#strangle strangle kill kill kill cry kill kill eat flesh and burn

[meatsaint]

The Faith In Us.

modern aemond x oc!sister

Summary: The swing out back still moves, though no one’s laughed there in years. The Targaryen house is small, white, and heavy with silence.

Everyone in Dallas talks about demons in metaphors. But in the Targaryen family, it’s not a figure of speech. It’s real. It has a name.

Or two.

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. This story explores trauma, religious fanaticism, psychological disorders, and the long-lasting effects of extreme belief systems. Please do not read if any of this may be triggering or distressing for you.

Content Warnings: dubcon, noncon, incest, childhood trauma, religious guilt, oral sex (f receiving), mentions of blood and violence.

“Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”

Sweat poured down his temples, thick and stinging. His back locked up, pulled shoulders taut like ropes about to snap. Every thrust carved pain through his gut, the kind that twisted, sickened—but the burn in his throat wasn't what killed him. It was the screaming. Her screaming. Again and again, raw and endless, splitting the air like sirens. And she wouldn't stop. Because he wouldn't. Because he couldn’t.

Hunger churned in his gut, made his skin itch, peel, crawl. Every drop of sweat that slid down his spine and met his body sparked like gasoline on open flame. He braced himself on the bed with clenched fists, a need for more leverage. A mistake. Letting go of her wrists always was. Her nails bit into his chest, raked over the old, half-faded tattoo like she was trying to dig him out. The sting should've stopped him. Maybe she thought it would. Maybe pain was her only weapon now. Maybe she thought she had one chance to reach the pen on the side table. One chance to swing. One chance to kill.

Because if she didn't kill him, she knew the body left on the floor would be hers.

“Shut the fuck up!” he roared, the walls shaking with it—just like her jaw when his fist landed.

Pain bloomed in her face, sharp and immediate. The metallic taste of blood pooled in her mouth like old pennies. She didn't cry. She screamed. Louder. More animal than girl. But no one came. No one ever would. Who’d interrupt a starving dog mid-feast? That's what she was now. Flesh. Cap Heat.

“You worthless cunt, nothing but a rag to piss on,” he spat. His hands wrapped around her throat like they were made for him. His face hovered close, close enough to mock a kiss. If she’d had the will, she might’ve laughed. How romantic, she thought bitterly. "Pathetic cunt. You're barely alive, begging for every fucked-up touch like the garbage you've become."

He didn’t say it—he bled it. The words hit her face like spit and venom.

He slammed into her harder, like he wanted to break her in half. And maybe he was. Maybe he did. The pain bloomed sharp, searing from her spine down to her belly. It felt like fire licking up from the inside. Not warmth—heat. The kind that blinds. The kind she used to feel in the sun, back when she was a girl. Before it was her brother's hands, not summer, burning her.

She didn't like it. She'd said so. A long time ago. Before silence became survival.

“Stop,” she hissed, teeth clenched, voice strangled. Like she was biting the word in half to keep from screaming.

The thing above her—because he wasn't a man anymore—looked down with blown-out eyes, wild, glassy. His newly dyed black hair brushed her cheeks. He stands of rot. Not sweat. Not skin. Rot. He cupped her face like he owned it, shoved her head into the mattress like she was weightless. Like nothing. And being nothing, she realised, still hurt more than anything.

"You're just meat — a fucked-up, worthless slab. Shut the fuck up." His voice was low, final.

And then he drove into her again—hard. Punishment. Proof. Her eyes slammed shut. Her throat filled with glass. Tears finally came, but not from weakness. From force.

"Meat burns. You'll swallow whatever scraps I cough."

Each word scalded her skin like boiling oil. Each syllable soaked into her like poison.

“As it should be.”

The bed crashed against the wall, over and over, shaking the entire frame. She was slipping, body half off the edge, neck bent at a sharp angle. A ragdoll in the hands of something monstrous. From there, she could see it: the cross nailed to the wall. Rusty, dull. Still catching light. It almost looked beautiful. Once, it had.

The sound of him—grunts, breath, the wet slap of skin—faded into a sickening blur. His teeth met her neck. His fingers crushed her breast. His cock slid through the blood slicking her thighs like butter.

Her eyes never left the cross. A small smile touched her lips.

“I was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood.”

She thought the bones of her pelvis might crack before the thing slipped free—but it did, slick and trembling. Alicent lay flat, breath caught in the pit of her chest, but Viserys would call in the children before she’d even blinked, before the red-skinned, short-limbed thing was ready for air. Aegon was already at the bedside, his little fingers combing the damp strands on her head. He saw the silver and grinned, turned to Helaena like he'd found treasure.

“She’s not ugly.” Of course he’d be the first to speak. Of course that’s what he’d say.

Viserys chuckled, hands resting heavy on their tiny shoulders. Watched the crib. Hel shook him off like always. He didn’t mind. At least she was close this time—not vanished into the corners like she usually was.

“What’s her name—?” Aegon’s fingers slipped toward the cheek of the baby in the crib.

Alicent slapped his hand hard.

“Don’t touch her.”

She didn’t look at him. She never looked at them. Her eyes were locked on the girl, locked and unblinking.

She didn’t want them near. Didn't want them laying hands on what she’d torn from herself. She knew what they were. Knew what crawled under their skin. Their eyes gleamed too empty, their pale skin lay too still. Not even the silver of their hair could pass them off as clean. There was no God in them.

Viserys sighed, long and low. Aegon’s eyes flicked to his, searching for something—an answer, a defence. But Viserys had none. Their mother, he told himself, was tired. She always was. She had a headache. The day was hot. It was always something. Leave her be.

Maybe that was all he had left in him. Maybe even those words were too much.

The mother’s own shaking hand reached for the baby’s soft little face, still and peaceful. The girl didn’t cry. She just lay there, quiet as anything, wrapped up in white hospital blankets with her tiny hands curled into fists. Alicent thought about how one day those hands would have to fight back—because that’s the kind of world they were in. But for now, for just this small sliver of time, her girl could rest. Just a baby who needed her mama, her milk, her warmth, her eyes on her. Nothing more than what she could give, before the city air turned her lungs to dust too.

“Her name’s Rowan,” the woman whispered, so soft it barely reached the ears of her other kids standing near the door. They weren’t used to her being gentle. “Rowan Faith.”

That’s what that bundle of pink skin and cotton was to her. Her last hope. Her final shot at leaving something kind in the world. After this, there wouldn’t be anything else. No more lying in that stiff hospital bed, no more pushing blood-soaked curses out of her. No more of that awful feeling, like her body was being wrung dry before the baby even hit air. This was it. Her last goodbye to that kind of pain, her last offering to the dirt.

“Sis?” The voice came from the hallway, and all eyes turned except hers.

Gwayne stood in the doorway, hesitant, stiff in his boots. A little boy clung to his leg—barely three years old, hiding from the too-bright fluorescents of the hospital room. They already knew Aemond couldn’t stand that kind of light. Hurt his eyes. Made him flinch like something was crawling underneath them. Not that he ever said anything. He never said anything. Not even a cry.

“Don’t let him in.” Her voice was low and firm. Of all the kids she’d dragged into this world, that one crawled the deepest under her skin.

Viserys looked over at Gwayne and gave a nod. He took Helaena and Aegon by the wrists and eased them back from the bed. They could see their baby sister later. There was always time. That was how Viserys saw things—always putting off what didn’t burn. Always another weekend, another slow ride down Central Expressway. Except Sundays. Sundays were for church, and the Lord didn't give rain checks.

Gwayne stepped forward, but the little boy still held tight to his leg. His cheap blue sneakers slid a bit on the waxed floor, almost glued to his uncle’s heel. The redhead glanced down at the crib. So small. Barely a whisper of life. He remembered when Aegon was born—screaming, covered in blood, Alicent trying to shove him away before the nurses even got a look. She hadn’t wanted him either.

“I said take him out,” Alicent muttered. She still wouldn’t look at her brother or the kid at his feet. But her tone had changed. The mere scent of that boy put her on edge.

Aemond glanced at the crib, but there was no spark behind his stare. His eyes, sharper and colder than his siblings’, were set in a thin, pale face, skin so light the veins showed through like roadmaps. His hair was longer now—Alicent had long since stopped cutting it, didn’t even bother washing it. Unlike Aegon, who still got her hands in his hair, her fingers under his chin. Aemond didn’t get bathed unless Viserys remembered, or had energy after work. And he never did.

She could still remember trying to push him out. He didn’t want to come, or maybe she didn’t want to let him go. There was so much blood. The nurses looked scared. The doctor said they’d have to cut. She wasn’t surprised. That boy had no place being here. Should’ve stayed in the dark. He didn’t cry then either. Probably couldn’t.

“Sis, please,” Gwayne tried again, the same old pleading in his voice. Like maybe this time something would change.

She looked at him, finally, then down at the boy by his side. The devil dresses up as something good to fool soft hearts. Like a spider with sugar on its web, slowly pulling life into its mouth. That’s how it worked. That’s what she saw. He looked like a child, but something else lived in that body. Like the devil whispering to Jesus before the cross. She wouldn’t be fooled. Not her. She wasn’t soft anymore.

“I don’t want him in here.” Her voice was dry as dust.

Gwayne’s shoulders sagged, all hope knocked clean out of him. He didn’t know why he kept trying. Maybe because he thought the older kids didn’t see it. But they did. Aegon and Helaena were staring out the window, hands pressed to the glass, as if the wind meant more to them than the baby. But Aemond, he saw everything. The way he looked at their mother—it was like he was daring her to flinch.

Still, his eyes didn’t stay on her.

They landed back on the crib. The bundle of white. So tiny. Aemond tilted his head, just a little. His fingers slipped from Gwayne’s leg. Always silent, always floating in some place behind his eyes. Never really here. Like air bubbles caught behind glass. His pupils widened like he was seeing the sun for the first time. He didn’t move closer. Just stood there, his shoes squeaking just slightly, too tight for his growing feet.

“Faith.” His voice was a breeze. Just a breath. Could’ve been missed if someone sneezed.

But nobody did.

Every head in that room snapped toward him. Even Alicent. Even Viserys. Even the older kids at the window. Everyone. Because in three years, Aemond had never spoken. Not once. No babble. No whining for milk. Not even a sound when his arms showed little bruises from who-knew-what.

“Aemond.” Gwayne dropped to a crouch, hands on the boy’s bird-boned shoulders. “What did you just say?”

Hope cracked like lightning in his gut.

Alicent’s eyes met Viserys’s—wide, uncertain. They didn’t want to believe it. Could’ve been the air vents whistling or some nurse’s shoe squeaking in the hallway. Maybe just the floor mops squealing as they passed. Could’ve been anything.

But it wasn’t.

Gwayne looked deep into his nephew’s pale face, searching for more. But the boy had already gone quiet again. Drifted. Whatever spark had flickered inside him went out. And his eyes, once more, turned to gauze.

That moment faded, slipping into memory like a dream you weren’t sure you had. Gwayne held the boy a little tighter, like he could grab the words back. He couldn’t.

That too, was already gone.

"And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.”

Her knees burned. So did the rest of her body. The blood was probably barely flowing to her feet by now, but Rowan didn’t falter. Her hands were clasped together on top of the stripped mattress—no sheets, no covers. She prayed again, mouthing words she didn’t believe in.

A voice in her head told her she was a fucking liar, and that God would know it.

If there were any magic left in the world—above the cotton candy clouds, a kingdom of truth or softness—could she…? No.

Even with the answer on the tip of her tongue, she still closed her eyes and repeated the words like a child saying lines in church. Maybe it reminded her of Sundays in her white dress, satin gloves pulled up tight. Her hair used to be so light then. Polished, clean. Sometimes she’d match it to the fake snowflakes in those stupid cartoons on the little TV in the living room. It was stupid. She knew. But it was the only thing she had to compare it to.

She lowered her head further, breathing deeply. Her chest rose and fell so calmly it hurt. So steady it made her brow furrow, unlike the small bruise at the corner of her lips. Strands of hair, now long enough to pass her hips, tickled her bare arms every time her head bowed again.

She told herself she would stop praying. But when had anything in her life gone as she thought it would?

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Her voice was no louder than her breath. She didn’t want it to carry through the walls. “Amen.”

She waited a few moments longer. For warmth in her chest. For a shiver. Anything.

Her mother used to say, ‘God will speak to you if you keep your ears and your heart open.’ That was bullshit. ‘God loves you, as a Father loves his child.’

Well. Maybe in this house, that phrase actually meant something. Just not how the priest with the golden walls and polished altar meant it.

She rose slowly. Her legs ached and protested, the joints stiff as if they'd forgotten how to move. A wave of pain shot through her lower abdomen—sharp as a punch—forcing her to grip the bed with one hand, the other curling protectively over her stomach. It burned. Like the devil was licking her clean. Like the beast had found the place where sin disguises itself as an organ. Where the sacred turns profane.

This is filthy. She remembered Alicent screaming that.

She remembered waking up that morning, thirteen years old, blood in her panties. Alicent’s eyes had gone wide with terror. The priest came to the house to bless her. He’d sprinkled holy water across her room, her bed. She remembered standing naked in front of him, while her mother scrubbed her raw with a worn loofah that scratched like fingernails.

She would never forget that day.

Barefoot, she left the room. The hallway ahead felt even narrower. The white paint was turning beige. Crosses hung in every room, glinting in silver or gold—or carved in wood, half-devoured by termites. There weren’t many family photos. One here. Maybe two. Most of them from when they were babies. Clumsy, torn, dust gathering thick behind the glass.

She passed the other doors. There were three bedrooms, but only one she cared to enter. She paused in front of it. The largest.

Inside, she walked without sound. She approached the nightstand beside the bed. Dark wood. The sheets were stretched tight. The smell of cleaning product still lingered. She made sure it was always tidy—this one room, at least. The rest of the house could crumble into dust. But not this one.

The only photo there was of a girl on a balcony.

Red curls tangled in the wind. An orange dress vibrant against the light. Her smile was wide and blinding, her teeth aligned so perfectly it almost irritated Rowan. She looked like the sun. Even with the photo faded, the colours dulled with age, she still glowed.

Rowan touched the photo. Fingertips sliding over the outline. A paper-thin smile ghosted across her lips. It was rare. Barely visible. Not enough to crease her face. She saw no resemblance. She was too pale. No round features. No curls. Just hair so straight she couldn’t even use clips. Aegon was the only one who looked like her. So much so that when he dyed his hair red one summer, you could mistake them if you didn’t look twice. It didn’t last long. The red faded to pink and he shaved it all off.

It had been a fun summer.

“Good night, Mom.” She said it softly. Without weight. Not what she felt—she didn’t want to make her worry. Even if Alicent couldn’t hear her now.

Carefully she walks away, leaving the room behind. This time she pulls the door shut. Like it oughta be. They all knew better now—what could happen if they left 'em open. Wasn’t too long ago, some dumbass prank turned into four weeks of scrubbing red paint off the porch and scraping marker off the mailbox. “Freaks” in fat black Sharpie across the fence, along with a bunch of other shit. Some true, most just bullshit. Didn’t matter. What mattered was the mess they left behind.

Inside, the old radio was still going, barely a whisper. No one really listened anymore. Same tired choruses, same lyrics they used to hum along to back when they were little and Mama had folks over on Easter Sunday, the backyard filled with pleated khakis and dollar-store heels. No one gave a damn about the radio now, but they still left it on. Every night.

The hum of it got swallowed by the TV, and without even meaning to, her eyes locked on the figure slumped on the couch, leaned over the coffee table like something thrown. He was out cold, wearing light denim jeans so worn they looked soft, button undone, no shirt. His face was mashed into the glass tabletop, half-buried in the chalky white powder smeared across it. His long black hair, sweaty and stuck to his cheeks, looked like it’d been dragged through hell. His lips were parted, a thread of spit trailing out, collecting against the glass like foam.

He didn’t move. Not even the twitch he sometimes did when he dreamt. Eyes shut, lashes brushing against cheeks sharp enough to cut, like the pocket knife he always kept on him. She stepped closer, close enough to touch him now, and her hand trembled as it reached out, touching the icy ridge of his shoulder.

“Em,” she murmured, soft like she didn’t really mean to wake him. Like maybe she hoped he wouldn’t.

Nothing. Not even a grunt. Rowan’s pale blue eyes scanned his back, memorising the map of old scars and half-faded tattoos he’d inked himself. Some done with a sewing needle and Bic ink, others carved in with that same damn knife he used to peel oranges out on the stoop. They were messy, out of line, no symmetry. Just marks. There was a “He sees me” scrawled down his left ribs in crooked black. A lonely “2” near the waistband of his jeans. Just under his throat, barely visible, the words “don’t open.” And above the hip, in shaky Latin: Non soli sumus. He told her once it meant we are not alone. The letters looked like they’d been scratched in by a drunk—uneven, off-centre, rough.

“Aemond.” Her voice was firmer now, and this time his body twitched. A flinch in the arm, a stretch in the back.

His eyes didn’t open yet, but he was fighting it, barely. When he did, he looked past her—eyelids heavy, lashes stuck together, blinking against the TV light. She leaned in, and the scent hit her hard. Sweat, beer, something sour clinging to him like fog. Her heart felt like it slowed, her shoulders dropping as both hands braced on his frame.

“Come on,” she said, voice low against his ear, “I’m gettin’ you in the tub.”

He blinked slow, sluggish from the coke and whatever else was still swimming through his system. The pounding in his skull lit up the back of his eyes like headlights, and the flicker from the TV felt like a bomb going off in his ears. He groaned, a low, ugly sound—his stomach turning on itself, spine nearly folded in half. Food was out of the question. Just the thought of it made his gut lurch again. He looked like a sulky, fucked-up kid—not the angry bastard everyone else knew.

With her arm under his, she helped him up, dragging half his weight into her own body. Everything around him swam. The walls, the couch, her voice—it all blurred into this warm, sick noise. He slumped over her, deadweight. If Rowan wasn’t used to this shit, he would’ve taken them both down. But her feet held. She didn’t let him fall.

“Don’t be a pussy,” she hissed, breathing hard under his weight, one shoulder pushing under his arm. “Get your feet under you.”

He tried. Stumbled first, then caught himself. One foot. Then the other. Like she was teachin’ him how to walk all over again. It took all they had to get to the bathroom door. Only then did his eyes open wide enough to see her beside him. He was dripping sweat, face tight, trying not to just give in and hit the floor. His lips were pressed together, annoyed, ashamed. She looked like hell too. No, she didn't. She looked damn beautiful.

It should’ve been the other way. He was the big brother. He was supposed to be the one dragging her home from some busted party, fists ready, jacket thrown over her shoulders. He was supposed to be the solid one. But instead, he was just a heap of soaked denim and old pain, stinking of beer and regret.

His throat burned. It felt like swallowing gravel, like every bad thing he’d ever done was sitting at the top of his gut. He couldn’t remember picking up the coke. Couldn’t remember buying the beers. But he remembered the taste. Could still feel it coating his tongue. Just like the cigarettes he hated. Hated the smell. Hated the taste. Made his stomach twist and the hair on his neck stand up.

The bathroom was another climb. But they got there. She left him by the tub, moving to twist the faucet, water thundering down. She didn’t see his eyes as they caught the shadow on her face now—bruising. Her jaw. A deeper blue on her cheek.

He froze.

His gut clenched. He swayed, then dropped to his knees. She turned too late.

“Aem—”

But he was already over the toilet. Hands braced on the rim. Vomiting with such force it echoed off the walls. Beer and bile and whatever else came up in waves. Choking, coughing, gagging. Rowan knelt beside him, fingers in his hair, trying to keep him steady, trying to keep him from drowning in himself.

He wasn’t even thinking anymore, not about anything but the fire in his throat and the heat crawling under his skin. His whole body shook, like it wanted to shake itself out of its own bones.

"It's okay," she whispered, close to his ear, calm and steady, even when the stench curled around them. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Didn’t leave.

She watches him. Watches how his ribs pull in close like he’s folding in on himself, how there’s nothing left in his gut, how his lips part like they’re trying to say something—maybe cry something out—but he’s bone-dry. Doesn’t mean the feeling’s gone, no. That disgust is still in him, chewing him up same as the acid on his teeth. His whole body’s tense, bent like a scared cat, pushing like there’s more to give. But there ain’t. Not anymore.

“It’s alright,” his sister whispers again, pressing her body into his from behind, chin resting lightly on his head. “You’re alright. You’re okay.” She holds on like she means it, arms looped tight around his shoulders.

He tries to breathe. His hands come up and clamp around her arm, like he’s trying to anchor himself, like he needs to trap her there so she won’t slip away. Eyes closed, back still curving like something in him’s too tight, like even his bones are trying to shift loose. And through all that, she keeps whispering into his ear, over and over. That it’s fine. That he’s safe. That he’s here. And maybe it works. A little. Even if it takes time. Even if it feels endless.

Getting him up from the bathroom floor took more than it had in the living room. She didn’t let go, not once. Didn’t even move to flush the mess. Let it sit there, rot and all. They just stayed like that, his hand wrapped firm around her arm. She led him gently to the tub, stopped only to grab both sides of his waistband. Paused. He looked down at her with half-lidded eyes, chest rising hard. No point waiting, not while he was rocking like that.

She looked away when she pulled his jeans down, careful to bring his underwear too. Hands on her shoulders, Aemond stepped out of them. The air bit cold on his skin, hair on his legs standing up. His stomach clenched again—tighter, if that was even possible. They didn’t look at each other. Didn’t speak. He stepped into the tub and sank down without a word.

“Careful,” the youngest muttered, kneeling beside the tub, her body aching in places still sore. But she didn’t care.

Aemond just let out a breath, long and hard, like everything in the world had landed square on his shoulders. The water wasn’t hot. Wasn’t cold either. Just enough. Enough to clean him. Enough to keep him from turning blue. She grabbed the soft sponge off the rim and started with the side of his neck, watching the water run dark as it slid down.

No matter how slow she went, how gentle—he wouldn’t ease. Couldn’t. He leaned back, head against the tiled wall, eyes gone distant. When Rowan looked into them, it was like he wasn’t there. Like he didn’t see her, didn’t feel the sponge sliding down to his shoulder, didn’t notice the ends of his hair soaking into the water. Nothing.

She brushed some of his tangled black strands off one shoulder. That’s when she saw it—dried blood. Like crusted mud, thick and stuck to the skin. Something she hadn’t noticed before.

“What is it?” she asked, voice low. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch.

She ran the sponge over it anyway, watched the blood melt into the water, dark red slipping down his chest, curling through the tub. It’s fine, she told herself. Everything’s stained in this house anyway. The more she wiped, the more the shape came through—an open wound, fresh. Or fresh enough. Something she couldn’t quite figure out.

“Did you do this?” she tried again, hoping maybe her voice would fill the silence. “It’s new, huh?” Rowan had learned to just say things out loud now. It’s not like he ever explained anything.

Aemond turned his face away. But now she could see clearer. And it looked less like something had cut him and more like his skin was tearing open from the inside out. Too raw to make sense of. But she would. Eventually. He always showed up with something new. His pale skin never stayed clean for long. Little red lines, dots, scrapes—they were just part of the routine.

