#they were the most damaged characters in that station

[mayabishopgold]

100% sibling vibes Maya & Jack | Station 19 [Friendship series]

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Owned By The Demon Admiral (AFAB Reader Version)

Male Demon Yandere x AFAB Demon Reader CW: Noncon/dubcon, terms like pussy used for reader's genitals, yandere DILF, general yandere behavior, groping, biting, captive reader, reader is setup, an overly cute semi-aquatic demon cat named Mr. Sir Buttons Word Count: 2k (I am saying this fic is AFAB versus female because no gendered pronouns are ever used at all for the reader in anyway, rather their genitals are biologically female. Terms like pussy/cunt are used so if that is triggering for you please avoid this fic. This was a birthday gift for a friend normally I don't do AFAB reader so this may be a bit sloppy. I hope you enjoy it.)

The battleship you were on drifted through the calm blood red waters of one of Hell’s oceans. The light of the two suns scintillated beautifully off the serene waves. No evidence at all that your ship had just sunk an enemy vessel, condemning the unlucky demons manning it to death.

In the ensuing ebullience at having survived with no damage the leader of the ship, Admiral Oraan, put one hand behind on your ass and one behind your head and pulled you into a passionate kiss as his tail began to wrap around your leg.

You struggled to push off the larger demon but finally he released you. You steadied yourself and gasped for breath.

“I said no!”

Then you stormed off to your quarters.

This wasn’t the first time your commanding officer had done something like this. This was at least the fourth time you had rebuffed his advances. He just wouldn’t get it through his thick skull. You were focused strictly on your military career. The war against Pride, one of the Princes of Hell, was far too important for romance and sex to get in the way.

But you underestimated his desire for you. And his rage. You should have assumed that the highest ranking admiral in Wrath’s fleet would have some severe anger issues. But you naively thought that service to his prince would take priority over his feelings for you.

The first thing he had done was to sabotage your quarters during inspection. You didn’t know it was his doing and were angered and paranoid that someone would thrash your space in such a way, causing you to get written up.

In reality it was all Oraan. A rising action in the story of your downfall.

The next thing that was done to ruin your uniforms. He told you it was disrespectful to the prince you all served, to the branch you served, and to him to have your uniforms in such a state.

After that it was a more serious infraction. Reported for contraband that was then found in your locker.

The final, and most infuriating, nail in the coffin happened in the next skirmish. A small opponent, easy to sink and posing only a slight threat to the hellish dreadnought on which you served. But Oraan had forced multiple witnesses to claim you were a coward. That you had abandoned your station and hid in your quarters while the rest of the crew gallantly manned their posts.

This led to you having to be court-martialed. No time to dock and have more formal proceedings. You had to be court-martialed right on the ship. Despite the evidence against you, you thought that once you were given your chance to make your arguments and have your comrades vouch for your behavior and character then this would all disappear.

That isn’t quite how things played out for you. You started the court-martial optimistic but with each passing moment a sense of dread became stronger and stronger. Each witness, people you had respected and thought of as your friends, gave damning testimony. They painted you as a belligerent, lazy, neglectful oaf. Someone who cared nothing for duty, rules, or honor.

You had to hold back tears as your body shook with rage and sorrow. Why were they saying such things? Why were they lying about you and your actions and character?

It finally became obvious when the sentence was passed. Not death, as might befit someone who fled from combat. Not dishonorable discharge. No, you were being reassigned. As Oraan’s personal attendant. “A non-combat role where no one would be harmed by your cowardly behavior.”

It was all him. He had pressured or otherwise bribed everyone to turn against you. To lie about you. All to get you in his clutches and punish you for rejecting him. And there was nothing you could do about it. He was an older and stronger demon, you’d have no hope to beat him in a fight. And even if you somehow managed it, how would you escape on a ship? And if by some miracle you either made it to land or just waited until the ship was docked you would be chased for all eternity.

No, he had you in your clutches. Your only hope was that your contract with the navy was almost up. You were only to be enlisted for five years at a time before you had to renew. The only exception for that being prolonged was if a hot war was going on, but this one was nearing its end. Since all that happened was the court-martial was just technically a reassignment you were only bound by the terms of your enlistment.

All you had to do was endure for ten months.

It was humiliating. Oraan really wanted to keep you reminded of your new position. You had to be at his side constantly. Obeying all his orders and whims. You had to press his uniforms and get his meals. And in private the tasks got much worse.

Sucking his girthy cock was a common “request” of his. Almost daily. You also had to bathe with him most nights. This required you to wash his entire well-muscled form. If you were a willing participant you would have enjoyed it, he was very attractive, the tattoo of an anchor on his left shoulder and the three large scars on his ribs adding to his rugged allure.

But you weren’t a willing participant. And bathing him usually led to him giving you an “inspection.” That was where he touched, kissed, groped every inch of you before sliding his cock into your hot pussy, slowly fucking into you until he came hard. His tongue, of course, had to probe your mouth during these inspections, “just to be thorough.”

It was good that he had you eat meals with him in his private quarters, because you didn’t think you’d be able to look any of the other crew members in the eye ever again. The ones that hadn’t been involved in fucking over your entire life were the ones that believed the lies about you. On the entire ship you had not a single ally. The only one you could confide in was Mr. Sir Buttons, the semi-aquatic demonic cat that served as the mascot and unofficial morale officer on the ship.

You were on your way back from taking your food trays back to the galley when you felt something soft rub against your leg. Mr. Sir Buttons! You had a few minutes before you had to be back with Oraan so you stooped down and picked him up. He purred loudly.

“At least I never have to worry about you betraying me.”

He meowed as if in affirmation. You nuzzled his thick, red, waterproof fur before placing him back down to go about his very important demonic cat business.

When you got back to Oraan’s quarters he was naked on the bed. His large prick standing erect and ready for the attention you would surely have to give it, a bead of precum running down the length evidently in anticipation.

You sighed in resignation and began to strip your clothing. You had been doing this for over a month now. Only less than nine more to go. You could do it, just one moment at a time.

Too excited after leering at your naked form, he couldn’t wait for you to come to him anymore. Instead he got up and used his strong arms to pick you up and pin you to the bed. He stole your lips with his, kissing you in a greedy frenzy, his large cock swung below as he groped your chest.

“Mine! I can’t believe after all these years you’re finally all mine!”

He bit your neck, causing you to moan involuntarily. But maybe you should just give into the pleasure of the situation. It was going to happen either way and you’d be able to move on with your life once this was all over anyway. Besides, getting into it a bit might just help him finish faster so you’d have less time stuck in this position.

Oraan massaged the outside of your cunt before sliding a couple of fingers into you to get you wet and ready for his large prick.

When he lined his cock up with your drooling entrance, rough hands on your hips, you didn’t look away or flinch as you would normally. You wrapped your arms and legs around him instead, allowing him the perfect angle to slam deeply into your pussy. He grinned, ecstatic that you finally seemed to have not only learned your place but were actively embracing it. He slammed down with hard but slow thrusts. Each one making you gasp and each one punctuated with another kiss or nip up your neck.

Lewd squelching noises emanated from your sex as he increased the tempo of your lovemaking.

Had any of the crew passed the admiral’s quarters on their way through the halls all they would have heard was the rhythmic slap of Oraan’s nuts against your skin as he bred you along with the occasional grunt or swear from him or moan from you.

“Fuck! I love you so much!”

You only drooled a bit while looking up at him dumbly with lustful eyes, having been fucked nearly senseless. You scratched his shoulders with your sharp demonic nails as you pulled him closer to you in an attempt to somehow get him deeper. You were near your climax, desperate for it.

The pain from your nails spurred him on, causing him to fuck you at a new pace that straddle the line between pain and pleasure. You winced as he came hard, your tight clenching walls milking his cock and sending him over the edge soon after.

He gave a few final thrusts into you to empty his balls good and deep before pulling out and holding you tight, caging you in with his sweat-slicked body. You went limp from exhaustion, practically basking in the afterglow that always followed such intense, passionate sex. If you didn’t know any better you could have mistaken Oraan for a lust demon. Though you imagined saying such a thing to his face would have him prove instantly that he was, in fact, a being of wrath.

When the two of you had recovered he took you into the small shower with him. This time around, he cleaned you. Gently washing your body of cum and sweat before rinsing your hair. Far more tender behavior than you would have thought possible from the stern leader. Maybe there was more wisdom to just being more open to your predicament than you had initially thought.

It was a change in your behavior that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the man who had orchestrated the vast shift in your life circumstances.

“Finally decided to give in, huh?” Came his gruff voice from behind you.

You had no reason to be dishonest or hide your thoughts from him.

“Well, my contract is up in just a few months. I am not going to renew so this assignment is only temporary. I figured it’ll go by faster if I just accept it.”

He laughed and pulled you close to him, you could feel his stubble on your neck as he whispered words that made your fiery demon blood run cold.

“With my power, influence, and wealth I can assure you that your signature will keep renewing that contract for eternity, sweetheart. Whether you sign it yourself or not. Even if we aren’t deployed I will find a way to keep you with me.”

You went limp and would have fallen to the floor had he not had his arms wrapped tightly around you. The room felt like it was spinning. You barely took note of the water trailing down your skin or the chaste kiss he pressed to your cheek.

It was over for you, now that Oraan finally had you there was absolutely nothing that would make the older demon give you up.

[jezabelle9299]

Broken Lungs S.R x FEM!Reader

CWs- Spoilers for season 5, depictions of asthma and use of a nebulizer, mentions of gunshot wounds, and health insurance not covering necessary medication.

Quick Infodump- Oxygen saturation levels should be 95-100%, lower than 93% should seek immediate help from a healthcare professional, and lower than 85% can cause severe damage to the brain because of a lack of oxygen.

Overture: Spencer is recovering from the knee surgery he needed after being shot in the field, when he sees a familiar face in the hospital being treated for an asthma attack.

A/N- This is based on my own experience with asthma, but it's different for everyone, so the relatability may vary with this one. But I was stuck at home all day because of an air quality alert so I did this instead of getting ready for the semester that starts in two weeks.

After one of his worst days in the field, Spencer ended the day in a hospital bed unable to walk. Hotch had been stabbed, and he had been shot. Both would be ok, and they were in separate hospitals to recover. The team alternated who would come to visit, and when. It usually took until the nurses kicked them out at the end of visiting hours, for them to actually leave. 

It’d been 2 days since his surgery, and the nurses had given him permission to walk around with his brace, on crutches. He’d never used them before, so he walked around the floor to the nurses’ station to get some more jell-o, and then around the hall back to his room. He allowed his curiosity (or nosiness) to get the better of him, occasionally glancing in at the people with their doors open, giving them a small smile or wave. Until he saw a familiar face. 

You’d worked for the FBI for a few years, working on the same floor as the BAU, but you weren’t in the field. You were sitting up in a hospital bed, playing solitaire in one hand, holding what looked like an oxygen mask to your face with the other. You looked up when you felt his eyes on you, and there he was, trapped in the doorway. You’d think you were hallucinating if not for the brace on his knee, and the crutches he was propping himself up on. He didn’t move from the threshold until you gave him a small wave, jumpstarting his movement into your room. 

You’d heard about Hotch’s incident, but you weren’t in the office yesterday, and since Spencer’s injury happened later in the day, you had no idea why he was here. You pulled the mask spraying (terrible tasting) medicine into your lungs from your face. You could stop for 30 seconds to see what he was here for. 

“Hey Spencer, what–um, what brings you here?” He hesitated, because you’d know since the 5th floor of the FBI building was the most gossip-ridden place he’d seen since high school. Yet he had no idea you’d be here. It’s not even as if you never talked, whenever he was in the office he’d stop by your desk to talk to you. He figured that you hadn’t gotten tired of him yet because he was gone a lot, although in reality you’d never tire of hearing his voice.

“I got shot in the knee, I’ll be fine, the real question is why are you here?” You’re sure it’s on government record, something Garcia could find in two minutes if she looked, but you still didn’t like talking about it. You knew it was stupid to be embarrassed of it, but you couldn’t help it. Every time it got brought up, you felt like the dorky character in a movie carting around their inhaler all the time, the butt of some cosmic joke. 

You preferred to think of it as an inconvenience more than anything. It didn’t come up often because you weren’t in the field, and when you needed to use an inhaler, you measured your breathing long enough to get to an empty bathroom or supply closet. You’d just blame the jitters that came after on too much coffee, and no one would ask any questions. This time, the inhaler wasn’t working, the next step in medication, a small machine similar to what you were supposed to be hooked up to now, wasn’t working either. So you drove to the ER feeling like you’d just run 10 miles, and they were making you stay 36 hours to give you stronger medication in intervals. 

“No reason.” You didn’t know why you even bothered with that response. Neither did Spencer, tossing you an apathetic look. He knew how squeamish you got when attention was drawn to something that made you look vulnerable, which is why he let it slide every time you walked into a supply closet looking flushed and panicked, with a soundtrack accompanying every time you took a breath, only to come out 5 minutes later with no supplies. 

 “Ok, really? Why would you even try it, you’re hooked up to a nebulizer and your oxygen saturation is at 90. What happened?” He was using the tone he only ever broke out for interrogations and proving Morgan wrong, but you still wanted to minimize the attention drawn to this not so glamorous piece of your life. You wanted Spencer to see you as someone he could date, even someone he could love, so this was not ideal to the image you’d been trying to show at work. 

“I have gross broken lungs. It’s really no big deal.” He laughed, but there was minimal humor behind it. Like he couldn’t even fathom you thinking this was ‘no big deal’. 

“I would venture to say you being in the hospital because you were unable to breathe is a very big deal.” While you loved when Spencer got a little bit cocky, you decided it would be more fun to make the little vein in his forehead appear again. So you tossed a vague shrug.

“Well I’d say getting shot is a much bigger deal. So why don’t you sit down, eat your jello, and tell me what happened to you, while I finish this thing.” He couldn’t argue with that, because at the very least he wanted you to feel better and the medicine currently going to waste while you were talking was the only way to accomplish that, so he relented. 

He didn’t want to move your things to the floor, but they were occupying the only chair in the room, so he made himself comfortable at the foot of your bed. He always wanted to be closer to you anyway. Setting his crutches next to him and opening the small cup of jello he’d somehow been holding this whole time, he reiterated his answer from before. 

“I told you already, I got shot in the knee, went into surgery, and now other than having to use these crutches for a while, I’m fine. Just need to spend a little longer in recovery before I can go back home to minimize the risk of infection.” He took a bite of jell-o just as a show of finality, like there was nothing more to say. Like a gunshot wound was not a huge deal. 

The whirr of the machine started to slow down, the medicine sputtering instead of coming out in a steady steam, meaning you could finally be done. You set it on the table by the bed, right next to your abandoned game of solitaire, and as soon as you set it down Spencer’s attention was back on your wellbeing. 

“Ok your turn, what happened?” 

“I’ve had asthma since I was a kid, and I just got unlucky today. It’s always worse this time of year, and my inhaler wasn’t really doing anything for me. Our health insurance plan doesn’t cover the more expensive meds unless I’m in the hospital, so here I am, for the next 36 hours.” You made a point to turn your exasperated expression into a cheesy smile, hoping to convince him to stay for just a little while longer.  “But the bright side is that since you're here I don’t have to play solitaire anymore. That was getting old fast.” You grabbed the cards, giving them a quick shuffle.

“So what do you say Vegas, are you up for a round of poker?” You hoped that would distract him from fussing over you, and luckily it did. He was satisfied you were ok, and the last thing he wanted was to push you too far, and for you to ask him to leave. So he let the smile take over his face. 

“Always. But i'm not going to go easy on you just because of your- what did you call them- broken lungs?” That got a good laugh out of you. Admittedly wheezy, but still one of the most beautiful sounds in the world to him. 

“Gross, broken lungs. And I wouldn’t dream of it.” You dealt the cards, already knowing you’d lose. You didn’t even know how to play poker. But word around the office was that most of your coworkers wouldn’t play with him since he always won. But you didn’t mind, you mostly just wanted someone to hang out with, and you were overjoyed that person was Spencer. He won, of course. Only gloating a little bit at how badly he beat you, and while you were dealing the second round of cards, you couldn’t help but vocalize what had been in the back of your mind for a few minutes now. 

“Hey Spencer, could I ask you a favor?” He had a mix of worry and willingness to help all over his face. 

“Anything.”

“Could you–not tell anyone in the office? Just. You know how they are, they would make a fuss about the whole hospital thing and it’s just not necessary.” 

“Where do they think you’re going to be for the next day and a half?”

You looked down like a kid who just got caught in a lie. “I kind of told Hotch I had a cold.” Spencer just sighed in response. 

“I really do think you should let them fuss over you. You deserve it, and you know Penelope lives for that sort of thing.” That you couldn’t deny, no matter how much you disagreed with him saying you deserved to be cared for. 

“Please, Spencer?” 

“Alright, but they might walk past your room in the morning. Garcia said she was coming, and you know she’ll drag at least one person along with her.” 

“Noted. I’ll close the door in the morning. Thank you Spencer, seriously, it means a lot.” You put your hand over his and it felt like every thought he’d ever had was gone from his brain at your touch. He couldn’t believe his dumb luck at meeting someone like you. Just to be in your orbit, to see and know you, felt like it could only be accomplished by divine intervention. Selfishly, he wished that you’d be staying a little longer, so that you could both leave together. Even more selfishly, he wished that you would leave with him, and come to his apartment. There he could take care of you, make you feel special until he could finally convince you that you deserved it. Deserved everything. 

You moved your hand to start tapping it on your leg, and while Spencer knew the side effects of respiratory steroids, he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that something was wrong. That maybe he did something wrong. 

“Is there something on your mind?” 

“No, it’s just the jitters. I used to get them so bad when I was a kid, my parents would have to practically hold me down. It’s like I have the energy to run a mile, but I can’t actually do it. I’ll calm down in a bit, but I’m probably going to get really rambly first.” 

“I’d love to listen to you talk, and I love being on the other side of a ramble.” It was just then that a nurse came in to ask if you were feeling better, charting your vials,  reminding you that you need to take your next dose in 4 hours, and telling you that an orderly would be in to set it up then.

Just when she was getting ready to leave she turned her attention to Spencer. “I’m sorry, but I am going to need you to go back to your room Dr. Reid. You both need to get some rest.”

He reluctantly told her that he would and just as soon as he’d come in, he disappeared again. He gave you a wave when he was gathering his crutches, but no real goodbye. You of course waved back, but you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. You really liked him, and you thought maybe he really liked you too. And yet, he only gave you a wave. 

All of the adrenaline moving through you, getting you all worked up finally won out, and stupid as it may sound, tears started to prick the corners of your eyes. Just as you closed the door to your room to get some privacy while you cried, your phone started to ring, and you couldn’t help but think; What now? You answered it without looking, and on the other side of the line was the person you wanted to hear from the most. 

“So what did you want to talk about? I have all the time in the world.”

[little-miss-bioweapon121]

Which other Primarchs do you think would accept a splice baby like Samael as their own child?

I love Samael, he’s a great idea.

OOOOOOOO THIS IS A GOOD QUESTION!!!!

Okay so on the one hand every creative writing class I’ve ever taken has told me one very important rule: The answer is never “no”.

Basically means that nothing is ever impossible for a character there’s just always more steps and obstacles to get to the outcome. (And that makes for a very good story!)

But on the other hand just based off of what little I’ve read, without the characterization I’ve taken on the primarchs I think realistically every primarch would’ve destroyed a splice clone like Samael. Especially given the threat level one would technically represent as a xeno weapon. (Even Sanguinius the way I wrote him was supposed to kill Samael)

But that’s boring.

So here’s a list of every primarch reacting to a splice clone baby (according to my interpretations of what a primarch is!)

Cw: Transhumanism, description of corpses, implied child death, death

Lion El’Jonson: He knew to expect xeno technology, but nothing could have prepared him for this. The battleship had been long abandoned, fuel tank damaged and engines beyond repair as his tech priests had noted, so it was only a small squadron he brought with him to investigate. Dust, rot, and abandoned stations were the only thing to greet their path. With his men occupied on the ships databases Lionel took the liberty to explore the rest of the large space. The technology was different but the uses were obvious, this was an abandoned lab. Tubes of dark murky liquid lined the walls and what little remained of their previous inhabitants floated in disgusting red-green clouds of rotted mass.

Only one tube was free of the rotting green liquid, the crack in the glass and drying green residue on the ground spoke volumes to its fate, and peeking inside Lionel felt his hearts squeeze in sympathy at the tiny emaciated form within. Wait. It still breathed. Lionel wrenched the tube open without hesitation and was immediately greeted by the foul smell of old human waste and the cloying remnants of the mysterious fluid, but beneath that was the faint buttery sweet scent of newborn.

His newborn.

With a level of panic Lionel had never once known he scoops the child, ‘his child’ his mind frantically wails, into his arms and calls for his men. Only later in the safety of his own ship with the baby stabilized by the apothecary would he even begin to question the origins of his child.

II: Took his baby and fled to escape paying Xeno child support.

Fulgrim: He hadn’t actually meant to find a child. Really he hadn’t meant to find anything at all. He and his highest ranking sons had been invited to one of the recently conquered imperial planets for a diplomatic visit. A few days of wining and dining while treaties were signed and supply lines were established. Really this was all Roboutes area of expertise, but Fulgrim was nothing if not an adaptable man so off he went. Truly, genuinely, the snooping was supposed to be superficial. The second night of their seven day stay had seen the nobles a little more eager on the drinks than anticipated so the next mornings activities had been canceled in favor of rest. Fulgrim certainly wasn’t complaining. He took the opportunity instead to admire the architecture of the mansion, a royal palace prior to imperial conquering, and explore some of the areas not used for the dinners.

