#there's twenty-EIGHT bones in the human hand

[variousqueerthings]

Hawkeye’s story about the squirrel telling him the wrong answers for the medical exam 

nothing about it, it’s just very funny

[mschievousx]

now and then | b.b.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x ofc

summary: loraine silva always knew she was not normal. she loves unusual things. she love her father's guns, horses, boxing, climbing a tree, falling from a tree, engineering, astronomy... oh, and a man eleven years older.

series masterlist

iv. four: you were right for me

"why would you need to go? the hawkins balloon will be tomorrow."

loraine silva finds herself at her father's study, planting her head on her hands above his table in an attempt to act endearing enough and change his mind.

she pouted, whining to him, "i am not interested with the gas laws related to balloons. i have read them enough."

"what is in this scientific convention then?" armand placed his pen down and removed his glasses, fully putting his attention to his daughter.

"chemistry and medicine!" she exclaimed with exciteness in her voice.

"hm? i thought you like engineering."

"i do, but it's not everyday you can practice chemistry and medicine." she argues. although the girl loves engineering above both subjects, the opportunity to witness these two does not come as often, "aside from the difficulty of obtaining chemicals, it also must be supervised closely."

he narrowed his eyes at her, crossing his arms strictly, "you're not helping your case. that means it would be dangerous."

raine pouted at him, her chances of attending continues to decline, "they are professionals and experts, likely recognised by the queen to be able to conduct such a grand expo."

"you have not been doing much of the work of a viscountess." he sternly added.

"papa, it is my very first season." she stood up, rounding the table to her father's side, clasping both hands as if on a prayer, "please? i will surely attend to everything after the season."

her father made no attempt to move or acknowledge whatever she said, forcing her to make more points for consideration.

"it is perhaps a part of being a viscountess. my presence in academic events will highlight our activeness in such field." still with no budge, she sighed heavily before another point entered her mind.

"it's like a ball. a lot of gentlemen will be there, and who knows? perhaps, i will meet a charming one who shares my interests." she reasoned with a dearly smile.

armand growled at the mention of charming boys. he really doubts there is anyone as such these days, "and what of the bridgerton boy?"

"i jest—it is still benedict. however," she moved to unlock his crossed arms and grasped his hands together in hers, which she cannot envelop seeing as her hands are quite smaller in comparison, and gave out a longing smile, "i could use another friend, can't i?"

━━━ ✦ ❘ ☽ 【❖】 ☾ ❘ ✦ ━━━

it is safe to say that the young silva has her father wrapped around her thumb. with warm smiles here and there, she now arrives at the medical convention with unmeasurable elation.

stepping in, she did not know where to look at all. everywhere she turns, she could spend an hour looking at a single specimen—minus the bones. she does not like them at all. but, she knew they're still a sight to see, so she has decided to start with them before she spends most of her time to other subjects.

she walked and walked, simply passing the specimen with a lot of audience like the humerus, the pelvic bone, and the thoracic cavity.

raine would have really loved to observe the thoracic cavity but she thought against it. being in close proximity with a lot of people is not something she enjoys.

upon more walking, a lone skull has managed to grab her attention. she neared to look at it closely. it's crazy, isn't it? to refer to this skull as it when it once housed a brain of a moving, feeling person—one that was referred as he or she.

"the human skull is made up of twenty-two bones, accounting for ten percent of all our bones." an unfamiliar voice joined her side.

she stood up straight from her peering, adding to what the man said, "eight cranial, fourteen facial."

"a fan of the skull?"

raine turned to him at that question. she fought all her facial muscles that was aching to grimace. on another note, the man is quite handsome. of distinguished upbringing too, it seems.

she puffed out lightly as she turned back to the skull, "i dislike bones."

he chuckled at her strong statement, quite ironic that he finds her curiously looking at one, "what are you here for?"

"muscles, cardio, and neuro." she answered, walking away towards other specimen this time.

"ah, interesting choice of subjects. although, i must say, bones are as important." the man followed closely, which she did not mind but she would have loved to look around with none bothering her.

she let out a sarcastic chuckle, looking around as if disregarding his person, "i did not say otherwise."

"you dislike it."

the young lady turned to him with a crossed brows, "i do not have to like it for it to be as significant."

"you are shrugging at its importance." he stubbornly argued.

raine fired back, "i am shrugging at you."

"with the use of your scapula, which are in fact bones." he held up his right index finger, as if to highlight a point—a point she chose not to take.

"with the use of my muscles who initiate the movement sent by motor neurons." she completely turned to him, her voice quite increasing in volume.

his mouth is slightly ajar as raine waited for his retort. he settled with an astonished smile, offering a hand forward, "astley cooper, lady silva."

she let out a small scoff, her annoyance being covered by the very familiar name, "ah, and another day i do not get to introduce myself."

"you must understand. your family is celebrated," they continued to converse in a calmer manner, both accepting the arguments of each other, "and you cause an uproar everywhere you go."

the young silva lightly laughed at the mention of her antics, stopping in front of the humerus that was crowded earlier, "i like to leave my mark."

"i do not doubt it." mr. cooper affirmed.

"you are the son of sir cooper?" she inquired with indifference.

"i am." he shows no sign of surprise that the lady knows of the name. if she is indeed an academic, his father's name is always mentioned on the textbooks.

she simply hummed at that, proceeding to walk to another specimen, "well, this is your forte after all."

"conceding so easily, lady silva?" astley retorted with a hint of smugness. she turned to him, voice laced with friendly annoyance.

"i doubt you would argue with me about guns, would you?"

he laughed at her point as he replied, "never."

and for the first time of the day, she was reminded; she would have loved for him to be the one with her right now. granted, he does not know a lot about these, and granted, she prefers to look around in solitude in these events, but she would have seriously loved his presence. to him, she would never say never."

noticing her zoning out, the man coughed lightly and asked, "what part of the body do you most like?"

she turned to him, completely caught, "oh, hands."

"you surprise me. i thought you would be a lover of eyes. why the hands?"

she smiled at that, raising her hand from the arm near him, as if showing it to him, "they are fascinating; their ability to grip things."

she would have loved to mention the real reason. they can hold on to things. they can let things go. raine thought it too poetic for an academe like him to understand.

"incredible. i'm afraid mine is not as well-thought as yours."

she returned the question, certainly feeling the man's own urge to share his, "what's yours?"

"a femur. it's the hardest bone."

raine did not think twice to laugh. he was being honest after all. it was indeed not as well-thought.

they reach a hall where a live amputation is going on. most audiences were of the academy, she can tell. the daily man would have no appetite for such thing that these young men were watching closely.

she whispered to astley in a hushed voice, "how do you convince them to do it live?"

"he is from our school. he understands the importance of live discussions. sadly, he met an unfortunate accident, and here we are."

raine nodded in understanding, eyes watching the procedure attentively. it is quite harsh to look at, of course. after all, it is an amputation.

after the left mid-forearm was severed, the use of burnt wool was executed. the man has been administered with a bit of anaesthetic, but only enough for until the severing is done. a higher dose than that would prove to be risky for the patient. and so, the application of burnt wool can be felt by the man, gradually increasing in intensity.

as the procedure is ongoing, the surgeon performing it offered information and explanations here and there. the ligature, she could understand, but surely there's an alternative for burnt wool that is less painful.

"how about hydrogen peroxide, sir?" she offered, the surgeon and the students turning to her.

"what do you mean?" he asked, returning to his patient and continuing post-operative care.

"it may be able stop the bleeding more effectively than a burnt wool, which can cause more damage."

the surgeon chuckled, finding the fault on her argument, "it causes irritation to skin, actually the harmful one."

raine stepped forward, laying her case more directly, "yes, but in the right concentration, it has oxidative properties and is a reactive oxygen species. by this, it can cause vasoconstriction upon the dysfunction of the endothelial cells."

the surgeon turned to her, now understanding her train of thought, "it can close the source of the bleeding, achieving hemostasis."

"impressive. we will study such activity of the said chemical, lady?" he inquired, genuinely amazed by her case and how she has thought of it.

raine smiled inwardly, letting out the most prideful smirk she could muster, "silva. viscountess silva."

━━━ ✦ ❘ ☽ 【❖】 ☾ ❘ ✦ ━━━

just as the clock hits ten before two in the afternoon, the young lady has decided she's satisfied enough of the things she were able to witness and learn. that and the fact that her stomach is now growling.

as she stepped out of the building that housed the convention, she's met with a familiar back of a person across the street.

"ben!" she called, waving overly that some people have spared her a look. the said man turned to her and immediately placed a hand on his forehead at her loudness.

she eagerly crossed the street to him, bridgerton inquiring with a confused face, "what are you doing here?"

upon reaching him, she hugged his right arm with pure excitement as they continue to walk forwards. he could do nothing but let her, "there's a medical convention near. it was awesome!"

"really? i did not know." he feigned ignorance at that, the girl not minding anything as she was overcame with exhilaration.

"you're not an avid follower. that's alright. anyways—"

she proceeded to tell him what happened to her day, from the part she was begging her father to let her go until before the amputation. she also highlighted the specimen she has seen, throwing information about them with elation. she was about to continue when benedict interposed.

"i would have went with you, you know." he said before setting his eyes back on where the pair is walking towards, now with a smaller voice, "if you just asked."

she heard it. of course, she heard it. he could whisper meters away and she would certainly hear it with ease. and, no matter how high up on cloud nine she was, she had no problem jumping off it just to hear him.

raine giggled at his offer, "it's not fun for you. you would find the contents of it boring."

"i would not," he replied at once, seeming as if he does not even need to think twice of the reason, "you were there."

she stopped walking instantly, pulling benedict back by the act without warning. he turned to her for the second time today and all he can see is her widest grin. she was not doing anything but grin, which is what making him so confused as of the moment.

and, just as raine was utterly clueless of what her words were doing to him, he was just as clueless of his words to her.

with confusion, he raised a brow at her, "what? did you have lunch?"

she simply nodded her head sidewards, grin still present, "i have not."

he nudged her as they begin walking again, "what say you for a late lunch together?"

her answer was apparent, "yes!"

they entered an eating house nearby, raine continuing her stories of the day as the food is served.

in the middle of eating, she asked out of the blue, "what part of the body do you most like, ben?"

"mine? let me think," he settled both his hands on the table, looking afar in thinking.

"hands," he replied, placing the fork on the dish to steady it as he slice, "you can tell a lot from a person's hands—the softness, the roughness, its shaking..."

raine smiled serenely at that. he would never fail to do poetic justice to the mere existence of things. and, perhaps, she should have really asked him to go with her earlier, so that the contents of the convention would feel alive once more by his words alone.

he knew her so well that his words spoke to her on their own. she could not remember clearly, but she was sure. it was a moment like this when she first realised she liked benedict. it was one of those moments where she realised that he was the right person for her.

"how about you? what were you doing around here?" she asked, turning to her own plate.

"oh, i was just walking around." he shrugged off easily, which just made her suspicious of it.

"oh my—right," she began, causing the man across her to look at her, "there is a pleasure house nearby."

he should have really noted already not to intake anything if the girl is present. but, he did not. and so, he finds himself choking once again, on food this time, at what the girl accused him of.

"what are you insinuating? how do you even know there is such a house here?!" he whisper-yelled, controlling his volume to not attract other listeners.

raine laughed at his reaction and gave a sarcastic, understanding smile, "ben, do not worry. i have known your activities since i was a child. i still like you."

"i did not go to a brothel!"

taglist: @aadu2173 @imgondeletedis @pumkiinpasties @rebleforkicks

[slttygeto]

༉‧₊˚. PLAYLIST

༉‧₊˚. episode 05: twenty eight.

preview: ". . .It’s never been this bad with you. Hanma can’t recall the last time your words sounded as spiteful and bitter as they do now. A side of you he never thought he would see after losing you for a decade—but it can’t be helped when he’s adding fuel to the fire. Clearly, neither of you is ready to back down from the argument and Hanma was starting to shiver from the cold. . ."

content warning: v!olence, bl00d, cursing, thr0wing up, mentions of emetophobia, self depricating thoughts, arguments, angsty.

word count: 6k

➜ ┊: @softshuji @mitsuwuyaa @kariatenoh @reiners-milkbiddies @citrusteaa @bejeweled-night-33

➜ MASTERLIST

➜ note: guess who's back after months of writer's block, me!!! this chapter is one hell of a ride. I have been experimenting with the next step for at least a month and a half now and nothing sounded good to me. each time it would make me cringe so hopefully you like this chapter! i feel like i rarely do this, but what do you think is gonna happen next? do we like hanma? what do we think of the reader's decision? share with me your thoughts!!

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

Growing up as a boy in Shinjuku wasn’t the most ideal plan, but Hanma doesn’t like to find excuses for the way he turned out. For the evil that he is–and is constantly surrounded by. For his own lack of empathy, of human emotion. Hanma doesn’t think it has anything to do with his childhood. After all, he can barely remember bits and pieces here and there–some that stand out to him more than the rest. Most of which include you haunting his every thought. 

At 12, Hanma first tasted violence against his father, landing blows with a fury that sent him to juvenile detention for a year. The months passed in a haze of paint peeling off the walls and whispered threats, but soon he was back on the streets of Shinjuku, a boy free again yet changed. 

The night was cold and dark. A single broken lamppost flickered weakly, its light barely cutting through the shadows. The electric buzzing pulled him from his thoughts, a sudden awareness that he'd been lost in his mind the whole walk home. 

His ears shift from the electric sound to the heavy, dull sound coming from a dark alleyway. A crack, then a moan in pain. It is accompanied with manic laughing, giggles even–and his feet start dragging him to the source of the commotion.

Going out after 10PM in Shinjuku was generally a safe option. The city was a bustling area known for its nightlife and entertainment. There were usually plenty of people around, even late at night. However, Hanma’s neighborhood wasn’t necessarily the safest. 

An old, poor neighborhood. Nestled between tall buildings and fancy shops, giving the people a false sense of being in one of the fanciest areas in the city. But it was far from being the truth. Hanma glances at the buildings, a mix of rusted metal and peeling paint glaring at him. He was used to the sight of worn out material and balconies filled with old bicycles. He could even see his own from where he was standing, a birthday gift from his father from 3 years ago, which meant that Hanma had outgrown it with the speed at which his limbs were getting long. 

Given the reputation of his neighborhood, this meant that people who would get beat up around here were oftentimes the ones who had fallen victim to the false sense of safety in the area. 

Hanma’s sandals drag against the concrete floor as he approaches the commotion, hands buried in the pockets of his shorts and the same uninterested look on his face doesn’t budge when he is greeted with the bruised and beaten up body of a boy around the same age as him. The guys responsible for this freeze when they turn around and see that there was another person present, a witness to the violence they had just committed on the boy who had refused to give them his bike as he was riding back from night classes. Their eyes landed on Hanma, who at 13, was only limbs and bones. One of them lets out a chuckle.

“You lookin’ to join him?” 

Hanma’s golden eyes snap from the boy’s figure to the one who talked. He looked older than him, perhaps Three or so years. 

“Is that an invitation?””

“I wouldn’t say so.” Another one adds, against the concrete wall. Hanma notes that he tries to appear smug and confident. He had an idea that the boy was quite the opposite. 

“More of a threat I’d say.” 

“I see.”

A beat of silence follows his nonchalant response, before his fist collides with the jaw of the leader of the trio. The alley filled with a cacophony of groans and the shuffle of worn out shoes on concrete. The leader lunged, fists swinging wildly, his breath heavy with panic as he tried to land a single punch on Hanma’s face.

Three bloodied and beaten up bodies later, Hanma watches as the bruised up boy crawls away from him in fear, curling on himself. Hanma doesn’t say anything as he approaches the boy. He stops and leans down, face dangerously close to his.

“Get the fuck out of here.” 

It takes Hanma 2 more years before getting nicknamed Shinjuku’s reaper. He says that he earned the title. And for the first time since forever, Hanma had finally found a source of entertainment, a way to kill time. However, he hadn’t killed. Not yet at least. 

When Hanma is 16, he spots you as you walk out of school. Your skirt was short, thigh high socks adorning your legs and he wondered just how soft your skin must be. But that was far from being his priority–not when he was walking around the area with blood coating his white shirt. 

He doesn’t expect you to spot him in the place where he is sitting, with a bottle of water in hand, desperately trying to get the blood off of his clothes. Not that it’s ever worked. However, you start approaching him and Hanma looks up from his crouched position, golden eyes boring into yours when you step in front of him with a frown adorning your gorgeous lips. (He’s always wanted to bite them).

“Are you okay?” 

He tilts his head to the side, quirking an eyebrow in confusion and perhaps a little offended that you were asking him of all people that question. The hint of worry painting your sympathetic tone, the slight furrow to your eyebrows as you keep glancing between his bloodied shirt and the bottle in his hands. Hanma feels something in him about to snap in your presence. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He replies gruffly, but you can’t seem to find any malice in his voice. Or the way he was staring you down despite you towering over him. 

“You have blood all over you.”

Oh. 

You didn’t know that it wasn’t his. And Hanma never told you otherwise. Instead, he took the handkerchief that you had offered him with a dull face–stuffed it in his pocket and watched as you walked away, never asking him to return the fabric. But Hanma being the teenager that he was, thought it would be the perfect opportunity to find you again and perhaps get to know you.

(How do people start conversations again?)

Like a ghost of a memory, Hanma can almost remember the feeling of the handkerchief in his hand. He remembers grazing his thumb over the letters etched onto the fabric, each time coming up with his own guess of what your first and last name were. The feeling of the letter H. is forever engraved in the forefront of his mind. The initial of your last name. 

The man’s trip down memory lane is cut short when he hears the sound of annoying flickering above him. Hanma’s eyes squint as he looks up, the electrical buzzing mocks him as it pulls him back to the present. His body aware. Alive yet inexplicably numb. 

The built up rust on the chair’s legs make a creaoing noise as Hanma leans back, soulless eyes staring at the dead body with a cold, unblinking gaze. Devoid of any emotion. Reflecting no light or life. He doesn’t remember when he first killed, but this was definitely not the last. His brain is all foggy as he tries to make sense of when his lust for blood first started–what made the death rattle sound so captivating, like a broken record–stuck in his head in a long, torturing loop. 

He doesn’t know. Hanma barely knows himself as he is. Referring to himself as Kisaki’s right hand was the closest thing to an identity. He wasn’t a son to anyone, nor a brother. And definitely not a lover.

The events from that night play on repeat in the forefront of his head, no longer trying to hide in the backseat where he keeps most of his unwanted memories. Instead, you plagued his mind. Like a shadow clinging onto the corner of his thoughts, always present–always there. You wouldn’t let him escape.

“Fuck you’re so sweet,”

You moan into his mouth when he angles his hips a certain way, Hanma grins victoriously against your lips and uses his hands to grab the back of your knees. Pushing them to your chest, he enjoys the sight of you taking his cock like a sweet girl. You’re so cock hungry, practically begging him to fuck you silly with those glossy eyes staring deeply into his.

He remembers the look on your face as you slept peacefully in your bed, still dirty with his own cum and spit–yet somehow looking so angelic. As though he hadn’t just ruined you. Like you didn’t have your legs wrapped around his waist and were begging him to fuck you harder, deeper–

Hanma’s finger twitches. A singular bullet cuts through the terrifying silence. 

One of the two bodyguards standing before him falls to the ground with a loud thud, his partner looks at his dead body in shock. Terrified, he cannot seem to pull his eyes away from the blood that starts to pool around the body. He is violently pulled out of his numbed state. Hanma’s chair makes a loud, creaking noise he pushes it further back and stands up. Golden eyes stare at his bloodied brown leather shoes and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

Almost as though the sight of blood was getting on his nerves. Like he didn’t just take someone’s life unprovoked.  

Do you need a reason to hurt someone if you have power? 

“Clean it up.” Hanma’s cold voice echoes in the empty room, followed by retreating footsteps. As he reaches for his jacket, the chair tips and falls too the ground but neither he nor the bodyguard flinch at the loud noise. 

He doesn’t look back as he steps out of the room, simply typing something away on his phone and scoffing at the message that appears on the screen.

We need to talk.

“Fucking bastard.” 

