. For now, she remained content. Her face-protector would hide the damage, for now. If anyone felt bold enough to say anything, she’d put them on the next transport to Beast Island.

Catra ran her hands over her hair, smoothing down the wild tangles and taming it into place. Not a bad look, really. It was long-past time she finally got herself together. Everything once important to her was gone, lost forever in a series of events she could never change. With nothing more to lose, she was ready to change. After sliding on her protector again, she smirked to herself; for once, Adora had been right.

She’d made her choices. Now it was time to live with them.

[musutofu]

【 Dating Chronostasis 】

【 Pregnant Girlfriend 】

Kurono was serious when he said that he’d give you your own child to fuss over instead of you continually sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. He’d initially thought to simply go out and kidnap some child he found on the streets for you to keep as a pet the to look after as a trade for you wanting to look after Eri, but Chisaki wouldn’t allow him to bring vermin home even if it was to keep you from ruining all their hard work by treating Eri as a person, or worse, setting her free. Without the option to kidnap a replacement child, Kurono opts to shut you up by impregnating you himself.

Being a man of science doesn’t mean Kurono possesses knowledge about the biological science behind pregnancy. His knowledge and interest in the subject doesn’t go past his physical involvement in the creation of life and the fact that you’re carrying his child won’t make him feel obligated to learn more. His obligations are with researching and developing the Quirk-Destroying serum and as such that is what most of his brain power is dedicated to. Anything pertaining to your health and the development of your child is secondary. He made you quite aware that the only reason he even agreed to take on the task of gathering your child was to use it as a bartering chip in the negotiation for you leaving Eri out of your mind. Because if he hadn’t and you persisted, you could’ve inadvertently dismantled Chisaki’s entire crusade against wiping out Quirks and he’d much rather become a father than see his friend’s hard work go down the drain because you have a conscience. He fulfilled his role and you’ll fulfill yours, and that includes looking after your child from conception onward.

When asked, no matter how sweetly, to buy some obscured food only found in a specific store to fuel your outlandish cravings and ravenous stomach or holding your hair while you throw it all up in the wee hours of the morning, Kurono will deny you. Your pregnancy doesn’t suddenly pause all his obligation that don’t revolve around you and he’ll be sure that you know this after the first time you get upset with him for not immediately bending to your every whim. He never has and you carrying his child won’t change that. He doesn’t have time to be running petty errands to feed your bottomless pit of a stomach and you own hair ties for a reason. If the situation is dire enough that you’ll pitch a fit if you don’t get exactly what you want right then, he’ll send and underling to attend to whatever it is you want even if that means driving to the other side of the city to buy you some imported snack at 3 AM.

The fluctuating levels of hormones and overall discomfort that accompanies pregnancy has an ill effect on your ability to behave yourself in Kurono’s presence. It’s led to him getting angry with you on more than one occasion and he’s only made angrier by the fact that his traditional methods of punishment aren’t exactly viable in your current state. Usually being in his presence while he’s in a sour mood that was unprompted or unrelated to you would be grounds for rough treatment or harsh words just to vent his anger, it’s harder to do when you’re growing a life inside you. Physically harm that he’d usually inflict by being rough with you in bed isn’t possible with your movement being constricted by your growing stomach and your mood swings make emotional manipulation pointless. So for the duration of your pregnancy Kurogiri takes to roughing up lackeys in lieu of you whenever you behave in an unsavory way while with him.

Though he’s always known your presence in the underground made you vulnerable Kurono hadn’t expected it to escalate during your pregnancy. Of course he knew you were the object of many an underling’s desire, he wouldn’t tire you around like a prize horse if you weren’t, but he’d expected the changes to your body to deter them not elevate their desires. Kurono has heard that pregnancy makes you more beautiful because you get a maternal glow but he hadn’t expected the ruffians in the underground to be susceptible to such a thing. Your pregnancy is more of an inconvenience to him than an aphrodisiac and he’d expected the same reaction from the lower ranks. If you’d thought he was possessive before it’s nothing compared to how is is now that you’re pregnant. And while you know his fierce protection is so no one steals his so-called prize out from under him you’ll happily pretend it’s fatherly love. It makes the stricter rules just a bit more palatable.