Discovering the hidden lab had been an accident. Entering the hidden lab, slightly less so. Rows of cages and annotated diagrams filled the space, but what alarmed Fulgrim the most was the crib in the corner of the room. Fulgrim stared into the crib. A tiny purple-eyed baby stared back. He didn’t hesitate to pick up the child as soon as it reached for him, how could he? A million thoughts ran through his mind analyzing the situation and the child itself. But it all came screeching to a halt as soon as the scent hit his nose. Fulgrim hugged the child closer practically burying his nose into their hair as one bone-deep truth resonated through him like the growling of a great beast.

His baby smelled too much like that disgusting ex-king, and not nearly enough like him.

He’d have time later to contemplate when and where a planet like this had gotten their hands on his DNA. But for now he plastered his scent on every inch of his child as he made his way back to the ship.

Perturabo: His troubles started like many of his troubles usually start. Immediately after the conquering of a planet. He’d brought back a veritable mountain of technology from a recently conquered Aeldari planet to analyze and deconstruct. The xeno technology had proven difficult to overcome and he was eager to learn all of its weaknesses. Walking through the maze of crates yet to be unpacked Perturabo noted with flat dissatisfaction that a green liquid had begun to leak from the corner of the smallest one. He’d be sure to scold his astartes on proper handling of packages at a later date, but for now he had a turret to analyze.

In truth, the troubles didn’t start until a few days later. The items in his workshop were counted and placed to perfection, so it was blatantly clear to him that someone had been moving his things around. He was certain it was neither a serf nor a servo-skull as he was familiar with the noises and scents that both left behind, and the scent that was slowly becoming more common in his workspace was far softer than either. Days later, finally fed up with the constant displacement and the maddening scent, Perturabo took it upon himself to track the intruder down.

The search had him tracking whatever it was all through his workshop. Beneath tables, under crates, and through tunnels in supplies he never would have noticed before; every second he spent tracking this thing painted a more vivid image in his mind of what it could be. Small, clumsy, and most definitely human. Finally he finds a fresh trail, the scent soft and familiar in a way the he cannot yet place, and tracks it all the way to a secluded corner where he left a pile of discarded tarps and covers. The head of fuzzy hair and bright curious eyes make it blatantly clear what his intruder was.

A baby.

And with a certainty that came from something instinctual and more powerful than anything he had ever experienced before he knew that this baby was his.

Jaghatai Khan: His men had caught wind of the Drukhari plot long before he had, and with an efficiency that rivaled Jaghatai himself in speed they handled the problem. Or at least, they handled the initial problem. Because the secondary problem that arose was something far more nefarious.

The clone was adorable.

His men could not bring themselves to strike down the tiny infant regardless of its status as a Drukhari made weapon. Upon arrival to their home world the matron serfs had taken one look at the baby, seen its lack of dress in such a cold season, and had promptly taken it from the clueless white scars and swaddled it in the warmest furs they could find. While half of the white scars went to protest the acquisition of their baby the other half made the responsible decision of going to warn Jaghatai of the newest member to the tribe.

And of course this all culminated in every grandmother, mother, aunt, and son cooing over the infant clone of their primarch. Jaghatai had steeled himself to be the voice of reason and logic in this very trying time and approached the group. The child was the outcome of a Drukhari plot after all and they needed to act swiftly.

But, well, the child was very adorable. All rosy cheeks and swaddled to perfection. And oh those big sparkling eyes were just begging for affection. Maybe just a quick cuddle wouldn’t hurt. And, well, while he’s at it he wonders if the baby still has the newborn scent, it is after all very young, just one quick sniff won’t-

Oh warp damn it.

Leman Russ: Leman found the puppy fair and square and he was not giving it back thank you very much! The Eldar biomancer that his sons had dragged out from her hidden laboratory must have been desperate if she was resorting to ‘politely asking for the return of her project’ while in the midst of capture. Leman would have been more offended if he didn’t find her claims utterly hilarious.

The puppy looked like him, smelled like him, and acted like him. Clearly, the puppy belonged to him. Every time he brought that up the Eldar’s face gained another shade of nervous palor. Now Leman was not an idiot, despite what some of his brothers would claim, and he could connect the very clearly drawn lines in the logic here. Somehow, some way, the pup actually was his. A silent side eye had two of his sons breaking off to gather data from the lab while Leman continued to make the captured scientist sweat.

Really it was cruel to play with his prey like this, his wolf mother had taught him better than that, but he couldn’t help it. A little bit of vengeance before justice was never a terrible thing, and besides, the peals of laughter his newest son let out every time the captive squeaked was well worth it.

Rogal Dorn: He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the child was his. Really it was embarrassingly obvious. The siege had been more than successful and going in to pick off the stragglers resulted in the situation at hand. The Drukhari biomancers nervously staring down the barrels of his astartes blasters after being ratted out by the screaming of one of their own creations.

A child, or as was more immediately noticed by Rogals instincts, his child.

Oh they had certainly tried to claim the child was theirs, had certainly put their best pleading act in to it, but more than the simple fact that this was his child there was one driving force behind his stalwart decision to claim the tiny thing.

He’d sooner die than let these filthy xeno’s have one of his own blood.

Cradling the child to his chest Rogal sent a silent signal to his men to continue with their destruction of the facility. The biomancers had finally seen the futility in their pitiful attempts at persuasion and Rogal rightfully rewarded them with death. Allowing his men to continue their efforts he returned to the ship with his newly acquired son, there was much planning and preparation to do for his arrival after all.

Konrad Curze: The Drukhari were idiots if they thought they could keep this hidden from him. Even without his premonitions their plots and movements were painfully obvious. Sitting in the shadows of the pipes and wires that covered the makeshift lab Konrad stared down at the biomancers that scurried and fretted about the space. Anticipation and a rare flicker of joy fluttered in his chest as his eyes locked on the green incubation tube. So close.

Over and over he had seen the dreams. So familiar yet so strikingly different. The dead biomancers and the destroyed lab at the forefront of his mind but more importantly the one figure he was most eager to meet. His baby. At first the dreams had seen the child grow to kill him, a weapon in its own right, but very quickly they had changed. Dead biomancers, destroyed lab, and the baby blinking up at him from his arms all gummy smiles and shining black eyes.

A son, his son, would be born today. And his instincts sang with the rightness of it all. His claws worried grooves in the pipes as he heard the sound of his astartes approaching, no doubt following the trail the Drukhari left from their ship, and he settled further into the shadows with a vicious smile.

Dead biomancers. Destroyed lab. And one very happy baby.

He couldn’t wait to finally meet him.

Sanguinius: Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4

Ferrus Manus: Ferrus would be remiss to say he found the child because quite bluntly the child found him. On their way to aid an ally in a nearby sector their battle ship was rammed into by an Aeldari ship. He hesitated to call it a battle ship as the size of it was so small that the damage of its ramming had been confined to a single training room. No eldar survivors remained in the aftermath so, Commanding his men to continue on course to their allies, Ferrus took the brunt of the work in fixing the damage. Deeming his own hands faster and more well equipped than his men at the time he saw no need for aid.

The eldar ship groaned and screeched with every movement. And as he worked his way into scrapping the ship and sealing the hull he ignored many of the smaller sounds the ship released.

Laying on his front Ferrus felt his way through a narrow opening, gauging the integrity of the section, when he felt something gnawing on his other hand. Well, felt was a strong word, he noticed his hand moving without his input and turned his to head reveal the culprit. A baby, old enough to crawl, was teething on his arm. The child now sensing it had his attention crawled up directly to his face and sniffed at Ferrus curiously. Ferrus, having never dealt with children before, hesitantly sniffed back in response. Oddly enough it smelled like him and something strange in the back of his brain was very pleased by this.

But he…didn’t know how to handle this. So doing what he knew to do best Ferrus gently secured the baby into the groove of his gorget, a problem to be focused on afterwards, and returned to repairing the ship. He’d ask Fulgrim what to do about it later, he was sure to know.

XI: Escaping Child Support 2: The Squeakquel

Angron: For the first time in his life he found something stronger than the Nails. Another conquered planet, another bloody battle, another slaughter by his hands, but this one was different. He stared down into the wrecked incubation capsule with an awe and clarity that had not been afforded to him in quite some time. His instincts had latched onto the scent of the newborn with a viciousness and potency that surprised even himself.

The baby was tiny, smaller than his fist, and so young it could not yet open its eyes but he found the grip it had on his hearts was stronger than any foe he had ever faced. He reached a single hand into the tube with a gentleness he had never before experienced. As the baby’s fist closed around his finger, a strong grip but so weak compared to his blood stained hands, he felt his breath leave his lungs as though by a physical blow.

The screeching of the nails was drowned out by one repeating piece of unquestionable knowledge.

This was his child, his baby, his son.

Roboute Guilliman: This strange encounter felt like it was spiraling out of control very quickly. When he and his sons had received a message from an Aeldari ship the reaction had, rightfully, been intense trepidation. But the vague message of ‘returning that which he had lost’ had prompted Roboute to allow them onboard. An emissary group of three Eldar had boarded, two guards and an important looking woman holding a child, and Roboute had assumed it was all a strange roundabout way of showing they were not a threat.

Until the lady had promptly handed him the child and proclaimed for the entire ship that she was returning what was rightfully his.

The shouts and chaos that came from his men were nothing short of unbecoming, but Roboute himself could certainly not judge. Any coherent thought or denial that came to mind was destroyed because yes this was most definitely his child. The wide blue eyes, the curly blonde hair, and the scent that matched his so closely left no room for doubt. But the problem was that Roboute had no recollection of actually ever creating said child. Sensing the confusion the Lady, Yvraine as she introduced herself, clarified that the child had been saved from a Drukhari lab in the sector. Her group having noticed both the resemblance of the child to Roboute and the movements of his ship in this sector had assumed that he was searching for his missing child.

Evidently not the case.

So after multiple quick explanations, and one incredibly awkward truce later, Roboute Guilliman had officially aquired an infant son.

Mortarion: When his sons had returned from battle he had not expected them to return with an extra passenger. A child, Small and pale and so very like him, had been recovered from the clutches of a Xeno biomancer. And his sons with all the blessings of their fathers geneseed immediately recognized a baby brother.

A small part of Mortarion had hoped the child would be a fluke, a false positive that he could write off or avoid, but the truth of the matter was simply unavoidable. The child was his, and that strange pull at the back of his mind was absolutely letting him know.

The child itself was inexplicably drawn to Mortarion reaching with tiny hands whenever he was near. Even days after it first arrived its fascination with the Primarch was unending. Mortarion himself held back on his affection for the little one because he was worried, afraid even, of what he could do to them. Mortarion himself was so much larger, so much stronger, so much more resilient than them and a hundred concerns crossed his mind in an instant. What if he was not careful enough? What If he squeezed too hard? What If he moved them too fast? What if the toxins he had become accustomed to would hurt-

Oh, there’s a baby in his arms.

The Astartes had apparently tired of the child’s pitiful whines and passed them to Mortarion before promptly leaving.

….

Well the child wasn’t dead, in fact they seemed to be quite content, so Mortarion would simply continue to hold them. Exactly like this. And not move an inch. At. All.

He had this parenting thing down pretty well in his opinion.

Magnus the Red: He knew of his son long before the reports of Drukhari experiments reached his legion. How could he not? The tiny nascent soul, no more defined than the bubbles of a lava lamp, had begun to follow him every time he visited the immaterium with a burbling joy that only a child could produce.

The tiny thing resonated with him, soul of his soul, in a harmony known only to Magnus. A beloved companion in his pursuits through the warp. But as news of the Drukhari plot reached him, as the pieces of the mystery finally fell into place, Magnus finally realized what had been so blatantly presented to him all this time.

A son was being born.

Somewhere there was a child of his blood and Magnus would be damned if he did not find them. Locating his son within the material plane had been laughably easy, such a young soul unburdened by knowledge easily led him back to its mortal form, and finally seeing what his son would be born into caused Magnu’s blood to boil. Cold calculating machinery, the impassive embrace of an incubation tube, and a Drukhari biomancer swearing vengeance on the imperium. Commanding all his sons to join him in battle had certainly brought questions, especially from his father and brothers, but their suspicions were nothing in the eyes of Magnus for there was something far more important currently awaiting his arrival.

Magnus would retrieve his son, and no one would stand in his way.

Horus Lupercal: Horus could not bring himself to strike down the child. His Father had instructed upon him the conquering of a planet; the destruction of another xeno threat. Every last enemy slain and defeated as was His decree. But here he stood and for once he hesitated. Every other mutant and squalling failure had been slain but here was a final perfect specimen. Something like him and the indescribable thing within him knew it.

Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh, a soul that would no doubt match his own.

A son.

He cradled the small thing with an awe and joy that he had rarely ever felt in his life. His Father was bound to understand. How could he not? He had created him and his brothers much the same way this child had been created. Son of His Son. He was bound to understand. The planet conquered and the threat destroyed Horus returned to his ship to share with his legion this momentous occasion.

Lorgar Aurelian: The child was a sign. A sign of fortune and favor a sign of hope and prosperity. But more than that it was a gift. A child of his blood, of his flesh and soul, was clear proof that his preaching was the will of his Father. The child, born in a lab and through biomancy of human and Drukhari genome, born so like him that the pattern had to be by design and not mere coincidence, had been brought to him by his sons. Each and every one of them could sense the connection the child held to Lorgar, and by extension his Father, and knew without a shadow of a doubt the importance the little one would hold.

The future of the Legion of their people’s faith and salvation all coalesced to one divine sign.

A mind to be molded, a child to be guided, a prized lamb in the flock.

Lorgar would not squander such a wonderful gift.

Vulkan: The Drukhari were looking for something. At least that was the conclusion that Vulkan and his sons had come to. The third strike team in as many months to be destroyed attempting to enter Nocturnes atmosphere. A curious persistence, and one that most certainly had his sons and his people on high alert. As a preemptive measure many of the more remote cities had begun to move their people to the old bunkers used in the time of the Dusk Wraiths. Vulkan, with a day to spare, was helping move one such city. Lost in thought as he watched his people Vulkan startled when something small latched onto his leg.

Looking down he was greeted by the delighted gummy smile of a baby. Vulkan felt his hearts melt at the adorable sight but a more pressing concern nagged at his mind. Who’s child was this? The bright red eyes meant the child was not a baseline, the child of one of his sons then? A rare occurrence but not unheard of. With a great level of concern for the child Vulkan spent the better part of the day looking for its parents.

It was late at night, the child comfortably asleep in his arms, when Vulkan finally came to a discomforting conclusion. The child had no parents. Not a single one of his sons had reported a missing child, no city was missing one that matched the child’s description, and no one had come forth to claim it. Looking down at its peacefully sleeping face Vulkan could only feel tired concern squeeze his hearts.

Well.

If no one would claim the child, then he supposed the child would be his. Something deep and curling in the back of his mind was terribly pleased by this, how curious. Much later, after all was settled, his sons would come to learn that the Drukhari were in fact searching for his newest child. A clone created by their biomancers, their reasons unknown and no doubt nefarious. But it mattered little. Vulkan knew with the certainty and rage of the great salamanders of nocturne that anyone who sought to take his son would meet death at his hands.

Corvus Corax: He knew what he would find, but it did not make the surrealism of the moment any less potent. This particular band of Drukhari had been in a vicious cycle of battle with Corvus and his legion. A seemingly unending back and forth with far too many innocents caught in the crossfire. This planet, its major cities captured and enslaved, would be the final resting place of these filthy xeno’s. And the Drukhari seemed to be of a similar mindset for they too had started to scheme. Corvus knew. He knew of their plot, knew of the traitorous serf that allowed it to progress, knew of what had been created. But it did not prepare him for this moment.

The biomancers walked past him without a second glance. Taking measurements, moving vials, doing their best to understand what had happpened. Their words meant nothing to Corvus drowned out as his world narrowed to a single point. A child. A baby. He knew to expect a clone, knew to expect a weapon, but his mind could not correlate the two. Something deeper and more powerful than the shock of the moment had latched on the scent of the newborn.

It smelled like him.

The baby blinked up at him, squinted really, and reached for him with little coos and burbles. Corvus reached out to the child and could not form a coherent thought distracted by how Its hand was smaller even than his finger.

Too small.

Too slow.

Failure.

The words, the intent, of the biomancers finally broke through the fog of his mind and Corvus felt a blinding rage. They would all perish here and now, this he would make sure of. Corvus stood amidst the aftermath of his rage, the unrecognizable gore of the biomancers and their foul creations, with his infant son cradled to his chest; a soft rare smile as he looked down upon his sleeping face. His sons had received his message, were no doubt already well into their liberation efforts, and would soon report victory.

And when the enemy was finally slain. When all traces of these foul slavers and their perverse creations were eradicated from the planet. Corvus would rejoice with his legion the arrival of their youngest brother.

Alpharius-Omegon: No one actually knows how the child got there. Oh certainly some claim they do: ridiculous ideas like the child being a xeno splice clone or the love child of the Primarch and a warp demon. But no one actually knows how the child got to be there. In fact most people aren’t even quite sure the child belongs to the Primarch at all. But the only thing anyone can seem to agree on is that there is absolutely a child in the Alpha legion base. Could it belong to a serf? Possibly. Do the legionnaires pay far too much attention to the child for that to be the case? Oh absolutely. But the child is there. Sometimes. Maybe? Debatable.

[riflesniper]

spent enough time cooking up this guy behind the scenes and now i feel like i can toss him out here now. this big boy is aegis :3 a sapient mech that ran from his makers to a resistance militia, who plopped a gay little pilot (green) into his hands. more details below the cut

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his storyline takes place a few centuries in the future, where a small-scale war has kicked up between a newly socialist canada and a dystopian oligarchical US. aegis comes from a particularly powerful corporation called valkyrie machines, who definitely pioneered sapient AI tech some hundred years prior and definitely didn't just steal the tech from somewhere else before stealthily bribing the actual inventors into a silence or death deal

on the other side of the border is the canadian shield alliance, though most people just call it the alliance or the shield. they've played a lot of roles since their inception that was also some hundred years prior, notably aid programs, disaster assistance, fighting for land back/secure human rights/immigrant protections, scaring corporations into NOT being shitty, better economic policies, etc.

unfortunately the US did NOT like any of that. when canada's economic system is officially changed from mixed to socialist, the oligarchs of the states kick off a race to try and see who can annex it the fastest. fortunately, the shield doesn't give them an inch.

aegis is one of valkyrie's newer warden models; nimble, fleet-footed mechs with sapient AI cores to enhance battle prowess. valkyrie is Very strict about what their mechs and pilots do and don't know, and are not above both executing pilots who try to rebel and wiping AIs whose thoughts stray too far. aegis and his last pilot were able to keep sneaky about their plans to escape, but said pilot was disposed of before it could be carried out, aegis made a break for it on his own, racing from the montana base he was stationed at to the albertan border.

despite broadcasting a plea for the shield to find him, he didn't get out unharmed; valkyrie's air fighters were eventually able to catch up to him before he scaled the wall. they plucked at him for a couple hundred kliks until the shield managed to find him near a small town. a skirmish broke out to claim him, ending with one shield mech being non-fatally damaged and all of the valkyrie fighters being shot down.

aegis, battered from the run, was hoisted to a shield base near calgary for major repairs before being shipped to the edmonton for external repairs and retrofitting. it's here that he's assigned a new pilot; green reinhart, a skilled, kind man with a underlying justice-driven rage to match the heart on his sleeve. a man who would not be killed so easily, not with the transhuman tech that's available. it's here that aegis would actually get his name, and so much more that he never would have had back in the states.

the world was opening up to him now. his pilot wasn't the only one talking to him like he was a person anymore. green gets him a proxy frame to explore with. the two of them spend hours together, on and off the field; perhaps this is the best thing that's could've happened for either of them.

(first image is when they've already been partners for a long while; green's organic body does eventually get killed in a battle, and his transhuman body is activated. im still kinda fleshing out the details, unsure if i'll get much deeper into the socio-political-economic shitshow behind the worldbuilding, since i originally made this guy to just have a gay mech/pilot thing w/ green, but its kinda feeding off the current shitshow of the US wanting to annex canada in this day and age. i gotta focus more of that energy on makin characters WAUGH

if anyones got suggestions for like. videos or audiobooks that Could help add onto the worldbuilding though, im all ears. just keep in mind that i struggle with text only stuff, so audiovisual is heavily preferred)

[banjjakz]

serial bereavement ; yuuta x gn/f!reader

Every first Thursday for the past six months, without fail, a single plot of ashes has been unlawfully exhumed from the cemetery behind Joenji Temple.

Or: As a rookie hire, you are partnered with Investigations Section 1 Officer Okkotsu Yuuta to investigate a law-defying, bone-chilling, uniquely disturbing case of obsessive love that threatens to shut down the entirety of Shinjuku.

part i. word count: 5.2k

warnings: rating & warnings WILL change; part i of iii; reader is referred to with she/her pronouns & has a vagina & breasts, but is never addressed with gendered titles [e.g.: "ms.," "lady," etc.]; eventual smut that is dubcon at best; horror-romance, in that order; themes of psychosexual horror; side satosugu [non-essential to plot]; i cannot overstate how abnormal this one is, even for me

the content of this fictional work is inspired by the video game "collar x malice" which belongs to the original rightful owners. i do not own or claim to own the rights to the collar x malice franchise. this written work does not represent the intentions, actions, or thoughts of any of the creators/owners of the "collar x malice" franchise.

‪♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

likes♡ / reblogs ↻ appreciated!

Every first Thursday for the past six months, without fail, a single plot of ashes has been unlawfully exhumed from the cemetery behind Joenji Temple.

The first incident was thought to be a freak accident, one of those strange, wild card crimes that confound local police and commandeer national attention. Pictures of the desecrated grave ravaged internet forums for weeks thereafter, sending chills down the backs of even the most stoutly atheist Japanese youth. An already horrific occurrence worsened all the more with the repeated presence of a seemingly random signature: there, at the bottom of the grave, in the very deepest point of the aged, black soil, laid a folded handwritten note. Upon unfurling the crisp creases, the Shinjuku Police Force Special Crimes Unit discovered that these were actually letters.