—

The artificial light coming from the kitchen cuts through the thick shadows in your hallway, glaring at you from where you’re kneeling on the bathroom floor. Your apartment has never felt emptier. The door to your room is open– pushed ajar in a frenzy and the carpet in your hallway is moved to the side, messily. As though you almost tripped over it as you rushed to the end of the hallway where your bathroom is. At 2AM, you don’t expect people to still be outside, and it makes your chest ache and burn when you hear the occasional humming of a car driving by your building. 

And then you lurch forward again.

The bathroom is filled with heavy stillness, punctuated only by the sound of your stuttered breathing. You're hunched over the cold, unforgiving porcelain of the toilet, your body trembling and weak as your hand grips your hair, pushing it out of the way. Bile rises up to your throat, tears coating your lash line before you’re lurching forward yet again. Your stomach was empty. You didn’t have food to throw up again. 

You wish you could say that you were starting to get used to this, but you’ve always been scared of throwing up. Something about the taste of bile, the terrifying feeling of losing control over your body–the gagging and heaving. It scared you. Your bottom lip trembles and your entire body shakes as you brace yourself for another wave of nausea. The acidic taste burns in your throat, mixing with the metallic tang of fear and sleep deprivation. 

You’ve been throwing up all day. It simply wouldn’t go away.

When you lean away from the porcelain bowl and rest your body against the wall in exhaustion, you pray that your brain spares you yet another flashback. Another reminder of what had triggered this wave of nausea. You can’t get the feeling of his hands off of you, or how dirty and sickening it felt to wake up and feel that his cum was still inside you—the lack of proper aftercare, no sweet words whispered into your hair. Not the Hanma you thought he would be years later. He vanished like a whisper in a crowded room, fading so quickly that you almost wonder if he was ever there to begin with. Almost.

When you glance down at your thighs, you cringe at the stickiness of his cum despite having showered three times. You can feel the ghost touch of his hands gripping your thighs, his voice whispering filth into your ear as he pounded into you like a God. Last night, he was like a God to you. He knew where to touch, where to kiss, how to leave you breathless and clinging onto him like a lifeline–you felt stupid for being so enamored by the man and his dick. For letting him pull the plug so easily, rendering you the lifeless mess that you were on your bathroom floor. 

Beating yourself up was no longer an option though, you didn’t have the energy to hate yourself for what had happened. For thinking he had changed despite being so wary of him since day one. You couldn’t even say that you didn’t ignore the red flags because you did. That man was dangerous, and yet you still thought that you could get him to show a different side. 

The quietness in the bathroom is replaced with weak sobs.Your cheeks feel wet and hot and you wipe your tears and snot with the back of your hand. It feels so pathetic to be crying over a man, but even more so when it’s someone you initially thought you could trust. Small, pathetic, dirty–and the list of things he made you feel goes on. 

How pitiful of you to think you were any special to him. 

When the nausea fades away, you feel numb.

The burn in your heart is replaced with an indifference that magically lifts all of the weight off of your chest. You don’t process nor do you remember how you got off the floor, but your hands were now wet and the tap was running. Water splashes against your face. You don’t recognize yourself as you stare at your own reflection in the mirror. There’s exhaustion, dark circles sitting heavy under your eyes. You blink, then you are in the hallway.

Everything after that is a haze, unimportant to your brain as it moves on autopilot and carries you to your room, on your bed and then under the covers. The plushness of the pillow supports your head well, then you finally allow your neck and your jaw to relax. You had a headache, you realize. But it isn’t painful enough for your body to not allow itself to shut down–you don’t fight it.. You were tired.

You have work in the morning, your cat to feed and a few other errands to run. You don’t want to think about him. Just for a day, you want to forget your responsibilities, who you are.

Just for one day.

—

One does wonder how Toman went from a normal biker gang to the corrupt, ruthless, criminal organization that it became. Upon taking a closer look, at its new leader–everything starts to make sense. The way it’s driven by ambition, manipulation, and violence. All of it reflects the dark goals of its new leader. Kisaki Tetta. 

Under Kisaki's leadership, Toman became a shadow of its former self. What was once a gang driven by camaraderie, a sense of brotherhood, and a rough but genuine pursuit of justice, turned into a power-hungry and ruthless organization. Kisaki's manipulative nature corrupted the gang's original values, prioritizing control, fear, and personal gain over any sense of loyalty or righteousness. Everyone was constantly on edge, wary of betraying Kisaki's trust or failing to meet his expectations. His manipulative tactics ensured that everyone was either too scared or too loyal—and his form of punishment consisted of a single word.

Violence. 

Hanma embodied the violence that Kisaki needed to ensure that Toman was under his control. If Kisaki’s reaction to betrayal was scary, Hanma’s was terrifying. Savage, barbaric, ruthless. Tall man turned into an even more monstrous version of himself with the snap of Kisaki’s fingers.

However, that didn’t mean that Hanma was obedient. He was far from that.

Up on the last floor of the impressive, imposing building where all of Toman’s business takes place, resided the meeting room. A place where words are shared amongst the dangerous, corrupt men, with the sole promise of never telling a soul. However, the room was eerily silent. The knife that could cut through the thick tension was a testament to that. 

The long, round table is empty and the chairs are all pushed to the side messily. Tall windows overlook the gorgeous view of the lively city of Tokyo, the only sound that fills the conference room is the air conditioner and the honking of cars. When Kisaki first designed this room, he made sure that the walls were soundproof. And that whatever is shared behind those walls, stays inside. He did so partly to ensure the privacy of matters being shared amongst gang members, and to guarantee that no one outside would be able to hear what was going on.

There is a singular chair in the middle of the room. It stands out in an unsettling, uneasy manner. Perhaps because of its awkward placement, facing away from the table and more towards the door. Or maybe because Hanma appears cartoonish as he sits on the chair, long limbs and a bloodied face. Messy clothes that look like they had been almost forced off of his skin. 

Another harsh punch lands on Hanma’s face, his head whips to the side as he feels the blood trickle down his nose and he turns to look at the man before him with intense, golden eyes. Kisaki’s jaw clenches along with his fist and he raises it in the air. 

“You fuckin’ sick bastard.” 

The crazed smile on Hanma’s face makes Kisaki pull away from the man who was untied, still armed and so relaxed despite being repeatedly assaulted by the much shorter, weaker man. It was deeply unsettling even to a man as disturbing as Kisaki.   

“Nothin’ new to you.” Hanma’s tongue peeks out of his mouth to lick the blood trickling down his nose, the metallic taste feels euphoric against his taste buds and he bites his bottom lip. Harshly. Until it draws blood, and Kisaki’s chest is heaving, exhausted and filled with a fury that eggs on Hanma’s crazed state. 

“I’m warnin’ ya,” the short man walks towards the other side of the room, grabbing a few napkins to wipe his hands. The back of his hand then pushes away his sweaty strands of hair that were sticking to his forehead, before grabbing a bottle of water. “Either you fix your fucking self, or I put a bullet through your head.” 

When he hears no response, Kisaki turns around and realizes the grave mistake he made of lowering his guard in the presence of a man as unpredictable as Hanma. The cold barrel of the gun kisses his forehead, and his own icy blue eyes meet the tall man’s golden ones. 

“Put a bullet through my head, huh?” Sarcasm seeps into Hanma’s cold tone, and a scoff escapes his dry lips as he presses the gun harder against his leader’s forehead. “Gettin’ tired of me?” 

“Of your sick fucking games, yeah.” 

“So what if I killed a guy? That’s never been a problem to ya.”

“You killed one of the men under Bonten you piece of shit–!” Kisaki groans when he feels the back of the gun make harsh contact with his jaw, then Hanma’s fingers are pulling on his hair. His roots burn, and the angle at which Hanma’s making him stare at him makes his neck ache. 

“Watch your fucking tone with me,” Hanma sneers, nose scrunched up. This was the most emotion the man has shown since the start of the long, strenuous meeting. “You think I respect you?” a manic laugh escapes his lips. “I never did. I stayed ‘cause I thought you,” and he pulls at the shorter man’s hair again. “could keep me entertained.” 

“It must’ve worked if you stayed this long.” 

When neither Hanma nor Kisaki make an attempt to speak, nor move–Hanma’s hand slowly but carefully lets go of the shorter man’s hair. Followed by the gun retreating back to the holster that’s strapped to his pants’ belt. The room suddenly feels colder than usual, the sudden drop of adrenaline sends shivers down Hanma’s spine and the heat that was coursing through his body evaporates the moment he steps away from Kisaki to stare at his reflection in the tall windows. 

Shit, he looked rough. There was caked up blood in his hair, on his clothes. The buttons on his blouse were gone and his tie was messily undone. He is surprised he doesn’t have a black eye. Kisaki doesn’t aim that high, he thinks. But he still looks like he got beaten up. It doesn’t necessarily hurt, but it stings when he licks his lips. 

“You made a mess.” Kisaki announces as he walks towards the mini fridge situated in the deep corner of the conference room. “With Bonten. You made a huge fucking mistake.”

“I’ll take care of it–”

“Nah, that’s not the problem here–” the door to the fridge slams loudly and Kisaki crosses the room in a few, long strides. It’s impressive given his short stature. “You’ve been acting like a dick since the night you said you’re visiting her.” He stops in front of him and raises an eyebrow, eyes glaring daggers at Hanma’s now bare but bruised fingers. 

The leader still shoves a beer in Hanma’s hand who stands there, dumbfounded. Obviously, a man as smart and as calculating as Kisaki would be able to read through his bullshit. However, Hanma didn’t know how to approach the situation, nor did he know if he would be able to say it how it is. He didn’t have that kind of relationship with Kisaki, and he wasn’t going to spill his worries to the same man whom he pointed a gun at only a few moments prior.

Silence drapes over the two like a dense fog. It fills the room, suffocates it while obscuring the path of conversation and leaving the two men uncertain of what to do or say next. 

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

No questions asked, Kisaki allows his right hand to grab his belongings and rush out of the office, creating loud footsteps in his wake. Hanma’s big already big stature makes him look even more terrifying when he uses his physical prowess for his own benefit. He sloppily presses a button in the elevator and waits. Impatiently, the sound of his foot tapping against the sleek, reflective surface of dark granite, reaches his ears. He grows even more restless. The expensive watch strapped to his wrist seems to be mocking him, it refuses to go past 10:34PM and he wants to smack it against the walls. 

Soon enough, he hears the loud chime of the elevator blaring through the speakers installed inside. Stepping out of the moving platform, he is greeted by the dimly lit, expansive space that exudes an air of both luxury and danger. The floor is polished black marble, reflecting the faint lighting that runs along the edges of the ceiling. The lights cast eerie shadows on the floor, creating a sense of unease as if the space itself is alive.

Hanma doesn’t come here often anyway, and he is only here so that he could grab one of his cars. He isn’t sure if the one he drove to get here is still outside or if Kisaki got rid of it–he can’t risk wasting precious time.

—

It’s cold outside. 

There was something indescribable about staying inside your dimly lit apartment on a rainy night. The soft, rhythmic pitter-patter of rain taps against your windows, it soothes your nerves. You can barely hear the world outside, but in the background, a podcast plays softly—one of your favorites to wind down after a long day. 

 You catch snippets of phrases: “... and that’s when they discovered...” and “...the investigators came across...” The sound of the host’s voice is soothing despite the contents of the episode, like a soft caress, barely registering in your full attention.

Sitting on the carpet near your couch, you’re half-distracted. Having already tidied up the kitchen counter, you were now folding a blanket on the couch. Your movements are slow, almost methodical, you make note of not waking up your sleeping cat. It’s been a rough past two weeks. Being able to pick yourself up after going through something as challenging as that night was a miracle.

However, you weren’t one to back down or let something consume you. You couldn’t deny that your chest burned still, that the tears would coat your lash line every now then, as you tried to go on about your day. Whilst filling out paperworks, making dinner, feeding your cat–when you went to bed. 

You stare at the pile of laundry sitting next to the couch, thrown carelessly and half-forgotten as you busied yourself in the kitchen a few hours prior. Your eyes catch a glimpse of the familiar fabric of your nightgown. Uneasy, you avert your gaze.

The rain continues its gentle tapping rhythm, mingling with the murmur of the podcast. You glance towards the windows, and reluctantly stand up to close the curtains. It was a bit past your bedtime, and waking up in the morning is going to be difficult given the relaxing setting that the rain was creating. 

The tapping gets a bit louder, and you pause your movements to look outside. It doesn’t look like sleet, or maybe your vision was worsening? 

You flinch when the tapping turns into full blown knocking. It certainly wasn’t coming from the living room where you were. 

“What the fuck,” you whisper shakily, a hand flying to your chest as you feel your heart squeeze in anxiety. This has never happened to you before. 

Warily, you reach for your phone and the knife you washed only moments prior–you turn to the hallway, and the knocking gets louder.

“Who’s there?” you yell out. You don’t sound confident.

The wooden floor beneath your feet creaks as you approach your room. You always keep the door open, but the window isn’t visible from where you were standing. You can barely hear the podcast anymore, your ears are ringing and the only thing you were aware of was how tight your chest felt. The burn in your stomach comes back as you push the door open. 

“I said who’s–”

Your words are cut short when you spot the same black suit. But the one thing that makes you hold your breath is its disheveled and bloody appearance, as well as the way he was leaning against the fire escape. 

Drenched from the downpour, Hanma seems to have given up on covering himself and lets it soak his clothes further. His elbow rests on the metal railing, the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger long extinguished from the rain. You don’t realize how long you stood there, frozen and unresponsive–until Hanma tries again.

“Open the window.”

You snap out of your thoughts, hand clenching the knife’s handle as your face turns sour.

“Leave.” 

You’re not sure if he can ever hear you from outside. He leans into the window, pressing his ear against the glass when he sees your lips moving then shakes his head.

“Can’t hear you, doll–”

“Don’t call me that. Leave.” 

Despite his worrying appearance, the cuts and bruises on his pretty face and the way the rain was making his clothes stick to his body, you don’t want him to win. The ongoing war inside your head, one that he had created and ran away from like the coward that he was–you can’t just forget that. 

“We have to talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about. Goodnight.” You pretend to leave the room. You were ready to sacrifice sleeping on your comfortable, warm bed tonight if it meant getting him to leave. But alas, Hanma was a stubborn man.

The loud knocking starts again, and you angrily stomp back inside your room.

“Stop that! I have neighbors and you’re causing a scene!”

“Then open the window, doll.” 

“I will call the police.” You show him your phone, hand visibly shaking from your heightened emotions. Everything was happening so fast. So unexpectedly. You were growing weary of the tall man appearing just when you were beginning to come to terms with his hurtful actions. 

“The police, huh?” You see him wipe his face, but it’s useless given how strong the rain was. “Didn’t take you for such a scaredy cat.”

“I’m not scared,” your high pitched voice would say otherwise. “You’re disturbing my night. I don’t want you here.”

Neither of you say a word after. The rain seems to slow down and the harsh sound of droplets tapping against your window is replaced with a soft pitter patter. Your breathing slows down, but the burn in your stomach is still there. The longer you stare into his golden eyes, the harder it gets to approach that damn window and let him inside. 

I can’t forgive you. You hurt me.

You avert your gaze, afraid that your face will give away the hurt that was eating you up from the inside. 

“I freaked out.” Now that the downpour has subsided, Hanma’s deep voice was loud and clear. You look up, he was no longer leaning against the railing, bracing himself on the brick walls and leaning into the window. “It was too much.”

“Us having sex was… too much?” You make no attempt to read between the lines. You don’t think he deserves the benefit of the doubt, not after the stunt he pulled.

“..Yeah.” 

“Oh fuck you.” Hanma watches as you angrily stomp towards the window to pull the curtains.

“Wait wait–!” 

“I waited long enough. For two weeks, I waited for you to send a text message–give me a call–nothing!” Heat rises to your cheeks and Hanma sees that your eyes are now glossed over. “You used me.”

“So did you–”

“You fucking left me without bothering to clean me up!” The hurt in your tone makes him flinch. He squeezes his eyes shut, furrowing his eyebrows. 

He can feel a headache coming in. 

“Do you always expect boyfriend treatment from your one night stands?” This man knew how to make your blood boil. 

“Boyfriend treatment? I feel bad for the women you’ve slept with.” You scoff. 

“This is why I fucking freaked out.” He was loud but you didn’t care about disturbing the neighbors anymore. “You’re taking is so fucking seriously like we’re dating or some shit.”

“I wasn’t waiting for you to act like a boyfriend. You’re a coward when it comes to love,” your words drip like venom. “I just thought that as my friend, you’d be decent enough and clean me up.” 

It’s never been this bad with you. Hanma can’t recall the last time your words sounded as spiteful and bitter as they do now. A side of you he never thought he would see after losing you for a decade—but it can’t be helped when he’s adding fuel to the fire.

Clearly, neither of you is ready to back down from the argument and Hanma was starting to shiver from the cold. He can’t even light a cigarette. He punches the wall lightly before straightening his back, staring to the side. 

Hanma came here to talk about what happened— He already knew you would be disappointed, slightly hurt–(ended up being more than slightly)--but he thought it would be over soon. That you’d listen. 

“I want–” Just as your jaw was starting to relax, Hanma breaks the silence. “I’m good at striking deals.”

“Huh?” 

“Did you like it?” you feel heat rush to your face and you’re staring at him dumbfounded.

“What?!”

“That night. Lack of aftercare aside, was I good?” Hanma knows the answer and you were aware of that. You didn’t want to stroke his ego, let him know that it was the best sex you had in a while. It would overshadow the hurt you were feeling, and you didn’t want to give him the impression that he was free to walk all over you.

“I felt good.”

“So did I.” 

The rain had stopped. The man’s voice was loud and clear as he confessed to you that having sex with you felt good. 

(That you made him feel good).

“I’m a busy man. I can’t be around all the time,” a tattooed hand wipes his face before staring at you. “But if either of us is feeling horny–”

“For fuck’s sake–” you are flustered as you scramble to unlock the window. Pushing it open, you refuse to meet his gaze as you step to the side. “Come inside.”

Chuckling to himself, a lazy grin adorns his lips as he steps inside your room. The set up is familiar to him, but he still can’t help but stare at your bed. Your mattress and pillows.

He is reminded that the comfort he felt in your space is only temporary, golden eyes glancing towards your arms crossed over your chest. The gesture brings attention the necklace adorning your chest, your fingers holding onto the pendent tightly.

Huh?

The tall man brushes off the foreign feeling in his stomach, focusing on the way you seem to be wary of him even whilst letting him in your bedroom.

"You're a busy man, but can become available for sex?"

"I am not always free"

"Right."

"Just every now and then."

"Sure."

"When it's really necessary"

"Mhm,"

The dynamic is entirely different compared to last time, and Hanma only has himself to blame. He watches as you silently retreat from your bedroom, disappearing into the hallway. You don't bother to check on him. There was no need to act like your apartment was a foreign territory to the tall man.

Stepping into the hallway, a loud "oof" bounces against the walls as a towel lands on his face. Removing it from his head, sun gilded eyes follow your figure as you sit on the couch, busying yourself with the remote control.

(He doesn't remember you ever liking TV).

"You'll catch a cold," you say in between skimming through channels, aimlessly.

The soft fabric ruffles his hair, but it's futile given how soaked he was. Hanma doesn't say a word. He places the towel on the kitchen counter, brown leathed shoes carrying him across the wooden floor towards the entrance.

Grabbing the door knob, the tall man speaks up.

"I'm...I have to go."

Golden eyes bore into your side, burning shapes and promises into your soul so intensely that you are forced to pull your eyes away from your big screen and towards the same disheveled man. Soaked and bloodied, you pull your eyes away.

"I know."

༉‧₊˚. interested in commissioning me? if not, leave a ko-fi!

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[esamastation]

Shizuroth, part twenty-seven

Previous parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six

-

Sephiroth can't stand up. It's kind of embarrassing. Actually, forget that - it's really embarrassing! Even when sitting down he feels all wobbly and unsteady!

After the hyperfocus mode passed, it all just sorta crashed down on him.

He's barely managed to wrangle his fluctuating Qi back under control, but the wild surges, stops and starts and the awful flare-ups before have left him feeling like jello in human form. He's gone through what feels like an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, but from the inside - and then he strained to keep at all in! Twisted himself into a pretzel in order to teach, spraining his everything in the progress! Now his veins are freshly scorched, his flesh feels tenderised, and he can feel his bones. It is incredibly unsettling to be so aware of your bones!

