#tw: mention of mass disappearances | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld

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TW: cussing, angry early seasons Daryl, angst, explosions, mass extinction, nationwide destruction, descriptions of walkers (Zombies) , firearms, Shane is creepy (and maybe slightly ooc ?), mentions of past abuse.

Part 4

Dead Weight - Part 5

The Georgia sun beat down mercilessly as you trudged through the underbrush, your boots crunching on fallen leaves.

It had been three days since Carl was shot, three days since Hershel had reluctantly opened his farm to your group, and five days since Sophia had disappeared into the woods.

The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, a maze of trees and undergrowth that seemed designed to swallow little girls whole,

The search party had splintered into smaller groups, desperation mounting with each passing hour.

You wiped sweat from your brow, your clothes sticking to your skin in the oppressive humidity.

The CDC explosion felt like a lifetime ago.

Since then, you'd been operating on autopilot—helping pack supplies, taking watch shifts, and now searching for Carol's daughter alongside the others.

"She couldn't have gotten far," Rick insisted, checking his map again. His confidence had been wavering with each sunset that brought no sign of Sophia.

"We'll find her," Shane added, though the look he exchanged with Lori said otherwise.

You'd been paired with Glen for the day's search. The young Korean man had always been kind, offering quiet support without the prying questions others sometimes asked.

You appreciated his steady presence and the way he tried to keep spirits up despite everything.

"We should drink more water," Glen reminded you, gesturing at your nearly full bottles. "This heat is brutal."

You took a sip, watching as he studied the map Rick had given each search team.

"Should we head toward that creek?" you asked, pointing to a blue line on the wrinkled paper.

"Good idea. She might have followed the water." Glen nodded, adjusting his baseball cap.

"Daryl said kids tend to follow landmarks."

As you walked toward the creek, you couldn't help but notice Daryl moving through the trees about fifty yards to your left. He was searching alone, as usual, his crossbow ready and his eyes constantly scanning the forest floor.

Just the night before, you'd been gathering firewood near the edge of camp when voices drew your attention to the old stone chimney—all that remained of a house long gone.

"This isn't happening, Shane," Lori's voice was low but firm. "Not now, not ever again."

"You can't just flip a switch on this, Lori. What we had—"

"Was a mistake," she cut him off. "Rick is alive. My husband is alive."

"And what about before? You telling me that was nothing?"

"I'm telling you it's over." A pause. "And I'd appreciate it if you kept your distance."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

You'd quietly backed away, not wanting to eavesdrop further.

You'd noticed Shane's eyes following you around the campfire, something in his gaze that made you uneasy.

Cornstalks swayed with the wind, as you prepared for another day of searching, their rustle brushing against old farmhouse siding and the quiet murmur of uneasy voices.

The group is scattered across the property—some pacing, some sharpening tools, most wearing fear like armor.

"We'll cover more ground if we split up," Shane announced, adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder. His eyes lingered on you a beat too long.

"We'll take east toward the creek." Shane announced nodding in your direction.

"Glen, you and Maggie check the ridge. Daryl, you said somethin' about tracks heading south?"

Daryl scowled, chewing absently on his thumbnail. "I can handle it m'self. Don't need nobody slowin' me down."

"Everyone pairs up," Rick insisted, his voice raspy with exhaustion. The man had barely slept since his son had been shot. "That's the rule."

"I don't need no damn babysitter," Daryl spat.

Shane stepped closer to you, resting his hand on the small of your back.

You instinctively shifted away from his touch, but he didn't seem to notice—or chose not to.

"C'mon. I promised to teach you how to shoot today too."

"You're holding it wrong," Shane said now, moving behind you to adjust your grip on the pistol.

His chest pressed against your back as his arms enveloped yours, guiding the weapon toward the makeshift target he'd set up—an old can perched on a fallen log.

You stiffened, trying to create space between your bodies. "Thanks."

He didn't budge. "Relax your shoulders. Don't anticipate the kickback." His hands slid from your wrists to your shoulders, massaging slightly.

"Hey Shane, stop" you said quietly, stepping to the side. "I should focus."

Something flashed in his eyes—annoyance, maybe—but he stepped back with a forced smile. "Just trying to help."

The gun fired, the can flying off the log. You couldn't help the triumphant smile that spread across your face. "I did it!"

Shane's hand immediately returned to your shoulder, squeezing. "Natural talent. Knew you had it in you."

His smile seemed genuine, though something in his eyes remained calculated. "Few more sessions and you'll be outshooting everyone except me."

You subtly shifted away from his touch again.

He stepped closer, his hand finding your waist. "You know, it's good to see you smile. After everything I wasn't sure if—"

You moved away more deliberately this time. "More practice ? "

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Sure thing." He reached for your arm. "But there's no rush. We got time out here, just the two of us."

A sharp crack of twigs interrupted him. You both turned to see Daryl emerging from the trees, crossbow held ready, his face a mask of irritation.

"You two done playin' around?" he growled. "Thought we was looking for a little girl, not having a damn date in the woods."

Shane's posture changed instantly.

Straightening.

Territorial.

"We're covering our section, same as you."

"Ain't heard walkers gettin' shot," Daryl retorted.

"Just wasting a bunchcha bullets on cans while Sophia's still out there."

"Not all of us were born with a crossbow in our hands, Daryl." you shot back, annoyed at his dismissive tone, though secretly relieved at the interruption.

Something flickered across his face—hurt, frustration—before his usual scowl returned.

"Whatever. Found some tracks by the creek that might be hers. But don't trouble yourselves. I got it."

He turned to leave, but Shane called after him. "Hey! We're all on the same team here."

Daryl stopped but didn't turn around.

"Are we?" he asked quietly before disappearing back into the underbrush.

Shane shook his head. "Don't mind him." He moved toward you again.

You stepped back. "We should head back. Check in with the others."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "We've barely covered any ground."

"I thought this was about teaching me to shoot?"

"It is, but—" He ran a hand over his head. "Look, I'm just trying to look out for you. After what you found out... I figured you could use a friend."

The mention of your home hit like a physical blow.

You swallowed hard. "I appreciate that. But right now, finding Sophia is what matters."

The farmhouse kitchen was a welcome respite from the tension outside. The sweet smell of sugar and vanilla filled the air as you worked alongside Beth and Maggie.

"Daddy always said meringue was too finicky in Georgia humidity." Beth giggled.

"It's not exactly apocalypse food," Maggie added, cracking eggs and separating the whites with practiced ease. "But with all these chickens laying, we might as well use them for something."

"Back home, this is practically a national dish," you explained, not allowing yourself to dwell on the memory of home.

"Mum used to make it for every holiday."

The silence that followed was heavy. Beth squeezed your arm. "Well, now you can teach us. Keep the tradition going."

The screen door opened, and Hershel walked in, wiping his hands on a towel.

He'd just come from checking on Carl, who was finally back up and about.

"Something smells wonderful," he observed.

"Mr. Greene, I wanted to thank you. For the eggs, and... well ... for everything, really." You smiled at him.

The older man's face softened slightly. "Call me Hershel. And you're more then welcome dear."

"Though I hope you understand this arrangement isn't permanent."

"As soon as Carl's strong enough to travel, we'll—"

"And when they find Sophia," Beth interjected firmly.

"Yes," Hershel agreed after a moment. "When you find that little girl."

Dusk was settling over the farm as everyone gathered on the porch for dinner.

"This looks amazing," Dale exclaimed, admiring your dessert.

"Dig in," you smiled, cutting slices for everyone.

Carol accepted her piece with a weak smile, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. "Sophia would've loved this. She had such a sweet tooth."

You wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a sympathetic squeeze.

"Has," Rick corrected gently. "And she'll get to try some soon. Daryl found something today."

All eyes turned to Daryl, who stood awkwardly at the edge of the group, looking uncomfortable with the attention.

"Aint much" he mumbled. "I'll be out mornin' at first light."

"You've been out there all day," Andrea remarked. "Don't you need to rest?"

Daryl scoffed. "I'll rest when we find her."

You moved through the group, handing out slices of pavlova. When you reached Daryl, he hesitated before accepting it.

"Saul this?" he asked suspiciously, poking at the dessert.

"Pretty much just sugar and fruit." You joked quietly.

He studied it a moment longer before picking it up and slurrping a piece from between his fingers. Something in his expression softened.

"S'good," he admitted quietly, sucking the remnants of the dessert off his fingers.

"Like this, girl. Arms straight, knees bent—don’t lock up. You ain’t dancing, you’re aiming.”

You nod, concentrating, biting your bottom lip. When you fire, the shot goes wide, and you flinch at the recoil. Shane chuckles, steps in closer—his large hands guiding yours.

From the edge of the nearby woods, Daryl lowered his crossbow slightly, eyes narrowing at the scene unfolding at the makeshift shooting range.

He'd been tracking a deer since before sunrise, following it across the eastern edge of the farm until the sound of voices had sent it bounding away.

Shane's body language set off warning bells in Daryl's mind.

The way the former deputy stood too close, the way his hands settled on your hips, the stiffness in your posture as you pulled away—it all read wrong.

Daryl's jaw clenched involuntarily. He knew that look in Shane's eyes—had seen it enough times in his own father's face, in Merle's face when they wanted something and weren't planning to take no for an answer.

He shifted his weight, debating whether to intervene. It wasn't his business.

He barely knew you, had barely spoken more than a handful of gruff words in your direction.

Yet something about the way Shane touched you made his skin crawl.

"Watching over someone?"

The quiet voice nearly made him jump. Carol had approached silently—a skill she'd perfected in her years with Ed.

"M'tracking a deer," Daryl muttered, not taking his eyes off you and Shane. "Lost it."

Carol followed his gaze, her expression darkening slightly as she observed the tension in your interaction with Shane. "He's been circling her since the CDC," she said quietly.

"Like a damned vulture."

Daryl grunted noncommittally, though his grip tightened on his crossbow.

"Lori shut him down hard," Carol continued. "Now he's looking for... consolation elsewhere."

"Ain't none of m'business," Daryl responded, though he didn't move away.

"No?" Carol's voice was soft but knowing. "That why you look like you're ready to put a bolt in him?"

"Man's tryin’ to impress her," Daryl scowled. "All that hands-on crap."

You fired again—another sharp crack of sound—and both Daryl and Carol watch you flinch and recoil sideways, your feet tangling in the grass. Shane caught your arm, steadying you with a chuckle.

“Easy, girl. Ain’t nobody expecting Annie Oakley.”

Your shoulders curling slightly inward, they could see you step away again as Shane reached for your arm.

"Shane doesn't handle rejection well," Carol observed. "Ed was the same way. Thought he was entitled to whatever he wanted."

Daryl's head snapped toward her. "He try something with you too?"

Carol shook her head. "No. I'm not his type. Plus..." She hesitated. "I think he knows better than to try with me. After Ed, I've gotten pretty good at spotting the warning signs."

She paused, before nodding in your direction. "She hasn't had that experience yet."

"She can handle 'erself," Daryl muttered, though he didn't sound convinced.

"Maybe." Carol's eyes were sad. "But sometimes it's nice to know someone's watching out for you."

Down at the range, Shane had moved even closer to you. His voice was too low to hear, but the tense set of your shoulders was visible even from this distance.

"She keeps telling him to back off," Daryl observed, an edge to his voice. "Dumbass doesn't listen."

"Some men don't," Carol said quietly.

Daryl finally turned to look at her directly. Something passed between them—an understanding born of similar wounds.

Carol had endured Ed's abuse for years, Daryl had grown up with his own father's violence. They both recognized the signs of someone pushing boundaries.

"You ever notice," Carol said carefully, "how she freezes up when he touches her? But when you're nearby, she seems... calmer?"

Daryl snorted. "Tch. Whatever."

"I'm just saying what I see." Carol's voice remained gentle. "When you found Sophia's doll yesterday, she was the first one to thank you."

"Don't mean nothing," he insisted.

"Maybe not." Carol shrugged. "Or maybe she feels safe. Safer than she does with him, anyway."

Before Daryl could respond, a sharp sound drew their attention back to the range.

You had knocked Shane's hand away more forcefully this time, your voice carrying clearly, "Hey Shane ... s-stop—NO."

Shane's posture changed immediately, his body language becoming more aggressive as he stepped into your space. "What's your problem? I'm just trying to—"

"Y'alright ?" Daryl called out, stepping from the treeline before he'd even realized he was moving.

His crossbow hung casually at his side, but his eyes were fixed on Shane with unmistakable warning.

Relief washed visibly over your face, while Shane's expression darkened.

"Just fine," Shane called back, his tone clipped.

"Dont look fine" Daryl countered, heading down the slope.

Carol followed a few steps behind. "Looks like she's done with her lesson."

You seized the opportunity. "We're finishing up. Actually, Carol, didnt you need help with the laundry?"

The lie was obvious, but you didn't care.

Shane forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, don't let me keep you then."

"We'll pick this up later." The threat was subtle but unmistakable in Shane's tone.

"Sure," you replied noncommittally. As Shane stalked away toward the farmhouse, you released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"You okay?" Carol asked gently.

"Fine," you said automatically, then reconsidered. "He doesn't understand the word 'no.'"

Daryl chewed on his thumbnail. "Want me to make 'im understand?"

The words came out before he realized it.

You looked up at him, surprised by the protective edge in his voice. "N-no ... I can handle Shane."

"We could help," Carol suggested. "I could use shooting practice too. Safety in numbers."

"Walsh ain't gonna back off easy," Daryl warned, finally looking back at you. "Men like that, they think they're owed something."

"I'm not anyone's prize," you mumbled into the ground.

Something flickered in Daryl's eyes. "No," he agreed quietly. "Y'ain't."

Carol glanced between the two of you, a small smile playing at her lips despite the seriousness of the situation.

As the three of you walked back toward camp, Carol fell into step beside Daryl, her voice dropping so only he could hear.

"See? She feels safe with you."

"Stop," he muttered, but there was less conviction in his tone than before.

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lovesickf-fics · 3 months ago

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I neeeeeeeed Vander and Silco to put me in my fucking place (ignore if you don't like this request) but I'm telling you either poly or separate I need to be the biggest brat ever and then I want them to tell me DOWN BOY and I would bark FR AAAAAUGAHSHWSHSKKSKS I NEED THEM CARNALLY

Some brats take two

tw : man handling, being tied to a chair, slapping, hair pulling, light kicking, choking, spitting, wiping face in spit, fingers in mouth, biting, light blood mention, degredation, tearing clothes, mouthing clothed cock, masterbation, cumming on face/chest, being left hard.

character(s) mentioned : Silco x Vander x m!reader (arcane)

reader pronouns : he/him

summary : With him a long-time menace to both leaders of the undercity, they decide that for once working together might just put you in your place

a/n : This was so fun to write, i will admit i struggle to write brat reader so i hope this was enough! i hope you enjoy nonnie<3

It doesn't take long for the undercity to catch wind of him, 6 months of getting in the way, breaking rules, downright just irritating the mass of the undercity, no one who has tried yet has managed to even slow him down.

So it works its way up, through the ranks of the undercity until it's Vander and Silco's problem, seperately but still, they decide if he can cause such a ruckus they can manage to be civilised until he's dealt with.

Catching him was probably the hardest part, something about him. He blended into the shadows, appearing and disappearing like a pest that just couldn't quit

Silco is assured that he'll falter at some point, and vander feels like nothing is going to get him to slow down.

It takes some time, for the jabs and snide comments to stop, the men are more or less getting along when it happens. When something goes terribly wrong for just one specific irritant.

He falls, while running and jumping away from the small chaos below he falls, landing on the solid ground with a thud, the air leaving him and he lays there wheezing.

It's vander that finds him, chasing the shape that seemed to almost fly from the problem. Vamder almost tramples him, too used to looking up, but there he is, panting at the bigger mans feet. It's almost perfection, winded and essentially knocked out, travel is simple.

Vander carries him to silco's place. The two had realised silco would be in more danger at vander's tavern, so it was just the way things worked out.

He woke up easily enough, his wrists and ankles strapped tight to a chair, bound by some worn-out rope, tugging relentlessly but with no weak spots for him to use he just looked like a fool infront of the two men.

The two men watched him in amusement, Vander even letting out a snort at his pitiful attempt. It's Silco that speaks first.

"You have been quite the handful, thankfully though, we can use that as a reason to drag this out"

Vander doesn't say anything, but he does crack a smile, moving first to touch him, tugging his hair so that his head snaps up, the strain upwards to meet the larger mans eyes making his neck ache

Silco circles the chair like a hawk, walking slow and deliberate, kicking the chair a few times, the creek of wood on concrete and the footsteps being the only sounds. The realisation of no one hearing him scream makes something burn inside him.

Vander and Silco step back, letting his head fall back to a natural state. He takes his chance and spits, the glob landing grossly across Vanders chest.

The laugh that vander lets out is deep and riddled with something that isn't humour.

It takes less than two steps for him to be back where he was, grip not on his scalp but his neck, nails digging in a little too hard to be comfortable, cander raises his other hand, slapping him rough across the cheek, pulling him forward in his daze of shock so his sore and tender cheek is now covered in the cold wet from where his spit landed.

"You're disgusting, yknow that? a pain in our asses and even when you're stuck here, you dont mutter an apology"

Vander is mumbling, the words hot above you and all cruel, Silco watches blank faced, unsurprised at the turn out, walking simply to the side of the bound chair and slapping down on his inner thigh, its swift and it stings, he hits another 3 times, all on the same spot until it throbs and the yelp leaves his mouth despite being held back.

The first crack in the demeanour seems to make both leaders grin, enjoying this more than they expected, Vander moves his grip from the back of his neck to the front, his head falling back and resisting the grip, squeezing tight vander chokes him, making his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth open.

Silco takes advantage of it, two of his fingers slipping into the easy access opening. The intrusion fills his mouth till his lips are against the base of silco's fingers, and his throat feels a little too full to be comfortable

Vander releases his neck, the gasp of air not filling him enough with how his mouth is held open by the fingers, he bites down, hard, the skin breaking and the warm, slow trickle of blood fills his mouth and drips down his chin.