Love letters, to be exact.

Presumably penned by the perp, the characters were neat and clean – almost feminine in nature. So strong was the desire imbued into these letters that it seemed as though each individual brush stroke contained one thousand sonnets of unceasing, burning ardor. Clearly, the perpetrator yearned for the attention of their beloved.

That they would go to great lengths – immoral lengths, even – for just a three-minute story on the evening news, all so that their beloved might idly overhear the report as they prepare their dinner, idly chopping radishes to the soundtrack of a violent confession woefully fallen upon their deaf ears…

Well. It makes you squirm. You suppose that’s the point.

As a fresh-faced rookie of the Special Regions Crime Prevention Office, this is your first time on the job in the midst of such a sensational case. At first, your department was unsure how to label these crimes: neither killings nor injuries were incurred, and yet, the spiritual damage effected by the robbing of a Buddhist shrine’s graveyard was somehow worse than any brutal homicide. Eventually, the commissioner labeled these incidents as “Serial Bereavements” out of respect to the families whose deceased loved ones had been wrongfully removed from their final resting place.

After the first offense, local news stations reported the anomalous crime with a sick sort of fascination. Lovesickness was no foreigner in Japan, and although many screwed their faces up at the morbid displays of affection, so too did just as many turn up the volume on their televisions and lean just a few centimeters closer, eyes glazed with blue light, horror, mortification, and arousal.

After the second and third offenses, it was obvious that a pattern was beginning to emerge. Both incidents occurred on the first Thursday of the month, and both incidents were signed with the same achingly forlorn pages of desperation. In fear of exacerbating the perpetrator, or inspiring copycats, news stations and publications were not permitted to release the contents of the letters.

After the fourth offense, protests began to congregate outside of the Shinjuku Police Station, demanding an immediate and swift correction of the police’s incompetency in addressing the issue. When the first set of ashes had been disturbed, cherry blossoms still clung to the trees. By this time it was July, and the harsh glare of the summer sun beat unrelentingly upon the earth, as though reprimanding its inhabitants.

After the fifth offense, a special curfew was instated for all residents of the Shinjuku ward. No persons for any reason were to be out past eleven o’clock at night. This was punishable by immediate apprehension for questioning. The law was martial, but the law was necessary. Or so the commissioner claimed.

After the sixth offense, the police began looking inwardly, suspecting members of its own ranks. There was no possible way that a civilian could have been able to penetrate the immense security measures installed to secure the Joenji cemetery. Ropes and ropes of caution tape, nearly 24/7 surveillance, and daily K-9 rounds were still not enough to halt the perpetrator in their tracks. This could only mean one thing:

An inside job.

“Scary,” shivers Ieiri, mockingly, lips curled in a sardonic smirk around the length of her unlit cigarette. “You hear they think it’s one of us?”

You regularly have lunch with Ieiri Shoko, director of the Forensics department. She is as caustic as she is jaded, having served in an underrecognized role for far too long, wasting her prolific talents in an obscure government position with little excitement – save for, of course, highly-charged periods of reoccurring atrocities, such as the current case of the Serial Bereavements.

“Don’t even joke. We should be taking this seriously…”

The cooling September breeze has you huddling into your knees a little further. Enjoying lunch on the rooftop was a treat while it was still summer. But now, September has just torn a new page in your calendar and has brought with it an uncharacteristically crisp cold snap. It is Tuesday, the second.

“I’m sooooo serious,” Ieiri says after taking a rather dramatically prolonged drag from the now-lit cig. “Couldn’t be any more serious. Brr.”

Usually, Ieiri’s dry humor is an effective, if transient, salve to your ever-festering anxiety. But today is an exception.

“Please, just think about it for a second... To think that any one of the people we work with every day could be committing such heinous crimes…and for a romantic obsession, no less…it doesn’t frighten you?”

Ieiri exhales smoke, puffing lazily like a sated dragon draped over its hoard. “Nah. I seriously doubt anyone in our ward has the balls.”

Her vulgarity makes you blush. You’ve always been easy to fluster. “Ieiri-san!”

“How many times have I told you to just call me by my first name… jeez.” She ruffles your hair without even an ounce of care for how it makes you groan in consternation. “Too polite for your own good. Someone is going to take advantage of that, one day. And then where will you be? Calling for Ieiri-san to come save you?”

Somewhere, she’s strayed from the path of lighthearted teasing. You still under the weight of her calloused palm, peering curiously up at her through your lashes. “Um…well…”

And as soon as her touch had manifested upon you, just as quickly is it yanked away. “Anyways, call me whatever you like. Not like it matters, anyway.”

“I guess not…”

The rest of your lunch is finished in an unstable silence. Her final, rhetorical question rolls around in your mind, impressing itself upon your malleable brain tissue: Calling for Ieiri-san to save you?

But when would you need saving?

You’re a police officer, after all. You can take care of yourself.

If you couldn’t, why would you serve as an officer in the first place?

;

On the following Monday – the third of September – the director of the Investigations Unit summons you to the fifth floor.

After a polite (terrified) bow, you enter Investigations HQ. “Hello.” Please do not fire me. Please do not transfer me. Please do not publicly reprimand me. Please do not—

“Ah, thank you for coming. Wow, what a deep bow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfectly geometrical ninety degrees.”

Face burning, you avert your gaze to the marble floor. “Ummm…”

You’ve heard that the chief of Investigations, Gojo Satoru was an eccentric fellow, passing in and out as he pleased through the station, hanging off of the director like a second skin. It should come as no surprise that he is here to greet you, today. And yet, still does your thin skin prickle with humiliation, with shame.

Geto Suguru, director of Investigations, cuts in before his partner can continue. “Leave her alone, Satoru. She’s shaking. Are you doing alright today, officer?”

Embarrassed, you nod. Great. It hasn’t even been a full sixty seconds and you’re already embarrassing yourself in front of your superiors.

“Alright, alright. I’ll lay off. Only ‘cuz you asked, though! Hehe.”

“I’ve summoned you today to invite you to join a special taskforce,” Geto continues, unperturbed by Gojo’s wily eyebrow wiggles. “This taskforce will use unique means to investigate the Joenji Serial Bereavements.”

Your blood is paralyzed in your veins, cowed by the enormity of this proposal. “Sir…?”

“In the short amount of time since you’ve joined the Shinjuku Police Department, your conduct has been nothing but outstanding. You’re capable and damn impressive. And frankly speaking, officer, we need a fresh set of eyes on this case.”

There’s nothing else you could possibly say other than: “I would be humbled to join. Thank you.”

“Great, knew we could count on you. We’re keeping the taskforce small for confidentiality’s sake. You’ll be working with one other partner: Officer Okkotsu Yuuta from Investigations Section 1.”

That name… why do you know that name?

Then it hits you: Okkotsu Yuuta is the name whispered through the halls of the police department with awe, envy, admiration, and – occasionally – fear. He is a legendary detective with prowess in both tactical as well as strategical measures. His presence is felt rather than seen, as he is scarcely spotted within the physical walls of the department. However, what does not tangibly appear is nonetheless ever-present in whispered rumors and glamorized notoriety.

“O-Okkotsu-san…” you stammer, taken aback. “But…I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to question your judgement, but why have I been chosen to pair with Okkotsu-san?”

“Oh! He specifically requested—”

Gojo’s cheerful sentence is curtailed by a swift elbow to the ribs. While he recovers, Geto finishes the thought, “Okkotsu has requested to be paired with a rookie for this assignment to personally train them. Something about ‘personally ensuring the longevity of the Shinjuku police force,’ or the like. What a do-gooder, am I right?”

“Okay,” you respond, uncertain.

“Your first matter of business will be a visitation to the Joenji graveyard to look for any new leads. You leave in one hour. Okkotsu will meet you downstairs, in front of the building. Good luck!”

In a daze, you bow deeply once more. “Thank you. I will be sure to work hard.”

;

Unsure of what to expect, you linger in front of the armed entrance to the building, trying your best not to shift your weight from foot to foot in an obviously apparent display of anxiety.

It’s not that you’re the type to be starstruck! You are a sensible, no-nonsense, down-to-earth person. Celebrities have never appealed to you much, and idol culture continues to confound you.

In light of this, it’s quite difficult to explain the visceral, full-body reaction you have when you meet Officer Okkotsu Yuuta for the first time.

He is not superbly handsome. Good-looking enough to get street-casted? Sure. With some minor work, he might even be the jewel visual for an up-and-coming boy group. Young and fit, he is the picture of an officer steadily approaching the peak of their hotshot years. Plain, dark hair falls on either side of his forehead in a lopsided part, and his uniform is buttoned and put together, if only a little wrinkled. All in all, he is an average, considerably attractive young man in the Shinjuku police force.

And yet.

Eyes like pools of obsidian tether you to the spot like a spell has been cast upon your bones. Enchanted, your lips part, but no sounds slips through. The intrusive, overstimulating soundtrack of Shinjuku rush hour traffic fades to little more than background noise as your senses are held hostage by the void of quiet, negative space in the shape of a young man that stands in front of you.

His bow is deep and overly formal. He’s technically your superior… and definitely a senior-ranking officer. “A pleasure to meet you,” he announces to the concrete ground “I’m Okkotsu Yuuta, Investigations Section 1.”

“N-nice to meet you, Okkotsu-senpai. My name is—”

The cringe marring his otherwise untroubled face stops your words before his interjection is even voiced. “Ah, um. Just ‘Okkotsu’ is fine. We look to be around the same age, too, so I don’t mind. May I address you casually as well?”

Face burning, brain scrambled, you somehow remember how to speak. You give him an affirmative before pausing, perplexed. How did he know your name already?

Okkotsu specifically requested to be paired with a rookie…

Geto’s words float to the forefront of your mind, soothing your hummingbird heart. Surely, the director and chief of Investigations must have briefed Okkotsu on your file before you were cleared to accompany him on this special taskforce.

Normally, you are woefully naïve, a bumbling but well-intentioned junior officer. The unsettling nature of the Serial Bereavements have pushed you towards an edge you didn’t even know you could reach.

The thought of the assignment weighs down your fresh-faced bashfulness. Suddenly, the afternoon sun is less bright, the heat on your face concentrating into the precursor to a migraine just behind your eyes.

Okkotsu blinks once, twice. “Thank you for working with me on this case. Would you believe me if I told you that I’m a bit of a scaredy cat?”

Your eyes bug out of your head in disbelief. “Um? But you…” His reputation specifically includes the highest number of skillful takedowns, arrest totals, and successful confessions across the entire prefecture. A scaredy cat?

“I know how it looks. It would be quite embarrassing if anyone else knew… but I’m a pretty anxious person.”

With a refocused perspective, your gaze hones in on the smattering of purple bruises underneath his tired eyes which birth a cool webbing of veins sprawling down and out across his pale, gaunt face. You realize that his uniform isn’t actually wrinkled – it just hangs off of his thin frame, tucked intentionally to give off the illusion of a much bigger silhouette.

In him, you see a reflection all too similar: young, ragged, hungry, scared.

It’s not enough to set you completely at ease, but your lungs relax their hold on your bated breath, letting it go as slowly and reluctantly as a child forced to part with their favorite plush toy. “Me too,” you hum. “Um, nonetheless, I will definitely try my best to be helpful. I hope I will not slow you down Okkotsu-se—er, Okkotsu.”

“It’s not about fast or slow.” The service car pulls up and loiters at the curb where the two of you are still lingering. He opens the back door for you. This is the first time a polite young man your age has done that. You try your best to remember that you are literally at work, on the clock, about to investigate an especially morbid case.

Once ensuring you’re comfortably inside, he shuts the door and rounds the rear of the vehicle to slide into the leather seat next to you.

“What matters is that we can rely on each other. Fast or slow, we’re partners now… as long as we finish together, it doesn’t matter the pace.”

He rattles off the address to the department driver after dropping what is possibly the most insightful reassurance you have ever received in your life.

Okay. You can kind of understand why the entire department is obsessed with him.

“R-right. Thank you.”

The rest of the ride is spent in a silence two shades off from comfortable. Nothing is wrong, per se – but the both of your negative energies linger and interact with each other like animals of the same species encountering for the first time.

How odd, you think, to find someone like you, and who is unashamed – eager, even – to admit it. To embrace it.

;

The cemetery is small and would otherwise go unnoticed if not for the dramatic influx in attention following the past few months. Plain and unadorned, neatly kept, with no ostentatious monuments or memorials, as is befitting for the burial grounds behind a Buddhist temple. All in all, the scenery would be somewhat peaceful if not for the six disturbed plots of land where remains were once laid to rest.

This is your first time at the scene of the crime. Your rank is too low to justify visiting this high-profile area without clearance from a supervisor. Now that you’ve been assigned to a taskforce specifically investigating this case, it was necessary that Yuuta took you to observe the scene yourself.

Although there is a total lack of gore or rot, still does the sight of six empty graves provoke within you an acute revulsion. Perhaps it is the absence of any overt suffering, and the oppressing knowledge of the extended waves of unearthed grief spanning across multiple kin networks who must now lose their loved one a second time – this is what inspires the damp, fragile sheen pooling at your waterline.

“Hey,” calls a soft, gentle voice. Yuuta’s timid wave brings you back from your wallowing. “Before we left, I grabbed the letters from forensics. Thought it might be helpful to have while we re-assess the scene.”

Something he’d done entirely for your benefit. Conscious of your lack of experience with the case, you incline your head, grateful. It’s almost as though your gratitude makes him uncomfortable. He averts his gaze and hands over a collection of six plastic-encased papers. Despite their origins within deep, aged earth, each one is pristine.

Steeling yourself, you read February’s letter, the origin of chaos:

My Dearly Beloved,

Did you know that not even the moon and all her stars, nor the sun and all his days, burn as brightly as my heart does for you? There is a certain privilege that I have been blessed with in this lifetime: the privilege to admire you from afar while passing through your stratosphere when it is convenient.

But, unlike you, I am a flawed and impure creature. I am greedy. Each morning, I wake up with a hunger to do more than watch. I want to draw you near to my side. I want to feel your flesh. I want to know what your innards taste like. I want to bathe in your desire. I want to carve myself into your being, forever and ever and ever, so that in the next life, you will be born missing me.

Please look at me. I love you so terribly it defies the laws of life and death. You’ve awoken something within me. I hope you’ll take responsibility.

Nauseous, you shift the letter to the bottom of the pile, hands shaking, head spinning.

“How disturbing…” you can’t stop the words from leaving you, unbidden. “How can someone desire another person in such a way that it permits violence?”

Okkotsu studies you closely. “Do you really feel that way?”

Alarm coils like a snake cornered in the pit of your gut. Sharply, you snap your gaze to his still, calm face. As pallid and pockmarked with depression as the moon herself. “Excuse me?”

“Are you truly disgusted by this kind of love?”

Fighting to ignore your fight-or-flight response, you answer: “I don’t consider this to be love.”

Peculiarly, his face breaks out into a smile, clearing away the lingering cloudy expression. “And that’s why I’m glad we’re partners. I knew you’d have the right idea about this.”

“Most people condemn this crime…”

“But too many sympathize with a false motive,” he volleys back, dark eyes glinting with a strange intensity. “This isn’t a crime of ‘love.’ The perp doesn’t act out of affection. They want to own, subdue, and take what is not theirs. How is that love?”

“Exactly,” you affirm. “To be honest, those connections have always kind of unsettled me…even in shows, or books, or games, I could never look at the obsessive type.”

“Scary, aren’t they?”

This isn’t just a work case for him, you belatedly realize. His tense posture, his imploring eyes, his specification of partner – this is personal. Something about these occurrences strikes a chord deep inside of him, resonating so profoundly that it would not be enough to watch another resolve these crimes; no, Okkotsu is compelled to eradicate the danger completely, uprooting it from the source, destroying the danger with his bare hands, watching it dissipate with his own eyes.

“Mm. I’m glad we’re working on this case together, Okkotsu.”

He offers a small, benign quirk of the lips. “Me too.”

Your partnership progresses steadily from this first encounter.

Most of your daily duties are now fulfilled off-site, accompanying Okkotsu to various locations of interest, following potential leads, and occasionally conducting interviews. It’s been merely two days since the taskforce has been formed, and yet, you’ve been so preoccupied with your new assignment that it completely slips your mind to alert Shoko as to why you’ve been absent from your regular rooftop lunch dates.

You are mortified to open an aggrieved SMS from her on Wednesday morning:

Ieiri-san 08:15Oi. Are you dead

Me 08:16 Ahhhh!! I’m so sorry!!!! A new assignment is taking up a lot of my time. I apologize for not communicating. And for missing lunch. We can eat together today? I can bring you something? Whatever you like! I can make it!

Ieiri-san 08:20 Nah, none of that You’re probably overworking yourself already. No need for extra labor Just meet me on rooftop @ usual time

Me 08:21 Absolutely!!

It is surprisingly difficult to tear yourself from Yuuta’s side, as the two of you have been practically glued together from sunrise to sundown ever since embarking on the special assignment. He is reluctant to let you slip away for lunch, and as a result, you linger past a reasonable time to reassure him that you will be back on time.

When you are finally able to break away from Investigations HQ, you check the time on your phone only to realize that noon has rounded the corner with unanticipated haste. Hurriedly, you make your way to the seventh level of the police station building, embarrassingly conscious of your damp forehead and rapid breath.

“Sorry I’m late!!” Bursting through the metal door, you explode onto the rooftop, cloth-wrapped bento in one hand, and your furiously beating heart in the other.

It’s almost comical, how serene Ieiri looks, unbothered as ever as she leans against the railing with her trademark cigarette weaving in between her restless fingers. “Took you long enough. Been waiting for two days, now.”

“Ahhhh…”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You look like you’re about to piss your pants. C’mere.”

Face in flames, you stride over to pop a squat next to her. “I really do apologize, Ieiri-san. These last couple of days have been really hectic…”

“How so? You mentioned a new assignment. When did that happen?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure if I can talk about it…Investigations personally assigned me…um, not to be impolite or brag or anything! Just, I think it’s a little sensitive in nature, so—”

“Investigations?” She cuts you off, her dull timbre unusually sharp. “You mean those two idiots asked you to handle a highly classified criminal case? During your first quarter? By yourself?”

“Ah!! Geto-senpai and Gojo-senpai are quite eccentric, but they are very nice--!”

“No, they are not—”

“—and I’m not by myself! I’m partnered with Okkotsu Yuuta!”

If you weren’t such an anxious person who is well-practiced in the art of overanalyzing the countenance of others, you would surely have missed the way Ieiri’s eyes widen imperceptibly, the way her breath stutters on the next exhalation. She does not look at you for a beat. Two beats. She stares straight ahead at the exterior of the building when asks,

“You’re investigating the Serial Bereavement cases.”

“Ieiri-san…” you whine, head in your hands. “I’m, like, ninety percent sure no one else is supposed to know…”

“What, don’t trust me? Not like I have any friends around here to tell.”

“That’s, well. That’s not the point. Okkotsu mentioned that this was a sensitive matter, so…”

“Just ‘Okkotsu,’ huh?” She peers sideways at you. “No ‘senpai’? Wow, you two sure got comfortable fast.”

“No, please don’t misunderstand! Because honorifics make him uncomfortable, he asked that we speak casually!”

“I asked you the same.”

Her blunt response stuns you silent. It takes you several seconds to produce a response. “Well, yes. But that’s different…Ieiri-san is older…”

“Not by much.” Finally, she lights the cig in her hand. “Hey, let me ask you something.”

“Okay, please go ahead.”

“It was Investigations who put you on the case? Nobody else was involved?”

Hesitation halts your tongue. Mentally, you are transported back to that fateful day, just a little less than forty-eight hours ago, when your new assignment had been unloaded upon you.

“…I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to question your judgement, but why have I been chosen to pair with Okkotsu-san?”

“Oh! He specifically requested—”

Gojo was never able to finish his sentence, cut off by Geto’s strategically timed blow. Almost as though the chief was about to reveal something better left unsaid.

You may be a rookie, but you aren’t stupid. There’s a reason why you got this job, after all.

And if you can deduce this much, surely the next conclusion you land on isn’t so far-fetched:

Okkotsu must have personally requested you as a partner.

But the question is…why? You hadn’t been personally acquainted before you’d met outside of the station before heading to your first investigation together. He’s been nothing but kind and respectful – if a little unsettlingly intense, at times, but you think that’s just kind of how he is.

There must be an element that you’re missing from the equation, a piece of the puzzle of which you are not yet aware. It is for this uncertainty that you choose to disclose the truth to Ieiri.

“Okkotsu requested me as his partner.”

Obviously, she asked you for this information because something was dependent upon how you answered. Studying Ieiri’s reaction might be the first step towards unraveling this strange situation.

And react, indeed she does; again, it is quite muted, eroded by years of police work and other unspoken traumas you’re sure lie dormant inside of her mysterious, impenetrable depths. But perhaps it is because of your friendship that Ieiri’s micro-expressions appear to you more as the dramatic admission of feeling that they truly are.

A twitch of the brow, a purse of the lips. Her next exhalation of smoke comes fast and hard, expelled from her mouth in one decisive whoosh of toxic air. Usually, she pays special attention to the wind pattern so that she does not blow smoke in your face. It seems she’s thoroughly perturbed today; the fumes whip you across the cheek and you hack violently in surprise.

Your adverse response snaps her out of the momentary brooding. “Shit, sorry,” she mumbles, quickly removing the cig from her lips and smothering it on the ground. “You alright?”

“J-just fine,” you murmur after one final bout of ear-splitting dry heaves. “Can I ask you a question, now?”

“Shoot.”

“Is it a bad thing that Okkotsu and I are partners?”