For such a minor Qi-deviation it's really too much. Who told Sephiroth to have this much Qi - and also this many muscles! He's strained all of them!

And now he can't stand up. Well, not without swaying and stumbling and probably falling over himself like an idiot, anyway. Which makes it the same thing. His cute disciples - that is, the other SOLDIER members are still watching him. After what he put them through in his delirium, he can't show such an embarrassing face as to get up only to fall flat on his face!

He can hear them now, murmuring quietly amongst themselves in the hall outside.

"... Like, breathing, I think? And I think you're not supposed to think about anything…"

"How can you not think about anything?"

"... Been quiet for a while. No word from the director either…"

"... Think there's still chocolate bars left in the vending machine?"

Ooh, chocolate. Sephiroth could kill for a chocolate bar right now. He really should've thought about that before! Semi-modern world with inexplicably a lot of the same stuff as Earth has - he really should've realised that might include modern style sweets! And, damn, he's missed chocolate so much, back in PIDW. He should get chocolate, as a treat. He deserves it!

But he can't get up. Plus, he destroyed the place! How can he show his face outside after he destroyed the whole room? It's not like he can explain himself - this world doesn't even know what Qi-deviation is! On the outside it seemed just like he went crazy! Which might be in character for Sephiroth, but - still!

So here he is, a third hour in running, cultivating and meditating with no better way to solve this issue. Soon, something would happen to force his hand, or this would go on forever, and eventually he'd die. There's no other recourse.

At least he'd mostly managed to repair the damage done to his meridians. His poor dantians, flooded with chaotic Qi just when he got them to open up, took a hit - but hey, at least there's no golden core there to damage!

Yeah, that just… makes him sadder, really.

Sephiroth draws a slow breath and teases another snag in his system to loosen up - smoothing another scarred vein until it relaxes. He should go back to physical cultivation, it worked so beautifully for Sephiroth's system - but alas… he can't stand up.

Ah, he's really doomed.

"Heads up - elevator."

"Oh, shit, it's Hewley."

"Here we go…"

Sephiroth peeks one eye open, but the SOLDIERs by the door have gone quiet, and the ones further down the hall are too far away for him to hear - especially since it sounds like they're whispering out there. Probably explaining the situation to Angeal.

Ahhh! It's a pity he didn't bust a wall open in his deviated craze - he could've used it to escape! He might be about fifty floors above the ground level, but Sephiroth is supposed to know how to fly, right?! He could make it! He might even grow some wings along the way! It's been known to happen! Somewhere!

Angeal appears by the doorway, taking a moment to soak in all the destruction, and Sephiroth does his best not to look like he wants to curl up and die in shame. That resolution gets harder as Angeal walks over to crouch down in front of him.

Oh no, his face. I'm not angry, just disappointed much?! 

"Sephiroth," Angeal says gently. "Are you alright?"

Oh, come on, Angeal-bro! The disciples other SOLDIERs are right there! What is he supposed to say, huh?

Sephiroth exhales slowly and tries to think what Sephiroth should say in this situation. He destroyed the training room, busted up all the cameras and everything. Destruction of company property! There's probably going to be consequences for that, huh?

"What's the…?" Sephiroth starts and then winces at his voice. His throat is so dry it stings. Ouch.

Angeal relaxes a little. "They want you outta here, asap. There's a transport waiting. I'm supposed to deliver you to it."

… huh? That's, um. He has no idea! Is he being kicked out? He's Sephiroth - isn't he, like, the poster boy for Shinra's military might and stuff?

Angeal, clearly seeing his confusion, elaborates. "You're reassigned to Wutai, effective immediately."

… Oh. Great. "And if I don't feel like going anywhere?"

Angeal sighs. "I don't know. Nothing good. It's not like I can really force you to do anything, Sephiroth, but I'd prefer it if you came willingly."

Hah, jokes on your, bro, Sephiroth can't actually do shit right now!

… But he can't really stay here. And hell, being sent to a war front at least saves him from having to face any of this just yet! Maybe never. It's a corporate dystopia, and he's the poster boy - maybe Shinra will do him a favour and sweep this all under the rug! They did with Nibelheim.

And Wutai is the closest thing to home…

"... Alright," Sephiroth says. "But you're probably going to have to drag me."

"What? No, Sephiroth, you can just walk, it's alright -"

"Angeal, I -" just had a Qi-deviation and my system feels all outta whack, but that's not a thing and he's Sephiroth - can't admit weakness! "Just - give me a hand."

Angeal blinks and then goes, "Oh!" as Sephiroth visibly wavers, trying to get up. "Oh, a delayed reaction? Right, here -"

Sephiroth really has to be dragged up, like some drunk guy. And even then his knees almost give up! So embarrassing! His cute disciples the other SOLDIERs are watching!

Oh, urg, the nausea…

"If I throw up on you, it's nothing personal," Sephiroth groans, closing his eyes, both to fight back the vertigo and so that he doesn't have to see the other SOLDIERs reaction. No one is laughing at him, at least.

And then Angeal laughs at him. Rude! The man sounds relieved, though, as he grabs him firmly by the elbow, propping him up. "I promise I won't hold it against you."

Sephiroth sighs, humiliated. "Thanks," he mutters and then, plaintively asks, "Do they have chocolate in Wutai?"

"Chocolate?"

"I could really go for a chocolate bar right now."

"Oh, I bet," Angeal says, sounding a little amused now. "I don't know about Wutai, but I'm sure we can get you some chocolate somewhere," he promises. "Are you ready to go?"

No. "Yeah, let's go."

-

Is it even SY if he doesn't need to be carried once in a while?

[aprilisthecruelestmonth]

April is the Cruelest Month Whump Event

Day One:

Grief -◊- Lost -◊- Torture -◊- "Please, I don't want to go back there."

Day Two:

Depression -◊- No one to hear -◊- Whipped -◊- "Who do you think you are?"

Day Three:

Betrayal -◊- Wartime -◊- Pool of blood -◊- "Everything's going to be okay. Just don't open your eyes yet."

Day Four:

Scapegoat -◊- Concussed -◊- Caught red handed -◊- "You always were the weak link."

Day Five:

Lied to -◊- Hallucination -◊- Seized by the hair -◊- "STOP IT, STOP IT!"

Day Six:

Self-sacrifice -◊- Chronic illness -◊- Stabbed -◊- "I just want to go home."

Day Seven:

Self-loathing -◊- Cave-in -◊- Shot -◊- "You seem to think we're friends.”

Day Eight:

Secrets -◊- Drowning -◊- Drugged -◊- "I don't want to kill you. I just want to make you scream."

Day Nine:

Overworked -◊- Feverish -◊- Coughing blood -◊- "Think very carefully about your answer.”

Day Ten:

Guilt -◊- Dangling -◊- Tied to a Chair -◊- "We're just getting started, sweetheart."

Day Eleven:

Fury -◊- Avalanche -◊- Rope burns -◊- "You're lucky to be alive."

Day Twelve:

Nightmare -◊- Train wreck -◊- Dislocation -◊- “Do not disobey me."

Day Thirteen:

Coercion -◊- Starving -◊- Collared -◊- "Bite down on this. It will only take a second."

Day Fourteen:

Living a lie -◊- On the run -◊- Hunted -◊- "Don't take another step!"

Day Fifteen:

Cold comfort -◊- Animal attack -◊- Strangled -◊- "They’re never getting better! Just give up already."

Day Sixteen:

Paranoia -◊- Buried alive -◊- Broken bones -◊- "Who do you think you are?"

Day Seventeen:

Fear of caretaker -◊- Sudden collapse -◊- Disfiguring wounds -◊- "It should have been you."

Day Eighteen:

Resigned to fate -◊- Haunted -◊- Branding -◊- "We need to get out of here, now."

Day Nineteen:

Conditioning -◊- Solitary confinement -◊- Stress positions -◊- "Please, I'm just tired."

Day Twenty:

Exhausted -◊- Falling from a high place -◊- Forced to beg -◊- "What are you going to do with me?"

Day Twenty-One:

Touch starved -◊- Adrift -◊- Injured in the escape -◊- "Who did this to you?"

Day Twenty-Two:

Touch aversion -◊- Migraine -◊- Blade to the throat -◊- "Do you trust me?" "No."

Day Twenty-Three:

Amnesia -◊- Car accident -◊- Old wounds -◊- "I know it was you."

Day Twenty-Four:

Tentative trust -◊- Captivity -◊- Bear trap -◊- "Why are you doing this?"

Day Twenty-Five:

Threats to a loved one -◊- Poisoned -◊- Squeezing a wound -◊- "You got blood on my shoes."

Day Twenty-Six:

Defiance -◊- Fire -◊- Human shield -◊- "I told you so."

Day Twenty-Seven:

Giving in -◊- Caught in the rain -◊- Held under water -◊- "Don't punish other people because you hate me."

Day Twenty-Eight:

Panic attack -◊- Pinned by rubble -◊- Hidden injury -◊- "Please—please, you have to help them!"

Day Twenty-Nine:

Cornered -◊- Hypothermia -◊- Bleeding out -◊- "One of them walks out of here. You pick."

Day Thirty:

Forced to wait -◊- Blizzard -◊- Wrenched arm -◊- "Pass me the bone saw."

[dotcie]

— BAD DOG. [2]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. if you don't care about my OC, you can skip her backstory on ao3. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MDNI | hair pulling 》 CHAPTER: 3.9k | 2/? [masterlist] | AO3

Before she met Laswell, Jane did media monitoring for the DISA. 

It paid well for a job straight out of undergrad. Had reasonable hours, pleasant enough colleagues. She commuted the twenty minutes from her shitty apartment in Kingman Park to the Pentagon—arrived at seven forty-five with a cream cheese bagel and a skim milk latte. Wrote reports, emails, and memos. Hours and hours of political speeches, barking rifles, and screaming civilians ingrained in her brain. 

''Like a fucked up collage of the human greed for oil and retribution,'' she once called it over an almost empty espresso martini. Condensation pearled off the glass's rim and pooled on the table of an overpriced speakeasy bar, so unimpressive it was not worth remembering its name. Her questionable Tinder date had been late, his small-talk rather boring; No, she didn't like her job. Who ever did? But rent was expensive in DC, and Jane had student loans, expensive taste, and maybe eight hundred dollars in her checking account. 

She covered newsstreams out of Egypt, Lebanon, and Jordan. Iraq, and Yemen. Algeria. Libya.

Ate lunch at her desk—usually a salad and a protein bar, four busy screens in front of her. 

Had meetings with Cairo, Beirut, Amman, Baghdad, Sana'a, Algiers, and Tripoli.

She joined the white-collar crowd on their evening run around the Mall after work. From the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, around the reflecting pool. Two times, sometimes three. Always depending on the restlessness that hummed in her bones and tingled in her fingertips. 

Jane shoved her damp hair up with a clip and hopped on the blue metro line afterwards; sweaty and breathless, body humming with spent energy. She stopped at Whole Foods on her way home; bought dinner-for-one and a four-pack of sugar free Redbull. Put on noise canceling headphones without listening to anything on her way home—spying into warm lit windows and other people's lives. 

She ate in bed, crouched over her Macbook, the TV always set to CNN. She practiced Arabic. Scrolled through subreddits about zero-day exploits, but never commented on them. Went to bed late, woke up early. Got up the next day and did it all over again. 

Washington is a big city, in a big country, in a big world, and nothing ever changed. Jane just sat in her gunny-covered cubicle and watched whole cities crumble to dust like sandcastles. The local newspapers only covered a watered-down version of the turmoil overseas, but the mental images were always in the back of her head—no matter how loud she turned the TV. 

It's all part of a grand plan, she told herself. Just another rung on the ladder, an essential middle-step in her career. It was comfortable and disturbing. Exciting enough, but nothing impactful.

Nothing with an edge. 

The job had a sky-high turnover; a bad impact on employees. Turns out, swallowing the documentation of invasions, and civil wars, and an endless flow of American exceptionalism was only manageable for a couple of months. Jane became miserable and angry. Tired and strung-out. When handing in her two-weeks notice without a back-up plan, her supervisor accepted the neatly printed note with tired eyes and an annoyed flick of the wrist. 

Her therapist blamed her sense of weightlessness for everything she did afterwards: the thrill-seeking, the risk-taking. All her screw-ups in pursuit of sticking her fingers in better pies. When the agency sent her to the embassy in Urzikstan, Jane canceled her rent-controlled apartment lease early and donated most of her belongings to the Habitat For Humanity in Capitol Hill. Burning the boats, she called it. 

For months, no one could get a hold of her. 

Analyst positions for counter-terrorism overseas will chew you up and spit out your bones, a friend in the IOC had warned her. Jane was up for it anyway—of course she was. She had witnessed a few horrendous things through screens in Washington, but nothing compared to the situation in Sakhra. Like most soul-crushing things in life, it all wasn't real until it was. 

The first time she experienced the ruthlessness of the real world, a local contractor whose family was killed by American soldiers blew up half a base with some DIY C4. 12 soldiers dead, 24 injured. If not for Laswell yanking her into the shadows behind a M1A2 when panic erupted, she would have been trampled to death under the burning afternoon sun. 

Instead, Jane heaved, and coughed, then sank to the dusty ground with ringing ears. Kate towered over her with a drawn P890, yelling all-too-calmly over the wailing of sirens: You have twenty seconds to get it together.

They made her take time off two years later, after a black site she was stationed at suffered another, similar attack. Jane was resentful of it, but she wanted to keep her clearance, so she left with the next supply plane and said what she needed to say to pass the psych evaluation. 

She considered moving back into her grandparents ranch in Arizona. Maybe traveling through Europe, starting a new hobby (rock climbing, pottery, crocheting); but there was no real drive or push behind it. Instead, she bled in secret. Fucked strangers on her frameless king-size mattress and worked out too much in her unfurnished apartment. She got offers; a few private-sector contracts she knew she couldn't entertain. Jane wanted to stick it out with the agency—and Laswell. Especially with Laswell. 

The first question Shepherd asked her when she stepped into his office was if she had any family; a partner, kids, siblings. Parents to take care of. The General asked bluntly, but Jane was used to force as the most efficient method to get answers. 

She had spent three years interrogating Al-Qatala members and contacts. Trading money, safety, and threats for intelligence. Sleeping through the sound of gunfire, bystanding interrogations, interpreting intelligence, and snooping in places Americans aren't supposed to. Jane had left her old life behind and dove head-first into a tunnel vision.

No. She had no one. 

When saying it out loud she almost sounded proud. 

Working for the General is different. Non-official cover work for SAD intel suits her better—scratches a certain itch, too. Like finally tasting blood after biting your tongue for years. 

Laswell has been helpful, the additional training too; but nothing ever prepared her for the void between long-term missions. When the work is done and restlessness returns in weird jet-lagged hours of the fading days. When there are no objectives to sink her teeth into. No foreign streets to roam under false identities. No predictions to be made, no strings to pull. 

She's stuck in Iceland now, attending debrief after debrief. Her target is dead, the missile prototypes returned to the lab, but that isn't enough. They want to know everything. First the higher-ups at the Headquarters, then the Senate Intelligence Committee. They want the process. The months of searching, the people involved, the rules she broke. 

She did a good job, she got what she wanted, but she is part of Shepherd's system now, and he didn't approve of her moving forward with the operation. 

Since she returned to the lab, he hadn't answered any of her calls. 

Ghost is nothing but a silhouette in the low light of the crescent moon; sitting against a weathered wall of heavy concrete, a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Insects batter against a naked lightbulb overhead—the light orange and warm against the dark of night, casting long, unproportionate shadows over the smoking area. 

The sky hangs bruised and stormy over Vatnajökull, a million stars dotting the night. It's quarter to one, and the grounds of 102 are deadly still—so still, that the sound of a nearby metal door opening and closing shut remind him of gunshots piercing through the air. 

Years ago, he would have flinched at the sound, but there is not much left that startles Simon Riley anymore. 

Jane tips her head back in annoyance as she steps outside, cradling her phone between ear and shoulder. ''Listen—,'' she scolds into it, patting the outside of her clothes for the pack of cigarettes she bought from one of the kitchen workers yesterday. ''Louise, right? Louise, with all due respect—'' 

She takes a deep breath of restraint when she finds nothing but a crumbled straw wrapper in the pockets of her leather jacket. Sharp words spill on the other end of the line, and she squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. ''I'm not going to argue with some mid-level bureaucrat, get him on the phone— No, no, you listen! I need a black passport, don't— Fuck—'' 

Jane's grip on the iPhone loosens with the sound of a disconnected call echoing blatantly against her ear. Simon can hear her mutter a spool of curses, the sound of gravel screeching under her feet, and how all sound seizes as she pauses at the sight of him. 

The smoking area is dimly lit, but there's no mistaking the broad-shouldered figure with the cramped up skull mask looming in the corner of the building. Simon appeared in her sight so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Jane would not be surprised if he materialized out of thin air. It would suit him; Ghost that he is.

Smoke pools out of the soldier's mouth, the balaclava pulled up to his nose; exposing a sharp chin with a shadow of stubble forming its way up a jaw set tight. He is hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs. He doesn't look up to see that the expression on her face is one of mute surprise, or that her eyes narrow at the sight of him. 

''Thought you'd be gone already,'' she calls over, lounging near the door she slipped out of. 

''Change of plans,'' he returns easy and low, eyes glued to the book in his calloused hands. 

It's only been a few days, but his voice is as deep and as resonant as Jane remembers; it fills the air and makes her blood rush with the mental images of his fingertips digging into her skin. 

There's always a certain quietness after she's been fucked good—the world stands still for a moment, and it helps to quench the thirst, to fill the void.

Jane needs to hold something in her arms sometimes. Something unattainable and distant. Something unwise. Something like him. 

''Mind if I bum one?'' She nods to the lit cigarette between his scarred fingers, stepping closer.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to ignore her—then he dog-ears the page he was reading and abandons the book onto his lap. 

Simon looks up all casually and unfazed, shakes his head. 

''Last one,'' he says, half-lidded stare fixed on her in that particular Ghost sort-of-way. The way he always gets when you rip out the half-assed social niceties and expose the weirdo underneath. 

Jane exhales through her nose, leaning against a pole holding up the roof. The urge for frustration refuses to be ignored, so she buckles, comments: ''Of course,'' like she's taking notes on the irony of it all. 

''Stop pondering, will ya?'' Inhaling another mouthful of tar, Simon stretches out along the bench, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. The set of dog tags around his neck clink together when he scratches the underside of his chin. "No point in gettin' all antsy." 

She shoots him a cold, hard look for it—the one that makes his blood sing, makes him remember the expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted her target dead. 

''Thank you, Simon, for your unsolicited wisdom.'' 

The subtle fuck you isn't boarded in her voice, but it throbs under every word of hers. He doesn't bother scolding her for saying his name again, but the bitter taste of disapproval sure does coat his tongue. He's not foolish enough to argue with her when she's like this; all gutted and pent-up. Ready to hiss, bite, and lunge at his throat. 

The familiarity of it all stirs something up in him. For a moment, Ghost almost believes that it's sympathy, maybe—or at least a pinch of pity. A distant part of his mind remembers the dogged woman he faced when they first met; working out of a one-room shithole in a broken-down, brutalist apartment building somewhere in the Balkans. Reviewing surveillance logs, transcripts, and maps in shorts and a sports bra because the AC was utter rubbish. He recalls her hunched figure and unwashed hair as she worked out of the tiny living room—the space a mess of cables and empty microwave meals, her tech always charging. Her curtains always closed, dust dancing in the beams of light that crept their way inside.

Two days after the exfil, he barely recognized her anymore; with fresh clothes, twelve-hours of sleep, and hair neatly cut to a shoulder-length. It was like meeting a stranger, a whole different woman. He was certain, then, that the only way out for her was the same as his: leaving rotten and zipped up in a body bag.

Simon holds his half-smoked cigarette out to her, and she lets her head roll to consider the silent peace-offer. Her expression bleeds into something less angry in the face of him, and she hates that it makes him snort in response. 

Jane gives him the illusion of thinking it over before breaking away from her frozen stance and closing the distance between them. She takes the stub, and sinks onto the wooden bench next to him.

''Thanks.'' — ''Mhmh.''