She set the sponge aside and grabbed the thin bar of soap. They’d need more soon. They’d probably hit the Fiesta Mart or the corner store later this week, maybe. It’d been three weeks since Hel or Aegon had shown up. Usually, they came around. They’d sit on the porch, quiet for a while, before handing her a wad of bills thicker than her fist. Always to her. Never to Aemond. They didn’t trust him with it. Not after last time. She never asked where the money came from. Not since they’d moved houses. Hel and Aegon had their own shit going on. Still cared, though. Maybe too much.

“I was thinking about going to see Mom.” The words came quiet, but the way Aemond snapped his eyes to her made it feel like she’d shouted them.

She felt the tension spike under her hand, moving across his chest like fire. The soap still worked, even if it didn’t smell like much. His eyes—those pale, glassy eyes—just stared at her. Not blinking. Not looking away. Like he could punch holes through her with just that.

“You don’t gotta come,” she added. Figured that part was obvious by now.

But that sentence didn’t help—it didn’t make anything better. It didn’t matter if she didn’t want him to come, if he didn’t have to. She was going, and he would watch, like always, as she came back shaking. Sometimes so disturbed she couldn’t sleep for days, whispering the same words their mother once painted across the walls. The torment would start again, as if it had never ended. There’d be no escape. And eventually, the anger would wake up. And it would win. Again.

He braced his hands on the rim of the tub and rose slowly. Rowan let her hand drop, hollow in its defeat. She knew what bringing her up always did to him—sent him further away. As if he weren’t already halfway gone.

“Em,” she tried, quiet and broken. But it was no use. The damage was done.

He stepped out, naked and unbothered, and reached above her for the towel as though she weren’t even there. And Rowan didn’t move, not an inch, not until he’d already walked away—leaving a trail of water on the floor, disappearing through the door like a ghost.

She shouldn’t have said anything, the voice in her head scolded. But if she hadn’t warned him, she wouldn’t have made it out of that house at all. Rowan knew what she was doing—what she was asking of him, and what she was risking. But she was still their mother, wasn’t she? How could a child turn her back on the woman who birthed her? It would be like air leaving a room. Like purpose abandoning the lost..

"For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.”

It didn’t look like the rain would stop—at least, not from what Rowan could see through the window. The droplets slid down the glass, making almost-patterns, and the rickety ceiling made the thunder sound four times louder than it was, as if it echoed from inside the walls rather than outside them. There were a few leaks, but nothing too serious. Just enough to dampen a corner of the new lilac sheets she’d laid on the bed, or drip down the wood and onto one of the crosses nailed to the wall.

Her feet were pulled up close, head resting against the glass. The streetlamps outside gave the room what little light it had. Aemond’s breathing was soft behind her. She’d decided to let him sleep after all—and that’s what she did. She just sat there and watched. Watched him lie facedown, buried in the pillow like he was trying to shut out the world, even with his eyes already closed. He hadn’t pulled the covers over himself, though the cold had begun to raise goosebumps on his arms. Still, he didn’t seem to mind.

The youngest one turned her gaze from the storm and the half-toppled trees outside to look at him. Or rather, at the faint shape of him. Just a sliver of pale skin revealed each time the lightning flashed. Her arms tightened around her knees, drawing them in. Her thoughts spilt and stained like the puddles she knew would be waiting for her come morning.

He looked peaceful now. More than he usually did. Relaxed—even though he never truly was when she was around. For a long time, she’d believed he never would be. Not as things kept spiralling. Not with the way she always found him: face down in the coke, so high he could barely move. With a needle in his arm and veins bulging purple like bones beneath the skin. The times she had to carry him out, soaked in vomit, in piss. The times she’d stitched up his wrists herself because he refused to set foot in a hospital. The times she shoved her fingers down his throat just to make him throw up the handfuls of mummy pills he’d nicked from some forgotten drawer.

And still… she was glad he needed her. As twisted as that was. As exhausting. She shouldn’t want that. Shouldn’t crave being someone’s last resort. Shouldn’t need to watch someone sink just so she could drag them back up. But she felt it—in her stomach, in her chest, in the ache behind her knees after dragging him across the floor. She wanted to be a necessity.

Her bare feet hit the floor as she all but crawled into bed, slow and clumsy as if even that was too much to ask of her tonight. The mattress had long since gone cold, but it was the warmest place left, and she let herself sink beside him. She lay on her side, watching the mess of black hair against white linen. One leg slipped over his hips, her arms folded tight. Her face pressed close, trying to disappear between the strands of his hair and the sharp jut of his shoulder.

Sleep didn’t come. It never did—not easily, not naturally, and not when the cold clung to her like it did now. Not when the pain that had always lived inside her suddenly vanished, leaving only its absence. A hole. She let out a heavy sigh, and it spilled directly against her brother’s neck.

Or so she thought.

He wasn’t asleep. Not anymore. He hadn’t been since the moment the mattress dipped under her weight. But he didn’t move. Not straight away. Instead, Aemond turned his face slowly towards hers, and suddenly, they were eye to eye. Breath to breath.

And then the rhythm began. That familiar, sick tempo that started low and always climbed. Like their blood remembered something they weren’t supposed to. Like it craved to be closer than it had a right to be. And even thinking that—just thinking it—should’ve sent them both straight to hell.

But maybe that’s where they already were. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what they thought they deserved.

A knot tightens in their guts, but it doesn’t stop her hand from reaching up to the nape of his neck, fingers weaving through his hair, though the older brother just stands there, letting it happen. He stays stock-still as his sister’s fingers glide along his jaw, tracing his face with invisible lines. Her index finger presses between his brows, then slides down the sharp bridge of his nose, lingering at the tip, studying a shape she knows by heart. Her eyes fix on it, as if it could sear into her vision as fiercely as the forbidden heat burning between her thighs. She knows there’s no absolution here, only reckoning.

Her delicate hand drifts to his chin, cradling it between her index finger and thumb, and Rowan wishes the room had a bit more light, just to see it clearly. To catch his eyes, though she doubts they’d show much feeling—likely they wouldn’t. It’s only when her thumb dares to brush across Aemond’s lower lip that his hand rises, wrapping gently around her wrist—not rough, not enough to leave a mark—and she yields to it. Slowly, he guides her hand away from his face, like a quiet refusal.

But it wasn’t. It never could be. And that’s his shame. One of many.

Their bodies move like a slow dance, practiced and deliberate, as she lies back and he shifts above her, settling between her legs. Everything’s unhurried, almost serene, from the soft rhythm of his breath against the younger girl’s face to his hands bracing on either side of her head. Rowan's legs rise, her feet sliding along his waist and thighs, urging him closer. Her hands find his shoulders, and despite the tension, despite the guilt weighing heavy in his chest, he leans in. But he doesn’t claim her lips—no, he can’t.

His nose brushes against her cotton nightgown, fresh from the wash and carrying the familiar scent of the same detergent as the Sunday suit he wore as a boy, drinking it in like a long-lost memory. His hands move to her slender thighs, his touch light, unsteady. His fingers are chilled, trembling even as they part her thighs to make room for himself, even as he breathes in the desire that clings to the edge of the younger girl’s panties.

His eyes stay fixed downward, never meeting hers, not even when her breath shakes, when her fingers weave into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let even an inch come between them. His guilt runs deep, but her want burns hotter. With those same unsteady hands, Aemond tugs her nightgown up until it bunches messily at her hips, revealing her panties with that small, telling stain. The sight makes his lips twitch.

The thin cotton of her panties isn’t pulled off; Aemond’s fingers just nudge them aside, enough to free the slick warmth that barely has a moment to breathe before his lips claim it, swallowing her almost entirely. Rowan’s back arches off the bed, eyes squeezed shut, the muffled sound of Aemond against her core making her toes curl against the sheets.

“Don’t stop,” she says, the words slipping out without a trace of shame, her voice carrying a weight that doesn’t match his own.

Aemond’s too caught up to dwell on it, his mind and mouth both fully pretty occupied. His tongue moves over her as best he knows how—side to side, circling from her entrance to her clit. No one taught him this; it’s just him imagining the taste of ripe, fresh fruit. He’s only learned to trace her curves with the tip of his tongue, finding the spots that feel like they’d damn him the most if he lingered too long, like Eve biting into forbidden fruit.

Sweat clings to their skin, soaking into the sheets and dampening their clothes. The older man’s arousal strains against the loose sweatpants he wore for the night, twitching each time his sister’s hips buck against the bed, grinding into his face and smearing her forbidden taste from his cheeks to his chin. Still, he’s there, gasping, drowning in it. His hands grip the sheets, sweat tracing a single line down his spine, matting the dark strands of hair to his forehead and cheek, sometimes catching between his lips and the rhythm of his tongue. But he doesn’t pause to brush them away.

Rowan’s movements grow wilder, like she’s trying to pull him under, and he lets her. One of her hands buries itself in the back of his neck, the other clawing at the pillow beneath her head, nails digging in to ground the overwhelming sensation. Her legs clamp around Aemond’s head, hips rocking up and down against the bed, her grip in his nape keeping him locked in place, not giving him a second to pull away.

Aemond’s hips can’t handle the strain, and they start grinding against the bed, chasing friction. His eyes squeeze shut tighter, low groans rumbling from his throat—sounds he rarely lets out—vibrating against Rowan’s skin. While his gaze stays fixed away from her, hers is locked on him, drinking in how wrong it feels to watch him rut against the bed they share, desperate, driven by the taste of her coating his lips, sliding down his throat with every swallow.

Her hand slips from the back of his neck to the mattress, both palms pressing into the bed, elbows propping her up just enough to see him. She wants him to look at her, to open his eyes and notice the flush on her cheeks, the sweat trailing down her neck, her parted lips—all because of what he’s doing to her. But he won’t, and she knows it. He can’t face it.

Soon, it’s all too much—the stifling heat of the room, the building pressure. Aemond’s tongue moves sloppier, lost in the mix of his own spit and Rowan’s slickness spilling everywhere. His hips press harder into the bed, making the frame creak, the sound blending with the wet noises of his mouth between her legs.

“Fuck…” the girl mutters, her muscles starting to tense. Her hands clutch the sheets beneath her. “Fuck, I’m coming.” The words are filthy. Filthy like her, filthy like this house.

Aemond shouldn’t hear it, shouldn’t. Tears well in his eyes, blending into the mess of spit and juices smeared across his face. Rowan’s head falls back, hips bucking one last time as her thighs shake. The sweet and salty mix of her release and his tears floods his mouth as he takes everything she gives, her soft moans echoing off the walls, drowned out by the storm raging outside.

It’s not enough to stop his body from betraying him again. The taste, the friction—it’s too much, and Aemond spills into his sweatpants, pressing harder against the bed, lips still parted over the pulsing flesh between his sister’s thighs. His brows knit together, the damage already done.

The older collapses onto the bed, limp, but it doesn’t last. Aemond bolts upright, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, as if ants are crawling under his skin. Rowan wants to protest, but her tongue’s still heavy in her mouth. Aemond’s eyes drop to the wet stain on his pants, proof of what happened again. He can’t stand to look at it. His mouth turns bitter.

Before she can react, he yanks the blanket over her hips, hiding that damned, tempting sight. Her body trembles from head to toe, and when Rowan lifts her head, she sees it’s not just his chin that’s glistening—his eyes are wet too. The tears haven’t stopped.

“Brother—” she tries to say, voice thick with heavy breaths, but it’s too late, just like earlier.

Like a twister, he storms out, leaving her there, unable to bear the weight of it any longer, not even for a breath. He needs to scrub himself clean, to sink into that tub and pray—not to God, exactly. His skin feels like it’s crawling with roaches, unbearable little things skittering over his arms and legs, and they won’t leave.

They never do. They’re in his mind, on his tongue, in his soul. He can’t take it. He wants to say he hates her now, that he wishes her neck would snap in two. But deep down, he knows it’s himself he hates.

Rowan stays quiet, doesn’t chase after him—she knows better. The silence settles as she lies there, staring at the ceiling, legs still twitching. The sound of bathwater running and the door slamming shut fills her ears.

She sighs, eyes fluttering closed. She knows better than to wait for him to come back. He won’t, not until he feels his skin is clean. But it isn’t. And it never will be again.

[thetangibleghost]

i like. can barely read this. barely any mention of why these disorders develop, how they actually work internally (when that was mentioned in other chapters)

literally multiple times like 'these specific ones are super problematic' (literally used the term problematic.

and some of it is just plain wrong. or works off of a philosophy that not everyone subscribes to. like... ugh. its just.

they talk about personality disorders like if you met someone with one you woudl know immediately and like you shoukd never talk to them or theyll ruin your life.

like theyre describing bpd like these people are like monster time bombs or people with ASPD like they dont have an internal world at all.

like i just dont think 'meanness' or 'lying' should be the basis of any diagnosis. I understand why they are included but so much of behavior is influenced by circumstance.

theres also like, I just noticed this (and the next chap is on therapy so maybe theyll talk about it there) but theres like literally no mention of medications or therapy for ANY of these disorders.

it just makes me so fucking. like.

[navegandoaciegas]

Bubble Gum: Spoiled Rotten

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Sugar Daddy AU)

Warnings: jealous!bucky, brat!reader, smut, explicit language, age difference, cockwarming, brat taming, edging, overstimulation, unprotected sex.

Summary: Spoiled brats get punished, and James knows just the right way to teach you a lesson.

Written for @world-of-aus au writing challenge.

If looks could kill, James’ steely eyes would have burned a hole through your thick skull already. He draws a deep, steading breath to regain his composure and keep under control his blood pressure that skyrockets everytime you get on his nerves.

You’ve been on your worst behavior all day.

It’s clear you do things for the sake of riling him up, he can see it written all over your mischievous face and the devious smirk you shoot his way, and you do it because the punishing way he fucks the brat out of you is usually the reward you like best.

It’s the reason you’re humoring this hunky sales assistant who’s probably ten years younger than him, a good six inches taller and built like a fucking brickhouse, as he tries to flirt with you. James frowns observing the strain of his biceps against his button down shirt when he lifts your very heavy shopping bag.

No one needs that much muscle mass unless they’re Steve Rogers or Sam Wilson. Very tasteless, in his honest opinion. The guy could’ve at least gone for a size larger.

Your laugh snaps him out of his murderous trance.

“Thank you, Tommy, I’ll see you soon.” you chirp, placing your hand on one of his outrageously bulging biceps.

“Always a pleasure, miss.” is his flirtatious response as he shoots you a beaming smile and a wink, completely ignoring James’ presence at your side. The audacity.

“Are you done yet?” he grunts, glaring at Tommy’s very broad retreating back.

You hum, grab his hand and lace your fingers with his, guiding him outside of the store and into the sidewalk. “I got everything I needed.”

“Yeah, I bet. Timmy seemed real dedicated to meeting your every need.”

It comes out whinier than he intended, and the pout on his lips gives out kicked puppy vibes instead of seething, menacing man.

You let a sound between a coo and a snort and clutch his arm, peppering kisses on his shoulder. “What, you jealous or something?” A teasing smirk spreads on your glossy lips, “I didn’t take your for the possessive kind, Mr. Barnes.”

“Just get in the damn car.” he mumbles and opens the door for you, slapping your ass as you get inside.

Tonight he’ll have to teach you a lesson you won’t forget.

-

You huff for the tenth time in a minute, brows furrowed as you glare at James, who’s been ignoring you since you’ve gotten inside his penthouse. He keeps typing on his computer, ignoring your pretty lace set and your numerous attempts to get his attention.

You’re puzzled by his behavior. You’ve been getting on his every last nerve since this morning, sending him provocative pictures during his meeting and acting like a brat, and he hasn’t snapped yet like he usually would, spanking your ass red and fucking you until you’re sobbing.

“James, stop working.” you whine like the little spoiled child you are, “Hello? I’m here.”

He hums, not even lifting his eyes from the spreadsheet in front of him. “I’m doing what I’d have done today had you not sent me those pictures, bubbles. You know how distracting you can be?”

“I know.” you quip, hips swaying as you make your way to where he’s hunched, and sit on his desk. “That’s why I did it. Now leave this and come to bed with me.”

A wicked glint crosses his face and is gone in an instant.

“We don’t need the bed.” he tells you, his warm hand caressing your thigh and travelling higher and higher until it meets your panties, “Do we?”

You shake your head, spreading your legs open as he moves his chair between them. Slowly he brings his face down to your inner thighs until his hot breath fans over your cunt and his beard grazes your skin. You let out a moan when he leaves open mouthed kisses along the thin ridges of your stretch marks, tracing up until he meets the sheer lace of your panties. His eyes, pretty sapphire eyes, bore into yours as he trails up to your mound and lower belly, his hands keading the flesh of your legs and ass. Hooking his fingers around your underwear, he slides the lace down to your ankles, and you toss them away with an impatient growl.

Tingles spread like wildfire with every soft touch of his lips until your walls are throbbing and you’re burning up with desire.

“So wet bubbles, all for me?” James chuckles, his long fingers teasing your clit, never enough to relieve you of the coil in your core, just the right amount to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.

You grind your hips on the table, chasing his fingers and some relief while his name pours out of your mouth like a prayer as you beg him for more.

The wicked glint is back again before he delves in your dripping folds, and a satisfied sigh escapes your lips. James latches onto your swollen clit while his tongue swirls around your cunt and his prosthetic fingers pump in and out of you. The sounds of him sucking hard on you and slurping your juices and the squelch of your wet pussy fill his office.

You feel the coil in your belly get tighter with each swipe of his tongue, your walls convulsing around his fingers.

“Daddy, please, I’m close.” you whine, getting impatient with the way he seems to be taking his sweet time torturing you.

Just as you’re about to cum, he pushes himself away from you, and you feel the hot waves of pleasure retreating back, leaving disappointment behind.

“What the hell James?”

“Such a brat, bubbles. You really don’t deserve to cum.”

You rush to apologize, promising you’ll do better, and James nods, seemingly satisfied with your pleads, digging in your aching cunt again. He licks a wide strip of your folds and pokes your entrance with his tongue, your juices covering the bottom half of his face.

He fucks you with his mouth, giving it all he’s got until you’re writhing on that desk, your toes curled and eyes rolled to the back of your head. The heat in your pussy becomes unbearable, and your clit is so sensitive and overstimulated that his hot breath fanning over it makes you arch your back in pleasure and pain.

Once again, he stops just in time before your release. And again, he resumes back to eating you out like a man on a mission, before stopping, repeating the process all over again, edging you multiple times until tears and mascara are streaming down your face and you’re cursing him out and sobbing about how much you need him.

“What do you need, babygirl? You need daddy to fuck your tight pussy?”

“Yes, please daddy, please fuck me, make me cum all over your cock.” you mewl, hand reaching for your cunt before he slaps it away and tuts you.

“Do you deserve to be fucked?” he asks, palming himself through his pants, “Do you think you deserve to cum after what you did today?”

You squirm, trying to soothe the throbbing ache in your pussy, but James is unrelenting and keeps you still.

“Sending me those photos during a meeting, you know I can’t concentrate when I see you like that, what were you thinking, you dumb little baby? Flirting with that Timmy guy while we were out and ignoring me all afternoon?”

“I’m sorry daddy, it was stupid of me, but I won’t do it again.” you promise, “But please I can’t take this anymore.”

He almost caves in, his stupid heart clenching whenever he hears your soft cries, but he enjoys the way you beg a little too much to give in so easily. Not tonight. Tonight he’ll make you suffer before he gives you what you want, just like you’ve done all day.

“It’s my fault that you’re spoiled rotten, bubbles.” he continues, grabbing your thighs and pulling you down until you’re straddling his lap. “Always giving you what you want, never telling you no.” He maneuvers you so that you’re hovering over his hard cock “I need to set you straight. Need to discipline you.”

You yelp when he impales you on his length, the stretch welcome and filling after so long. When you wiggle above him, expecting him to fuck you hard like he usually would, his flesh hand gives your face a delicate slap before he grabs your cheeks and squishes your mouth.

“Bad girls don’t get to have fun on daddy’s cock, babygirl.”

The outraged look on your face is comical. “What?”

“You heard that. Now you’re gonna sit still on daddy’s cock until I’m done with work. And then I’ll fuck you, if I feel like it.”

He gives you one last evil grin before yanking you flush against his chest and ignoring your cries and pleads as he holds you still and resumes back to working.

You try to wriggle your body, but everytime his hard cock hits a different spot inside you, you regret it. You can feel every vein and every ridge on his thick cock, your walls gripping it tightly, your arousal dripping down its length, and yet all you can do is cry your frustration out on James' shoulder.

The stretch, the heat, the way his skin brushes and bumps accidentally over your sensitive clit, it’s too much and not enough.

“Daddy?” you purr after what feels like an eternity.

He hums in response, and you turn to face him, hoping your pleading eyes will convince him.

“Please? My knees are hurting and I need you so bad, daddy.”

“Did you learn your lesson? Will you be a good girl for me?”

“The best.” You beam at him.

He sighs, knowing damn well you won’t be, but unfortunately for him, James can never resist you for too long.

In an instant you find yourself bent over the desk, the wood digging painfully in the soft flesh of your belly, your toes hovering over the ground.

“Beg for me, bubbles.” He growls in your ear, his prosthetic hand caressing your back, “I want to hear you beg me to fuck your pretty pussy until your legs give out.”

His words shoot straight to your cunt. “Please, please, please fuck me daddy, I need you to fuck my pussy.”

You let out a strangled moan when James slants himself inside you, your position allowing his cock to reach deep into your core, until his tip hits against your cervix.

He ruts against you, his cock slamming in and out of you, your walls gripping him like a vice as he pounds into you like a wild beast. He grabs a fistful of your hair, and you arch your back to meet his movements. You both know you’re not going to last long.

“I can feel you, so tight on me. You like it when daddy fucks you like a whore, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, oh my God, harder.” you beg, “Please, just like that.”

You feel your orgasm near, your pussy spasming around his cock and bursts of electricity travelling from your center to every nerve ending of your body. It’s bliss, it’s a hot surge of energy encompassing you whole until you’re moaning and drooling like a mindless fuckdoll.

“Tell me you’ll be my good girl.”

“I’ll be good for you daddy, I promise.”

His cock swells inside you, and the fullness of his hot spurt spilling inside you is enough to tip you over the edge, your orgasm wrecking through your body as you spasm and shake, your toes curling, eyes rolling to the back of your head, his strong arms holding you close to him, so close you feel the errantic beat of his heart.

Your mind is swimming in a daze, and you’re spent, and satisfied, in pure bliss as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck and whispers soft praises into your ears. You hiss when he pulls out of you, and he watches enthralled his cum drip out of your cunt and down your thighs.

When you feel his tongue trace its way upwards, licking you clean, you let out a surprised yelp. He chuckles, bringing his face close to your pussy.

You want nothing more than cuddle with him and fall asleep in his arms, but James has different plans for you.

“What, you thought it was over? I never said I was done punishing you, bubbles.”

-

Part of sugar, spice and everything nice. Can be read separately or as part of the series. Message me in you want to be added to the taglist.

Leave some feedback if you liked it please💗

[feitan-apologist]

Feitan x Reader (Not SFW)

Content Warnings: 18+ only, Noncon (dead dove do not eat), kidnapping+imprisonment, whipping, orgasm control, forced orgasm, verbal degradation

AFAB reader

Synopsis: reader is a beginner nen user and has been investigating the phantom troupe. instead of killing them, our smol sadist decides kidnapping them to play with might be more fun :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment you regain consciousness, you know something is wrong.