Visibly, Ieiri must chew and swallow her initial retort. This is quite unprecedented behavior from the woman with little to no filter on any given occasion. “How are you finding it so far?”

“Well…he’s really considerate. And accommodating. Um, he even revisited the crime scene with me since I’d never been, and he let me read all the letters, too.”

“That’s funny,” says Ieiri, stone-faced. “How did he show you the letters?”

“He said he picked them up from the station before we left. I was quite surprised that he went through all the trouble of doing that, since those kinds of sensitive evidence usually aren’t allowed to leave Forensics…”

“You’re absolutely right. They aren’t.”

“Ah…Okkotsu must have special clearance…?”

“He doesn’t,” Ieiri deadpans.

“…I see…”

Her hands twitch at her sides like she’s itching for another smoke, even though the carcass of her most recent stick still smolders underneath the dagger of her high heel. “Well. You can do whatever you want with Okkotsu. Sounds like you’re in capable, dedicated hands.”

“Huh? Ieiri-san, wh—wait, where are you going--?!”

But before you can finish your panicked inquiry, Ieiri has already blown through the metal door, stomping her way back downstairs to the sixth floor where the Forensics Department awaits her gloomy presence. It’s unlike her to storm off mid-conversation. You’ve never seen her emotions rise above slight annoyance – and that level of frustration is reserved exclusively for the Investigations chief and director. What had you done to provoke even worse of an ire?

Riddled with guilt and anxiety, you wade through the rest of the workday in a foggy, unfocused haze. Okkotsu gives up trying to ask you what is wrong after his third attempt. When you eventually, mercifully fall into bed that night, unshed tears overflow past your clenched, trembling lashes, staining your pillow with sorrows you cannot speak aloud.

Upon waking up, you are granted no reprieve. It is Thursday, the sixth of September. The first Thursday of the month.

You don’t bother with something as trivial as breakfast this morning – not when the thought of what awaits you in the day ahead fills you to the brim with unbearable dread.

Arriving at the police station and getting briefed on the day’s events only confirms your worst fears: there has been another Bereavement at the Joenji graveyard.

This month’s occurrence is twistedly unique.

Accompanying the usual handwritten letter is a fresh, human heart, so red and wet, glistening with fresh gore, that it almost appears to be beating through the still stock photos taken by Field Operations upon first discovery.

Due to your increased status, you are granted clearance to read this month’s note before any other department can get to it. Ieiri is absent from the Forensics office when you rush off the elevator to the sixth floor. One of the interns retrieves the file for you, and you are equal parts eager and terrified to scan its plastic-encased contents.

My Dearly Beloved,

Aimless admiration has thus far sated my yearning soul. Seeing you eat well every day fills my spirit with a sense of completion. I am at ease to watch over you and ensure your wellbeing. But there has been a disturbance. I can feel your increased awareness, like a child opening its eyes to the world for the first time. Coupled with this awareness is a newfound distance between us. Things were going so well. Why now? Why pull away? This can’t be because of me. It must be someone else.

I think I know who.

What must I do to regain your undivided attention? How can I reclaim your primary affections? To experience even an inch of separation, a millimeter of remove, is for my body to undergo countless agonizing deaths.

Will you pay attention to me?

Will you notice me?

Will you choose me?

Look at me.

Look at me.

Look at me.

I serve my beating heart up on a platter just so that your gaze might befall it for the barest of breaths.

Recent events have shown me that I cannot stand idly by any longer while others sneakily and deliberately encroach on our relationship. I’m getting restless. I’ve been waiting quite patiently. Are you as antsy as I am? Soon, you’ll know me as all that I am.

I miss you. I see you every day and I miss you. Come back to me.

Before it’s too late.

[yanderes-galore]

@montygatorshusband said: "My idea was Yandere Glamrock Freddy who gets really attached to a mechanic (reader). Since Freddy had his whole thing with Bonnie, and Bonnie got destroyed, he becomes obsessed with keeping the reader safe. So, Freddy stalks them through their Fazwatch (Which he disguised as an innocent gift). He gets really anxious whenever the reader takes off the watch or even the reader getting a small paper cut. So, Freddy decides to kidnap the reader so they can always be right next to him. In fact, whenever he has to leave, he puts the reader in his chest cavity so they can be *really*be together forever and ever."

A/N: Sure! I love writing Mechanic darlings when it comes to FNAF stories :)

Yandere! Glamrock Freddy with Mechanic! Darling

Pairing: Platonic/Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Grief/Trauma, Fear of loss, Stalking, Paranoia, Overprotective, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Delusional behavior, Major character death, Forced companionship.

Honestly I've always thought Glamrock Freddy is naturally overprotective of you as a yandere.

However I've never considered the loss of Glamrock Bonnie being the reason behind it.

I really like the idea, actually.

After all, Freddy was very close with Bonnie based on his voicelines.

I personally see them as close friends but either way you can tell they were close.

The fact Freddy lost him would have definitely affected him to the point he's scared to share that same connection with anyone else.

It's unknown what truly happened to Bonnie and Freddy would be scared you'd get hurt.

The Pizzaplex has its own dangers and anything can happen.

Bonnie was an animatronic, you're a human mechanic.

You are even more in danger in Freddy's eyes.

Freddy is the naturally friendly type.

Every human, STAFF or child, is usually met with a friendly greeting.

Freddy would get attached to you rather fast, especially as a mechanic.

You help him get ready for shows and often check him over for damage or corrupted upgrades.

He feels you care for him... so he cares for you too.

Which brings up previous feelings about Bonnie.

Along with an overwhelming fear of losing you like the rabbit.

Freddy would definitely slip you a Fazwatch as a gift.

He's so kind to you and plays it off like a small gift for your bond.

Why are you refusing? This is on him!

Even if you say no he'll clip it to your wrist with a smile.

The Fazwatch allows him to communicate with you and allows him to find your position.

It's a gift, yes, but it also doubles as a way to calm his own worries.

For the most part you tolerate his little gift and keep it on during work hours.

Freddy would definitely panic a bit when you take off the watch.

Even when you work on other animatronics you can feel the watch vibrate as Freddy tries to contact you.

He watches your location like a hawk and is never too far from you.

Even if you take it off before you leave or to not get it messy, Freddy frantically rants about it to you.

You have no idea why he's so worried?

Freddy has shown he's capable to determine when a human isn't feeling well.

He would also be very attentive to when you were hurt.

Even if it's as small as a paper cut he asks what happened.

After that he's dragging you to a first-aid station to have you patched up.

The potential dangers of the Pizzaplex are something he thinks of a lot.

With mechanic work you could get shocked, lose a limb, be gutted...

Oh he hates thinking of that.

Reminds him too much of Bonnie.

His worry may indeed take over to the point he feels you shouldn't go home anymore.

It would take a long while but maybe Freddy feels he can keep you safe here.

He's delusional enough to think you'd be happy in his room, all safe and looked after by him.

In terms of the chest cavity thing I feel it would be a hard fit for an adult.

However, if he can manage it, he'd definitely use his chest cavity to carry you around with him at all times.

For the most part he keeps you in his room and out of sight.

Maybe even gags you to prevent you from screaming....

He hates the idea of restraints or gags but... anything to keep you safe.

Then when there's a performance needing to be done, you'll come along!

If he can fit you, that is.

Maybe he'll even find a way to make it soundproof!

He thinks he's making you happy and doesn't see how wrong his actions are.

Freddy just doesn't want to lose you like a certain bunny...

Could you really blame him for being so afraid?

"I'm keeping you safe, aren't I?"

[canonkiller]

The Eberron maincamp has unfortunately prematurely ended, so (with DM clearance) I'm going to share the stuff I'd had as spoilers so it can be known, for funsies.

Here's some bonus links -

Delta, Bravo, Lima (character playlist)

Renegade (bgm playlist)

writing treat 1

writing treat 2

writing treat 3

early test for characterization

crew assessments + reasonings

house lyrandar medical record, classified

- and here's some of the information about Valka Rotaeir, captain and pilot of the airship Revelation, and two more images because the read more breaks if I try to move them.

Dossier of House Lyrandar:

NAME: Valka Rotaeir AGE: 71 yrs. (b. 927yk) HEIGHT: 7 ft. 3 in. WEIGHT: 244 lbs. SPECIES: Dragonborn (Green) TITLE(S): Cpt., Ms.

EMPLOYMENT RECORD: Civilian recruited by Cpt. Adelaide Mallory in 948yk. Served well as navigator and representative until the Treaty of Thronehold ended the war in 996yk. Returned to service in 997yk as navigator aboard the Revelation after its post-war refitting. Survived the unforeseen accident that occured during the Revelation's test flights over the Endworld Mountains along with four others who retired from active duty after the incident. Following a recovery period, she was promoted to Cpt. of the Revelation as Cpt. Mallory was rendered incapable of command during the incident, for exemplary action and demonstration of skill beyond her station and duty.

Rotaeir has shown distaste for the House and the war throughout her employment, but has not publicly denounced either and remains dedicated and hardworking. Her experience is vital to the House; losing her is not an option. Cede whatever is needed to maintain her connection to the House. If this fails, take necessary measures.

Valka was formerly the ship's navigator and diplomatic representative as a knowledge domain cleric. The Revelation was in active duty during the war, and Valka was a late addition to the crew, recruited by her then-future husband, Roshan. The two of them had a strong relationship despite the war, and while both wanted to retire, Roshan's dragonmark bound him to piloting duty and Valka refused to leave him.

During the late years of the war, they had a child together. Valka entrusted her egg to a caretaker in secret, fearing it would be damaged or killed if she kept it with her on the ship. The settlement it was in was later targeted; though the two of them searched for years (and Valka never truly stopped) they were never able to find the egg or its remains in the ruins.

After the war, with Roshan kept in duty by the House, a mechanical failure in the experimental drive of the Revelation led to a catastrophic crash that killed most of her crew. Valka survived at the cost of her husband's life; Roshan, her Rose, made the choice to sacrifice himself to save her, grafting his arm and eye - and his dragonmark - to save her life in the hopes that she would be able to help whoever was left until they were rescued.

Awarded prestige and merits for her survival, and resenting all of them for praising that she had survived what her family had not, Valka suffered - and continues to suffer - lingering pain and migraines from the crash. Her grafted arm is unresponsive and is kept immobile, and her grafted eye has light sensitivities that dragonborn nervous systems are not equipped to handle, granting her night vision but requiring a cover in ordinary light. The dragonmark haunts her more than anything else; as something meant to die with its bearer, what does it mean that it transferred to her? Was Roshan able to rest in peace, or does she drag his spirit with her?

The house took advantage of her fragile state after the crash and convinced her of Roshan's continued presence as being bound to the airship, a belief that she still holds, while publicly covering up the truth of the crash and Valka's inherited dragonmark. She was bound back into service by the mark, as it allows her to pilot the ship and its experimental, secretive systems. The Revelation is her family, her love, and her airship, and she will defend it with her life - to do anything else would be to abandon Roshan.

And, in Sharn, a now-grown dragonborn named Zykr looks strangely familiar... (Hi, Andy!)

With the House bearing down on her lack of respect for their authority, she has gone rogue; drawn under the influence of the Lord of Blades and allied with warforged forces, she only seeks a way out - to take the Revelation and leave this stupid, angry war behind, at any cost.

Depending on how things went, there was a chance she would end up at Wanderstrand - that's for a post later today, because I had to keep that one REALLY secret, but it's half of the 3rd writing treat link.

Trivia:

Valka's tarot card is the three of swords.

Her character playlist title is in international maritime signal flags: Keep clear of me; I am maneuvering with difficulty / I am taking in or discharging or carrying dangerous goods. / Stop immediately.

Rotaeir is a simple combination of the valkyrie names Róta (sleet and storm) and Eir (peace, clemency, help, mercy). Valka just sounded right.

Though not on her paperwork, she took a translated version of the Revelation's name (Saksatkara) as her own surname after the crash

Receiving the dragonmark replaced her existing clerical abilities; narratively, she lost faith in the gods and her own experience that granted her a knowledge domain, and instead only had faith in the destruction and grief that the storm domain had brought her.

Roshan's dragonmark spans her whole grafted arm; it glows faintly when oh board the ship, and brightness increases with how much energy she has focused into using it. At full effort, it is bright enough to glow through the brace / sling.

Mechanically, she can strike anyone who damages her with an immediate lightning strike.

While neither of her eyes retain their original color, she had golden eyes like Zykr. They also share a heart-shaped chest marking.

Valka's physical difference from Zykr was a worldbuilding adjustment; half dragonborn would have had more humanoid body shapes, while full dragonborn more closely resembled dragons. It never came up.

After being briefly dead, Zykr began having visions of being on a boat with a person he didn't recognize; he was seeing though Valka's eyes, unknowingly looking at his own father, Roshan. Surprise, Andy! There would have been more hints about it in Sharn if we'd gotten to explore some more.

Original reference document text:

Valka is an elderly dragonborn woman, weathered by the past years of war. She is snakelike in appearance, wiry and lithe at 7'3", with a longer neck, body, and limbs. She stands slouched, leaning heavily on a polearm that doubles as a makeshift cane; often heavily bundled against the cold, her right leg is braced under her clothes and her right arm and hand are entirely covered by a black brace buckled in faded brass, kept immobile against her chest by a sling. Her scales are mottled dark greens and yellows, graying around her eyes, muzzle, and knuckles, and she has many visible scars from old battles on all visible skin. The right side of her face is badly burned, and her eye on that side is entirely covered by a large patch. Her other eye is milky white; it's uncertain whether she can see our of her visible eye or if the patch isn't opaque.

Boot on braced leg has a special hook on the heel that she can clip to the harness strap on her thigh to keep is raised / out of the way if mobility is more important than stability. Safety harness extends down the upper part of her tail; anchors to this instead of her braced leg when necessary.

Though not visible, the eye under the patch is unnervingly human-like (as it originally belonged to Roshan), and if her arm brace were removed, the arm underneath is also distinctly not her own; she is unable to move the replacement limb at all, and the dragonmark on it does not move to anywhere else on her body though she can utilize its power.

As a child, Valka was often drawn to the idea of traveling. She restrained her desire to leave for many years, bound by ties to her family and home, until a chance meeting with Roshan, an airship pilot, during the war. In an impulse, whirlwind romance, she joined him in his travels and quickly became an indespensible member of the crew and Roshan's partner. They were married during the war, but hesitated to start a family, fearing the kind of world they would be raising a child in while Roshan's mark kept him in duty. Over time, they found comfort in a future seemingly without children, though they pledged to do what they could to adopt or foster if the war ended with enough time for them to do so.

Valka was one of many overjoyed to see a time of peace, and hoped to start a proper life with her husband even with their age. Unfortunately, a series of malfunctions in their shared airship led to a crash that left both them and their crew grievously injured in a remote mountain range. Valka, having lost her right arm and with severe trauma to her entire right side, was barely conscious; she awoke hours later to her arm replaced and her injuries magically repaired, and to Roshan dead, having chosen to sacrifice himself to keep her alive. Most importantly to the House, his dragonmark was still present - a glowing brand on the arm grafted improperly to replace Valka's own.

Abruptly alone, dealing with the trauma of the crash and her own guilt in her survival being at Roshan's expense, she was taken to trial and found not guilty. Feeling cheated by this verdict and losing faith in both justice and the afterlife (after all, if a dragonmark was bound to a person's soul, what did it mean that she could now take power from it? Had she damned her lover to a kind of half-life, or worse, an eternal purgatory?) she threw herself into religion with a self-destructive determination, secretly hoping the gods would recognize her believed wrongdoing and judge her properly where mortal courts had failed.

When presented with an opportunity to sabotage the project that led to Roshan's death, she took it, taking control of the airship and going rogue with the intent to destroy it either by her own hand or by forcing any pursuers to take it down with her. At present, she is driving it as far from settlements as possible to achieve this goal with as little loss of life as possible, and does not know what she will do with herself when this act is complete.

For characterization purposes, her actions will be influenced by:

- Like The Back of Her Hand: even when the Revelation is being piloted by someone else, her long familiarity with it means she is incredibly difficult to catch off guard. In its current state, she would notice anything out of place on board; this will decrease as the ship is modified.

- Blindsided: her left eye, uncovered, is blind, while her right eye, covered by a patch, still functions. The patch dims light, but still allows her to see.

- Local Doctors Hate Her!: her right arm is entirely immobile on its own, but the brace can be locked into different positions (ex, she can lean on her elbow, but wouldn't be able to pick something up.). Her right leg is stiff, and she is able to strap it up so she's less likely to trip. She is used to moving around the Revelation on one or both legs, but prefers both on unfamiliar terrain.

- House, Not Home: Valka has little care for the interests of the dragonmarked Houses, and may be more likely to take actions that damage the resources or reputation of a House.

- A Ship That Loves You: Valka believes her husband's spirit is entwined with the ship's elemental, a belief that the House has intentionally used as leverage against her. If she cannot have the ship on her own terms, her alternative goal will be to destroy it and herself - but will put her life on the line to prevent others from damaging it.

- An Empty Nest: Valka has no contact with her extended family and has no reason to believe she has any living immediate relatives. She has formed few relationships since the Revelation's crash.

- The Soils of War: Valka does not want to fight, though she will if she must. Her anger is directed at herself, at the gods that failed her, and the Houses that force her into their service. She wants to escape it, to lick her wounds, and to rest; to discover what the world is becoming in a time of peace that she has not had the chance to know.

[famouscyclenerd]

"Stay out of it. She's not ready, and neither is he, no matter how many presents he brings." - ACOFAS

(Their book was not next)

"Let's focus on helping one sister before we start on the other."

"Shall I tend to my little garden forever?"

"He'd never once in the two years he'd known her found Elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court (the Night Court) ... it sucked the life from her."

"But Elain ... The Spring Court had been made for someone like her."

"With a new war possible and Briallyn up to her bullshit with Koschei, we need a strong ally. We need the Spring Court's forces."

"We need to tell him the news, and permanently station him (Lucien) at the Spring Court to contain any damage and to be our eyes and ears."

"Lucien can't be entirely trusted anymore."

"He should have asked someone before coming here how much time remained before Vassa would be forced to return to the continent - to the sorcerer-lord at a remote lake who held her leash, and had allowed her to leave only temporarily, as part of a bargain Feyre's father had struck."

"Lucien stared out the window - as if he could see the lake across a sea and a continent. As if he were setting his target."

"Find me when you wish to begin."

-- *contains minor HOFAS spoilers*--

There are so many more quotes I could include, but yeah. I just feel like elucien's book has been set up so perfectly in SF. And from what I've read, I just cannot comprehend how their book won't be next.

Vassa's time is extremely limited and the matters with Koschei seems rather urgent. Especially Tamlin and the Spring Court! We have Lucien back in Spring, who we appearently cannot entirely trust, and then we have Elain and how the Spring Court was made for someone like her. Who doesn't fit in the Night Court. Who finally wishes to spring into action.

Yes, Azriel had his own bc. But Elain was in that very bc as well as being mentioned in feysand's bc. She and Lucien were mentioned actually. Azriel was not.

Elain was also absent in HOFAS even though (as of SF) she no longer wishes to remain a passive character. It takes place months after the events of SF and (from what we've gathered) it doesn't seem like Azriel has it all figured out yet. Gwyn also returned to to library which, to me, seems like their story is put on hold... for now. Especially with Elain (finally) wanting to take action.

So my guess is that elucien's book is next and takes place before/during HOFAS, which would explain Elain's absence due to her not residing in the Night Court while Bryce was there.

While gwynriel's book happens during/after the events of HOFAS.

Having Azriel's book last is also a smart move from a marketing perspective since he is by far the most popular character. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[satoruxx]

NORTHERN LIGHTS.

✧ PAIRING: kaeya alberich x fem!reader | 4.5k words

✧ SUMMARY: smut, p -> v, praise, fingering, lots of pining, angst, angsty bc it’s kaeya tbh lol, kaeya lore but it’s vague, also military themes bc sometimes we forget kaeya is a captain and i love the knights of favonius, he’s highkey got commitment issues but i think he’s valid, man is whipped tho, he's just an overthinker and traumatized, also can you tell i’m a med student?

✧ RHEYA'S NOTE: first i have to apologize bc this is SO late??? i got this request back for my 200 event, asking for kaeya with the song northern lights by kennie (which is such a good song). at first i was gonna make it a short little drabble, but the more i wrote, the more i wanted to make it a full fic, which is what ended up happening. kaeya's character has so much depth and i wanted to explore it hehe. northern lights is such a fitting song for him so i just had to go all in. but i'm so sorry that i got to your request so late, hopefully you still enjoy it lovely! (even tho it’s not the main focus in this fic, this is technically my first real smut fic so take it with a grain of salt; i don't think i write it that well LMAO)

it was rare to truly know your own weaknesses, but kaeya knew his a little too well. behind his carefree, unbothered exterior he cared a little too much. he cares a little too much when klee tugs on his fur cape and whines about a scolding she’s gotten from jean, and he ends up indulging her with whatever she’d like. he cares a little too much when rosaria spills just a tad more than usual during her drunken ramblings. he cares a little too much when he sees the discomfort in the face of certain fiery bartender as they speak, and he consistently lies awake and remembers days when that discomfort between them didn’t exist.

it’s a curse, he thinks, because he always ends up feeling too attached to people he knows he shouldn’t be attached to.

even now, his weakness is acting up as he barks orders to his soldiers. they scramble around him as they enter the city, carrying their wounded brethren to safety up at the cathedral. kaeya knows he shouldn’t blame himself but as their captain he feels like he should’ve seen this coming. new recruits wouldn’t be able to handle the hordes of monsters at daduapa gorge—he miscalculated.