Even with some distance between them, Simon towers over her. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't attempt to embarrass himself with comforting words and distracting small-talk. He's quiet—a man of few words and fewer smiles—but that's what drew her to him in the first place. There's caution behind his eyes, and his words are always cleaved off at the knee. A person weathered and hardy. A man who, just like her, has seen things most wouldn't even believe.

They both fall quiet passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a moment he thinks that the conversation has faded out completely. Simon's eyes return to the book in his lap, trying to find the spot where he left off before she interrupted him, but— 

''Do you think I went too far?'' Jane keeps her eyes forward, burying her free hand in the left pocket of her jacket. 

Simon hums in response, dark and low. ''Doesn't matter what I think,'' he says in a way that makes it clear he believes it, too.

''But you are somewhat capable of forming opinions, yeah?'' 

It coaxes a half-huff, half-laugh from him. He gets it. Logically, he gets it. Everybody is somebody's dog, hanging onto a leash; but he's military, and he much prefers to not comment on any of it. 

''You ignored authority,'' he starts, then pauses. ''Whether or not it was worth it, all y'can do now is handle the repercussions.'' 

''That's not an answer.'' Two dimples appear on either side of Jane's frown as she tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ears and leans forward. ''Forget I even—''

''I think," he interrupts calmly, but stern, ''that your self-doubt won't help you.''

Jane keeps her gaze flat, level. Perhaps if she mimics the face of apathy, Simon won't be able to see that she's hanging onto every word of his. What he says resonates; a quiet truth echoing through the air between them. The regret in her chest strikes like a bomb and for a moment, she fears the possibility of Shepherd cutting her TS/SCI clearance once and for all. She's been ignoring the thought, avoiding any evidence of worry that could shape her suspicions into something tangible, something real.

''Just thinking ahead'' she says quietly, scuffing her boot against the pavement below. "Little catastrophizing, worst-case-scenario planning." 

"Doomsday prepping?" He offers and gets a little smile for that. 

His chest tightens at the sight, an aching warmth interweaving his thoughts with sympathy. He looks away then, trying to collect himself. Seeking control, reaching for reason. Better judgment. Something else.

Jane studies his side profile for a moment, and Simon suddenly feels like she's too close, too comfortable in his presence. It's only a split second, the length of a heartbeat, but it's enough for Jane to take in the way he blinks his intrusive thoughts away. 

''Why are you still here, anyway?'' She asks in a change of tone, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

''Taking a break,'' he drawls, words dripping slowly as molasses from his mouth. There is no further explanation offered, no words wasted on reasons or truths. Simon blinks languidly, his lips pressing together as he closes his book for good. 

''Because of Soap?'' There's an off-tone in her voice. ''I thought he is getting better already?"

Simon exhales roughly. ''No,'' he says with a lazy shrug. ''Yes.'' 

It's short and curt, but she doesn't let his vague hostility deter her. Jane just stares at him, impatience reflecting in her eyes, and he's not used to it; all the questions, the curiosity. 

''Do you know,'' he continues slowly, taking the cigarette back to keep his hands busy, ''the number of classifications and regulations I'd have to ignore to tell you shite like this?'' 

It's easier than admitting that he failed his psych evaluation for a second time in three years. 

Price is doing the paperwork for him, because they apparently want to negotiate some kind of terms for him. No rumors, no records, no further questions asked. Simon would be mad about it, if he wasn't so bloody tired. 

It's been years of regaining control and gripping bloody bathroom sinks. Endless hours of running, shooting, yelling over comms, and saving Johnny from the stupid, stupid shit he gets up to when nobody's there to keep an eye out for him. Simon is not a reckless man—at least not when he doesn't let his rage blind him—but you can't teach an old dog new tricks. 

He's not sure why he hasn't been able to admit to himself that his life has been nothing but fear, rage, vigilance, wanting, and searching, wanting, and never finding what eases the pain. 

He knows that Price goes back to a Rosewood desk with whisky and cigars in the upper right drawer, before driving home to a house and a woman that were once his. Laswell has a wife named June and a flourishing garden waiting at home. Gaz goes back to a two-bedroom flat in London, decorated by a girl he met during the siege of the U.S. embassy in Urzikstan. Simon doesn't have anywhere to be—nobody's waiting for him—so he stays. For Soap, he tells himself, and everyone who's paid to listen. 

The Scot's injuries happened under his watch, so he might as well play messenger for his moms, sisters and one-thousand nephews until he can travel back home. It's what a good Lieutenant does. It's what Price would do. 

''Alright,'' Jane says cold, flatly. ''It's none of my business anyway.'' 

She declines the last drag of the cigarette when Simon offers it to her, and he can't help but feel like he's been rude; like he just ruined something delicate. A particular flavor of guilt clings to the underside of his tongue, and he's willing to answer whatever her next question might be in order to make it up to her. 

He stubs out the cigarette, and it takes a moment or two before he realizes that his guilt is the reason she gave in so quickly in the first place.

''I'm not gonna tell ya,'' he says, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth; like she doesn't fully believe it, but is willing to play along. 

He is too exhausted to not condemn her for it, so he covers himself in heavy silence. Simon doesn't break eye contact, doesn't move—his dark glance intervenes with the amusement in her eyes, and when the quiet stretches on for too long, her eyes dart to his exposed lips shamelessly. 

''Anyone ever tell ya' to mind yer' own business, Spade?''

It coaxes a genuine laugh out of her. Simon is not sure he's ever heard her laugh before; the way the sound bubbles out of her throat, limpid and clear, and then almost turns into a snort. 

''I like you,'' she says pointedly, with purpose. 

"You're just bored.'' — ''And you aren't?" 

Simon remains silent, and the glint in her glance grows bright, pinning. Like she just learned a secret; an inside joke. 

It's unhealthy, this habit she's developed of digging her fingers in his wounds. She feels like a parasite trying to crawl under his skin, and she should probably feel far more ashamed of how much she enjoys the thrill of it. 

She has heard the stories, of course. The legends about the masked, faceless man; the perfect soldier, the silent killer. Everyone affiliated with Shepherd or Shadow Company in the slightest is aware of Ghosts' reputation, and Jane had been curious to meet the man. Dead-eyed, mass of muscle. A walking depiction of death. 

The warning signs about him are written in blood, telltale stories, and that half-lidded stare of his; Stay away, they say. Keep your distance. 

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

Jane bats her eyelashes at him. ''Like what?''

 ''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

"You don't,'' he interrupts, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.'' 

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you, Lieutenant?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it, too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real. 

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it. 

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating. 

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip. 

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away. 

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar, and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it. 

》 Previous Part | Next Part 》 Masterlist.

》 Tag-list: @devcica @glitterypirateduck @queen-ilmaree @widemiffyhappy @cathnoneofyourbusiness

[writer-rubes]

Tickletober: Day 1

A/N: I’m gonna try this for once. I can’t promise I’ll stick with this, but I will attempt to get through thirty days. I will do my best uwu

Anyways, here is Day 1. I will post the list, and the ref of the character used here at the end :) Enjoy!

So Many Options

An OC Fanfic

CW: Teasing, Mega Teasing, Fluff, Implied tickles, actual tickles, flustering

Tickletober - Day 1: Anticipation

“Oh, little friend. Are you ready to play~?”

A wave of shyness hit her newest friend. The strings holding them in place were not budging, no matter how hard they struggled. Makes sense. They were made by a deity after all.

“Aw, what’s wrong, dear friend? A little too ticklish and shy for your own good~? You can’t wait for your dose of tickles?~” Kendra, the Deity of Positivity, had a friend with her. They were incredibly cute, and with consent, they were brought to her dimension to play.

“C’mon friend~ You know I’m going to get you~” Kendra teasingly wiggled her fingers at them, causing them to giggle.

“Kendra, please!” They whined as they giggled. Kendra merely chuckled.

“Aw, what’s the matter?~” She teased lovingly, still taunting them with her wiggling fingers. “Are you giggling because you’re imagining my wiggling fingers on your tickle spots?~”

They couldn’t stop giggling now. Even if they tried. And they have, about eight times already. But they were too giggly, and Kendra had them right where she wanted.

“Maybe here would be a good spot?” She wiggled her fingers just above their tummy. “It’s a classic. Soft, cute, and incredibly ticklish~”

Her friend widened their eyes. They knew what she was doing. And it was killing them.

“Or here?” She hovered her wiggly fingers just above their underarms. “Little pockets of soft skin, with bundles of nerves just waiting to be tickled~ It’s so cute. I wonder if I should keep your arms up, or have you trap my hands there. The only way to get them out is if you raise your arms~”

They squeaked. This was too much already, but they knew that Kendra was just playing. But did she have to be so mean?

Well, they did love her because she was a mean tickler…

“Or maybe, a lower territory~” She turned around, and hovered her wiggling fingers at their feet.

“Here, maybe? A common spot for many of my friends.” She cooed. “I could play This Little Piggy, scratch them like they’re itchy, or even tickle them with feathers~ You like those, right?~”

At this point, they couldn’t stop giggling. Kendra was melting them like an ice cream cone on a beach. She was so good at this.

“Or perhaps… here?” She moved her wiggling fingers up to the torso again. “I’ve never gotten the chance to count human ribs before. I always heard there were twenty four of them in the average human body… But I’m not sure. As a clay deity, I don’t have bones~”

They knew that game… Counting ribs. If they squirmed and laughed too much, she would have to start all over again… And it would go on for hours.

“Or maybe even here?~” She cooed. “The ears and neck are fun. The neck has so many pretty, adorable nerves. And the ears I can tickle with a blow, or my own voice, like this~”

She leaned up to their ear, a gentle, loving smirk on her face. She could tell they loved this. She wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t. She gently whispered into their ear…

“Tickle, tickle, tickle~”

That made them squeal. She was riling them up so bad and she technically hasn’t even touched them. It was so much already, they just wanted her to tickle them already!

“Oh, is that the case?~”

Shit. They forgot she could pick up on their thoughts.

“Well… how about I go over each spot? One by one?~” She moved herself back down to the torso.

“Starting with this soft tummy~”

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Prompt list: Made by August

Pink: Kendra Fics

Yellow: Fnaf DCA/ Sun and Moon Show fics

White: Skip

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Picture of Kendra!

Commissioned by @jav-animations ! Thank you again! :) Go commission them!

[kismetconstellations]

@sockdooe You absolutely do not need to apologize, ever, for "dumping" rants in the tags of my posts. I happen to love reading everything you have to say, and look forward to these "dumps", every time I see your username pop up in my notifications.

People are allowed to write and headcanon whatever they want (Looking at you, "Black Paladin Lance" AUs), but, it's concrete, indisputable canon that the Black Lion and Shiro had the strongest bond of any human Paladin and Lion pair.

Yes, Lance was the first to have a connection with a Lion, and the Red Lion came to Keith's aid of her own volition, just as the Green Lion likewise rushed to protect Pidge. That in no way negates just how much focus was given to building Shiro's bond with Black, and establishing him as the Paladin she chose, because they understood, valued, and trusted one another. Sure, the Black Lion absorbing Shiro into her inner quintessence might very well be a reference to the episode of Neon Genesis Evangelion where Shinji Ikari's body is similarly absorbed by his EVA Unit. Goodness knows there are plenty references to NGE and other anime scattered about. Shiro's Season One/Two design seems to have taken some heavy inspiration from Guts- shock of stress-induced white on a head of black hair, strong, square jaw, prosthetic arm, distinct lateral scar across the bridge of his nose-

-and he was originally intended to marry Roy Focker.

Nevertheless, it speaks volumes that this ancient, sentient force looked at a traumatized, battle-scarred, yet still extraordinarily gentle man with blood on his hands, sins to atone for, and feelings of self-loathing and desperation to prove himself worthy, prove that every fight in the Arena and every life he took to keep himself alive, every precious second of time he was able to steal back from Death's inescapable grip meant something if he can do good with all of the evil that has touched him, permeating the very essence of his being, and decided Him. He's the one I want. To the point of holding onto whatever she could of him after he died.

And, as much as this show tried to undermine that with Keith and the Clone Shiro being able to pilot the Black Lion, and later showing the previous Paladins also being preserved by their Lions' quintessence- inside of Haggar/Honerva's mind, despite the fact that she killed them outside of their Lions, because Season Eight's writing is an absolute convoluted mess- it will never, ever diminish the fact that Shiro is so special, not one, but two magic-powered sentient spacecrafts adopted him as their Person.

(I do wish the Atlas's interior wasn't so dark, dreary, and dull, though. They couldn't have given this poor man a ship with white walls and turquoise accents, or something? It had to be dingy gray and Galaxy Garrison orange?)

Even if we ignore the fans who hyperfocus on Lance and Keith, determined to turn them into the ultimate tragic heroes/victims of the universe/hyper-competent badasses/supremely empathetic Hearts of the Team (sorry, but that title belongs to Hunk. It will always belong to Hunk)/discount Shiros, the treatment of Shiro by the fandom has, since its inception, been dubious, at best.

He's a cheerleader for Keith/Lance. He's an obstacle to Keith/Lance, so we'll pair him off with Allura. No, wait, never mind, he's twenty-five, and therefore, absolutely off limits to every single one of the Paladins, and Allura, as a potential romantic partner, and anyone even slightly okay with one of these ships deserves to be harassed and indiscriminately labeled a "pedophile", including Shiro's voice actor. (We'll completely overlook, of course, that Keith is also a legal adult, and shipping him with any of the younger Paladins should, by those standards, be verboten, as well.) Shiro is the "Token Gay" who we'll cast aside in favor of Keith and/or Lance, but throw him the meagerest scrap of bone in the form of pairing him off with either the (dead) man who canonically ended their relationship on poor terms because he couldn't handle the emotional strain of another one of Shiro's medical scares, or the piece of glorified set dressing with no personality to speak of who Shiro barely interacts with, and whose name is never once spoken onscreen. Wait, no, Shiro's actually not gay enough (because he's not a mincing, flamboyant stereotype?), so we'll complain that we were "queerbaited" over a ship featuring a canonically heterosexual teenage boy that was never, ever going to happen.

And, the fans who do gravitate toward Shiro tend to sexualize him to the extent of discarding- or fetishizing- his trauma to get him naked and railing (in the most Out of Character portrayal imaginable), or being railed by, their character of choice as swiftly as possible.

Disgusting.

I can only hazard a guess that Shiro has been afflicted with so much extensive, irreversible trauma, fanfiction authors who are simply writing for fun with the intention of living vicariously through these characters don't want to have to confront the ugly, less than titillating reality of that trauma, or so much as touch it with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole. So, they choose to pretend it doesn't exist, or gloss over it, in exactly the manner the show, itself, does. This includes his illness, which, if we take Lauren Montgomery and Joaquim Dos Santos at their word, was written into Shiro's character from conception, along with his homosexual identity.

"I think a lot of his backstory was created independently, even from his sexual orientation, ‘cause that was just a part of who he was but it wasn’t necessarily a discovery moment. So the vast majority of the conversations of his backstory were around figuring out what else is there, the illness and those aspects of it. Him being gay was just something that we had always wanted to do with him from early on."

And, in the case of fans who try to turn their favorites into Shiro, which is one of the strangest, most inexplicable phenomena I have ever encountered in all of my years on the internet in fandom spaces- why designate a character as your favorite if you desperately need them to be someone else, instead of accepting them as they are?- they have to be slapping a prosthetic on those characters purely for the cheap angsty aesthetic.

Which is to be expected when people steal distinct traits from another character to apply to their favorite like a patchy, uneven coat of paint layered over top of what was already there. They don't understand why that other character had those traits, to begin with. They, presumably, see Shiro with his scars, his personal history with Sendak, Haggar, and Zarkon, the three most powerful and intimidating villains in the series, the physical and emotional evidence of the experimentation and torture Shiro was subjected to while in captivity, his relationship with the Black Lion, his irreplaceable presence and role on the team as a firm but gentle guiding light, and decide, "That's unique and makes him stand out as someone special and important. My favorite deserves to be special and important, too! So, I'll take what he has and give it to them!" It really is like a kid wanting another kid's favorite toy because their own isn't "good enough", and I can honestly say I've never seen this sort of behavior in any other fandom. If Lance and Keith fans, as they tend to be the prime perpetrators, recognize that Shiro has innate narrative significance and desirable qualities, why not adopt him as their favorite, instead?

It all comes back to the fanbase's rampant ageism, the ages of the fans, themselves (you'd have to be pretty darned young to think a twenty-five year-old is old enough to be a teenager's "dad"), and, I think, the fact that Shiro is a conventionally masculine gay man, rather than a skinny twink, so it isn't as easy to project more effeminate characteristics onto him.

Lance uses skin masks and moisturizes.

Shiro either doesn't sleep, or wakes up inhumanly early to do push-ups.

Characters with more reserved, subdued personalities also tend to be cast aside and written off as "boring" in favor of overtly loud, flashy, mostly comic relief ones. There is nothing wrong with preferring one or the other, and both have their place, especially in stories aimed at child audiences where a bit of levity is necessary after watching characters go through high stakes and intense emotional strain. But, it has always been my opinion that people who overlook the guarded, noble, self-sacrificing leaders who voluntarily bear the weight of the world on their shoulders have poor taste. That sort of frank dismissal demonstrates an unwillingness to peer past the supposedly "uninteresting" surface and see what makes these characters pillars of leadership, virtue, and heroism, in the first place.

Like reaching out to a kid the rest of the world has given up on, and offering him a helping hand.

Like being willing to paint yourself as a bloodthirsty savage and attacking a scared friend to keep him out of a fight where he surely would have lost his life.

Like offering encouragement, guidance, and support to the people in your care, so they come to trust you as a friend, and confidante.

And, never hesitating to protect someone who can't protect themselves.

Takashi Shirogane is beautiful, inside and out.

The "fans" who don't understand or appreciate that, and especially the ones who think this show could have possibly stood to benefit from killing him permanently, have objectively rancid opinions. And, should almost definitely steer clear of trauma survivors, because they fail to understand what Shiro means to us as a representation of the kind of person we all could be if we're willing to never give up on ourselves, and try.

Let him be showered in all of the tender forehead kisses, get to sleep on the comfiest plush mattress, and be surrounded by an army of soft and fluffy plushies. Forever and ever.

[marjoch]

MAY YOUR DEATH BE SWIFT

slowburn ellabs fic set four years after santa barbara

early updates on ao3 @ josmarch

chapter 1

In a world ravaged by an infection that seemed doomed to take over, humanity found societal connection to be the strongest line of defense. There was power in numbers. What one could do well, two could do better, and ten could do best. Almost thirty years after the initial outbreak, nearly all the remaining survivors lived in fortified towns — nearly all, as a rare few stragglers found themselves able to live on their own. And even more complex: those that lay in some in-between, finding refuge near the boundaries of towns, either inside or outside. Laramie, Wyoming was no exception to these individuals, as they had one of their own.

A dark and dismal one-story house on the outskirts of town was home to the loner. Apart from the appearance, the place had good bones, which is probably why Ellie Williams had decided to stay there instead of moving on like she’d originally planned a year ago. There were minimal furnishings inside, including an old couch and a coffee table, a small kitchen table with a single chair, and her bed in the room down the hall.

The front door burst open, then, and the inhabitant of the house stumbled in. She slammed the door behind her with her right hand, then went back to clutching her injured left forearm. The wound wasn’t visible yet, covered by Ellie’s long sleeves, but she knew what would be staring back at her when she got to the bathroom. She continued her unstable walk until she reached the room and looked into the mirror before ever addressing her ailment.

The Ellie that stared back at her was much older than she remembered. Since returning from Santa Barbara, she’d been aimlessly fighting in patrols around the state. She finally settled in Laramie, but not without a stark reminder of the Jackson she’d left: a large scar across her right eye, cutting a second parallel line through her eyebrow and continuing onto her cheek. There were less permanent details on her face such as blood and dirt, but she paid no mind, too focused on unbuttoning her shirt. She slowly pulled off the left sleeve, wincing, and let it drop to the floor. “Fuck,” she murmured, looking at the fresh bite mark above her wrist.

Ellie opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the alcohol and one of the many strips of cloth she’d rolled up and stashed away. She turned on the faucet. Running water was a luxury, and it barely worked. She rinsed the blood off of the wound and gritted her teeth as she opened the alcohol bottle. Nothing but a sharp gasp during the initial pour left her lips, a sign that this wasn’t new to her. Other signs were more physical. Now that she was standing in just a tank top, it was clear that there was evidence of other bites, mangled by acid and tattooed over by a new artist. And when she stripped down to shower the grime off of her body, they were everywhere: the branch of a palm covering up the small bite she earned in Santa Barbara, a large fern across her hip, a solar system covering a series of burns on her left thigh. She dressed her wound after putting on clean clothes, and she left the old outfit on the bathroom floor.