Your awareness comes back slowly, dragging itself up out of a murky haze, and with it discomfort. The first stirring of alarm comes when you try to move your arms. Still shrouded in fog, you strain for a few futile seconds before realizing that your arms are tied behind your back, you think with rope, and you can’t move them at all. The stiffness in your shoulders tells you that you’ve been positioned like this for a while.

Instinctively, you call forth your En, wanting to know where you are and what - or who - is around you. But when you reach for the power that’s simmered under your skin for the past year, always ready, always accessible, something just… doesn’t connect. You still have a life force, obviously, but it feels blocked off somehow, like it’s just beyond your reach, fingertips brushing it but unable to grasp ahold.

The twinge of alarm in your chest has ballooned into panic, and you start to sweat, heart hammering against the inside of your chest. From the feel of it, your ankles are tied to the legs of a narrow table that you’re currently bent over, holding your legs spread open; in addition to your arms bound behind you by an intricate braid of rope that secures you from shoulder to wrist, you can feel something fitted snugly around your neck. As you open your eyes, seeing nothing but a blank, dark wall in front of you, your attempt to lift your head is stopped with a jolt as the short chain attaching your collar to the table snaps taut. And most insidiously, the chilled air brushing against your skin tells you that you’re completely naked.

As your brain processes all this new information, a single coherent thought pops into your head - oh, fuck.

“You’re awake.”

The quiet voice behind you makes you freeze. You stop breathing, every muscle tense, as the voice’s owner slowly steps into your field of vision, and when you see who it is, you could swear your heart stops beating.

“Feitan.” Your strangled whisper, barely audible even to you, prompts the corner of his mouth to rise imperceptibly. The Phantom Troupe’s torturer stands relaxed before you, shirtless, pale chest shining in the dim light. His face is impassive; he seems completely emotionless as he stares down at you, bound and growing increasingly panicked before him.

“You can’t use your Nen,” he says in that soft, unsettling voice of his. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. But there’s no point in trying. You can’t escape.”

“W-Why am I here?” you choke out, every muscle in your body still rigid. You can’t stand to meet his gaze; instead, your eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking.

“You were getting a little too nosy for our liking. I was just going to kill you, but when we were going through your computer, we saw some… interesting things in your search history. I was so surprised, a bland little thing like you… I decided it would be a shame to kill you without playing with you first.”

You recoil in disgust at his choice of words. What the fuck?? What is he talking about? Your mind scrambles for a response, but he continues before you can get a word in.

“I can tell you’re afraid.” He removes a hand from his pocket and cups your chin, tilting your head as far as the collar and chain will allow and forcing you to lock eyes with him. He smiles, and your blood runs cold. The look in his eyes is unmistakably that of a predator sizing up its prey. “That’s good. You should be.”

With that word, he releases you, striding back around the table where you can’t see him. You strain your head, trying to track his movements, but the collar gives you a very limited range of vision. “Wait!” you cry, “what are you - please, what do you want? I’ll - I’ll give you what you want, just please let me go.” Your voice comes out terribly weak-sounding, and you inwardly scream, pulling against your restraints with a renewed vigor, desperately trying to conjure forth the Nen that continues to elude your grasp. He snickers, the sound coming from a good distance away, so you jump in shock when his hand caresses your ass a moment later, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shrink from his touch, shrink from the thought of what your revealing position, bent over like this, implies. No… he wouldn’t… he can’t…

“I already have what I want. I’ve caught you, and now I get to have my fun with you.” There’s no mistaking the glee in his voice, filling you with dread, your mind whirring ever faster toward the inescapable truth of the situation. His hand slips away from your ass, and you hear a faint rustling - he’s holding something, but you don’t know what. The seconds tick past, no indication of movement from behind you, and you find yourself holding your breath in anticipation. Your heartbeat thuds against the table, against the inside of your chest, the utter silence threatening to drown you, the blood roaring in your ears, what is he going to do to me, oh god oh god oh god-

Your thoughts are cut off as the whip cracks across your ass, hard, and you scream - honestly at first merely from the shock of the impact and the loud noise, adrenaline numbing your senses. But a moment later the pain registers in your brain, a line of white-hot fire running across your backside, and your throat tightens, breathing growing fast and shallow. “Feitan, please-”

“Oh, that hurts, does it? I thought you were tougher than that.”

The whip slashes you again, lower this time, leaving another line of heat in its wake. “Stop!” you cry, desperately fighting back the tears forming in your eyes. He laughs wordlessly, letting a long, silent second stretch out before slashing you again, then again, each crack of the whip punctuated by your cries. You strain your head, trying to see where he is so you can anticipate when the next hit will come, but he’s out of your field of vision - the only thing you can see is the blank wall in front of you. He’s varying the amount of time between whips on purpose, you realize, sometimes landing three or four in agonizingly quick succession, sometimes letting long seconds stretch between each one. The anticipation has you shivering, squirming in your tight constraints, not knowing when the next lick of pain will cut into your flesh. He’s trying to get inside your head, amplify your fear and helplessness, make you weak.

And fuck, it’s working. You’ve taken worse than this in training, far worse, and he’s right, you are tougher than this. A whipping should not be enough to have you undone, tears now streaming down your cheeks, body flinching as the blows land across your exposed ass and thighs. Except… training had also never left you with this terrible tension between your legs. The criss-crossing web of angry red marks Feitan’s whip had created were practically glowing with heat, and while the stinging, burning sensation was undoubtedly painful, with the anticipation and the fear and your adrenaline-addled brain… it also felt a whole lot like pleasure.

As the whip landed again, the cry you let out was unmistakably close to a moan. You could hear the delight in Feitan’s voice as he stepped closer, running a hand across the angry flesh of your backside, his cool fingers tracing the lines he’d made. “Like I said, I was surprised at the things you watched to get off. We share many of the same tastes, you know. But between the two of us, we both know which one is the little masochist.” At the word masochist, his hand dips between your legs and strokes the wetness that’s gathered there. You gasp as his fingers find your clit, swirling over it in a motion that draws a moan equal parts shame and desire from your lips. “What a fucking slut you are,” he murmurs, “getting wet from me whipping you. You’re pathetic.” You cry out as he slides two fingers into you, curling them against just the right spot.

“Don’t,” you whimper, “please.”

“Oh, you don’t think this feels good?” Feitan asks. “Fine. Maybe you’ll prefer this.” His fingers slip out of you and you can hear him rummaging with something underneath the table. Realization dawns on you as a telltale buzzing starts up, a moment before he presses the vibrator against your clit. You moan, back arching involuntarily as you press down onto the wand, shame flooding through you a moment later at how good it feels.

“No, stop, don’t… don’t make me-”

“Oh, I’m not making you do anything,” Feitan says, securing the vibrator in place and sliding his fingers back into you. He leans over you, drawing his fingers in and out in a slow, consistent rhythm. “It’s not my fault you’re a little painslut that gets off from me hurting you.” He lowers his head to your bare shoulder, and as you feel his cool breath on your hot skin, you wonder if he is bizarrely going to kiss you. When his mouth meets your flesh, however, it’s his teeth that sink in, eliciting a new, different sort of pain. You can’t help but moan as he harshly works his mouth on you, sucking and biting your skin in a way you know is going to leave a bruise. You writhe, trying to get away from the sensations of pain, of pleasure, the two almost indistinguishable now, overwhelming you. You realize with horror that you’re already well on your way to orgasm - usually it takes you longer than this, but fuck, you can’t help it, you can’t stop the bombardment of stimuli hitting your body, his fingers working expertly inside of you, the burning marks covering your backside, the vibrator inescapably pressed against your clit.

“Please stop,” you beg, humiliated, desperate, you can’t come from what this monster is doing to you. Being degraded like this is bad enough, but you can’t give him the satisfaction of enjoying it.

“Getting close, are we?” Feitan leans further over you, whispering his next words directly into your ear. “Don’t you dare come without my permission. Understand?” When you don’t respond immediately, he grabs a fistful of your hair with his free hand and pulls, hard. You yelp, and quickly stutter your assent, yes, you understand. “Good.” He lets go of your hair, releasing the tension on your scalp, but in the next moment his mouth is on the side of your neck, working his teeth into the soft flesh above the collar. You jerk away but are stopped short by the chain, and he digs his teeth in so hard you’re afraid he’s going to draw blood.

It’s jarring having him so close, so intimate. The faint scent of his hair, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the wet heat of his mouth - it’s a disgusting parody of the intimacy shared by actual lovers. You close your eyes, squeezing out the tears still freely flowing, and try desperately to dissociate. You don’t want to be here, trapped in your aching body; you will your mind to go anywhere else, to drift off in some fantasy that will let you escape the horror of what this man is doing to you. But you can’t. If it were purely pain you had to endure, you’d be able to do it, you were sure, but you’d never had to contend with someone using your own body against you like this.

The seconds tick past as you writhe and moan and shake beneath him, gritting your teeth, breath coming in short gasps, and then - you can’t do it. Your resolve breaks, you can’t do it, you can’t hold back any longer, you feel like you’re going to explode, and you let the pleasure come freely, gasping as you reach the edge. Remembering his threat, you ask through clenched teeth, “Can I come?” Feitan leans back, huffing out a breath, and you can feel the self-satisfied smirk on his face. He’s won.

You don’t understand when the stimulation suddenly disappears, his fingers slipping out of you and the vibrator pulling away. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperately seeking the pleasure that was there a moment before, the orgasm still so close. A sound of utter betrayal escapes your lips as you realize what he’s done.

“What? Weren’t you asking me to stop just a few minutes ago? I thought this is what you wanted.” The glee in his voice is unmistakable, and in that moment, you hate him with every cell in your body.

“You fucking basta-Aagghh!” your words are cut off as the whip slashes across your ass again, catching you completely off guard. You sob in anger and pain as he whips you hard, five times in immediate succession. The brief break your tender flesh had been granted only heightens the pain as five fresh marks join the lattice of swollen lines covering your ass and thighs. “Fuck!” you scream, fresh tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Feitan says derisively. In the next instant, he’s pressing the vibrator against your clit again, laughing at the way your body immediately reacts, arching into the stimulation. You can’t fight the whimpers escaping your mouth, every muscle in your body tense and shaking as the orgasm previously denied to you builds back to a crescendo.

“Please can I come?” you cry, and the fact that you already know the answer doesn’t ease the agony as Feitan pulls the vibrator away, leaving you teetering on the edge but unable to push yourself over. You sob as he whips you again, no longer making even the barest effort to hide your pain and frustration. You realize distantly that you’re breathing too fast, too shallow, and your head is spinning; it’s a good thing you’re laid out on this table, because there’s no way you could remain standing right now.

Done with the whip for the moment, Feitan leans over you, sliding two fingers deep into your cunt and rubbing your clit with the other hand. “Do you know how absolutely dripping wet you are right now?” he murmurs. “It’s pathetic.”

“Fuck you,” you reply through gritted teeth, but then he curls his fingers in just the right way, and- “Aaahhh, pleeeease may I come?”

“No,” he replies, voice full of malicious glee, pulling away, and you brace yourself for the whip you know is coming. You’re caught completely off guard, then, when he presses the vibrator against your clit just moments later, and you’re immediately pushed back to the edge.

“OhhhhfuckcanIcome?” you gasp, and when he pulls the vibrator away, the noise you make is one of absolute despair. You’re exhausted from the pain, from the stress, from the edging; you’re dimly aware of how not in control you are, mind clouded over with fear and desperation and the overwhelming desire - no, need to come, you’ve never been this desperate in your life, and while you hate the man standing behind you with your whole being, you’re also utterly dependent on him for the release your body is begging for. “Feitan,” you whimper, “please, I’m begging you, please, stop, I need to…”

“Oh, you need to, do you?” He runs his hand over your ass, fingers grazing over the lines he’s left, dipping lower to teasingly trace over your cunt before returning to their original path. “You’ll just die if I don’t let you come, will you? Is that how this works?” He laughs at your quiet stream of pleases, muttered almost unintelligibly as you shake and cry before him.

His hand disappears, and suddenly he’s in front of you again, crouched down so that your eyes are level with his. His fingers curl into your hair and yank, forcing your eyes open, and you stare at him through a haze of tears. “You want to come? Earn it. And don’t even think about biting me - you won’t live long to regret it.” He stands, hands fumbling with the front of his pants, and you understand as he frees his cock and shoves it against your lips. You hesitate, recoiling at the thought, but as he grabs your hair again and pulls hard, you open your mouth for him.

Feitan doesn’t hesitate to shove his cock down your throat, making you gag and struggle to turn your head away, fighting his grip. He holds himself there for a long moment, then pulls out long enough for you to gasp for air before shoving himself in again. You struggle to control your tongue and lips as he fucks your mouth in earnest, staying just shy of the point that will make you gag but setting a rapid pace that almost immediately has you struggling to take in enough air. You’re torn between a desire to make this as unpleasant as you can for him and just wanting it to be over as quick as possible. Not that you have much control over that anyways - both of his hands are tangled in your hair now, controlling the speed and angle of his thrusts, and you can’t so much as turn your head away.

“Look at me,” he growls. You strain to meet his gaze at this awkward angle, and a jolt runs through you as you lock eyes. His face is twisted into what could only be described as a manic euphoria - eyes wide, pupils dilated, a slight sheen of sweat coating his temple, and a smile of pure, sadistic delight on his face. It’s the expression of someone unhinged from reality - and who’s loving every moment of what they’re doing.

Feitan pulls out of your mouth suddenly, leaving a strand of saliva hanging from your lips to the head of his cock. He surprises you as he releases his grip on your hair and lowers a hand to caress your cheek; the gesture is soft, completely incongruous with the rest of his actions. “You look perfect like this, you know,” he says quietly. You stare back at him in shock, at a loss for words. What is that expression in his eyes? If the thought didn’t strike you as absolutely absurd, you’d call it affectionate.

You don’t have time to say anything, though, as he strides around the table again and positions himself behind you. You let out a choked cry as you feel something hard press up against your opening, and within the next moment he’s pushed inside you. The “No” dies on your lips as he slides in deep, stretching you out, hitting every nerve inside you, and your back arches against your will. You don’t want it to feel good, you don’t want this at all, but the fresh tears that slide down your cheeks as he begins fucking you aren’t ones of pain. Your body screams in pleasure every time he slams into you, rough and fast, his hands gripping your whip-damaged hips, and you’re reminded just how close you were to coming before. The slight gasps coming from behind you tell you that Feitan is getting there as well, and you fleetingly rejoice at the thought that this will be over soon.

The sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches down to rub your clit would have made you ashamed, before. Now, the only thought in your head is of release. You’re at the edge again immediately as his fingers practically attack your clit, rubbing too hard, too fast, it’s almost painful, and you don’t even attempt to ask before letting the orgasm bloom inside you. In that moment, everything falls away. Your entire awareness is focused on the pulsing heat between your legs and his cock still pounding into you, your pussy clenching around every thrust as you come harder than you ever have in your life. You don’t know if you scream or sob or stay silent. You aren’t aware of anything besides how unimaginably, exquisitely perfect you feel.

It’s bliss.

.

You barely notice as Feitan comes inside of you, pushing in as deep as he physically can before eventually pulling out, leaving you limp on the table. You don’t know how long you lay there, eyes shut, mind drifting in and out of awareness as he does god knows what in the room behind you. You like it this way. It’s so much easier not to think.

When he eventually walks around into your field of vision, he’s fully clothed, face covered by a bandana, his earlier expression now replaced with the usual impassivity. He crouches so his face is at eye level with yours and gazes coolly at you. “You disobeyed me.”

“I - what?” you mumble, raising your head.

“You came without asking permission,” Feitan says calmly, drawing a knife from his pocket. You stiffen, eyes wide as he raises the blade and delicately traces your jaw with it, keeping the pressure light enough to not break the skin. “I told you you’d regret it if you disobeyed me. And you did it anyways. You’re even more of a masochist than I thought.”

“No - I - that’s not-”

“Shut up.” The blade is at your lips now, tracing the outline of your Cupid’s bow. “I made a good choice when I brought you here. You’re going to be a very entertaining little pet. Now-” he stands abruptly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ll punish you then.”

You twist your head around as you try to follow his departure from your field of vision, a sense of relief filling you at the thought of even a temporary reprieve. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says from behind you. You jerk as he clicks the vibrator to life and presses it against your overly sensitive clit, trying to angle your hips away. He only pushes it harder up against you and secures it in place against the table with what sounds like a metal clamp. “Maybe this will make you more obedient.” You squirm, arching your back and wriggling your hips to try to escape the stimulation, but it’s no use - the vibrator is pressed up snugly against you, and it won’t budge. Your stomach drops as you realize how he’s going to leave you.

“Wait!” you cry, mind racing for something to say to make him change his mind.

Your answer is the slam of the door behind him as Feitan walks out.

[ophiuchus-interactive]

‘‘you’re the worst thing that has ever happened to me. no, listen to me. you’ve destroyed me.’‘  with Rosalie? Kill me, Renny. Break my heart 😍

And so it shall be done, my dearie, but remember to be careful what you wish for !!!

Something to note: The ability to cheat on ROs is possible. Actions, dearies, have consequences.

Rosalie watched with wide, curious eyes at her father’s hands. They were weathered with both age and the frightful duty of life, put to task until they could no longer function. His pinkie finger twitched, sometimes. His middle finger was shorter than all the rest. White lines were burned into the permanently-greased flesh, and some were a bright, irritated pink. Dust filled the pockets and crevices that wrapped around the bones and marred his skin. In all her years of life, however few they were, she could never remember them clean.

But those same hands were turning and twisting small copper wires together, the bright orange twine a far-cry from the blackness that stained his skin. It may have been simple waste materials- simple scraps her father picked up from his job, but to Rosalie? He was spinning gold.

“You must be very careful with your little bird, Rosie,” Her father says softly, as the force of his own breath would knock over the copper sculpture that he molded with his hands, “I have not built it to withstand you playing roughly with it,”

“But I was only seeing if it could fly farther than yesterday!” Rosalie insists, shame burning her cheeks into a hot, bright pink, “I...I didn’t mean to break it. I didn’t know it could.”

Silence. The scraping of metal on metal, the shallow breath of heavy, worn out lungs. Rosalie’s blood raging in her ears.

“What do you see, when you see your bird, Rosie?” Her father asks, his voice even, yet firm. He didn’t look away from the copper bird, his fingers pressing upon its beak.

“What…” Rosalie pauses, “What do I see?”

“It’s made of copper,” Her father starts, “it’s wings are broad, and wide. I made it this way so it could glide through the air. This bird has small feet and no talons, so you can carry this bird everywhere you go, and have it be comfortable in your hands. It’s beak is closed, so it won’t eat-”

“It’s a toy, papa,”

“-but it is also a gift, Rosie. Is it not?”

“Of course it is! You gave it to me! I love my bird,”

“Love, Rosie,” Her father smiles sadly, “isn’t enough to make your bird fly as far as you want it to go. Love is adoration, it is acceptance- accepting that your bird can only fly as far as it can, and being happy with that,”

“But,” Her father continues, lifting the small, copper wire bird in his hands and placing it in Rosalie’s view, “love is not care. I expect you to care for this bird, copper or not. It will only fly as far as it has been made to go. It will only move if you carry it in your hands. It will only break if you do not care.”

“Care, Rosie,” Her father heaves, his voice trailing off in a desperate attempt to suppress a cough, “there will come a day when no one will be able to fix the small, copper bird. And where will you be?”

-

It was the rain that hid her tears.

“Was I not good enough for you?”

You said nothing. You felt bile rise and climb up into your chest, the sour taste of a night of passion, and the bitter tang of regret. If there was ever a moment to wish the abyss would open up and swallow you whole, it was now.

Rosalie’s eyes were a bright, bright red. Her cheeks were puffed, her lips cracked. It was the rain that hid her tears, and the lightning brought upon yours. You wondered if she was able to tell.

“I-I gave you so, so m-much of me and y-you-you-” Rosalie gasps, the desperate sound of air filling her lungs was enough to make yours tighten, and want to not breathe, “-fuck some g-goddamn whore like-like-”

“-I don’t love her,” You say quickly, quietly, the rain tasting sweet as it rolls off your lips and tongue, “Rosie, you gotta listen to me, I don’t-”

“-It wouldn’t matter if you did!” She screams, her braid unraveling as the rain pours harder, “I loved you, you fool, I-I loved you, I loved you.”

You slammed your eyes shut, her words causing your blood to run cold, your heart skipping so many beats your chest felt like it was caving in regret, in shame. Tears poured, rain fell harder, and you weren’t able to tell who was crying so much anymore.

“I love you, Rosie, I just- I fucked up. I fucked up and I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry,” Your eyes were still closed, your body soaked to the bone, “I don’t love her. I didn’t. N-not the way that I love you. Y-you, you have to believe that, please? Please?”

“You’re…” She chokes, a sob strangling her throat, “...you’re the worst fucking thing that has- has ever, happened to me. What...what part of me was not enough, for you? I-I gave you…”

“Ros-”

“-Shut up!” She hisses, “You don’t get to say my name, not like that. Not like you care- there’s no-nothing, nothing, left of me that you- you haven’t taken. Don’t take my n-name. Don’t call me that.”

The rain continued to pour, and it poured, and poured. Until Rosalie was gone; until there was nothing left.

[piratesfromspace]

The Nightmare (Mandalorian x Cobb Vanth x Reader)

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Cobb Vanth x Reader

Summary: Reader has a pretty awful and vivid nightmare involving Din, Cobb and them being kidnapped. Comfort ensues.

This story is part 3 of my series “A Mandalorian, a Marshal, and some complicated feelings”. You can read part 1 here: “Two saviors and some hope” and part 2 here: Five Times. I strongly advise you read them first!

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: detailed description of violence, blood, threat of sexual violence (but no actual), threat of slavery

A/N: Neutral pronouns for reader but they are perceived as feminine by the villain (no specific description of Reader's body). English is not my native language, please be kind. Fic also available on ao3.

MASTERLIST

Part 1   Part 2

“On your knees.”

You fall on your knees on the cold steel floor of the ship. You don’t really remember how you ended up here, the only thing that you know is that the hand that pushed you down is now grabbing a fistful of your hair to have you raise your head. It’s an order more than an invitation, the pressure on your neck on the brink of becoming unbearable at any moment.

Your captor is towering above you, dark-blue skin and mean red eyes looking at you with something dark in them. You struggle against his grip, but it’s useless and you know it. Your hands are tightly bound behind your back. You’re already hurting all over, the taste of blood and despair in your mouth. He finally lets go of your hair, and your head falls limply on your chest.

“I told you I couldn’t wait to put a new chip in your brain, right? Well let’s get on with this.” You can guess the cruel smile on his face, the disturbing way he seems to be enjoying all of this way too much. “Hold her down.”

Two of his thugs grab your shoulders and upper arms, preventing you from going anywhere. You feel his own hand grab your neck, and the touch of his bare slimy skin against yours sends a chill of disgust through your whole body. The cold device bumps into your neck, just above his fingers, and as a wave of terror hits you, you feel a sharp pinch followed by an awful sensation of burn slowly spreading in your nape.

“So? Wasn’t that bad, was it?”

He removes the metallic device and lets it fall on a nearby tray with a theatrical clatter. Tears are filling your vision with the realization that all you’ve done up until now, trying to survive and build a new life for you, all of this was for nothing. You’re a prisoner again, with a freaking tracker chip stuck to your skull.

“Now, what else did I promise back in this small alley…” He circles you slowly, like a freaking loth-wolf playing with his prey before killing it - or worse .