If Kurono’s visits had been sparse before, they’re nearly nonexistent now that you’re pregnant. Usually he’d come to visit you to relieve stress but his default way of doing so isn’t exactly viable with your current condition. He’ll try to stomach having a normal conversation with you, but your resentment of him has never made you very talkative with him and the only subject you seem interested in is that of your child. Such uninteresting rambling with your added inability to stomach his aloof personality for very long without getting upset when your hormones start raging makes visiting you a very unsavory experience. So Kurono opts to do it only when he has the time and the patience to deal with you.

Willing or not you and your unborn child are going to become a test subject. Kurono won’t initially think to put you in a place that puts the life of your child, and by extension you, at risk but it’s not everyday a pregnant woman with a completely viable fetus growing inside her is wandering around the underground. Kurono would be misguided to turn away such a golden opportunity to test prenatal Quirk removal. It’d be possible to deter him with the promise that you’ll allow him fi poke and prod the baby with whatever he wants when they’re born, though you’re hoping it will be the usually shots to prevent illness but that’s unlikely seeing as his boss thinks having a Quirk is akin to being ill. But if they were direct orders from Chisaki there is no way for him to postpone the experiment. Though he knows Chisaki could care less if it proves unsuccessful and causes harm to you or your baby.

Preparing for the baby isn’t as fun as you’d heard it could be, but Kurono tends to suck the enjoyment out of most things with his deadpan way of doing just about everything. You aren’t even allowed to go out and buy things yourself. He simply gives you a list of items to choose from that he curated from a one off internet search and sends someone to pick up everything that you ask for. Even your child’s crib is built by a stranger. It takes a lot of begging and pleading to convince Kurono to let you out to look for the perfect stuffed animal for your baby. He doesn’t get the high sentimental value you put on a plush toy but will accompany you as a reward for behaving so well the past few times he visited you. And by behaving well he means not letting your hormones make you an annoyance. In the end you find the perfect toy and don’t let anyone else but Kurono touch it, going as far as to sleep with it yourself so they won’t take it when you’re not looking.

Chisaki informed Kurono early on that he was putting himself in charge of the details involving your delivery. After all, you’re in his territory, so he should be able to oversee any and all happenings as he sees fit. He’ll be certain that there is a completely sterile area set up for you to give birth in. It’d be hard for you to have your baby in a proper hospital when Kurono is a known Villain and you’re so vocally unhappy with being essentially kidnapped. It saves everyone a headache if there are as little people involved as possible. That also means your obstetrician may not actually be trained in the area of delivering babies, but Kurono made certain they were at least formally trained in some form of medical care.

Kurono is present for your child’s birth, but just barely. He stands far away from you and silently watches you suffer through natural birth. He’s not particularly disgusted by it as Chisaki has stated that he is, but he’s not interested in ending up with a broken hand if you’re in too much pain. His main concern is that you live and once the doctor decides that you and your child are out of the woods he’ll approach. It’ll take some begging but Kurono will hold the child if you plead with him long enough. It’s not a very loving moment, just a cursory onceover to be sure the doctor didn’t overlook anything before handing them back to you. He may be their father, but he’ll be the first to admit that he isn’t daddy material. It’s why he’s put you in charge of their life because he has little to no interest in it.

[tomasorban]

THE DREAMING SELF: HOW MUCH DO WE REALLY KNOW ABOUT DREAMS?

Time has revealed dream phenomena as paradoxical realms that are highly resistant to empirical investigation. Despite attempts to probe, encroach upon, uncover, and map territory traditionally exalted under philosophical inquiry, they remain enigmatic and ineffable.

           Dreams fascinate, mesmerize us, and pique our curiosity, namely because they appear so diametrically opposed to waking conscious experience in terms of both form and content. They violate Aristotelian homogeneity without shame. In fact, the hallmark mental characteristics of dreams–the dearth of metacognition, severe disorientation, amnesia, confabulation, misperception, reflexive recourse to hyper-associations, and the loss of an analytical anchor–more closely resemble episodes of psychotic decompensation than anything we might experience in self-regulated conscious states.