She was headed straight back outside, but not into battle. She had a single friend in the entire town, a woman of twenty-eight named Monica whose relationship with Ellie was tumultuous due to Ellie’s avoidance and Monica’s marriage. Born just a year after the outbreak, Monica was raised in a world that struggled to find its footing in the chaos. Ellie felt sympathetic for her experience despite not fully understanding. When Monica spoke of her upbringing, it made Ellie feel lucky. But regardless of their differences, Monica was still a skilled tattooist, and Ellie was a woman who needed a cover-up job.

Ellie grabbed her jacket and left, barely pulling it over her arms before she was out the door. The April air was still chilling to the bone, and there was snow piled up against the fence. She wondered if she’d have a decent birthday this year, if the weather would be nice by late May. Then again, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to be twenty-five.

She opted to walk to Monica’s. Ellie had acquired a pickup truck somewhere during her travels, but she didn’t waste gas if she could help it. She usually used it if she picked up a patrol shift far outside of town, because she didn’t want to push a horse to the limit. She felt bad burdening a living being. She couldn’t remember how she’d ever done it before. Her old routines had completely fallen away, and her recklessness was a symbol.

The walk was nearly a mile, but she barely felt it, acclimated to the journey. Ellie had spent many nights making the trip back in the middle of the night after Monica’s husband returned late. He knew of Ellie, but she still wasn’t sure he knew the extent of what she’d done to his wife. As far as he knew, they were friends at best.

He was at work today. Monica was tucking her toddler into bed for a nap when Ellie knocked on the front door and stood outside looking like a forlorn lost dog waiting to be welcomed back into an old family. When Monica opened the door, she initially looked pleased, but then she caught Ellie’s eyes, and just sighed. “What now?”

“Can I come in?” was Ellie’s response. Monica just held the door open for her, and Ellie entered the home. It was much more well-furnished than her own place of residence, with multiple places to sit in the living room, framed art on the walls, even a potted plant in the corner. Ellie didn’t have time to take in the familiar space before Monica cleared her throat, claiming the attention in the room. She didn’t prompt the younger woman to speak: Ellie just rolled her eyes and pulled up her jacket sleeve, revealing a gauze wrap that had nearly bled through already.

“Jesus,” muttered Monica, rolling her eyes in a mirror gesture, hers with much more tone. She was some mix of disappointed and annoyed that Ellie couldn’t quite place. “Again? I’m going to have them take you off the patrols.”

“Come on, it’s been months.”

“I’m serious, Ellie.”

“Months, I’m serious too. Come on, Monica. I haven’t been bitten since January.” Ellie pulled her sleeve back down, doing her best to hide the pain but wincing just the slightest. Monica didn’t miss a beat.

“No, I’m fucking serious. People go their entire lives without being bit, and that’s the end of the road for them. You’re just fucking around, you shouldn’t be on patrols. This is everything to some people. Get a grip.” Her words sounded harsh towards the end, and Ellie stood there for a moment, processing. Then she sighed, sounding disappointed just as Monica had before.

“I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen, it was an accident.”

Monica was already getting out her sketchbook. “That’s what you said last time.” She was busy flipping through for an empty page. “Do you still dream about her?” No response from Ellie, so Monica looked up after finding a blank space to draw. “Ellie.”

“No,” was the all-too-quick response. Ellie shook her head and exhaled, as if that would change the fervor in her tone. “No.”

“Look me in the eyes,” Monica commanded. When Ellie’s eyes finally met Monica’s, the older woman just sighed and began working on her sketch. “You have to stop. Either I have Geoff take you off the patrol, or—”

“I’m thinking of going south.” Ellie’s interruption stopped Monica mid-sentence. When Monica seemed speechless, Ellie continued. “Texas. I don’t know. Somewhere along the way? I can’t stay here, I’m too restless.”

Monica kept working on the sketch, not looking up as she responded. “You can barely make it through the patrol without running into trouble. Are you good to head south on your own? Do you even have a plan?”

Ellie laughed wistfully. “Yeah. I’m taking my truck. I wanted to ask you about that, actually—”

“What, you want our gas? You think you’re in a position to bargain? You know I’m already doing a lot to keep your secret safe, Ellie. I don’t even charge you for the work I do. I make a lot off of everyone else that comes here, you just show up and expect me to help. What do I have to—”

Ellie cut her off, then, swiftly moving closer pulling Monica into a heated kiss. When she pulled away, she didn’t go far, kissing Monica’s neck before breathing quiet words into her ear. The older woman stood there, captivated. “What do you have to gain? Something more satisfying than your husband could ever do for you.”

Monica stepped back, shaking her head. “I’m worried about you. I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve heard that.”

Ellie threw up her hands, her frustration showing through her attempt to stay calm. Monica sat down, not amused, continuing to work on the sketch. “What do you want me to say?” Ellie started. “I can’t stay here. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“You say that every few weeks,” Monica remarked. She looked up when Ellie failed to reply. “Ellie. Are you serious? You’re actually going?”

“I’m actually going,” said the younger woman. Silence remained between the pair, and then Monica turned around her sketchbook to show a drawing she’d drafted of a songbird. Ellie nodded. “I like it.”

“Great,” Monica said. “If you’re leaving soon, we’ll need to do it soon. You know the process, though. It’s going to be—”

“A month or two, I know. You don’t have to tell me.”

“You don’t have to interrupt me all the time,” Monica remarked.

Instead of an apology, Ellie just nodded. “This time next month, then?”

Monica went back to her sketchbook, not thrilled by Ellie’s lack of focus. “I’ll see you then if not before.”

No verbal goodbye, no words. Ellie leaned in to kiss Monica again, this time quickly. Then she left as quickly as she’d come, walking back down the long road home. Snow started to fall, and she cursed the springtime, reminiscing something she’d lost.

[monstersandmaw]

Male werewolf x female character (Gabe & Odessa) - Chapter Twenty One (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

___

Oof, folks. It’s been building to this, and some of you have added your thoughts on what’s going on, but I promise you he will tell her...

Content: werewolf transformation, shifted sex, knotting, biting (gentle, no blood), aftercare and fluff Wordcount: 4926

Catch up here:

Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (sfw) Part Seven (sfw), Part Eight (sfw), Part Nine (sfw), Part Ten (sfw), Part Eleven (nsfw), Part Twelve (sfw), Part Thirteen (sfw), Part Fourteen (nsfw), Part Fifteen (nsfw), Part Sixteen (nsfw), Part Seventeen (sfw), Part Eighteen (v. light nsfw), Part Nineteen (nsfw), Part Twenty (nsfw) 

Gabe’s back gave another great heave and, still human, he let out a roar that was all animal, bearing his teeth and snarling, head dropping forwards as he shook from the effort of holding back a transformation that had already started to take hold of him.

“God, Odessa, I’m so sorry,” he hissed. “I’ve never lost control of it like this… I… I don’t —” he broke off and half-swallowed a yelp of pain as his back twisted a little and he braced his arms wide on either side of her body to stop himself falling forwards on top of her. “Shit. I can’t… I’m…”

He retreated down the bed and his back curved upwards again like an angry cat.

“You can shift, Gabe” she said again, heart still pounding. “Let go. Don’t worry about anything else. Shift.”

Snarling and snapping, he pushed further away and she watched, fascinated, as he gave in to the wolf without another word.

Dark fur grew along his spine, and the grinding crack and clunk of bones realigning under his skin filled the air. His whole body trembled and jerked convulsively, claws growing, limbs elongating and skull changing, muscles tearing and reforming, a tail growing, until he crouched, hunched on all fours on the bed near her feet, breathing erratically.

“Gabe?” she whispered, hardly daring to breathe, let alone move. “Are you alright?”

His cock was still hard, she noticed unavoidably as she took in his new body. Achingly so, and it was huge like this; red and thick. The longer she looked at him, the harder he got it seemed, and in only a few seconds, it twitched and began to leak pre-come in a thick, steady stream onto the sheets below him. There was also a thicker bulge beginning to form at the base. Gabe whined and tried to shrink away, curling inwards on himself. His ears were back, his eyes were closed, and he looked the picture of miserable shame.

“Gabe, no…” she said. “No, don’t. Come back?” she asked as she sat up and extended her hand towards him, palm up. “Come back… Please… It’s ok.”

At that, he did finally look up at her with those familiar golden eyes. He looked so vulnerable, so uncertain. She nodded reassurance and smiled. He glanced down at himself in a wry, self-deprecating kind of way and tilted his head in a question.

“I want you, Gabe,” Odessa said with a fluttering laugh, and she found that she truly meant it. She’d had ‘human Gabe’ any number of times by then, but there was something about him in this form that made her core burn. “You’re still you, whatever form you take. I want you. And,” she added with a wry smile, “You clearly still want me…”

Cautiously, he nodded and then crawled up the bed towards her.

The sight of his black, clawed, paw-like hands on the stark white sheets sent a thrill through her and she bit her lip as she lay back once more, simultaneously relaxing and buzzing with renewed energy. He loomed over her as she lay there, and she smiled up at the werewolf who already had claimed her, body and soul.

With his inhuman hands splayed across her thighs, black claws glinting, he parted her legs and she opened willingly to him. He inhaled slowly, tongue starting to loll, and he lowered his great wolf’s head and pressed his cold, wet nose to her clit. She immediately bucked beneath him but he held her down with no effort at all. His jaws parted and he let his hot tongue rake over her, tasting her, and as he did, he let out a rumbling groan of pleasure. He licked her, tongue laving through the wetness that had gathered anew between her folds, and as he started to focus more on her clit and on her pleasure, Odessa’s body began to tremble and heave in time with every stroke of his tongue. The pads of his paws were rough on her skin and his grip was breathtaking, but the contrast between the strength of his body and the delicacy of his touch left her gasping and crying out.

“Oh my God, I’m going to come,” she grunted as the pleasure that had been growing in her core suddenly unfolded like a flower.

In a blinding starburst across her vision, she came against the heat and pressure of his tongue and he closed his mouth on her. His upper teeth pressed into her mound as if he were trying to devour her while his tongue pressed tight against her fluttering heat. She tried to lift her hips against his mouth but he pinned her down and growled at her to keep still. The vibrations ran through her whole body and she threw her head back into the pillows and yelled as a second wave tore through her right on the heels of the first.

Finally she came down, twitching and gasping for breath, and he drew back slowly. He licked her a few times, not wanting to waste any of the taste of her, and then he regarded her steadily. He was still the Gabe she knew when he wore this form, but he was also a little different. Human-Gabe was relaxed and affable and easy-going, but Wolf-Gabe was quiet and intense and very observant, the way a pack’s sentry might keep watch: cataloguing every movement and noticing every detail about her. It made her skin tingle just to bear his golden gaze on her.

His jaws were softly parted to show his teeth and the tip of his wet tongue, and his eyes glowed bright gold in a face that was as kind as it was inhuman. He loved her. Of that there was no doubt.

“I need you inside me,” she whispered.

His cock twitched visibly at that, and it drooled a thick line of pre-come down onto the sheets between her legs. Trusting her, he didn’t hesitate as much this time, and he prowled the rest of the way up the bed until he loomed over her with his inhuman hands braced on either side of her head and his cock leaking pre-come all over the sensitive skin between her legs every time it twitched.

Flushed red, hard, and messy, with the knot showing visibly at soft fur around the base, Gabe seemed more aroused than she’d yet known him, but still he began slowly, simply rutting his cock against her thighs and smearing the drooling pre-come all over her. When he met her eyes and understood that she really did want him like that, he lowered his muzzle to her collarbone and slowly opened his jaws. His huge teeth locked carefully around the bones of her shoulder and chest, and she bucked up into him with a broken, needy grunt.

“Oh my God, Gabe…” she breathed, revelling in the new sensation.

It was like being held, but it was so intense on so many levels. If he chose to — or if he lost control, she supposed — he could kill her in an instant, snapping her collarbones like kindling, but instead he just held her still while he rutted luxuriantly against her, savouring the pleasure and slide of her body against his.

“Gabe…” she said again, and she raised her hands to his chest, watching as her fingers sank and disappeared into the thick fur there. “I still want you inside me…” she reminded him.

A long, low, quavering note left his throat at that and his whole body fell still.

Then, without releasing his grip on her shoulder, he shifted his hips just a little and the searing heat of the tip of his cock nudged against her entrance. With Odessa wetter than she could ever remember being, and with Gabe even messier than usual, the slide of his huge cock inside her was easier than she’d expected, though the stretch was still immense.

This time, a long, high whine left him and his jaw quivered before he released her and bowed his back to drive himself all the way inside her to the hilt.

Except it wasn’t to the hilt, she realised as the bulge of his knot nudged at her sensitive entrance and he began to pant and whimper. He clearly wanted more, to slide completely inside her, but even lost in the wolf, he apparently couldn't bear the thought of hurting her.

At first he moved with an aching, cautious slowness that bordered on frustrating for her, but when he sensed that, he got a little faster and a little bolder, and the apex of each powerful thrust punched the air out of her in a low, inelegant grunt that he seemed to adore. He tilted his head, dark ears pricked forwards, and listened to every noise she made for him. It seemed to stoke his ardour and he gnashed his teeth, black lips peeling back to reveal huge, white teeth, while his red tongue lashed behind them as drool began to drip from his jaws.

As the minutes ticked by, and his pace and the depth and power of each stroke increased, Odessa realised that he was losing himself more and more to the sensations of their joined bodies, and she loved it.

She loved it because despite all  that unbelievable power, all that monstrous wildness in him, he cared for her.

Each time she sang him a new note of pleasure for him, he repeated the gesture to make her do it again, and each time she told him how wonderful it felt, he let out either a pleased growl or a chuffing whine. He scented her too, hunching his lithe back enough to bring his cheek to her neck without breaking the rhythm he’d set, before raising himself up to look at her with his pupils blown dark and wide, and his jaws slightly open and intimidatingly inhuman.

He used his new and bigger form to wring pleasure from her in ways she’d never experienced before, and she loved him fiercely for it. She found herself gently shunted up the bed towards the headboard each time his hips pistoned into her, and he picked up one dark, paw-like hand to close his clawed fingers around her breast as it jostled with the movement. Mindful of his sharp claws, he kneaded it luxuriantly for a few strokes before returning his palm to the mattress to buttress himself up properly.

This, she realised as his cock pushed deep against her inner walls in a gloriously slow stroke, was the closeness she’d been seeking all along.

“I love you, Gabe,” she whispered through welling tears. She felt full for obvious physical reasons, but her chest felt tight and her heart was beating in her throat. “I love you. I don’t want to leave. I love you.”

With a broken whine, he lowered his face one more time and nuzzled her neck and cheeks, desperately scenting her, rubbing his scent all over her wherever he could reach while his muscles trembled at the torturously inadequate pace he was inflicting on himself. He licked briefly at her mouth and her throat and his thrusts grew irregular and much, much deeper. He was shaking all over, but it was only after another few minutes of tempered bliss that she realised he was trying to restrain himself from sliding all the way in.

He was trying to avoid knotting her and it was all he could do to hold himself back.

Odessa wanted to weep at how blessedly careful he was being with her, and realised that he was never going to do it himself. She waited until he reached the apex of one particularly slow and gentle thrust and looped her legs around his middle. She tightened her hold on him, tugged, and pulled herself fully onto his knot.

With a flash of his wide, golden eyes and a snatched gasp of surprise, Gabe’s wolf jaws closed around her bare throat, teeth locking him in place like a vice around her neck, and he snarled long and deep and loud. Incoherent bliss rushed through every fibre of Odessa’s being as his knot swelled and filled perceptibly inside her, and her whole body went completely, instinctively slack beneath him with a softly-uttered ‘oh’ of pleasure.

A sensation of utter rightness and true ‘oneness’ with him was the only thing she could feel. Gabe started to rock and rut his hips repeatedly, frantically, against her, snarling and panting, but the movement was futile. They were sealed together, and he didn’t have an inch to move inside her. It felt incredible though and her core tightened, muscles clenching around him.

“Yes,” she smiled against his ruff, her body still limp with ecstasy.

His teeth dug into her but he never broke the skin despite the pressure. His hot tongue pushed against her pulse and drool slipped between his teeth to slide down her shoulder while he rutted wildly a few more times against her. He was growling and whimpering in time with each desperate, helpless thrust.

Then, only a few seconds after she’d pulled herself onto his knot, she felt his cock begin to pulse inside her.

His back rounded and hunched, his jaws tightened, his eyes rolled, and he started to come.

She could actually feel him spilling in huge spurts inside her, flooding her fuller than she’d ever been in her life, and the sounds he made against her throat were raw and deep and visceral. After a few seconds of lying there, pinned by his crushing weight to the bed, she felt his hands and arms slide underneath her shoulders, and he lifted her upper body right off the mattress. With his hands supporting her shoulders and lower back, he sat back on his heels and rutted up into her, still coming blindly, desperately.

Held upright but lolling weakly in his arms, Odessa let her head roll back. At the new angle, Gabe’s huge cock and knot caught her just perfectly inside, and at last the wave of blinding pleasure that had swamped her on first feeling his knot took her with it, and she came with a broken, convulsing wail.

Gabe threw back his head and howled.

It was a long time before Gabe shuddered to stillness, though he was still breathing hard and cradling her in his shaking arms. His cock still twitched and spilled the last of his orgasm inside her, and the only sounds in the room now were their shared, panting breaths and the occasional grunt from Gabe.

While she’d been coming, one of his hands had moved to cradle her head. His huge claws pricked her scalp a little and grounded her, and as the last echoes of her own orgasm rippled through her, she finally opened her eyes and found him staring at her.

As if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just done, Gabe slowly started to lower her down and regarded her, wild-eyed and panicky, ears back.

“Gabe,” she smiled, consonants still vague with pleasure. “That was perfect. You’re perfect. I love you, and I’m yours.”

At that last, he trembled all over and began to scent her again. He looked like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“Shh, it’s ok. I’m here,” she said, losing sight of her fingers again in the thick, soft fur of his ruff as she scrunched and tugged at it. “You feel so good…” She kept talking to him, reiterating that she had loved every second of it, until he slumped down on top of her, slightly askew to keep his weight mostly off her chest. He held her head in his hand and lay there, shivering and whining almost imperceptibly with each exhale. They were still tied together and the sensation of utter fullness helped to ground her.

While still idly stroking his fur, she wondered how long he would be locked inside her. She half-recalled him saying that because she wasn’t a werewolf, they probably wouldn’t technically be completely tied. Odessa didn’t feel like trying to move just yet, but she was pretty sure he was locked in place inside her as securely as if she had been a werewolf. They weren’t going anywhere for a while.

Before too long, she felt Gabe begin to fall asleep. His weight dipped incrementally down on top of her and he exhaled roughly, so she brought her hands to the soft fur around his left ear and stroked it. He flicked it and twitched up to look at her, and she smiled at him. “If you’re going to go to sleep, we need to change places,” she murmured.

He grunted in agreement, nodded, and then rolled, pulling her with him so that she lay atop his body, still joined to him. She could feel the tug of the knot against her when he moved, the pressure of it deep inside her, and experimentally, she squeezed her core around him. The most blissful pleasure she’d ever experienced rolled through her, and at the same time Gabe jutted his chin up and let out a long, quiet howl.

“You want me not to do that?” she asked but she didn't get an answer from him. He just lay there on his back with his throat completely exposed and his nose pointed to the wall behind him. “Gabe?” she asked, and did it again.

He made another noncommittal huffing noise once the reflexive moan had died away, and she laughed. She leaned forwards and scratched his jaw and fluffy throat with her nails in slow, luxuriant rakes, and he made low, happy noises in his throat. It wasn’t quite a purr — more of a rasping exhale — but it was evident that he was deeply contented, and she loved the feeling of lying on top of him with his knot locking her in place. His arms closed around her middle and he held her tightly. His hands like this were huge, dwarfing her lower back where the rough pads pressed against her skin.

Odessa loved every second of it.  