“Oh yeah, I think I mentioned your two little friends.” He crouches in front of you, forcing you to look at his face. His pupils are blown wide, two orbs of blackness in a glowing sea of lava-red. “So I think we should welcome them then, what do you say?”

It’s like he’s speaking about actual friends, and his casualness becomes more and more terrifying as you’re living, helpless, your own demise.

With a quick move of his hand, he signals his crew and a few seconds later, the door in front of you slides open. Your jaw goes slack as you watch half a dozen of the slaver’s men bringing in the Marshal and the Mandalorian. Despite their hands bound and the chains linking their ankles, even visibly exhausted by what should have been a long and gruesome fight, the criminals are having a hard time containing them both. They are coerced into kneeling, strongly held back by your captor’s henchmen, facing you.

“No, no, no, no...” it’s a whisper at first, but it becomes a scream you cannot hold back. Through your tears, you can see the dried blood in Cobb’s beard, the mess of mud and dark unknown fluids on the rare pieces of beskar still on Din’s body. You're almost relieved to find he still has his helmet on, even though the black glass of the visor is visibly cracked.

A blue hand is suddenly splayed across your mouth and chin, shutting you up.

“Shh shh, that’s how you say hello to your friends? Not very nice!”

In a reckless reaction, you withdraw from his hold in a quick move of your head and bite his nearby fingers with all the strength left in you. He jerks back, cursing, holding his injured hand while a few droplets of blood trickle on his clothes. You don’t have the time to savor your little victory before the strength of his blow forces your face to the side. You kinda knew there was going to be a backlash, and you don’t regret it. Your cheek was already bruised anyway.

“You’ll regret this.” he growls through gritted teeth.

You hear him rummaging behind you, probably trying to swipe his hand clean from the blood on it. Good luck with that.

“Well, where were we? Oh. Right. My mark. Bring me my tool.” he snaps his fingers impatiently and one of his goons brings him what looks like a branding iron. The end of it is star-shaped, and you can see sparks running around the metallic edge, ready to burn his mark into your flesh.

You start trashing against the hands that hold you down, a vain attempt to escape what’s coming next. You’re not the only one struggling though, Cobb and Din trying to break free as well.

“Let them go!” Mando’s voice, usually steady, sounds desperate “The bounty put on my head by the Hutts, I bet it’s high enough, you don’t need to keep them. You don’t need to keep him either.” he says with a nod of his head toward Cobb. “If you free them, I’ll promise I’ll let you deliver me to whoever offers the highest reward.”

“Din, no, please...” Cobb seems to be on the verge of crying.

The Chiss seems to be gauging the offer. The smile on his face grows bigger and he finally speaks, looking thrilled.

“That’s an interesting offer, Mandalorian.” his smile changes into a mockery of a pout. “But I’m afraid I have to decline. See, I’m sure I’ll be able to get a very good price for your girlfriend here. Look, almost as pretty as a Twi’Lek! She’s worth some credits for sure... even more so if I trade her as a pleasure slave.” He says this part with a nasty grin, deliberately taunting the men who were supposed to protect you, like you weren’t even there. For him it’s not about you, it’s about getting revenge for that one time they freed you. You’re just a pawn in his little game. Anger joins the atrocious cocktails of emotions you’re already feeling. Of course, both Din and Cobb battle against their shackles and the men trying to contain them, letting out threats you all know they can’t follow up on.

“Enough of this.” The Chiss barks. “Now before we begin, one more thing, Mandalorian. I would not want for you to miss anything because of a broken visor.” He turns to the two guards in the back of the room. “Remove his helmet.”

You shriek, and as unholy hands grab the beskar, you close your eyes. Cobb’s yelling is breaking your heart, you hear metal clatters, fabric being ripped, the muffled thud of a blow in the gut. You squeeze your eyes even harder, you don’t want to know what’s really happening, don’t want to see Din’s face, not like this. Of course you had already imagined seeing what he looked like, but on his own terms, when and if he wanted to, not forced by some evil brute.

“Oh come on, open your eyes woman, I’m sure you want to see.” You shake your head. Your captor starts losing patience. “Open your eyes, or you won’t have any left” he threatens, his fist grabbing your hair again.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He tugs so painfully at your scalp, you’re so scared, you’re so lost, you finally give up and open your eyes. Your vision is blurry but your gaze falls immediately on Din’s face. He’s handsome despite the sweat and the dark traces of blood smearing his face, features almost like you had imagined them. He’s looking at the floor, livid, and you can’t even fathom the hurt and the shame of the humiliation to be exposed like this, on top of being unable to prevent both of his lovers from getting hurt.

“Yoo too, look at him!” Your tormentor is next to Cobb now, almost strangling him, trying to make him follow his order. The Marshal makes a series of desperate noises, gasping for air, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Stop it, please! Please...” The distress in Din’s voice is gut-wrenching. It’s the first time you hear him plead for mercy.

“It’s okay, Cobb, do as he says, it’s okay, I swear.” Cobb probably knows it’s not okay, and that the reassuring words are nothing but a way for Mando to try stopping the arm done to him. But he has no choice than to listen and he finally looks at him.

You can read the word sorry on Cobb’s lips when his eyes meet Din’s.

“You all are a bit stubborn, for Maker’s sake.” Your captor looks slightly upset. “But we’re not done yet.” He comes back behind you, and takes his branding tool while the guards holding you slice open the back of your shirt with a vibroblade. You can hear the device buzz to life behind the protests of your two beloved and the voice of the Chiss.

“You better stay still for your own sake.”

You can’t think of a reply because the tip of the iron touches your skin, just next to your right shoulder blade, and the pain eats away all your thoughts. It hurts like hell and more. You try to squirm away from the device in a gut-reaction. But it’s worse. You want to scream but there is not enough air into your lungs and it feels like you can’t take any more breaths. Your vision is filled with dark spots and you’re sure you’re gonna faint any second.

That’s when you wake up.

With a small gasp, drenched in sweat, out of breath. The room is dark and quiet. You silently slip out of the bed, heading for the refresher and trying not to disturb the two men peacefully sleeping next to you.

You put your head under the faucet, letting the cold water run on your face, fingers rubbing your skin, like you’re trying to erase the memories of the nightmare.

Kriff, what is wrong with me?

There is a soft knock on the door.

“You ok sweetheart?” Cobb’s voice is still hoarse with sleep.

You let the door slide open to reveal your Marshal, tall and handsome with his messy grey hair. The familiar figure warms your mood more than you expected.

“Just a nightmare.”

“Like the usual ones?”

“Not… really.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Mmm” it’s not a yes, neither a no.

“Want to go back to bed?” he tries tentatively.

“I don’t think I can sleep right now. The suns are gonna start rising anyway.”

“Yeah, I’m not sleepy either.” you know it’s a blatant lie because Cobb had been yawning non-stop since the beginning of your conversation.

“I’ll go make us some caf. And then we can even watch the sunrise if you’d like.” He adds with a kind smile. You appreciate the offer nonetheless.

“Join me when you want, honey.” he turns his heels to leave but you stop him in his way.

“Cobb?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a hug?”

He lets out a chuckle and takes you in his arms. You melt into the warmth of his body, your head resting on the solid plane of his chest. He leaves a chaste kiss on your forehead before heading to the kitchen.

When you join him, he’s already on the small deck in front of his house, and he hands you a steaming mug of sugary caf. You sit on the bench, next to him, and he wraps an arm around you, his hand resting on your waist. You sip on the hot drink, tongue almost burning, letting it ground you in the moment. The air is just warm, not as cold as during the night, not yet as scorching as during the day. The two suns are lazily rising above the horizon, the sky all sorts of pinkish colors.

“You know, this nightmare, it was… It felt so real.”

He hums in approbation, doesn’t want to interrupt you.

“Remember when I told you what he said that night in Mos Eisley?”

No more details are needed for him to understand who and what you’re talking about.

“Well, everything he said… it happened in my nightmare. He captured me. And you, and Din.”

“Hey, it’s over now, ‘was just a bad dream. I won’t let anyone hurt the people I love, I promise.”

He tucks you closer against him and you know he means it. You clear your throat, hesitant to go on.

“The worst wasn’t the pain, wasn’t even when he mentioned he would sell me to a brothel or something, it was when he removed Din’s helmet and he forced us to watch.”

You needed to let this detail out of your system. You leave out the part involving a star-shaped mark, at least for now, because you know Cobb is wearing one on his back and you don't want to bring back more bad memories.

Cobb’s fingers are clenching against your hips. He sighs.

“I’m sorry you had to experience this, love. I know how dreams can seem so vivid, it’s legit traumatizing. Please wake me up next time, I don’t care if I’m having the best sleep of my life, I want you to feel safe, always. I’ll do anything you need me to.”

“I know.” you whisper, letting your head fall on his shoulder.

You take another sip of the delicious liquid out of your cup, and as the light of the two suns is slowly casting the streets of Mos Pelgo into an orange glow, warming up the sand and your skin, you feel like the shadow of your nightmare is finally retreating, burnt away by the new dawn.

[hallospaceboyy]

Hey. Although you wanted fluffy or smutty thing, I can't myself to an angsty Zelda x Reader request, I'm sorry. Reader gets cursed in front of the whole Spellman household and is turned to stone/a monster or anything. (I adore beauty and the beast, shushh.) The thing is: true loves kiss doesn't work and Zelds nearly loses her mind. You may decide if it works later on or not. Have a wonderful day, thank you for reading this and don't feel pressured to do it, 'cause it is quite specific. xo

Stone Cold

You hadn't told the Spellman's about the curse that was slowly taking hold of your body, coursing through your veins, sucking life from your every limb. Your pride stopped you, convinced yourself that you could handle it, find a way to reverse it. But you couldn't, and every hour it got worse, and when you barge your way into the mortuary, your hand is grey, the flesh hardening, and you can’t move it. You can feel your skin tightening, pain coursing up your arm as it spreads, faster by the second. Zelda marches in from the kitchen, mug of tea in hand, and she drops it abruptly, ignoring the shards of china that litter the floor, gasping in shock as she sees you stood there clutching your arm.

“Zel-Zelda...” You whimper, and she rushes to you, strokes her palm over your wrist, hand trembling at the roughness of it. It's stone - hard, grey stone.

“What-Y/N sweetheart, what's happening?” Her voice is urgent, shaking with panic, and her eyes are filling with tears, your legs are rigid now, and you can feel it spreading higher and higher, moaning in pain.

“C-Curse. Thought I could f-fix it.” You let out a strangled sob, and Zelda strokes your face, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I’m scared.” Then, just like that, you’re gone, and all that remains is a statue, and Zelda releases an animalistic shriek, clutching at you and sobbing, shaking at your hardened figure, desperate for you to move. She falls to her knees, shaking profusely, unable to stop the noises bubbling in her throat, and then Hilda is beside her, tears in her own eyes as she takes in the scene, takes Zelda into her arms.

“We'll fix this Zelds, it’ll be okay.” She sniffles, and Zelda pushes her away roughly, standing on weakened legs, clutching at the rough stone of your arms, your shoulders, your face.

“Please come back to me, baby. C-Come back to me! I need you!” She screams, her whole body wracks with sobs, and she presses a salty kiss to your lips in desperation, crying against you. The stone is rough against her lips, but she doesn’t care, presses them there with a bruising force until Hilda gently pulls her away, and the redhead collapses in her arms.

*

Weeks go by, to no avail, book after book perused by all of the Spellmans, but nothing is found. They manage to move you to into the parlour despite the weight, and Zelda sleeps there when she does sleep, curled on the sofa with a single pillow and thin blanket. She barely eats, but Hilda brings her food anyway, chain smokes her way through the day, downs tumbler after tumbler of whiskey, savouring the burn in her throat.

She's weak, and exhausted. There are black circles beneath her eyes, her hair hangs limp, has barely washed it, let alone taken the time to style it to its usual perfection. She doesn’t bother to cover her pallid skin with makeup, her sallow cheeks, pale lips, and her clothes hang loosely from her body. She sticks to your side, talks to you as she skims through dusty volumes, ignoring paper cut after paper cut that stings at her fingers from the desperation of her page turning. She knows you're still in there somewhere, can feel you, and she won't give up, refuses to give up until she has you back.

With her refusing to leave your side for more than a few minutes, she sends Sabrina and Ambrose to the Academy to use the facilities there – they come home with arms piled high with books, handing them to the redhead and sit in silence, helping her with her research. Occasionally they glance at her, concern etched on their features. Zelda is making herself ill, constantly jittery, losing her mind in her search, and their worry for her far exceeds their worry for you, despite the circumstances. But they don’t say anything, can’t broach the subject with her, know they will only get their heads bitten off. Their Aunt's temper is unusually short, shorter than normal, and they don’t want to risk alighting her already short fuse.

It's late, and Zelda sits in the dark save a single lamp by her side, sitting rigidly on the sofa, eyes skimming the pages with lightning speed despite her bone tiredness. The book in her hand is old, so very ancient, and her hands shake as she finds the section on curses. It's there. The curse that turns someone to stone. The counter curse is there too. She let’s out a cry of relief, then a strangled sob, and Hilda was always close by, keeping an eye on her sister, and she all but sprints into the room, shuffling in her slippers. Zelda is hunched over the book, shoulders shaking.

“I-I've found it Hildie, I’ve found it.”

Hilda breathes a sigh of relief, sinking to the sofa beside her, and she wraps an arm around her sister, gently slides the book from Zelda's lap to her own.

“We'll do it now then, yeah? Let's get your girl back.” She sends Zelda a watery smile, kisses her temple, and Zelda lets her.

*

You crumple to the ground, gasping for breath, and air fills your lungs, sweet, musty air, and it feels so good to feel your lungs expand in your chest, to feel your heart beating again – to feel something, anything.

You look around the room, eyes unfocused, blinking rapidly, and then they do focus, and Zelda is lying on the floor, splayed there, eyes closed, and you crawl to her, tears gathering in your eyes.

“She’s exhausted, love. The counter curse took it out of her.” Hilda places a warm hand on your back. “She'll be okay, in a few hours.” Hilda gently moves her, lays her on the sofa, placing a blanket over her thin form. You move to sit on the floor beside her, resting a hand over hers.

“I'm here, Zelda. I’m not going anywhere.” Stroking her hair from her face, tears fall down your cheeks.

“You must be starved, love. How about something to eat.”

You nod, but remain gazing at the sleeping redhead. “I’m not leaving her, though.” You whisper, and Hilda hums, squeezing your shoulder.

“I didn't think you would. I’ll bring you something.” She hovers then, mouth opening as if ready to say something, and you look up at her, eyebrows raised. “She's barely left your side once, you know. We thought she was digging herself an early grave. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep.” Hilda blinks back tears, and you squeeze Zelda's hand, brings it up to kiss the back of it.

“I know.” You inhale a shaky breath, eyes searching Zelda's pale face. “It's my turn to take care of her now.”

“Well, don’t overdo it. You have been stone for the last three weeks.”

“I feel fine, Hilda. Strangely.” You send her a reassuring smile, and she nods, making her way to the kitchen.

*

Some hours later, you’ve eaten, and feel almost normal again, if a little achy, and you remain latched to Zelda's side, hand firmly clasping hers. Your eyes dart up as she squeezes back, and her eyes flutter open. She smiles tiredly, tears already filling her eyes.

“You came back to me.” She whispers weakly, and you grin through your own tears, stroking her cheek.

“Of course I did. Thanks to you. I hear you’ve been killing yourself over it, you silly witch.”

She chuckles, trying to blink away her tears, and you crawl onto the sofa beside her, and she shifts over to make room, draping an arm over your waist. Her face nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your scent, and you feel her begin to shake, hold her tighter.

“I thought I was going to lose my mind. It broke me, not being able to help you.” Her voice is thick with tears, and you stroke her back, shushing her comfortingly.

“It's okay, Zelds. I’m here now. You did so well.” You rock her slowly in your arms as she cries, kiss her temple, pepper kisses to her hair. She's so warm, feels so good against you, and you never want to let go of her again. You can’t help but think if you had just asked for help, swallowed your pride, this could have all been prevented, and you’re wracked with guilt. Zelda feels thinner, seems a shell of herself despite her relief, her happiness at having you back, and you vow to nurse her back to health – bring your Zelda back to you.

“I love you. I'm so sorry.” You bury your face in your hair, closing your eyes, and with a whisper you’re both lying on Zelda's bed, and the redhead clings to you, looks up at you with watery eyes.

“I love you too, my darling. You have nothing to be sorry for.” She presses a salty kiss to your lips, and you return it, stroking her cheekbone with the pad of your thumb.

“We’ll discuss that later. For now, you should get some more rest, and then eat something.”

Zelda nods, although there's concern in her bloodshot green eyes. She rests her head on your chest, and you can already feel her becoming heavier against you as she falls asleep, hand grasping at your waist.

[redrobinhoood]

no choir | chapter 2, we had it for a moment

A/N: If you don’t know about Darth Vader and Fox then keep it that way.

AO3 Link | 2500 words (approx) | Chapter 1, Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Fox returns to Riyo with his new assignment- the lockdown of the Jedi Temple.

“What’s on your mind?” Riyo began to lower herself back onto the bed beside Fox. Instead, Fox reached over and pulled her down so that she lay on top of him once more. She draped her arms over his shoulders, putting her weight into her forearms so as to not dig her elbows into his ribs as she propped herself up on his chest. “There’s something bothering you.”

“I have a new assignment.”

“Something dangerous?”

“A Jedi.” He watched her expression morph from concern into alarm. “We lock down the Jedi Temple again, starting tomorrow afternoon.”

“Have you been back since-?”

“Since the Temple burned? No.” He hadn’t even been the one initially assigned to the Temple. Commander Stone had gone with the riot team to keep civilians out. But the team hadn’t considered that the 501st wouldn’t be able to keep all the Jedi in. By the time Fox got there, the team had been nearly destroyed. He had arrived just in time to watch a Jedi bury her blade in Stone’s chest. He had died in Fox’s arms.

Riyo took in his gaze for a few moments before she removed her arms from his shoulders and pushed herself forward so that she could press her lips into the soft flesh underneath his jaw. He welcomed the distraction, tangling a hand up in her hair. He’d never known that women smelled so good until he’d lived with Riyo. Of course, he’d been familiar with the general concept, but nothing could’ve prepared him for all the different scents of hair products and soap and lotion and even the scent of makeup on her face. If he didn’t shower in the morning, they’d have been found out in a heartbeat.

“I love you.” He sighed.

“You’d better.” She murmured against his skin before pushing herself up to look him in the eye. “I love you too.”

He pulled her back down, rolling over to the side and tangling their legs together as he held her against him, one arm sufficient to keep her pinned. “I know that you don’t like me bringing up my own mortality, but I want you to know that if I die on this assignment that the past few months have been the happiest months of my life.”

She huffed and tried to unsuccessfully untangle herself from his arms before giving in. “Mine too, Fox. But I still want more of them, you hear me?”

“What was that? Your voice is all muffled.”

“I said, I don’t really care either way.”

“Wow. When Darth Vader strangles me to death tomorrow I’ll be sure to remember that.”

“Don’t guilt trip me, Fox.” She squirmed one arm out of his hold and reached up to cup his jaw in her hand. “I truly, deeply, love you, CC-1010.”

“Oh, I’m in trouble now?”

“Yes, very bad trouble.”

"How exciting.” Keeping a tight hold around her body he began to run his free hand down her back. Her skin was so soft, unbroken by scars, and sometimes he wondered how a creature as soft as she could love one whose body had been so ruined. How could she bear to kiss him when the touch was interrupted by the raw scar across his lips? Did she know that it came from the blade of the Jedi who had killed Stone?

“I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo, you know.”

“Oh?” That had been the last direction he’d expected this conversation to go in. “And what sort of tattoo do you fancy?”

“A fox, Fox. I want to tattoo your namesake on me. Right here.” She moved away from him and placed her hand underneath her breast. “A little white fox running across my skin. Will you still love me if I do that?”

“Of course I will still love you.”

“Then why do you think that your scars would be any different? Don’t deny it, I can read your mind. No matter what happens to your body I will still love you just as much as I always have.”

Fox sighed and slide down so that their faces were level. “What if my brain was taken out of my body and you could only communicate with me by whooping?”

“Then we would have the most interesting conversations about the universe.” She rubbed her nose against his for a moment before tucking her head under his chin and wrapping an arm across his waist. “Go to sleep, Fox. You’ll need to be in top form tomorrow.”

He rolled over onto his back, pulling her with him so that she was pillowed in his chest as she had been the first night he’d held her. He leaned his head against hers, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “I’m always in top form.” He murmured. When he held her like this, he could let all of his thoughts drift away. Tonight, only one remained with him; nobody, not even Darth Vader, could take him from her.

Riyo jolted awake with a cry. Before she could fully register that she was awake, that the nightmare was gone, or where she was, she found herself being pulled into Fox’s arms and held against him. She reached up, fumbling for his neck, and pressed one hand against his spine. She could feel the soft exhales of his breath against her forearm.

"I’m here, cyar’ika, I’m here.”

“Tell your men not to fire on the one with the red lightsaber. Please, Fox.” Her voice broke on his name and she began to sob.

He reached over and cupped her face in one hand before he brought her head down onto his shoulder. He leaned his own head against hers and began to run his thumb over the green arcs of her cheeks. “What did you dream, cyar’ika?”

"You were dead. He snapped-.” She stopped as her sobs became hiccups and Fox began to rub circles into her back. “He snapped your neck. Just like that. You fell. I watched you fall.”

“Who snapped my neck, Ri?” His steady voice held no hint of fear.

“A shadow. I watched you fall.”

“But I’m right here, Riyo. Cyare Riyo, I’m still here.” He took her hand in his and placed it against his chest. “I live, I breathe, can’t you feel my heartbeat?”

She pressed her hand into his sternum and tried to focus on the beating beneath her palm and the slow rise and fall of Fox’s chest. Her hiccupping sobs were becoming quieter, but she couldn’t stop the flood of tears streaming down her cheeks. Fox lifted his head from hers and began to kiss her cheeks. “I’m alive, Riyo. Ner ka’ra, ner me’suum’ika.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” She managed to get out between sobs. “If I find out that you’ve been calling me a rat this whole time-.” The threat died to a tiny sob. She could feel Fox’s chest begin to shake beneath her as he fought off laughter. “Don’t laugh at me! I’m distraught.”

“Do you really think that I would take advantage of you like that?” She could look right into his eyes now; that beautiful dark brown that reminded her of home. How she wished she could take him to Pantora, take him anywhere but here.

“No, I don’t.” The little flare of anger had cleared away her hiccupping sobs, but it had not wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I trust you, Fox.”

“Then brush your hair and put on some civvies.”

She glanced towards her chronometer. “It’s nearly four-am and I’m a mess.”

“I’ll clean you up. Trust me.” He spoke with such confidence that she couldn’t help but give in.

“If I agree, you have to tell me what you’ve been calling me.”

“It’s a deal.”