The only sign that Silco even feels the digging is the slight twitch of his mouth and the exhale of breath, but the fingers dont move, and only push a little harder making him choke and sputter around the digits.

Vanders belt hitting the floor makes his eyes break the contact he held with silco, the larger man removing his outergarments, so he's left in nothing but his worn in top and unbottoned pants.

Vander nods at silco and silco moves, an understanding between them unspoken as vander steps infront of him again, silco now stripping off to the side in a similar fashion.

Vander slaps him across the face, the other cheek now stinging with the familiar sensation, gripping his hair with one hand and a leg coming up to step just in front of his growing bulge vander laughs.

"I dunno why im surprised that you're enjoying this. it's perfectly in character for an attention seeking slut like yourself isnt it?"

the question is rhetorical, nothing but a twitch in your groin and the heat rushing to your face was needed for Vander to get the answer he wanted.

Vander moves away, tugging the t-shirt as he goes, the fabric laying useless against the bound body in front of him.

He lays there useless, blood on his chin, shirt open and still strapped spread, his bulge on display for anyone who looked, and Silco and Vander looked.

Both men watched him, enjoying the mess that he was after leaving messes across their territory for months it felt only fair that they made him remember just how messy it can be.

The pair of them weren't hard yet but it wasn't difficult to change that, silco took his head and spoke

"Now I've learned we can't trust you not to bite, so we'll just have to find other ways to use this pathetic body of yours, won't we? i mean, you couldn't even run away properly. What a useless mess"

Silco doesn't elaborate. Simply gripping his jaw and holding it open, using the grip to force his head down, his back curving uncomfortably till his open mouth is lined up with Silco's clothed cock, with a pull Silco makes it so he is pressed against the open heat, using the grip on his jaw to move it, as though all he was to Silco was a toy to fuck.

the fabric dampens and becomes uncomfortable to press against quickly, but it does nothing to deter silco, his eyes stay focused on him and how the spit gets across his cheeks and down his chin, moving him carelessly so theres even some on the tip of his nose.

After soiling the boy, Silco pulls away barely half hard but thoroughly entertained as he strips the damp pants and tugs his boxers down, both Silco and Vander stood like that.

He doesn't know when vander stripped more or when the man had started to touch himself at the sight of him being humiliated, but Vander was, and it clearly worked as he was hard.

Vander takes Silco's place, knowing better than to trust a mouth that bites so he simply stands directly in front, continuing to move his hand, acting as though he wasn't sitting there but at the same time staring as though he was the only reason Vander might cum

Silco steps in beside Vander, both of their cocks infront of him, hands touching themselves and eachother, while they touched their own cocks, they let their other hands wander across eachother.

Vqnder holding the small of silco's back, fingers squeezing around the smaller waist and Silco leaning into vanders chest, eyeing him as though he was dirt, despite how his hand moves a little quicker whenever they lock eyes.

With both of them so close yet too far, his cock strains in the only fabric he wears that isnt torn, his face is covered in drying spit and blood and his body aches from being tugged and slapped and straining against the binds that still hold him tight.

He almost cracks, his body hurts and he's desperate, tears well in his eyes and thats when it happens.

Vander cums first, he had been going longer than Silco, cumming in spurts that cover his chest and collarbones, the splash landing up across his jaw, mixing with the mess of fluids he's covered in. The grunts Vander makes sounding gutteral as he tilts his head down into silco's hair

Silco follows soon after, vanders hand taking over his own, tugging the cock like he knew it with his eyes closed, the cum going higher, splattering across his cheek and nose, some going as high as his forehead, silco bites back any sounds but the way his body shakes from the orgasm shows the way it takes over him.

They recover silently, touching each other in passing as they dress, silco wearing a fresh pair of pants, leaving the soiled ones on the concrete, a hot reminder of what happened now that the two are untossled

Leaving him there is cruel, but its just to them, vander leaves with silent words of a repeat. Silco doesnt bother answering him with words and waves the larger man away with his hand, Now the two of you.

Silco gives you a once over with his eyes and curls his lip.

"Disgusting, ill have someone dispose of you later, we wouldn't want you thinking a reward would come of your bratty behaviour"

and he leaves. The door slammed behind him, left alone bound, damp in fluids, and hard in your pants. You learned a lesson, but not the one they wanted.

You would be back for sure.

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sunflowerandsunshinebaby · 3 months ago

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(Budding) CG Bella w/ reader

Fandom: Harry Potter; CG Bellatrix w/ sad GN reader

Request: me :)

Tags: @kawaiipeacemusic @helloomimi @cryingatwindermerepeaks @miloscozycorner @sleepystarryskies

TW: Very mild anxiety, mentions of past annoyance

The Room of Requirement was by far the best room in Hogwarts and therefore the one you were in the most. Your friends enjoyed it too but for the first time in a long time you were in there by yourself. The room was dimmed and full of blankets and pillows. You were sitting in a beanbag chair underneath a dark blue thick blanket with your thumb in your mouth. It was a bad habit and you knew it but it had been a while since you had regressed without any of your friends to help & you had slipped back into it. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep during potions but quidditch practice was running you ragged. Professor Slughorn had just been rambling about one of his friends in the ministry of magic like usual. Then he had gotten annoyed and disinvited you from his party which you had wanted to go to in order to see Andromeda more. Andromeda Black was quickly becoming one of your closest friends at Hogwarts and had been the first to know about your regression after she revealed she regressed. However with you swamped with quidditch and her with all her extracurriculars you rarely got to see each other especially with her protective older sisters.

You're shocked out of your thoughts by seeing the wooden blocks and the pacifier in a container near the bean bag chair. In your emotional haze you hadn’t noticed the room having adjusted to your regression. You rub the lingering tears from your eyes. You knew it was pathetic to cry over it but you hated it when people were annoyed with you. Your thumb slips farther into your mouth and you suckle it as you curl up picking up the blocks. They had different magical animals on them on one side, wands on the other, etc. You began to stack them trying to match the sides with one hand continuing to suck your thumb. You’re startled when you hear the door to the room open. Your head snaps up and you see a mass of black wildly coiled hair and you freeze recognizing the sight of Andromeda's older sister. She cocks an eyebrow and closes the door behind her and it disappears. You hadn't realized people could get into the room while others were within it. Your thumb slips out of your mouth and you quickly pull your blanket over the blocks. You knew Bellatrix didn’t judge Andromeda but she didn’t know you half as well.

Bellatrix walks a bit farther into the room “This certainly isn’t what I expected to see” she drawled and you notice the Slytherin head girl badge glinting off of her cloak. You look away as she examines the room and she catches a glimpse of the blocks hiding underneath her blanket. Bellatrix’s gaze softened ever so slightly “So you’re the friend Andromeda mentioned” she said decisively. You nod slowly “Um hi” you stammer slightly. You had only seen Bellatrix a few times before and you had forgotten how intimidating the older girl was. Her eyes flashed with mild impatience but she didn’t comment, simply settled in a chair across from yours. “So what happened?” She asked dryly “For andromeda” she added hastily. You nod slowly, surprised she was remaining. “Slu’horn just got annoyed” you tell her quietly and she scowls “What for?” Her stance reminded you of a protective cat ready to pounce. “I fell sleep” you admit fairly confident that the older girl would then blame it on you. “Aren’t you on the quidditch team with McKay as Captain? That girl runs you all to the ground” Bellatrix says bluntly and you nod. “He knows that too he’s interested in school quidditch for some godforsaken reason.” She says curtly and you nod hesitantly, not certain if that's correct.

Bellatrix examines you, her eyes cutting over you and you fidget with your fingers secretly playing with the blocks under the blanket. She sighs “Are you regressed right now?” you stare at her before nodding “mhm…” She nods taking this information in as protectiveness seems to settle into her and she sighs again. “Lets go talk to Slughorn, okay little one?” she says firmly and you stare “...why?” she rolls her eyes “So we can get this sorted out. Andromeda already complains she can’t hang out with you enough…Besides it's unsettling to see little ones cry.” Bellatrix adds gruffly and you stand up the blanket falling off of you. You’re dressed in jeans and a jumper with stars on it and you follow her out of the Room of Requirement. She walks alongside you, her cloak swishing and you catch a glimpse of her slightly crooked wand in the pocket. Your own wand was in the small satchel hanging from your shoulder and she sideways glances at you. “I’m more used to dealing with Andromeda” she declares abruptly as the two of you begin to walk down the stairs to the first floor and you shoot her a quizzical look. Bellatrix refuses to elaborate and then grabs the back of your jumper as you almost take a step into thin air. “Careful” she scolds holding you back and then slips her hand into yours to keep you from wandering off again. “Sorry” you reply flushing lightly as you clutch her cold hand.

She leads you down the proper staircases and you make it to the way to the dungeons and potions classroom. The hand holding and gentle scolding had done nothing to help your headspace and it made you anxious to talk to adults when little. “You’ll be fine darling” Bellatrix drawled as you entered the dark hallway and your head snapped up surprised at her ability to read you. Of course Andromeda could as well but she was scarily good. She shoots you an amused crooked smirk and you duck your head away. She forces you to a halt outside of Slughorn's classroom “I’ll do the talking okay?” her voice is much softer now and you nod “Thank you.” Bellatrix simply squeezes your hand and tugs you in stalking up to his desk. You stand a little behind her as she raps her knuckles on his desk “Did you tell y/n they couldn’t attend your latest party because of a minor mishap in class?” Her voice is sharp and it makes even your blood run cold. Slughorn looks up from his crossword “Yes Miss Lestrange” he replies, his eyes twinkling at the challenge. “I would like you to revoke their invitation for your party” Bellatrix states and you nod from behind her. “They fell asleep in my class” Slughorn retorted and Bellatrix's stance went even straighter. “As you know their quidditch captain runs them through strenuous workouts and they are pushed to their limits. Now I will ensure y/n gets enough sleep in order to prevent this from occurring again.” Your eyebrows raise at the promise but you realized why she had been made Head Girl. Slughorn glanced between the two of you before nodding and waving the two of you out.

Bellatrix gave you a triumphant look and led you back outside “thank you” you say quietly and she nods the protectiveness seeping out of her body a little. “Of course. Andromeda cares about you and she’ll love seeing you there…and if she cares about you Cissy and I do too” she half grumbles the last part and you smile. Bellatrix acting like this had made you fall a little deeper into your headspace and you slip your fingers into your mouth. She scowls and tugs them out “That's a disgusting habit” she scolds and grabs a handkerchief from her cloak wiping your hand off. “Sorry” you mumble as she leads you back to where you had exited the Room of Requirement. The door materialized again and she gently pushed you in and you darted back to your bean bag chair. The room was similar to how it had been before but now the blankets had constellations on them and a few green and blue ones were scattered around. You settle back into the chair and she raises an eyebrow at you and you nod “can sit with me” you say shyly and she settles in next to you. Her arm wraps lazily around your shoulder and you tentatively lean against her a little. Andromeda mentioned that even though she didn’t initiate it often Bellatrix gave surprisingly good cuddles.

Bellatrix saw the pacifier resting on the chair and she quickly wiped it on her cloak “Want to use this instead of those fingers?” She questions and you nod happily and she slides it into your mouth. You suckle it falling even deeper and feeling oddly safe in the Head Girls arms. “For the record…the next time you’re feeling little you’re free to come see Andy-Andromeda and I. Cissy too if she's there” Bellatrix says and you light up a little. Andromeda hadn’t really invited you into the Slytherin dormitory yet but now you would be able to see her! You give her a wide smile and nod quickly “fank you” you say around the pacifier. “Of course, little one. And” she chucks your chin up “If something like what happened with Professor Slughorn happens again then don’t hesitate to come to me and I’ll deal with it alright?” Her eyes burned with an almost manic energy that made a small shiver run up your spine but you nodded. “Good.” Bellatrix states as you play with her hair and suckle the pacifier feeling far better than when you had first gone into the Room.

#✨☀️sunny writes #sfw flip #harry potter agere #hp agere #cg bellatrix #x little!reader #little!reader

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pinkcreamypeach · 5 months ago

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"Please don't let me be alone...”

(TW: Panic attacks, mentions of kidnappings, and Burn injury.

Sorry to all the Bowser lovers, but this is just for my AU. My princess peach has a very bad relationship with him. Oh, and I'm writing Peach with trauma for this story, so sorry, Peach lovers. (I’m a Peach lover myself.) Anyways, it’s heavy on the angst but has a happy ending.

In a realm bathed in eternal sunshine, Princess Peach lay on a soft, golden blanket, her hand reaching towards the brilliant blue sky. The clouds above her lazily shifted into whimsical shapes playful creatures, a Yoshi surrounded by eggs that made her laugh with pure joy. Around her, the land was filled with life, and her beloved toads played happily, weaving crowns of vibrant flowers. Their laughter was like music, echoing through the meadows.Toadette, her cheeks flushed with excitement, bounded over to Peach, holding up a flower crown for her. The little toad’s eyes sparkled with joy. Peach smiled, giggling as she lowered her head to let the tiny one crown her.

“What a beautiful crown... Thank you, my little sweet,” Peach said, pressing a soft kiss to Toadette’s forehead. The toad beamed, her blush deepening as she scampered off to join the others in their playful game. Peach’s heart swelled with happiness, her smile brighter than the sun above.

But suddenly, a flash of red caught her eye. A familiar red cap Mario’s cap. She reached out to touch it, her fingers brushing the soft fabric. She could smell the sweet scent of mango on it, a scent she had come to associate with him. A soft blush spread across her cheeks as she held it close, feeling the warmth of his presence. Her fingers traced the stitching of the M, and for a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes, feeling the soft fabric against her chest, a sense of peace settling in her heart.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Mario walking away, his figure disappearing into the depths of Mushroom Forest. The path ahead was obscured by towering tree mushrooms, their thick trunks rising like giants.

“Mario! Mario!” Peach called, holding his cap tightly in one hand, the other lifting her ballgown as she hurried after him. With each step, she got closer, but he always seemed to move farther away. The soft, green grass beneath her heels gave way to a growing sense of unease. The air around her shifted, a strange, acrid smell starting to fill her nose. As she ran, the sky above her darkened, the once cheerful blue now streaked with deep reds and oranges. Smoke began to swirl around her, and the world seemed to tilt, spinning into something unfamiliar.

Peach’s breath quickened, her heart racing as she tried to catch up. The air turned thick and choking, the smoke blinding her, and the sweet scent of the forest gave way to a burning sting in her lungs. Panic gripped her chest. She stumbled over a root, falling hard to the ground. Her ankle was ensnared by a thick vine, her hair tangled with grass and petals. The flower crown she had been so proud of, was now wilting, the flowers decaying in her hair.

Her breath was ragged, her body trembling as distant screams reached her ears. She lifted her head and saw the impossible a nightmarish vision unfolding before her eyes. Her kingdom, once peaceful and serene, was now engulfed in flames. The toads, her people, were trapped in cages, their cries of fear and anguish cutting through the air. The sky had turned a fiery red, the clouds now swirling in ominous, black masses.

Her heart ached. No... not her people! Not her kingdom!

She rushed forward, her dress flying behind her, her hands reaching for the cages. She grasped the cold metal bars with all her might, her voice breaking as she cried out, “NO! Let them go! Let them go!”

But her hands burned as the metal grew unbearably hot, the flames of destruction licking at her skin. She could feel the heat searing through her palms, her flesh blistering, but still, she gripped the bars, unwilling to let go. Toadette’s tear-streaked face pressed against her hand, desperately begging for her to save them. Peach’s vision blurred with tears, her heart thundering in her chest as she held on, enduring the pain, unable to stop the inevitable.

The cage began to rise, pulling the toads higher and higher, and Peach’s strength began to fail her. Her grip loosened, her hands shaking violently. The pain was unbearable, her nerves fried by the heat. With a final, heart-wrenching scream, she fell backward, her body crashing to the ground. The wind howled as Mario’s cap was tossed from her grasp, tumbling away just beyond her reach. Desperation clawed at her heart. She tried to run, to reach for it, but her hands burned, useless could not obey. Her body betrayed her as she stumbled and fell into a cage of her own, the bars slamming shut with a deafening clang.

Tears streamed down her face as she lay on the cold floor of the cage, her body broken and her spirit shattered. She lifted her head, her hair falling around her face like a veil, and looked down at her hands. The burns had faded, but now, there were white gloves on her hands, and the familiar feeling of her wedding dress, white as snow, clung to her. A white veil hung loosely from her head, the fabric rippling in the still, smoky air. She was no longer the carefree princess in the fields. She was a prisoner of a nightmare.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she gazed into the darkness around her. There, standing in the shadow, was Bowser. His eyes glowed like burning embers, his jagged teeth gleaming as he stepped closer. His monstrous size loomed over her, a terrifying presence that made her feel small and insignificant.

“You’re finally mine… my Koopa Queen,” Bowser’s voice rumbled, a cruel grin twisting his face.

Peach recoiled, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She shook her head, the words stuck in her throat. She wanted to scream for Mario, for help, but no sound came.

“Mario... H-he…” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

Bowser’s laugh echoed in the air, and he spat out the charred remains of Mario’s cap, the tattered fabric, and the blackened bones of her love landing before her. Peach’s eyes widened in horror as she looked at the remains. Her body trembled as she reached for them, cradling the bones against her chest. Tears fell from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks, mingling with the ashes and soot. Her fingers brushed the cold, brittle bones, and her heart shattered.

The world around her seemed to close in, suffocating her. Bowser’s laughter echoed in her ears, cruel and mocking, as her own sobs drowned out any hope of escape. Her body was on fire with grief, her soul consumed by the crushing weight of loss.

“No... No… NOOO! MARIO!!” She screamed.

━━━━━━◇❖◇━━━━━━━━━━◇❖◇━━━━━━━

Peach jerked awake, her heart racing as if it had been ripped from her chest. She sat up violently, gasping for air, her body slick with sweat. Her disheveled hair clung to her face, and her eyes were swollen and teary, her skin flushed from the panic that gripped her. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, and her chest felt tight like it was caving in on itself. The sound of her breathing echoed in her ears, growing louder and harder to ignore. Each breath felt as though it could be her last, and the rawness of her voice barely broke through her shaky sobs.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as they gripped the sheets, her pink nightgown sticking to her damp skin. She could feel the tears running down her face, but there was nothing she could do to stop them. Her nose was stuffy, clogged from her panicked sobs, and the air seemed to grow heavier by the second. Her entire body was a tense, shuddering mess, struggling to hold it together. Her bangs hung in front of her eyes, a veil that only intensified her feeling of disorientation.