Perhaps a quarter of an hour or so later, his knot began to go down enough that his softening cock started to slip free of her, and she inhaled in surprise as she felt his release slide down her thighs. There was so much of it. “Oh…” she breathed. “That’s going to make a mess…”

“Mmph,” said Wolf-Gabe without opening his eyes.

“Don’t sound so darned pleased with yourself,” she laughed, touching the tip of his cold, wet nose with her fingertip. He half-sneezed in protest but otherwise didn’t move. “It’s going to ruin these sheets.”

He shrugged. That was clearly not a problem for Wolf-Gabe to worry about. That sounded like a Human-Gabe problem. She laughed at him and he finally cracked an eye open. Leaning towards her, he licked her nose once and flopped back down, clearly exhausted. She joined him, lying along his torso with her cheek resting on his collarbones, and she drifted into sleep along with him.

It hadn’t felt like it at the time, but the strain of taking his knot, and of being so thoroughly filled, had sapped her almost completely of energy, and when she woke a while later, she felt heavy and exhausted, and, she realised with a shiver, cold. Gabe’s fur would keep him more than warm in the room, but with her body exposed to the air, she had grown uncomfortably cold.

She sat up a little, and Gabe’s soft cock finally slipped all the way out of her, making him grunt and stir too.

“Any chance you’ll run me a bath?” she muttered, only half in jest and groaning as her insides protested the movement and her thighs trembled. She really did ache now, despite how good it had felt at the time, and she didn’t want to move any more muscles than it took just to talk. “I think I’ve had more sex in the last two weeks than I’ve had in the last five years combined,” she added.

Wolf-Gabe rumbled something that sounded very pleased about that statement, and then after another couple of minutes, he rallied his strength and rolled over. He let the movement tip her gently into the middle of the bed. Instead of getting up right away though, he licked at her neck where his teeth had left a string of tiny bruises like dark, freshwater pearls across her collarbone and over her shoulder.

He looked apologetic, but she smiled and stroked his fluffy cheek. “I would have told you to let go if I’d wanted you to stop,” she said firmly and he nodded. He tipped his head into the touch, eyes closing briefly, and then he laved his hot tongue affectionately over her chest and breasts. Goosebumps followed in the wake of the warmth and she shivered without the strength to swat him away.

Gabe seemed to adore the softness of her stomach and thighs, and he almost got lost in the feel of her body in his huge, paw-like hands. He nosed her thighs apart and licked across her sensitive folds, but when she twitched and grunted at the over-stimulation, he drew back and tilted his head to one side to expose his throat in apology.

“It’s ok,” she smiled. “You didn't hurt me. I wanted you to knot me, and I’m glad you did.”

A long, beautiful groan left him at that, but he gave one more lick across her belly and then stood and walked away to the bathroom. She wondered if Wolf-Gabe would have difficulty processing what he’d need to do in order to get the bath going, but before too long the sound of water hitting the tub reached her ears, and after another few minutes, she felt steady enough to sit upright and swing her legs off the bed. God, she felt tired and she ached beautifully. The sheets beneath her were a complete mess though. She stood shakily just as Gabe nosed the bathroom door back open and padded out on all fours this time, and she ran her fingers over his thick coat as he passed. He licked the outside of her hip and she laughed affectionately before vanishing into the bathroom.

“Bath’s almost ready,” she said a little while later as she stepped out with a towel around her, more for warmth than modesty.

To her surprise, she found that Gabe had returned to his human form while she’d been in there, the sounds of a transformation masked by the running water, and he was now sitting naked on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap.

“You want to share a bath with me?” she asked. When she didn’t get any reaction from him, she frowned and crossed back to him. “You ok?” she asked, running her fingers through his hair.

He shuddered and exhaled a huge sigh, chest heaving, and he leaned into her touch. “Yeah,” he rasped.

“You didn’t have to shift back for me you know,” she said, wondering what had sent him a little sideways.

“Wanted to,” he said, eyes closed and still leaning the weight of his head into her palm. His voice was hoarse and gruff, and he sounded exhausted.

Odessa took his rough, lovely hands in hers, her towel staying in place with a fortuitously folded corner down her cleavage, and drew him to his feet and then into the bathroom. The water was gloriously hot, and she let him get into the bath first, legs parted so that she could sit between them.

When she sank in and leaned back against his chest, he let out a long, relieved hum of pleasure, and snaked his arms around her middle. He caressed the side of her head with his cheek again, not so much scenting her, she suspected, as just simply enjoying her presence through constant touch.

“I love you,” he whispered into a kiss that he pressed against her hair. “I love you, Odessa. I’m yours.”

The contact anchored them both as they lay in each other’s arms in the hot water, and while his hands began to wander and worship her again, there was none of the charged spark that had driven him to lose control earlier.

He did get valiantly half-hard behind her, but when she nudged her backside against him and hummed a question, he just shook his head. Instead, she let her fingertips play idly along his quads and around his knees, enjoying the feel of his skin and the soft hair on his shins while he cupped her breasts adoringly and pressed his palms across her soft stomach and kissed her over and over.

Drowsy and heavy with contented pleasure, she let him buttress her body up, surrendering completely to his touch.

When his fingers found their way between her legs again, her knees fell open as much as they were able to in the confines of the bath. Despite the heat of the water, she was sore from where Wolf-Gabe had stretched her, but with the warmth and the tenderness of his touch on only her clit and the surrounding, swollen flesh, she found herself sighing into his embrace again. Pleasure overrode any lingering discomfort, and she found herself aching to give him another one.

“Yes?” he asked with reverent surprise as he stilled his index and middle fingers and began kissing the shell of her ear instead, moving slowly down her neck as far as he could reach, raking and biting with blunt teeth until she gasped.  

“Yes,” she breathed, shivering and arching a little to get him to start moving his fingertips again. “Gabe, please…”

With slow, careful circles, he coiled her up again, and when she came it was almost without warning. With her head tipped back against his shoulder, moaning and sighing, and with his mouth on her neck and his fingertips pressed up against her clit on either side, it was so tender and overwhelming she began to cry.

He kissed the tears as they rolled down her cheeks and scented her again, all the while keeping his fingertips unmoving against her, holding her floating in that dreamy, in-between place for as long as she could bear it. Finally she slumped back into him and lay there, exhausted and on the verge of sleep again in the hot water of the bath.

It was only with a great effort of will on both their parts that they hauled themselves out of the tub, and after drying off, Gabe disappeared to fetch some clean bedding from the back of the wardrobe. In the end all they needed was a clean base sheet, since the duvet had been kicked off when he’d shifted, so with that done between them, she wriggled into some pyjamas and Gabe pulled the covers up around her as he climbed in beside her.

She lay facing him, and he curled up on his side too. Together their mirrored bodies almost made up the shape of a heart, though her half was smaller than his. Their knees touched, their foreheads touched, and their hands touched, but it wasn’t enough. She shuffled in close and burrowed against his chest while he rolled onto his back, one arm beneath her head and the other draped loosely across her waist. She slid her right thigh over his left and squeezed, and he kissed the crown of her head.

“Are you really alright?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, his left hand circling idly around her hip and backside. It seemed he couldn’t stop touching her.

“I’m more than alright, Gabe. If you don’t believe me and can’t smell it in my scent, I don’t know how else to convince you.”

He huffed a quick, shy laugh and kissed her forehead. “You smell happy,” he admitted. “And you smell like… mine,” he added, speaking into her hair. The words were so barely-audible that part of her wondered if he’d meant for her to hear them at all.

In the stretch of silence that followed, Odessa got the impression that there was something she was missing in all this; some extra depth to his worry that he wasn’t articulating, but she sighed, too exhausted to untangle it.

“You know,” she said drowsily, struggling to unpick exactly what she felt from the tangle of emotions in her chest. Silently, she blessed him for just lying there, with his thumb making small movements across her hip while he waited. “You make me feel like I’m… I’m the only thing in the whole world that matters to you.”

He swallowed audibly and kissed her forehead. “You are,” he said.

She squeezed him so tightly he actually wheezed and they both laughed. “Stop it,” she snorted, tapping his ribs with her fingertips. “How am I supposed to go home when you say things like that to me?”

He shrugged. “I’ll be here,” he said simply. “I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that simple knowledge tolling through them both like a midnight bell, they drifted off to sleep.

Odessa wasn’t sure where she ended and Gabe began as they lay with their legs intertwined and her torso draped across his, but she did know that she was exactly where she belonged.

__

Oh Gabe...

Next chapter (season finale) -->

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Take care, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this. And since it’s my first story-post of 2023, Happy New Year!

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[cuprohastes]

The Trouble with Pebbles

Part the One-th.

The Tsin say Spite is a poison that hollows bones. The Atrix say Spite leaves no winners. Humans say "All things are possible through spite" and then printed it on a coffee cup, which is why everyone worries about humans.

"Then Again, 43 did walk into a hard vacuum and rescue Garf when everyone knows that's impossible, and I supposed that's what they might mean," said Dave The Human, official human and female-ish alien pangolin-mouse thing.

She was looking at the coffee mug in Question.

Raxy was also looking at the cup, and having put on some mass and developed the biology for it said, "I was there. Actually, it was me who went and got him. And I'm fairly sure she did it because… reality annoyed her."

Garf, paused while putting a new jumper on Un-Named. "… 43 is a her?"

Everyone paused to try and recall what 43 looked like.

"… Are you sure?" Dave said after another moment.

"No." said Raxy. "But uh, 43 is definitely my favourite aunty," they said.

To Atrix, anyone who wasn't your offspring, or partner (ex or otherwise), was an Aunty. They have twenty-three words for Aunty, ranging from one's most precious and delightful Aunt, to something that has the connotations of 'Oh. You. I'm obligated not to stab you, and that's as far as I'll go.' - Atrix is a fun language.

"I find it hard to tell them apart." Admitted Raxy, whose eyesight had only been good up to about two metres until recently.

Dave pawed at her muzzle. "Best advice, play dumb, or wait until they tell you or a couple of other humans refer to them enough times you can be sure. Sometimes even they don't know. Human gender is hard, Raxy."

Garfield "Garf" flickered an agreement and Un-Named Male said "Graak."

Raxy, in the transitional phase from Little Guy to Big Adult squinted at their tablet. "I thought they only had two genders."

Everyone took a moment to avoid looking at each other, and play non-committal face patterns or whootle a little ditty.

Dave, who had a degree in Humans said "OK so that's… not quite right? They have two common biological gender categories, a set of less common ones, and each category is sort of sub-divided into subsets, which have their own subsets. It's insanely complex." she said.

Tsin have four main genders, one of which can swap, a base family unity of four to eight individuals, and extended families that you have to be Phillipino to properly appreciate… and they took a long look at Humans, threw up both sets of hands and declared that the whole shebang was beyond them.

Meanwhile, the Atrix have one gender, and reproduction so external that Atrix parents can be absent for both the conception and birth of their offspring, and any pretence to Male or Female is purely a convenience for other species.

Which is to say Raxy was a little lost.

"So…" they said. "43 is…?"

Everyone took a moment until: "Grak." said Un-Named and Garf and Dave relaxed. "Yes! Ok, that is entirely correct, and definitive, and answers every question one might have about 43." Dave said. Raxy made a note.

"And Dave the Human - female?"

"No." said Garf flatly.

"Eh. Officially, male. Same as me." said Dave. "But they're still OK to be an Aunty. They're a good sort." she said eying the coffee cup.

"Practically Atrix." agreed Garf.

Meanwhile…

Dave the Human was sitting on a grassy log hiding from the lights down in the Atrix section of the station, discussing edible moss with Gondy.

Gondy who was recovering nicely from almost getting freeze-dried alive was still taking it easy. After several months of treatment, her eye was back to normal and there were hardly any scars. It'd taken 43 about two weeks to recover fully, and then he'd fussed over Gondy like she was the one who walked into space wearing only a paper gown and rescued him.

Dave was wearing a full copper tinted faceplate and a soft light jumpsuit under some specially made Atrix Coveralls that had been gifted to him. The jumpsuit, faceplate, hood and gloves prevented the UV in the Atrix lighting from causing damage.

Around thier feet, in the purple moss, skittered some junior Atrix, hatched within the last year or two, peeking out and chasing each other, watched over by the elder small adults - The ones about the size of Un-Named male, of about ten to twenty years old.

Several transitional Atrix - Smaller than Gondy, a little larger than Raxy were gardening. And since this was the Atrix deck and they weren't at work, like Gondy they were naked, which Dave privately considered a poor choice.

Then again Dave was a fan of pockets and disliked any state of dress where one couldn't comfortably stash a tablet, pen, snack, a string of Glowbs, and two multitools.

Gondy stuck her hand into some moss and pulled out a little junior Atrix, who immediately went limp, causing a couple of fatherly heads to pop out and watch her.

Atrix are communal child raisers. Atrix sub-adults sleep in little burrows under the moss that they blend in with, and when they're old enough they watch the younger generation until they develop enough to want to pair up with the more mobile large adults.

Gondy casually blinked colours at the youngster, who blinked back, while she talked: Atrix babytalk.

"It's an unusual cultivar. We had real trouble propagating them until they got popular on Earth. But now they're a lot hardier… but they're stronger-tasting. It's caused a bit of a shift in cooking recently. We've been trying some homeworld variants on curries." Gondy said.

The Junior scurried off of Gondy's lap, up to Dave who peered down at it and tossed it into the central water feature.

Dave gave a nod. "Yeah… we don't have many edible mosses but now you can hardly get a salad without powdered Grak on. And frankly, now Ranch comes with Graaak, who'd want it without?" he said casually, "As for the stuff you guys think of as a major weed… we can't get enough of it. It's the third biggest supplier of dietary fibre and vitamins for most ships and colonies."

Gondy flashed an amused expression, because the stuff was considered unpalatable and faintly poisonous to Atrix. And the humans had shown up with salad forks and a hungry look, and now it was a staple anywhere you could stick a UV bulb and a strip of substrate… wet paper would do it.

The soaking-wet little junior scrambled up onto Dave's leg and bounced excitedly, so he threw it again.

"Anyway, I've been seeing a few dry patches in my planters but I'm sure they're getting enough UV while I'm on shift… any ideas?" Gondy however didn't reply.

Dave peered and tried to decipher her colour patch then looked down to see a small adult holding an attractive rock out to him. "Oh. Oh dear." he said.

"Yes," said Gondy, "Awkward…"

And that meant...

O'Patel and Big Ma had to get involved.

They shared an office, which suited them both fine.

While technically co-administrators, they'd long ago worked out that neither of them wanted to play dominance games life was too short for office politics, and Big Ma, whose human name was: "Don't-Make-Me-Come-Down-There" had determined that the dark-skinned Irish administrator was both affable and competent, had settled in to nest comfortably with a desk and thirteen varieties of office plant, on one side of the office.

O'Patel had determined that Big Ma's subtle sense of humor and technical acumen was second to none, and that he'd rather have her on his side more than any five people he could think of, had promptly followed suit.

He had an aquarium, a cage of rats and a near constant floating video conference with a bewildering variety of people whom he bantered with, harangued, wheedled, and kibbitzed with in seven different languages.

Big Ma appreciated that O'Patel dealt with virtually all the people who called in to make themselves feel important, make demands or otherwise tie up Admin's time.

And right now they had the door closed, the windows tinted and the emergency biscuits out.

"Really, he gave Dave a rock?" asked O'Patel.

"A really nice one! I have no idea where he got it, that's some premium pebble. If it wasn't for… you know… he could have gotten anyone with that."

"That good?"

"That good."

"But…?"

"Yes…" said Ma. "Not too long back, he wouldn't have lasted long at all. No colours!"

"Is that… I have to ask, but is that because the condition also causes low survival?"

"No." Said Ma. "It's because we used to just straight up step on hatchlings like that. It was considered too severe to live with. It was a… Mercy." she said and lunged for a biscuit.

O'Patel could read the distress on the colour-changing skin across her forehead and muzzle.

"But we live in kinder times." he said.

"Barely. It's really awkward talking to him - Creepy, and he's usually excluded. No chance of pairing up. Ugh. I feel terrible but I couldn't imagine…" she admitted.

O'Patel could see the shame on her face, in a rippling pattern. "So… kinder but crueller." he sighed. "And so he propositioned Dave. Is there any chance it's some sort of mistake…?"

Ma indicted No, with certainty. "No. he outright stated that if we didn't want him around he'd see if anyone else would. Actually, he said 'Graaaak' - Very blunt but I admit, to the point - but I can't put that down in the report. I mean… I understand he feels strongly but… We can't allow it, can we? Can we?"

O'Patel selected a biscuit and pondered it. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully and then shared it with the panel of rats who were lined up, watching him intently.

An Atrix little guy with a birth (hatching?) defect that meant he'd never developed the Atrix signature colour-changing display. And he'd more or less asked Dave to be his partner. A bit of an interspecies diplomatic issue to be sure.

The problem was that Dave was very popular with the Atrix crew and despite some highly unusual hijinks and events, had never actually done anything wrong - And O'Patel knew that Dave had a grasp of Atrix culture that was good enough that he'd spent a week as one of them on a technicality.

The technicality was that O'Patel and Ma had their claws out over someone who'd showed up to harass their staff and the aftermath was that while publically, Words Had Been Said, tacitly both the Atrix and the Human governance had been very pleased.

Big Ma had joked that if the humans didn't want Dave, they'd take him and find him a Little Guy - And now a Little Guy had marched up and put in a request.

"You know… You know what Dave will do if he finds out. And our other Dave will back him up."

"It's what I'm afraid of." agreed Ma.

"But what… what if?" Said O'Patel. "What if?"

They both had another biscuit and started to plot.

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos (Book 2) Chapter Twenty-Eight

Spock x Empath! Reader

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Emotions Revealed

Summary: Spock and the Enterprise Crew work against time to save (Y/N) from the evil empaths

Mouse Note: Thank you all for all the support on this book! I hope you guys enjoyed this final chapter. You guys have really made my day and made me so happy seeing that even in such an old fandom that people are still out there loving Spock, and I'm so thankful for the opportunity to work on my writing with such a supportive audience. You guys are the best! I can't wait to see you either in the next installment of this series or on another series of mine.

            As illogical as it was, Spock could have sworn his heart stopped when (Y/N) collapsed to the ground unconscious. In an instant, he was fighting towards them, even as the Novisans forced pain through him. Every Vulcan and human instinct within him demanded he get to his t’hy’la’s side and protect them.

            “Keep him down!” ordered Caesarius.

            Honoria turned her powers on Spock as well, and he gritted his teeth as he was forced to his knees by the twists of pain coursing through him. Spock fought against the Novisans, but with their powers enhanced through (Y/N)’s, he too was reduced to pain. He and the landing party struggled valiantly, but they were subdued.

            “Take them to the jail. Ursula, Paschalis, keep watch!” ordered Honoria.

            Spock, Kirk, Bones, Uhura, and Chekov were dragged to the prisons and locked into a cell. Finally, they were released from their pain as the aristocrat empaths left to keep watch.

            “Captain, what are we going to do?” cried Uhura. “We can’t let (Y/N) marry that madwoman!”

            “It wouldn’t hold up in court, would it?” questioned Chekov.

            “It doesn’t matter if it would or wouldn’t,” said Bones grimly. “They are able to manipulate people with (L/N)’s abilities, somehow, and with that, they’ll be able to get whatever they want. The marriage is just to create legal trouble if we try to help (L/N).”

            “We have to stop it, then,” said Chekov forcefully.

            “Yes, we do, but we have no phasers and can’t fight them,” said Kirk, pacing. “Bones, Spock, how can we stop them from using (L/N)’s favor? How are they even using it in the first place?”

            “I suspect it has to do with the potentiate stones they wear,” said Spock, his voice clipped and sharp. His mind was running through every scenario, every possibility, every opportunity to help (Y/N). “It likely links the wearers’ psychic abilities together into a ‘locus’ they can all draw on.”

            “So if we get that ring off (L/N)’s hand, the Novisans won’t be able to use their empathy?” asked Kirk.

            “I don’t believe so,” said Spock, crossing his arms. “But getting to them does present an issue.”

            Kirk’s eyes softened at the obvious worry and distress on Spock’s face. It was subtle, but Kirk was his friend and knew his habits well. Not to mention, he knew how Spock felt for (Y/N), so guessing what was going through his mind at that moment was easy.