The second-to-last place that Riyo had expected to go was into the Lower Levels. The last place was the Emperor’s home or office, but the Lower Levels were certainly a very close second. Despite the late hour, the streets were far from empty, though certainly not as crowded as they were in daytime. She and Fox wove through the crowd with his hand wrapped snugly around her waist, no different than the number of similarly hooded couples walking through the streets around them. She could almost imagine that they were one of them, if she could only shake the awareness that if Fox’s hood fell down the charade would be over. A clone was always recognizable as a clone, even in civvies.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“You don’t need to know, Ri. Besides, we’re here.” He pulled her into the shadows of one of the alleys that snaked between the rundown buildings. They stopped before a beaten old door and knocked. Riyo snuck a quick look around the deserted alley as they waited. If it weren’t for Fox at her side, she would’ve felt unsafe. Even with him, she felt uneasy, though she was certain that she had watched him slip a holster around his waist before they left. After about a minute the door was unlocked and they were practically dragged inside a tight hallway by an elderly female Twi’lek.

“Commander Fox!” She exclaimed once the door had been shut and locked behind them. She clapped her hands on Fox’s shoulders as Fox lowered his hood. “It’s been too long.”

“It has. But you know how things have been recently. Ri, this is Sienn.”

Riyo pulled down her hood before shaking Sienn’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. The commander has never brought a lady by before, or anyone for that matter. I keep telling him to bring some of the boys in white down here but he never does.”

“You don’t want them here. They’ll eat and drink you out of house and home.” Fox waved his hand in dismissal, a gesture that Riyo knew too well from spending her afternoons in his office.

"Speaking of which, let’s get you something to drink. Mariela, come back here and say hello to our guests!”

Another elderly female Twi’lek poked her head through a door and gestured at Sienn. “Come mind the bar while I say hello.” The two switched places, the swinging door bringing the scent of caf into the hall, and now it was Mariela’s turn to clap her hands on Fox’s shoulders. “It’s been a while, Commander Fox. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Never. Mariela, this is Ri. We needed to get out for a while.”

Mariela nodded knowingly. “Whatever it is you’re mixed up in, I don’t need to know about it. Are you quite alright, dear?” She asked Riyo, who felt thankful that Fox was trying his best to hide her identity.

"It’s been a long night, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t ‘ma’am’ me, we’re all friends here. Let me get you something to drink. The usual, Commander?”

"Please.”

“And for you, dear?”

Riyo blinked, racking her mind for the name of a drink, any drink. “Do you have anything with chocolate?”

“I know exactly what you need. Wait here, it’ll only be a moment.” Mariela swooped back through the door. Riyo and Fox remained silent as they waited, though Fox had taken a hold of Riyo’s hand and was running his fingers across her palm. When Mariela returned, she was carrying two brightly patterned mugs, which she passed to them. “On the house.” She declared.

Riyo began to protest but Mariela wouldn’t let her.

“You’re welcome to the rooftop. Just leave the mugs by the kitchen door when you leave, okay?”

“Thank you, Mariela.” Fox said. “And give Sienn my thanks as well.”

Riyo watched Mariela leave, catching a glimpse at a cramped café behind the door. Despite the early hour, or late hour, a few beings lingered in the shop. Then the door closed, and that world was gone to her. She was in Fox’s world now. She followed him to a turbolift, to a staircase, onto the roof of the building, then to a blanketed spot where she could sit beside him.

“So, what did you do to earn eternal free caf?” She asked once she was comfortably leaning against his shoulder.

“Thorn and I saved their tooka from a fire.”

“Their tooka?”

"Mhm.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “We were out after our shifts ended for some drinks. We heard the commotion from the bar, followed the sound to the fire, and decided that the Coruscant Guard never leaves anyone behind. One tooka rescue later and we all went back to the bar together. Ran into them again a month later and they told us to stop by their new café.”

Riyo couldn’t help the giggle that rose in her throat and was rewarded with a kind smile from Fox. “You’re kidding.”

“Tooka’s name is Fenn. She likes to sleep in the front window of the café.”

“Fox. You are such a sweetheart.” Her giggles faded into comfortable silence as they began to sip at their caf. Finally, she couldn’t take the silence anymore. “What did you call me earlier, back in bed?”

“Ner ka’ra, my stars, ner me’suum’ika, my moon.”

“What about cyar’ika? What’s that?”

He turned to look at her, his eyes tracing over the curves of her face. “Cyar’ika I will keep to myself for now.”

“I’ll ask Jek and Rys if you don’t tell me.”

“You should, they’ve missed seeing you. They ask about you all the time.”

“I’ll bring some sweets by again sometime.”

“Please. They need the morale boost.” He waited for her to take a sip from her mug before he continued. “Are you okay?”

She sighed, her breath rippling across the liquid before her. “I’m worried about you. I would give anything, anything, Fox, to run away and to take you far away from here.” But she couldn’t.

“Riyo, I could never take you away from your post, from your people. They need your voice in the Senate just as much as my brothers need me.” He lay his hand on her thigh. “If that ever changes, know that I will be right there by your side. But right now, they need us.”

She turned to look him in the eye. “Fox, did I ever tell you how much I love your blind loyalty?”

“You’ve mentioned it a few times, yes.”

“Well, I love your blind loyalty. And I could never ask you to go against your beliefs.” Her drink finished, she threw an arm around Fox and lay her head on his shoulder. “Never change, my love.”

Fox wrapped his arm around her for a moment, drawing her in before letting her go as he prepared to rise to his feet. “We should head back. I have a meeting with the Emperor I cannot miss.” If there was the quiver of a lie in his voice it was lost in the rustle of cloaks in the breeze.

[hey-hamlet]

‘BANHA’ Fic

aka, my friend who hasn’t watched bnha got really pissed when I told her about Bakugo and Izuku’s old middle school. So pissed, in fact, that she wrote almost 3000 words of a character created solely for this purpose beating the tar out of Bakugo. 

Shes my idol. 

(I edited the names for spelling and edited the dialogue for speech patterns in exactly two scenes. See if you can pick all 3 edited lines) 

“Happy birthday Arlea!” Arlea Hunter started from where she was sitting and chewing on cereal like it was going out of style. Aunty Chitose placed a small cake on the table by Arlea’s bowl, a single candle on top, she gave her a bright smile.

“Thank you! You didn’t have to get me anything,” Arlea said, looking at the cake, it looked delicious. With white frosting that was layered thickly and the words ‘Happy birthday’ scrawled in purple icing. Arlea blew out the candle. Putting her hands together. Squeezing her eyes shut to make a wish. Her Aunty ruffled her hair.

“What are you saying? Of course I’d get you a cake, although it’s a bit little, you can’t share it with your friends.” She said.

“It’s ok, I wouldn’t want to share it either way.” Arlea pointed out. “Except for you of course,” she added, standing to pick up the knife from the counter. proceeding to cut it into quarters.

“Oh, thank you very much, and I’m going to eat three pieces then?” she asked.

“Alright fine, Uncle Hideki and Hanabi can have some too.”

“You two will have to pack it then, since you’re almost late for school.” My aunt pointed out, moving back to the kitchen. Arlea glanced at the clock and almost swore. Scrambling to pick up her lunchbox and carefully pack the cake.

“Hanabi come on down! There’s cake here for you!” Arlea’s Aunt called. it was accompanied by the sounds of frantic footsteps. Eventually Hanabi made it down the stairs, with school bag in hand and her blonde streaked brown hair bouncing around her heart-shaped face. The little princess of the family, with sharp bright blue eyes and a killer smile. Arlea really took time to reflect how different their families were.

Her cousin was a year younger than her, and had an outgoing happy personality, cute sized, whereas Arlea was willowy, with straight drab hair that looked almost black, black eyes. and while she had a quirk of an infectious smile. Arlea’s dove wings wasn’t exactly as useful. It’s not as if she could use them. she reflected ruefully

“Thanks mum!” Hanabi squealed, sitting at the table. “Not now, pack it or we will be late.” Arlea commented. Hanabi glancing at the clock and jumping up again.

“I can’t be late today! I promised Haru I’d help her paint one of the school festival posters.” Hanabi grabbed her back and bolted for the doorway. Arlea shifted past, letting the girl go past her without knocking both of them over. She turned back and packed the second piece for Hanabi, placing both lunchboxes in her bag. She was used to her airheaded cousin forgetting things, and definitely loved her for it. Hanabi made Arlea feel good and reliable. Isn’t that a sad realisation? She mused. heading out the door at an angle and calling her goodbyes to her aunt.

“Come on! move those wings, if we’re late I’m blaming you!” Hanabi called, she grinned at Arlea without any malice. Setting a brisk pace along the sidewalk. Arlea caught up easily, she was taller than her cousin by a couple centimetres. Arlea wasn’t exactly new to Japan, her mum had been from here, and she’d been born here. but growing up in a different culture entirely, and coming back at the age of 15, 12 years later was an… experience.

Specifically the school life, ending up going to Aldera middle school wasn’t exactly fun. It wasn’t a great school, but her area wasn’t a great area, and it would be expensive to send two near-high schoolers to a private school. Public schools weren’t a problem though, after all, if Arlea could survive a public school in Woodridge Australia, she could survive anything.

The school gates loomed ahead and Hanabi called out to her friend Haru. A small girl with curly dark hair, glasses, and a shy personality. Haru smiled, waving at us both.

“Good morning Hanabi, Senpai!” she greeted. Arlea gave her a smile, Hanabi was already dragging her off however.

“I’ll see you at lunch!” She called back. Arlea gave a little snort, unlikely, until she figured out Arlea had her lunch. She didn’t blame her cousin. They had only gotten closer over the past year Arlea had been here, but that probably wasn’t entirely by choice. It’s been a year since Arlea’s mother died, and she had to move to this second-rate school. At least she could get into a better high school.

-

She was sitting with her friends when Hanabi came running over. A slightly panicked look on her face. I smiled at her.

“Forget your lunch today?” Arlea asked her as she reached where Arlea and her friends were eating lunch, a small little side-hall that was open enough to have cool air come through and bright enough for a nice atmosphere. But as she drew closer Arlea’s smile fell. She looked absolutely terrified. Pale faced, on the verge of tears.

“The- that kid in your grade! They’re… beating him up.” She said between sobbing breaths. Hanabi reached her too. She was crying.

“That’s Deku, leave him be, it happens.” One of Arlea’s friends commented. Hanabi cousin looked at him, her face starting to get blotchy as the redness of running took over her straight panic.

“They look like they’re beating him to death! They’re not stopping!” Hanabi rushed out. Arlea looked at her, then stood up.

“Where are the teachers?” Arlea’s friends watched her silently, a few of them staring at their lunches, but no longer eating them. There was something wrong about this situation, sure people were bullied in Australia, but it tended to stop once a teacher was in view.

“They’re just watching!” Hanabi half-shouted. Arlea turned an accusing eye on her friends. Seeing no support on the kid’s side. no cry of outrage.

“Where?” She asked seriously, ignoring the slight shake of  her friend Satoru’s head. Hanabi took off though, and Arlea went after her. Haru following them from behind. Taking a couple shortcuts through empty classrooms Arlea could see where people were gathered on the second floor above one of the yards, staring down at the commotion. Hanabi was slowing down. Arlea slid to a stop next to the furthest student, hearing someone shouting.

“I’m doing you a favour Deku, you’re better off dead than quirkless!” The voice below called up, loud enough to be heard from here. Arlea felt a cold snap of rage, gripping the windowsill she jumped up, Hanabi turned back, calling her name. Arlea leapt out, aiming for Bakugo. One of the popular kids in her grade. He had a cascade of sparks, ready to use it on the kid that was already bleeding from most of his face. His shoulder looked dislocated too, he looked up at Arlea through one eye, the other puffed shut, his lip was broken and bleeding, and he had a serious burn mark on the right side of his neck.

Arlea heard movement and turned her attention. Bakugo stood up, disorientated, Arlea looked at him, gripping her hands into fists, temper, temper. If she lost it now the teachers might actually do something.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” one of the ones holding the boy asked. she turned on him.

“Let him go, or I’ll cut off your creepy salad fingers.” Arlea said. he let the boy go, he crumpled to the ground.

“Get lost, or I’ll give you the same to you, shithead.” Bakugo replied coldly, walking over threateningly. Arlea looked at his face, altogether much too perfect, maybe a broken tooth might teach him a lesson. She decided. He reached her and she rounded a hit on him before he could see the fist coming. The wet slap of her flesh against his face satisfyingly echoing in the semi-empty yard.

“Bakugo!” Someone called from behind, Arlea turned as one of the less active of the bullies ran at her. She gave a cold laugh, before leaping on him, wings outspread in a terrible arch as she twisted into the air, bringing the entire force of her body and slamming into him.

“That’s enough!” someone shouted, Arlea stood, the bullies standing back as a teacher walked this way.

“Oh, is it? And was it enough when they were beating this kid in front of you? Or are you so piss-poor at your own fucing job you couldn’t be bothered actually interfering?” Arlea shouted at him. She stuttered through the Japanese, not exactly fluent, but good enough that the meaning came across strong. The teacher went red faced, walking this way in angry strides, Arlea looked at him, temper ticking so close to being officially lost.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you off for this one, but you’re going to detention for this-“ The teacher stated. He grabbed Arlea’s wrist.

“For what? doing your job for you?” she asked. The teacher turned to look at her.

“How dare you.” the teacher hissed.

“The fuck is wrong with you, why would you waste all your breath on a quirkless bastard?” it was Bakugo again. Temper officially lost. With a swipe, she took the teacher’s legs out from under him, before turning on Bakugo, he put his arms up in defence, seeing the attack this time but not counting on the amount of force behind it, people never did. But wings were extra body mass, no matter how hollow the bones. The two of them fell.

There was only a short scramble, before Arlea was sitting on his chest, hands wrapped tightly around his throat. His eyes bulged. Gripping her wrists, trying to ease the pressure.

“Unfortunately for you, my mother happened to be quirkless. She’s gone; because of scum like you.” Arlea said, a smile on her face as she strangled the boy. “Call this your official warning, if you ever mention that little quirkless thing again, you or any of your little boys. I’m going to hunt you down, slit your throat from ear to ear, and watch you bleed out with a smile on my face.” Arlea wasn’t joking either. She’d almost killed people for less. Bakugo’s struggled became desperate, tears and spit rolling down his face.

“Stop it,” A hoarse voice croaked. Arlea glanced back. the kid was sitting up, looking this way, barely conscious. Arlea turned back. She let go of Bakugo’s throat, not before giving him two more solid hits to the face, one of them crunching at his nose. She stood up, turning back. The teacher must have hit his head, because he was sitting up with a dazed look in his eyes. Arlea turned to look at the kid who was staring back at her with fear. “Don’t - Kacchan’s going to be a hero, it’s only because I’m-” the boy stuttered.

Arlea turned to look at the people on the floor, the two still standing watched her with fear. She turned back to look at Bakugo, who was coughing and staring up at her.

“Quirkless?” She ground out, teeth audibly grinding against each other in her rage. “It’s ok because you’re weaker than him?” She turned back to Bakugo, snarling. “Newsflash asshole, heroes help people weaker than them. You’re no hero, just a twobit jackass with too many people fawning over your flashy quirk.”  Arlea turned back, grabbing the boy by his good arm and wrenching him up. Taking him towards the infirmary, the kids gathered gave her a wide berth, except for Hanabi, who walked forward, and helped support him on the other side, being careful of his arm.

“Are you ok?” she asked softly. the boy looked at her. but she was looking at Arlea. Who’s jaw was ticked tight, fury in her eyes.

“I’m going to burn down this fucking school.” She replied coldly in English. Hanabi winced,

“I’m sure… that if he knew, he’d not have talked that way.” Hanabi responded softly, Arlea felt her anger cooling. Her cousin trying hard to calm her down and making an effort to speak in English made her feel better.

“If he knew and actually had the audacity to say that, I’d have already killed him.” Alrea pointed out. reverting back to Japanese.

Hanabi gave a shaky sigh, “Mum is going to be furious…”

Well, that she already knew.

-

Surprise, surprise, Arlea was called to the office. She walked there, blood still on her uniform, sitting down politely on the waiting room chairs. The woman there was tense, not looking at her. After a while, the phone rang, and the woman picked it up, putting it back down.

“Please make your way through.” she said, giving Arlea a tense smile.

Arlea stood up, taking a breath. Inside was a furious principal, the concussed teacher, two police officers, and someone who looked like he was a hero. She stopped at the door, looking at the hero and freezing. Well, that didn’t bode well.

“Arlea Hunter, I am appalled by what I’ve heard this afternoon. You were a good student, top of your class, an outstanding reputation. But today you not only attacked 3 of your peers, but a teacher as well. These men are here to escort you off my campus, you’re hereby expelled. I’ve called your aunt to tell her that you’re being escorted to the station. Honours exchange student or not, I will not tolerate that kind of violence on my campus.” The principal, who Arlea was shocked didn’t run out of breath halfway through, was red-faced. Furious, the teacher was watching her with a smile.

Arlea turned to him. “Really? Not only will you let another student burn Deku’s face off, but you’ll stand there and smile when the only person willing to stand up for him is being sent off?” She asked. The teacher paled.

“She’s lying!” he immediately cried. Arlea crossed her arms.

“Bakugo told Deku to kill himself because he was quirkless, then went ahead to hit him again, and everyone stood around and did nothing. This student who had the audacity to think he was going to become a hero.” Arlea was enraged now, walking to the desk and slamming her hands down.

“What the hell is wrong with your teaching staff? A single boy was being beaten to death on your school grounds by four people and your staff did nothing! What kind of sicko school do you run?” She was screaming now. then turned to the police.

“You want to take me to the station? Good! I’ll be a valuable witness, and I’ll proudly stand against Bakugo, what kind of sick psychopath burns the face off one of his peers?” She rounded on the principal again. “I’m also surprised that you called my aunt, you should have kept quiet, because you know she’s just going to come here and take my side. And when there’s an internal investigation? You’ll find me watching you burn to the ground with all the rest of your staff. You run an institute that’s supposed to support your student base, and watch them grow. Their parents are relying on you to keep their children safe, and you’re sending one of them home with injuries nearly every day!” Arlea pulled herself to full height, looking down at the man sitting there, getting paler and paler at her accusations. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves.” she hissed out finally.

There was a tense silence, neither the teacher nor principal would break it. Arlae had just gone and blurted out their failures in front of two cops and a hero. If that didn’t scream ‘doomed’ she didn’t know what did. The hero spoke up first.

“Today has been quite the eventful day for everyone involved. What I suggest happens is that Principal Satoru runs an internal investigation into this matter. Bakugo will be flagged to watch for quirk abuse on U.A records. I also suggest you discuss a solution with Arlea Hunter’s aunt when she arrives, so that expulsion can be avoided.” The hero said calmly. Arlea blinked at him.

“How can you speak reasonably in this situation?” She asked, outraged. The hero pinned her with a steady gaze.

“You were also using your quirk maliciously in body slamming a student. If this Bakugo is punished. You will be also, if the student who was injured decides to go ahead and press charges, then we will do something about it and bar him from entering our academy, if what you say about him wanting to become a hero is true. You may find yourself with the brunt of the punishment however, the student you attacked was not Bakugo by the sounds of it, which means you didn’t use your quirk for self defence either.” The hero turned and walked to Arlea, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“In this instance, it would be logical to just let it go. It would be a shame to lose a potential student with such a strong motivation for justice.” The hero nodded his goodbye to the principal and left. giving Arlea an encouraging smile. She didn’t feel it, wanting instead to throw her fists around and continue her angry outburst. Trying to attack a hero would be a tad ambitious. It also made her feel worse that he thought he saw justice. But it was just selfish, bitter anger. Just piss-poor timing for Bakugo to be an asshole. A year ago today her own mother killed herself over the same words. You’d be better off dead than quirkless. Arlea glared at the two people left in the room. before turning and walking out again. she needed a good cry behind the furthest building, at least before her aunty arrived.

[the-dreamer-traveller]

Suspicion Virus Program

2B AND 9S:

Running as fast as her high heels are clicking on the concrete wall, 2B rushes in towards the main command center. 92 follows her suit, with his boots equally clicking on the ground.

The operation was a failure. All of the androids in battle are corrupted and killing each other. 2B and 9S could barely make it out alive of the field and have to detonate their black boxes together, right after 9S transfers their consciousness to the servers. Luckily, YoRHa allows them to boot their consciousness into another android body once they fail their mission or have to detonate their black boxes.

And now, they must report to Commander of the situation.

“2B.” 9S called on her, running as fast as his legs could be.

“We have to report back to Command.” 2B replies with her usual stern voice, concerned of the safety of the Command’s androids.

Both of them reach into another tunnel of the underground mountain base, where they eventually happen into the main console room. The area is spacious and large, with 9S and 2B separated from the lower floors by a floor that contains more desks that is being managed by Operator-type androids. Surrounding much of the wall is a large digital screen, which features three different segments of the screen; surveillance statuses as well as geographical data, a large digital globe with the emblem of YoRHa in the center where it is divided into hemispheres and has stills of images of battle from the surface, and a list of all deployed YoRHa androids and combatants. Worryingly, many of them are blank, a major hint for the two androids that casualties are heavy.

2B and 9S have no time to take the elevator to reach the lower floors. They both jump from the ledge of the railings and landed on their feet on the ground floor of the console room. Desks of hi-grade computers are arranged in front, where frantic Operators are typing to try get in touch of their assigned androids to no avail. Guards are also stationed side by side of a lone terminal, where Commander White is looking at the screen in shock, awe, confusion and puzzlement. Just as she turns her back, she notices 2B and 92 approaching to her.

“2B? 9S?” Commander says their name, surprised to see the previously deployed androids approaching to her. “What are you doing here?”

“The YoRHa units on the surface were infected by a virus.” 9S explains, once he stood on his ground while 2B stands next to him. “We had to detonate our black boxes in order to stop them.”

“A…virus?” Commander said, perplexed on the unusual report. “What are you talking about? The Dreamer did not report anything about a virus.”

“That’s because all communication with the Bunker has been severed.”

“And why did you leave the battlefield anyway? I didn’t order a retreat.”

“We’re telling you, YoRHa has gone berserk!” 2B speaks up, stepping in to help with 9S, to convince Commander of the sudden turn of events in the surface.

The leading android sighs and shakes her head. A virus? In the middle of the battlefield? They manage to get the grace of a Dreamer, a human who is a god. And yet, two androids told her that a virus attack them without the Dreamer even telling her? Something is wrong and she couldn’t tell of it…

But then…

Looking at the two androids before her, she grips her baton with her hand. “No. If anyone is acting infected here, it’s you.”

Both of the androids are shocked and surprised by the Commander’s sudden objective response. “Are you NUTS!?” 9S called out to her, shaken by this revelation.

Pointing her baton in front of them, her action also signals with the android guards to unsheathe their blades. “2B… 9S… You’re being detained under suspicion of virus contamination.”

This is it, both 2B and 9S are surrounded by the guards, their blades ready. 9S couldn’t deal with this and says, “Wait a minute!”

Just before Commander White issues another command to her guards, one of them begins to suffer a spasmic attack, groaning and crying in pain. It is followed by another one, and another one, and up until the rest of the guards are suffering from what is to be called a mass synchronous attack of their bodies from an unknown source, while Commander looks in fear and worry.

One of the android guards let out a deranged giggle, just as she turns her head up and the eyes of her mask turns red. “Eee hee hee! Bingoooo!”

The rest of the guards’ pains subsided, but their heads are turned upward, and their eyes emit an eerie red glow. It doesn’t even just limit to the guards even, as the Operators turn to look at the remaining uninfected androids, with their eyes open to reveal the same eerie red glow in them.