Her breaths became more frantic, her chest rising and falling with each strained inhale, the air too thick to breathe in fully. She curled into herself, wrapping her trembling body in the blankets, trying to find comfort, though her heart still pounded against her ribcage like a drum. She couldn't make the sobs stop each one a broken plea for help, a sound that felt so foreign in her own throat.

Her eyes turned toward the balcony as the curtains fluttered softly in the breeze, the moonlight spilling in like a cool, distant reminder that the world was still spinning, even if her own had stopped. The rhythmic flow of the curtains was the only thing that seemed steady in the chaos of her mind. She shut her eyes tightly, willing herself to calm down. She just needed to breathe, to hold herself together, to make it through the night.

Please, not right now, she begged silently. Please, just let it stop...

Suddenly, a soft, familiar voice broke through the noise in her mind.

“Principessa...?”

Her heart nearly stopped at the sound. Her body went stiff, the sobs catching in her throat as her gaze snapped toward the source of the voice. Mario. It was Mario.

Her breath hitched, and she coughed violently, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. She was trembling so badly now, but somehow, hearing his voice was both the worst and the best thing she could have hoped for. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to push down the wave of nausea that followed. Slowly, she lifted her head from the covers, still struggling to find her bearings.

“M... Mario… is that… you?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, cracking as she tried to wipe away the remnants of her tears with the sleeve of her nightgown. She sniffled, her voice hoarse, and her chest tight with the weight of everything that had just happened.

Mario immediately recognized the unease in her behavior how her body was still shaking, how she was trying to pull herself together but struggling. His heart clenched with concern as he took a step closer, his gaze softening as he saw the tears still staining her cheeks, her nose red and stuffy. He could feel her discomfort, the distance between them, but he didn’t want to overwhelm her. So, he paused, standing a few steps away, letting her take the lead when she was ready.

“Principessa, are you okay?” His voice was gentle, and careful, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile calm. He gave her the space she needed, not wanting to make things worse. Instead, he went to work, preparing a warm cup of chamomile tea and grabbing a box of tissues. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think of to help.

For what felt like an eternity, Peach sat there, trying to calm her breathing, to bring herself back from the edge. Her heart still beat erratically in her chest, but she focused on the simple task of breathing in and out, slow and steady, as the minutes passed. After what seemed like ages, she finally looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with the remnants of her tears. The tightness in her chest had lessened, and her breaths had become less desperate, though the exhaustion was still heavy in her bones.

She didn’t have to say anything; Mario could see the relief in her eyes, even as they remained soft with lingering pain. He handed her the warm tea and a tissue, his presence a calm that began to steady the storm inside her.

Peach took the tea from him with trembling hands, offering him a weak but grateful smile. She sipped slowly, the warmth of the drink soothing her raw throat, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt a faint sense of peace settle over her. She wasn’t alone. Mario was here. And for now, that was enough.

“...Having the same nightmares again?”

Mario’s voice was gentle, as he settled into his seat, allowing Peach the space she needed. He watched as she quietly blew on her tea before taking a small sip, the warmth grounding her. It always took a while, minutes of silence, deep breaths, the occasional fidgeting but eventually, the fear would fade just enough for her to speak.

She finally looked at him.Her tired, baggy eyes told him everything before she even opened her mouth. Her thick lashes, damp from earlier tears, trembled as she blinked. The exhaustion, the lingering remnants of a panic attack iit was all there, written on her delicate features.

“...Yes,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I know I should be over it. You always save me… I shouldn’t still be having these… stupid nightmares.”

Her grip on the teacup tightened, her fingers trembling slightly. She frowned, scrunching up her nose in frustration at herself.

Mario reached out, his warm hand rubbing gentle circles on her shoulder. The touch startled her out of her self-loathing, grounding her in the present. His brown eyes, filled with concern, shimmered under the soft light.

“These nightmares aren’t stupid,” He reassured her, his voice steady, certain. “You suffered, Peach. Just because you weren’t physically hurt doesn’t mean what you went through wasn’t real. Trauma doesn’t have to leave scars to be painful… Bowser hurt you.”

His voice darkened slightly at the mention of that name. There was no mistaking the quiet resentment there.

Peach bit her lip.

“But he hurt you and Luigi worse than me…” Her voice wavered, heavy with emotion. “All I do is get kidnapped. You have to fight your way to me. You get burned, frozen, drowned you go through so much… all because of me.”

The weight of guilt pressed into her chest, making her curl into herself, hugging the empty teacup like it could somehow protect her from the shame clawing at her heart.

And then, warmth.

Mario wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, his chin resting against her shoulder. Peach sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden contact, but then she melted into him. She clung to him, burying her face in his hair, the scent of mango wrapping around her like a lullaby.

Mario made everything feel lighter.He made everything feel safer.They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until a soft growl broke the silence.

Peach blinked, realizing it was her own stomach that had betrayed her. Mario pulled back slightly, a knowing smile playing at his lips. But as soon as he moved, she instinctively tightened her arms around him, reluctant to let go.

He chuckled, cheeks dusting pink, but he didn’t pull away.

“I should make you something to eat,” He murmured.

“Please don't leave me alone…”

It was barely audible, but the way she gripped his hands so tight, as if he might disappear made his heart ache. Her blue eyes shimmered with unspoken fear, the fear of waking up alone, of being taken away, of losing him.Mario squeezed her hands gently, a quiet promise in the way his fingers brushed over hers.

“I would never… Mio caro.”His voice was warm, like the first rays of sunrise after a storm.

Peach’s lips trembled, but this time, it wasn’t from sadness it was from the small, delicate smile that began to form. Mario held her hand with such care, as if she were something precious, something irreplaceable. Slowly, he began to walk backward, still holding onto her, their eyes locked. Peach found herself smiling more and more, her heart fluttering in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Then—THUD!

Mario bumped into the door.Peach giggled, and Mario, a little flustered, laughed with her. The sound was soft, sweet, and full of something unspoken yet deeply felt.

And at that moment, Peach knew.

No matter how many nightmares came, no matter how heavy the past weighed on her, she would always have this

HIM ❤️

And that made everything feel just a little bit lighter.

@keylovesstuff @bberetd @peaches2217 @silenzahra

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pookalicious-hq · 9 months ago

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blue velvet... jinx x reader

next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 2.5k a/n: this is a start to my jinx x reader series that i'm planning on making, lmk if you like it loves mwah.

You laid flat on the rooftop, the rain pouring down in heavy sheets, each drop landing with a soft patter before joining the steady flow that ran across the stone. The water soaked through your clothes, turning your skin cold, but you barely noticed. The downpour was like a thick, weighty blanket, wrapping you in a cocoon of sound that muffled the world beyond. The constant rhythm of the rain against the roof matched your heartbeat, slow and steady, while the distant rumble of thunder vibrated through the air, a low and soothing hum.

Above you, the sky was a swirling mass of dark, ragged clouds, woven tightly together and swallowing any hint of light from the city below. The scent of wet stone and earth filled the air, sharp and fresh, mingling with the metallic tang that came with every crackle of lightning.

Water pooled around your body, gathering in shallow dips on the rooftop, but you didn’t shift or move to avoid it. Huge wings lay limp at your sides, the once-soft feathers plastered to the surface, weighed down by the relentless rain. They felt heavy, but not in a way that burdened you—more like the sensation grounded you to the earth beneath.

You closed your eyes, the cold wetness of your soaked clothes and skin fading away. In its place, warmth blossomed in your chest with each roll of thunder, spreading through your limbs like a quiet fire. The storm was a comfort, a reminder of who you used to be. Here, exposed and uncaged, with the sky as your only ceiling, you felt a sense of peace she rarely found in Zaun’s suffocating depths.

A poor bird with no room to fly had found solace within your element. The rain could not trap you; the storm could not harm you—it was part of yourself, the only place where you felt free.

If not for the nagging bruise forming on the side of her torso, you might as well have fallen asleep. With a tired sigh, you tugged your shirt up slightly, just enough to inspect today’s damage. The faint glow of distant lightning illuminated the angry purple blossom spread across your ribs, each raindrop that hit the tender skin sending a dull ache through your body. It wasn’t the worst injury you've had, but the soreness lingered, a reminder of the fight.

Nothing had been broken—just your pride, really. The job was supposed to be simple: in and out. No one should have touched you. Yet somehow, they’d managed to land a hit. You winced, not so much from the pain but from the fact that you let it happen.

The rain pattered against your exposed skin, a cold contrast to the heat radiating from the bruise. You laid your hand over it, as if willing to take the pain away. But the storm, for all its comfort, couldn’t heal what was beneath your skin. It could only distract you from it.

You closed your eyes again, letting the sound of the rain drown out the frustration still swirling inside you. The job wasn’t a failure, but it hadn’t gone smoothly. And now, lying on the rooftop, you were trying to forget the adrenaline, the chaos, the way your powers surged uncontrollably for a moment when things went wrong.

In the distance, the thunder grumbled like a low growl, echoing the storm within your mind. You sighed deeply, letting your body relax further into the cold stone beneath you as if you could become part of the rooftop itself and disappear into the sky.

The storm continued its relentless downpour, the city below a blurred mess of shadows and rain. You barely registered the sound of footsteps splashing through puddles behind you. You were too lost in the corners of your mind, too focused on the rhythmic thrum of rain against skin.

But the familiar voice, always loud enough to cut through anything, broke through the storm’s lull.

"Birdie!" Jinx’s voice rang out, playful and teasing. You opened your eyes, blinking through the raindrops as Jinx approached, her figure a blur of wet blue hair and mismatched clothing. "You really pick the weirdest places to hide, you know that?"

You didn’t move, letting your head rest against the cold stone as she watched Jinx saunter closer, completely unfazed by the rain. "Not hiding," you muttered, though your voice lacked its usual edge. "Just… being."

Jinx dropped down beside you with a huff, legs crossed beneath her, her bright eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Being what? Wet? Miserable? Extremely lonely since I’m not with you?"

You chuckled softly, chest rising and falling with the effort. "Something like that."

Jinx tilted her head, and for a moment, the playful sparkle in her eyes dimmed as she noticed the way your hand hovered near your ribs, just below the edge of your shirt. Without asking, Jinx leaned forward, brushing your hand aside with a featherlight touch, her eyes sharp as she inspected the bruise. By now, there were no lines that hadn’t been crossed between the two girls.

"Well, shit," Jinx muttered, her voice dropping an octave. "Looks like they got a good one in, huh."

You sighed, letting your hand drop into the pool of water beside you. "It was dumb. They got lucky."

"Lucky?" Jinx’s brows shot up, her grin returning as she sat back on her heels. "Birdie, they didn’t get lucky. They got stupid. Anyone who lays a hand on you is just asking for it. And by it, I mean getting zapped into a pile of dust, super duper dead."

You gave her a half-hearted smile in return, your eyes drifting back to the sky. "Maybe next time."

Jinx shifted closer, lying down flat beside you, her shoulder brushing against your arm. For a few moments, you both laid there in silence, the rain continuing to pelt down, soaking you both. Jinx let out a small sigh, her voice softer now. "You know… I could’ve helped, right?"

You turned your head slightly, meeting Jinx’s eyes. "I know."

"You should’ve told me," Jinx’s voice had a hint of something uncharted in it, something she didn’t often let show. "You don’t have to do everything alone, you know?"

Your gazes met—a soft union between your own foggy grey eyes and Jinx’s cobalt blue, tinged with navy highlights from the stormy sky above. The rain slid down your faces, unnoticed, as if the world beyond the rooftop didn’t exist for that brief moment. There was a weight in Jinx’s eyes that you hadn’t seen in a long time—something deeper than the usual spark of chaos.

You hesitated, lips parting but no words coming. You were supposed to be the strong one, the one who could handle whatever Silco threw your way. The one who didn’t need help. But here, under the clouds, lying beside Jinx, that strength felt more like a burden.

"I…" your voice faltered, the confession stuck somewhere in your throat. Your mind raced for a way to explain it, but all that came out was, "I didn’t want to bother you."

Jinx blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching into a lopsided smile, though there was still that trace of vulnerability in her expression. "Bother me? You? Birdie, come on…" She nudged her gently with her elbow, trying to pull out the usual banter, but her heart wasn’t fully in it this time. "You're never a bother. Not to me."

You could feel your chest tighten, the words sinking in. For so long, you'd been on your own, dealing with the pain, the chaos, and the aftermath of everything done to yourself. You had always tried to find an escape. But now... now you weren't sure if you wanted to escape anymore. Not when Jinx was here.

"I didn’t think you'd care." The words came out quieter than you intended, almost lost in the rain.

Jinx’s smile faded, her eyes widening just a little as if the admission had surprised her. She stayed quiet for a moment, studying your face like she was piecing together a puzzle. Then, with a soft sigh, Jinx shifted closer, her arm brushing against her side as she rested her chin on her hands, lying on her stomach now.

"Of course I care, you dummy," Jinx murmured, her tone unusually soft. "I care way more than you probably realize."

Her words hung in the air between the two, heavy with meaning that you weren't entirely sure how to respond to. The familiar warmth that the storm usually gave you was now radiating from Jinx, the closeness between them bringing a different kind of comfort.

“You know I love you more than anything in the whole world, right?” Jinx said as she propped her head on top of your chest, voice light but with a warmth that you always found comforting.

You chuckled softly, fingers absently running through Jinx’s soaked blue hair. “Yeah, I love you too.”

The words felt easy between you—familiar. To yourself, it was just how they you: two best friends who stuck together through everything. You didn’t notice the way Jinx’s smile faltered for just a split second before she buried her face in your chest, hiding the small sigh that followed.

Jinx had given up on trying to explain how she felt. She’d tried before, more times than she cared to admit. But you were so... broken it was like trying to explain the stars to someone who’d never looked up. Where did all your love go? Yet, lying there, wrapped in the storm, something shifted in the air between them.

“Good,” Jinx mumbled, her words muffled by your shirt. “Just making sure.”

You smiled, closing your eyes again as the rain drummed softly against your skin. You didn’t realize how much weight those little words carried for Jinx. You just knew that, with Jinx beside you, the thunder felt less chaotic. Less like something you had to run from.

For Jinx, that was enough. It had to be.

She looked at you beneath herself, watching you relax into the rain, face peaceful. If this was all she’d ever get—a friend who didn’t mind when she crashed on top of her, who laughed at her jokes and let her stay close—then that was more than most people ever got in Zaun. She could live with that.

As long as you were happy, Jinx would be too.

The sound of the rain became a gentle backdrop, creating a world where they were just two girls finding solace in each other’s presence. You could feel Jinx’s breath against your shirt, warm and steady. It made your heart swell in a way you couldn’t fully grasp. The tension you carried in your chest began to ease, slowly replaced by the warmth of Jinx’s affection—a connection that was undeniable, yet uncharted.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like?” Jinx’s voice was muffled, her chin resting against your chest. “If we just… left all this behind?”

“Zaun?” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes. But where would we even go?”

“Anywhere!” Jinx exclaimed, her enthusiasm peeking through the softness of her tone. “We could go to the surface, see the sky for real. Or just find a place where nobody knows our names, where we can be whoever we want.”

You considered it, the idea stirring something inside. “It sounds nice,” You said slowly, “but it’s not that simple. You know that.”

“Why not?” Jinx’s voice was firm, a contrast to the rain’s gentle cadence. “You don’t owe Silco anything, Birdie. And you sure as hell don’t owe anyone else anything. You’re stronger than literally anyone. We can do this together, you know.”

You let your fingers tangle deeper in Jinx’s hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers like the rain. “I don’t want to put you in danger. Not again.”

Jinx lifted her head, their eyes locking in a moment that felt both fragile and electrifying. “You think I care about danger?” she scoffed, though her voice held a playful edge. “I’m literally a ticking time bomb. And as long as I’m with you, I’m not afraid of anything.”

“But I am,” you admitted, your voice a quiet confession. “I’m afraid of losing control. Of becoming someone I can’t recognize. Someone who always hurts people.”

“You’re not that person,” Jinx said, her tone unwavering. “You’re not Silco. You’ve got a good heart. Just look at how you took care of me when I was—” She paused, her voice trailing off as a shadow of memory crossed her face. “You’ve always taken care of me.”

“And you’ve always been there for me, too,” you replied, your heart swelling at the realization. “I don’t want to lose that.”

“Then we won’t,” Jinx said, a determined fire sparking in her eyes. “You’re my Birdie. I’ll fight for you. We’ll get out of all this together. I promise.”

The sincerity in Jinx’s gaze struck you with an intensity that made your breath catch. It felt like a lifeline, like a bridge spanning the chasm of fear that threatened to swallow you whole. In that moment, you saw not just Jinx, but a future—one where they were free, one where they could carve out their own lives.

“I just—” you hesitated, the weight of your emotions threatening to spill over. “I’m too weak.”

Jinx leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. “We’ll figure it out together. And if you ever feel lost, just look for me.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth radiating from Jinx wrapping around you like a shield. You felt the storm inside you start to settle, the chaos slowly fading. For the first time in a long while, you felt like you could breathe.

With a small smile, you whispered, “Okay. Together.”

Jinx’s grin broke wide, her eyes sparkling with mischief and joy. “That’s the spirit! Now, if we’re gonna run away from all this, we need to come up with a plan. And maybe a cool name for our adventure.”

“Adventure?” you chuckled, spirits lifting. “Like a real one? I’ve never had an adventure.”

Jinx sat up, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she launched into a grand idea. “We’ll be the legendary duo! The Storm and the Joker! Together, we’ll conquer the world! We’ll make people remember us!”

You laughed again, the sound bright against the backdrop of rain. “The Storm and the Joker? Might hafta re-evaluate your naming skills.”