“take them to the sisters at the cathedral. sister barbara and the others should be able to heal them,” kaeya commands, clasping one of the men’s shoulders and helping him up to the church. he’s ignoring the now dull throbbing in his side as blood stains his clothes—his soldiers were most important right now. like he said, he cared a little too much.

the nurses had set up a medical station at the cathedral, and in between all the commotion, kaeya’s finally able to hand over the groaning soldier to a nurse, who immediately gets to work.

he then takes a few steps back to assess the damage, grateful that all of his soldiers are getting the attention they needed. he’d hate himself if there were any losses today.

he doesn’t even realize that he’s now leaning against the wall, panting shallowly as blood continues to pour from his abdomen. oh well, he’d wait his turn—only after his soldiers were taken care of.

kaeya shuts his eyes, letting his body rest for a minute.

“you’re wounded.”

his eyes shoot open to see you standing in front of him. he assumes you’re not one of the nuns because your clothes are entirely different. you’re young, appearing to be around his age as you eye his torso critically.

“it appears so,” he answers.

“did someone take a look at you yet?”

“i’d prefer all my soldiers be taken care of first.”

your eyes flash with recognition. “so you’re captain kaeya?”

“indeed i am.” he lets his eyes roam over your concerned features.

you give him a small smile before continuing with a sigh. “i can safely tell you that all the wounded are being treated. i’m still an apprentice so i’m only here to deal with the non fatal injuries. like yours, captain.” you crouch down in front of him, fingers reaching towards his clothing with a silent question of permission. he lets his hand slacken as he gives you a nod and you attempt to peel back as many layers as you can to asses the damage before you’re motioning him towards a tent.

a few minutes later and kaeya is letting you strip his torso bare until you have a full view of his injury. your fingers brush over the wounded skin gently, and he wonders if you even touched him at all. “it’s long, but not too deep. a few stitches and you should be alright. if you’re okay with it, i’ll get started,” you tell him.

kaeya wants to tell you that he’s no stranger to the pain of injuries, but he finds something oddly refreshing about your comforting attitude, so he just says yes and lets you begin to work.

you thread through the skin with a delicate hand and despite the sting he honestly can’t even focus on it, choosing instead to analyze your features.

he realizes that you’re awfully pretty.

kaeya makes small talk with you as you work, partly to stay awake through the pain and mostly because he can’t stop his curiosity. he finds out your name, your hobbies, your goals. you may not have the most exciting life but kaeya thinks there’s something so alluring about you it makes him a little dizzy. he's not sure what it is, but he thinks about it the whole time you tend to his wound. realization hits when you finally finish, looking up at him with a smile, and kaeya realizes that your eyes hold the stars in them.

it’s hard to explain but when kaeya watches you work, nose scrunching in the dim lighting of the tent, he thinks you remind him of home.

(kaeya has chased the stars for as long as he can remember. he remembers shouting with diluc in the grass behind the winery, the two of them reaching for celestia because the stars up there were so undeniably pretty.

"we're never gonna get them!" diluc would laugh, trying hard to balance kaeya on his little shoulders. "they're too far…"

and kaeya only grins down at him toothily, raising his fists to the sky. "no way! i'll catch them one day!"

and yet his whole childhood went by without being able to capture the stars. as he grew older he started to learn that it was impossible to steal what the sky so selfishly held on to.

but even as an adult, kaeya knows to appreciate the stars when he gets the privilege to see them in the sky.

especially after he finally seems to find them in the dim glow of a medical tent.)

he hates to admit how often his eyes seek you out after that one encounter. sometimes he’ll see you at the cat's tail, giggling with your friends as you slam tcg cards down on the table triumphantly. other times he’ll catch a glimpse of you at good hunter, chewing on a quick meal as you browse through a book. almost every time he gets caught staring you only smile and offer him a little wave that sends his brain into a frenzy.

(maybe in another life kaeya would allow himself the luxury. he’d let himself go through the motions for you. let himself stress every time you threw a glance his way. work up the courage to ask you out on saturday afternoon. finally get the chance to press his lips to yours. trace your skin with nimble fingers and have the privilege to call you his.

in another life maybe.

but for now he’ll just keep you his own little secret—a guilty pleasure he’ll indulge in because it’s hard to rid an addiction, especially if you don’t have the will to rid it in the first place.)

kaeya’s messed up this summer. he knows it in his soul that he’s made the wrong decision as he watches you babble about something as you lean against his bare chest, still basking in your own afterglow.

he knows that he should have resisted the temptation. as soon as he and the troops got back and he saw you sitting in a secluded corner at angel’s share he knew that his feelings for you hadn’t dissolved.

they say absence makes the heart grow fonder and kaeya only now knows this to be true because just the sight of you sends his mind into a frenzy. you could probably feel his gaze on you because you look up from the book you’re reading and make straight eye contact with him. for a second, he wants to turn away but then you smile at kaeya like you’ve never once forgotten him, and he’s putty. before he knows it, he’s buying you a drink and walking over to your little corner to make himself comfortable.

it’s a slow descent for him because in his head he knows he shouldn’t get too attached. he’ll leave again soon with the troops, and who knows maybe he’ll leave them behind one day too. his future has always looked so clouded to him, and he knows you belong in the sun. he’d like to leave you there in the light—avoid dragging you into his darkness.

so he tries to keep it simple, occasionally meeting you for a drink or catching up around the city. but then you’re showing him your favorite place to study near starfell lake and he’s showing you his favorite stars while laying on his back on starsnatch cliff. and he knows he can’t avoid it.

soon enough he’s giving into everything he said he wouldn’t, finally finding out what you taste like. finally knowing how his name sounds when it falls from your lips.

it's more addicting than he could've predicted, the feeling of your breath against his skin as you pant out his name. kaeya can't even bring himself to pull away from you to stop and think for a second. if he did then maybe he could slap some sense into himself and draw some distance because archons above he was digging himself deeper into this hole. but he can't, not when you're gripping his shoulders as he presses you against the wall of his bedroom, whining into his lips for all that he can give you.

and kaeya is nothing if not generous.

so he indulges both you and himself—the perfect mix of selfless and selfish as he guides you to his bed, nimble fingers loosening the ties of your clothing until you're bare in front of him. he can see the bashfulness settling into your cheeks and he almost feels like goading for just a minute, but he decides he'll be nice.

you've always deserved a nice guy anyway.

he tries to push that thought away, instead distracting himself with the heat of your body, his fingers dancing along your skin eagerly. maybe, just this one night, he can let it be about you two. he can afford to forget about all the old promises he's made—all the responsibilities and duties he devoted himself to a lifetime ago.

kaeya ignores the flush of heat crawling up his neck as he hovers over you, caging your body underneath his as you squirm in anticipation. he understands—the tightness in his pants is enough for him to feel the same. but he's not worried about that, not when his fingers part your thighs eagerly, brushing over heated skin and finding slick wetness there as he dips into your cunt. he hears the sharp intake of breath, the quiet restrained moan, and he preens. kaeya revels in the sounds he pulls from your lips as his fingers curl against your slick heat, your head lolling back against his pillows.

there's a possessive streak of something that cuts through him then—something that tells him how he aches to be the only one who gets to hear those sounds.

it makes him slightly sick.

kaeya realizes then—he's been quite stupid when it comes to you. he's kept the maelstrom of feelings brewing in his soul trapped under all his bravado, arrogant and cowardly all at once. he needs to tell you, needs to be honest because this isn't something he can trick his way out of.

but all he wants to do is run. run so far away from you because he doesn't want you to to get caught up in his own ruin. you're far too good for him, too sweet and carefree to be tainted by his sin-laden hands. he needs to run.

but he does none of that, not when he's guiding his fingers to the apex of your thighs and exploring territory he knows he shouldn't claim. because then you look at him with an expression so blissful—so thankful, relieved that he's giving you a part of himself he never wanted to—and he can't even be angry about it.

kaeya presses his lips to the swell of your chest, feeling the rapid thumping of your heart under your skin, and he shuts his eyes as he breathes out your name. you answer with a resounding mewl, catching his eyes even through the dark strands of his hair.

he then chooses to focus on pumping his fingers in and out of your cunt because archons do you look heavenly when your eyes roll back like that.

but it scares him, the way you leave him open and exposed and aching even when he doesn't want to be.

in his head you're perfect, all bright and glowing under him as you chant his name like he's some kind of savior. but kaeya isn't a savior—if anything he's destruction in human form, sent by the heavens to wreak havoc on those around him. he'd destroyed enough already—he doesn't think he can do it to you too.

but archons the way you're looking at him now, from under fluttering lashes and dewy eyes that shine even brighter when they're trained on him—begging, pleading, and oh so trusting of him and every thing he wants to give you. he can't even help himself.

"i know, sweet girl," he sighs, voice strained as you buck your hips just perfect—a temptress, sent to lead him to his doom. and yet he can't stop his fingers from pushing back your hair from your sweaty skin, knowing that he should be careful because he doesn't want to destroy something as fragile as this.

"kaeya please," your breath comes out in short desperate pants, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt and sliding it off his shoulders haphazardly.

"i know," he repeats, reaching down to heft your thigh over his waist as he slots his hips against your own, biting back a groan at the sensitive brush against his cock—throbbing, aching, needy.

"ah fuck," he's almost shy at the way his voice shakes as he lines his cock up, the heat and slickness of your cunt a teasing caress against his sensitive head. he drops his forehead against your shoulder, breathing heavily even before he's inside you because something about this makes him so incredibly nervous. a single desperate whine and the soft squeeze of your fingers into his biceps and he's stilling—breath catching, heart pounding.

for a moment, he doesn't even feel like himself. he's not anything, no one.

and then he slides in and kaeya knows that there will never be anything better—another experience that would feel this right in his life.

he pulls out a little, gaze lingering at the sweat beading at your forehead, and something in his chest stutters. "okay?" he traces your face for any hint of hesitation—of the nervousness that he feels in his gut, but all he finds is a stormy mix of desire and devotion.

"uh huh," reassurance, stability—everything he isn't. his brows pinch, eyes shutting because he doesn't want you to know.

he's pulled out of the whirlwind that is his thoughts when he feels your fingers on his cheek, brushing over his skin gently. his eyes snap open, and even through the haze he can feel himself relaxing under your touch, because the way you're looking at him is so undeniably loving and it makes his stomach flip.

"you okay?" you whisper, looking up at him carefully, and kaeya feels as though you've put him between the halves of a microscope slide to analyze him.

"i'm fine," he breathes out, not a lie but not the whole truth either. "don't worry."

his words do little to quell you, but one roll of his hips has your eyes fluttering, a choked moan escaping your throat, and the sound makes his pride sing.

there's an image then—hazy and yet so obvious as his brain registers it. the implications behind it makes his stomach churn.

quiet smiles, hazy kisses, soft goodbyes—and then the inevitable distance as he crosses over the border separating your world from his. a lone figure standing in the streets of mondstadt, always waiting for him to come back. always disappointed.

you buck your hips upward, blissfully unaware of the torrent of conflicting emotions in his head. kaeya's brain short-circuits, and then he's pushing back, a steady rhythm against your gummy walls that takes the breath out of your lungs. you savor every thrust, punctuated by the sharp grunts he lets out against your throat.

your fingers rake over his back, desperate and needy and focused on one thing only—kaeya, kaeya, kaeya.

"that's it sweetheart," he doesn't have any more control—not on his mind, his body, his mouth. they've all escaped his grasp, too spurred on by you and everything you're willing to offer him.

"'s okay…ah fuck…it's okay," kaeya groans into the column of your throat, not sure whether he's telling you or himself. the clench of your walls sends him spiraling, hips picking up the pace as he pistons his cock in and out—trying to find out just how far he can go.

then he hits one spot, and his vigilant gaze catches the way your jaw slackens, eyes glazing over even as they roll back and a shaky moan escapes your throat—surprised, unexpecting. his ego jumps.

an experimental roll of his hips against the same spot and you make a sound so unhinged that he finds himself already addicted to it. and to tease is in his nature.

"yeah? right there?" he drawls, masking his anxiousness with his bravado once again.

"right there," you whimper, nodding meekly as you grip his shoulders. he huffs out a soft laugh, pressing a gentle kiss to your eyelids like he's trying to kiss away the tears that have gathered there. you preen under his ministrations—it feels a little too domestic.

he understands. it scares him, but he understands. he wonders what the point of worrying is—wonders why he's letting his paranoid brain taint this moment that he'd been waiting for. the only solution left is to ignore it. because you're here, writhing underneath him in the throes of pleasure, vulnerable and trusting and just for him. he should give you what you deserve after all.

so kaeya pushes every other thought out of his head, only focused on you and making you feel good because that's what someone like you deserves—everything you desire laid at your feet.

he presses a chaste kiss to your mouth, paired with a languid roll of his hips as he quietly groans. "okay…." his voice comes out an octave lower, pushed down by the barely concealed need for you. "okay sweet girl. i've got you."

another searing kiss as he breathes through his nose, picking up the pace again as he slams his cock into the spot that makes you see stars. your moans get louder even as they remain muffled against his lips, and kaeya can't help but dig his fingers into the meat of your thigh, leaving behind finger shaped dents in the plushy skin.

a claim—possessive, desperate, selfish.

your kisses become sloppier as kaeya leads you closer to the edge, walls clenching around the length of him, tighter with every thrust he delivers. the chants of his name have become almost reverent, and kaeya thinks his name couldn't possibly sound more beautiful than in that moment. he wonders if he could be blessed to hear it for the remainder of his life, and the thought sends pure unadulterated need through him.

his hips stutter, red hot fire coursing through his chilled veins—building, climbing, overwhelming as every sense goes fuzzy with heat. his grunts become more irregular, in time with the reckless thrusts of his cock as your cunt tightens around him greedily.

his cock twitches as you suck him in eagerly, feeling every ridge and vein as he grunts and groans and tightens his hold on you—unyielding, unrelenting, selfish.

your eyes stay locked on his even as your orgasm rips through you, and kaeya sees celestia in them—brighter than ever before. your muscles spasm, clenching almost painfully as you tremble and writhe underneath him, and he follows you to the doorstep of nirvana with a throaty groan. his hips stutter, twitching and throbbing as he pants out a broken chorus of your name and every praise that doesn't do you justice.

then he drops his forehead against yours, watching your eyelids flutter—celestial stars dim. a soft brush of your lips against his.

your muscles go lax, every guard dropped just for him—trust he realizes, trust he doesn't deserve. he doesn't know how to tell you that.

because even after everything—when you're curled up against his chest, skin warm and dewy against his own, he does not think about how he adores the feeling of your hair brushing against his arm, nor does he focus on the soft tickle of your breathing washing over him. instead he thinks about how he's ruined it all, how he's dragged you into him, and how he needs to let you go before he destroys you completely.

at the end of the summer, kaeya tells you he can’t.

“what are you talking about?” you ask him, a light chuckle escaping your lips as you barely focus on his words. your nose is buried in some medical text, and kaeya thinks that the universe is punishing him now by making him repeat himself.

“us. we shouldn’t have…” he sighs, shoulders dropping. “i mean, we should stop…seeing each other.”

he can practically feel the way his words pull your attention and when he looks up he sees the way your grip on the book has slackened. there’s panic settling in your eyes, mixed with a bit of confusion. a conflicted emotion runs across your face and kaeya’s fingers itch to touch you. “w-why?”

it’s a simple question and he should have no problem answering it, but he struggles to get the words out, his throat constricting uncomfortably. “it was fine in the summer, when i was back here with the troops. but now i’ll have to leave and-“

“so what?” you question, turning in your seat to face him completely. his eyes drop to the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, and he feels his heart squeezing.

“so-“ he gulps, head spinning as he tries to explain himself. he doesn’t even have a proper answer—he just knows that this is his only option. because there’s no way in hell he deserves this kind of comfort, this kind of happiness. “so i cant-“

“can’t what, kaeya?” you stress, voice going slightly higher and he only then sees the real fear in your expression.

he pauses, mulling over his words and the bitter taste they’re leaving in his mouth. he can feel the sting of your pleading stare, and he swallows hard. “can’t stay,” he finally answers, and he’s shocked at how miserable he sounds.

you look at him like he’s insane, and honestly he feels like he might be. you’re confused and rightfully so, because there are so many remnants of him left in your space, so clearly evident the impact he’s left on you.

“can’t or won’t?”

kaeya’s eyes snap up to yours, because the tremor in your voice sends a jolt of fear down to his stomach, churning and roiling until it makes him sick.

he regrets looking, because he can feel himself breaking then and there.

you’re looking at him with these shining eyes and he swears that he’s glimpses them again—the brightest stars he’s ever had the privilege of seeing. for a second he thinks the light of those stars might disappear because that’s what always happens. but they remain, glowing against the backdrop of your irises and he’s captivated all over again.

his plans to leave you in tears fly out the window then and there.

he’s reaching for your cheeks in less than a second, holding them delicately as he lets his thumbs brush over your teary lashes. there’s a reasonable bit of confusion in your face at his sudden change, but when he leans down to kiss you, you don’t protest, melting into him even though he’s so undeniably cold. kaeya doesn’t even realize he’s saying he loves you, choosing to murmur it against your lips because it’s not meant for anyone else to hear—just the two of you.

he remains there, in the quiet darkness of your room for the rest of the night, because he doesn’t want to leave your side even after he told himself he would.

and yes, he dreads tomorrow. he dreads tomorrow because he knows that he will have to choose between the comfortable home he’s found in you or the dark abyss that has swallowed his past.

he’s scared that the more he allows himself to fall into you, and the more he finds that your eyes are the ones that hold the stars of celestia, then the easier his choice will become.

he’s been chasing the stars for so long after all. now that he finally has them, why in teyvat would he let them go?

[another-goblin]

I've been thinking. Are Aventurine and Dr. Ratio supposed to be fighters in-universe? I mean, most other characters (with the exception of some Harmony characters, who are not expected to deal dmg) are either professional warriors, or they have weapons, or some object they realistically use as a weapon, or there are some mystical powers they possess. I can imagine most of them fighting in a serious cutscene the same way they fight in-game.

And then there are these two, throwing casino chips and chalk. Realistically, you can't do any damage by throwing these (even the tiles Qingque throws look quite heavy, I wouldn't want to get hit by one of these). So in an actual in-game fight one of them thinks really hard about geometry and imagines dropping some ancient architecture on the enemies, and the other just daydreams about gambling so vividly that it hurts the enemies. Is it, like, the Imaginary thing? Is it what other characters see? Some formulas and graphs appear and hurt the monsters? Does a giant roulette wheel appear under a monster?

My theory is no. They are adequate fighters because they are playable characters in a gacha game, it's just a convention. Outside of fights, they are just normal people (as far as I currently understand them). Because other Imaginary characters deal dmg in ways that I can actually imagine happening in-universe, in a cutscene, for example (Welt yealding the power of a black hole with his cane, IL with his magic, Yukong with her bow and arrows, Loucha with his rapier and his freaky abundance magic). I mean, if Aventurine gets confronted by a robber in a dark alley, he isn't going to throw chips at them or turn the floor into a giant roulette wheel. He'll probably apply his street smarts.

So without his stone, Aventurine is just a guy, that's why he had to be saved by Argenti. Ratio is just a teacher, that's why he didn't help us fight the giant bug on the Herta station (I saw somebody complain about him not helping us), and that's why he needed our help dealing with that phase flame.

upd. People were very kind to remind me that Aventurine is actually a competent fighter and very proficient with a gun. It would be funny if one of his fighting animations was him going "fuck it" and pulling a gun at the enemies.  Still not beating the "normal guy" allegations, though.

[mangokabuto]

Proof of Usopp and Nami being Luffy’s vice/co captains? I would (genuinely!) love to see your thoughts and evidence, bc big agree

(Context:)

Hello anonymous tumblr-using friend!

As someone with a lot of knowledge of & a great passion for real-life historical piracy, I have VERY STRONG OPINIONS about how the Strawhat crew would fit into an actual golden age crew structure. When I said "I have proof" I was jokingly referring to my knowledge of historical piracy and how the characters slot into those trends, not any sort of "in-anime/manga proof" of Usopp and Nami being ""co-captains"" with Luffy, so if that's what you're here for then sorry lol.

BUT if you want to learn a little about golden age western-world piracy, (and my "au" of sorts for how each crewmate would be recognized in that context,) stick around! :)

(extremely long explanation under cut LMFAO)

First off, as i said in my heated/j tags, "captain" did not usually mean what Oda makes it mean in OP's world. I am ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN Oda is just as passionate about & did plenty of research about historical piracy, and is clearly pulling a little from wakō history, but mostly from golden-age western piracy (specifically mostly the post-spanish succession period, to my estimation).

That being said. Why he puts so much emphases on Captains and First Mates is BEYOND me, because irl they were not as important.

The captain WAS important, don't get me wrong, but they weren't the sole reigning commander of a ship. They were more like a figurehead, most of the time. This is a sortof flimsy metaphor, but think of Captains like the modern-day king or queen of England; They're hyped up as the #1 leader, they're an important charismatic face for the group, and they technically have last-say on important matters, but they are beholden to two other groups (like the cabinet and the prime minister).

During the golden age of piracy, most crews were commanded by a group of three people. These three people were usually the Captain, the Quartermaster, and the Bosun. Each filled a different role on the ship, and all three were democratically elected by the crew. In all important matters, the three would discuss together how to proceed/solve the current problem, and though the Captain COULD overrule the other two at any time, that typically got him handily shoved overboard via mutiny. By technicality there was a heirarchy of power between the three stations, (with Captain usually being the top dog, then the Quartermaster, then the Bosun just above the rest of the crew,) but in practice they held equal sway in decisions that would effect the entire crew.

HOWEVER, outside of "big crew-wide decision-making moments" where you needed to assemble the three leaders, they didn't always have to coordinate. Depending on what situation the crew was currently in, one of them would be de-facto in charge of the crew, and the other two would step back unless the one currently in charge did something that needed to be challenged, like they made a bad decision or (in a more extreme case) broke the articles.