            “Spock, we’re going to save them,” said Kirk.

            “Captain…You can’t know that for sure,” said Spock, his voice hoarse as logic dictated a possibility he didn’t want to admit.

            “Yes, I can,” said Kirk, gripping Spock’s shoulders. “Spock, (L/N) is strong. They’re fighting right now. They’re pushing themself to their limits to get back to you. And I know you. You won’t rest until they’re safe. You won’t stop until they’re saved. Between your determination and their strength, there is no way you won’t make it. I know it. So, all we need to do, is get to them. They aren’t giving up, and neither are we.”

            “No, Captain. We are not,” said Spock.

l

            (Y/N) felt like they were floating. Their mind was a cloud, and they were just drifting along, completely at the mercy of the Novisans directing them. (Y/N) grasped at any bit of power they could find, but each time their consciousness breached the fog of blank emotions the Novisans were forcing into them, the gentry pushed them back.

            The ring on their finger glowed sickeningly violet, like poison seeping into the very air around them. The purple contrasted starkly with their golden eyes, further demonstrating how out-of-place it was on them. The entire world was dictating the wrongness of the situation.

            (Y/N) hated that they couldn’t do anything but watch themself be decorated in jewelry like a doll. Dafni and a new woman, Kleio, had to do their hair and prepare them for the wedding. (Y/N)’s heart broke for both women. They were forced to work by the empaths, manipulated just like (Y/N). If they could help the non-empaths, they would, but they were in the same position.

            “Oh, you look lovely,” cooed Honoria.

            (Y/N) wanted to cringe away from Honoria as her hand skimmed their face, examining them. It made them sick, and they wanted to lash out and scream that they weren’t a puppet, they were a person just like everyone else they used and tossed to the side. But (Y/N) couldn’t. Honoria’s power pressed down on them like an immovable weight.

            “Kleio, Dafni, put them into their wedding dress,” ordered Honoria.

            Of course, she’s just going to sit there and make sure I can’t break free, thought (Y/N) ruefully as Kleio and Dafni guided them to a closet.

            They pulled it open, and (Y/N)’s stomach dropped as they saw the dress. It was beautiful, yes, but all it was to (Y/N) was a sign of the gilded cage they were being forced into. Every moment the Novisans’ control seemed to deepen in them. It was getting harder and harder to think freely as the fog of emotionlessness rolled over them.

            Spock…please…save me.

l

            “Doctor, it is no use. The bars will not bend, no matter how much you try to force them,” said Spock, pacing back and forth.

            Bones huffed and stepped back. “Well just because you are just ‘thinking’ and not ‘acting’ doesn’t mean I won’t.”

            “I can assure you, Dr. McCoy, if there was a way to act, I would,” said Spock, clipped and annoyed.

            The more logical and cold Spock became, the more worried he was. It seemed counterintuitive as a Vulcan, but that was the truth. And Spock was becoming dangerously logical as his concern over (Y/N)’s safety mounted.

            “Let’s not start fighting.” Kirk sighed. “It won’t solve anything.” But even he was growing restless, and he wasn’t a patient man to begin with.

            “But Captain, time is running out!” said Uhura. “We need to help (Y/N)!”

            “The marriage could occur at any moment. Russian weddings take some time to prepare, but even this is starting to cut it close,” said Chekov.

            “He’s right,” said a new voice.

            The landing party whirled to find Elias standing before them. He had a platter of food in his hands, but he put it down as he approached.

            “The servants are all talking about it. It’s going to start soon,” said Elias.

            “You have to help us leave,” insisted Kirk instantly. “I know you’re afraid of the empaths, but (L/N) is kind, and she’s our friend.”

            “The royal family will only grow stronger if you don’t help us,” said Spock, stepping forward. “It is in your planet’s best to help us.”

            “We know,” said a second voice. Prince Regulus walked into the room. The landing party tensed.

            “You! What the hell do you think you’re on locking us up and hurting (L/N)?!” cried Bones.

            “It’s alright,” said Elias. “He’s not an enemy.”

            Spock, Kirk, Chekov, and Bones blinked in confusion. Uhura, in her ever-present wisdom, stepped up. “Ah. I see.” She smiled.

            “See? What’s there to see? Old Princey here is manipulating Elias!” said Bones.

            Uhura sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Isn’t it obvious? They’re dating.”

            Kirk’s head snapped to look at Elias and Regulus. “They’re…What?”

            “We are,” said Elias, taking Regulus’s hand. “And that’s why we’re going to help you.”

            “We’ve always hidden our relationship,” said Regulus. “The dichotomy of Novis, between empaths and non-empaths…it keeps us apart. I knew what my family would do to Elias if they found out. I thought…”

            “We thought,” interrupted Elias, squeezing his boyfriend’s hand. He looked at Regulus. “Don’t put it all on you. We both agreed to this relationship, and we both decided to keep it a secret. For your safety as well as mine.” Regulus’s eyes softened as his love continued. “We didn’t think anything could ever change. We thought Novisan culture was the only one that could exist, that empaths and non-empaths had to live separately.”

            “But seeing you all together,” said Regulus, “…it showed us things could be different. It showed us that empaths and non-empaths can live in harmony. The way my parents and their parents and every generation of Novis royals have ruled is wrong. There is another way. And I want to bring peace to Novis.”

            “And that starts with saving your friend,” said Elias.

            Regulus pulled a key from his pocket. “I managed to knock out Paschalis and Victorius. But the biggest threat is my family. They’re drawing on (L/N)’s power. They’ll be strong.” He unlocked the cell door, and the Starfleet Officers walked out.

            “How are they using (Y/N)’s abilities?” questioned Spock.

            Regulus gestured to his earrings. “Potentiate.” He sighed. “The truth is, although the aristocrats here on Novis are extremely proud of their empathic abilities, none of us are really that strong.” He nodded to Uhura. “It’s like you described: we can only really understand the strong emotions of people close to us. The potentiate we harvest from the Vitality Locus acts as a link between our abilities. It’s like a pool of power we can all draw on.”

            “They added (Y/N)’s to it when Theresia forced the ring onto their hand,” realized Spock, crossing his arms.

            Regulus nodded. “Yes. Without their power, my parents will be easier to handle. Still dangerous, but not like they are now.”

            “So we just need to get the ring off of (L/N), like we thought,” said Kirk.

            “Hate to say it, but how are we supposed to get near them while the royal asses still have (L/N)’s abilities at their disposal?” asked Bones.

            “We could distract them,” said Chekov.

            “You’d be running right into danger,” warned Elias.

            “For (Y/N), I’d do it,” said Uhura determinedly.

            “It’s possible that making them spread out their use of (L/N)’s power would weaken each of their individual abilities,” said Regulus. “Like stretching it too thin.”

            “Alright, then. We’ll do it,” said Kirk. He looked at Spock. “We’re going to save them, Spock. We’ll distract the Novisans; you get to them.”

            Normally, Spock would argue this plan was reckless and put them in too much danger. But when it came to (Y/N), all the usual rules went out the window. He just wanted his t’hy’la safe and back with him.

l

            (Y/N) couldn’t quite figure out what was happening. Everything was fuzzy, faraway. Why were they in this room? Who was the woman standing across from them? What was happening?

            They furrowed their brow—or, they tried to (or were they just imagining it all?)—as their head ached. (Y/N) couldn’t focus on the words floating through their head.

            Something soft enveloped their mind. It lulled the ache, letting them rest in a cloud of numb uncaring. It whispered to them to let go, stop struggling, just go along with everything.

            The remnants of (Y/N)’s mind tried to break the surface, but with every moment it was getting tougher. Their emotions were drowning.

l

            “What the—How the hell did you escape?!” cried Ursula, her eyes widening as the landing party and Regulus approached. She raised a hand and furrowed her brow, clearly prepared to use the power she had to cause them pain.

            Regulus was quicker. His earrings glowed, and he countered Ursula’s power. Narcissa attacked next, but Kirk threw her over his shoulder as Regulus blocked her psychic force. The two aristocrats were strong, but with the royal family monopolizing (Y/N)’s power, they were handled.

            Bones threw the throne room doors open. Inside, the curtain was pulled to reveal the Vitality Locus, a large purple stone glowing with the amassed psychic power within. Spock’s hands curled into fists knowing (Y/N)’s empathy was trapped in it as well.

            His eyes traced past the aristocrats gathered for the sham of a wedding to where (Y/N) stood on a dais before the Vitality Locus. His breath caught. They were beautiful. A golden gown floated around them, offsetting their golden eyes. They were a pure beam of light, the warm ray of sun he chased.

            Their radiance was contrasted by the violet glow of the ring on their finger and the blank look on their face. The ring was a shackle; the emotionless expression sickeningly wrong on (Y/N). Spock felt a swell of emotion rise within him. He wouldn’t leave (Y/N) like this.

            “Regulus! What do you think you’re doing?!” cried Caesarius, outraged at the interruption of the ceremony.

            “What someone should have done years ago!” declared Regulus. “This is wrong, Father! Let the officer go, and we can figure out how to live peacefully!”

            “This is our ticket to power,” hissed Honoria. “You will not mess it up!” She snapped her fingers. “Courtiers…handle these fools! Theresia, finish the ceremony!”

            Chaos broke out. The royal family was proud enough to not let (Y/N)’s power leave their hands, which made their council weaker. The Starfleet Officers, motivated as Regulus supplied them with what little protection he could against the cruel empaths, pushed forward, fighting to help (Y/N). Unfortunately, the combined abilities of the Novisan gentry forced pain through them. Even Regulus was forced to his knees.

            But Spock…Spock pulled his Vulcan strength and shielded his mind against their attacks. He could feel the pain trying to force its way in, but he was determined to get to (Y/N). His friends were counting on him, but more importantly, (Y/N) was.

            “(Y/N)!” He surged forward and grabbed (Y/N) from Theresia. His brow furrowed as they didn’t react.

            “Too late. I wouldn’t be surprised if all their emotions are gone at this point,” jeered Theresia. Her necklaced glowed, and pure pain jerked through Spock.

            Spock’s hand curled into a fist, balling in (Y/N)’s gown as he gazed at them. Pushing himself through the agony, he reached for their face. Closing his eyes, Spock tried to sense their consciousness with a Mind Meld. His heart twisted and anger rolled over him when he felt…nothing. There was barely anything left, just twinges of emotions trapped within (Y/N)’s mind.

            “(Y/N)…You must fight this,” said Spock. Nothing. No change, no response, nothing, nothing, nothing. They needed something strong to bring them back.

            “Just let go! We win!” cried Theresia, her necklace blindingly bright. “You stupid Vulcan! You can’t help an empath!”

            Spock gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. He wouldn’t let them win. He wouldn’t let them take (Y/N) away. “Yes. I can.” In one fluid motion, a final burst of strength against the psychic attack, Spock reached down, pulled the ring from (Y/N)’s finger…

            …and kissed them.

            Spock poured every emotion he felt for (Y/N) into it. His hand intertwined with theirs, Vulcan and human kiss equally passionate. Spock made them feel all the love he had for them, for the warmth they had brought to him, for the light they were in his life.

            I love you, T’hy’la.

l

            I love you, T’hy’la.

            A flood of warmth coursed through their mind. The cold emptiness of the fog was helpless against the pure light of love filling them. (Y/N) felt alive with the beautiful truth of the emotion filling them.

            Their eyes opened to the world again. They could feel the sunlight on their skin, the softness of their clothes, the chaotic emotions around them. But so much more, (Y/N) could feel Spock. They could feel his hand in theirs, his lips, his love.

            (Y/N) gripped his hand tightly, reached up with their other hand, and pulled them deeper into the kiss.

            I love you, I love you, I love you.

            (Y/N) pushed the love they felt for Spock into every moment. They could nearly cry with how strong everything was, how deeply their heart beat for him.

            Spock and (Y/N) drew apart from each other, breathing deeply.

            “Spock…You came…” They nearly sobbed for joy.

            “I would not leave you,” said Spock. He spoke plainly as he always did, but the truth of his words were still significant.

            (Y/N)’s brow furrowed. With Spock’s hand cradling their cheek, their minds were connected, and they could feel the Novisan empaths pressing pain down on him. (Y/N)’s hand curled into a fist. They stepped away from Spock and faced Theresia, who stared at them uncertainly, unsure of what they were planning.

            (Y/N) knelt, picking up the fallen ring Spock had freed them from. Standing tall and straight, they glared at Theresia. “You tried to control me.”

            The aristocrats and royal empaths froze as their voice rang out. Kirk, Bones, Uhura, and Chekov quickly grabbed their phasers back from Ceasarius, who had confiscated them when they were thrown in jail.

            “I—We—We needed the power,” said Theresia.

            “You want power?” (Y/N)’s head cocked, and their eyes blazed with golden light. “Here.”

            (Y/N) held up the ring in front of them. Narrowing their eyes, they focused on the shard of potentiate. It shone with purple light before being taken over by gold. The aristocrats gasped as they felt (Y/N)’s pure psychic power run through them. The potentiate jewel shattered, unable to contain (Y/N)’s full strength. The Novisans flinched at the display.

            But (Y/N) wasn’t done.

            The Vitality Locus shone gold behind them as their power built up again. The Novisan empaths grabbed their jewelry as they felt psychic energy build up.

            “You steal your powers! You abuse your abilities! You lord empathy over others!” declared (Y/N). “This is a gift, and you’ve squandered it! You don’t deserve the power given to you!”

            The Vitality Locus exploded into golden light. Each shard broke apart in the jewelry of the gentry. Each fragment left was dull, holding no more power to tie their abilities together. The Novisans were left with just what they were born with—weak empathy.

            “Learn to use what you’ve been given,” said (Y/N), looking down at them. They were words of guidance, but a warning rested below the surface. (Y/N) had shown their power, and the Novisan gentry were afraid.

            Their expression softened, and they gestured to Regulus and Elias, who was opening the door alongside other servants to see the outcome of the fight. “Look. There are ways for you to live in harmony.” Regulus and Elias held hands, gripping them tightly in comfort as all eyes turned to them. “We’re all people,” said (Y/N). “Empath or not, we all deserve respect. Let go of your prejudices, your fear of being seen as weak. They—” (Y/N) pointed at the men “—are stronger for their love.”

            “We are,” said Regulus, looking right into his parents’ eyes. “I’ve never felt more self-assured or certain in myself than by Elias’s side. We can live in peace.” He looked around. “I want Novis to be a planet of harmony and joy. We can only have that if we learn to exist together.”

            “But we’ve taken the first step,” said Elias. He gestured to the shattered Vitality Locus. “Yes, you won’t have the power you once had. But that’s for the best. It’s time for Novis V to change.”

            “And we will change for the better,” said Regulus. He turned to Kirk. “Captain, I trust you’ll report that more Ambassadors and guides will be needed for Novis V? I want to start the transition to peaceful relationships to begin as soon as possible.”

            Kirk smiled. “Of course.” He bowed playfully. “Your highness.”

            (Y/N) relaxed. Regulus was taking charge. The Federation would send people to help with the transition. Everything was going to be alright.

l

            “Are you sure you want to change out of that?” said Uhura as they walked back to their quarters for some well-deserved rest.

            (Y/N) looked down at their golden gown. They chuckled. “Well, I don’t really think it’s regulation.” They paused before their door and glanced back at Spock, their gaze shy after what had happened between them. “What do you think?”

            Uhura, realizing they needed a moment (she needed them to get together, finally), continued on. (Y/N) and Spock were left together.

            “I…You remind me of old human paintings,” said Spock. (Y/N) cocked their head in confusion. “You are what my logic cannot explain. You are…art.”

            (Y/N) breath caught in their throat. They had been called attractive many times and in many ways. Spock’s version was the best. “Spock…” they breathed, unsure of their words. “I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

            “You do not have to thank me for honesty,” said Spock.

            “Then at least let me thank you for saving me,” said (Y/N). They shifted uneasily. “The Novisans…They were drowning me in emotionlessness.” They shivered. “I hated it.” Their gaze met his. “And you brought me back.”

            “You would have fought your way out,” said Spock. “You demonstrated your power is quite formidable.”

            (Y/N) laughed nervously. “I guess I did go a little crazy there.”

            “Well, I cannot say it was particularly logical,” said Spock. There was something impish in his tone that told (Y/N) he was teasing them.

            A full grin broke out on their face. “No, it wasn’t. It was pretty emotional, wasn’t it?”

            “It seems emotions were necessary today,” said Spock.

            “They certainly were,” said (Y/N). Taking a risk, they brought up what had happened. “Without them, you wouldn’t have saved me.”

            “No, I wouldn’t have,” agreed Spock.

            (Y/N) took a deep breath and burst out, “Spock, were those really your feelings for me?”

            Spock’s gaze softened. “Yes. I apologize if they are unwanted, but I needed to bring your mind back. I was willing to try anything.”

            (Y/N) burst out laughing. “You idiot!”

            “ ‘Idiot?’ ” questioned Spock.

            “Yes, idiot. I’m in love with you, Spock,” said (Y/N). “I have been for a very long time.”

            Spock’s heart could have stopped as emotions overwhelmed him. He cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “Well, then, I suppose the next thing to do is to go on a date—”

            “Spock,” interrupted (Y/N).

            “Yes?”

            “Shut up and kiss me,” said (Y/N) with the most adoring look in their eyes.

            A small smile appeared on Spock’s face. For once, he didn’t think and just acted, pulling (Y/N) closed and kissed them. (Y/N) pressed two of their fingers against Spock’s. Pulling back slightly, (Y/N) leaned their forehead against Spock.

            “I love you, Spock,” said (Y/N) with a wide smile and adoring eyes.

            “I love you, too, T’hy’la,” said Spock.

            “ ‘T’hy’la?’ ” asked (Y/N).

            “Beloved,” translated Spock.

            “I like it,” said (Y/N), curling their fingers around Spock’s.

            “Good. I don’t plan on changing in,” said Spock.

            “I wouldn’t have you change anything,” said (Y/N), leaning in to kiss him again.

            And Spock returned it lovingly.

            Logos and pathos were opposites; the heart and mind were parallels, but (Y/N) and Spock were two parts of a whole.

Taglist:

@a-ofzest

@grippleback-galaxy

@genderfluid-anime-goth

@groovy-lady

@im-making-an-effort

@unending-screaming

@h-l-vlovesvintage

[myapathyhaspeaked]

Platonic Sides Week Day 3: Cards

It was a rainy afternoon, and Patton decided that it was the perfect time for some family game time. He managed to coax Roman, Logan, and Virgil into the Mindscape common room, where he had pulled out a plethora of games, from Monopoly and Scrabble to Battleship and Exploding Cats. They eventually settled on Uno, and sat in a circle.

Logan held the instructions in his hand, poring over them while Roman did some obstentations shuffling tricks for the others. They were going to follow the rules. If that made them the only Uno players in the history of Uno to actually follow the rules, so be it. 

“Everyone draw a card, and whoever gets the highest number deals,” he stated, then reached for the deck. He drew a six and sighed. Not a guaranteed win, so the others would have to draw, which wasn’t as efficient as he would’ve liked.

Virgil got an eight, and Patton got a four. If Roman wanted to deal, which he very much did, he would need to draw a nine. When he saw the card he had pulled, he cheered.

“Yes, Wild card! That’s gotta be like a ten or something, right?” He grabbed for the deck, ready to deal the cards out.

“Actually, in this situation Action Cards count as zero. So Virgil will be dealing.”

Roman dramatically slumped against the couch like his bones had disappeared and sighed. “But I wanted to make it rain!” he complained.

“It’s already raining, kiddo,” Patton pointed out, bless his heart. Even in the Mindscape, the raindrops drummed outside, creating consistent background noise. If he hadn’t invited the others to hang out, he probably would have been cozied up in a blanket with a hot drink and an old cartoon.

“That would likely expose half of the cards’ faces before the game even began.”

“Don’t worry dude, we can make it rain after you lose,” Virgil teased. Before Roman could start making offended Princey noises, Logan tapped the instructions to gain their attention.

“As the person to the left of the dealer, you will have the privilege of starting the game.”

Safe to say he was appeased.

It had been two hours, and they were, despite all odds and what they all had previously thought was possible, still on their first game. They had gone through the deck three times, and they were halfway through their forth.