“Shush! It’s perfect!” Jinx cackled. “Come on, don’t you feel it? The energy? The potential for power!”

You felt the warmth spread through you, the playful spirit in Jinx infectious. “Alright, alright. I believe you,” you agreed, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

Jinx’s grin widened as she bounced to her feet, pulling you up beside her. “We’re not going to be just any duo—we’re going to be the best duo! And the world won’t know what hit it!”

You couldn’t help but grin, the rain still pouring around them but feeling lighter now, as if the storm had shifted into something else entirely—something exciting. Maybe it was the promise of freedom or the bond they shared. Whatever it was, it felt right.

“Okay,” You said, a newfound determination blossoming within. “As long as you're with me.”

a/n: hi loves, i hope you like this little intro to the mc and her relationship with jinx. sorta gives some backstory cues but you don't need to focus too hard on that.

thanks for reading pookies, lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist <3

#jinx x reader #jinx arcane #vi x reader #vi x caitlyn #arcane x reader #vi arcane #powder arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane

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lavenlady · 3 months ago

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Heya! Stumbled upon ur Black Hook fic and couldn’t stop thinking abt it but with Heavy Iron. Is it okay to reuse the mass displacement scenario with Yan!Heavy Iron x fem human reader?

It is alright! Here you are Anon! Enjoy!

TW : yandere, NSFW parts, dub-con

❇︎ Temptation ❇︎ | Yan!Heavy Iron x Fem!Human!Reader

You are a close friend of Edo, having been helping with his shop for as long as you can remember. While he was repairing the vehicles, you were the one who cared about cosmetics. Your steady hands gained you a reputation, which got the shoop more popularity and this is how your business went up.

The first time you found out about Cardbots was when Blue Cop and Jun trashed the Auto Shop during their fight with Mega Trucker. Even since you helped them with their frame care, offering to repair scratches and take care of their appearance. You certainly were calmer than Edo, easily finding common ground between you and Cardbots.

Of course you had some disagreements, but overall got along with everyone. It was a shock that you managed to get on good terms with Heavy Iron. Especially after getting his frame in perfect shape, it was as if he wasn't ever damaged. His paint-job was practically shining, he truly looked his best.

You were constantly present in his thoughts, so small and powerless yet respected by his now teammates. It drove him to know more about you. He started watching you closely, seeking you to talk about anything that came to his processor. He was obsessed with your attention, but knew when was the best time to let those tendencies show. One of those times is when he is arguing with Black Hook, maybe not stating directly, but for sure had mentioned you a lot of times.

The next banter was sudden, both of the larger Cardbots started to throw servos again. The pirate gained an upper hand and threw the outlaw into Buster Gallon's invention. The impact resulted in a flash of light that after disappearing revealed the now shrunk form of Heavy Iron. He was smaller than normal, but still towered over Edo.

He was mad with how everyone looked at him in amusement, thus refused to go back with Jun. Instead he wanted to stay in the Auto Shop away from the Cardbots. You had offered to watch over him as you still had some work to do, reminding Edo about his meeting that will be the next day.

So here you were, working on one of the cars that needed to be done by tomorrow. Your steady hand easily painting with precision, concentrated to not make a single mistake. Heavy Iron observed your work, your moves calculated and elegant. His helm turned to look at his own frame. There were evident dents and scratches thanks to Black Hook. It annoyed him greatly and he decided to ask for your assistance.

" [Y/N], that blasted pirate ruined my paint-job again. When are you going to finish with that. " He looked over, patiently standing behind you and waiting for his answer. You didn't dare to take your eyes off your work, so you hummed to acknowledge him.

" I should be done soon... " Heavy Iron grunted in displeasure, clearly unsatisfied with your reply. " But I think you will have to wait till tomorrow. "

He huffed as he leaned forward, looming over your smaller body. " And why is that? I don't think you have something important to do tomorrow. " He remembered your talk with Edo, you had wanted to take the afternoon off, but he hadn't heard the reason behind this.

You chuckled as you carefully placed your equipment onto the table next to you, signalising you had finished. You started stretching as you turned to look at the outlaw.

" I will be going on a date! It is some guy that I - " Heavy Iron couldn't believe what he was hearing, you have someone other than him in mind? He is better than that puny human you are talking about. His servos clenched in jealousy, he cannot have other man take you away from him. You are his, noone else's.

He silently wrapped his arms around you, placing his helm onto your shoulder. This action immediately gets your attention back on him. You place your hands over his as his hold tightened. You could ever so slightly shift your head to look at the Cardbot in confusion, what has gotten into him?

" Why go if you have me? " His pupils roll back to make his point clear. " You are mine, noone else can have you but me. " His optics narrow as you start to squirm in his hold, clearly not used to that kind of reaction.

" Heavy Iron, stop it this instant! " You try to pry his servos off your body to no avail. You felt yourself being carried away from the now finished car. He moved towards a more comfortable place, which was a couch in the corner of the Auto Shop. He practically threw you onto it and then proceeded to trap you between it and his own frame. He knelt between your legs, placing his helm on your stomach. His servos holding your sides, preventing you from wiggling away.

" Would you allow me to show how much I love you? " His pupils return to their original position. He started to trace his digits along your body, looking right into your eyes. Your mind was a mess, should you agree? Heavy Iron sensing your dilemma heated up his servos and pressed them fully against your sides, letting the pleasant warmth to seep into your being. His offer was tempting and so you decided to accept his advances.

" J-just be careful. Don't make me regret this. " Your hands covered his, relishing in the warmth he provided. He was clearly pleased hearing this and continued his calculated touches, tracing every curve of your body he could. Slowly but surely you were left in nothing, exposing your bare self to the Cardbot. Your clothes were forgotten, thrown to the side by Heavy Iron. You felt his optics travel up and down your body, enjoying the eternal sight.

How long he had waited for a chance like this and now he finally had it. He caressed you with unusual tenderness, enjoying the feeling of your skin under his servos. He steadily groped his way down, worshipping every part he already explored. His actions made you feel more heated, special even. You were tempted to let him do whatever he pleased with you for the night.

When he finally reached lower he stopped, observing your little valve like a hawk. You looked so soft and plumpy, he couldn't get enough of you. He carefully traced his digits against your folds, wondering if your small entrance could accommodate his spike. As he continued, you let small noises escape your lips, it really felt nice.

Soon enough one of his digits sunk in, rubbing your sweet spots in the best ways possible. You swear you were melting from inside out. You brought your hand towards your mouth, covering it as your sounds got louder. He started adding more after a while, his peace picked up with each movement. He got you to see stars and after a more powerful thrust you went over the edge.

It was a wonder how Heavy Iron's digits survived your incredibly clenched passage. He even felt it suck him in further, but didn't want to waste anymore time and retreated his servo. It was entirely drenched from your release. He stood up from his knee platings, looming over you once more. His codpiece finally opened up, letting his spike to emerge into sight. You gulped as you saw it's size - it was bigger than any you had ever seen before.

" I-is it even going to fit? " You looked at his face-plates nervously yet still hungry for more. He shifted his helm lower and gave you a Cardbot's equivalent of a kiss with a small amount of electricity, he didn't want to injure your beautiful lips.

" Don't worry, I will take care of everything. " His servo reached to your hips and swiftly turned you around. Your knees pressed into the couch as the Cardbot pressed you against his frame and the couch. He slipped his spike between your folds, rubbing and sacring himself in your fluids. His arms wrapped around you again, but in a more gentle manner. He placed his helm onto your shoulder, basking in your wonderful scent.

Your hands shoot up to his as you gripped them for your life when his spike started slipping into your hot passage. The stretch burned so deliciously, making you clench to pull it in further to feel more of it. Your moans filled the room as he hit the entrance to your womb though he wasn't fully sheltered in. He released a puff of air from his vents as he started to drag himself out, only to thrust right back into your sweet spot.

Every drag of his spile was heaven, everytime it hit, you were yelling into your hand as you felt him rearrange your insides to fit more. It made you see stars as you were in pure bliss, out of reality's reach. Both of your arms were pulled back from their original places as Heavy Iron used them to pound into you harder than before.

" Don't hide your voice from me. I want to hear you loud and clear. " He murmured into your ear as he steadily speed up. The sound of collision of metal against skin continued as the volume of your cries increased as well. You were in a daze, he reached the parts you didn't know existed, it was really good.

You were reaching your climax sooner than expected and you could hear Heavy Iron was in the same situation. With the last few thrusts he overloaded and you followed suit. Your insides felt so warm with his load inside. He hid his face in your neck, puffs of steam were released to cool off his heated up systems. He groaned as his grip tightened on you, slowly rocking back and forth to prolong the feeling.

" Again? " You sighed as you heard him ask. You should have expected it not being a one time thing anyway.

-----

Jun and the rest of the Cardbots returned to the Auto Shop the next day. They were met with Heavy Iron, now in perfect shape and somehow less tense frame, leaning against you as you worked on the next task Edo assigned you.

It was an unusual sight to see the outlaw being so docile, but it made things easier so noone complained. Heavy Iron pressed himself against you more as he noticed none of his new teammates said anything, relaxing further and basking in your body's warmth. You could only sigh in defeat, you had decided to withdraw your request and change it to rest the entire day tomorrow. Your legs don't work the best, hence you could use that time to sleep the tingling feeling off. You hope their fluids are not toxic to humans, it would be weird to explain how it got there.

With that in mind you continued your work as you rested your free hand in his, letting him observe from the sidelines as he stayed by your side. You were his and now noone could change that.

□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□

( Hope you liked it! )

(Master list)

( Request away! )

#yandere #metal cardbot #human reader #heavy iron #yandere heavy iron #heavy iron x reader #메탈카드봇 #lavenladywrites

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jomamaofficial · 1 year ago

Text

An Empty Vessel pt.3 (Dabi x Fem!Reader Dark Angst)

A/N: Hey guys, this is a repost. For some reason, my post wasn't getting the reach that it normally gets. I don't know, maybe it got flagged 😭😭. So I apologise for tagging you guys again. I urge you all to read the TWs and CWs because this series as a whole is just dark. As always, my Ask Box is open for any requests or just a conversation. Please remember to take care of yourselves, and enjoy. As always, I would love to see your thoughts in the comments :).

TW: Substance abuse (alcohol, smoking), small mention of mass murder and a reunion with abusive lover.

CW: swearing.

Taglist: @marlenemckinnonsleftfoot @sukunasleftkneecap @istoleyourmanho3 @witherfag @porusuniverse @iluvoaldmen @genshinsimpforli @shadowmoonlight @simpsimpson2023 @crybab7 @kaeyastittysucker @jennieyes @an-ever-angry-bi @gyarukitti

Masterlist

Word Count: 2207.

Summary: Saira Uchiyama. His past had caught up to him in the form of a family– Touya Todoroki had no family but Dabi could not deny the existence of his. The existence of a family that had driven him to search for a name he had never even heard of. Dabi's fragile world unravelled; every single thread forced him to confront the consequences of his actions. Was it even her? The one he had beat and shut out of his life? Dabi’s mind hurt, because it finally intertwined with the realisation of the irreparable damage he had caused.

——————————————————————————————————

Dabi has had his overcoat for a long time.

It was the first thing that was ever made for him, and only him.

He never had to share it.

The material was light; he could move quickly without the weight dragging him down.

The material was heat-resistant, so he didn’t have to worry about incinerating his clothes during a fight.

His clothes allowed him to let go. Dabi could explore the forbidden fruits of his full potential because the material allowed heat to escape– because of the fabric’s ‘enhanced breathability’ or something. He never paid attention. But it worked, so he always had it on.

Dabi made his way up to the roof, ignoring the small cries of his name from the distance. It wasn’t on purpose though– he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. His mind had to work hard to think about nothing. Because if his conscience took over, his chest would collapse.

There wasn’t anything left inside of him anymore. That’s what he had recited every waking day of his life as Dabi. But God, he needed a cigarette– to fill that hollow feeling inside of him.

A few long puffs always did the trick. Although it felt best when he was on the roof, legs hanging off the ledge.

One of his favourite hobbies was to look at the city under the glistering stars.

Yokohama never slept. The little toy cars had small people that were always going somewhere. Their blinking red lights mirrored the sea of stars on the bumpy road. At such a distance, where cars disappeared from one end to the other, that journey seemed so mindless. Yet still, everything felt like… like it was still in place. As if everything about this world was truly intentional.

Dabi dragged a longer puff, throwing his head back, succumbing to the gentle breeze and his thoughts.

But in the end, you couldn’t make out any face, let alone their identity. Everything became insignificant. All that mattered was the action.

Dabi could distinguish between a walking figure and a jogging figure. Whether they were alone or with others.

But in the end, everything else was insignificant when he was above them all.

So far up, that if he fell– right now– he wouldn’t come back.

Anyone could push him off.

“There you are!”

Dabi grimaced. His soothing bubble had been forcefully broken, and he was dragged back to reality. He had his suspicions on who it was.

“I thought we could use a drink or two.”

His eyes glowered at the approaching figure. He could never be left alone. But when the bottle of scotch was handed to him, the interruption wasn’t too bad after all. Dabi jerked his head towards the empty space beside him.

He could hear careful steps approaching, then cautious shuffling beside him.

Had he stolen a glance in his peripheral vision, he could watch the gentle breeze tease her hair, sweeping it left and right.

He felt a chaste glance on his face.

There was a thin, yet strong wall between them. It was thin enough to talk through– although it left no room for subtlety. It was thin enough for them to warm each other. But if they tried to cross it, they’d have to break it down, and crush the other under the weight of the wall.

There was a lingering sense of emptiness that filled the night sky.

Empty smiles, empty vessels.

She drew in a breath, but no words followed, as though she had forgotten how to speak.

“Today was…” she started, only to falter off into silence, her hands rubbing at her arms.

Dabi had his overcoat for a very long time.

It was the first thing that was ever made for him. And only him.

He never had to share it.

But it felt way too heavy today. And despite the gale tightening its frosty clutch, Dabi could feel his body heating up.

“The plan was successful”, Dabi replied flatly, “that’s all we need to care about”.

He pushed his discarded jacket towards her. She slipped it around her shoulders.

The League’s attack on downtown Esuha was broadcasted globally, and they had finally reached the headlines of every news article.

‘Bloodshed Strikes Downtown Esuha as Villains Unleashed Devastating Attacks’

After years of failed plans, the League of Villains had finally succeeded.

No man, no woman, no child was left. But it was all worth it.

Wasn’t it?

Their plan was the highlight of every media discussion.

Dabi took a larger sip of his drink, bathing under the serene wave which washed over his inhibitions.

And the wall between them felt thinner and weaker.

“D’ya think your mom would ever sacrifice herself for you?”

The vivid images of fresh blood and visceral screams haunted their mind.

“What did that woman say again?” Dabi asked, his voice cracking, “‘take me, but please, leave my baby alone’... That’s what she said right?”

Both of their eyes lowered. The alcohol and the little food he had consumed was kicking against his stomach lining, irritating his abdominal grafts.

“‘She has a long life ahead of her. Please, please, don’t kill her please’”, Dabi heard a sniffle. “That’s what she said before we…”

He felt sick.

“That’s what we do, doll.”

He met the pain in her eyes. They were a mirror.

Dabi clenched his jaw before looking away.

She did too.

Dabi began biting his fingernails, and her hands fidgeted with the glass.

And then they looked at each other again, somehow closer than they were in the beginning.

“I don’t know if my mom would ever do that for me… But, I-hm…”

A dry chuckle followed in a feeble attempt to humour the situation.

But Dabi finished her unspoken sentence.

“But you would, right? For your child,” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows and squinted, trying to make out some of the writing on the tall buildings afar.

“Any mom would do that for her child.”

“Didn’t you just say th-”

“Any good mom would”.

No one spoke. But they shared a knowing look, before averting them back to the vastness of Yokohama.

“But to be honest…” She took another sip of her drink. “If I had a baby, I’d never live in Musutafu.”

Dabi let out a snort, thus earning a playful shove in return.

“Oh yeah? Then where would you live, fucking Minato City?”

It was her turn to snort.

“You think I’d live in a rich neighbourhood to avoid being a target of criminals and villains?” She scoffed, slurring out her words. “I know I’m the newbie but you have to give me some credit, Dabi.”

He rolled his eyes, yet they still urged her to continue.

She thought for a moment, her gaze wandering off into the distance, before she continued again.

“There’s this place, just outside of here. It’s called Yosai. It’s this remote residential area. And, um. It takes around 30 minutes minimum, to find any markets, or- or any offices or clubs, and you know, all that stuff. I think, for most people, it’s like- really boring. And that’s why it’s so isolated. No one even thinks of going there because there’s literally nothing. There’s a park, and a local school– I think, but there’s no one. Nothing. There’s these houses- a lot of them! A bunch of houses with no one to live in them”.

It was weird, to be talking, uninterrupted, for this long.

“I guess”, she shrugged a bit, blinking a few times. “Recently, people have started building roads and stuff for cars now. So they can actually do something. But yeah. Zero reported crimes and it’s been there for a few decades. So yeah, if I had a family, I’d go there”.

She looked intently at Dabi, who didn’t say anything.

But he moved closer, leaning forward, sitting upright. He scanned her jittering hands before searching in his pant pocket. He raised his eyebrows at the cigarette in his hands. She nodded. So he lit it, pressed the ends to his lips and inhaled before giving it to her.

He watched her lips touch the cigarette. Where his lips were.

“There’s actually this property under her maiden name- my mom’s. There’s still some legal stuff I need to sort out before it actually becomes mine. It’s like this, it’s so stupid, because it’s like obviously none of us use that maiden name anymore. But because of that they can’t give it to us. I don’t even know… But I guess it’s nothing too difficult”.

“Ah”. That was all he could say. But when he peered into her expectant eyes, there was a sudden need to elaborate. Anything better than ‘ah’ at least.

Dabi felt dizzy.

“Umm… What's your mom’s maiden name?”

When his delayed voice finally caught up to him, Dabi winced.

“Fuck”, he muttered. It was a stupid question, but he wanted to make sure that she knew he was listening.

“It’s Uchiyama.”