The Commander staggers in fear. 2B, 9S and White are surrounded by infected, hostile androids. Things couldn’t get even more serious than they could imagine. 92 could only mutter in slow but certain horror.

“They’re… infected!?”

A short frenzy of attacks happens. Commander could barely live with her breath as 2B pushes her aside to just hold on against a striking infected android with her hands. Commander quickly tries to run, but another infected android kicks her in the abdomen, sending her sprawling into the ground. However, this act saves her from being severed into half by another android, who tries to attack 9S as he successfully moves out of the way from her blade. While another android tries to strike her, 2B notices this and sends out a roundhouse kick, knocking the infected android down.

There is barely any chance to survive in the Bunker. Worried, 2B quickly kneels to the Commander while helping her to stand up. “Commander, we have to go.” 2B said, looking at her while she stands up to bring out her blade.

With 2B and 9S bringing out their weapons, the infected androids took notice of them, seeing them as obstacles in killing all of the uninfected androids in the way. Taking this, Commander White sidesteps and moves close to the terminal, to avoid being caught in a storm of blades and weapons of between 2B and 9S and her once-loyal-but-now-infected androids.

Unbeknownst to them all, a rebel Machine Lifeform, uninfected, opens a hidden hatch for the escape route of any uninfected survivors as his head pokes out, waiting for the coast to be clear and the escape to be smooth.

DREAMER:

The battlefield that is mentioned by the androids is filled with broken buildings, forgotten machines and vegetation. Once part of a large city from the Old World, it stood as a testament that time is eternal and will forever remain, changing of what was once a symbol of humanity’s advancement to a relic of the past, just like the civilizations before it. This world’s current generations have no respect of these trinkets of the forgotten and lost, as it has been the center of a war that has go one for millennia.

What cause mankind’s fall, I do not know. Perhaps it is the arrival and death of a pan-dimensional monster, whose ashes scatter into the winds, infecting the mortals and ruining the world. Or maybe it is a dangerous rip in reality, a sign of mankind’s attempt to gain control over reality and failed and serves as a punishment for their hubris. For all it is known, this world is now populated entirely of strange cartoon character, machines lifeforms and androids, sometimes engaging in long, bloody wars with an occasional pax between these races that last for only a single or double digit before going into another war again.

I enter in this world as a person, under the role of an android named 1700G, a Gunner-type android employed by YoRHa. The battle rages on, and I remember that I have friends in this particular dream. Friends… or perhaps someone that I loved… lost in this combat. Whoever they are, I cannot recall any longer, and I push that feeling of loss aside as I scramble up a hill.

Everything is becoming mad. In a sudden turn of events, an estimate of 95% of all android and mechanical combatants were driven mad spontaneously. Dubbed as the Logic Virus, this viral attack targets their rational systems, and destroy or twist it until they will lash it all towards anyone uninfected in sight, before they suffer a violent death after several minutes, with a blissful death a rarity. The Logic Virus also evolves to infect non-android cartoon characters as well, driving mad with an instinct to kill.

I happen to be uninfected due to either sheer luck or uncertain circumstances, but I don’t know for certain. All I know is that there is a corrosive acid bubble gattler posted at the top of a ransacked and half-obliterated remains of a two-story building.

Situated by the hill, I push aside my field bag and hold on the gattler. It is slightly large and bulky, painted in a shiny black goat, and loaded with belts that contain corrosive acid. I aim it towards a running horde of infected cartoon creatures, who resemble cheerful children, and start firing round after round. Each time the gattler fires, high-speed corrosive acidic bubbles shot out from the muzzle, and anything that it hits, either biological or mechanical flesh, will have a burning sensation as it eats away the flesh, leaving behind muscles, bones or inner meat behind. Several rounds will kill them, as being bath in corrosive acid will slowly dissolve them into nothingness. The infected soldiers could not scream in pain or horror, as they stare listlessly into me, with the intention to crush my head with their bats, twist my arms with their hands and strangling me to death.

I cannot stay here like this for long. I have to flee, as a battle against them would be a suicide mission.

[nic-214]

Queen Fanfic: The Fallen(1)

Freddie's POV:

My name is Farrokh Bulsara I'm seventeen-years-old and it's my turn to fight. Everything year the rich would toss trinkets and expensive shit in a little ditch, then make the poor fight for them. They call it "Black Friday", for some reason, it's where the rich watched the poor fight to the death over free expensive trinkets, only this year it's my turn to fight.

My family is far from wealthy we live in a poorer side of the kingdom we don't have much to our name and the bakery is starting to fail, this could be our one chance to get money, we can trade with the merchant. My blood runs cold as my number is called and I'm told to come into the arena.

I stand in one corner, I'm #226 it says so carved into my arm, the rich don't have numbers, they don't need them. The oldest here, I'm only 17. I can see three others all male. I see a boy in rags he looks the youngest, scapes of clothing sewn together to make his clothes, he's shaking, his matted brunet hair sticks out everywhere and it's a rats nest, I even see spiders in the knots, I don't know his numbers, a strong gust of wind could end him. Next is a blond bloke who already looks broken inside wounds cover him all over. There's dried blood on his lip, his pale blue eyes seem hungry for death only, his hair is tied back neatly against his head, he's squinting badly. He'll be my first kill, he seems easy. My dark eyes look at the last fellow, he's tall and lanky, he smells like a barn. His curly hair remains free on him and his white poor sleeved shirt is partially unbuttoned, his jeans are torn and caked in mud, his boots look to he steal toed and worn down heavily, I hope he's unbalanced, his hair should be easy for my to grab and I can bash his face in quicker. But my lord, he's gorgeous, the most beautiful human I've ever seen, I wish we didn't have to meet like this.

Today is the day I make my family proud, the dead's family receive a small sum of money of their loved one dies. I can see the king sitting atop of his throne high up where he can't get hurt but he has the perfect view. The horn blows and Black Friday has begun, I leap onto raggy he's too weak to fight, his eyes are sunken in and he looks close to death's door.

I smash his head against a rock his nails dig into my arms and bites down hard, weakly bucking and crying out. I twist and tug on his head, it's much harder to snap someone's head, like the older men do easily to invaders. I headbutt him repeatedly hearing the sound of his nose breaking and the gush of blood, he's sweet like wine, the look of fear and anguish sent a feeling burning throughout my body made, I growl, I haven't felt this alive in years. The crowd makes my adrenaline rush faster, their screams and cheers fuel me.

I finally decide to just strangle him clawing into his delicate flesh in the process, I sink my teeth into his neck since he wouldn't die fast enough. He chokes out, "Mama" before his green eyes glaze over and they roll into the back of his head, he still. I roll up his sleeve, "#221." I whisper, "You were a pathetic fight." I storm over to where curly and the blond were. The blond lays there dead his head on backwards, his death seems more humane than what I did to 221.

I look up at curly, "You must be 226." he bows blood stains his shirt, scratch marks litter his once barren face, I don't know how I missed their fight, they were right across from me. Must of been to engrossed with 221.

"How do you know?" I ask keeping a snarl on my face.

"Your arm shows me."

I back up, "Who are you?"

"#224, at your service." he grins teeth showing he has slight fangs he must be one of those hybrids, I roll my eyes and to think I thought this guy was hot.

"Aren't you that tailor's apprentice?" I ask.

He looks smug, "Yes I am. Finally someone recognizes me."

"T-Then your Brian May."

His eyes bug he grows pale, "H-How?''

The crowd starts to get restless with with all the talking things are being thrown in.

I let down my hair the crowd gasps when they see the comb that was in my hair, "The k-king's assassin. You stole the blue butterfly comb from, King John."

"And I'm your lover." I admitted which would disqualify us. I hold the comb out looking at Brian wearily, my chest heaving.

"You look like an angel, Farrokh." I laugh at that and hit him in the gut he doesn't react. Brian shakes he looks taking off guard but there's a look in his eyes as he keeps his blood stain fist in the air,

{Art Credit: @sirenlovesqueen}

A fist goes straight into my nose blood gushes out and it throbs hard, "You bastard!" I screech, "You've ruined my shirt!!" 

"You walk like an angel."

I laughs at that I walk with a limp thanks to the bastard king, "Talk like an angel, Farrokh." he whispers undoing his fist and caressing my blood stained cheek.

I blush and lean into his touch gingerly this is the first time I've been loved in months. His breathing is heavy, "You fooled me with your kisses...." his nails dig into my arm where my number is, "You cheated and you schemed.... Heaven knows how you lied to me." his hand went to my throat he now had me pinned against the cement wall.

"You're not the way you seemed." he laughs bitterly, "You're the devil in disguise." he chokes me digging his nails into my neck.

My eyes widen I grip onto the hair comb and deploy the hidden blade, I stab him the back gasping for air. He backs down, I hear the horn blow again, "Get #226!!"

I shove many expensive trinkets into my pockets I see Brian is down for the count, he won't fight me anymore. I manage to load myself up before I climb over the walls and run out of the kingdom, hiding in the trees until they pass. And I look at my arm, "I'm #226... This will be my downfall if I keep it on my arm." I pulls out the bloody hair comb and deploy the hidden blade again, I slice into my own flesh slicing away my identification.

I find a village not apart of my kingdom, I look at the outdoors thermometer hanging on someone's porch, the mercury in it seems to no longer be inside of it. I drag myself into a tavern my body felt worn I order a drink and something to eat, "What's your name?" a blond girl asks me once I got my drink, "I'm Mary Austin."

"Far-... Freddie," I thought back to the thermometer, ''Mercury. I'm Freddie Mercury, I'm 17 years old."

She smiles and welcomes me warmly into the village, maybe I really am the devil in disguise, because I want her dead she wouldn't stop flirting and trying to win me over. I go to find a place to sleep for the night but out of the corner of my eye I swear I saw long dark curls.

[astonishingmanes]

fighting love and other lost causes

This is my part 2 of this (post-season 1, non season 2 compliant)

tw// temporary death, blood, sadness

I’m not really happy with how this chapter turned out but I can’t stare at it anymore so I’ll just post it

Kyle was going to kill Michael. He was going to grab him by the neck and strangle him to death.

“Do you really think I would’ve called you unless I thought something was really wrong?” Alex hadn’t answered his calls or texts in two weeks, two weeks, which was totally unusual because since he had moved away from Roswell and started working on dismantling Project Shepard and working on “other alien related stuff”, as Alex called them,  he had always kept in contact with Kyle, weather via text or call and once they even face timed.

“He only calls Liz when he thinks he has found something important, he probably hasn’t found anything and that’s why he hasn’t called” Michael answered dismissively, which made Kyle even angrier than before. He decided that strangling him wasn’t a bad enough fate, he was going to grab him by his golden locks and dunk him in the water until he drowned.

“That may be true about Liz, but he always answers when I text him and if he doesn’t answer my calls he usually calls me back. I know this may seem strange to you, but I’m his friend, not his coworker. We talk and text almost every day.”

“It’s a three hours drive to Albuquerque and I don’t want to get there just to find out that Alex is doing perfectly fine and it’s just ignoring you, which knowing Alex wouldn’t be a surprise” that’s it, maybe Kyle should just burn him alive.

“But that’s what I’m telling you! He always answers my calls and texts but hasn’t in two fucking weeks, which is not normal. I’m telling you that he could be in danger and you don’t even care!” he knew that things between Michael, Alex and Maria had ended badly, he knew that was one of the reasons why Alex had left, but there is a difference between a bad break up and not caring whether you ex boyfriend is in grave danger or not.

“Okay, okay” conceded Michael “ I can free my schedule for the day after tomorrow and go and check out if he’s fine, which he probably is. Just text me the address” and then he left.

Michael did care about Alex, you can’t stop loving someone just because it’s painful. Love doesn’t just disappear when you don’t want to feel it anymore. Maybe one day in the distant future he will look at Alex and feel nothing but a little nostalgia, a pale echo of what he used to feel for the man. But for now, Michael was happy simply not thinking about Alex, not talking about Alex and especially not looking at Alex. He and Maria were doing fine. It had been almost seven months since they kissed in the bar after Caulfield and 3 months since they had actually started dating seriously. He didn’t need Alex to ruin it for him. Kyle was new to all of that, to Alex. But Michael knew Alex very well. When Alex told you that he would keep in touch he meant that he would keep in touch for maybe the first month, Kyle got lucky and got three, but then he would disappear off the face of the earth and leave you wondering whether he was alive or dead in a ditch somewhere on the other side of the world. And then he would resurface a year later acting as if absolutely nothing had happened.  

Well Michael was tired of spending his life wondering whether Alex was dead or alive.

Regardless of what Michael was tired or not tired of doing at dawn he got in his truck and started driving anyway, because while he could tell himself that Alex was perfectly fine again and again and again a part of him kept telling him that maybe something was really wrong, that he should’ve gone as soon as Kyle had told him, that maybe Alex was in danger, that maybe it was too late.

He stepped on the gas.

When Michael finally understood what had happened to Alex it was already midday. He couldn’t believe Alex had been so stupid to go undercover alone, without support, without extraction, without telling anyone where he was or what he was doing. If it hadn’t been for Kyle no one would’ve discovered that something was wrong, that he had gone missing. That Alex had been kidnapped. Captured.

So Michael did the best thing that he could, he did what was best and smart. He went to rescue Alex alone. With no plan, no backup, no rescue team and without anyone knowing where he was or what he was doing. Because that’s just what one does.

He had wanted to call the others, to tell them that Kyle had been right all along, that Michael had wasted time for nothing, that Alex was in danger. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t wait one more second, he couldn’t leave Alex alone and scared more than he already did. The others would tell him to wait. To wait for them to get off their jobs. To wait for them to arrive in Albuquerque. To wait and make up a plan. To wait because no one would agree on the plan. And Michael couldn’t wait anymore, he had already waited two days before going to Albuquerque himself, he wasn’t going to waste anymore time while Alex was suffering. 

He knew he was being irrational, he knew he was being stupid and riddiculous and insane and if someone had been there and pointed out to him all of the reasons why he shouldn’t  rush into anything he wouldn’t have gone because the risks outnumbered the benifets. But no one was there, so Michael went.

The first time he laid eyes on Alex inside of that cell he was furious and scared and relieved all at the same time.

Nothing would ever compare to the joy that filled his heart the moment he realized that he hadn’t been too late, that Alex was still alive,  that he would be able to see his pretty face again, hear his lovely voice, admire his dazzling smile. 

Just the possibility of never seeing Alex alive again was devastating; the thought of a world where Alex was gone was something that Michael couldn’t even fathom.

He wanted to scream and cry and laugh, because Alex was there, alive, but he was so impossibly thin and pale and helpless. He looked so fragile. It was like he wasn’t even there, like he couldn’t understand what Michael was saying, what Michael was doing.

But he was alive.

He would get better, Michael told himself, it was only a matter of time, the only important thing was getting him out, everything else could wait just a little longer.

The first time Michael failed he cried and begged Alex for forgiveness because he couldn’t save him. Because Michael was always failing him, always letting him down and hurting him. And this once he had failed him for the last time.

And Alex’s face, Alex’s beautiful face, looked so confused, as if he couldn’t understand why Michael was sobbing. Like he couldn’t understand that they were both about to die.

At least Alex wasn’t scared, he told himself selfishly, at least the last time he laid eyes on Alex’s face it wouldn’t be distorted by fear and pain, at least he wouldn’t have to see Alex’s eyes filled with terror. 

He wanted to hug him for the last time, he wanted to feel Alex’s soft skin against his, he wanted to feel Alex’s strong arms holding him close, the warmth of his cheek against his neck, soft breaths tickling him. But he couldn’t. Nothing hurt more than knowing that he would never hold Alex again, he would never hear his lovely laugh or see his blinding smile, that this was it, the end, and that there was nothing poetic about it. Everything was just ending, with no joy or justice or closure. It was just the end, cruel and sad and pointless.

Bullet after bullet hitting his body, piercing his flesh, a pain so loud it was deafening. And still that pain couldn't come close as the pain of losing Alex for the last time.

And then he woke up on Alex’s dusty floor, face wet but clothes clean.

He felt numb and dazed. Empty. He kept looking at his surroundings without actually taking anything in. He laid there, paralized, and all that he could see was Alex’s confused face, all that he could feel were the bullets hitting his chest, and in the distance, far far away, he could hear Alex screaming.

But Alex wasn’t screaming, there were no bullets inside his chest, blood wasn’t pooling out of his body. He wasn’t dead and, most importantly, Alex wasn’t there.

2:48 pm the clock read, and that too was impossible because it had taken him more than ten minutes to storm the compound, to wander its halls, to find Alex inside his cell, to be killed. 

But here he was, inside Alex’s apartment staring at a clock that didn’t make sense, without a scratch on him. Was it a dream, he wondered. Maybe after finding out where Alex was being kept he had simply fallen asleep and dreamt the whole rescue mission.

And still the desolation of losing Alex didn’t seem like a dream, didn’t seem like something that his mind would conjure up. It felt real, it felt like something tangible, almost like he could touch the pain and grief and guilt that he had felt in those last moments.

He knew it must have been real, whether it had been magic or alien technology or God himself, Michael knew it had been real. The only question was whether Alex was safe and sound inside his cell or if Michael was the only one who had been saved and Alex’s body was still lying on the ground where Michael had died.

Six hours the others said, wait six hours until we get there and then we’ll figure it out together. Michael knew they were right, knew he needed a plan. But anguish was surrounding him, pain was flowing through his heart, grief drowning him. He couldn’t sit and wait and let the darkness fester him, eat him alive from the inside out.

At 3:07 he entered the compound, this time he didn’t have to look inside their minds to find out where Alex was, this time he didn’t care about who he hurt or killed, this time he released his fury on those who had killed him, who had killed Alex.

This time Alex was like the time before, thin and pale and fragile. And so utterly out of it.

“Do you remember?” he asked, “Has this happened to you before?” but Alex didn’t answer, he just stared at his lips as if he couldn’t understand what was coming out of them.

Maybe I’m the only one who remembers, he thought.

He caressed his cheek, so impossibly pale and cold and couldn’t believe his eyes. Alex was alive in front of him and even if he was pale like snow, with big dark circles under his eyes and hollow cheeks, Michael couldn’t help but think that he looked beautiful because he was Alex and Alex was always breathtaking.

Alex’s arms around his neck, Alex’s head gently resting upon his shoulder, Alex’s eyes looking at his face, as if he couldn’t really believe that Michael was there, his hand coming up to Michael’s cheek, soft and delicate, as if to make sure that Michael was really there, that it wasn't only and illusion.

At 3:28 the shots rang out, Michael’s body hitting the ground.

At 3:07 he woke up again on Alex’s dusty floor, face dry and clothes clean. Darkness still engulfing his heart, grief still fresh on his mind. But Alex was still alive, still lying in his cold dark cell, still waiting to be saved.

So he went there again and again and again. Everytime he would shiver at Alex’s touch, everytime he would marvel at his face, everytime he would hold him close, afraid of letting him go. And every time he would fail him, everytime he would die in front of Alex’s eyes. 

At 7:09 he woke up on Alex’s dusty floor, face wet but clothes clean and then he screamed and cried and wailed because he couldn’t do this anymore, because he needed Alex to be alive. So he stopped. Because he had been willing to die time and time again if it meant saving Alex, but the reality was that he wasn’t saving Alex, he was bringing him to the slaughter.

So he waited for the others, he waited for their plan and their ideas because he needed Alex to be safe, he needed Alex to keep breathing, to keep living.

He knew how irrational he had been, what if their “resurrections” were limited, what if in his hurry and need to save Alex he had been the one that had brought him to his death just because he couldn’t wait a few more hours, just because he had been too desperate to save Alex, just because he had lost his mind at the thought of Alex being gone?

He couldn’t risk it again, he couldn’t risk Alex’s life ever again.

He took Alex’s blanket, which still smelled like him, and curled up on his bed, which still smelled like him, and pretended that Alex was there between his arms, safe and sound and happy, and if sobbs escaped his mouth and tears fell from his eyes, no one was there to see it.

Burnt orange worry was scorching Maria from the inside, copper guilt corroding her heart

and bright red anger burning inside her stomach. Those were at least the emotions that she could bear, the ones that she understood, the ones that while painful and scary were at least acceptable.

But there were other emotions there too, emotions that she didn’t want to acknowledge, that she refused to think about. They weren’t as strong and clear as the other ones, but entangled with one another so completely  that she couldn’t even tell one from the next.

Michael had died. Time and time again Michael had died without a care in the world, without even thinking how it would affect her. Without thinking that his death would mean never seeing her again, never touching her again. She hadn’t even been on his mind, he had been willing to leave her forever, to never see her again, without even saying goodbye. And now he couldn’t even touch her, he wouldn’t even look at her, as if she wasn’t there, as if they weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, as if they weren’t supposed to be there for each other, comfort one another, hold each other up when they couldn't on their own. Instead every time she tried to touch him he would pull away as if it burned him, as if he couldn’t bear to be near her. She just wanted to feel his arms around her and hold him in return, she wanted to hear his voice whispering in her ear that everything would be fine, a sweet kiss tenderly placed upon her temple, the roughness of his hand gently caressing her. She wanted to be there for him and for him to be there for her, but he felt far away even if he was only mere feet away and she felt alone even if surrounded by people.

She felt selfish and vile everytime those thoughts crossed her mind because Alex was more important, because Alex was in danger and he should be her only focus, her only worry. But still the hurt and jealousy would nag at her..

Hours they sat inside Alex’s living room questioning Michael again and again, prodding him for every detail. She had to listen to Michael talking about all the ways he had died as if it wasn’t tearing her apart from the inside. His heart had stopped beating, his lungs had stopped breathing, he had been gone from this world. The knowledge that he had been dead was too much to bear. He had died and she wouldn’t have been able to see him again, to hear his teasing voice and warm laugh, to feel his rough hands upon her skin, his soft kisses on her lips. Michael had died time and time again and here they were, talking as if that hadn’t happened, as if meant nothing, as if it wasn't a big deal. She wanted to scream at them, all of them, what were they thinking! Michael had died for god sake, she had lost him forever and no one cared. They just kept making their plan and then, after what seemed like a second, they were already ready to go.

Maria wanted to stop them, to tell Michael that he didn’t have to go, that Jenna, Isobel and Max were enough, that they could do it on their own, that they were good enough, that she couldn’t stand the idea of Michael dying again.

But she didn’t.

She wanted to hug Michael, to kiss him again, to wish him good luck and tell me that everything was going to be okay, that they would bring Alex back, safe and sound. But Michael was distant, he wouldn’t even look at her, so she stood back, she didn’t hug him and she didn’t kiss him, only letting a soft “good luck” leave her lips.

At 10:39 pm they walked out of the door and at 10:50 they appeared on the living floor, Michael’s face wet with tears that wouldn’t stop falling and Maria’s heart broke for the millionth time that day because Michael had died again.

She ran at his side, tears already streaming down her cheeks, and hugged Michael like she had never hugged him before, her arms holding him as tight as she could, afraid of letting him go, afraid that he would disappear, afraid that he would die and stay that way.

But when Maria pulled away and looked him in the eyes she realized that she had lost him anyway, that regardless of the outcome of this mission Michael was never going to be hers again and what hurt the most was the suspicion that maybe Michael had never been hers in the first place, at least not totally, not completely, not truly.

“He remembers everything” Michael whispered, “he said he'd been there for months.” and then he broke.