Well, what happens in a cinematic and surrealistic dreamscape is that… our gelatinous legs won’t carry us to safety after our brains issue the motor command; we see no issue with giving a public speech whilst concurrently disrobing; we strangle strangers in our rage on impulse without remorse or fear of punishment; and our best beloved transmute into theriomorphs and then reassume human form–and there’s nothing at all anomalous about that. Sometimes the Eiffel Tower is in our backyard, and sometimes we instinctively know who somebody is despite their deceptive Protean disguise. It’s all arbitrary, nonsensical, and paradoxical, at least when equated with the self-referential processes of diurnal arousal, yet it all makes perfect sense when subjectively appraised from within the perceptual context it occurred.

Examining the phenomenon from a sociohistorical perspective, one cannot deny the eminence and exalted position dreams held in antiquity. During the Greco-Roman period individuals with an ailment might pilgrimage to the temple of the god Asclepius where they would slumber in the abaton, hoping that explicit details of a cure might be revealed to them in an extraordinary dream.  A protracted period of intellectual somnolence ensued during the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and the Age of Enlightenment, however interest in the topic was reignited with the publication of Freud’s seminal work on the topic, The Interpretation of Dreams (1899). While his theories of dreams as an unconscious embodiment of wish fulfilment may not be as empirically veracious as he would have liked, Freud was instrumental in broaching the topic as a mental phenomenon worthy of philosophical consideration and scientific exploration. Jung began where Freud tapered off, interpreting dreams as a vehicle for the expression of archetypal raw material irrupting from the collective unconscious. The imbuing of dreams with meaning had a snowball effect, and more and more thinkers were now joining the coterie eager to unlock their deepest and most profound mysteries. As one might expect, the philosophical interest in causality generated an emerging counterculture as well with Harvard University psychiatrists like Hobson and McCarley opting for a more reductive physiological approach which presupposes that the brain is a “dream-state generator” and dreams random byproducts of nocturnal brain activation.

           Founded on logical operative cognition, the operative neuroscientific tools of today–PET scans, MRIs, and EEGs–have been inept at capturing the phenomenal essence of dreams. Subjective self-report is the only known window into dream phenomenology, and this is bound to stir at the very least discomfort and at most feelings of anathema in those with dogmatic adherence to the assumptive worldview of eliminative materialism.

How does one render the dream amenable to objective measurement when people struggle to recollect explicit details after waking? This, in fact, is a very valid question. Scientists will argue that subjective accounts are mutable and empirically unreliable–if we can’t reach a unanimous appraisal on a consensual public mugging, then what hope is there of giving a veracious account of a nebulous dream narrative unfolding at a time when memory processes are in complete abeyance? Here lies the conundrum…

           Despite the gaping conceptual chasm, there is some agreement amongst cognitive scientists regarding the interpretative nature of physiological investigations. Animal studies with maze-running rats, for instance, have shown that the prima materia of the dream is real-life experience. Dreamscapes are jumbled, reassembled, and reordered waking experiences–a nonphysical dimension and perceptual space where past templates are utilized as predictive devices to determine how future events might unravel. Neuroimaging studies generally show increased activation in mesial temporal lobe and prefrontal lobe structures during dream states, and hence corroborate this conjecture. Dreams are purportedly salubrious, exerting a positive influence on mood and a regulatory effect on the body’s biochemical and immunological functions. This much we do know.

           In hindsight, we see that there are purely psychological and more physiological-evolutionary explanations able to theoretically couch and account for dreaming cognition. Which of the two should we preference, if any? Or should we try to circumvent the impediment of an internalized either-or philosophy predicated on the Kantian-Cartesian epistemological box and take a more integrative approach to dreaming cognition?