They were closer, breaths intertwining with each other under the watchful eye of the moon.

There weren’t any buses that travelled from Musutafu to Yosai. Dabi made his journey by foot.

Thus, during this four day journey, Dabi became well acquainted with people.

And he noticed that a lot of people in Japan had blue eyes. After the emergence of quirks, blue became a common colour for many. The truly rare ones were pink, or purple now.

But Dabi’s eyes… they were different.

His eyes.

They were handpicked from the colours in the cerulean depths of the stormy sea. Whispers of secrets remained untold– that’s why no one could have the eyes that he had.

Never.

They were gleaming– echoing the beauty of the lights in the North. Depending on how you looked at them, they were teal, or sapphire. One thing was indisputable– the arctic chill they’d give when he’d pierce into your soul was breathtaking.

His eyes.

They were simply breath-taking.

So when he towered over a small frame, gaze lowered, he could not explain the way his heart forgot to beat when he stared into a perfect replica of his eyes.

With each beat, lost time unfolded in front of him.

And he noticed the slight difference in the silent expanse that he had gazed into.

There was an innocent reflection of the North Star twinkling in their genuine, rolling waves. Dabi’s eyes were an abandoned lighthouse.

But, what alarmed him the most, was when those flawless replications turned frozen. Dark.

Petrified.

Dabi's heart ached as those eyes formed fog and mist, obstructing him from reaching the truth that was hidden beyond the plane of sight.

His knees surrendered under the accumulating guilt of his past. And so his tears fell, trying to escape the grief and strain his weak body had repressed for so long.

“Honey, are you okay? Who’s at the door?”

Icy tendrils spiked through him, and his breath was captured without a fight. In the wake of realisation, his body signalled all the alarms they could, telling him– no, begging him to run, but, his blood had turned to ice, and he succumbed in the paralysing grip of his inevitable fate.

“Sana, are you okay…”

He heard the voice taper away, followed by a sharp clink of a metal spoon. His laden head fixed itself downwards in shame, guilt, fear…

“Dabi…?” Those words drifted out in a hushed tone. As if they were trying to protect the young girl, who now hid behind her mother.

He braced himself for the hardest task he would ever have to face.

And in that split second, his breath had returned, and he let out a short exhale when he finally saw that face materialise from his past.

Y/N.

It was you. Saira Uchiyama.

After 6 years, 8 months, and 19 days of navigating through the circular journey of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, Dabi finally had the chance to reach the beacon of acceptance.

His shoulders slumped, as short breaths hiccuped through the dark caverns of his chest.

He had finally found you.

And he had finally found the end to his coveted quench, which yearned for a solace, only to be found in your longing embrace.

Softly, a bewildered whisper escaped his lips, barely denting the silence around them.

“Doll…?”

Dabi watched as the maturer skin scrunched together, deep lines frowned at him. As the tenderness in your heart had to be locked away inside an untouchable crevice in your body.

You pushed your daughter behind you, blocking Dabi’s protesting hands before they touched her.

“Sweetie, I need you to go upstairs okay”, you ordered sternly.

“Mommy, he’s scaring m-”

“Sana. You need to go upstairs. Lock the door and close your windows.”

Sana.

Her name was a painful reminder of the blank pages he had failed to fill as her father. How could he have written anything?

He didn’t even know what the title was.

“Never fucking come near my family again”.

Those blank pages began to rip.

“You disgusting freak”.

The blank pages had burned to ashes, and Dabi was left outside on the suburban patio of a perfect neighbourhood.

Maybe, if he found a place to wash his face, he could blend in with the garbage.

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heich0e · 2 years ago

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THE WITCH'S SONG - part two knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.

It’s a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own nature—the breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.

Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest you’ve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, and slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.

With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.

It’s a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.

Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.

Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasn’t for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when you’re left at your most vulnerable—nightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.

Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your grip—still cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.

The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your room—dried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchment—are all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.

You didn’t always have so many.

You didn’t always need them.

These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bed—each and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your mother’s grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleep—as you had the night prior—poring over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her life’s work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.

It’s one of the last parts of her that remains.

Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bed—pulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattress’s edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.

You’re a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadn’t caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrival—like a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the day—shaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought away—and you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.

You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a day’s labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasant—the air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.

The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though there’s a lilac brume that cloaks it—a gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.

You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.

The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater you’d worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.

You sing softly while you work.

Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witch’s song is a sacred, honoured thing—her voice a gift and a powerful tool.

You don’t sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because there’s no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of y our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as they’ve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.

Why do you sing to them, mother?

On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voice—higher, lighter, happier than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.

So they can remember us, Button.

Button.

She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than you’d set off into the woods with that morning.

You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didn’t even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.

Don’t you like when I sing to you? Doesn’t it make you happy?

Your little ribbon-haired head couldn’t have been quicker to nod if you’d tried—your answer to her question came immediate and fervent. Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.

Well, it makes the plants happy, too—and that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and they’ll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.

You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your mother’s song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.

Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.

The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.

Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the next—the legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.

Men flock to the melody of the witch’s song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.

The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. That’s how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.

You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.

But the witch’s song was never meant for man.

You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.

Miya Osamu is standing at the forest’s edge.

You know he’s there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.

He’s come armed today.

It’s noon on the day following his unceremonious arrival—the one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know it’s noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.

For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to flee—if you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your garden—the knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.

You will not run from him.

He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You don’t bother watching him draw nearer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come back.” You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant that’s showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.

Your only hope now is that any affliction hasn’t spread beneath the soil.

“I’m not here to prove my nerve,” he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. “I’m here to help Atsumu.”

You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole you’ve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.

But rot’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. “And I don’t care about your brother.”

The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but you’re not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much you’re certain of—not least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like it’s been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night prior—though perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.

At his waist, Osamu’s hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. There’s a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yer the only one who can help him.”

“No, I’m the only witch your king hasn’t culled,” you parry. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu’s lips pull into a thin line. “So you admit it.”

You blink.

You suppose this is the first time you’ve confirmed his accusation. The first time you’ve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.

“It does me little good to say anything otherwise,” you respond, unshaken by his observation. “You need me to be a witch. As you’ve made clear: your brother’s fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all that’s keeping that sword in its sheath.”

The knight’s fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.

But it’s not strictly true, what you’ve said, and you both know it.

There’s one other option Osamu has available to him—one other cure to heal what ails his beloved brother—and it very much requires the use of his sword.

Witches have been driven to near extinction now—every coven you’ve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entirety—with little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.

The only pieces of them worth saving were their hearts.

There’s a reason why witches have forever been hunted for them—a reason why the king’s knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witch’s heart while it still beats—however faintly—will bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.

Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.

You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.

“All the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?” you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. “The fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your king knew that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himself—wasted them—only to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.”

“Hold yer tongue,” Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “How dare ya speak ill of the late king.”

“Why defend a man who left his country in ruins?” you goad him further, twisting the knife you’ve managed to wedge between the plates of his composure’s already straining armour. “A man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resource—of the lives dedicated to the keeping of this land—and left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son I’m sure has grown into just as pitiful a ruler as his father.”

The knight’s sword glints in the sunlight as it’s quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.

You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.

“Don’t say another word against King Shinsuke,” the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems you’ve struck a tender nerve.

You don’t flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.

A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.

“You’re stepping on my spearmint.”

Osamu’s gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but you’re fairly certain the plant will still survive.

A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.

Osamu speaks again.

“I could just take it, y’know.”

You don’t need him to clarify what it he speaks of.

What’s strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistence—wild in their hopelessness.

His expression is grave, remorseful almost. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Ah.

The final fraying morality of a desperate man.

“Good luck,” you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. “You’ll have to find it first.”

Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.

At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincing—almost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if he’s saying it in hopes of persuading you or himself.

You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. “Would you like to check?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.

Behind the knight’s own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.

“You cut it out yourself,” he finally breathes, your finger pausing where it’s looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.

You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.

“I thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.”

The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasn’t there a moment prior. You’re not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinking—considering the vile things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding it—beating and bloody and hot to the touch—in your own hand.

Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.

“I watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the king—the one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that sword—presided over like a jubilee,” your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand. Osamu’s blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feet—but his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat. “If not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I did—the only thing I ever did—I would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.”

Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.

You meet each other, eye to eye, but there’s no doubt now who stands as victor.

“Kill me if you want to,—” you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.

From deep in the forest, you hear the raven’s caw once more—the shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knight’s head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“—What’s one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?”

He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.

He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence he’d appeared.

“I will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.”

Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.

He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.

His eyes are supplicating—no trace of the anger or the malice they’d held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.

“I’ll give ya anythin’ you ask in exchange for yer help. Anythin’.”

You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.

“There’s nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.”

Osamu’s face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignation—acceptance—to the only answer you offer him.

Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.

He doesn’t tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

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redara · 1 year ago

Text

And Your Voice Was All I Heard

Pairings: Union of Light Bi-Han/Áila Havarôr Ratings: Mature Words: 6.990 TW: depiction and mention of abuse, blood, torture Summary: Post-MK1. Áila realizes the Lin Kuei is steering away from their purpose. She needs to escape the compound and return to Liu Kang in the Wu Shi Academy before the Grandmaster finds out what she's doing, for the price for treachery is death.

A/N: also posted on AO3. Áila is the OC of @tazahan and this fic is based on her work:

The bell rings.

Áila follows her peers – the group of Lin Kuei warriors – rushing to the main hall to attend the call for the urgent meeting. She is dreading the worst; it’s difficult to think of anything positive at this moment, not since the Grandmaster returned, alone and injured, and declared his two brothers as traitors. It’s the hot talk of the barracks; Scorpion and Smoke had defied order; they had attacked Sub-Zero and left him by the outer outpost of the Lin Kuei’s territory. Search parties have been assigned since then, and while it was fruitful, Scorpion and Smoke have fled Arctika.

Then, Sub-Zero suddenly announced that the Lin Kuei will not answer to Fire God Liu Kang or the Wu Shi Academy anymore.

Truth be told, Áila is confused with the whole ordeal. A part of her is telling her to trust the Grandmaster, yet deep inside she knows there is more to the story than what has been told. There must be a greater reason why Scorpion and Smoke forsook their oath and left the clan – either there is one reason, or she is still in denial, like any other Lin Kuei.

The main hall is already full of neatly lined warriors; Áila falls into formation, scanning the room. Tension is high, mixing with a variety of emotion – confusion, anger, anxiety, mixing as one. Hushed chatters being exchanged, questioning the reason for their assembly, questioning if it has something to do with the runaway brothers. Until the grand door opens, and the hall falls silent.

Walking into the room is the Grandmaster himself, dressed in his usual blue uniform. The lack of yellow and gray warriors who’d tail behind him is a new sight, one that makes Áila’s heart clench. Instead, there is a trail of ice following his footsteps, crackling, disappearing after a second. The torches of the hall sways as he comes in proximity. He takes his stand and looks down at his warriors; anger flashes in his usually stern gaze in the form of the warm fiery lights of the hall; the hardened feature of his face lets it be known how serious he is tonight, that whatever he is about to say will be of the utmost importance.

“I shall keep this brief,” he opens, his deep voice cuts the silence with such authority, echoing against the stone walls, “for as I am speaking, the two traitors have settled in Japan and built a clan to fight against ours. Carve this name in your mind: The Shirai Ryu; for mercy shall not be given to them or their allies.”

Sub-Zero paces slowly. “For centuries, the Lin Kuei have stood loyally by Earthrealm; our ancestors have kept the peace and protected the masses without recognition. We have stood, leashed to ridiculous rules set by Liu Kang, for no reason but to hold us back. You,” he waves his hand in a general direction, startling a line of warriors, “have trained and learned all your lives. Yet when the time calls, you have witnessed Liu Kang picking unworthy fighters to be tested against your might – a test of which you must fail. You have witnessed your brethren be sent off to fight by the demand of the Fire God; how little the number of those who returned, and our name remains unseen in the grand history of the world.

“Centuries of hard work, dedication, and loyalty… Would you like to know what the other Realms call us?”

His nose scrunches up in disgust as he continues.

“‘Liu Kang’s lapdogs’.”

The deafening silence is replaced by a cacophony of gasps. The tension breaks into a unified anger and hushed protest. Áila tries to remain composed – no, no, it’s not true… Liu Kang trusts the Lin Kuei, in fact, he talks of them highly. There is no way he would let anyone belittle the Lin Kuei.

But the Grandmaster carries on, collecting the newfound disappointment of his Lin Kuei warriors towards the Fire God, “No more shall our name be wiped from history. I vowed to you that we shall be known throughout the Realms. A clan – a nation – of which others will fear and respect –”

What is happening? No, no, this is not –

“Never again shall we be shackled by Liu Kang and his tyranny. We shall stand on our own, not for Liu Kang, not for Earthrealm –”

Áila internally begs the Grandmaster to stop. This is madness… He is declaring war against Liu Kang and Earthrealm – against his own brothers!

He clenches his fist and raises it high, “For the Lin Kuei!”

Áila watches helplessly as fists are raised in the air – the decision has been made, the future of the Lin Kuei has been set – and her heart begs her to scream, only capable of hearing the warriors all around her chanting out their loyal reply to their Grandmaster.

“For the Lin Kuei!”

***

With each passing day, the Lin Kuei begin to undergo plenty of changes. For one, the Engineering Department is more active than usual; the sound of metals and tools screeches out of their workshop, day and night; tons of materials being sent in, raising curiosity of what they are used for.

Áila grows wary. The lack of information from inside and outside of the compound is making her anxious. She wishes she could contact her father and ask if their clan, the Sól Eldur, is aware of what is happening, but communication with the outside world is very limited. Her guts are telling her to run away, run to the Wu Shi, and join them, but… what if Sub-Zero is right, and Liu Kang has been ruling Earthrealm under his tyranny, and Scorpion and Smoke are truly traitors?

Gods… the need to find the truth on her own is itching her mind. It doesn’t help that this afternoon, a fellow warrior dropped a hint that only makes the itch worse.

“Do not quote me on this, but I think our Grandmaster is building an army,” said the curly warrior to the masked warrior who was sitting across from Áila, “because I saw plenty of body armor in the workshop – not your usual armor, mind you, these are full metal, with cables and tubes, a very complicated design.”

The masked warrior frowned, “You mean he’s building an armored suit for us?”

“No, an army. Mechanized army. Well, granted, I only saw them briefly when I had to deliver some paperworks, but I know what I saw.”

“That is a bit of a stretch. It can be anything –”

“And I might have overheard Sektor talking to Cyrax about needing a new mathematical model for the brain. Come on, why would they need one if they’re making armors?”

So now here Áila is, sneaking into the heavily guarded workshop, internally regretting her decisions by the second. There might not be anything of importance here, and she’s risking her life for nothing, but she knows she has to do at least something; at the very least she should see what Sub-Zero and his engineers are making.

It is eerie. The smell of molten metal lingers in the air, mixing with a hint of rust, of singed materials, and dampness. Áila tiptoes through the hallway, passing a few doors, hiding from security cameras, until she finally reaches the inner workspace, and –

By the Elder Gods….

Tall, skeletal, humanoid creatures made of metal are lining up in the workspace; one is laid on the workbench with an open chest, displaying a mess of cables and tubes and gears. What should be their faces are nothing but a jumble of unfinished circuitry. Approaching warily, Áila can see some sharp blades on another workbench, they are equipped with weapons? But before she can observe them in detail, a voice startles her.

“-- more time, Bi-Han, or would you risk injuries to the Lin Kuei?”

Without missing a beat, Áila slithers towards a stack of crates. She hears footsteps – the unmistakable pace of the Grandmaster, followed by a more hurried one – and soon she can see the owners approaching. Sub-Zero appears first; his maskless face is seemingly stuck in a scowl; Sektor is following behind him as if trying to get him to stop.

“I understand you want the Cybers to be ready soon, but this – all of this – is something beyond our calibers, but, Cyrax’s team is still figuring out the math. It is paramount –”

“-- for everyone’s safety. Have you no other reason to say?” Sub-Zero finally stops, and he looks around the workspace, until he settles on the metallic body on the bench. He heaves a long sigh, tensed shoulders slumping with the motion. “With the days we are losing, we are one step behind the Shirai Ryu, and they are already on our doorstep –”

BANG.

Áila tries not to flinch when Sub-Zero punches the metal workbench with his bare fist, creating a dent and sharp icicles that spread; Sektor takes a step backwards, jaws clenching. Sub-Zero continues, “Kuai Liang keeps sending his dogs to sniff around our borders, and you are giving me nothing but scraps! Are you that incompetent, Sektor, that you cannot make one of these move?!”

Sektor stammers, “I – I – I could, I could, but you have to know –”

“What?! Safety again?!”

“-- they’re deadly. Bi-Han, the Cyber Lin Kuei will be capable of destroying a major city in one night. I need to have the additional math for the safety precaution, it is for your own safety as well –”

Sub-Zero interjects again, but Áila has stopped listening; she uses the opportunity to slip by unannounced, tiptoing deeper into the workshop; the voices of those two men are becoming further. Her mind is racing, still trying to wrap itself around this new revelation. So this is what Sub-Zero wants, freeing the Lin Kuei from ‘tyranny’ to subject others to his tyranny?

Her guts win; she has to leave the Lin Kuei.

She stops in front of a closed door of an office with Cyrax’s name etched on the nameplate. The math, she recalls, I need evidence. Liu Kang should know about this… Cautiously, she opens the door; it swings without a sound; and she is met by the sight of an empty office. Three large monitors are on the wall, displaying numbers and documents with intricate writings.

Áila steps inside and closes the door. Immediately, she rushes for the desk, eyes flicking between monitors. The tech is next level, definitely something custom-made by Cyrax, but the interface shows similarity to what Áila knows – and by the Gods, she intends to make it work.

After so many clicks and navigating the menus, she finally finds the email function. Without bothering to change the account, she types the email address of the only person in Wu Shi Academy who is constantly glued to the phone.