[youarejesting]

Me & the Ghost in Number 23 Part Nine

[MASTERLIST]

Summary: Moving into your new apartment on the dance academy campus, you hear it is haunted. You find yourself practicing your routines with the ghoulish resident in the second bedroom. Things get heated, except you know ghosts are cold. so…

Pairing: Jimin x Reader, Yoonseok & Taekook implied

Warnings:  talks about death being dead he is a ghost.

Genre: Supernatural, Mystery, Drama, Romance, Action, sexy stuff and more. HONESTLY ALL THE GOOD STUFF.

Announcement: The idea of burning the clothes for ghosts comes from the Kdrama ‘Oh My Ghost’ One more to go!

[Tag yourself]

With the upcoming performance, you spent most of your time with Hoseok in the dance studio, and sometimes you would even hang out after practice with him and Yoongi. You were quick to notice Jimin was acting weird. He had gotten quiet and when you did come home and try to talk to him, he was so closed off his smiles fake.

One night -the night before the performance auditions- you had come home later than you expected. Jimin was sitting at the window sill looking out the window. He seemed to acknowledge your presence by walking to his bedroom door.

“Hey Jimin, are you hungry?” He slipped through the solid wood and you froze, dropping your hands to your sides and stormed over to his door. “Park Jimin, You let me and tell me why you are acting like this?”

With no answer, you pulled out the emergency key you had on your key chain and unlocked the door walking in. “Jimin, I know you are in here?”

“That’s funny because you can’t fucking see me can you, so how can you be so sure of that sweetheart” He pressed you to the wall his cold hand around your throat and his cool breath on your cheek as he growled, “Leave before I kill you?”

“Why are you being such a jerk”

“Surprise this is who I am”

“Bullshit, I know you Jimin”

“You don’t know shit about me” He scoffed tightening his hand around your delicate flesh and you knew his anger was manifesting a strength he wasn’t used to “I could tell you anything have you pity me just to get what I want”

“Okay, then kill me Jimin. If you are so tough” you were going to call his bluff. He was not a malicious guy as either ghost or man, he always put you first. “Do it Jimin, Kill me” 

His hand tightened and you saw his figure appear in front of you as clear as day and you touched his wet cheeks. “Jimin, I can see you” you choked out tears falling from your eyes and his eyes met yours shocked and he let go of your throat and backed away fading into the air once more.

“Get out before I hurt you”

“I don’t want t-” Jimin through a lamp at you, it hit you in the head and smashed a little before completely disintegrating on the floor. You fell unconscious.

“What have I done?” Jimin called holding your form in his arms and he cried telling you how sorry he was and to stay alive because he loved you and he didn’t want you to live through this cold experience everyday.

You came too on the couch moments later and looked up at him sadly and two people ran through the front door. “Hey, we heard a smash is everything okay?”

“Dude why are there so many mirrors around the room this is creepy,” Jungkook said looking around and you told them to call for someone to help you. They called Hoseok and Yoongi and went to bring Namjoon and Seokjin to help come help you.

Seokjin took his time taking care of your head wound and frowned. You tried to prove you were okay. Your eyes follow Jimin who was standing in the corner trying to stay out of the line of sight of the mirrors. But your eyes could find him anywhere. It seemed you weren’t the only one who noticed him as Taehyung’s eyes were staring in the same direction. He was quiet observing Jimin as Jimin observed him. The two seemed to watch each other curiously and Taehyung gave a small smile and a little hesitant wave.

Standing you tried to walk to Jimin, you knew he must have blamed himself for this. But as you got closer your head spun causing you to topple forward. Launching himself forward Jimin caught you in his arms. He pulled you into a bridal hold and they all gasped freaking out you were floating in the middle of the room. Jungkook pointed at your floating figure as you were carried back to the couch. 

“It’s the ghost kid.” He breathed

“His name is Jimin,” Yoongi sighed walking in and you held your head.

“No it’s all good, just come in with your shoes on Yoongi”

“Hey, it was my house first.” He stormed through the house into Jimin’s room inspecting the broken lamp and looking back out at the ghost who dropped his head guiltily.

“Keyword is was” you sighed

“What happened?” Jungkook asked, eyeing Jimin through the mirror watching the tense ghost’s actions as he dragged a blanket out and placed it over your form “Did he hurt you?”

“No?” You whispered 

“Bullshit, have you seen your neck?” 

“It’s not like that?” You blushed covering the bruises with your hands from their view.

“What you are going to tell me that’s your kink being strangled and having a lamp thrown at your head” Yoongi scoffed and Hoseok held the pale man’s arm trying to calm him. “Jimin, tell me what happened?”

Jimin started crying and he buried his head into your shoulder apologizing “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am so sorry”

“He talks” Jungkook shouted earning a slap on the back of the head by Seokjin

“Respect the dead” the older male scolded and Jungkook’s bunny teeth bit his lip trying to silence all his questions.

“Uh, mister ghost” Taehyung crouched by your feet looking in Jimin’s direction “Can I ask you something?”

Jimin nodded whispering quietly at Taehyung who played with his sleeves. “Please ask me anything?”

“Do-” pulling in a shaky breath the curly-haired brunette rubbed his nose sniffling. “Do our loved ones visit us?”

“Ah yes, when you pay your respects, every year or when you openly talk to your loved ones they will be there listening, too me it’s like a spotlight shining over you”

Taehyung had tears in his eyes as he thanked Jimin and headed off to the side where he hugged Jungkook burying his head in the younger boys’ neck. Jungkook’s strong arms cradled him.

The next week after you had sat out of the performance review and therefore couldn’t audition. Jimin had been beating himself up over it and refused to eat with you or, go out or speak to you at all. It was on your way back from the grocery store that you saw something in a shop window. 

A beautiful white sweater with black words printed in cursive on the front. You smiled imagining burning it for Jimin when something inside you clicked and you realized you were in love with him. You knew you liked him after a few days into knowing him, and the day he told you all about his life really intensified your bond. But you had really fallen for him.

Grabbing the item you raced back to the dorms and at the back of the building, you made a tiny fire in the large pot. “What are you doing?”

You jumped clutching your chest before looking at the two younger males. Each one wearing a smug expression, their lips a little pink you suspected they had been making out or something. “Hello Jungkook, Hello Tae, I am burning this sweater for Jimin?”

“Why, it looks new?” Jungkook asked

“No burning it is how you give items to the dead, excluding food, that stuff is useless burnt”

“Oh, how do you do it?” Explaining in depth the process, Taehyung brought out a small photo, “I have the original in my photo album but if I burn this will it work?”

“I think it will Tae” you smiled and let him use the fire first and he spoke aloud addressing his loved ones and then specifically wishing them a happy life where ever they were. He was beaming. After that, you took the soft sweater and smiled at the words on the front.

‘Mi Amor’

You headed back to the apartment and walked in as quietly as you could, and you walked in passing his open door and you saw him looking in the mirror starring at the sweater. His hand curled into a fist and pressed against his lips deep in thought. He turned this way and that touching the soft material and then touching the words on the front.

“Do you like it?” You asked him and he looked over at you his cheeks flushing and you smiled walking inside his room. “I saw it and thought of you”

“Oh thank you it is so nice” he hugged you and you embraced him looking in the mirror.

“Jimin, I think I love you and I don’t know what to do?” He tensed and pulled back looking in the mirror and meeting your eyes.

“No”

“I can’t stop it, I love you” you repeated tears pricking in your eyes this wasn’t the response you were going for, you thought he would have replied the same way and you could have shared a kiss or something.

“Listen this isn’t good for you, you want a happy life, dancing and a husband and kids right, we spoke about this. You have dreams and aspirations”

“I’m not going to kill myself for you Jimin, I love you but I know that’s stupid trust me I have watched Romeo and Juliet and even Twilight, I just love you okay, so let’s just have an awkward Ghost human love okay”

Reluctantly he agreed and hugged you relaxing in your arms. “I think this is a bad decision because someone is going to get hurt but, I um… I love you too”

[Tag yourself]

[tonysopranosfeverdreams]

@glennatohowerton

42. “Why are you shaking?”

64. “Yell, scream, cry, please, just say something, anything.”

It was 3:27 am, the last time Dennis checked his watch, which meant that Mac has been out for approximately 6 hours.

 He was on a date with some  asshole named Sean, who appeared from the grindr profile that Mac had gleefully waved in his face over their shared cartons of Chinese takeout earlier that night, to be all of 25 years old, and, undeniably, a total beefcake. When Dennis  had made some snide remark about the kid probably needing to be home in time for curfew, Mac had just laughed it off in between mouthfuls of vegetable lo mein (stolen from Dennis’s plate), his eyes scrunching up at the edges. It made him look younger, somehow, vulnerable.  Dennis had stared at the table.

Mac had bounced out the door donning a dark green t-shirt, sheer and fitted so it clung to his muscles.  Mac’s hair was soft, ruffled, and he looked more confident and at ease than Dennis had seen him in  years, casting a bright  smile over his shoulder while Dennis not to wait up for him.  Dennis had nodded. Dennis had counted the beer stains on the beige living room carpet. Dennis had thrown a mug against the wall. Dennis had cut his fingers picking up the tiny pieces of china that covered the kitchen floor. Dennis had paced the length of the apartment over and over for approximately 45 minutes.

Inevitably,  Dennis finds himself awake in the middle of the goddamn night, taking generous swigs from a bottle of whiskey he had unearthed from the depths of the kitchen cabinet, and flipping aimlessly through channels featuring scantily clad women on a quest to find their soulmate while jump-starting their model careers and rich housewives whose faces were more plastic than flesh and bone- who talked too much but said nothing. He ultimately settled on some nature channel showing a series that documented different species of birds. Tonight, they were talking about blue jays, he noticed, watching as one of the stern-looking little  birds soared across his screen to settle on a tree branch next to another.

Blue jays mate for life, apparently. Dennis hadn’t known that.  The soft drone of the narrator served as adequate background noise for Dennis’s increasingly loud, alcohol-fueled thoughts.

It was fucking ridiculous, really. Dennis knew Mac had been with men in the past, so he really shouldn’t be so fixated on the happenings of Mac’s date. For all the grief Dennis gives him, he realizes that Mac is an objectively attractive man, and now that he’s happily out of the closet,  there’s no reason he shouldn’t be out playing the field, catching up on the feelings and experiences he’d pretended not to want for the past thirty years, embracing the parts of himself he’d tucked carefully away from the outside world (or only acknowledged in the dim backrooms of seedy bars, caught in the middle of glittering crowds of moving bodies on the dance floor, drunk enough for a moment that he forgot what he was so afraid of in the first place, under some spell  that inevitably broke the next morning. This thought makes Dennis’s chest constrict sharply, a dull, aching feeling he can’t quite pinpoint).

But now, Mac was healing. Mac was growing. Mac was out with a man with dimples and a six pack who was probably laughing at all of his stupid jokes, touching his arms lightly as he leaned in to whisper something in his ear, making Mac’s cheeks flush and his eyes gleam in the same way they would whenever Dennis would dole out a rare compliment or words of praise.  Mac was out with a man who presumably had a career and goals and real adult relationships, who could wake up in the morning and eat three meals a day like it was nothing, who would probably call Mac baby when he’s sober and let Mac hold his hand; someone who wouldn’t lash out at him with unnecessarily sharp words, but would make him feel good about himself,  who would give him Valentine’s presents and stay to make him breakfast in the morning. Mac would like that, Dennis thought.

Dennis pictures Mac as he always looked first thing in the morning padding quietly out of his bedroom blurry eyed and sleep-soft, expression warming when he lays eyes on Dennis. Imagines someone else seeing him like that every day. Dennis thinks of getting drunk with Mac, leaning heavily against his shoulder on countless late night walks home from the bar, peering up under his lashes to catch a glimpse of Mac’s face; his gelled hair falling messily across his forehead, mouth open in concentration on getting them both home in one piece. The smell of his old leather jacket mixing with his dollar store shampoo and cologne samples ripped from men’s magazines, his arm tightening around his waist when Dennis inevitably stumbled over an empty beer bottle or groove in the sidewalk.

He thinks of Mac as a teenager: the two of them sitting silently in his room after his father went to prison for the second time, Mac’s arms circled tight around knees, his gaze fixed vacantly on the paint peeling off his bedroom wall, sitting closely enough that the outside of their thighs just touched. He thinks of Mac as he might be when he’s older, with more specks of gray painting his dark hair, more wrinkles around his eyes, but with the same unchanging, almost childish smile.Thinks again of Mac dating, maybe even getting married, someday. Growing old with someone.

At this point, Dennis realizes he is having difficulty breathing, his breaths coming out shorter and quicker than they normally would, his heart beating so loudly  he swears it echoes in his ears. The adrenaline sets in. Dennis goes to take another swig of whiskey to calm himself down, before he notices the bottle is empty. Fuck.  He immediately senses that has to get out. He has to get out of this fucking apartment and flee to somewhere, anywhere else. He is vaguely considering going to the 7-11 down the street to pick up a 12 pack of beerbeer, and at least burn off all this weird fucking nervous energy when his thoughts are interrupted by sound of the front door opening.

Mac’s moving as quietly as possible, as if trying not to wake anyone up. Painted in the yellow light from the hallway, he kicks his shoes off and gently sets his keys on the kitchen counter, before he notices Dennis sitting on the sofa.

“Jesus Christ, Dude!  I had no idea you were awake,” he all but squawks “Fuck, man, you almost gave me a heart attack”

“Sorry,” Dennis offers, tonelessly.

Mac exhales through a tired grin, stifling a yawn with his fist as he steps closer to Dennis,  flinging himself into a chair opposite the couch and stretching his arms over his head. Dennis’s gaze lingers the curve of his upper arm, his fingers resting lightly against the back of the chair.

“Oh man, at first I was super worried I was gonna get catfished, and it was gonna turn out to be like a  gross old woman or some shit like you see on tv, you know?” Mac makes a disgusted face, lip curling up dramatically before laughing. “But then I get to the Rainbow and it turns out Sean is like. An actual personal trainer, and he sells his own line of like, protein shakes, I think?  And like, I’m pretty ripped dude, but I mean this dude is absolutely shredded, like way more bigger in person than the pictures.”

As Mac proceeds to talk more about his date (who apparently had been very interested in watching Mac’s Project Badass tapes, though Dennis expected this was mostly to get into his pants), Dennis finds his focus drifting.  Mac has a stray piece of glitter decorating the skin just above the collar of his t-shirt, Dennis notices absently, glimmering mildly in the faintly lit room, and drawing attention to the part of his body where the meat of his neck meets collarbone, surprisingly delicate.

Dennis looks down at the floor, then forces his eyes back on the tv screen, barely registering  the shapes of the tiny, brightly colored creatures collecting twigs to build their nest together. Vaguely, Dennis wonders what would happen  if something went wrong. If nature maybe fucks up now and then and one of the birds can’t figure out how to build nests properly, was born without the instinct, or just doesn’t know what to do when the time comes, and he fucks it all up? What happens to him then? Does he just fly away?

Mac must notice that something is off, because he stops talking.

“Dennis. Dennis dude, are you okay?” He looks genuinely confused, as his gaze skates across Dennis’s face. Suddenly his eyes widen, his brow creasing with worry.

“Dennis? Why are you shaking?”

Was he? Dennis hadn’t noticed.

“I’m going to get you a blanket, man. Just wait here a second.” Mac’s wringing his hands, biting his lip as he stares at him earnestly,  like he does when he realizes Dennis hasn’t eaten all day or when Dennis finally emerges from the bathroom after having locked himself inside for the better part of the night.

The softness, the sincerity of the expression makes something in Dennis snap, and all he hears is static electricity, all he sees is red.  Just as Mac  turns to go get the blanket from his room, Dennis calls out to him:

“So fucking typical isn’t it? You’re so desperate for affection you’ll open your legs for  the first decently attractive person who gives you the time of day, as if they actually give a shit about you” he punctuates the sentence with a cold, strangely strangled sounding laugh, schooling his expression into one of mock pity.

“ Anyway, this guy was probably just bored, looking for a quick lay to kill some time. Absolutely pathetic.”

Mac freezes from his position in the doorway, his back stiffening, and Dennis’s entire body goes suddenly cold with dread. But Mac just stands there, with his back to Dennis, as the seconds tick unbearably onward.

“Come on!” Dennis croaks, desperate now to evoke some kind of reaction. “Yell, scream, cry, please, just say something, anything!”

Mac turns slowly back to face Dennis, and when he does, Dennis sees an array of emotions plastered on his face; there’s pain etched into his features, and anger, but worst of all there’s this strange acceptance, like he had half expected Dennis to lash out like this, like he’s had years and years of practice. His voice is carefully controlled when he speaks next.

“Yeah, well, if I’m so pathetic, if I’m so desperate, then why the fuck did you come back in the first place? We were finally starting to get back to normal or like, I don’t know maybe an even better version of normal when you waltzed back in without any kind of explanation or apology for leaving us alone for over a year, Dennis.” Mac’s voice cracks, the way it does when he talks about his dad in prison, the way it does when he can’t but help but allow his carefully maintained facade of toughness to drop for just a moment.

Dennis sits frozen still, stunned. He wasn’t expecting this. He doesn’t know what he expected. Dennis doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but Mac’s eyes are glossy when he continues

“There were… weeks, Dennis. When I couldn’t get out of bed, when Charlie would come to make sure I was….” he flounders  “to make sure I was okay. And even after that I was trying so hard not to think about it I did so much stupid shit just trying to forget about y-to forget about it ” He clears his throat, raises his head slightly to look Dennis in the eye. “I was in a really bad place, man.  You leaving didn’t just affect you.” He pauses, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. Dennis swallows, suddenly, against, a growing lump forming in his throat.

“And now you’re back and you keep talking about how much you hate me, or how annoying I am, or how much you wish you didn’t live with me?” he chuckles bitterly. “So what I’m having a hard time understanding is- why? Why, Dennis? Why did you leave your kid and your cushy life with Mandy and come back to Philly, back to our home if I’m so goddamn terrible?”

Mac has these bright pink splotches  high on his cheeks, his chest heaving with barely restrained emotion.

Dennis is paralyzed. He wants to flee. He wants to reach out and touch Mac. He wants to become as small as humanly possible, so small that no other person can ever see him again. He feels wetness forming on his cheeks, has no idea how it got there.

Mac’s body visibly deflates as he takes in the scene before him. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck for a long moment, features softening. Moving quickly, he steps closer to Dennis, reaching out to touch him, hand  hovering near his shoulder before he thinks better and it drops to its side.

“Fuck, man. It’s late.” he forces a watery laugh, hand running through his own hair. “We’re just tired, saying shit we don’t mean.” He won’t quite meet Dennis’s eyes. “I’m going to go get you that blanket.”

Mac exits the room, and swiftly returns with the soft blue flannel blanket from his own bed, wrapping it loosely around Dennis’s shoulders with gentle, careful movements. He sits next to Dennis on the couch, leaving enough space that their legs don’t touch, but Dennis can still feel some of the warmth radiating from his body.

“Did you know that blue jays mate for life?” Dennis asks, abruptly. Mac pauses in his fussing with the blanket to lean back enough to look into Dennis’s eyes, cautious and confused. His whole face shifts, like he’s on the brink of something, but can’t fully bring himself to understand exactly what’s taking place.

“What? I don’t-” he starts

“Their whole life,” Dennis manages, feebly maintaining eye contact, his nails digging into his own thigh as he forces himself onward. He chokes on his words for a minute before continuing.  “ It’s just the one.”

“Dennis,” Mac breathes, his eyes wide with confusion, and fear, and something that looks suspiciously like hope. He reaches out and this time grabs Dennis’s hand where its curled into his thigh, squeezes it tight. “You’re okay. Dennis,  it’s going to be okay.”

And for the first time,  Dennis thought, maybe it was.

[toggle1-mrfipp]

End of All Meaning Chapter X: And So The Truth

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End of All Meaning

Chapter X: And So The Truth

2B's footsteps echoed through the empty halls of The Bunker, her black box beating in her chest as she neared her destination, to a meeting she would prefer to not have, in the fear about what it might be about. She found the Commander, arms folded behind her back, staring pensively out the window and into the dark, starlight reaches of space, and to the blue and green planet below them, where war constantly waged against an enemy force that never seemed to deplete.

She stopped before her superior and quickly saluted her. “Ma'am,” she said firmly. “You wished to see me?”

The Commander slowly turned away from the window and the cosmos before she faced 2B, her own sharp blue eyes penetrating the black cloth of her own visor, and 2B dearly hoped that she wouldn't say what she knew she was going to say. It had been over a month...

Finally, the Commander spoke. “During his recovery after he was rescued from the machine lifeform, Adam, 9S hacked into The Bunker's servers and accessed several highly classified documents.”

“I see,” 2B replied, calmly.

She wanted to scream and cry, to get on her hands and knees and beg no matter how shameful such an act could be. Not yet, she can't do it not so soon, not when she had strangled the life out of him not even a full twenty-four hours ago, not when he was finally cleared to be downloaded back into one of his spare bodies, not when she had seen him only a few minutes ago because he was okay, he was alive for once. He was alive, he kept his memories of her, of what they had been through and the battles they fought, and the look of recognition on his face when she came to check up on him filled her with something she couldn't accurately describe.

Relief. Delight. Happy.

Maybe she could make some kind of deal, offer the Commander something, anything, to take back the order. A part of her even considered taking her sword and running it right through the Commander, because she can't do this.

“I understand,” she replied, and she never hated herself more. She's weak, she's a coward, there was no end to the list of things she could be called, but the worst of all she knew exactly how she was going to do it this time; she was going to take him to the lunar tear field below the mall. It was peaceful and quiet there, beautiful in a way that touched her for reasons she didn't understand, and she hated that she would taint the purity of that place with his blood. Even so, he would appreciate that place being his resting place. “When 9S is able to be sent back to Earth, I'll make certain the order is carried out.”

Quickly she walked past the Commander, she couldn't be around her right now, she couldn't be around anyone at the moment, at best she could maybe spare a glance to 6O, who had the tendency to just know when the order came, but no more than that. Right now, she needed time to herself until 9S was ready to be deployed again, because until then she needed to…

Prepare.

“A minute, 2B,” the Commander said, and 2B stopped, barely a meter away from her, and reluctantly she turned towards her. How much longer would this last?

“Yes, ma'am?”

“2B,” the Commander started, and 2B felt her stomach drop inside her, feeling as though it had been filled with lead. What could she possibly have else to say? “I will tell you this, but because of your efforts, both Adam and Eve are dead, and with them gone it would seem that the machine network has been severely compromised and weakened. With it in this state, our strategists have begun mapping out a large-scale assault to target weak points in the remaining machine forces, and while they are not yet done compiling the data available to them, they seem to have a optimistic view of a successful mission.”

She nodded. Where was this going?

“I'll be frank with you, 2B, but this will be the largest-scale assault YoRHa has ever launched, and if everything goes out way, we will not only cripple the machines, but very possibly eliminate them as well.”

Beneath her visor, 2B's eyes widened in disbelief. “I'm sorry, but what?”

“What I'm saying, is that there is a very real chance that we could end this war for good, and to do that we will needed every single available YoRHa unit at their best.”

A horrible little thing called hope started to grow inside her chest. She didn't want it there because it would just eat away at what was left of her, but...

She had to be sure.

“And 9S?” she asked, trying to bury the hope as far down as possible.