The Captain was in charge during times of battle. The captain's primary role was as a fighter, performer, and military commander! If the crew was attacked or about to attack someone else, the Captain would immediately take charge. (Now, real pirates weren't actually violent in practice as frequently as pop culture would have you believe, but that's a whole other topic. The reason "performer" is listed in the Captain's "jobs" is that part of their responsibility as a captain worth their salt was to scare enemies into surrendering without a fight through theatrics and reputation.)

The Bosun was in charge when the Boat was damaged or needed upkeep. The Bosun was not always the greatest carpenter or shipwright in their own right (in fact, in larger crews, they usually weren't either of those things), but they would be the one to get together with the shipwright and worksmen and assess damage, organize repair teams, and keep the boat running as well as possible. The crew followed their lead during repairs, and they were the go-to authority on any matters concerning the physical boat.

The Quartermaster was in charge the rest of the time. The way the Bosun is in charge of the physical boat, the Quartermaster was in charge of the crew. They were responsible for enforcing the articles, dealing out discipline, and the crew's general well-being outside of battle. In that same way that a bosun didn't have to be a shipwright, a quartermaster wasn't usually a doctor or cook, but they worked closely with them. Being in charge outside times of battle meant that the Quartermaster was also in charge of headings and navigation, and more often than not they were the ship's navigator, or head navigation/deck officer if their crew was large enough to have more than one nav. They also usually handled the crew's finances/pay and cargo. Is this starting to sound familiar yet.

So. After establishing the roles. I don't think I have to persuade you that while Luffy is most definitely the Strawhat Captain, Nami is our Quartermaster and Usopp is our Bosun. At the VERY LEAST this is true on the Merry Go.

You could possibly persuade me that Franky takes Usopp's place as Bosun once they get the Thousand Sunny, but I would be hard to convince. (I could be persuaded that Usopp loses his position as bosun on the Sunny, but Franky does not behave like a bosun as much as a head carpenter, and Usopp functions like his carpenter's mate. It's almost like, post-timeskip, they don't have a bosun anymore, and Zoro fills the newly empty position on the leadership trio?)

Now, these roles are not concrete, and they didn't always make up the "management trio" on a pirate ship. Some very small crews just didn't have enough people that they needed to single out their three favorite guys; they could just all vote on important decisions together. Sometimes the management trio included the surgeon or the first mate instead of the bosun. There were many crews where the Quartermaster was considered the top-dog highest authority instead of the Captain at all times. Even during the golden age pirate crews varied greatly, but the Captain/Quartermaster/Bosun trio was most common.

As for the ship hierarchy, there was a trend you could rely on no matter who the "three leaders" were. Everyone was generally considered of equal importance on a crew, (hence the elected offices and avenue for mutiny,) but there was a chain of command of sorts? Or at least people who would be shown greater respect and responsibility based on what they provided for the crew:

Captain and/or Quartermaster

Bosun and/or Surgeon/Doctor, and sometimes the First Mate

Everybody else, including captain's other mates.

Speaking of Captain's Mates... On larger crews, every important role on the ship had a "mate," or an apprentice chosen by the person in question to replace them if they should die, or otherwise be out-of-commission. Quartermaster's Mate. Bosun's Mate. Doctor/Surgeon's Mate. Carpenter's Mate. Etc. However, the Captain had MULTIPLE MATES, because his job was front-line combat focused. Ergo, he could easily die and need a replacement. Quickly. And his replacement could need a sudden replacement! So, depending on the size of the crew, the captain could have anywhere from two to eight mates, who were ranked by number. That's why the captain's highest-ranking mate is called the First Mate. Because there was usually a Second Mate. And then some more of em.

The First Mate's job is to be a good ass fighter, and back the Captain up on whatever they're currently doing. They hype the Captain up and enforce the Captain's decisions, no matter what that decision is. This is why they were usually not put in the management trio on most crews, cause you could imagine. The conflict of interest. (There's supposed to be three of them so that no one member has too much sway. Which could be sabotaged if two of the three are captain and captain's favorite soldier LMFAO)

I have no idea why, in the world of One Piece, all of the emphasis seems to be on Captains as the end-all-be-all leaders of their ship and the First Mate as the second in command. Especially when Oda clearly KNOWS about the other roles, since he's written characters that fall into them like perfect puzzle pieces!

...Well, okay, I have some idea. This is a shonen series for teens and being the captain/king/etc is wish fulfillment, and wouldn't be as cool for the projecting readers if you were part of a leading council with two other mooks. But. I can still be salty about it LMFAO <3

[tempvstas]

Hello's I was wondering if I could request something. I was curious if you could do an overblot reader based on this song. (https://youtu.be/zEGbIpD6wNo), with the housewardens If you can I would be so grateful. If not that is okay, I understand. Just thought it would be cool. Thank you

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Content Warning(s): angst hehe, not really spoilers, but I mention every single overblot from in the game(in JP, not EN)

Character(s): GN!Reader, most of the TWST cast(too lazy to type out everyone's name)

Authors Notes: this song is so angsty i love it HAHAHHA, apologies for the long wait. Characters may be ooc because it's been a while. Also some parts may not make sense. Interactions can be seen as platonic or romantic.

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The Nowhere King

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It's dark.

You can feel a coldness against your skin, seeping into your bones.

The voices are muffled, where are you? You're sinking, deeper and deeper into a seemingly bottomless lake, the darkness surrounding you. A voice urges you to close your eyes, whispering for you to close your eyes and to give into the endless void closing in around you. And somehow you don't feel like resisting. You succumb, curling into yourself, feeling the tender embrace of your murky surroundings.

Unbeknownst to you, a battle rages outside of the safe haven of the cocoon you wrapped yourself in.

.....

"Dammit...no one told me they would be this strong," Leona grits his teeth as he stares up at your imposing form. Behind your current overblotted form looms a large imposing inky figure. An entity stitched together, its face covered with the distinct head of glass with leaking ink seen in all overblot forms, complemented with two large, round ears atop its head. Its white ink-stained gloves slam into the floor sending dust and pieces of the ground flying into the air. Everyone stands before you, worn out from how long the fight has dragged out.

Azul staggers to his feet, wincing slightly as he pushes up his glasses, his eyes narrowing as he stares at your form. "They've lost all sense of rationality. It appears as though our words at this point will be futile." Kalim's eyes go wide at Azul's words, panic settling into his gaze. "What do we do? We're never going to get them back." He whimpered.

From where he's stationed, Riddle peeks out from behind the fallen rubble he used as a shelter, he quickly shoots off a blast of fire in your direction. The blast does little to damage you but merely aggravates you more as the entity behind you swings its hands with reckless abandon scattering more debris everywhere. "Then we just need to blast some sense into them! Just like they did for us..." he stares around at his fellow housewardens. Behind the 7 housewardens, it's chaos. Ace, Deuce, and Grim can be seen running in your general vicinity distracting you as the housewardens formulate a plan to bring you back to your senses. Jack in wolf form charges at you with Epel atop his back, screaming obscenities that would send Vil into a coma, but he can't seem to bring himself to care at the moment

Amidst the screaming and yelling behind them, Idia shakily clears his throat catching everyone's attention. He shrinks away as 6 pairs of eyes focus in on him. "..H-how did none of us realize that they would end up like this? After all, we've all undergone this...a-and did no one notice that the Prefect was a bit off in the past few days?" Vil scoffs, shaking his head, "If you noticed, why didn't you say anything?" Idia moves to rebuke Vil but Malleus cuts in before he can say anything.

"That's enough Shroud, Schoenheit. Do you really think the Child of Man would like to see us bickering over them like this? As we all know, they are not the best at expressing themself." With his words, everyone falls silent. "So the best thing that we can do is to be for them, as they were there for us in our most dire time of need. All in favor?"

Leona huffs, pushing Malleus aside, his shoulder bumping against Malleus's as he gets up from where he was standing. "No need to tell me what to do lizard," he sneers, holding up his staff, watching you swipe repeatedly at the first and second years waging battle against you. "And it looks like to me that the herbivores out there are starting to get worn out, while we sit here all nice and pretty," he pauses, his gaze becoming unreadable, "As much as I hate the idea of working alongside Malleus, I can't help but agree with the fact that they were there for all of us, and I don't like someone being able to hold something against me...so what say you that we go out there and bring them back to their senses?" he grins, leaping down from atop the rubble and running out.

Vil sighs, before dusting himself off and standing tall, a smirk on his face, "I can't let Leona take all of the glory so it looks like I'll have to join myself." As he follows suit, the other housewardens also get to their feet, charging at you to assist their underclassmen.

.....

Hush now, hide, all you little ones Rush now, into the middle of nowhere Singing and laughter will die

You find yourself drowning, struggling to make sense of your surroundings. You feel an overwhelming sense of grief, coupled with anger. Anger at Crowley for being useless and deflecting as always when questioned about a way for you to get back home. Anger at being forced into situations that you had no control over. And most of all, anger at yourself for not being able to do anything and always feeling helpless. Never being able to fend for yourself and always having to depend on others to be able to take care of you.

It's happened time and time again, with Riddle's temper tantrum in the Heartslabyul rose maze. Leona's rampage in the Spelldrive stadium. Azul's meltdown over his contracts in the Octavinelle dorm. Jamil's outburst over winter break. Vil's spiral during the VDC competition. Idia's change of heart on the Island of Woe. Malleus forcing everyone into a slumber. It was all too much for you to bear.

Give in. The voice in your head whispers. Rest now, and let me take over.

Dreamless sleep, follows the Nowhere King When his kingdom comes, darkness is nigh

That's right, you're nobody. Insignificant. Useless. No place to truly call home, and no one to go home to. The darkness seeps in coaxing you to give in.

...

Give in.

.......

...........

Give in.

.................

........................

.............................

GIVE IN.

For a brief moment, you open your eyes and visions flash before your eyes. Your friends in danger, everyone screaming and running. Is that...your doing?

You raise your hand to your head to alleviate the pounding headache racking your brain, but your horrified to see that your hands have morphed into ink stained ones, covered and dripping with black liquid. You feel nauseous and sick to your stomach, covering your mouth to resist the urge to hurl out your guts right then and there. You stumble as you shield your face from the blinding blasts of magic flung your way.

Quiet, crawl to the in-between Silent, secretive feeling Of fearsome hatred that reaches the skies

You've always kept your emotions to yourself haven't you?

As much as you hate to admit it, there's resentment that has always bubbled beneath the surface. You don't show it but you've always been envious of your friends who have somewhere or someone to go to whilst you're stuck with nothing, no one to rely on.

.....

Isn't that right?

Why was it you of all people?

It's not fair, isn't it....?

The mask you've so carefully crafted starts to slip and crumble to pieces. You fall to your knees, gasping for air. Inky tears stain your face as the ground bites into the palms of your hands.

You will bring joy to the Nowhere King When he sees the light leaving your eyes

.....

With one final combined magical blast, the entity behind you lets out a roar of pain before collapsing. It's delicate glass face cracks and shatters, more ink spilling out. As it falls, so to do you, your body crumpling lifelessly. Thankfully before you can hit the ground, Malleus swoops in beneath you, cushioning your fall with his arms. Gently, he cradles your face checking you for injuries before setting you down, his arms supporting your body.

"We...did it?" Azul murmurs in disbelief, his breathing ragged. Everyone else doesn't seem to be faring better than he is. It seems everyone has worn out themselves in the battle.

Everyone crowds around you, concern in their gazes. Before long, your eyes flutter open, and you let out a groan of pain, trying to sit up. "WAAHHHHHHHH Y/N!!" Grim sprints up to you, leaping into your lap, his face tearing up. Still out of it, you grunt, feeling his paws make impact with your stomach and you let out a sharp exhale of pain. It's funny. You think to yourself. Grim never uses your actual name. "You had me so worried don't ever do that again okay?" Grim sniffled rubbing his face into your shirt. "Ew Grim, you're getting snot all over me," you scold him lightly but your voice is soft as you press a hand to the top of his head.

"Take it easy, you're hurt." Vil murmurs, kneeling next to you and wiping your ink-stained face gently. His tone although laced with worry is uncharacteristically soft, his slender fingers feel cool. You inadvertently find yourself leaning into his touch, shutting your eyes.

"W-what happened?" you croak out, wincing a bit. Everything aches and hurts whenever you move.

"You...overblotted..." Jamil murmurs quietly. "You weren't acting like yourself and before long...." he gestured at you, indicating the state you were in.

You inhale a shaky breath, pushing yourself up so that you can face everyone better. You feel tears pricking at your eyes, threatening to spill out. "I'm sorry everyone...I didn't mean to cause so much trouble. I lost my cool...and it ended up with you all forced to use your magic against me and wear yourselves out. All because I couldn't control my emotions..."

No one speaks a word, letting you convey your thoughts. There's a brief moment before Grim walks up to you, gently pressing a paw to your leg to get your attention. You stare down at him, surprised by the serious look on his face.

"Henchman, no one is going to blame you for feeling emotions," he pauses. "You've already done so much for everyone, there's only so much stress you can take." Grim shrugs looking at everyone around you two. "I keep telling them that they're working too hard, but they always insist on seeing things through to the end." Everyone laughs a little at Grim's wording and you can't help but crack a slight smile at his words.

"Classic prefect shishishi," Ruggie smirks, his hands resting behind his neck. You shake your head, setting Grim down on the floor as you attempt to get up. Riddle takes notice of this, leaning down and offering you his shoulder for support. Gratefully, you take it, leaning heavily against him.

"Prefect," your name hangs in the air as you stare at Riddle curiously. "I can't promise that I can offer the best support to you, but I hope you know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I will be here to listen to you...even if I can't offer the best advice." Deuce comes up besides you, supporting your other shoulder, "Ace and I will be here too, you're not alone in this," he grins, allowing you to shift your weight against him.

You feel yourself start to tear up again, your head falling over, your shoulders shaking. "Thank you..everyone. Thank you for bringing me back."

"You were there when we were at our lowest. It's only fair that we return the favor."

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[evilfloralfoolery]

Fucking Lilacs

Right, so this is some ancient snzfuckery that I've resurrected. These aren't my characters, but they feel like they should be lol.

Eddie and Adrian are two fallen angels on a recon mission. One is hella allergic to lilacs. The other is hella turned on by that fact. They've been besties for hundreds of years, but sometimes, shit changes.

Note: There's a lot of snzfuckery and things get hot and heavy. (See tags for a few additional notes on things.) I also wrote this in a style that isn't quite mine and there is POV switching because that what the book did. You needn't know a damn thing about the book to enjoy it because I don't remember a goddamn thing myself LMFAO.

______________________________________

Recon was a bitch. A bitch with an attitude. Adrian sat back on his heels, staring at the window of the house which had been empty for the past ten minutes. Yeah, there was a whole lot of nothing happening here.

“—nn’hkGScht!”

Except that. Adrian glanced at his partner, who looked like he was auditioning for a Benadryl commercial. That was the sixth time Eddie had sneezed in about as many minutes. Not that Adrian had been counting. Who the fuck would count something like that? 

Except him. Goddamn it.

Sure, he had a hell of a lot more important shit banging around in his head like demonic bitches and torture stations in Hades, but the leather-clad distraction crouching a foot away was a trump card for priorities. 

Next to him, Eddie smothered another “hhnXGTsh!” 

“Bless you.”

“Fucking lilacs. I’m the only immortal with allergies, I swear.”

 

Not that Adrian knew what the fuck lilacs were.  Probably the cluster of blooming bastards that kept smacking Eddie in the face every time he so much as shifted a toe.  Prime position for absolute fuckery.

“Iih-EKGtschu!”

“Bless you,” Adrian repeated.

“God won’t bother,” Eddie said.

True, but Adrian had a sort of trained-in trigger with the phrase. Fallen angel and all that mystical bullshit. 

“We can move,” Adrian said.

Eddie shook his head. “Can’t see the window anywhere else. I’ll deal.” 

Maybe he would, but Adrian wasn’t sure he could take hours of Eddie’s nasal prowess less than a foot from him. Not because the other man was annoying him. Damn, he wished it were annoyance. Too many years of Earth-bound kink had really done a number on what got his rocks off. Or maybe that was too many threesomes. He and Eddie always liked to share things . . . weapons, bloodshed, women–

“—hXGzzsht!” 

“Christ, Eddie.”

“Fuck. Me.” 

Yep, and that was the whole problem right there. Adrian had a whole lot of what-the-hell torture going on in his jeans, which wasn’t going away any time soon unless Eddie knocked it off with the pissed-off sinuses antics. Which didn’t seem like a possibility as long as they were surrounded by purple sprigs of floral hell. It also wasn’t like Adrian could just take a walk to the other side of the hedge for a little private time to solve the problem. The “problem” would have to quit sneezing every fifteen fucking seconds.

“—HhGgnsschxt!”

Which so obviously wasn’t going to happen. Not to mention the whole mind-reading thing Eddie did. Then, Adrian was going to be fucked. Or maybe choked unconscious. Eddie wasn’t the violent type, not with that whole long-haired-hippie-but-really-a-biker thing he had going on, but fuck. Fuuuuck. 

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Adrian turned his head to find himself staring into those red-brown eyes that creeped most people out. Well, Adrian wasn’t most people. 

“What’s your damage?” Eddie’s voice was low, threaded with congestion. Goddamn it, now the motherfucker couldn’t even talk without making Adrian’s balls tight. 

“Nothin’.”

“Don’t lie.” 

Shit. 

Window. He was going to concentrate on the window and empty his mind of everything else. Blue trim on the window. Even better.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. Either the curtains in the house were giving Adrian one serious stiffie or something else was going on. And dammit, his nose was threatening one hell of a sneeze intervention before he could needle Adrian about it some more.

“—ISSCHuh!” Fuck, he was so over this. “—GiiSSCHu!” Goddamn it. 

The thick rope of braided hair that ran the length of his back slid around to drape his shoulder. He thought about tucking the thing into his shirt, but it was too damn long to be comfortable. Instead, he left it there tickling the top of his knee as he crouched beside his partner, trying to figure out just what was doin’ in that head of his without having to pull out the mind reader card. 

Because Adrian was definitely lying.

“—nh…hGXzsSCh!” 

Son of a bitch.

“Bless you,” Adrian said. 

Fucker was done staring at the window now. He was staring at Eddie. 

“Sorry,” Eddie said. “Guess this shit’s got me worse than I thought.” He flicked a branch with his hand. Fucking lilacs. 

“Not your fault,” Adrian said.

The other angel’s voice was tight, as if he were trying a hell of a lot more to convince himself than Eddie. Okay, what the fuck. Eddie was a patient guy, more patient than most. Talked way less than his counterpart, too. But Adrian’s silent act was getting old fast, especially when he was one of the mouthiest bastards Eddie knew.

And more silence. Yeah, this was starting to piss him off.

“You gonna tell me or what?”

Silence.

Eddie drummed his fingers against his thigh. “You really wanna do this the hard way?” He pressed a hand beneath his nose. “HhgNTXch! Fuck.” 

“Bless you,” Adrian said. For the tenth time.

“You don’t have to say it,” Eddie grumbled.

“Yeah. I do.” 

And he meant it, too. Like, really meant it. As if it were some kind of vitally important sentiment that he couldn’t help repeating for some kind of emphatic obedience. Eddie furrowed his brow which was about as much of an expression as he ever bothered to show to anyone other than Adrian.

“Talk,” Eddie said. “Last chance.”

“No.”

Fine. The guy wanted to play hard ball? Eddie was the goddamn master. He gripped his partner’s wrist in an iron vice of fingers. Shit like this was always easier with skin-to-skin contact. Not that Eddie really wanted to go probing around Adrian’s mind, but if the fucker wasn’t going to talk, then he’d just have to—

“Ek'NGgtSSChu!”

Sneeze. 

Again. 

In his grip, Adrian’s body went all stone statue. And his line of thinking went direct feed into Eddie’s mind. The angel blinked once. Slowly.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh?” Adrian looked like he was torn between laughing his ass off and demolishing a small city. “You pull that fucked up shit out of my head and all you can fucking say is ‘oh?’ Christ, Eddie.” 

Adrian raked a hand through his obnoxiously perfect black hair which fell right back into place as if were trained that way. The bastard must have owned stock in Paul Mitchell to keep it like that.

“Come on,” Eddie said.

Adrian looked down at Eddie’s hand, which was still clamped around his own. “And do what? Who’s gonna watch the window? It’s not just gonna watch its--”

An image of something he’d considered a few times but never without a female in the middle clamped down on his mind and settled in for a stranglehold on his cock. 

Goddamn. And Eddie was looking at him. That way.

“Oh,” Adrian said.

Eddie was half-dragging him past the hedges, but hell, he could do that easily. The guy looked like he could bench press a cadillac. One stubborn angel wasn’t much to handle, really.

“Eddie, hey . . . look, uh . . .” 

Shit, he was usually so good at this. With women.

The other man’s hands were in his hair. Gently. Almost reverently. Adrian wet his lips. “Fuck,” he said.

“You could have told me,” Eddie rumbled.

No. He really couldn’t have.

“Yeah fucking right,” Adrian said. “What was I gonna say? Hey, man . . . I’ve been looking at your tight fucking ass for over four hundred years. Wanna fuck?”

Eddie arched an eyebrow. “That works.” 

Adrian growled something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck me sideways.” Yeah, that could be arranged. 

Eddie slid his hands to cup his partner’s face. The man had a hell of a lot of piercings, bottom lip, left nostril, tongue, ears. Women found that shit sexy, the other angel had said. Eddie stuck with the strong, silent, my-hair-is-longer-than-your-whole-fucking-arm approach.

“Hgkt'SSCH'u!!” he sneezed into the arch of his shoulder. And looked at Adrian. “Good?” he asked.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Adrian said. The straining bulge against his jeans suggested otherwise.

Eddie slid a hand around to his back, splaying his big fingers there. 

“What the hell are you doing now?” Adrian asked.