Sender: cy.4d4 To: jcage Subject: SOS Johnny, it’s Áila. I don’t have much time, but if you can read this, please get to Liu Kang ASAP. The Lin Kuei is preparing some kind of a robot army dubbed the Cyber Initiative. It’s not functional yet, and I hope it never will be, but they said it would be able to level a city in a day. Details in attachments. I’m leaving tonight. If I don’t make it to the Wu Shi in a week, you know what happened.

Áila drags a few recent files to the email before sending it. She makes sure to remove it from the ‘Sent’ folder as well to remove the trace.

She should take her leave now, yet she stands still, reading the open documents on the monitor, how most of them can’t be sent through the email due to the size of the files. She tears her eyes from the screen for a moment to scan the desk for some kind of a hard drive or a flash drive, something portable to bring a copy of the documents with her. Just her luck, a red flash drive is sitting by a stack of papers.

Each second that she uses to copy the data into the flash drive raises the level of her anxiety. Only when it is completely full and packed that she pulls it out, and tucks it into her uniform, into her breastband, right under the fold of her ample breasts where she knows it would be safe and hidden. The hard part is done, now it’s time to –

The blaring of alarms sends her jumping in place.

The once quiet hallway is now echoing with the incessant ringing and the footsteps of incoming reinforcements, one of them is the familiar heavy pace of the Grandmaster. Áila bolts for a makeshift exit – a window – where she throws herself against the glass and comes out tumbling onto the snowy ground of the Lin Kuei compound. Without looking back, without acknowledging the ache and the burn from the small scrapes, she takes long strides and runs.

“THERE!”

“GET HER!”

Shoutings of orders. Crunching snow under their soles. The biting wind whistling in Áila’s ears. She manages to cross the courtyard, dodging a handful of guards. The gate is just right ahead, still opened, unguarded –

A net suddenly collides with her side and envelopes her – what is – when it suddenly shocks her is what gets her to fall. Áila can’t react much when her muscles contract and spasm involuntarily, she can only lie on the snowy courtyard, body jerking against her will. The pain begins to form, then the dread takes over when she realizes this is the end; the footsteps are coming closer; the exit is still further away; Sub-Zero’s boots come to her view, colliding with her face – Áila yelps as pain blooms on the bridge of her nose.

“Well done, Cyrax.” His praise comes out under a heavy breath.

“ Hah , I knew that would come in handy.” A tall Lin Kuei appears next to Sub-Zero, wearing a mechanized vambrace. He presses a button, and the shocking stops; Áila pants aloud, feeling light-headed when her muscles are finally relaxing. “Ah? I think I’ve seen her before. The Carrot-Hair woman from the Wu Shi Academy, right?”

Sub-Zero moves the net away – Áila jerks away from his touch – and his icy hand grabs her around the neck, bringing her face closer to him. He rips her mask with another hand, baring her broken and bloody nose to view. “ Tch , Áila Hávarôr. I should have known you’re in league with Liu Kang. Planning a little mutiny on your own, hmm?”

“N-no –” Áila grits her teeth to stop them from chattering.

Cyrax scoffs, “Still has the audacity to lie. I know you sent something from my office, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The grip around her neck tightens, “Is that so?”

Áila repeats, “No…”

“Liar.” Sub-Zero lifts her off the ground, rendering her clawing at his vambrace for purchase, as she feels her lungs burning from the lack of air. She tries kicking him, only to be replied by a firmer grip that darkens her vision.

“Aren’t you going to kill her?” She hears the muffled voice of Cyrax.

Sub-Zero chuckles darkly, “A swift death is not what this harlot deserves. But by the time I’m finished with her, she will be begging for it.”

***

Crimson blooms through the tear of Áila’s blue uniform. Clutching her stomach, she hisses, hunching over as she hobbles backwards; her thighs are shaking, trying to stay balanced while standing on the icy floor. Her vision is clouded by the blood that’s streaming down her crown, that no matter how many times she wipes it until her vambrace is drenched, she can’t remove it. The sight of Sub-Zero, blue and red, approaching her again at a rapid speed –

Áila lifts an arm to block whatever attack is coming. Her defense is futile, and her torso is met by the sole of his boot, kicking her backwards until she finally falls again.

Sub-Zero coos in a cynical tone, “Is that all you’re capable of? Pathetic. You dare wearing our uniform and displaying such weakness.”

Áila rolls over, pushing herself off the floor. She can hear him approaching again, and before she knows it, pain shoots up her side from where he suddenly kicks her. He grabs her hair, pulling her off the floor – hurts… she cries out, angry tears blurring out her sight, as he forces her to look at him.

“Not killing Kuai Liang and Tomas when I had the chance was a mistake, one that I don’t intend to repeat. Another traitor shall not be unpunished! Look at me!” He growls, voice ringing aloud in her ears. A snarl replaces his scowl. “A weakling like you is only good for two things: a bed warmer or a training dummy. So tell me, which one is it?”

The coldness in Sub-Zero’s eyes makes Áila wonder if he is truly the man she used to respect. It disgusts her to think she once admired his discipline and leadership. Her stomach turns at the thought that the Lin Kuei see this inhuman cryomancer and still choose to serve him. Is this what Scorpion and Smoke saw? Is this why they left him?

Shaking with rage and fear, Áila chooses not to answer him.

Her silence is taken as disobedience, and though it gives her a sense of victory – seeing his control snaps and he growls in frustration – the moment is short-lived. He lets her go with a hard shove, and in return, he grabs the wrist of her right hand, and twists it to her back.

“AHH!” Áila screams, feeling the stretch of her muscle mixing with the burn of the cuts she earned from his ice dagger. She can feel the tension of her bones warning her of their unnatural position. She tries to move to alleviate the pain, but Sub-Zero keeps her in place.

“Filthy harlot, your Grandmaster asked you a question.” His voice joins her cries, and soon, his ice dagger joins the conversation as well; Áila yawps, hoarse and painfully, as the sharp edge is dragged slowly against her skin, following the length of her arm. Her free hand grips her uniform tightly, trying to channel the pain. Her legs are kicking, thighs spasming.

The blade presses deeper, “No – no, please –”

“Oh? Now you have manners?” Sub-Zero drags the blade higher. The cold burns and numbing, but when it melts, the pain doubles. “Tell me what you want.”

Áila hisses, shaking her head, “S-stop… Sto – Ngh !” Sub-Zero presses his thumb into a fresh cut.

“Mind your place, you lying harlot.”

“Grandmast – Grandmaster, please stop!”

A deep, devilish laugh echoes in the room. “Say you're sorry, and I might consider stopping.”

“I’m sor – I’m sorry!” This time it is not the blade that hurts her the most, it’s the tight grip around her wrist, threatening to twist it. Her whole body shakes with disgust as she cries, “Forgi – forgive me! Please! I won’t – please! AAAH!”

A crack, followed by the numbing pain shooting up her now-broken wrist up to her heavily wounded arm, and Áila knows her fate has been sealed. Sub-Zero finally releases her, and though she can’t see him, she can hear his victorious chortle as he watches her lying on the floor, too scared to move. He turns her around with a kick; now she can see him towering over her, with wisp of cold dancing behind him, freezing the air.

“ That is one. I shall break every single bone in your body, a day at a time, until you can do nothing but wriggle like the worm you are. Only then shall I reunite you with your family,” he crouches down. Áila jolts away when his fingertips meet her neck. He clicks his tongue, “Better fix your expression for the joyous occasion, for your father shall receive your head in a pretty box.”

***

Áila leans against the bar of her prison. Her hoarse breathing is loud in the otherwise empty dungeon. She cradles her hand to her chest, how swollen her broken wrist has become in mere hours. Her strength is dwindling down, and it terrifies her, for she knows when she is awake, she would have to face the same treatment again. There will be no winning against Sub-Zero, especially not in her injured state.

His voice… The threat lingers in her mind that she wants to cry aloud, for she knows he will go through with it. She can’t imagine it, her father opening a box and seeing her severed head. Her heart breaks for the potential future; if the Cyber Initiative has been completed, no one will be safe from the Lin Kuei; she fears even the Earthrealm Champions would have no chance to win against an army of destruction.

Something is poking her chest. At first, she thinks it must be one of her ribs, probably a broken one that she wasn’t aware of. But it’s small, and rectangular – the flash drive.

There is a chance.

Despite feeling ready to keel over, she forces herself to stand up; there is no way she would die in the enemy territory, dressed in the uniform that doesn’t bring her pride; her blood is not Lin Kuei, never has been, never will be. The power of the sun runs in her, the blessings of her ancestors, the Sol Eldur clan; it sings in her heart, guiding her to do what is right. Now, she needs to stay strong a little while longer.

Áila raises her hand over the lock of her cell. The cold metal won’t budge yet . She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath, so deep that her whole body trembles when her chest expands; the cuts on her torso sting from the action. Her father’s guidance comes to mind.

“Breathe in… And out… Good, do you feel that? There is a heat in your belly, and it expands to your chest. Let it spread, my dear, it’s fine, I promise. The next part is going to be tricky, are you ready? …Very good. Do you remember when we went fishing and you caught your first trophy? Lots of reeling, it was exhausting, right? You wanted to give me the rod because your arms felt like they were about to fall off, but I told you to keep going, because I know you got it. And you did!

Remember how happy you were? Yeah, you do? This is going to be like one of those moments. When you need strength, I want you to remember the good times we had. I want you to remember the things you’ve accomplished by being who you are… That’s it. Oh you feel the energy now? That’s it, my dear, let it take over, it’s going to be alright.”

There is a loud pulse accompanying the beat of her heart. It ebbs and flows like the waves her ancestors used to conquer. It’s warm and light like sitting by a campfire after a long windy day. It overwhelms her senses. At first, she can only see the dark, but it gradually becomes brighter, a glow, like the first ray of sun breaking the night. The more she breathes, the brighter her world has become. The pulse is snapping, ready to burst, ready to lash out like the solar storm against the cold, dark space.

And she lets it.

She cares not what she hears or feels – the cracks of metal, the crumbling of stone, the intense heat against her skin – she feels safe. Her heart tells her to open her eyes, and she does, seeing the bars of her cell bending outwards and the stone floor and walls are partially destroyed, still burning red. Her heart tells her to run, and she bolts, not caring for her injuries or the dungeon she is leaving. Her heart tells her to go one way, and she follows, the cold wind fails to caress her skin.

Her heart tells her not to look back, and she does not, until the ground is replaced by snow, until there is no more light, until the shadows of the trees are merging with the dark night, until it’s only her and moonlight, until the adrenaline has stopped pumping throughout her bloodstream that she begins to feel everything.

Áila inhales the cold air of freedom. The snow reaches up to her knees, seeping into her boots, making her bones ache. She persists, one step at a time, not caring if she is going the wrong way as long as she is going further away from the Lin Kuei compound. If what Sub-Zero said is true, then the Shirai Ryu might still be lingering around the borders of Arctika. She just has to find them.

She doesn’t know if her body is cold because of the snow, or because of the loss of blood and adrenaline; if she is still moving or she is kneeling on the ground; if the darkness is because of the night or because she has closed her eyes. She doesn’t know if she’s hearing the howling of the wind or the wolves or the dogs. She doesn’t know if she is still alive or stuck in a dream; if she opens her eyes, will she still find darkness or the face of Sub-Zero? But she does know the feel of the flash drive pressing against her chest, and it gives her a little bit of hope that whether she is alive or dead by the time the Shirai Ryu find her, the truth will still outlive her.

It’s going to be alright… It’s going to be…

***

The smell of agarwood incense permeating in the air rouses Áila awake. At first, it is faint, and she believes she is dreaming. Then she begins to feel the warmth, how stable it is as if she has been tucked under a blanket and the fireplace is roaring. Her eyelids are fluttering, blurry vision seeing a tall, dark red ceiling, with yellow lanterns hanging. She blinks repeatedly, where am I…?

She hears a movement to her left, and she turns to the source. Someone is moving behind a dark red partition; the sound of mortar and pestle, the clinking of glass, the pour of water, makes her realize that they are brewing something. The smell of a familiar tea assaults her senses, she knows that smell, can already taste it in her mouth – that is Madam Bo’s special brew .

Áila sits up gingerly. There is indeed a blanket covering her body – her bandaged body; someone has taken their time to clean her up and cover each and every cut she has. Her broken wrist is wrapped by a thick bandage and placed in a sling that’s hanging from the ceiling. She looks around the room; there is no mistaking it, this is the Wu Shi Academy. The smell is the same as she remembers. The interiors are what she is familiar with, all of the dark red and gold ornaments, wooden instead of stone. It seems her action had not been in vain; perhaps the Shirai Ryu had found her and taken her here – at least that’s what she hopes had happened, because she can’t feel the flash drive poking her chest anymore, and she hopes it didn’t fall out and be left in Arctika.

The person behind the partition has finished brewing the tea. Áila wants to call for them, wondering if it’s Madam Bo herself, but she chooses to wait. She watches eagerly as the person walks out carrying a tray of teacups and a teapot –

But her eagerness dwindles down upon seeing the light blue uniform. Her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach when she sees his face framed by the same shade of dark brown hair and the loose strands. His eyes meet hers, a genuine surprise, and his mouth moves to speak; the same deep, raspy voice comes out, and all that she can hear is the threat.

“I shall break every single bone in your body, a day at a time, until you can do nothing but wriggle like the worm you are.”

Áila shakes uncontrollably, no, this is not real… This is cruel, a mind game, exposing her to a sense of security only to show how wrong she is. She has to get out – she jumps out of the bed, and her legs immediately give away, causing her to fall right onto the wooden floor. Panic poisons her blood as she hears him making a move, placing the tray on the table, and his heavy footsteps come approaching. She pulls herself to move as well, but his boots are already in her peripheral vision, and she tenses, scrambling, clawing away like a defeated animal. The pain in her wrist jogs her memory, reminding her of the unbearable stretch, and her fear grows tenfold at the possibility of it happening again.

“Please no –” she curls on the floor, head bowing down, forehead kissing the wood, “-- Grandmaster, plea – please – I’m sor – sorry. I’m sorry… I’m –” She hiccups, already feeling too hard to breathe. But she persists, not wanting to take any chances of being seen as disobedient again by Sub-Zero. Her cries come out in desperate huffs of breath. “I beg – I beg of you… Grand – Grandmaster… I’m sorr –” she flinches when he takes a step forward, and already she can tell he is going to grab her by the head again, “ Mercy! Mercy! Please! Mercy!”

The door swings open – he’s bringing the guards – and a large hand makes contact with the back of her head, but the familiar voice is what gets her to look up, “Áila!”

Áila’s eyes are widening upon seeing the face of Liu Kang. This… This can’t – why is he here with Sub-Zero? She suspects foul play, but Liu Kang pulls her up from the floor with such gentleness and warmth, and there is remorse in his eyes, and she knows he is truly the Fire God, and she is safe. She clutches his shirt, her cries come out without restraint; tears can’t stop streaming down her face when he helps her get onto the bed again.

More familiar faces come into the room; Raiden, Johnny, Kung Lao, and Kenshi, the Earthrealm Champions. Following behind them are none other but the yellow and gray-clad warriors. “S-Scorpion? Smoke?” Áila rasps.

“Those are not our titles anymore. You can call us by name.” Kuai Liang scans her from top to toe. His expression hardens, sadness is evident in his eyes. “Did… Did my brother do this to you?”

Áila glances towards the light-blue-clad Sub-Zero in the room; he stands in place as if petrified, as if he is not the Sub-Zero they are talking about right now.

Thankfully, Liu Kang intercepts, “I think it is best for me to explain to you what happened. Everyone, please leave the room for now, give her some space.” One by one, the familiar faces are taking their leave, but not before giving Áila a sympathetic gaze. Sub-Zero, however, remains standing in place, until Liu Kang calls him. “Bi-Han, please, give us a moment.”

“Of course.” Sub-Zero replies without hesitation, even bowing down a bit before he begins to walk away. Áila follows his movement, still wary. He stops at the threshold, and with an expression full of remorse, his eyes meet hers, devoid of cold. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

And he closes the door.

***

“Don’t take it to heart, Bi-Han, it’s not your fault.”

Bi-Han glances at Kuai Liang – not his Kuai Liang, but he shares the same features that remind him of his brother, even the scar. This timeline still gives him whiplash where he is least expecting it. “Generally speaking, it is still my fault.”

“Bi-Han – our Bi-Han – did it, not you. It’s a pity, his obsession has driven him mad; I can’t believe he would stoop this low. Wounding me is one thing, it was a warning, but I should have realized it was only a matter of time before he lashed out on someone else.”

“At least Áila survives.” Tomas tries to sound positive.

“Barely. The scouts found her half-frozen in the tundra. If they were too late, the Sol Eldur would be building her funeral pyre.” Kuai Liang sighs heavily.

Bi-Han frowns, “The Sol Eldur, is that her family?”

“Her clan, yes. The last time I spoke to them, they were fortifying their village in case the Lin Kuei would ambush them first; I’m not sure if her father can come here when his presence is still needed there.” Kuai Liang sighs again. “But thanks to her, we now know what Bi-Han is planning. Forgive us; the Lin Kuei in this timeline must have stained the name of your Lin Kuei.”

They don’t exchange another word, as Kuai Liang walks away followed by Tomas, seemingly to lament their brother privately. Bi-Han remains standing, watching the life of the garden of the Wu Shi Academy, with a thousand conflicting thoughts running in his mind. He knows it was not him who wounded Áila to such an extent that she fears the sight of him, but the shame and the guilt still weigh on his heart; it is his name, his title, his face – it is him, but not truly him .

He recalls the night when Johnny barged into the meeting with phone in hand, “Guys! You’re gonna want to see this!” he had said, and he read the email sent by Áila. Kuai Liang took charge of the Shirai Ryu scouts to scour the tundra and the mountains. Even the blind swordsman, Kenshi, insisted on going, believing his ancestors could help as well.

At that time, Bi-Han thought what a remarkable person Áila must be, to be within the walls of the Lin Kuei, and still tried to reach out. Her action earned his respect, that at the moment, he innerly prayed to the Elder Gods to see her safety so he can meet this warrior for once.

But he was not expecting to see her being brought in on a stretcher.