           Recently I encountered an article by Graveline and Wamsley (2015) entitled Dreaming and Waking Cognition. In it the authors make a decisive argument against higher order interpretations which tend to imbue dream imagery with symbolism and allegorical meaning. Moreover, they scrutinize the interpretability of dreams in clinical settings. While I do not detest nor repudiate the idea of dreaming and waking cognition as commensurable phenomena with shared neurobiological and phenomenological correlates, I do wonder about their appraisal and treatment of an altered conscious state, one that lies on the furthest boundaries of the human consciousness spectrum, as if it were a homogenous and monolithic neurophenomenological entity.

If waking conscious awareness can manifest with variabilities in form and content (i.e., relaxed state, hypnoid state, hypoarousal, psychosis, delirium, coma), then there’s reason to believe that the same heterogeneity also exists in dreaming states. “Shared” correlates implies latitude for phenomenal variability and anomaly; nothing is absolute. The underlying unconscious assumption of a binary system with discrete functional units is an intellectual trap in consciousness research, one which we should avoiding making at all costs.

In and of themselves theories must remain unbiased and accommodate all observed and reported data, not just the preferred data sets. Currently, the hegemony of the Western mind sciences does not permit conceptualizations of the nonphysical mind as distinct from the brain, a phenomenon which has precipitated the dismissal of precognitive dreams as a respectable domain of scientific investigation. Historiographical accounts of polymaths, scientists, and creative luminaries converge on the dream as an illumination phase of the creative process. Emerging as instances of historical novelty, profound scientific discoveries and truths which initiate radical shifts from conventional dominant paradigms or shatter them altogether are frequently epiphenomena of dream states.

Kekule came up with a simple structure for benzene after experiencing a hypnogogic vision in which carbon atoms congregated in the form of an ouroboros, a snake biting its own tail. The celebrated Indian mathematician Srinivasan Ramanujan claimed the Hindi goddess revealed mathematical formulas, equations, and conjectures to him in the dream state. For Rene Descartes, a series of dreams served as inspiration for the development of the scientific method. How these profound illuminations occur in an input-deprived cortex starved of logical operative cognition eludes understanding and cannot be feasibly explained by any existing neurophenomenological model of the human mind and consciousness.

Indeed, scientific progress in this field may be illusory and may continue to be under the auspices of the reductionistic agenda. As the philosopher Colin McGinn eloquently asserts, humans suffer from “cognitive closure” and have invented scientific tools that are essentially products of logical operative cognition; they cannot detect, let alone investigate, quintessential nonphysical phenomena on the other side of that boundary. In the final analysis, we may have reached a stalemate when it comes to our spirited investigation of dreams, one likely to persist until there is a radical shift in the ontological and epistemological axis of science.

[studpuffin]

literally anything where Mike doms tf out of brat Richie it's what he deserves

HEY MOOOOOOOOOOO

Read on AO3 

“You’re looking to get punished aren’t you?” Mike hissed, gripping Richie’s wrist warningly as he reached for his waistband. All afternoon, Mike had been filling out job applications and submitting resumes. His stress levels were high and Richie had been pushing his buttons all afternoon, being needlessly noisy, playing his video games with no headphones, trying to convince Mike to let him blow him while he worked, and generally being a huge brat.

“Maybe,” Richie smirked up at him leaning forward for a nip at Mike’s jaw, “Or maybe I just want your attention.”

Mike’s free hand grabbed his chin, “You’re gonna get more than attention if you keep acting like a brat.”

Richie leaned in, making kissy faces at Mike, “You talk a big game, Mikey,” he chirped, mischief sparkling in his blue eyes.

Mike growled, pulling Richie up with him. Despite the fact that Richie was an inch taller than Mike, he seemed to shrink under Mike’s hard gaze as he pulled him in so their noses were touching, still gripping his chin.

“Bedroom,” he hissed, “Strip and kneel in the corner. You wanna act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one.”

Richie gulped audibly, much to Mike’s satisfaction, “How long do you want me to wait?”

Mike smirked darkly, “Until I give you permission to stop.”

Riche was pouty. He sat, long black curls tied back with a hair tie, hardwood floor of their bedroom digging into his knees. He clenched and unclenched his fingers against his thighs as he listened to Mike work in the other room. He rested his forehead against the wall, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes behind his glasses. Mike wouldn’t just leave him like this, would he? Sure he was being bratty and annoying but Mike wouldn’t just leave him to sit, alone and cold in their bedroom right? Was Mike really mad at him?