“Kissing you,” Eddie said.

“Is it. . .  just lilacs?” he asked. 

For a minute, Adrian considered winging it into the sky to the other side of Egypt or something. Anything to get the hell out of there. But the instant the fullness of Eddie’s mouth pressed against his own, all lines of thought took a vacation. The guy had the softest lips. Adrian hadn’t expected that, nor had he expected Eddie to run his tongue over the ring in his bottom lip, to tease the stud in his tongue. Fuck, the bastard was a great kisser.

Adrian gave up on the I-don’t-really-want-you act and kissed him back. Thoroughly. Eddie backed him against a stone wall he didn’t remember seeing on the way in, pinning him there with one arm because the other was busy stroking his . . . cheek? The labor-roughened pull of Eddie’s thumb down the curve of his jaw was almost more erotic than his tongue. Others didn’t touch his face. They just didn’t. 

“I’m all fucked up,” Adrian said. More like warned.

Eddie dragged a heavy thumb over his bottom lip, worrying the little ball in the hoop for a moment. “I know,” he said. The corner of his lip lifted, flashing a hint of teeth. “HhkgzTSSCH!” He managed to avoid giving Adrian an impromptu baptism by turning his head at the last possible second.

Adrian practically groaned. Fuck. Why the hell was that so hot? He was hard as a motherfucker. He sank his teeth into Eddie’s roving thumb, not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to leave an imprint of his canine in the weathered flesh. 

What the fuck kind of lame-ass sex talk was that?

“No,” said Eddie. He stroked a hand down Adrian’s side, untucked his shirt, ran his finger over the fine hair that trailed from just below Adrian’s navel into his jeans.

“What else?” Adrian heard himself ask the question and really wanted to backhand his own damn mouth.

“Not sure,” Eddie said. “But I hate spring and she hates me.” He slipped a finger into the waistband of Adrian’s jeans, pulling the denim away from his skin. 

Adrian was commando beneath the fabric. Eddie probably wasn’t surprised. Before he could work some one-handed magic on the button and zipper, he had to pause to catch another sneeze against the back of his free hand. “HngKxxTst!”

“Don’t,” Adrian said.

Eddie shrugged one massive shoulder. “Can’t help it.”

“No, I meant don’t . . .stop them like that.” Adrian’s hands rested on the other man’s hips, fingers hooking through the leather hoops there as if he wasn’t exactly sure just where the fuck his hands should go in the first place.

“Okay,” said Eddie. He brushed a lock of Adrian’s thick hair away from his forehead, a crooked smile curving one half of his mouth when it promptly fell back into exactly the same spot.

Adrian’s hands slid up the other angel’s chest, resting there. Man, he so fucking wanted this. Bad. So what the hell was stopping him?

“Wait,” Adrian said. 

Eddie waited. He stood still, except for the hand on Adrian’s jaw, the thumb sliding over the curve of it. He was a patient bastard, the most patient being Adrian had ever known, just standing there all cool, calm, and understanding, waiting to see if Adrian was going to flake the fuck out. 

Which he was trying to do. And failing.

Okay, so now what? Adrian sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “I can’t,” he said. Goddamn it. 

Eddie worried the metal hoop between his teeth, tugging the breath out of Adrian’s lungs in a shivering rush of air.  The other angel’s body arched against his own, one hand coiling the thick rope of hair around fisted fingers.  As often as Adrian teased the fuck out of him for having “no game,” he sure as shit leveled the playing field in this arena.

Eddie’s hand didn’t drop. Adrian didn’t even realize why until he realized he’d trapped it against his face himself. And there was Eddie, watching him with all that ancient patience, knowing he was full of shit.

“Goddamn it,” he grumbled.

Adrian’s head had been a fucked up mess since the she-demon had gotten her claws into him. Literally. She had worked him over, stripped him to the soul, and raked more than just the flesh from his body. Sure, it had been necessary. It had bought enough time to win, enough time to save a man’s soul from eternal damnation, but Adrian had written a reality check he wasn’t sure his mind could cash this time. Nothing helped. Not women, not battle, not booze, nothing.

“Hhih…! --IKgxSSCHu!”

Well, almost nothing.

“Bless you,” Adrian said with a sigh.

“You liked that one,” Eddie said.

Yeah, he did. He liked all of it. “I’m fucked up,” he said again, as if Eddie hadn’t heard him the first time.

“I know,” said Eddie.

The hand slid around to grasp Adrian’s wrist, climbing his arm and reeling him in closer until he was surrounded by well over two-hundred pounds of protective angel. Oh yeah, Eddie knew, alright. He knew from fucking first hand experience just what that demonic bitch did to man’s soul and Adrian had given himself up for the greater good of whatever-the-fuck more than once.

“Nothing helps,” Adrian mumbled into his partner’s chest.

A hand slipped into his hair, gripped the thickness of it. “I know,” Eddie said again.

The big bastard was so gentle. So fucking gentle. Adrian gripped his shirt, balled up handfuls of the material in his fists. He wasn’t small  by any stretch, but up against Eddie, an oak tree was small. Or at least, that’s how it felt to Adrian. Beneath his fisted hands, Eddie’s chest heaved and Adrian froze. The hand that was entangled in his hair relented, the other man’s breath hitching in a slow, torturous way that made just about everything in him from the chest down clench into wrenching fire. If the angel did that while they were so close, Adrian was going to lose his shit. And Eddie would know it, the mind-reading fucker.

“Hh’NnGtiSCH! . . . .hiih!” Eddie’s breath wavered, cracked . . . and didn’t do a goddamn thing after that. “Fuck,” he grumbled.

“Sonofabitch,” Adrian hissed.

“Sorry,” said Eddie. “Couldn’t help it.” 

Adrian kissed him. Hard. To hell with finesse. He was all kinds of urgent need in about a thousand different ways at once and unable to vocalize any of it. Eddie would just have to read his damn mind. Which he was sure was next to impossible not to do at the moment anyway, considering they were practically joined at the hip with the way Adrian was pressed against him.

Impossibly large hands rested on his hips, steadying him, the kiss melding into something slower and more tactile as Eddie teased the metal bar in his tongue with a flick of his own. The same calloused thumb slipped into his shirt, rubbing the hoop in his nipple in firm, achingly slow circles. It wasn’t until the unbuttoned garment slid from his shoulders enough for Eddie to replace his thumb with his mouth that Adrian really gave up the whole pretense of I-can’t-do-this. He didn’t have a choice.

His tongue traced a heated path down Adrian’s torso as he dropped to his knees, feathering kisses just above the waistline of his jeans.  Eddie didn’t need to read the angel’s mind.  The bulge that strained against the distressed denim fabric was a blatant invite for more of the physical. 

Instead of prying open the other male’s pants with his teeth, he slid a finger beneath the beltline again, scraping a nail along the pale flesh until Adrian all but quivered.

“Fuck, Eddie,” the angel panted.  “Would you just--”

A strangled gasp escaped him as Eddie’s teeth grazed the hard length of flesh through the denim.  Adrian’s fingers plunged into all that hair, probably loosening the top of the braid all to hell, but he suspected Eddie gave less than a single fuck.  His hips betrayed any last hope of “no, stop that” that he had left to give.  Not to mention the steady pulse of a groan that ebbed from somewhere deep within his chest.

Capable fingers made short work of his jeans as Eddie knelt in front of him, a position he never thought he’d bear witness to, much less experience first hand.  Part of him wanted Eddie to take his time as he did with all the females they shared, but the urgency of his desire wasn’t a patient beast.  He wanted – no, needed---Eddie to just fucking–

Adrian’s breath caught in a high, choked hitch of sound.  Something ancient and foreign rolled from his tongue, his ability to speak the common mortal vernacular a distant fog of memory.  Eddie’s tongue cradled the tip of his cock with a brush of wet heat before those full lips closed over the entirety of him, ring and all.

He scraped his back against the concrete wall, his free hand fisting his own hair, hoping to hell and back that his legs didn’t suddenly forget they had to support his tensely trembling body.  Fingers dug into thighs, steadying him.  Eddie’s tongue was erotic sin, tying his core in knots of desperation.

That was, until the other angel suddenly stopped.

Adrian cracked an eye, giving the fist-and-twist  routine  in his hair a reprieve.

“Why . . .”  He licked suddenly dry lips.

Words.  Yes, he had to make words. 

“ . . . did you . . .” 

Goddamn short-circuiting brain-fuck.

However, one look at Eddie forecasted a twitch-worthy reason for the pause.  The other angel pressed a knuckled fist beneath his nose, brow knitting, teeth clenched.

“Eddie, goddamn it–!”

Adrian’s warning was nine kinds of pleading with a hefty side order of I-don’t-really-mean-it. And Eddie knew it.  With his hand still touching the other angel’s hip, Adrian’s emotional state was clearer than the finest crystal and just about as fragile.

Eddie’s breath hitched and Adrian mirrored the action with a flinch of his body.  The corner of Eddie’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.  Oh yeah.  Adrian was so done.

“HhkgSSSCH’uuh!”  

The hand still holding fast to Adrian’s hip clenched, transmitting the shudder of his shoulders to the other male with lethal perfection.  

“Goddamn it, Eddie!” Switching his earlier words around didn’t help. “Are you just trying to fuck me up on purpose or what??”

Ah, so the pierced bastard could talk.  Eddie almost snickered at the outburst.

“No,” Eddie said.  

He sat up a bit straighter, wrapping skilled fingers around Adrian’s arousal with a definitive stroke. 

The harsh scrape of concrete through his shirt barely registered as Eddie worked that piercing with a wicked combination of tongue-flicking, biting, and tugging that damn well sent Adrian into a frenzy.  His hips jerked, knees threatening to betray the weight of his body.  This was the edge . . . the tipping point.  And he wasn’t just falling over it.  His body kamikazied into the abyss on a haphazard suicide mission. 

So much for fucking stealth. 

Adrian moan-growl-panted his way through the strangled language of what felt like seventeen different kinds of release, the loudest of which was some stammering rendition of Eddie’s name. God, had time fucking stopped? Because he was definitely straddling the line between suspended animation and full-on implosion.  

His stance wavered, legs trembling, entire body caught in the electric fusion of such a violent-as-fuck exonaration.  Eddie was on his feet, bracing him against his massive body, hand splayed across his back like a physical order of protection.

Everything was a haze of flickering images and streetlight shadows, a jigsaw of earthly amalgamations.  The only clarity was the steady rise and fall of Eddie’s chest against his own, the slow pressure of his fingers kneading absent reassurance against his skin. 

The other angel had even pulled up his goddamn pants, too.  Why in the absolute fuck was that somehow the most ridiculously considerate shit ever?

“You good?”

Eddie’s dark voice was a silken rumble against his ear.

“The fuck . . .” Adrian managed to say in some kind of half-sigh, half-swearing growl that was trying to call itself language. 

“We’ll get to that later.”

“Christ, Eddie.” 

But he sure as hell wasn't saying no.

[hallowxiu]

Gentle Monster

part 1

i will be posting this as a chaptered series on my a03 linked here.

characters: zombie!Beel, gn!mc

word count: 4.8k

Summary: You're living in a zombie apocalypse where your current struggles have brought you to a small town where you meet a strange zombie.

"The zombie, which hasn’t immediately attacked you, strikes you as odd. It doesn’t seem violent, but you know that can’t be true. If anything, it seems startled by your presence."

Autumn leaves rustle on the ground, the wind blowing them down the streets as you walk hurriedly. You’d left your house, your very own sanctuary that you built with your own hands, to run into town to look for supplies. You were stocked on most things, but you found yourself running low on medical supplies (you had a bit of a nasty run-in with a handful of zombies a few nights ago) and ammunition (for the same reason you ran low on medical supplies). 

For the last year, you were nearly sure you were one of the last remaining humans in your town. You hadn’t seen or as much as heard a peep from people, which was somewhat uncommon. If there were groups of armed people holed up somewhere, you would have eventually run into them when out on supply runs. 

The echo of your steps is the only source of sound in the otherwise quiet town. You can hear the faint grunts and groans of zombies in the distance, but the sounds aren’t close enough to draw any sense of alarm. Still, you had your hammer ready in case you were surprised. 

You weren’t feeling hopeful today with the potential outcome of your supply run. Medical supplies and ammunition generally were rare to find, but in a town where most humans were wiped out? Yeah, fat chance. You felt a growing pit of anxiety forming in your stomach. Never run low: that’s what you drilled into yourself whenever it came to medical supplies and ammunition. How could you let yourself get so careless? You should have never put yourself in this situation to start with.

Your eyes scanned over the abandoned and ruined buildings, moss and vines covering the exteriors and forcing their way inside through broken windows. Damaged bricks lay discarded and forgotten on the ground. Most places had already been ransacked by both you and other survivors. You knew markets had little to provide, and long-forgotten homes had been stripped of anything valuable they once had. There was, however, one place in town that most people avoided. The feeling of anxiety grows larger within you, threatening to break out. You didn’t want to go to that section of town, but you were low on options. You needed medical supplies and ammunition desperately; if you wanted to survive, you’d have to take calculated risks. Running a dirty hand through your hair, a shaky exhale forces itself past your lips as you head toward the town’s police station. 

The police station was a place to avoid for several reasons. However, the most pressing one was that it was located right on the outskirts of town. You tried to avoid the outskirts of town as much as possible. Zombies always seemed to linger in groups that could easily overpower someone traveling alone. The police station also had a small jail toward the back of the building, which became an issue once people started dropping dead and turning. Many of the prisoners were still in their cells, turned years ago. It was just a place you didn’t like to be around, but you also knew many survivors shared that sentiment. If you wanted to get the supplies you were so desperately in need of, you knew the police station would more than likely have it. However, there was a risk that you may end up using all the supplies just trying to get back out of the station. 

You stop short in front of the station. The building looks the same as the rest of the infrastructure in town. Something, likely a herd of zombies, had pushed in the front doors that were now barely attached to the hinges. Bloody handprints had been smeared on the remaining glass, and from what you could tell from where you stood, the inside didn’t look much better. You could see the center of the reception room, papers discarded and dumped on the tiled floor. Inhaling and giving yourself a false sense of confidence, you step inside the station. 

The first thing you noticed was how quiet it was. No grunts, no moans, no shaky breaths. Your dominant hand grips the hammer tighter. It was rare for the police station to be empty; there were almost always zombies roaming around the building. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, pounding away as you scan the room for any threats. The air held a musty and metallic smell, and you could see thick layers of dust on the plastic chairs that sat haphazardly in the room. Slowly, carefully, you walk behind the receptionist's desk, looking for anything useful. Nothing, but that didn’t shock you. Survivors brave enough to break into the station usually only made it to the receptionist area. Not many were brave, or for lack of a better word, stupid enough to push further. Luckily (or unluckily), you were stupid enough to do such a thing. 

Moving through the reception area and toward the back of the station, you knew the likelihood of finding supplies increased. You swallow nervously, glancing around as you push through the building. Somehow, it became more nerve-wracking the longer you went without running into anything. The lights are out, thanks to the power outage from the outbreak. Still, you weren’t anticipating just how dark the building grew the further you pushed. You knew you had to be getting close to the jail based on the lack of windows. 

You blink several times, trying to get your eyes to adjust to the darkness. You hated being in the dark, something you didn’t initially have a fear of until you found yourself living in a world full of blood-thirsty monsters. Your mind would play tricks on you, conjuring up distorted images of things lurking in the shadows, hiding behind every corner. Whenever you found yourself in the dark, it became incredibly difficult for you to stay focused, to separate reality and hallucinations. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to stay grounded in the moment. Losing yourself to panic would only cause more trouble. Opening your eyes again, you grab a flashlight in your bag. Once on, the flashlight illuminates the room with a narrow tunnel of light, giving you an idea of where you’re at in the building. You had been right; you were in the jail portion of the police station. Lifting your flashlight, you freeze when seeing the outline of something right in front of you. 

Disorientated from the darkness, it takes your brain a moment to process that you are staring directly at someone or something’s chest. Before a scream can erupt from your lungs and you lose yourself completely to panic, you throw yourself back, trying to put as much distance as possible between whatever’s in the room with you. You aim your flashlight, the light revealing a zombie in the corner of the room, visibly startled by your sudden movement. You glance from the zombie to your hammer, noting that it’s of significant size for an ordinary zombie. It didn’t seem like a Griever, the deadliest zombie from the outbreak. That relieved you; you didn’t think you could take on a Griever of that size without a gun. It was the risk you carried when traveling into town; the sound of a gun firing could attract all types of zombies from all over. You were exposed enough as it was in town; you didn’t need to make it worse for yourself. 

You didn’t want to fight the zombie with your hammer. It was large and could easily overpower you. Your pistol is in your bag as a last option, but you couldn’t risk alerting more zombies to your location. The palm of your hand is sweating as your grip around the hammer tightens, your knuckles turning white. Cautiously, you take a slow step back, desiring to add more space between you. The zombie, which hasn’t immediately attacked you, strikes you as odd. It doesn’t seem violent, but you know that can’t be true. 

Without warning, the zombie lunges for you, its hands outstretched as it runs toward you. You force a scream down as you stumble back, unthinkingly swinging the hammer out in front of you, striking at the air. You back into something, feeling cool metal pressing against your back. It’s bars to a jail cell. 

Making a rash and sudden decision, you yank the door to the cell open, darting inside and slamming the door shut behind you. You stumble back against the wall as you watch the large zombie trying to squeeze its arms through the gaps of the cell door. Your chest rises and falls, eyes dilated and wide as you try to make out your dark surroundings. You must’ve dropped your flashlight in the struggle because you were again thrown into darkness. You place a shaky hand on your chest, trying to calm your nerves. You were away from the zombie, but now, admittedly, you were trapped in a pitch-black jail cell. The full gravity of your decision begins to settle over you. You have no medical supplies, you’re low on ammunition, you’re without a light source, and you’re trapped in a jail cell with limited food and water on your person. Feeling panic welling inside you, you struggle to keep it at bay. Throwing yourself into a jail cell has to be the most impulsive decision you’ve made, and it may just cost you your life. You’re only lucky that you managed to pick a cell that wasn’t already holding a zombie.

“Fuck.” You mutter under your breath, watching wearily as the zombie continues its assault on your cell. You had no idea how long it would take before the bars would give out under the zombie. Sure, it was a heavy metal door, but this was also a larger-than-average zombie. You had no idea the strength it held. You watch as the zombie begins to slowly lose interest, another thing that strikes you as odd. Typically, even if a zombie couldn’t reach you, it’d try to get to you as long as it could see you. Hunger was not something that ever went away with zombies. It was what drove them to survive, what drove them to keep going. You were a free ticket to a hot meal as far as this zombie was concerned, and yet… 

You observe how it still lingers by the door, its hands wrapping around the cool metal of the cell bars. It’s watching you closely, its eyes following your every move, no matter how small—the zombie’s groaning, something that sends a shiver up your spine. Regardless of how long you’ve been stuck in this hell, the sounds of zombies never stopped creeping you out. The zombie pulls weakly at the bars; odd. Why would it pull so weakly when you both knew it could easily apply more strength? You were at the mercy of this zombie, and surely you both knew that. Your eyes narrow suspiciously as you feel backed into the wall behind you, your back pressed flat against the cool, bricked surface. 

You needed to plan your escape, but escaping while this monster hovered around your cell wouldn’t do you any good. You lost your flashlight, and while your eyes have been slowly adjusting, you were still at a steep disadvantage. You still have your hammer, but you ultimately knew it wouldn’t do much in a fight against this guy. You could lodge it in its eye and run for it, but then you’re without a weapon. As morbid as it was, your only hope would be if another poor soul wound up here and took its attention off you. You never prayed on the downfall of another human, but if it was the only thing standing between you and getting back home, then you just might. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts when you see movement in front of you, watching in curiosity as the zombie slowly sits down in front of the cell door. It wasn’t like zombies to sit and wait for their prey; they usually just continued to groan and pound away at whatever was blocking them. This zombie was nothing like one you’ve encountered, and its odd behavior was only stacking up in front of you. “What are you?” You find yourself asking, knowing you won’t get anything in response. And true enough, you don’t, except for a grunt. If you weren’t so hung up on how to get out of this situation, you’d probably be taking notes on this zombie, trying to learn about its behavior and unnatural size and classify its type. 

It’s still quiet in the jail, something that hasn’t gone unnoticed by you. You wonder if the zombie in front of you is the reason for the lack of other zombies in the building. That thought sends another shiver up your spine; if this zombie could keep other zombies out of this building, how strong was this beast? Your grip on the hammer tightens as you try to keep as much distance as possible despite the cell door acting as a barricade. You chew on your bottom lip anxiously, your stomach already growling. Pushing the thought of food aside, you look down at your left ankle. It was swollen, ballooning in your shoe. Your ankle was the main reason you were out for medical supplies. During your last run-in with zombies, you sprained it when fleeing. However, with the current state of your ankle, you’re starting to suspect that you might be suffering from a sort of fracture, and you’re even more sure that trying to escape this zombie earlier only made it worse. You should have waited until your ankle healed more; patience in a zombie apocalypse was vital, but it seems it was something you lacked. 

Your ankle was throbbing as you sat, and you started to wonder just how fucked of a situation you landed yourself in. You glance back up to see the zombie still staring at you. It’s strange, but what’s even stranger, you think, is how you aren’t unnerved by its stare. You don’t feel anything. You shake your head, trying to steady yourself. If you get lost in your thoughts now, if you let your panic consume you, you are dead. There was no other way about it. So, instead of letting yourself get wrapped up in your head, you needed to focus on-

“H…el…p.” 

Your head snaps up, and your eyes widen as you scan the area as best you can while stuck in the dark cell. Was someone else in here with you? Was someone also stuck in a cell? A prisoner, maybe? Or someone in a very similar situation to yours? “Hello? Who’s there?” You didn’t bother hiding your voice, you were nearly positive that there was only one zombie back here with you, despite you not fully understanding what kind of zombie this was. “Are you injured?”