She was blue and red, frozen and bloodied, that everyone believed she had been dead. The extensive injuries she sustained were a clear tell that she had been tortured, or beaten up within an inch of her life. Liu Kang had used his power to thaw her just enough to get her blood to run again, and then the monks took her to be cleaned up and patched.

And though no one is pointing fingers at him, Bi-Han knows this is his counterpart’s doing.

The door to Áila’s room is opened – Bi-Han turns to it – and Liu Kang walks out alone. He offers a small apologetic smile as he approaches Bi-Han. “Are you alright?”

Bi-Han returns the question, “Is she alright?”

“She will be. I have explained the situation, though she might need time to process everything. Please do not think you are in the wrong here. Neither of us anticipated this behavior from Sub-Zero.”

“I should have.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Liu Kang hums. “This Sub-Zero is not you, Bi-Han, you can’t expect to understand what he will do next. Our timelines may share similar people with similar lives, but that is where the similarity ends.”

Bi-Han feels his jaws tensing. There is a pull in his heart, tugging at his heartstring, when he remembers Áila’s reaction to seeing him; her expression of pure anguish is still fresh in his mind. “She begged for mercy… Three times, she did, I…” He huffs a cold puff of air, feeling rage forming in his chest at the image of Áila begging Sub-Zero to stop but he carried on nonetheless. What kind of a monster has he become? Bi-Han shakes his head. “Can I… Can I see her?”

Liu Kang shrugs. “Usually I’d tell you to give her time, but this depends on you. Are you strong enough to face her again?” He doesn’t wait for an answer when he adds, “I hope the two of you can find peace in this time of conflict.”

***

The pot of tea on the table is untouched, despite the smell beckoning Áila for a taste. She wants to, she truly does, but the fact remains that the tea was prepared by Sub-Zero – and though Liu Kang has explained extensively of what happened, of how this ‘Bi-Han’ is not the Sub-Zero who nearly maimed her wrist, she is wary nonetheless. She sits still on the bed, trying to quell her thoughts and senses, telling herself that she is safe now, that she is alright, that Sub-Zero will not go through with his threat of sending her head in a box. Her rapid heartbeat is slowing down. Her welling tears have dried.

Then the door slides open, and Áila sees him again.

Their eyes lock at each other for a moment. Her gaze is of fear, but his is of remorse, a palpable guilt. He stands unmoving by the door, which she is thankful for, because her body has begun shaking on its own.

“Bi-Han.” He breaks the silence, voice purposefully made a bit higher than the usual deep raspy tone. “Please call me ‘Bi-Han’. You do not need to call me by any titles. I am neither of those in your timeline.” He pauses, thin lips tensing and relaxing as if he is tasting the words he would utter. “Would you like some tea?”

Áila glances between him and the teapot. The idea of the Grandmaster serving her tea is wild – no, this is not the Grandmaster, this is Bi-Han . She shakes her head, “Are you really not Sub-Zero?”

“I am Sub-Zero, but ,” he hastily adds when she flinches, “I am not of your timeline. In my timeline, I am also Sub-Zero, and the Grandmaster. But I can assure you, I am not like him .”

She can see how genuine he is, how he seems borderline desperate to distance himself from the Sub-Zero she knows. But her body and mind are acting on their own, as tears begin to well up in her eyes again, and they roll down her cheeks when she blinks. “I’m sorry – I know you’re not him , but you look alike, and I – I don’t know…”

“I could change my attire if it makes you more comfortable.”

“No, you’re – you’re already dressed differently.”

“Oh? Is Sub-Zero not wearing blue in your timeline?”

“Not in the same shade as yours.” Áila forces herself to relax. She cradles her wrist tightly, hugging herself to feel more at ease. “Liu Kang said you crossed the timeline to lend him your aid.”

“Liu Kang spoke too highly of me; I’m merely doing my part to help. Sub-Zero needs to be stopped before he destroys Earthrealm – given the information you brought, he is already planning to do it.” Bi-Han takes one step forward, a tentative action, and he looks at Áila as if asking for her permission. She nods, and he approaches quietly; the footsteps are softer, quieter, calculated for her. “I’m here to thank you, Áila. If it’s not for you, we would still be in the dark of what the Lin Kuei are planning. This gives us time to be better prepared.”

“I’m only doing what I’m supposed to do in the first place.” Áila lowers her gaze to the wooden floor – calm down, calm down, calm down. He’s not Sub-Zero. He’s not going to hurt you. It’s going to be alright – “Perhaps I should have done it earlier before they assembled the Cybers, but I –” she closes her eyes when she can see his boots entering her view, “-- I was in denial. I didn’t know which side I should support. Too weak. Too late. I should have known Sub-Zero was wrong when he drove his brothers away. When he –”

The memory flashes behind her eyelids. How Sub-Zero had dragged her to the dungeon by the neck. How he had goaded her to fight him. How, with every cut he made and the punch he landed, Áila slowly lost her hope to survive. At one point, she lost consciousness, and was woken up by the cold tip of the ice blade pressing against her cheek. The flooding memory is too much, breath turning ragged as if she is back in the dungeon trying to breathe the air that Sub-Zero had knocked out of her lungs.

Áila feels a warm hand pressing against her thigh. She opens her eyes, but the tears have blurred her vision. She can see a blurry light blue crouching beside her; she blinks until she sees Bi-Han in close proximity. Yet for once, from this close, she can truly see he is not the Grandmaster. There is grief in his eyes, and pain, as if he shares her burden. There is regret and guilt, and she swears those brown eyes are a bit glossy as well.

“You are not weak.” Bi-Han’s voice comes out as a calming whisper. His fingertips meet her wet cheek, interrupting the stream. “Your bravery will be remembered across all Realms.” Áila sees his lower lips slightly tremble. “There’s no need for you to fear me, I’m not the Sub-Zero you knew. You are safe, and I will try in all my power to keep you that way, and I will never, ever, hurt you.”

“Truly?” Áila rasps, barely audibly.

Bi-Han responds, "I give you my words.”

She doesn’t know who breaks first – is it him who pulls her close or is it her who falls to his lap? – but their bodies collide and he cradles her, surrounds her in his strong arms. She is holding onto his light blue gi, grounding herself to his promise. He is holding the back of her head, and yet for once, she does not tense, does not flinch.

There is no sound in the room but their shared, quiet cries.

#bi han #bi han x oc #bi han imagine #sub zero x oc #sub zero imagine #sub zero #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #fanfic #redarader

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doledition · 4 months ago

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VIGNETTES: THE THIRD WOUND

Of course, every few weeks the pests would clear out, replaced by splatters of blood against her bedroom wall. New roaches would replace the writhing carcasses, and soon there would come a new congregation of rats, and it would be like they never left.

(or: the third in a series of five non-linear vignettes into Kylar's daily life. Takes place before she meets PC. Be forewarned, I do not play hard and fast with canon, so I will be taking creative liberties in this fic. Reader’s discretion is advised. TW for mentions of gore, allusions to sex trafficking, and mentions of vomit.)

⛤⃝

There was a council of roaches congregating in Kylar’s bathtub.

They met, on the daily, at eleven pm sharp. During this time, the house had gone quiet, dark, all possible sources of light scraped over and covered with heavy wooden shutters which spoke of better days. There were no working lights in the manor, nothing overhead at least-the electric bill hadn’t been paid in years by this point.

The electrical company, in fact, had long since written off the estate’s tenants as dead, disappeared, having fallen victim to one of the town's many maladies as the bills went unanswered for months. No one came by to check on them. Instead, the days turned to weeks turned to months and the electricity was cut, plunging the house into a forever darkness.

It was better, at least. Kylar’s parents hated the light-one morning, Kylar had opened their bedroom window by mistake. She had been eleven and her parents hadn’t left their room, asleep all day, and she remembered being so devastatingly hungry. She’d tiptoed into their bedroom, weak feet stumbling over the carpeted lumps on the floor, hands feeling along the wet walls.

When Kylar had thrown open the window to let the morning rays in, there had first been a sudden screech which shook the room. She didn’t quite remember how it sounded, but it had made her blood run cold and her palms go limp and heavy with sweat. The second sound had been a sizzle, a crackle, a pop, as though meat were being cooked on the stove, and Kylar felt her mouth fill with saliva as behind her, her parents' flesh bubbled over into a bubbling stew of sinew.

Yes, this life of perpetual darkness-this was better, much better. More controlled, more stable, no surprises, just the unending expanse of shadows and drafts to cocoon her into the great dark mass of the Manor, her Manor. When she woke up, there was no change. The windows were shuttered and closed, and no light snuck through. When she went to bed, there was no change. The windows were shuttered, closed, and there was no hope, no possibility, that even the slightest glimpse of streetlight or moonlight would shine through.

Perhaps because of this darkness, rats and roaches flocked to the Manor. The first three years after her parents' illness, they’d been shy, keeping to the internal organs of the Manor and only coming out when Kylar had fallen asleep in front of the television. Kylar had once tried to chase them out of the house with a broom and a rubbish bin-she couldn’t find the dustpan- but it had failed. More and more vermin would flock to the house, and the kitchen would stink of blood, and Kylar would give up.

Now, Kylar looked at the little things as more roommates than intruders. They were reliable-she rose and slept with them crawling over her body as she lay comatose in front of her monitor. Of course, every few weeks the pests would clear out, replaced by splatters of blood against her bedroom wall. New roaches would replace the writhing carcasses, and soon there would come a new congregation of rats, and it would be like they never left.

Kylar stared down into the tub. It was made out of white linoleum, from what she remembered. In her childhood, it had been a bright pristine white. Her mother had hired a cleaning maid to come in every twice a week, Monday and Friday, a nice woman named Kathleen. She was Irish, and said she’d moved to town because of Uni. Kylar hadn’t known they’d lived near a University- the town was in the middle of nowhere, after all-and Kathleen had never said where she went.

Kylar’s mother had told her obsessive questioning of others was rude, staring at Kathleen all the while as the maid glared down at the floor, which was weird since Kylar’s parents were scientists and told her to question everything, but she simply shrugged and skipped off to play in the gardens. Kathleen stopped showing up after three years. Kylar had asked her parents where she went, and her father had shrugged, saying that she’d probably left the company, and so Kylar didn’t question him and skipped away to play with Sydney. That was the last she’d thought of Kathleen, and by the next week a new maid had taken her place.

Years later, when her parents had fallen ill, Kylar had stared at the dim light of her computer as a woman sobbed onscreen, face oh so like Kathleen, her clothes ripped and blood dribbling down her stomach to the dirty cell floor. A few minutes later, her hushed sobbed petered out and a slackness took hold of her body, head lolled back and arms collapsing to her sides. Kylar had fixed her skirt as a man walked on screen and switched the stream off before going back to bed.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cleaned the bathroom, or if she’d even tried to. Perhaps Kylar had been disgusted once at the mildew gathering around the bathroom drain, brown lines festering into each delicate crack and branching out on the walls like a rash. Maybe the overflowing towels, wet and putrid and disintegrating, that piled up in the wastebasket and spilled onto the rest of the floor had made her vomit a bit in her mouth, or the strange gray sludge that clogged the drain in the bathroom sink made her keel over. The bathroom had a smell to it, like the scent of that old woman that hobbled about in the sewers, hands dirty and grabbing and asking where her Charlene was.

Even if Kylar had once taken a mop, a bucket, disinfectant, anything to clean the bathroom, it would have failed. Rot had begun to seep into the bathroom, tile by tile, until that was all she could see.

Cont.

Read the rest of the wounds here: The First Wound, The Second Wound, The Fourth Wound, The Fifth Wound

#degrees of lewdity #dol #dolgl #dol game #writing #fanfiction #fanwriting #vignettes: wound #degrees of lewdity game #klori's series #kylar dol #f!kylar #kylar #kylar the loner #dol kylar

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forgedroyalseal · 7 months ago

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Life a bit to the left

Chapter Seven:

TW: mentions of vomit and urine

Will was sent from Castle Redmont with a loaf of bread, several links of dried sausage, and the largest grin he’s ever worn. For all of Master Chubb’s grumbling, cooking is clearly the man’s calling. And like any cook, he delighted in seeing Will inhale his food with vigor. The man provided more and more food until Will’s belly was aching and he had to turn down a fourth helping, something he never imagined having to do. But Chubb had apparently taken something of a shine to Will and his appetite, and wrapped up some for Will to bring back home. Will was grateful for the parcel of food, because with each bite he took, there had been a bitter aftertaste of guilt. His father wasn’t living any better than he was. He was no doubt just as hungry, he just didn’t moan about it like Will did. On his walk back, Will vowed to himself that the food he was carrying would be reserved for his father. He wouldn’t touch it, no matter how much his stomach begged for it. He would prove that he wasn’t completely selfish. He’d prove he could be a good son.

As he approached the little cabin, he saw a figure slumped over on the porch. He sighed in relief and picked up his pace. He hadn’t forgotten that his father had been missing this morning when he left, and was glad to see that his father had managed to find his way back home.

“Dad!” He called out. The man didn’t stir. When Will made it up the two crooked steps, he finally got a clear look at his father. His normally disheveled appearance was even worse. Vomit and urine soaked his clothes. His shoes had disappeared and his feet were caked in dried mud. Will looked down at the man and he felt as though he was looking at a stranger. This mess of a man wasn’t his father. It couldn’t be. His father wasn’t this disgusting person drenched in their own filth. Will couldn’t be part of this man, share half of his blood with him.

But he did. He could still see the evidence if he squinted. He saw it in the cut of his jaw. In the chocolate mass of hair that hadn’t been cut in ages. And if those eyes didn’t droop so heavily from liquor, he’d see his own dark eyes staring back at him. Physically, there was no denying this man was in fact his father. And as his son, he was Will’s responsibility.

“Ok dad. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Will squatted down and heaved his father over his shoulders. He nearly toppled over from the weight, but he managed to stay relatively upright as he hobbled around to the back of the house to the rain barrel and washtub. With each step Will could feel his father’s sweat, vomit, and urine bleeding into his own clothes. The smell was enough to roll his stomach and Will fought to keep his lunch down. The rich meal had been a once in a lifetime experience for Will and he refused to lose it before it could be digested.

He let his father fall into the tub and rolled his aching shoulders back, before working on removing his father’s soiled clothes. With the state they were in, they should just be tossed, or better yet, burned, but Will was out of a job and didn’t know when or how he'd find a new one, so once he was finished cleaning his father up, he’d have to find a way to clean his shirt and trousers as well. As for the missing shoes, Will hadn’t a clue how he’d find the funds to replace them.

He talked his way through washing his dad, letting him know beforehand everything he was doing to avoid spooking him. The entire time, his father remained silent, his eyes dark, empty wells. Will wrapped him in a ragged bath sheet and guided him into the house. Thankfully the bath had sobered him up enough that he was able to carry at least some of his own weight. Will laid him on his bed and pulled the quilt up to his chest. Remembering the food Master Chubb had packed for him, Will tore off a small chunk of bread and gave it to his father, who immediately began nibbling at it.

“Try to keep it down dad, it’s too good to waste.” Will whispered. He sat beside him until the sky outside the window was a flaming orange. His father had nodded off every now and then throughout the afternoon, but for the most part remained in his usual semi conscious state.

Once Will was convinced his father was probably past the point of being at risk of choking on his own vomit, he said, “I’m going to go try to wash out your clothes. Please stay put.” Will could hear the weariness in his own voice, heavy and empty. He thought of how different it sounded in comparison to the baron’s wards, who had sounded so young and confident. Will just sounded defeated.

He stood, his knees popping after spending so long kneeling on the rough wooden floorboards. As he turned away, he felt a hand wrapped around his wrist. But rather than the usual bruising grip that he had come to associate with his father’s touch, it was gentle, almost hesitant. Will looked down at his father, and was shocked to find tears running slowly down his scruffy cheeks.

“Dad?”

“Tan-k oo.” The words came out slurred and stuttered, but the message was still clear.

A lump formed in Will’s throat as he thickly said, “Of course. I love you dad. I will always take care of you.”

“Ovu oo too.”

The hand retreated back under the blankets as fast as it had appeared, and the blank look returned to his father’s eyes. If the moment hadn’t already etched itself into Will’s mind and heart, he would have thought he had imagined it. But he didn’t. Will swallowed and wiped at his watery eyes before leaving the room.

As he scrubbed at the filthy clothes outside, Will promised himself that he’d remember today. He’d remember that his father is still there. That somewhere, buried beneath the hard layers of grief and fear and paranoia, his father was still alive. It had been ages since Will had gotten a glimpse of him, so long in fact, that Will had found himself doubting his existence. But today he got proof. And he just had to hold on to that moment when times got tough. His father was still with him and he loved Will. He appreciated him. Bread and sausages were great, but those few, nearly unintelligible words from his father would sustain him long after he had forgotten the taste of Chubb’s meal.

#life a bit to the left #ranger's apprentice #will treaty #ranger’s apprentice fanfiction #rangers apprentice #rangers apprentice fanfiction #fanfiction

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nikitasys · 1 year ago

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LIFE WITHOUT FILTER AS A TRAUMAGENIC POLYFRAG+PARTIALLY PROGRAMMED DID SYSTEM

TW : vent, rant, ramcoa, programming, su!c!de mention

(I'm in desperate need for advice, for some kind of guidance or support from other progged systems who may have gone through something similar to what we're describing in this post, or not but who may have ideas of what might be going on with us.)

I stg life has been so exhausting & I just have to unmask & say it SOMEWHERE.

We're a relatively newly discovered+diagnosed system since I realised we were one in August/September of last year (2023). Before that we had been misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder for several years.

When I first realised we were multiple, I progressively began discovering the other alters. The whole process (we're also in trauma therapy) was difficult & messy but overall as days went by I personally felt more & more satisfied to see/feel how much progress we were making, even with all the highs & lows it entailed. I got to meet & learn to know a few alters, we were able to work on some of our problematic in-sys dynamics & slowly but surely understand ourselves better, both as individuals & as a whole.

Long story short, we were PROGRESSING.