He scrunched up his nose as he fought back the frustrated tears. He was being stupid. This wasn’t his first time in the corner and Mike always came back to him. He was being silly. A wave of anticipation washed over him as he waited for Mike. Minutes ticked by, each one more slowly than the last. Richie squirmed, nerves, frustration, and discomfort finally pushing him over the edge as he started to cry.

“Looks like you do know how to follow directions,” Richie nearly jumped out of his skin as Mike laid a warm hand on his shoulder, “Oh sweetie,” Mike tilted his face up with two fingers under his chin, “Why the tears?”

Richie sniffled pathetically, “Left me alone,” he whispered.

Mike smiled sweetly, “I’m here now,” he tugged Richie’s curls and Richie nuzzled his face into Mike’s denim-clad thigh, “Look at you. Like a needy, bratty little puppy,” he tugged again, cooing softly as Richie whimpered, “But you waited so nicely and sweetly for me babydoll. I think we need to continue your lessons in patience.”

Richie nodded, wobbling as Mike helped him to his feet and steered him to their bed, “You wanna come? I wanna see how much you can come,” he kissed the back of Richie’s neck, “Face down,” he directed.

Richie whimpered, “Mikey…”

“What was that?” Mike snapped.

Richie squeaked, “N-nothing…sir,” he pressed his chest to the mattress as Mike maneuvered his arms behind his back and tied his wrists together.

“Thought so,” Mike purred smoothly, “You’re gonna come, over,” he kissed the back of his neck, “and over,” he kissed the dip of his shoulder, “and over again,” he smirked, landing a sharp slap to Richie’s ass feeling a little smug, looking at the pink handprint on Richie’s pale skin, “Pretty in pink,” he teased.

Richie grinned, “Knew you thought I was pretty,”

Mike pulled him up by the bicep and kissed him roughly, “Don’t get mouthy you little brat,” he nipped at his lip. He let go of Richie’s arm, chuckling as Richie squeaked, falling back onto the bed, “Pick a color sweetheart.”

Richie shuddered. They had toys in a range of colors, and all of were almost guaranteed to make Richie come way to fast for either of their liking.

Which seemed to be exactly what Mike wanted.

“Purple,” he gasped, “I want purple.”

Mike kissed his neck again, “Good choice,” he pulled away to admire his squirming, tied up Richie, “The more you pout the more times I’m gonna make you come. Right now you’re at four.”

Richie gasped, “But…”

“You know the safe word baby. Use it if you gotta,” Mike squeezed his hip reassuringly as he dug around in their dresser from the purple toy. He teasing trailed his fingers along Richie’s spine, landing another slap to his ass, “Beg for it. Tell me what you want.”

“I want the toy,” Richie mumbled, face buried in his pillow. He yelped softly as Mike’s hand landed on his ass again.

“Say it so I can hear you.”

“I want the toy,” Richie turned his head, tears streaking his cheeks, “Please? Please, I’ll be good.”

Mike smiled softly, looking down at Richie, “Ok baby,” he smeared the wet lube over Richie’s hole, scissoring his fingers, “Still open from this morning…”

Richie grinned over his shoulder, “I got bored.”

Mike chuckled softly, “So needy…couldn’t be empty for a few hours.”

Richie blushed, biting his lip, ducking his face back into his pillow muffling his whining, “Can I have it please?”

Mike kissed his hip softly, “Come when you need to baby. Just let me hear you.”

Richie groaned, hips rocking against the mattress as Mike pushed the toy in and turned it on, “Fuck,” he whimpered, “Not starting off slow huh.”

“Figured you wouldn’t have the patience princess,” Mike teased, petting his curls as Richie rutted against the bed, “Let go, baby.”

Richie yelped as Mike landed another slap on his ass, “Can I cum? Please let me cum.”

Mike kneaded the soft skin of Richie’s ass, “Sure baby,” he kissed the handprint on Richie’s ass, “I told. Over and over and over…”

It had been hours. The room is quiet, save for Richie’s whimpers. He’s lost count of the number of times he had come. His curls had come loose, sticking to his forehead. He wailed softly as he thrust against the pillow, another orgasm overtaking him.

“That’s five baby,” Mike stroked his hair softly.

“Sir…” Richie nuzzled his face against Mike’s thigh, “I c-can’t…”

“One more,” he tangled his fingers into Richie’s curls, “You want to stop you know what to say.”

Richie squirmed “I can-fuck oh fuck,” he moaned as Mike turned up the vibrations again, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he chanted.

Mike rolled him over onto his back, maneuvering him so his head was hanging off the bed, “I’m gonna put that bratty mouth of yours to use princess. This last one, you don’t get to come until I come.”

Richie nodded, mouth falling open as Mike stripped off his boxers, thick cock springing free, ”Sir, please. Please let me have your cock,” he poked his tongue out licking at the head of Mike’s cock.

Mike grabbed his curls, pulling his head back “God baby you have the prettiest mouth…” he traced his thumb over Richie’s lower lip, “Such a pretty boy…”

Richie groaned in frustration, bucking his hips up as precum dripped onto his stomach, “I need to come. Please p-fuck,” he sobbed as Mike squeezed the base of his cock, “Fuck fuck fuck,” he arched up off the bed, “I need-I need…”

Mike tapped the head against Richie’s lips, “Open up baby.”

Richie whimpered, opening his mouth. He sighed as Mike pushed into his mouth and gripped his shoulders.

“Taking my cock like a champ baby. Look at you…” Mike groaned, pumping into his throat, “You’re even pretty when you cry,” he purred.

Richie positively wrecked. Spit was bubbling at the corner of his mouth, tears streaming up into his hair. He gagged as Mike pushed deeper.

“You like that baby? You like making me feel good?” Mike’s head fell back as Richie moaned around, “Oh fuck fuck I’m so close,” he grabbed a fist full of Richie’s curls as he rocked his hips deeper, “Love fucking that pretty mouth of yours.”

Richie whimpered again, hips jerking with a combination of overstimulation and choking on Mike’s cock. He squirmed in frustration as Mike held him closer, pushing himself deeper down his throat.

“My good boy,” Mike groaned, “My sweet little princess,” he groaned, “You gonna swallow for me?” he gasped as Richie moaned around him, “All of it.”

Richie groaned as Mike came down his throat. He gagged slightly, swallowing, “I’m so close please let me come…”

Mike kissed him slowly, “Last one baby. Make it count.”

Richie’s mouth fell open, making a soundless cry as he came all over his belly. Mike’s tone shifted immediately. He rolled Richie onto his side and knelt down by his face.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Richie smiled as Mike slipped his glasses back onto his face, “Hey handsome,” he leaned forward and kissed Mike’s lips, “Damn you really knocked the wind out of me.”

Mike laughed, “Takes a lot to leave you speechless,” he teased.

Richie hummed softly as Mike untied his wrists from behind his back, “Fuck thank god,” he sighed, rolling onto his back. He reached up for Mike, “Shower?”

Mike smiled, “Sure baby, “ he easily scooped up Richie’s skinny frame, “It’s gonna take a minute to heat up.”

Richie nuzzled his cheek, “I’ve got time. All the time in the world.”

tag list! @reddie-for-anything @tinyarmedtrex @aizeninlefox @oldguybones @its-stranger-than-you-think @honeybeehanlon @mrs_vh @richardtoz @reddies-spaghetti

[bloojayoolie]

Being Alone, Andrew Bogut, and Apparently: Dasher 50459... a HEALTHY 3 year YOUNG, super-cute little pup who has not been trained properly by his lazy owner & truly needs your HELP. So, he chews on stu ff when left alone, has accidents when not walked on time, well you get the drift... With the right person who is willing & will take the time to train him properly, he has all the potential to be a great pup & w onderful new best friend. Attention seeking at the shelter his favorite toys are balls, his favorite treat is... any kind you have... & he loves to be around his person. Come ON, all he needs is A CHANCE! Please, give him one, Be His HERO, his new best friend, & savior APPLY NOW to Save his life but HURRY, he is about out of time :( This ittle cutie waits for you to save his life at the NYC ACC. ** NYC Priority Placement ** FOSTER or ADOPTER NEEDED ASAP ** Dasher 50459... a HEALTHY, 3 year YOUNG, super-cute little pup who has not been trained properly by his lazy owner & truly needs your HELP. So, he chews on stuff when left alone, has accidents when not walked on time, well you get the drift... With the right person who is willing & will take the time to train him properly, he has all the potential to be a great pup & wonderful new best friend. Attention seeking at the shelter, his favorite toys are balls, his favorite treat is... any kind you have... & he loves to be around his person. Come ON, all he needs is A CHANCE! Please, give him one, Be His HERO, his new best friend, & savior, APPLY NOW to Save his life but HURRY, he is about out of time :( This little cutie waits for you to save his life at the NYC ACC. ************************************** To FOSTER or ADOPT fluffy little Dasher, SPEAK UP NOW & Save a Life, APPLY with rescues OR message Must Love Dogs - Saving NYC Dogs IMMEDIATELY!!!! ************************************** The general rule is to foster you have to be within 4 hours of the NYC ACC approved New Hope partner rescues you are applying with and to adopt you will have to be in the general NE US area; NY, NJ, CT, PA, DC, MD, DE, NH, RI, MA, VT & ME (some rescues will transport to VA). ************************************** "Rescue only" means a foster or adopter must live within the Northeastern states and must apply to rescues already approved to pull from NYC ACC shelters. Rescues can't do anything without APPLICATIONS! If your application is approved, rescue will arrange transport. ************************************** Dasher 50459 Small Mixed Breed Sex male Age 3 yrs (approx.) - ? lbs My health has been checked. My vaccinations are up to date. My worming is up to date. I have been micro-chipped. I am waiting for you at the NYC ACC. Please, Please, Please, save me! Intake Date: 26-Dec-2018 Intake Behavior Notes: Dasher was pacing around during the intake and was barking when staff walked by. He calmed down after a few minutes and allowed staff to pet him. DVM Intake Exam Estimated age: ~3 years Microchip noted on Intake? positive 985113002481386 Subjective: BARH. Noted to be coughing on rounds board but no csvd noted on exam. Attention seeking at the front of the cage. Evidence of Cruelty seen - no Evidence of Trauma seen - no EENT: Eyes clear, ears clean, no nasal discharge noted Oral Exam: muzzled PLN: No enlargements noted H/L: NSR, NMA, CRT < 2, Lungs clear, eupneic ABD: Non painful, no masses palpated U/G: MN MSI: Ambulatory x 4, skin free of parasites, no masses noted, healthy hair coat CNS: mentation appropriate - no signs of neurologic abnormalities Assessment: Apparently healthy SURGERY: Already neutered Basic Information: Dasher is approximately a 3 year old, mixed breed male who was neutered prior to coming to the shelter. He has no known health issues or injuries and last saw a vet within the past month. Dasher was in his previous home for one week and returned due to Dasher not being house trained. Previously lived with: 1 adult How is this dog around strangers? Dasher will bark when guests enter the home and needs some time to warm up around them. How is this dog around children? Dasher has not spent time around children before, but due to the owner stating he sometimes growls when being pet or touched, he would do best in a home with older or no children. How is this dog around other dogs? Dasher has not spent time around dogs before. How is this dog around cats? Dasher has not spent time around cats before. Resource guarding: Dasher's owner stated that he will growl if he tries to touch his food while eating. Dasher will growl and snap if the owner tried to take away a treat. Bite history: None Housetrained: Partially Energy level/descriptors: High Other Notes: Dasher's owner had not tried to bathe him but he allows his owner to brush him. Has this dog ever had any medical issues? No Behavior Assessment: Look: 2. Dog's eyes are averted, body posture is stiff and fearful, tail is low and not moving. Dog allows head to be held loosely in Assessor's cupped hands. Sensitivity: 2. Dog stands still and accepts the touch, eyes are averted, tail is between legs, body stiff, mouth closed, lip long, ears likely back, may lip lick. Tag: 1. Dog follows at the end of the leash, body low and a bit fearful. Paw squeeze 1: 2. Dog quickly pulls back. Paw squeeze 2: 2. Dog quickly pull back. Toy: 1. Minimal interest in toy, dog may smell or lick, then turns away. Summary: Dasher was fearful and trembling though tolerated all handling; he remained close to handler and sought attention. Playgroup: When off leash at the Care Centers, Dasher greets a group of small male and female dogs with a nervous posture. He flees from them when they attempt to socialize with him. Behavior Asilomar TM - Treatable-Manageable Recommendations: No children (under 13)/Place with a New Hope partner Recommendations comments: No children (under 13): Because Dasher seems to startle easily with loud noises and sudden movements, we believe he may be best set up to succeed in an experienced adult only home. Place with New Hope Partner: Due to all noted concerns displayed, the behavior department recommends Dasher be placed with a New Hope placement partner who is able to provide an experienced adult-only foster home. A period of decompression is recommended to allow Dasher to acclimate comfortably to his new environment; force-free, reward based training only is advised when introducing Dasher to new and unfamiliar situations. Potential challenges: House soiling/Resource guarding/Handling/touch sensitivity/Fearful/potential for defensive aggression Potential challenges comments: Fearful/potential for defensive aggression: Dasher gives clear warnings when he is uncomfortable and does seem to choose to avoid or retreat when given the opportunity, but if prevented from moving away there is a potential to escalate to higher-level warning behaviors and possible fear-based aggression. It is important to move slowly with Dasher, to build positive associations (treats/toys/praise), and to allow Dasher to initiate interactions with new people. He should never be forced to greet or to interact if he is not comfortable and soliciting attention. House soiling: Dasher is reported to have accidents in the house, and appears not to have been house trained in the past. He will need guidance and consistency to learn to eliminate outside. We recommend crate training (the crate must be made positive and never used as a punishment), frequent walks, rewards for eliminating outside (treats, toys, games), consistent feeding schedule, and careful monitoring when inside. Accidents should never be punished as it can damage the human-dog relationship and is likely to make the problem worse. Handling discomfort: Due to how uncomfortable Dasher is currently with touch and novel stimuli, we feel that an adult-only home would be most beneficial at this time. Resource Guarding: Dasher is reported to growl and snap over food. He should be left alone while eating, and should be taught the cue "drop" and other trade up games so Peanut learns that dropping food or having people around while he is eating is rewarding. Behavior modification protocols for food guarding behavior can be found on aspcapro.org ... NOTE: *** WE HAVE NO OTHER INFORMATION THAN WHAT IS LISTED WITH THIS FLYER *** .... RE: ACC site Just because a dog is not on the ACC site does not mean they are safe by any means. There are many reasons for this like a hold or an eval has not been conducted yet or the dog is rescue-only... the list goes on... Please, do share & apply to foster/adopt these pups as well until their thread is updated with their most current status. TY! ============ Shelter addresses ========= - Manhattan Shelter: 326 East 110 St., New York, NY 10029 - Brooklyn Shelter: 2336 Linden Boulevard, Brooklyn, NY 11208 - Staten Island Shelter: 3139 Veterans Rd W, Staten Island, NY 10309 - Phone number: 212-788-4000 (is automated only) Operating hours: Monday through Friday 12.00pm to 8.00pm, Saturday & Sunday: 10.00am to 6.00pm. Closed on all Holidays. ================================= == About Must Love Dogs - Saving NYC Dogs == We are a group of advocates (NOT a shelter NOR a rescue group) dedicated to finding loving homes for NYC dogs in desperate need. ALL the dogs on our site need Rescue, Fosters, or Adopters & that ASAP as they are in NYC high-kill shelters. If you cannot foster or adopt, please share them far & wide. Thank you for caring!! <3 ++++ https://www.facebook.com/ACC.OfficialAtRiskAnimals/photos/a.396897907518413/397796824095188/?type=3&theater ================================= Beamer Maximillian Caro Hocker Carolin Hocker