You were met with silence, and you felt your eyes narrowing in the darkness as you tried to pinpoint the direction the voice was coming from. “Hello?” You try again, waiting on bated breath. After what feels like an eternity, you finally hear a response. 

“Not… injured.” You’re confused by this. They’re not injured, but why are they replying as if they are? “You… injured?” 

“What?” You’re straining to hear the person, and the more you strain, the more you’re uncertain that you might be going insane and hallucinating the entire conversation. You’re so absorbed in this conversation that you inch yourself closer to the cell bars, your fingers wrapping around the rusty metal, the zombie the last thing on your mind. 

Suddenly, the zombie’s face is blocking your view, pressed against the cold metal bars. You let out a surprised yelp, throwing yourself away from the bars and zombie and back against the brick wall. The overly large zombie is pressing itself into the bars with its hands outstretched towards you. You notice it’s not moving aggressively but slowly and curiously. “In…jured.” Okay, now you know you’re going crazy because there’s no way you just saw and heard a zombie attempting to communicate with you. There’s just no way. The zombie points at your swollen ankle with its outstretched hand as if to prove a point. 

“Yeah… injured.” You repeat slowly, not quite believing that this thing is speaking to you. Or that you’re responding to it. There’s a beat of silence as the zombie stares at you, its head tilting. You’re unsure if it's trying to speak or thinking of eating you. 

“Why?” The zombie’s voice is rough and raw. You assume this is because its vocal cords are damaged, and possibly because it hasn’t spoken in who knows how long. You look down at your ankle, bruises blooming across your skin. 

“Because I sprained it. Maybe fractured it. I don’t know.” You offer lamely. Why are you talking with a zombie? Are you really that desperate for some kind of human interaction, even if it comes in the form of a bloodthirsty monster? You look up when hearing the zombie grunt. You’re unsure if that was a response, or just the zombie grunting for the sake of grunting. It’s still pitch black, but your eyes have somewhat adjusted. You can see the outline of muscles and the torn fabric on its dirty and bloodied clothes. It looks like a type of uniform, but you couldn’t figure out what. The zombie has shaggy hair and strands of grown-out bangs covering its eyes. Its hand is still out stretched toward you, the other clutching onto a bar of the cell. There’s dirt packed under its broken and chipped nails. You spot what looks like a nametag on the monster’s chest. “What’s your name?” You don’t know why you’re asking. Maybe to give the zombie some human element, to make it less scary. Or maybe you’re trying to prove to yourself that this whole situation isn’t made up. 

The silence stretches out, lasting so long that you almost forget the zombie is there. You begin to wonder if you did imagine the scenario. “B…Beelze…bub.” Huh. Odd name. You rub your hands against your face, crouching over as you try to comprehend everything. Odd name aside, the zombie answered your question. You asked for a name and it gave you a name. Which meant the zombie understood your question and has been asking you questions and responding in kind. 

“How is this possible?” You ask out loud as you lean your head against the brick wall behind you. You’ve never heard of this happening; you never imagined this happening. A talking zombie that isn’t immediately trying to kill and eat you? It’s as if you fell into a completely different world. Were there others like it? Was it possible for a community of zombies to exist? The zombie, or Beelzebub, only stared in response. Perhaps it was letting you think things over, or maybe its vocal cords were on the verge of giving out. You could also be crazy.

You lean back against the wall again, your swollen and throbbing ankle nearly forgotten. “Will you eat me if I get out of here?” It was a question you did but didn’t want to be answered. You were stuck in this situation because of it, and it did try to attack you earlier. You also figured you’d ask this before asking if it would help free you from your cell. 

“Y…es…” 

Solid. You managed to find the only talking zombie in town, maybe even the world, and it still wants to eat you. You’re not sure how to feel about that. You needed to think of a way out of this. “What if you let me out, you know, find a key or something, and then you don’t eat me?” Beelzebub stares at you with an expressionless face. You’re fairly sure you see it blink one eye at a time. However, a lightbulb goes off in your head; bargaining with it might work. “Uh, if you get me a key and get me out of here, without eating me,” you find yourself emphasizing, “I’ll help you find animals to eat or something.” You haven’t seen humans in town for a long time, so you don’t know the last time Beelzebub ate. Could zombies last for periods without eating? “So? What do you think? Pretty sweet deal, right?” You fully intended on ditching this zombie as soon as it lets you out. Hopefully, it can’t tell. 

Still, you don’t receive anything in response. It’s still staring. “Key? You know, the shiny metal thing that unlocks doors? Cells?” You make a gesture with your hand in the air, mimicking unlocking a door with a key. “You know? Key?” You’re starting to sound desperate; you’re also stuck in a cell with a talking zombie for company. Is desperation really that bad of a look? 

The zombie grunts before pushing itself away from the cell bars and standing up. It turns its back to you, shuffling away quietly. Either it’s looking for a key, or it got bored of you. You’ll gladly take either option at this point. 

You sit for several minutes, trying to brainstorm ways of escape with your near-useless ankle, while also being located in the back of the police station, possibly the most dangerous place to be in town. You were also without a weapon other than your hammer, and missing your flashlight. Maybe you could brute force your way out of here? Bang on the bars enough until they give way? No, that’s ridiculous. You could try lockpicking your way out; you’ve seen it done in movies before. Maybe if you found something like a paperclip or even your fingernail-

Clank.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel something hard and cold bounce off your forehead. You look to the ground to see a shiny metal key by your hand. Looking up, you see Beelzebub staring at you from the other side of the cell bars. “Really? You threw it at my head?” But most importantly, this zombie fetched you a key. You asked for a key and it retrieved a key for you. Whether it’s the proper key or not is yet to be seen, but still, you find this astonishing. 

“Key.” It grunts out and leans against the bars again, its expression unreadable. 

“Key.” You repeat and slowly lean forward to pick up the small object. “And you’ll let me unlock the door? Without trying to eat me?” You cast a suspicious look the zombie’s way. It only grunts in response, and you struggle to decide how to take that as an answer. Regardless, your options are limited, and you don’t have much in the way of supplies when it comes to food and water. Inhaling deep, you push yourself off the ground and force your way to the door. If it tries to attack you, you can always try to outrun it. Doing so might prove slightly challenging with your ankle, but adrenaline can do wonderful things for the human body. “Can you take a step back?” You ask as you approach the cell’s bars. Unlocking the cell with your hand outstretched, a feeling of unease washes over you. The thought of it potentially seizing your hand at any moment kept you on guard, emphasizing the need for caution. It could grab your hand at any moment and bite down, why wouldn’t you be hesitant? 

You watch in slight relief as Beelzebub takes a step back, and you quickly reach your hand between the bars to unlock the door with the key. With a loud click the lock opens. You swiftly slide the door open and run for it. You don’t bother looking for your flashlight or even checking for other zombies. You just run. Your feet feel heavy as they hit the ground and a searing pain swiftly travels up your ankle with each step. How long you could keep going remained unknown as you raced away from Beelzebub. It was a relief to know that Beelzebub wasn't a Griever, but its true nature remained a mystery. Could it match the speed of a Griever? Possess greater strength? These were questions to which you had no desire to find answers.

Running down the hall, you suddenly hear loud footsteps approaching from behind. The light from the reception area is just starting to become visible. You refuse to look back and instead pick up your pace. Your ankle is screaming in agony, but you couldn’t afford to stop now. This entire thing was a bust, and you knew you’d be getting out of this situation more fucked up than you were before. 

The light is an overwhelming assault on your eyes the moment you step foot into the reception. Your vision is white as you stumble blindly, your hands outstretched as you try to grab onto a nearby item for support. You had to get your shit together and fast. The police station was always a hot spot for zombie activity and you were completely exposed. You were blinded, your ankle was an absolute mess, and you only had a hammer to defend yourself with. As your vision slowly returns, a rough hand lands on your shoulder from behind, and you struggle to suppress a blood-curdling scream. You spin around, your ankle nearly going out in the process, only to be met with Beelzebub’s fogged-over eyes. 

“Human… lied.” You swallow the growing lump in your throat as you stare up at the monster before you. Now in the light, you can see just what you’re dealing with. The zombie’s tall, but not taller than a Greiver. It’s muscular too, which oddly enough, brings some comfort. Grievers were not known for being muscular, but that didn’t mean this zombie couldn’t seriously mess you up either. 

You noticed the uniform it had on was that of a police officer, and the nametag did in fact display the name Beelzebub. So, your zombie friend was once a cop and this is likely where it died and became a zombie. Interesting. “Human prom…ised… food.” You can feel a thin layer of sweat forming on your skin as its eyes bore down into you. Hopefully, it doesn’t consider you to be the food. “Human ran. Human left. I let… human out.” It seemed angry, that much was clear. Your throat was running dry, and any and all words in your head died as soon as they reached your tongue. 

“I, uh…” Could you seriously not think up any excuse? “Forgot?” On second thought, maybe it would’ve been better to stay quiet. The look on Beelzebub’s face tells you it doesn’t quite believe your words either. “Alright, look. I was nervous. Can you blame me? You’re a talking zombie and I’m your five-course meal. How am I supposed to believe that you won’t try to eat me the second my guard is down?  What if you call your zombie buddies to tell them you found the hottest meal ticket in town?” 

“Zombie… budd…ies?” There’s a look of confusion on Beelzebub’s face as it stares down at you. 

“You’re missing the point entirely.” 

“B…Beelze…bub hun...gry.” A sigh leaves you as the insistent zombie stands before you. You briefly check your surroundings. It was a risk standing in an area as open as reception. You were no stranger to the types of zombies that lingered by the police station, and you didn’t want to draw a crowd. You needed to hurry this up. 

“Look, if I feed you an animal or something, will you leave me alone?” You don’t know why you’re even trying to bargain with this thing; possibly because you want to get out of here and can’t outrun it. The zombie nods its head, or at least the best it can. “Fine, fine. Follow me and I’ll lead you back to my home. I have food there. Meat.” The word meat seems to do the trick, as the zombie’s eyes widen and it seems overall more aware. “Attack me though and I’ll kill you.” It doesn’t look very intimidated by your hammer or you. 

Once you two agree (if you can call it that), you look around the reception area. You don’t see any zombies lingering outside. It was just as clear as when you first came in. That was weird. Normally there are at least a dozen, and the fact that there were none when you first arrived or even now leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Uneasiness aside, you didn’t want to wait around for more to show up. “Alright, follow me. Stay close behind,” you turn around to narrow your eyes suspiciously at the zombie, “but not too close, and don’t get lost because I won’t come looking for you.” You couldn’t believe you were actually considering bringing a zombie home with you. 

You couldn’t see this ending well. 

[biblioflyer]

The Cardassian War was worse than you probably think.

I wrote a lot about the Maquis with every intention of posting quite a bit more about it, but then I got cold feet. Its actually been a while since I watched some of the critical Maquis episodes. In some instances, I haven't seen them since they aired. So I decided to go back and rewatch some of them. I started with TNG 7x20 "Journey's End." Where I expected a very strident lecture on the evils of forced relocation, I found something deeply nuanced and something that also reframed how I understood the Federation's conflict with the Cardassians.

If you're in a hurry, the big revelation was that, per Picard, millions of people died in the Cardassian - Federation War.

If you haven't been part of debates about what the scale of the Star Trek setting is or are more attuned to more recent series, millions may not actually seem that many people. Star Wars and 40k fans are probably squinting and wondering what all the fuss is about.

So let me provide some additional context. This is going to be mostly Doylist in nature, i.e. "meta" commentary.

Millions of people equals thousands of Galaxy-class starships. At a time when we'd seen not more than two Galaxy-class starships on screen at the same time and per the Next Generation Technical Manual (which was quasi-canon at the time, essentially given high regard by creatives working on Trek but always subject to being overruled if the needs of the story dictated) there could be as few as five Galaxy-class starships active at the time, but perhaps eleven including the initial batch of six and assuming the six framed out but not completed hulls were built to completion and subtracting poor Yamato.

Just a few seasons before, the loss of 39 ships and 11,000 personnel at Wolf 359 was considered a pretty devastating loss.

If it were strictly Starfleet and Cardassian military personnel, millions would be staggering losses representing the equivalent of thousands of starships or some mix of ships and major stations or ground forces. My gut tells me that given the way TNG seems to be a smaller scale setting than Trek would later be depicted, this wasn't intended to be solely military losses but also inclusive of and maybe even disproportionately falling upon civilians. Given that the Federation doesn't directly target civilians as a general rule, I do have some theories on how this might come about: namely by making space warfare messier than its generally presented: Star Wars and The Expanse have both done great representation of how conflicts that play out in space can still result in collateral damage to civilian stations and planetary settlements.

Notably, later series like DS9 and Discovery will do a "soft" retcon of Starfleet to include as many as 7,000 ships in the 23rd century and perhaps around 30,000 in the 24th century (citation: Ron Moore & extrapolation based on fleet size quotes) but while this isn't a hard retcon in that it doesn't override firmly declared facts and figures, it also doesn't seem like these larger numbers were ones TNG was operating with when it threw a mere 40 ships at the Borg or had Starfleet yet again being unable to avoid pulling ships out of dock mid-refit and stuffing Enterprise crew on them to catch the Romulans smuggling arms to House Duras.

Regardless of how the numbers breakdown, this was anything but analogous to a protracted series of border skirmishes and raids ala the colonial theaters of various European imperial wars, which full disclosure, was my working mental model for understanding this conflict.

So why does this matter for understanding the Maquis?

I think it matters for understanding the Federation's motives in signing what most fans and many in universe characters feel is a "bad" peace with the Cardassians. This wasn't a vanity war that super powers sometimes find themselves in where they'll fight for years in some corner of the globe that is strategically irrelevant to the imperial heartland but has somehow gained incredible psychological significance in the minds of defense planners, politicians, and yellow journalists. This is a conflict that cost the Federation quite a bit of blood for planets that are described as having been settled for at most a few decades and, at the very least, we've never really heard anyone from the Federation complain about a lack of satisfactory M-class planets.

Of course as represented by the North American Indians (TNG's term, not mine) that had settled on Dorvan V, from the perspective of the colonists, they had roots and distinctive cultural identities that they desired to have respected and felt warranted their own planets. From the Federation's perspective, these are people who have barely settled their worlds and one world should be as good as another. If you run the numbers through "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few" then this starts looking even more tilted towards the Federation's perspective.

Now the counter argument is the bog standard opposition to authoritarianism and violent revisionists argument. This is the argument that the moral responsibility for avoiding catastrophic loss of life is on the one who is the first to use violence to try to advance their interests, at least at the level of astropolitics. In this framing it is not the responsibility of the Federation to mollify the Cardassians by conceding on irrational fears or immoral demands.

A cynical reading of this argument might find within it the notion that the Federation should just do what it wants, as long as its consistent with the Federation's values, and if the Cardassians have a problem with it up to the point of attacking, then the Federation should fight back and not stop until it reaches Cardassia and overthrows the military junta in charge or at the very least, removes any Cardassian presence from Federation borders and denudes Cardassian capacity to strike across the border.

The idea here being that conceding to the Cardassians rewards them for their willingness to use violence to achieve their goals, which further incentivizes them to use violence, and arguably did incentivize them to use violence as evidenced by accusations of poisoning wells and damaging infrastructure to drive ex-Federation citizens off the worlds that were ceded to the Cardassian Union.

But this argument has always contained within it the implicit assumption that the Federation had the capacity to rollback Cardassian warmaking capability and to keep up pressure on the Cardassians until the Cardassians cry uncle. A war in which millions died and where the Federation is trading away planets is not one that seems to imply the Federation had the capacity to hammer the Cardassians until they relented or there was a deficit of will to fight this war to the hilt, recognizing that pushing the war all the way to the orbit of Cardassia Prime would result in Union space being ungoverned and insecure until the infrastructure and ships were replaced.

Anyone who has watched the outcomes of the Global War on Terror or the various civil wars and revolutions that have happened in recent years should be very cognizant that a lack of order and security often results in problems being exported to adjacent regions. Problems meaning traumatized and impoverished refugees seeking safety and sustenance in places ill equipped to provide for them materially and often with some or a lot of mutual incoherence and mistrust happening at the cultural level as norms clash. Problems also meaning unaccounted for military equipment finding its way into the hands of revolutionaries, terrorists, and pirates who pursue their own goals and survival needs through the use of weapons on anyone who has something worth taking.

The United States did not kill a million or more people in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other MENA region countries through the use of weapons from 2001 to date. Iraq from 1991 to 2001 didn't have a million excess deaths* because of bombs detonating in people's homes, those deaths resulted from damage to infrastructure and internal supply chains because civilization is actually rather fragile and even people we regard as "less developed" are not meaningfully closer to nature and more resilient than we in the WEIRD category. If anything they exist in a more delicate state because they are often living on more marginal and stressed land with infrastructure that lacks redundancies or substantial state capacity to move people and resources around quickly to address sudden need.

*It should be noted that while these figures are widely quoted, the methodology has been questioned. I would encourage readers who want to get their historical facts correct to examine the evidence and decide whether Iraq sanctions are something one wants to use in a context other than describing the potential consequences of a fictional war.

When considering how to deal with Russia and its invasion of Ukraine, there are moral debates about how hard to press the civilian economy. Namely because so much of the infrastructure and daily necessities of life in modern countries count as "dual use." As in there are legitimate civilian uses that it doesn't seem productive to deny people: transistors are essential for access to information - both state controlled but also outside channels, and operate everything from thermostats to live saving medical equipment. The distinction between a transistor appropriate for running an insulin pump and one for a hypersonic missile is increasingly blurry.

An analogy could easily be drawn to isolinear chips and replicators. We in the fandom often assume that the Federation's ability to be precise in its application of lethal violence is practically omniscient and omnipotent, and that with its august technology, it has been liberated from having to make hard decisions. Yet if the Federation wants to destroy the warmaking capability of the Cardassians, how "deep" into the Cardassian infrastructure does it need to go?

Can you imagine Captain Picard sleeping well at night after calling a senior staff meeting to debate the legitimacy of striking a fusion reactor in a dense urban area that has been unplugged from the civilian grid and hooked up to an industrial replicator pumping out photon torpedo thrusters?

Further, the moral and political science assumptions of the Federation seem to rule out the idea that Cardassian civilians suffering and dying is an appropriate form of justice for Federation lives nor does suffering seem to predictably and reliably lead to revolution. Historical evidence is at best mixed and perhaps even damning. Try wrapping your head around the idea that Russian forces continued to fight their foreign enemies in WW1 at the same time as different Russian formations were fighting each other during the civil war that broke out as a direct consequence of World War 1. In short, while the war had certainly radicalized much of the public, there was still a lot of anger and blame directed to those who had been killing Russians before Russians were killing Russians.

So what is the Federation to do?

Keep fighting a war it probably wasn't technically losing but definitely didn't seem to be winning?

And perhaps the Federation couldn't win without paying a cost in both Federation and Cardassian lives, many of whom might be noncombatants, that was unpalatable?

What was it supposed to do after Wolf 359?

Postscript:

A bit more about the plot of the episode itself. "Journey's End" is probably one of the best TNG moral dilemma episodes. There are critiques to be made obviously. That the Indigenous people depicted seem to be a bit generic to the uneducated eye and do not claim a specific tribal / national identity feels weird at the end of 2024, but it also provokes an interesting discussion about the degree to which there isn't already a lot of syncretism among peoples who have experienced massive depopulation and loss of political agency, whether through intentional genocides, loss of territory, or disease. Its not hard to imagine this "North American Indian" identity found on Dorvan V being a syncretic identity that emerged in the 2100s once interstellar colonization really took off. Its strongly implied to be a "fresh start" movement that was itself controversial and many indigenous North Americas opted not to join them; but its membership could be plausibly drawn from many cultural identities.

However, the moral dilemma at the heart of the episode is handled with exquisite care and steadfastly refuses to make anyone objectively the bad guy. Every Federation character, even hardline consequentialist Admiral Nechayev, is respectful to the people of Dorvan V and mindful of their historical trauma even as it recognizes that the Federation's own interests are largely incompatible with respecting their demands.

Even Gul Evek, the named Cardassian leader of the show, relents after an impassioned plea from Picard. Evek admits to losing two out of three sons in the war and speculates that if the Dorvan V inhabitants leave the Cardassians alone, they will be left alone. Evek was convincing at least to this member of the audience. The framing felt hopeful rather than like everyone was being asked to swallow a Targ dung sandwich.

In checking to make sure I spelled his name correctly, I've become aware that Evek becomes a recurring character and I'm intrigued to see if there are clues to be found as to whether you could argue that he was lying or that events took on a life of their own and Evek was simply proven wrong. Its possible that Dorvan V was largely spared but the Obsidian Order or other elements of the Cardassian government decided to act in places it thought the Federation wouldn't be paying as close attention and the radicalization of the Maquis in turn radicalized Evek.

After all, since that the Cardassian Union was in effect waging a proxy war in the Demilitarized Zone, it would take little to convince some Cardassians that a guerilla movement with ex-Starfleet in almost all command roles and using Federation hardware represented a Federation proxy war with top level support. Which would in turn require the Federation to at least make some efforts at combating the Maquis in order to sell the Cardassians on the idea that the Maquis are not a plausibly deniable arm of Starfleet Intelligence.

But the Maquis are obviously are going to do what they need to do to defend their worlds, whether its their actual colonies or because they object to Starfleet sitting on its hands in the face of reports of atrocities.

In retrospect, for an era that was just testing the waters for multi-season arcs, this is such smart and tragic world building. Unlike say, the plot to destroy Qonos in Discovery or the anti-Changeling bioweapon being the Chekov's gun necessary to resolve the Dominion War, very little about the Maquis arc feels contrived and much more well supported by the world building around it.