Then things got even messier as our trauma therapy caused even more lifting of the dissociative amnesia in our childhood & we progressively realised we were polyfrag & had been through RAMCOA & programming. (That happened end of February/beginning of March 2024)

The whole process was getting more & more chaotic & distressful but we (me + the rest of our group of main fronters) were pretty determined to figure things out & keep on going forward, which was extremely annoying to a bunch of programmed alters who immediately tried their best to keep us quiet/isolated & make us feel insane/terrified by trying to make us go back to our primary abuser, OR convince our psychiatrist to put us on antipsychotics & hospitalise us, OR leave the place we live in to go who-knows-where & ghost everyone we knew, OR off ourself etc... in a nutshell, it was really freaking hard.

But some of us were determined to keep trying to do what was best for us, to keep trying to get better, to gain at least some kind of free will, to LIVE.

I'm sorry, this post is way too long.

But anyway, now it's been a few months since I just don't know what's going on with us anymore. The veryyyy little visualisation I could have of our innerworld is gone, all the main fronters seem to have truly disappeared (mass dormancy?) as well as the vast majority of alters we had identified up to this day. It seemed that I was frontstuck for a long while, & now it's been a few weeks that alters just randomly pop up (whether they front or stay co-conscious) & then disappear almost immediately after as if nothing had happened & I just... I feel so lost.

It's all just so frustrating you know ? To me it truly feels like something MAJOR happened inside both to our innerworld + all the alters & I'm being deliberately locked away from the truth of what it is. I feel like I'm being punished, & tbh I probably am. I'm in a lot of denial about our programming but the whole thing definitely feels like one (or more ?) internal handler/programmer has been orchestrating some kind of system reboot or hardcore scramble or... I DON'T KNOOOW 😭 I just don't know anything anymore. It's like nothing ever happened & it's particularly distressing, you know ? It is SO weird to know deep down that massive stuff is going on inside yourself but at the same time you know nothing & it all makes me wonder if I ever knew anything in the first place ? These thoughts make me dizzy af. It just feels like since syscovery there was overall progress happening, & now there's just nothing. As if everything had been suddenly turned off & restarted or... I just don't know.

Anyway. I realise no one will read this post entirely, but if for some reason you are doing it, first of all congrats & also, THANK YOU.

Don't hesitate to contact us via DMs or comment if you have any questions or advice, we'll be more than happy to answer you to the best of our abilities. THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR HELP 🙏🏻

— host (I think?)

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helloiamadrawer · 1 year ago

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‼️RANT‼️(my review on the ending of episode 2 of TADC, mostly when Caine sends Gummigoo back to NPC Land)

tw: basically my own opinion of Caine in EP 2, mentions of spoilers

So..aside from the very heart touching message from the scene of Kaufmo's funeral..

Some of the masses have now turned their backs on Caine saying he supposedly "killed off" Gummigoo (which I understand why some ppl would feel like that) which to me I don't think he killed him he probably just sent him back, because as we all know he IS an NPC but with feelings ever since he's realized he was in the map.

BUT..if Caine ever did kill him, remember: HE IS AN AI WHO DOESN'T KNOW ANY BETTER, he's oblivious to what he has made, he just needs to hear what has been said and understand before making his own decision to make people disappear in via confetti. Aside from that..

Alex Rochon, the VA himself has actually said he's still rooting for Caine as shown here.

The series has just begun as well so there's hope for improvement for this sweet boi, unless Goose wants to make him a despicable,devious villain that I have to hate for the rest of the series (she'll have to try reallllllllyyy hard to do that)

No, this does not mean I hate Gummigoo, he was a good character and hopefully we will get to see him again in the next few episodes. Even though he could have been Pomni's first official friend she had official friends all along when she first landed in the circus 🥺 (aside from Jax because his hand wasnt the one saving her from her dream)

In conclusion, Caine need to learn how to acknowledge feelings from another humans' perspective that's all.

#even if Caine commits multiple crimes i would not give less of a fuck #tadc rant #overall the episode was great!#drawer rants🙃#yep its me the caine lover back at it again #I fr screamed CAINE WHY DID YOU DO THAT and then i noticed hes a bit dumb

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wr1t3w1tm3 · 2 years ago

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SEAWOLF - Part 1 - Chapter 2

Tuesday - May 18th

Words: 2,771

Estimated Read Time: 12-15 min.

TW: Brief mentions of blood and brief allusion to panic caused by a traumatic experience.

It ends up taking five hours for him to reach Maverick’s hangar. For miles down the gravel back road he follows the wide swaths cut by large tire tracks earlier that night. The hangar door is closed. When he pulls up next to the hangar, his SUV is the only car. Walking through the dust to the side door, he notices a lime green post-it note, which reads:

Ring the doorbell then come in. Unlocked.

There’s a ring doorbell mounted next to the door. He presses the button, it’s lit by a blue circle for a moment, then it dings out a little song and he enters. As soon as he opens the door, he’s hit with the overwhelming stench of industrial cleaners and the harsh hangar lights.

Inside is almost immaculately clean. Maverick was never one to be messy, but he also didn’t have any specific method to his “madness” He kept his magazines, books, NATOPs and anything made of paper and bound stowed within the coffee table set up in his “living room”; and he kept his tools all over the hangar without any rhyme or reason. Roosters Ford Bronco - the same one Goose had back in the day - is parked against the hangar door.

The smell begins to dissipate as he gets closer to the fans set up in a triangle between the Mustang, the camper, and the line of tarp draped bikes. The trailer door is wide open, and a brunette in a black t-shirt and ripped up jeans steps out. There’s a paper towel roll tucked under her arm, a mop in one hand and its bucket in the other.

She puts the pedal to the metal, booking it towards a mass of towels he notices on her approach. “You Theresa?” He calls.

She nods, panting. The bucket hits the ground with a plunk and the mop clatters down with it. She stands, rubbing her back as he approaches. “And you’re Ice…man?”

He nods, sliding his aviators into the crook created by his unbuttoned top button. “Tom Kazansky. Callsign, Iceman. Everyone calls me Ice.”

Her hand shake is firm, but when their hands come together, hers are shaking. Maybe from the adrenaline, but when he tries to look her in the eyes she maintains contact for only a couple seconds before she drops it and motions to the bucket. “I was, uh, just cleaning up. They gave me to okay to clean up.”

“The cops?” Ice asks, surveying the hangar.

“Yeah,” Theresa picks up the mop and nudges the towels out of the way with her boot.

Ice smiles gently. “Are those Mav’s old boots?”

Theresa shrugs. “Probably.” He steps closer, but she refuses to look up. The mop swipes away at the floor, taking with it the remnants of red from under the towels. He glances at them himself. The bottom ones seem to be completely blood soaked.

“Where are Maverick and your father?”

Theresa rolls her shoulders, then shudders. She kicks the towels a little further, mopping that up. She starts humming something he vaguely recognizes from the radio. He steps with her, then suddenly she turns, grabbing the bucket and mop and marching towards the Mustang. There’s a similar, though smaller, mound of towels there as well. The path over is lined with muted bloody stains.

Ice stops a couple yards back and repeats his question. “Where’s your dad at, kid?”

Again, Theresa shrugs. But she speaks “Uh… I dunno. They disappeared before the cops showed up and they couldn’t find ‘em.”

She dunks the mop in the bucket again. It slaps and some slips over the side, onto the floor. It makes a wet squelch against the concrete when she sets it down and the fibers scratch a bit as they glide over the floor. “Are they looking for them?”

“Oh, uh… the cops?” she chuckles uneasily, replying with a shrug “nah. They’ll keep an eye out for ‘em but they aren’t too worried unless they don’t turn up by tomorrow.”

Ice steps forward. Theresa glances at him then takes a step back, mopping up where there definitely wasn’t blood before. He broaches the next question with a little more delicacy “Do you know where your dad and Maverick are?”

“The Hard Deck?” She suggests with a shrug and uneasy chuckle. Realization dawns immediately. The boots Theresa’s co-opted squeak as she walks.

Ice slides his hands into his pockets and clears his throat. “What, ah, what do the cops think happened here?”

“Rabid animal attack.” Theresa’s response is to fast. Too perfect.

“You said it was a wolf, right?”

She pauses, glancing at him. She cocks an eyebrow, not unlike Mav when asked a stupid question. Then she turns back to her mopping. “Yeah. Big black one.”

“What else did you see?”

“Not much,” again, too quick. Too rehearsed. “It got Mav, then it go Brad.”

“And they both disappeared after they got bit?”

Theresa stops, taking a deep breath as she rights herself. She nods curtly, “Yeah,” she drops the mop in the bucket and hoists it up, headed towards the trailer.

“So what’d you tell the cops?” Ice calls. There’s a coolness in his voice that irks Theresa.

But she plays along. “That Mav and Brad got attacked by a big black wolf and that I hid in the plane.”

“And that they disappeared after they were attacked?”

She nods, setting the bucket at the trailer steps. Ice stops a couple yards away again. His khaki’s are crisp, his shirt is ironed. He looks well rested, despite the hour. Theresa is running on a RedBull and and looks like it. She imagines that she looks cooler than she does, staring Ice down, but she can feel the grease slicking her hair back and it does not feel pretty.

He sighs, taking one step closer and asking quietly “What color where they?”

Theresa blinks, trying to wake herself up. “What color where… who?”

She takes a sudden breath. Ice sighs, pressing “What color where the wolves?”

“The… black one?” Theresa slides back a step. Her back is practically against the trailer now. Ice shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“What color fur did your father and Mav have after they shifted?”

Theresa balks like she’s about to throw up. The mop clatters against the wooden steps, then it hits the floor. It echoes through the hangar. Ice’s ears ring a bit. It fades within a moment, giving Theresa enough time for realization.

“Can you drive Mav’s Jeep?”

Theresa doesn’t respond at first. One hand slowly drifts to her chest, where it feels her heart racing. The other reaches back for the trailer, and once it makes contact she leans back against it. Ice takes another step forward, repeating himself tersely. “Can you drive Mav’s Jeep?”

She swallows hard, but she nods. Ice nods, stepping back. “Good. Go ahead and grab the keys kid, then follow me. Slider’ll get in soon and we need to have Mav and your dad wrangled by then.” He starts towards the door, but he only hears his footfalls. He turns back after a few steps, and Theresa simply stands there, unmoving. Her mouth slightly agape.

“Come on kid,” he puts on a small smile and tries to sound cheerful. “Grab the keys. It’ll be fun.”

She seems to snap out of it, shaking her head a bit violently. She steps up into the trailer. Ice listens to her search around for Mav’s keys. The search is by no means silent, but she doesn’t say a word otherwise. The shock should wear off soon. She’ll be fine then.

“Oh!” He calls back. “Make sure to grab them each a change of clothes!”

They don’t have to go far. Approximately a mile from Maverick’s hangar and equidistant from the runway is a large collection of rocks. Hiding amongst those rocks are two wolves: one black, one hazel.

Ice approaches cautiously, dimming his lights once he spots them. Theresa’s eyes aren’t nearly as well adjusted. Luckily, she’s far enough back that her lights don’t startle them.

They were resting when they arrived. Both still shifted. For a second, a pang of… anxiety strikes him. What if they attack Theresa? She’s in an open Jeep after all.

No. They won’t. They’ve had nearly five hours to come to terms now. Besides, he’s in front. They won’t attack him. He’s familiar. Wolf and friend.

Theresa shuts off the Jeep. The dying headlights catch the hazel, almost dirty blonde wolf’s attention. He’s huge. Easily ten feet from snout to tail. He probably weighs about what he did before, and Rooster was a pretty big guy by all metrics.

“Easy. Easy.” the hazel one - Rooster - growls. Theresa, halfway between the SUV and the Jeep, stops dead. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost. The black one turns his attention to her. “Whoa Mav,” Ice glances back. He reaches one hand out in front of him, and gently calls back to Theresa “get in my car.”

She doesn’t move. She can barely breath. All she can see is an eruption of black and hazel fur as bodies contort and someone screams. Mav. She thinks its Mav’s scream she hears. The desert wind whips up and the sand swipes her arms and face.

Tears start to fall. The stinging only makes them worse. Ice turns back to the wolves. Now he was gonna have to get both wolves into the SUV without any help.

Well, maybe… “She’s alright,” he assures them, turning to Maverick first. “You didn’t hurt her. She’s just… tired.” He just told them she was fine. He can’t admit that she’s scared. Not now.

Bradley takes a step forward. Ice pivots right at him. “Whoa, Rooster. No. No. She’s fine,” he glances at Mav “you’re both fine, but you’ve got to come with me. We’ve gotta get you shifted back.”

The black one - Maverick - takes several cautious steps towards Ice’s hand. Once he’s within a few feet, he takes a wiff. Ice smiles. “Yeah, that’s it Mav. Easy.”

Maverick seems to smile, and with a little yip he closes the distance between himself and Ice. He pops a squat right in front of him, slinking the last few inches. Mav nudges his outstretched hand, begging for pets.

Ice’s smile only gets bigger, and he obliges, running his hand over Mav’s head a few times, following his stroke behind the right ear and giving a nice scritch. It almost looks like Mav smiles as he snuggles up against Ice’s legs. He’s absolutely beaming. “There ya’ go, Mav. Thats better, isn’t it? Figured you didn’t wanna be stuck out here all night, huh?” He crouches down, scratching behind both of Mav’s ears “Yeah. You don’ wanna be stuck out here, do ya? Do ya?”

Maverick yips. Suddenly, Bradley barks, once, then whines. Ice chuckles, shaking his head. “Yes, you too, Rooster, I have two hands.”

Rooster starts walking, but not towards Ice. Both Mav and Ice watch him start towards Theresa. She sees him, and slowly starts to back up. But every step she takes is matched by the wolf. He’s huge. He’s getting bigger. Getting closer.

She’s gotta hide. Something inside is screaming at her. The screams echoing in her head don’t help anything. She’s able to shake them off. For a second, her head is clear. She turns and bolts for the Jeep.

Okay, not that clear.

“No! Bradley!”

Maverick’s off in a flash. He intercepts Rooster as Theresa makes it to the Jeep. Rooster growls, looking past him at the Jeep. Maverick glances back and matches his growl. They’re locked in this stand off until Ice closes the distance. He sprints the whole way. Theresa’s in the Jeep, thank god, and she’s got it on. But she’s still got open windows. Rooster or Maverick could easily get in that way.

“Easy, easy guys.” He goads. He crouches again, trying to get on their level. It’s awkward, since they stand so high off the ground. “Come on. Let’s go.” He motions to the SUV. “Slider’ll be here any minute, and we’re gonna get this all figured out, alright?”

Rooster seems calmer. The growling stops. Theresa’s sobs replace them. Ice glances at her. She’s got her knees pulled against her chest and her forehead resting on them. Great. She’s of no help right now.

With a sigh he starts towards the SUV, but backwards, to keep his eye on Maverick and Rooster. Once he reaches it, he pops the middle door. “Come on guys. We’re gonna go back to the hangar and get this all figured out.”

They hesitate for a couple seconds. Rooster glances back at Theresa. Ice nods, “She’ll follow us back.”

Maverick sneezes, but without further protest pads over to the SUV. He climbs in easily, but he looks tired. He lays down on the seat, taking up nearly the whole back bench. Ice turns back to Rooster. He’s moved a bit closer, but he’s still got a lock on Theresa.

Ice meets him where he’s at, crouching down and petting him a few times. “Yeah, I know Roo. She’s a little upset right now,” Not scared. Not now “but she’ll be alright. We’ll get this all sorted out once we get to the hangar, alright?” Rooster sighs. “Hey. Hey. Everything’s gonna be fine. It’ll all get figured out once we get back to the hangar, okay? Come ‘on.” he stands, starting towards the SUV.

Rooster glances back at Theresa once more, and after a moment he - almost reluctantly - follows Iceman back to the SUV. Once he’s in, Ice shuts the door and gets in, pulling up next to Theresa.

She’s been having a moment. Her eyes are red, and there’s wet spots on her shirt collar from where tears escaped her hands. She sniffles on their approach, trying to seem more put together.

Ice still practically scowls at her, and everything he says sounds like an order. “Head back to the hangar. Slider should meet us there.”

She nods, pursing her lips. Ice sighs and rolls his window up, rolling back towards the dirt road they took out. Theresa… Theresa hesitates for a bit. It’s not like she’ll get lost, she can see the hangar from the pile of rocks. She… she just needs a minute.

What the fuck happened? She tries to wrap her head around it. First, some big black wolf appeared and got Mav. Then Mav… Mav turned into a big black wolf and attacked Bradley. Then… then Bradley must’ve turned into a wolf and they both must’ve run off when the EMT’s showed up.

Were… were they werewolves now? That… that… I should’ve had that on my 2021 Bingo Card. She doesn’t know what she feels, but it’s not pleasant. It’s a whirl wind of fear, yes, and anxiety. She’s gotten a major… spine tingle, for lack of a better word, as her mind replays Maverick’s… shift? Is that what he called it? She’s not sure, but it sounds right.

The fact that Tom Kazansky - who she knows is Commander of the US Pacific Fleet the same way she knows that the sky is blue and Taylor Swift sings about her exes - is one of these… werewolves. He’s a werewolf. Since when did they exist?

She combs her memory for the handful of times they’d even been in the same room with him. She did meet him briefly at some ball thing she had to attend for Roosters squad. He’d seemed normal. And… the Slider guy he mentioned. She thinks she’s met him. Something to do with an unofficial “class reunion” for Maverick sometime that summer. He might’ve been out at the hangar at one point. He’d seemed completely normal too.

How many werewolves where there? How dangerous where they? Part of her wanted to geek out but a larger part was scared and betrayed. She felt paranoid, and she hated it but… I’m not wrong. She told herself.. If… if werewolves existed… what else was out there? Vampires? Witches? Ghosts? Demons? Fuck, it was Supernatural, but real. Was that a true story then? No… their werewolves worked differently. Unless… unless that was what they wanted you to think!

She’s lost in her own fears long enough for her tears to dry and a small plane to pass overhead and land at the hangar. The dust it kicks up stings her face and drags her back to the hellscape she’s woken up in tonight. She begins to cry again, and with a sniffle, tucks her knees to her chest and watches the hangar.

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