“9S, he...” the Commander gave pause. It was only a moment, but it might as well have lasted an eternity. “The experiences 9S has gained since he was activated will be of a great benefit during the assault, so until we see what result of this mission, I am putting the usual orders on suspension”

Several times, 2B had put in cancellation orders for her orders, often proposing that 9S' death would greatly endanger whatever mission they were on, but every single submission had been quickly rejected, the best she was ever able to get an extension of how long she had to complete her gruesome task. But the Commander had just told her that the mission was 'on suspension'.

“Do you mean...” The hope was flaring up.

“For the time being, you will not have to end 9S' life.”

She didn't have to end 9S' life. She didn't have to kill him. He could live.

He would live.

“I-” Usually she was someone who preferred action to words, choosing to speak only when she felt she had something important to say, though the habit had possibly been born out of necessity than anything else. Even so, words were lost on her, there was so much she wanted to say, but she didn't know where to start.

“Understood?” the Commander asked.

“...Yes.” It was a challenge just to find even that simple word and push it past her lips. “Commander, I-” Too much to say, but no idea what to say.

Thankfully, the Commander had enough words for the both of them. “When you were first activated, I told you that your duties would not be easy, that they would be difficult, and I have no doubt you have suffered a great deal, both you and 9S.”

She caused 9S' suffering, so much of it.

“But if this mission works out, you will no longer have to carry out these orders.” The Commander smiled, something 2B was not used to seeing, but it was a soft smile, almost comforting. “When the machines are finally defeated, neither you or 9S, or any YoRHa soldier, will have to continue this cycle ever again.”

The hope had fastened itself inside her, letting her believe in this, that things could be better. That soon, she and 9S would be free.

“Thank you, Commander!” Instantly, she was embarrassed by the volume of her voice, and instantly tried to pull herself back in.

“You may now be dismissed, 2B.”

Almost instantly, she had to fight the urge to rush down the hall, she needed to find 9S, she needed to see him, to just be near him. “But know this, if the mission fails, and we find ourselves back to square one...”

“I know...” It wouldn't fail though.

Being dismissed, 2B found herself hurrying quickly down the hallway, down to where 9S was recovering.

000

Later, as she prepared for battle, securing her helmet to her head, 2B did something she had never done before; she prayed. She prayed in hope that the war would end, and that 9S would no longer have to die by her hand.

In the end, she got what she asked for.

000

When vision returned to 2B, she was blinded by the white light in The Tower, from the glaring white walls, to the light that seemed to emit from all around her, but as she focused her vision, saw the ceiling of the room she was in, high above her, a large crater seemingly blown out of it, and small, pristine cubes sliding against the ceiling as they moved into the crater, settling into fitted places, repairing the damage that had been done. What had been done exactly?

Everything hurt inside her, as though she had been thrown through several buildings, and crashed into several panes of heated glass before landing with enough force to bury herself halfway into the ground. Her visor was off, she noticed, and it took a a considerable amount of effort to simply raise her right arm with the intent of wiping the dust from her eyes, but as she swiped her palm against her face she immediately retracted with a hiss at the burning throb she had suddenly experienced. Waiting a few seconds, she allowed the pain to pass before she tentatively reached back, brushing past the clumps in her bangs before touching her left eyes. Or at least were her left eye was.

That's right, the 9S model did this. So she can't complain.

The eye was gone, heavily damaged with the skin surrounding the socket open and torn, and the nerve endings still raw and sensitive, and through her glove she could feel the drying blood on her face and in her hair.

Half her vision was gone, she could no longer see, but she still had to force herself up, to keep going to...

2B tried to push herself up, first by propping herself up with her right elbow, and then with her left, however she collapsed as she did so, pain streaking up up her limb as she hit the ground with another cry.  As she rolled over to her right, 2B clutched at her arm, only to find that her limb was gone, separated at the elbow, leaving only charred flesh, melted bone, and sparking cables and wires.

The exploding 9S model.

She was so tired, and the sight of what laid next to her did not help.

One of the 9S models, dead supposedly, if she had to guess. Its visor was blown off, and it made it seem like he was asleep, peacefully shutdown from the world and everything that was wrong with it.

Sometimes they had been this close to one another, close enough where she could reach out and gently stroke his cheek in order to fulfill a desire for intimacy that grew insatiably when she did not feed it. These moments, usually only happening in the typical last days of 9S' expected lifespan, always made her forget what her role in life, and what she would have to do to him soon, so very soon.

She was weak, and she hated it.

Then there were times where she was so weak, and she crossed boundaries that she should never had.

Maybe she was defective, she had asked herself too many times. After all, why make her to do the things she did, yet feel the things she felt? Why make her to be a murderer when she was capable of feeling remorse and guilt, shame and self-loathing? Why produce 9S with that level of curiosity, knowing he would eventually hack into The Bunker, every time without fail? Why pair the two of them up like this, if all they could do was suffer?

Why why why why why? Why, even now, does she desire the touch of something that no longer exists?

She'll probably never know, but she had to believe that there was a purpose to their suffering, a greater good that was more grand than the two of them. There just had to be.

2B would want nothing more than to curl up to the 9S model, pretend it was the real thing, and tell herself that there was nothing wrong, that everything was okay, and that there was nothing in the world beside them. To simply lay here and never move again.

That wasn't reality, and she didn't deserve something so blissful, so instead she pushed herself away from the 9S model, and with a great deal of effort and struggle, managed to stand to her feet. Her weight bared down on her legs, feeling as though she would further collapse at any given second, but she stumbled, barely able to keep on her feet, when she was able to fall against the wall, barely able to support herself. With her body in this state, she could barely move, and knew that her best chance of even making out of this room was let the nanomachines in her body. Nothing could be done about her eye and her arm, those were damaged beyond what nanomachines could repair, but the numerous other injuries, the ones on her skin, and whatever other internal damage there was, could be fixed.

“Pod,” she called out, her voice hoarse and in pain. “I need-”

Pod 042 was gone. She ordered it away from her because she felt she couldn't trust it, she felt afraid of it, and now she felt more alone that she ever had before.

It didn't matter, she needed to keep moving.

With her arm gone, her combat abilities would be greatly compromised, she wouldn't be able to hold her weapons in two hands, nor would she be able to use two at the same time. It would be troublesome, but since it seemed like her NFCS was still online, she would still be able to defend herself to a reasonable degree. Her missing eye however, that would pose a problem; the left side was completely blind, she would have no idea if anyone came up on her from that side. Her arm already feeling better, 2B raised her hand and gripped at the visor that hung around her neck and slid the fabric up her head until it was secured around her heads.

2B grimaced at the sight before her, at the static and distortions filling her vision, clearly the visor had taken some damage, but at least the visual receptors in her damaged socket still worked. Still, the malfunctions could maybe fixed if she…

She adjusted the visor, sliding it off her right eye and over her forehead, and the images before her started to clear up, the remaining processing power no longer needing to put so much effort on two eyes, but rather one. She's not in ideal condition, but she's still better overall, at least enough for her to move on.

2B continued to limp along through the hallways, using her sword as a crutch of sorts, while carefully stepping over any of the debris that littered the floor, until her legs have slowly, but certainly, gained their strength back and she is able to walk under her own power. Continuing down the hall, her limp slowly faded away, and her gait evened out, until she was moving normally again, unimpeded by her recovered injuries.

Keeping going, she told herself, keep fighting.

She had no idea what she was doing any of this for anymore? But it's the only path available to her. 2B entered the next room, which continued the trend of all white interiors, tall columns, the blurring abyss below, and lights that were just too bright filtering in from the other side of the room. Whether it was natural or artificial, she didn't know. She looked over the room, trying to find the next exit, but after a quick sweep she saw it, nestled in an uneven wall of cubes that jutted out at uneven angles. With her next destination in sight, 2B slowly made her way to it, her sword dragging behind her, the sharpened tip leaving faint grooves in the ground as she passed over it. For a moment, she was certain that there was another problem with her visor, but then she remembered that it was secured only around one of her eyes, meaning that her other eye would be free of any false readings, meaning that what she saw in front of her, was most likely real.

Standing on either side of the passage way, there were two flicking holograms, strangely enough, two girls, entirely identical in appearance, from their long black hair, and red dresses, to the odd, blank expressions they each wore.

2B took a single step towards them, and the cubes on the wall behind them shifted, sealing the door from her.

“YoRHa unit 2B,” said Not-6O's voice from all around her.

“YoRHa unit 2B,” Not-6O repeated, their voice joined in by something else, a deep baritone that sent chills through her body.

“Welcome to The Tower!”

“Welcome to The Tower!”

2B looked to these... things, whatever they were, and carefully took a step back. “What are you?”she hissed.

“Because you made it this far, we have a special announcement just for you...”

“WE'LL REVEAL IT ONCE YOU DESTROY ALL THE MACHINE LIFEFORMS HERE.” Not-6O was gone, and the deeper voice that had laid under it was all that remained.

“No...” was 2B's weak response as she shook her head. “I don't want to fight anymore. I'm just so tired of it all, so for once I'm just going to ask questions. Whatever secrets there are, just tell me. I don't want to go through anymore trials, or collect security codes, or fight through hordes of machines, or get lost in hacking space. No more games.” She sighed, her shoulders sagging as the tired breath escaped her, leaving her exhausted. “I just want to know the truth.”

The two images flicked, giving 2B no information on what they were thinking, and she didn't know if she could handle another fight.

“ORIGINALLY WE HAD DESIGNED MANY OF THE TESTS YOU FACED FOR UNIT 9S, BUT HIS DEATH MADE SUCH A THING IMPOSSIBLE. AT FIRST, WE HAD LITTLE EXPECTATIONS REGARDING HOW FAR YOU WOULD MAKE IT, BUT YOU MANAGED TO IMPRESS US. THEN AGAIN, THE TYPE 2 PERSONALITY WAS ALWAYS AN IMPRESSIVE ONE INDEED, ITS RESOURCEFULNESS AND DETERMINATION HAVE ALWAYS IMPRESSED US. FOR THAT, YOUR REQUEST WILL BE GRANTED.”

The documents are instantly uploaded to her system, and she knew everything there was to know.

The extinction of humanity first began in the early 2000's, with the start of a giant creature that suddenly appeared, and its destruction by the air force lead to a disease known as the White Chlorination Syndrome eventually turned all of humanity to piles of salt. Many projects were used to try and save the human race, androids were created to keep these programs running when humans themselves could not, but all of them failed. Even the best shot there was, Project Gestalt, which was meant to put human souls into artificial bodies, collapsed on itself, taking the last of the humans with them. Whatever remaining data there had been, had been preserved on the moon by the remaining androids, and it wasn't until after that did the aliens first invade.

YoRHa was never meant to fight off the aliens and restore humanity to its rightful place on Earth. YoRHa was meant to make other androids think there were human on the moon, something to give them hope against the overwhelming forces of the aliens and their machines. The preservation of this secret was of the most importance, because if the truth came out, android morale would fall and they would let themselves die, so any leaks on this information would be dealt with in the quickest, and most brutal fashion.

This was one of the primary reasons for the creation of the Executioner type.

To make absolutely certain that these secrets would be kept, Project YoRHa was ultimately designed to fail. A back door built into The Bunker's servers would open up when enough intelligence was gathered, opening all YoRHa androids up for a logic virus to be launched by the machines, which would result in the destruction off all YoRHa units, who were all built to be disposable. All gathered information would then be used to build up the following generation androids.

2B did not have much reason to believe this, any of this information that she had been given. She had gotten pieces of this from the Soul Box, and from the data she received from Devola and Popola, but these two girls had just laid everything out in front of her.

There were no humans. There never were. YoRHa was protecting nothing but data that was useful to no one.

Black boxes were machine in nature, why waste the resources on an android that was built to die? The prohibition of emotions was less about how they could affect mission effectiveness, but rather it was considered sacrilege for the bastard children of machines and androids to emulate human emotions.

She believed every single word she read.

Herself. 9S. 6O. 21O. A2. Even the Commander herself. Each and every single member of YoRHa. All of them designed to die. Her survival was no better than a fluke.

They were all meant to die. Thrown away for the sake of a lie.

“THIS IS PROJECT YORHA,” the voice from the girls said.

Everything she did... it was for nothing. There was no reason to do any of the things she did.

“NOW YOU KNOW THE TRUTH.”

Every single life she took. Machine. Android. 9S. 9S. 9S. 9S9S9S9S9SS9S...

“DO YOU STILL WISH TO LAY DOWN ON THE GROUND AND DIE?”

2B roared and swung Virtuous Contract at the holograms, only for them to vanish as the blade passed through them.

All the suffering she caused! All the pain she inflicted!

Why? WHY? WHY? WHY?

The door opened, the cubes sliding out of place and 2B instantly fled into the hall, into the bright light. She had to run, it didn't matter where, she just had to get away from here, but she knew that it didn't matter how far she ran, she was trapped here, inside The Tower. Even out into this new area, a single square suspended in the air, above the infinite void, where there was nothing but featureless gray around her, and small spire buildings hanging out there. The Tower was all around her, there was no escape from it. From herself.

“WE AR CONCEPTUAL HUMAN PERSONALITIES CREATED WITHIN THE MACHINE NETWORK.”

She tripped over her own feet and sent herself flying to the ground, and she cursed herself for not falling over the edge.

“WE CANNOT BE DESTROYED.”

She heard the familiar jets of YoRHa flight units around her, and the clacks of their boots as the infected units as they jumped down, surrounding her from all side, while all she could do was feebly push herself up.

“YORHA UNIT 2B. YOUR ATTACK IS MEANINGLESS.”

Meaningless. Meaningless. Meaningless...

The androids attacked.

She didn't matter. Nothing she ever did mattered.

2B let out a loud, and pained scream as she swung her sword, taking off the head of the nearest android, sending it flying off to the side, and before the body even hit the floor, she had already torn through the chest of another.

Her black box is machine. Machines are not supposed to have emotions, but she had seen plenty of machines display a wide range of them. She had seen love, happiness, grief and pride.

Right now, all she feels is despair and anger. Despair at the realization of the pointlessness of her existence, anger at that same feeling.

It did not take long for the other androids to die, to be chopped into pieces and strewn about the platform, and their flight units reduced to flaming wrecks. Killing these androids served no purpose, them dying benefited no one, but she still did it, even with one arm, she still managed to rip them apart.

She didn't matter. The machines didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Not even 9S mattered.

If nothing really mattered, why should anything even exist anymore?

She was made to kill, to destroy, so that is what she will do.

The platform beneath her feet shook, and it began to rise into the air, ascending into the upper reaches of The Tower.

2B would wipe this place off the face of the earth because it had no right to exist.

000

Please be well,

Mrfipp

[emordnilap-fr]

A God Called to Battle

lore pinglist: @divine-vixen​ @voltaic-ambassador​ (ask if you’d like to be pinged for future lore posts! <3)

Part 1: An Act of Revenge

An Emperor emerges in the clan for the third time. This time, they’re fighting back.

cw: blood/death

Riptide pulled Kiev’s head higher. “You killed imps?! You really are sick, you know that?”

Kiev just laughed at her. “Oh that’s rich, coming from the clan who welcomed the Shade!” He laughed harder, lips curling in twisted delight as more of the emperor’s howls reached the den. “See I don’t care if I die! As long as you all get ripped ap-”

He was cut off when Riptide rammed his head onto the floor, knocking him out cold. Her face was contorted with disgust. “That’s enough of him, he’s not going anywhere.” She moved from her position on top of him, gesturing for Kryvo to do the same, and lay her hand on his back. Stone began to creep from her hand and up from the floor, encasing Kiev’s torso and limbs in a thick layer of rock. Only his head was left semi-free, with a makeshift muzzle holding his mouth closed.

Kryvo looked to the door. “Y’think anyone’s gonna fight that thing?”

Brayth nodded. “Oh yeah, of course. You’ve fought off an emperor before, haven’t you?”

Sunset, Riptide, and Kryvo looked at each other uneasily. Sunset spoke up, saying what was on their minds. “Well... we didn’t exactly win. Why do you think we’re even here in the first place?”

Brayth stared at them, speechless, before cracking his neck and lifting his musket. “Well, I s’pose we’re gonna have to change that this time, eh?”

Eiszapfen stared at the abomination in front of him, unseen. Behind it, Peridot and Moonstone lay dead, their bodies half-rotted from the breath of Sandstorm’s head. In adjacent halls, also hidden from the emperor’s view, were Cumulus in one hall, and Rastus and Soleil in another. They gestured to each other, trying not to make noise. Eis gestured, Attack?

Cumulus shook her head. No, dangerous. 

Soleil spread a wing in the direction behind the emperor. There’s other dragons! They need help. 

Rastus nodded in agreement, to which Cumulus shook her head, then looked and pointed at Eiszapfen. Dangerous for us, too. Or... Eis. We distract, then escape?

Eiszapfen thought, then nodded. I think it would work.

He opened his wings, the others following suit. They flew into the tunnel, attracting the attention of all three of the emperor’s heads. The heads roared, somehow seeming indignant rather than angry or hateful. Despite this, their throats hissed as the released their respective attacks on the smaller dragons.

Rastus ducked out of the fight, attracting Konigtum’s head. The other two were still occupied with their other targets, and as Rastus rounded a corner to head further into the dens, Konigtum’s head joined them in their original attack.

Oceana ran down the hall towards the sounds of fighting, the emperor’s roars growing louder by the heartbeat. As she passed another hallway, she was joined by Ember, who was followed by Atava, Liebe, Akakia, and Umbra. The two imperials ran side by side, leading the others through the halls. Oceana side-eyed Ember, causing the other imperial to glance back.

“Look, Oceana. I know you don’t like me, and I don’t like you much either. But getting everyone out of here and killing that thing is more important than that. I need you to help me fight it. You can at least do that, right?”

Oceana hesitated, remembering what she’d learned during the Purge. “You used to be one, it’s no wonder you’ve felt the way you have...” 

She shook her head, ridding herself of her thoughts. “I can. What’s your plan?”

“Well,” Ember began, staring ahead, “I’ll need your ice. Freeze its legs, while I burn its body and heads. From their... voices, it sounds like Feuerstern, Sandstorm, and Konigtum, we’ll have to be especially careful of Konigtum’s attacks weakening our own, and of Sandstorm’s hitting us.”

“You’re really trying to be careful, aren’t you? Aren’t you a god?”

“I’m a demi-god. I’m immortal, but I can still die. I’m being careful because I don’t want to lose another home to one of these monsters.”

Oceana said nothing, watching Ember in silence for a few moments as they ran ahead. 

Blood dripped into Eiszapfen’s eye from the injury above it. A gash ran across the top of his head, tearing into his right frill. The others fighting with him fared no better; they retreated into another hall to catch their breath, narrowly avoiding a spray of infested mucus.

“Do you think Rastus has gotten anyone out yet?” Cumulus stared in the direction he’d gone. “It’s been a while since he left...”

Soleil nodded. “He must’ve, there’s gotta be lots of dragons awake now and he knows his way around. There’s plenty of ways out that avoid these halls.”

“Not that many,” Eiszapfen added, clearly worried. “We added a few other halls for ease of use, not for escape, and there’s only one cliffside to enter and leave from. Even the old lair had several staircases to the surface.” He shook his head. “We didn’t think we’d be attacked here, much less have another emperor...”

Cumulus saw the old guilt on Eiszapfen’s face, and touched a paw to his shoulder. “You did what you thought was right back then. This isn’t your fault.” She flinched as a shadow-bolt flew past the hall entrance. “It’s too late to worry over how we built this place, we’ve just gotta defend it now. Soleil, you’re right, he’s probably taking them out the upper hall as we speak. Let’s go, for the clan!” The trio nodded to each other, before leaping back into the fray.

Hardly minute of battling had passed, and the dragons were already out of breath from the onslaught of attacks. Only Soleil had no elemental weakness to any of the heads, but her lack of experience overshadowed this advantage. She’d just landed when a thicket of thorned vines came hurtling at her. She moved to defend as best she could when a bolt of ice froze the greenery, propelling it towards the wall. Looking up, she expected to see Cumulus at her defense, but was surprised to see Oceana’s head turning the corner at the end of the hall.

“We’ve got it from here, go!”

Soleil and the others watched Oceana and Ember fully entered the hall, alone. 

The emperor noticed the new imperials as well, turning with an almost surprised look on at least one of its faces. The surprise turned to anger when Sandstorm’s head was hit with a blast of flame from Ember. 

“Come on, go! We saw Rastus and sent others with him, follow them!”

The trio of dragons paused, then took off down the hall the imperials had come from. Now, it was just Oceana and Ember against the emperor of their friends. They snarled in defiance, and enacted their plan. Oceana froze the emperor’s legs and muzzled their heads while Ember burned at their scales, which kept seeming to shift and crack and regrow.

“Your fire’s not doing anything, we can’t keep this up!”

Ember growled at Oceana in response, only sending more flames at Feuerstern’s head. 

“I want this dead as much as you, moreso even, but it just keeps re-”

Oceana’s words rose to a shriek as waves of shadowy tendrils flared across the side of her face. Her scales darkened to a near-black purple, and her left eye grew muddied and blind. Flames seared Konigtum’s head, forcing it back, and Ember moved to stand before Oceana, facing the emperor. “Don’t you dare add to this monster.” She glanced down at Oceana. “Go. You’re in no shape to fight, you’ll get in my way.”

“I-”

“I don’t hate you, and I don’t want you dead. Get out.”

Oceana opened her mouth to argue, to say she was going to help kill this thing she used to be, what had taken her sons, but stayed quiet when she saw the look on Ember’s face. The demi-god was scared. Not only for herself, but for Oceana, and she still faced the emperor.

“Thank you.”

She backed away from Ember, but didn’t retreat entirely, rather taking shelter in an adjacent hall. Ember made no move nor said anything to make her leave entirely, and she was glad for that; she wasn’t going to let anyone, even a god, fight entirely alone.

With Oceana somewhat gone, Ember spread her fire-tipped wings and roared a challenge at the emperor, who glared down at her and returned the challenge.

Unrestrained with no ally who could be killed by her attacks, she spat now-blue flames at the emperor, the hall heating to a near oven-like temperature. The face of Feuerstern was closest and took the full force of her attack, the scales and flesh melting together and eye burning shut. It gave a strangled cry as it burned up beyond what the emperor could do to heal it in time, and now the head and its neck hung limply from the emperor’s body.

The emperor retaliated, Sandstorm spitting infectious slime. Ember only just managed to avoid the attack, turning to blow fire again that seared holes in all three of the emperor’s right wings. Sandstorm again spat infection at Ember, and this time, she didn’t miss.

Ember hissed as the near-acid ooze burned into her skin, and an immediate weakness took hold. She could keep fighting, but she knew she couldn’t keep this up much longer. 

Rearing up, Ember rammed her body against the emperor and bit down onto Sandstorm’s neck, letting molten liquid and fire burn into it. The result was nearly instant, as the neck burned away and the head dropped to the ground.

Konigtum’s head ripped into Ember’s shoulder, crunching into the bone. She roared in pain and repeated the attack she’d done to Sandstorm, letting the lava-like liquid sear off the remaining head.

As the dead emperor fell to the ground, flames eating up its body, Ember stood triumphantly over it and gave one last roar of victory. She felt her body weakening, not noticing Oceana coming up behind her as she slowly slipped to the floor. 

To her, her injuries didn’t matter; she’d won. The clan would be safe, and her job was done. The emperor was dead for good.