Logan was stewing with a hefty handful of cards, mainly because it only took fifteen minutes for “stacking Draw Twos is a human right” to win over following the rules and the universe was apparently intent on giving him an aneurysm. At least he had managed to convince them to keep stacking Draw Fours illegal. He couldn’t handle what would happen if someone was hit with a Draw Twenty-Four.

The others were doing a lot better, with no more than four cards each. Usually this meant the game was about to end, but they had gotten to this stage several times, and each time some bullshit happened to give everyone a full hand again. Still, they were optimistic.

Roman proudly placed down a red two. “Uno!” Virgil followed with a green two, and Logan submitted a green eight. Their eyes turned to Patton, who was looking a little nervous.

“Now kiddo, please know that this is nothing personal,” he cautioned, his cards held close to his chest. The cause for his concern was soon revealed when he hesitantly added a Draw Four to the pile. Roman let out a dismayed shout as victory was pulled out of his grasp before he had the chance to embrace it. 

“Patton!” he gasped in overacted betrayal.

“Sorry, sorry, but I didn’t have another card I could play. And blue.”

“I suppose, under those circumstances, I have to forgive you,” he sighed, then drew his new cards. Logan continued the game with a seven, and Virgil chose a Wild Card, changing the color to yellow. Patton looked sheepishly at Roman, then pulled out another goddamn Draw Four.

“Oh my fucking God,” Virgil snickered behind his hand, watching as Roman clutched the fatherly Side’s shoulders, begging him to chose literally any other card. All he got was the same “it was my only option.”

You’ll never guess what card Patton used to end the game. Actually you probably can, quite easily even. But I’m going to let you imagine the others’ reactions, because nothing I could write could possibly capture the amount of defeat, devastation, and befuddlement that you can picture more clearly in your brain.

---

@platonicsidesweek

[authoralexharvey]

THOSE WHO EMERGE FROM ASHES, a Novel Intro by @authoralexharvey

GENRE — dark fantasy || adventure 

INSPIRATIONS — Dark Souls, Hollow Knight, Madoka Magica, Warbreaker (Brandon Sanderson) 

POV — third person limited, alternating between three characters

TAGS AND TROPES — adventure, fallen gods, friends to lovers, gods as humans, language barriers, lgbtq, magic, queer worldbuilding, rebellion, recovery, reincarnation, religion, slow-burn, time travel, travel

WARNINGS — abuse, animal attacks, cults, mentions of genocide, murder, ptsd, religion and religious abuse, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, trauma (and lots of it), violence

STATUS — draft 8, writing the bare-bones restructure of draft 7

GOAL — ~150k words

THE DETAILS

CHARACTERS

Dakota Locke, a twenty-four-year-old attempting to become a renowned historian. Winds up becoming the Scribe of High Priest Luriel the Seventh and following him around as He tries to bring the gods back.

Maka Willards, a twenty-four-year-old godling who is new to being such a thing. Wants to get away from the Scholars but doesn’t know how—and the curse on her certainly isn’t helping things. After a harrowing event shakes her cathedral, she has her chance.

Katalin Basurto, a twenty-five-year-old Scholar of the Lost. Sharp as a tack and conniving when she has to be. Though she is originally sent as the next Scribe of Luriel, her plans change when she finds someone else has taken her place.

High Priest Luriel the Seventh, an over eight-hundred-year-old Priest. Everyone thinks he killed the old gods, but he only defied them and has taken it upon himself to bring them back at the peril of his own health, which has been rapidly deteriorating.

SUMMARY

Three women find their lives deeply entangled at the hands of an eight hundred year old High Priest as He embarks on what may be an impossible task. Dakota Locke is an aspiring historian with little money and nothing to her name. When her guardian takes her abuse too far, Dakota flees, forsaking the scant chance she has at her dreams. Then she meets a strange woman in the woods who doesn't speak and her life changes forever. Maka Willards is a god. She knows this, no matter what the Scholars of the Lost say. Despite the curse binding her powers, she knows its hold is slipping. After a harrowing event shakes the cathedral she calls home, she abandons it all to find her High Priest herself and take her place among a new era of Gods. The Scholars of the Lost devoutly follow their High Priest as he resurrects the gods, no matter the cost. Unbeknownst to everyone else, they also aim to sway Him to their own shadowed goals. No one knows this truth better than Katalin Basurto. Having trained for years to be the next Scribe, she may finally have her chance when the last Scribe meets his untimely end. For years, she's suffered under the influence of the Scholars. She won't let anyone stand in her way now.

TAGLIST (Ask to be added!)

@linaket , @sarandipitywrites , @belovedviolence , @bardicbeetle

[recurring-polynya]

Hi! First, I just wanted to say that I've been reading your work for a long time. I love your point of view on these characters and am so excited to keep reading Damage History!

I'm curious what you think it would have been like if Kaien lived. More specifically, how would he have reacted to Rukia and Renji's relationship? Would he make Renji fight him after he finished with Byakuya? Would he be scheming with the other lieutenants to push them together? What do you think?

Thank you so much!

This is a Good Question! I think there are two different ways to look at it, which we will look at under the cut, because I can tell you right away this is gonna Get Long.

Scenario 1. Everything goes exactly as in canon, except that now, Kaien is there.

This is going to sound a little goofy, but I think it is so interesting that there are so many small changes that you can make to Bleach canon that just suck all of the air out of the story, and this is one of them. The Soul Society Arc isn't quite a tragedy, but it has a lot of the bones of a tragedy, in the sense that things had to line up in exactly the right way for it to go so terribly wrong. Some of it is obviously Aizen's machinations, but some of it is simple bad luck, or human nature (for a generous interpretation of "human"), or some combination of the above.

A very notable aspect of Rukia and Renji's part of this story is how alone both of them are, how let down they are by the people who ought to be there for them. Byakuya is the most obvious example, but Rukia's captain wants to advocate for her, but he's sick and behind the eight-ball on everything that follows. Her Third Seats are too busy with Ukitake, and don't have the political capital anyway. Kaien is dead. Like, that is a very important thing that happened. He ought to be the one fighting for her, and he isn't and she blames herself for that. Is Renji there for her? He has no reason to be, in Rukia's mind, and he seems to be sticking to his duty for now, but we, the readers, can tell that's not such a certainty.

Renji is really alone, too. He's just started out with a new captain who hasn't turned out to be the man Renji thought he was. He can't go backward, though--Kenpachi and Ikkaku and Yumichika are already the first ones in line to go fight the ryouka. Hinamori and Kira make it clear early on that their loyalty to their own captains takes priority over Renji's old friend, and Hisagi ends up following suit. I will never stop being impressed by the richness of the scene where Aizen tries to buddy up to Renji, because he's really pinpointed Renji's vulnerability here.

This really sets the stage perfectly for Ichigo to blow onto the scene and be the one person who inspires Renji to throw everything to the wind and choose to save Rukia.

Now, if you back up and put Kaien back into the mix, it ratchets the dramatic tension down about twenty notches. For starters, it would probably be Kaien who would get sent to the Living World to retrieve Rukia. I can't imagine it could have gone worse than ending with Byakuya cutting Ichigo down in the street. In all likelihood, Rukia would have been more willing to go back in the first place, knowing that there is someone who is going to be willing to hear her out fairly, even if she ends up in trouble for it.

Renji's been waiting for her to get back, and I think he would try to go see her, even if she were under house arrest or similar. On one hand, I think he might still give her some shit for getting herself in trouble, but it wouldn't be the utter disaster their canon reunion was, and I think he could pretty firmly offer her his support from the get-go, maybe not officially (but that's okay, because she's got her vice-captain for that) but at least emotionally, something that was a lot harder to tease apart when he was her actual jailkeeper.

Even if Byakuya and Renji are still the ones who arrest her and that all goes the same, at the point where Byakuya announces that he's not going to do anything to help Rukia, I think Kaien would step up and make a huge, public fuss. I'm not saying it would be easy for Renji to go against his captain on the downlow, but it would certainly be easier than straight-up treasoning. I can def see him approaching Kaien, like "I do not want her to get executed and I will help you in any way I can to prevent that from happening" and Kaien would be like "I do not know who you are, but thanks, I will keep that in mind."

In either case, I think Kaien would now end up the main shinigami character of the Soul Society Arc. There would be no real reason for Renji to confront Ichigo, so either Kaien would take that role, or it would just be skipped. Kaien would be the one to fight Byakuya--they've obviously had beef for a long time, and unlike Renji, I think Kaien might actually stand a chance. He'd probably send Renji off to go try to interrupt the execution, or maybe he'd just have Miyako do it, who knows!

Assuming that everything sort of falls out as it does in canon, I think at the end of the day, Kaien would be like "yeah, that Renji guy is a nice kid, he helped me out some, seems devoted to Rukia." At this point, though, Renji has been stripped of all of his big character moments. He probably didn't even make bankai. I assume Byakuya fired him. Much like Renji and Hisana, it's very hard for Renji and Kaien to occupy the same space in a story! I know this feels kinda lame, but it's because the story has to be the way it is! That's what makes it so good the way it is!

Scenario 2. This is more of a character-based scenario, where the entire Rukia execution debacle never happened. Maybe Aizen decided that Kaien would solve everything and made different plans. Maybe Renji got promoted a year earlier. Regardless, we've got a peacetime scenario, business-as-usual, Kuchiki-the-Senior makes the most insane hiring decision Kaien has ever heard of, and then the punk shows up at Kaien's division and makes overtures at Kaien's beloved protege??

Kaien would be in tears. He would think this was the funniest thing he had ever seen. He would assume that the whole thing was entirely unserious and would tease Rukia mercilessly about it (and also offer to beat up Renji if he was bothering her). Rukia would be mortified. Miyako would have to grab Kaien by the ear and drag him off and yell at him extensively. He would apologize to Rukia about it, but also continue to insist that Renji is ridiculous. Renji would challenge him to a fight and lose and then let Rukia put Chappy bandages all of over his face. Then Rukia would challenge Kaien to a fight, in order to avenge Renji's honor, and Kaien would realize the error of his ways, especially after Miyako refuses to put any Chappy bandages on his face. They would be friends after that, but Kaien would still call Renji "kid" and "punk" all the time, even at lieutenants' meetings.

[deeptrashwitch]

Operation Firewall (2016)

Objective: Anwar Carabalí.

Note (2016): Due to the lack of information about the individual, is probable that he's using a fake name

The weapon trafficant, Anwar Carabalí, born in Sudan. No register of a date nor a location. His first appereance was two years before the operation, at first he did the usual things inside the black market. Sold rifles, grenades, mostly things for light infantry, but slowly started to expand the "bussiness".

Gunnery, drugs, humans, it became worst as the time passed. Soon the american intelligence had reports about a special cache, a nuclear cache on his power. And since they knew about the hate he had against the mere concept of the US, it was a priority to stop him and get the location of the weapon cache.

The CIA and the USSOCOM went after him during almost a year before having especific locations, six countries where he could be, and six sets of coordinates to look in. Morocco, Chad, Egipt, Lebanon, Congo and Angola.

As well, six teams were assigned to raid every location and go looking for the objectives. Information and Carabalí. Their orders about him? Eliminate him, no witnesses, no evidence.

The teams selected were:

SEAL Team 3: Officer in command, Captain John Cooper. Assigned to arrive in Casa Blanca, Morocco. Eight soldiers including the Captain.

Note (2018): Sergeant Blackwell's old team. Does he knows about Broken Statue?

Team 8, Third Ranger Batallion: Officer in command, Captain Taylor Smith. Assigned to arrive in Beirut, Lebanon. Ten soldiers including the Captain.

101th Combat Aviation Brigade: Officer in command, Captain Michael Woods. Assigned to arrive in Yamena, Chad. Twenty soldiers including the Captain.

Note (2018): Sergeant Jackson was part of it. As far as I'm aware, he's an old friend of Alicia. How much does he know?

4th Group, Second Raider Batallion: Officer in command, Captain Nick Sawyer. Assigned to arrive in Cairo, Egypt. Thirteen soldiers including the Captain.

720th Group, USAF Special Operations: Officer in command, Captain Janette Lahiffe. Assigned to arrive in Brazzaville, Congo. Nine soldiers including the Captain.

Task Force 267, First Raider Batallion: Officer in command, Captain Alicia Marchant. Assigned to arrive in Luanda, Angola. Seven soldiers including the Captain.

The result were variated and also were the times. Inside the Sahara Desert there was little to no result regarding the objectives. SEAL 3, the 101th and the 4th found basically nothing during the raids and went back to the bases they were assigned to. On the other hand the 720th found some information, not about the cache, but about the specific cities it was planned to be used.

The ones who got it worse were Team 8 and the 267, Lebanon and Angola. In Lebanon they found the information they needed about the cache, but it was a trap to cause the highest possible causalties. From ten soldiers, three died during withdrawal and two were severely injured, also the other five were hospitalized during weeks after they came back to the base.

Note (2016): It's suspected the use of chemical weapons. What does it mean for us?

But the Task Force 267 found their objective, unfortunately not the way they would have wanted. It had been an ambush at mid way, and they were captured under unknown circumstances. Just a day later they were reported MIA by the intelligence and pilot assigned to them. Almost three weeks later the recon teams intercepted a signal, weak, but with a code that only US troops knew and those pointed to especific coordinates.

Note (2018): What were those circumstances? And how Carabalí knew where to put the ambush?

A recon team was sent to look for survivors. There was one, Captain Alicia Marchant, who had in her hands the proof of the objective death. Soon they discovered the death of the rest of the Task Force, as well they found an extinguished bonfire filled with black bones. Later test revealed the identity of the remains, they were given back to their families for the private funerals.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Archive 08341376: Case Broken Statue (July 15th, 2016). First interrogation since the rescue. 10 minutes.

▶️ ------------------------- 0:00/10:05

"Are you the missing Captain Alicia Marchant?"

"Affirmative"

"Are you the former officer in command of Task Force 267?"

"Affirmative"

"Who were your people?"

"Lieutenant Richard Porter, callsign Blade. Sergeant Leo Jameson, callsign Tiger. Sergeant Kate Petrova, callsign Hope. Corporal Sean Walker, callsign Marble. Private Arthur Greenhill, callsign Lotus. And Private Jason King, callsign...Runner"

"Right. You doubted in the last one, Captain"

"Wouldn't you doubt if you feel guilt?"

"Guilt?"

"We said nothing about this Command, they all died because of it. It should have been me"

"The recon team said you eliminated every person inside that place, including Carabalí"

"...I did"

"How did you do that?"

"..."

"I need a verbal answer, Captain"

"The way I did it, it doesn't matter. What matters is the fact that Anwar Carabalí is dead and you have the nuclear cache coordinates"

"You know about the cache?"

"He was frustrated because of the raid in Lebanon, the reason was just simple logic"

"Why didn't he kill you?"

"I have no idea, but it was his mistake"

"You brought your team's tags with you"

"They deserved to be near their family, not inside that hell"

"What about yours?"

"Guardian ceased to exist the moment I was in that room. She'll never come back to the surface"

"And who are you now?"

"Difficult to say yet"

"How did you fight with the wounds you had? The medical record shows you were seriously injured"

"I...rather not to think about it"

"You seem surprisingly calm"

"..."

"Captain?"

"Just because I don't scream, hit and cry, it doesn't mean I'm not in grief or boiling with anger, son. Look me in the eye and tell me. Am I Calm?"

"W-what they did to you?"

"Many things. It isn't something you want in tape"

"I see, did you find any other information?"

"Not that I'm aware of, it wasn't really my priority at the moment"

"Alright, I guess we ended h..."

"The other leaders, what about them? I just get rid of one"

"...Dead"

"Good to know"

"What would you have done if they were alive?"

"I think the answer is pretty much obvious"

"Again, I need the answer"

"I would have took care of them myself"

"...We ended here"

End of the recording.

Note (2018): Six leaders and Carabalí. If she got rid of one, where and how the other five died? Is there any proof?

Note 2 (2018): They didn't. For some reason they let them live. Well, not for much, not when Alicia learn about this.

Archive 08341377: Case Broken Statue (July 16th, 2016). Recon Team member interrogation. 6 minutes.

▶️ ------------------- 0:00/06:30

"Are you Private Mark Bauer?"

"Yes sir"

"Team?"

"SEAL 7, sir"

"What was your role during the rescue?"

"I was the escort in case there were survivors"

"You were the first one who saw what happened inside, weren't you?"

"...Yes sir"

"Private, what can you tell me about the state you found Captain Marchant?"

"It isn't something I want to see ever again"

"Elaborate"

"I heard before about the Captain, but I never expected she was so...brutal"

"Brutal?"

"She emerged covered in blood head to toes, and we still not sure if it was hers or not. Honestly, I don't understand how she was awake and walking with the kind of wounds she had"

"What do you think about it? It was hers or not?"

"Considering what she had in her hands? I'm inclined to think it wasn't"

"What she had in her hands?"

"A head. Carabalí's head to be specific. And a box, not that I'm aware what was inside nor I want to know."

"The head?"

"Yes sir. I'm sure it was, and later on we found the rest of the body inside an office"

"Alright, something else you can remember?"

"Her expression"

"Explain"

"Whatever that place made to her...she's not stable, I would be terrified if someone touches something of hers. Her eyes didn't have any trace of mercy or sanity. I'm sure she would have killed us if we did a wrong movement"

"We ended here"

End of the recording

Note (2016): A further psychiatric evaluation is required before even consider let Capt. Marchant be back to her duties.

Note (2018): The results were decent and she was approved to go back a year ago. However, she'll be required to see a psychiatrist every six months. I. Don't. Want. Incidents.

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Medical record: Captain Alicia Marchant, patient 8-07

Sharp wounds: Arms, legs and torso

Cuts to the hipodermis: Face, back and legs

1st grade burns: Breasts and abdomen (partially healed)

2nd grade burns: Forearms (INFECTED) (Antibiotics were prescribed to control the infection)

3rd grade burns: Neck (There was minimal damage to the blood vessels, muscles and nerves) (Estimated recovery time: Six weeks to eight weeks)

Fractured bones: Fourth, seventh and tenth ribs, left fibula

Cracked bones: Right humerus, left radius

It might be needed run some test to discard any kind of infection due to the contact between blood and the wounds. Rehab is mandatory to recover the correct movility on legs and arms after the bone fuse back. The psychiatric treatment must be regular (if not daily) until the permission to go back to duty, and even after, it'll be sporadic.

Note (2018): There are days when I don't understand how Alicia is alive. I hope Blackwell can keep her alive and out of the hospital.

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Information obtained

Coordinates (nuclear cache): Islas Turneffe, Belice. 17°28'27.4"N 87°48'50.6"W

Fire power: Three hundred and five kilotons, divided in eight bombs.

Objectives:

Houston, US.

Rio de Janeiro, Brasil.

Frankfurt, Germany.

Lyon, France.

Osaka, Japan.

Yakarta, Indonesia.

Bagdad, Irak.

Venice, Italy.

Medellín, Colombia.

Note (2016): We expected that, due to Carabalí's hate for America, there would be more of our cities in the list. It's a relieve this isn't the case.

Note (2018): Two years ago my superiors conducted an investigation to find the reasons of selecting this cities. I can understand why cities like Yakarta and Bagdad, capital cities, and Osaka, Rio and Medellín, big cities important for the country economy, were selected. I'll have to look for the archives and files with the investigation results, maybe I'm missing something about it.

Causalities: Nine soldiers and thirty four members of Carabalí's web.

Three soldiers from Team 8, Rangers. (Cause of death: Intoxication with clorhidric gas and sharpnel wounds)

Six soldiers from TF 267, Raiders. (Cause of death: Undetermined)

Note (2016): We might ask Captain Marchant about it. She might have the correct answer about it.

Note (2018): They actually tried to ask her just days after the rescue. I guess they are lucky to keep their heads and limbs. Now part of my superiors are kind of scared of her.

Twenty two members of Carabalí's web dead in Lebanon. (Cause of death: Bullet wounds and blood loss)

Twelve members of Carabalí's web dead in Angola. (Cause of death: Slit throats, blood loss, crushed traqueas, broken necks and one with bullet wounds)

Note (2016): To whoever read this. DON'T ASK ABOUT IT.

Note (2018): I just went to talk to my superiors about this. I'm pretty sure at least two of them flinched when I asked about the time they "talked" with Alicia. They are terrified. This will be an amazing anecdote to tell the team.

Objective: Anwar Carabalí (KIA)

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED