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

lundenloves · 1 year ago

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𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈𝐭 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐈𝐭 𝐏𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

olivia finally wrote smut, the crowd goes wild.

{✧} Summary: After relentless drunken encouragement from 141, Simon Riley decides to take a girl home whom he's caught eyes with a few too many times. What he doesn't expect however, are the unknown feelings in his chest after her simple acts of affection and pleasure he was always deprived of.

{✧} Pairings: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

{✧} Word count: 6.3k

{✧} TW: Smut! Oral both M and F receiving. Angst if you squint into his general storyline. A bit fucking devastating on that part. Blunt and true to his character with the issues he was given, although subtlety as he tends to bury everything. Sigh.

part two | masterlist | taglist

{✧} Ok. *Claps hands together* So, I wrote this in just over a week. I do not know how this happened or where the words came from but they certainly... worded. Basically, It's just a mass product of 2am writing. A stab in the dark as long as you act like Ghost has a more Northern voice. Which he fucking doesn't. This fucker grew up in Manchester and got given a Cockney accent. Anyway, I hope this alleviates at least some of the horniness in the cod fandom because fucking hell. Ignore how the pacing is fried. *Salutes* Happy reading, kids.

“Lt. You are a machine, sir.” Soap saluted his lieutenant with a half-drunken snort. “Got all them lassies eyeing you up.” He nodded toward a general direction, taking a short swig of the beer in his hand.

“That’ll be right, Sergeant.” Ghost grumbled, leaning against the bar with no interest in the women behind him whatsoever. He never was made for women. Well, aside from the obvious things he knew were attractive. Being tall, having muscular thighs, broad shoulders, the voice. Not to mention the plethora of skills he harboured once he occasionally did bed someone, and the whole military idea. People seemed to get off on it. However.

“Naw. I’m serious.” He tried again, leaning on the bar to find Ghost’s eyes. “When’s the last time you got with someone, eh?” His brows wiggled in amusement of his own question. A question that was fucking painfully Johnny. Ghost only looked to him through a sideward glance, swirling the last of his whisky in the short glass his hand dwarfed.

The thought of taking someone home was nothing but a task. One that made Ghost audibly sigh, tilting his chin up for the last mouthful of drink. “Treat yourself, Sergeant.” His eyes landed on Soap’s, slamming the glass back onto the bar and standing up straight.

“Aw, come on Lt.”

“Respectfully, I’m not–” His words were rarely broken, although the way this woman walked right between him and Johnny caused a pause. One he looked down at her for, his palm still splayed on the bartop. Long fingers tapping the surface. “Eighteen anymore.” He finished.

The look Soap gave Ghost behind her back was one easily mistaken for lust itself. His eyes pointed to her momentarily before flicking back to the lieutenant. “No. You’re not.” He nodded slowly, taking steps backward and mimicking sexual acts with his fingers. Mouthing, “Her.”

She was none the wiser of the acts behind her. Simply stepping between two men to reach the bar and leaning forward on her forearms, back naturally arched with the action. The broad man to her left shifted on his feet, and a subtle sigh left him with a flex of his square jaw. Johnny was on the other side of the bar, enticing Ghost to make a move. His smirk disappeared to take a swig of the fresh beer he had ordered, flicking his pointer and middle fingers together, gesturing Ghost talk to her.

Instead, all Soap received was a scowl and two fingers his way. Fuck. Off.

He steeled himself and took a spacing step backward, dead eyes instantly catching the dark ones next to him when she had touched his skin upon her own movement. Had they not moved at the same time, he would have walked away without second thought. But now, her warm smile of apology felt obligatory and he returned it in his own way. A slight raise of his brows.

“Sorry I’m dead in the way.” Her strong Mancunian accent almost caught Ghost off guard. London hadn’t given him many Northerners, and now, there was one standing in-front of him. Soap was leant forward on the bar opposite, watching their interactions intently. Even Price had joined in, a subtle smirk over his lips, raising his glass when Ghost had turned to them.

He cleared his throat, “Not at all.” The deep-voiced words were accompanied by a shake of his head, directed more to the men on the opposing end.

She turned to him, “Northern?” The smile that bit down on her bottom lip made the side of his own tilt upward ever so slightly with an amused nod. The strong arms that were crossed over his chest loosened, fingers outstretched momentarily in a way of agreement.

“Manchester.” He confirmed and she turned back to the bar, retrieving the multiple drinks for her group. Soap and Price had now recruited Gaz, the three of them all gawking at the scene ahead and sharing words.

“Figured.” She looked up at him, the tray of drinks held by both her hands. Simon briefly wondered if she was likely to spill it, his eyes cast down toward the shots. “I should take these back.” The words came with another smile, a polite one.

He absently nodded, eyes following her without turning his head. Soap, Gaz and Price were all grinning on their way over, Johnny failing to miss a flirtatious salute to the group of women. “Thought you were leaving, Lt.” He near-shouted, and Ghost held a finger out for the bartender, requesting the same drink as Price took the seat beside him.

“What was the chat?” Gaz stood beside Soap, the four of them forming a conversational square shape. “Anything worth sharing?” He nudged Johnny who clapped his hands together and rubbed them enthusiastically like a child.

“Nothing.” He replied bluntly, eyes lazily shifting between the three men.

Price leant an elbow on the bar, looking back to the group of women. The girl from earlier caught his eye, laughing loudly and knocking back shots like there was no tomorrow. He nodded toward her, “She’s certainly one for you, Simon.”

There was zero subtlety between Soap and Gaz who instantly turned. Much to Simon’s joy. “Can you turn around any fuckin' faster?” He berated with a wounded sigh, Johnny’s shoulders bouncing in amusement.

“Go talk to her.” Instead of replying, he shook his head turning back to the bar and Price stifled a laugh. “Might as well try, no?” The glass of whisky he had finished was pushed from hand-to-hand, looking back up to Ghost who pulled a face. “They’re interested.” His lips downturned in fairness, turning his palm upright and tilting his head in saying so.

Simon cleared his throat, taking a sharp swig of his drink. “Good for them.”

She had looked toward the bar, locking eyes with Simon who had been caught staring. Much to his own dismay. Although, her smile returned and he found himself shifting his feet once again, unsure of how to react. Lifting his glass an inch or two in recognition of her efforts. “Aw c’mon, she’s so wanting to fuck you Lt.”

“Christ, Johnny.” Price scoffed, the wrinkles by his eyes emphasised with an afterthought laugh. Gaz turned to Simon with a shrug, one that spoke louder than anything else, ‘he’s not wrong’, it said. Not that they would know anything, only projecting their own desire for scoring tonight. Being away for weeks, months, at a time with near-zero female company was sometimes gruelling. For the more sexually active soldiers anyway. Ghost never seemed to care. Permanently focused on the mission at hand or anticipating the next.

Aside from a few late nights.

“I’m leaving.” He announced, sliding his now empty glass to the barhand.

“This guy isn’t real, man.” Soap pointed with his thumb, Price shrugging an amused smirk, arms crossed over his chest. The woman from earlier had caught onto his exit via her diligent staring, grabbing her bag and approaching the four men rather sheepishly. Something about a group of huge men wasn’t exactly inviting, although it was at the same time.

“Alright?” Gaz was the only one to see her, turning the other three toward the direction.

“Alright.” She returned with a smile, eyeing up Ghost. “You leaving?”

He nodded blankly, eyes hooded over upon looking down at her. The veins on his hands visible for the low bar light, emphasising each one that created a pulsing feeling between her legs. Ghost wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going on, standing straight and rubbing a hand across his brow and down to his jaw where it stayed.

“I’m Thea.” She said to him, and him only.

“Simon.” He dropped the hand from his face, holding it out for her to shake.

Soap was practically fucking bouncing from behind her, drunkenly chuffed for his lieutenant when she had taken his hand for a little too long. “Mind if I leave with you?” Her question couldn’t have meant a whole lot more than the obvious. Simon forgot he hadn’t his mask on when the faintest smirk had tugged the corner of his lip upwards.

His eyes averted toward his unit, “Gents.” He gave them a short nod before gesturing she walked ahead of him with a leading hand, following behind her with one subtle look back. Price raising his glass high once again.

“You lot military or something?” She asked when he had held the door, dipping under his arm.

“Something like that.”

The somewhat curt responses and deliberate movements were attractive to Thea. Everything was calculated, it was obvious he had a job as such. Not to mention the build. “You live far from here?” He took a deep breath with the question, digging into his pockets for a cigarette.

“A good way away.” She nodded, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth.

Simon produced a carton from his jacket, further patting around his trousers for a lighter. “Mine then?” He mumbled for the cigarette he had stuck to his lip in the meantime, it moved with the words he spoke.

“Yours.” She nodded, watching as he lit it up.

A cloud of smoke burst from the long exhale he had taken, his eyes dark in the dimly lit street, “You cold?” In question for the three buttons that were only a third done up on her vest top, pierced nipples easily visible through the fabric. “You want my jacket or somethin’?” His lips left parted from the draw, looking down at her.

“I’m alright.” Her words were unconvincing and he nodded at the fact, holding the cigarette between his teeth while shrugging the thick shelled jacket off. It was heavy when she’d taken it from his arm, pulling it on only to drown in it. But oh, it smelled rich and exposed his arms again. Large muscles and inked forearms only now visible although not done any sense of justice by the loose t-shirt he wore. Her eyes involuntarily drifted lower to his hips, dark jeans clad over wide, seemingly muscular thighs.

“Come on then.” He nodded, killing the cigarette with a twist of his boot.

Ghost hadn’t taken someone home in months. Fucking months. He dreaded seeing her reaction to his dull flat, expensive enough but sparsely decorated for A: he was never there and B: he didn’t exactly know how to decorate well.

“You live round these parts?”

“Mm-hm.” It was a flat response.

“Expensive, no?”

“Mh-hm.”

She laughed at that, looking up at him with a gleam in her eye. One he hadn’t seen in years, his own stolen from him years ago. Even still, he watched onward, overlooking training sessions, as new recruits began to slowly lose their shine for the forces on the hardship of war. Loading and unloading guns to save and simultaneously take lives. It was a lot. To someone who perhaps wasn’t as stiffly stuck in their ways.

His flat was just as you’d imagine. Dark colours, simple decoration without much personality involved. Thea handed his jacket back once they had stepped inside, watching as he tossed it to the sofa. “Drink?”

“Please.” She followed him to the kitchen, leaning on the counter. “Just, whatever you have.”

He looked over his shoulder, “I've only got whisky.” She pulled a face, pushing her forearms further on the counter. “Or shit beer.”

“The whisky’ll do.” Thea tsked, looking up at him through her lashes when he’d turned around, sliding a glass across the counter toward her. She eyed his tattoos when both of his palms had been placed flat on the marble, standing opposite her. “Why stay in such a nice gaff if you’re never ‘round.”

“I could be here everyday for all you know.”

“Yeah,” She swirled the amber liquid around the glass, drawing her finger across the countertop to gather dust. “But you’re not.”

He didn’t respond, eyes only reading between hers in a long stare. One that ultimately rushed a feeling in her stomach, and slowly created a wetness between her thighs. In his stare came the crude thoughts. The hunger that resides deep within his chest, only freed every few months with someone new each time. “That right?”

“You tell me.” She competed his silence, taking a small sip of the whisky and Ghost rounded the counter with a grumble. Her eyes drifted to the walls, multiple certifications, photos and memorabilia framed and hung proudly. Just about the only things on show for the type of person he was.

Lieutenant Simon Riley

“Lieutenant?”

His chest lifted in a large inhale, followed by a hum of agreement. Eyes following hers to the multiple achievements on the wall. “How do you want this?”

The words came off a drawl, clearly avoiding the topic of his career.

Thea instead walked closer to the photos littered within the frames. Messily pushed behind the glass, with multiple fold lines and frayed edges. “You’re not even in these.” She pointed, turning back to him with a puzzled expression. Ghost sighed longly, reaching an arm behind his head.

“I am.” His eyes narrowed habitually and she pointed toward his masked self, turning back to him with a quirked brow to which his jaw tightened in answer.

“That almost turns me on.” She snorted and Simon involuntarily relaxed his shoulders.

There was something about her. Maybe it was her boldness, the way she wasn’t daunted by him, or her overall confidence. It wasn’t even like he didn’t know confidence. Fuck, most people in the forces had too much of it. But outside of base, it was near nonexistent around him. Until her.

“You got the whole getup huh?” She couldn’t help but tease and Ghost shook his head at her relenting smile, hiding his own behind a swig of his drink before discarding it to a side table.

“C’mere.” He said, rubbing his jaw momentarily before taking the glass from her hand, watching her eyes roam the broad expanse of his clothed chest. “I’ll ask again,” The taste of whisky was hot on Thea’s tongue, looking up at Simon with a sudden lust. “How do you want this?” He reached an arm across her hip, pulling her toward him.

She crossed her arms over her chest in his grip. Her silence forced a growl from him, his hands squeezing at her sides. “However you want.” She purred, reaching upward for his hair and running her fingers through it.

He grunted in response. An unknown emotion pooling in his chest, drifting down from the feeling of her fingers in his hair straight toward his heart, making it pump just a little faster. The gentle touch of a woman was something he was yet to experience in its full power, leaning forward to subconsciously chase her touch when her hand was taken back.

Thea looked up at him, the softness in her eyes pushed a movement from him. “Come on.” He stood forward, walking to the bedroom where she followed him. A standard room, tall windows opposite a large bed. No wall decor, or decor at all for that matter save a mirror and a standard lamp on a bedside table that housed a set of dog tags.

His hand smoothed across her arm, taking her attention back with a pointed stare.

“Kiss me then.” She caught his solemn eyes, watching them harden as his hand traced upward to her chin, pointing it upward to face him and uncharacteristically planting a soft kiss to her jaw. His thumb swiped across her bottom lip and intruded her mouth, watching expectedly as her tongue welcomed his pointer and middle fingers, swirling around them with heavy eye contact.

He pushed his impossibly long fingers even further down her throat, provoking a gag from her and a smirk teased his lip. “I know, sweetheart.” The coo was enough for her to moan, reaching a hand for his shoulder, kneading at the fabric of his shirt while surely bruising his tracks. Thea hadn’t ever been with a man this big, she too suspected his lower regions to be just as thick as the large hand he had wrapped around her torso upon taking his fingers back.

His steps came backwards toward the bed, the backs of his knees hitting the plush mattress and forcing him to sit. Thick thighs at their broadest, his tattoos dark and full under the lack of light in the room. Thea manoeuvred onto his lap, her knees either side of his hips.

Simon pulled her thighs toward him, shifting so she was flush with his lower abdomen. Her hands roamed his hair once again, caressing behind his ear and down past his jaw. “When was the last time?” She pressed a delicate kiss to his lip, pressing her forehead against his own.

“A while ago.” He admitted flatly, returning her kiss and silently admiring the smoothness of her lips against his own.

She hummed against his mouth, the inner corners of her eyebrows raising at his dark eyes. Eyes that were filled with death and fear, the same ones you could expect to find in a therapy waiting room or a likely battlefield. She watched the thoughts run through his head, dipping a glance toward her chest momentarily before averting back up to her swollen lips.

“I can tell.” She whispered in close proximity and he pulled back, an instant crease in his brow at her words. “Relax.”

Her hand reached for his, guiding it toward her chest and pushing his palm flat. The gentle thrum of her heartbeat was easily felt although Simon’s eyes remained stiff on hers, only softening when she had placed her palm over his.

He kissed her in response, a definite difference in pace as his tongue circled her own and his hands guided her against his groin. She lit up at the pressure, fixing to pull her vest-top over her head and wincing at the sharp coldness across her exposed nipples.

Simon wasn’t surprised by her lack of a bra, although his jaw did tighten at the sight of her. The sensitive beads of her nipples hardened and adorned by piercings that were near teased to him earlier. His hands travelled upward, kneading at the soft flesh and toying with the steel.

He grunted at the way her lips had connected to his neck, gentle kisses soon turning rough and leaving angry marks. “Take this off.” She rocked on his hips, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

He compiled without protest, pulling it over his head and holding back the fire within him at the way she hungrily eyed his form. The broad points of his shoulders, collarbones sharp and chest wide, his tattoos expanding upwards just as she had imagined. “You alright?”

Thea only managed a nod. His hard rippled stomach was flush with her own, a sparse amount of dark hair trailing downward from his navel. She smoothed her hands out over his shoulders, running them softly down his arms.

His mouth dipped from hers to accomodate her nipple, making lightwork of her perky tits and swirling his tongue around the steel in equal amounts. Thea squirmed at his expert touch, pushing his head back with a moan, dark eyes locking onto his without hesitation.

Simon stood up with her in his grip. Hands underneath her thighs, creating a deepening need between her legs. A need so vast that she had crashed her lips onto his to forget about it, marvelling at the feeling of his warm skin against hers as he easily placed her down onto her back.

“I’m taking these off.” His gravelly voice near-growled, kneeling wide between her legs and fidgeting with the fabric of her loose trousers. “That alright?”

“Mmhm.” She provided, leaning up on her arms and looking down at Simon. His hair was a mess from her hands, red marks on his neck deepening with every passing second and his long, thick fingers had succeeded in undressing her bottom half.

He sat back on his haunches for a brief second, a firm hand pressing himself through his jeans while his other teased at her clit, thumb gathering her slick before rubbing circles into her. The room completely silent if not for her soft whimpers and the passing traffic outside.

His middle and ring finger lapped her pooling arousal, pushing into her with ease and curling immediately. “Fuck. Simon.” He felt his cock twitch at the use of his name, looking up to catch eyes with her. Face flushed beet red, her arms dropped to fall back onto the bed after his head had tilted, the speed of his fingers picking up.

His thumb continued pressing on her clit, two fingers now three, completely stretching her out before she had been reduced to a whining mess. Hands outstretched to grip on his shoulder, moaning aloud at the sudden loss when he had pulled his hand back.

Thea sat up immediately, her scorn met with his own look of assurance. Eyes seemingly natural in their advanced expressions, giving way more than words ever could. He pulled her thighs toward him, dipping so they rested over his shoulders and with one fatal lick of his lip she knew.

Simon’s jeans felt impossibly tight, groaning to himself upon licking a line up her core. “Fuck.” He mumbled against her, and her delicate hand was already gripping on the bed-sheets, knuckles white with his warmth. He’d frankly never seen something so gorgeous in his life.

A large palm pinned her to the bed. Calloused fingertips grazing just above her navel, fingertips that belonged to a hand strong enough to choke someone to death. “I’m close.” Thea moaned at the pressure, the feeling of his tongue darting in and out of her, sucking on her clit and building a fuzzy warmth in her lower stomach. Never had a man made such light work, reducing her to an embarrassingly short time.

He nodded into her, eyes darting upward when a gush of liquid had released from her cunt in a muffled scream. His chest heaved up and down at the wetness, fingers finishing off the job to create one more cry from her. “Cut the shit,” He spoke, taking the pillow from her grip and throwing it. “I want to fucking hear you.”

Thea bit her lip, sitting up on shaky legs to push him backward so he was stood by the foot of the bed. “Only if I get to hear you.” She looked up at him with lazy eyes, tracing his v-line and pulling him forward by the belt loops. Face only inches away from his groin.

Simon ran his thumb along her bottom lip once again, looking down at her with a ragged exhale. His cock hung heavy, twitching as she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, allowing him to step out of them. “Shit.” She whined.

“I know.” He began, releasing himself from his boxers and tilting her chin upward to meet his condescendingly empathetic gaze. “I know, love.”

The words rushed a warmth between her legs all over again.

His cock stood without constriction, too heavy to stand upright but not enough to ignore the twitches that came from his thoughts. A thick vein pulsed on the underside of his length, one Thea ran her tongue along eagerly to push a throaty groan from him. “Fuh-uck.”

Her thumb ran over the slit of his tip, gathering precome for a few pumps of his girth before stretching her mouth over him. Slow at first. Deliberate. Simon’s hand pushed hair from her face, allowing her to look up at him through thick eyelashes.

It had been long. So, so long since he was allowed to make any noise. Being in confined spaces with upwards of ten men almost full time didn’t exactly allow for much, nevermind time to get worked up. His mind had somehow drifted to the barracks, only pulled back into reality when Thea had gagged against his thick length. Her spit joined them together when she had pulled away, using her hand to pump him multiple times.

“Fuck—“ He groaned loudly, hand on the back of his neck while the other held her hair up. “Fucking hell.” The lone sounds were enough for him to shut his eyes.

Thea’s jaw already ached. A heat between her bones at the lock, tongue edging around his girth as she took him the best she could. The course hair at the base of his length was addictive, her nose near touching it with every dive save a few centimetres.

“You’re doing so good, darlin’.” Simon spoke through his teeth, swallowing thickly at the vibration of her moan against himself. “So good f’me.” Almost too good. Too good to the point where he had nudged her with his thigh, nodding to the bed when she had looked up at him.

“You close or somethin’?” She teased, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shifting backward on the bed. Her mascara had smeared over her eyes, cheeks tinted deep red and eyes glossy from his size.

He ignored her, although the way his cock twitched was an agreement in itself. “I don’t have protec—“

“I’m on the pill.”

The way his eyes darkened created a pit in her stomach. One that was soon filled when he had joined her on the bed, wandering hands squeezing on her hips in company with continuous kisses that were peppered all across her collarbones.

His cock dragged against her stomach, thick arms holding himself up above her and exposing defined triceps in the mirror next to his bed. “I want you to watch.” His hand directed her gaze toward the reflection, lowering himself close. “Will you do that for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

She watched him in the mirror. The way his shoulder muscles flexed as he leaned forward, prominent veins in his arms only accentuated in the low light. “Mhhm.”

“Good girl.” His eyes dipping down to where their bodies met, sliding his length up and down her folds before pressing the tip into her. A low groan followed, his eyes cast aside to the mirror where she somehow found solace in his stare. “You alright?”

She nodded tightly, letting go of a breath she wasn’t aware was held. Simon entered her inch by inch, his cock suffocated by her tight walls. “Shit, you’re—“ She swallowed, “Fucking big.” It came out a whine, hand held to her mouth once he had pushed himself flush with her core.

“None of that.” He spoke curtly, taking her hand and pinning it to her side. Thea nodded slowly, looking between his eyes for the brief moment he had allowed.

She couldn’t remember who was supposed to be in control anymore when she felt him, thick and warm, hips slowly rocking back and forth. The sound of her arousal against his skin filled the room, head thrown back into the pillow, hands gripping the sheets.

Simon’s mouth reconnected with her soft chest, teeth dragging across the sensitive skin, groaning and cursing in response to her hand in his hair. Touch. Starved. His eyes fell in a heavy-lidded blissful expression, the mirror supplying image of his momentum. Mouth slightly agape, the ends of his hair wet in sweat from the heat between them.

Thea let go entirely, surrendering to the pace Simon had set. Pulling her bare thighs tighter to his groin and craning his neck to see how effortlessly he slid in and out of her, white-hot pleasure streaking down and onto him. “Fuck.” His deep tone had drawn out in pleasure. “Look at you— fucking, dripping.”

She pressed weak kisses to his throat, lapping up the perspiration that ran down in small beads. Words wouldn’t tumble from her mouth, thighs clenching around his hips when he had angled forward. “God, Simon—“ Her grin lazily bit into her lip, cockdrunk and exhausted from his earlier efforts.

He let go a feral snarl of a sound, brows knitted together at the feeling of her walls convulsing against him and the flush of pressure against his cock. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, certainly drawing blood and sharp breaths through his teeth. “Look at me.” He ordered, cupping her jaw and boring his eyes into her.

Thea choked a moan, her mouth agape when her climax had rushed through both of them without warning. His headboard simultaneously slammed into the wall with her moans, gasping for air as her hands blindly reached to find him by her head, grabbing onto his forearms with desperation.

Simon’s head hung low between his shoulders, sweat from his hair dripping down onto her chest. She could tell he was close, the way his jaw ticked and his chest heaved. The coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbed against her clit, sending her overstimulating pulses through his body and turning them into quiet groans by her ear.

His rhythm had faltered, shaking his head as his jaw loosened. “Fucking hell,” He breathed out, eyes dazed and heavy, feverishly catching a glimpse of her own euphoria in the mirror.

She reached for his hair, gripping at the roots tightly when his cock had twitched inside her and he stilled, eyes screwed shut at his release. A long breath left him as the muscles in his arms flexed, each one tightening before letting go and Thea whined. The ridiculous feeling of his pulsing cock deep inside her was new, pleasure breaking across his face as he painted her walls with his seed.

The mirror reflected the loosening of his body, almost going limp above her for a short second when he had pulled out. Eyes locked onto the way his release spilled out of her and back onto his cock. “What a fucking mess.” He almost laughed, looking back up at her with a hint of a smile that she stared at in stunned awe.

It had taken all of this to prod a single smile from him. Even at that, it wasn’t anything to shout about. Uneven dimples either side of his cheeks when he had stifled a laugh, his right side notably more prominent than the left.

“What time is it?”

“Almost one.” His words came breathlessly after a long sigh. Large, bright red military digits by his bedside condensed into a small alarm, the only unnatural light in the room.

She nodded, covering herself with the duvet as Simon found his discarded boxers. The low light against him created shadows of physical fitness. His rippled abdomen only accentuated much to visual delight. “D’you need anythin’?” His eyes had returned to their dead way, naturally darkened and almost offensive.

“Maybe that drink from earlier.”

He nodded, fighting the urge to sigh once out the room. Hands palm down on the kitchen counter, rolling out his shoulder muscles and cracking his neck. “I’ll get going after.” Her voice sounded quietly from behind him causing a sudden flinch.

“Go back to bed.” He barked, tilting his head to shake away the fright.

Although, he could hear her footsteps approaching, completely disregarding him and slowly padding across the cold flooring to where he was stood. Thea paused before speaking, “I’m going to touch your back, yeah?”

Simon looked over his shoulder at her, dressed in only her underwear. Small hands inspecting the damage her nails had inflicted on him, scratch marks and a sparse amount of dried blood. “I got you a good’un.” Her tone was light, smoothing over his shoulders and down to his torso. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” He provided shortly.

She nodded to herself, stepping back from him and taking the glass from earlier with her. Simon rubbed his jaw, turning to catch her shadow in the bedroom, watching as she sunk back onto his bed.

He traipsed to the bathroom, finding himself in the mirror. His inked forearm leant on the sink, turning to assess the damage to his back. He’d had worse. That was easily determined, the dry blood only made him shrug although he made an effort to wash it off for her visual comfort. His skin adorned in scars and bruises from deployments. All holding their own individual stories, not ones Simon knew though. To him they were just signs of a war. Fighting, death, pain. He ran his fingers across them, locking eyes with his reflection.

And with a sigh he left his mirror image, pacing back to the bedroom and downing his discarded glass of whisky on the way.

Thea lay on her side, the dark room only lit by outside traffic and her phone screen. Simon felt a fatigued sigh leave him, rubbing his face before rounding the bed to join her.

She smiled to herself at the way the mattress dipped significantly, an arm resting behind his head, the other hand on his stomach. Thea slid her phone underneath the pillow, turning to face him. “You alright?” She plucked courage to ask, taking in his side profile.

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet before clearing his throat. “Are you?” Brow furrowed with the question, his head briefly turning to face her, eyes looking between hers for an answer before she could give one.

“I’m good.” She replied through a simper. “Tired.”

Simon nodded, turning back to the ceiling. “I’ve an awful sleep schedule.” The dark circles under his eyes said as much, ones Thea had been trying not to make a point of all night. “Never get much sleep when I’m deployed.”

“You just got back?”

“Few days ago.” He let go of a long exhale.

Thea narrowed her eyes at him, feeling a sudden pang in her chest. “Maybe you’ll sleep tonight.” Her words weren’t intended to provoke a laugh, although that’s what they did. A genuine one too.

“Maybe.”

Morning came and sunlight beat through the room without manner. The curtains hadn’t been drawn last night, resulting in a stiff groan when Simon had woken first. The covers were a mess, his legs predictably tangled between Thea’s and it was only when he stretched that he realised she had ended up on his chest.

He froze after she had hummed in protest of his movement. Her head nestled into the crook of his neck, small hands clasped together over his chest.

It felt like his breathing had stopped so as to not interrupt her, craning his neck to check the time. 11:32am. A brief feeling of nausea surged through him at that, possibly the latest he had ever woken up since being a teenager.

It became an itch to get up.

Simon's eyes ticked between Thea and the floor beside him, figuring the best possible way to make the move. Years of stealth training would’ve come in handy if it wasn’t for her own stretch, eyes fluttering open momentarily before realising where she was. Who she was on.

“Oh shit.” She lazily cursed, pulling herself away from him and leaving a confusingly bereft feeling in Simon. “Sorry. I must’ve done that in the night.” Her back now to him, curling herself to be smaller on the opposite side of the bed and he stared at the walls blankly. Fingers smoothing across the warmth she had left on his chest before sitting up, palms flat either side of himself.

She felt his weight leave the mattress, closing her eyes in knowing. The night was done, it was time to go. Even if he wouldn’t directly say that. She turned to her back, watching as he sifted through the clothes on the floor, instinctively shoving everything of his into a corner while piling hers on a drawer unit. Thea wanted to believe he folded her stuff out of niceness, although she knew it was probably his military subconscious.

She grounded her feet to the floor, feeling conscious of her half-naked body when standing up in-front of the grandiose window. The view wasn’t too impressive, his flat adjacent to other townhouses across the road, like a mirror image. Simon left the room after haphazardly dressing himself, only shorts and a t-shirt although it made Thea feel more exposed as she slowly slipped back into her vest.

A family across the road had caught her eye. Seemingly a single mother and two boys, all laughing across their dining table. There was something poignant about it – a stoic man across the road, hosting a one night throw away against a loving home. She wondered if Simon had ever noticed them, rubbing a hand across her face at the thought.

What she didn’t know was that he was behind her, looming by the door as she stared across the buildings. He cleared his throat, “I can give you money– for an uber or somethin’."

“No, you’re alright.” She buttoned her trousers, turning to him without an ounce of hesitation in her quiet voice. Simon stared bluntly, following her movements as she collected the rest of her stuff. “Thanks for the night, Simon.” Her smile however didn’t quite reach her eyes, taking her bag from the counter where the two whisky glasses from last night sat next to each other. Only one of them a real whisky one, the other a standard small glass. Thea sucked her lips inward at his lost nod, eyes darting down to his lips and then between his eyes.

She reached for the door handle, walking out without a look back for she feared it would ache.

And Simon hung by the threshold until she was gone. His fingers absently reaching for the whisky, shutting his eyes at the lone glass after closing the door. The flat fell back to its usual silence, and he found a cigarette on his coffee table, sliding the glass to the wood and leaning back. The smoke felt futile, unfulfilling its job to satisfy.

This was why no one came home with Simon Riley.

i have no idea how to feel about this. i feel lawst *rick grimes*

huge thank you to two people, @mistydeyes for entertaining my late night rambles and encouraging me to finish this, our british class will resume tonight. do not be late. and @fwibblefwobble for letting me break my vocal chords screaming over instagram voice notes, and watching all the ghost band tiktoks that infiltrated my fyp. ur the mvp.

simon 'ghost' riley taglist: @vamppxncess @freakonfilm @crowbird @misshoneypaper @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @abbugaduu @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara

if you aren’t tagged and have asked, that’s because i wasn’t able to tag your blog!

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x oc #simon riley #simon riley smut #ghost mw2 #mw2 fanfic #ghost smut #call of duty mwii #cod mwii #cod mw smut #cod mw fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod smut

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yandereunsolved · 9 months ago

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tw(s): yandere themes, reference to sa, murder, mention of possible suicide

yandere Tate Langdon who first saw you when you moved in with your family. He was sitting outside listening to Hayden rant about Ben for the umpteenth time. It was like that hole that had been ripped in his soul by Violet was repaired. No, you seemed so different from her. Violet's heart called out to him but your soul screams for his loving caress.

yandere Tate Langdon who is immediately blocked by Violet and her mother when he tries to see you better. Both are insistent that he stays away from you. They bother threaten him but he's only half listening. He's standing on his tiptoes looking through his your our window. He practically has hearts in his eyes.

yandere Tate Langdon who is consistently cockblocked by Violet's family and Moira. Violet immediately introduced you to the fact that ghosts are in this house. Violet warns you that Tate is crazy and not to be trusted.

yandere Tate Langdon who attacks Violet and drags her down to the basement so he can spend time with you.

yandere Tate Langdon who manipulates you into thinking Violet is lying. He says that the mass murder part is true, but not the murdering of the gay couple and the sexual assault of Viven. He cries his heart out to you. He begs and speaks of his mommy issues. He pulls out all of his manipulation tactics.

yandere Tate Langdon who infantilizes himself around you to make himself seem more innocent. He is more vulnerable and soft.

yandere Tate Langdon who asks your opinion on everything. If you like it, he likes you. You hate it, he hates it. He begs you to like his things. He begs for your validation and praise. He craves it more than anything else in the world.

yandere Tate Langdon who always goes through your stuff without your permission. He always puts it back and has a fit if you catch him. He cries and begs for you to forgive him. He then cuddles into you and peppers you with kisses telling you how much he loves you.

yandere Tate Langdon who takes your stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, for private use later.

yandere Tate Langdon who has a private journal of his murder and sexual fantasies. He writes down everything he knows about you. He writes down sappy little love poems that he slips into your pocket(s).

yandere Tate Langdon who has made a hit list of everyone you dislike. As well as people near you that he doesn't like. He's written in his private journal about the ways he is going to kill your family and get rid of their bodies— just incase. He doesn't want their spirits staying in this house and interrupting your precious time together.

yandere Tate Langdon who asks you to rent books from the library. He asks a lot of different genres. He begins to get more specific with spell books and literature about witchcraft.

yandere Tate Langdon who plans on getting rid of the rest of the spirits with spells. He adds it to his journal for later use.

yandere Tate Langdon who watches you even when you don't know. When you are sleeping, showering, studying, changing, anything.

yandere Tate Langdon who respects boundaries only when they are convenient for him. He is always pushing your boundaries gently. He frames it as 'getting you out of your comfort zone'. If you get too upset or confront him he gets violent. He throws a temper tantrum and disappears for perhaps weeks. You think he has disappeared but he is just watching from the shadows.

yandere Tate Langdon who makes you so dependent on him that you'll believe anything that comes out of his mouth.

yandere Tate Langdon who will starve you of his attention and presence if you get mad or even just look at him the wrong way. He says that he is just establishing his boundaries and cooling off. What he's really doing is making you suffer.

yandere Tate Langdon who feels bad in some way. He doesn't want to manipulate you and be toxic but he has to! You'll get in danger and could even die without his guidance! He would rather get broken up with Violet for all eternity as opposed to losing you at the hands of the world.

yandere Tate Langdon who spends all his time with you. Or waiting for you to come back from where ever. Or hiding in his invisible ghost mode when your family is around.

yandere Tate Langdon who wants nothing more than to stake his claim on you. He wants your family to hear every noise fall past your lips because of him. He wants you to make him whimper and make him squirm. He wants your family to think you have some secret boyfriend. Where did those hickeys come from? Tate gave them to you when you were sleeping... he couldn't help himself. You just looked so warm and inviting. He didn't mean it at first. He just started kissing your skin and he got a little aggressive, okay?

yandere Tate Langdon who doesn't want you to ever leave the house. He hangs off of you and loves on you until you don't leave. If you have school/friends/work/alone time... nooooooooooooooo. He pouts and sulks when you aren't there. He lays on your bed and cries sometimes. He plots murder. He draws little drawings for you. He harasses your family— harasses your family?

yandere Tate Langdon who harasses your family and mentally tortures them. He uses the other ghosts to do. He'll purposefully cause arguments in your family. Put things where they don't belong. Make it seem like someone is cheating on someone else. Maybe your family member is just having a shitty day... Tate is gonna make it the shittiest day they have ever had.

yandere Tate Langdon who gets taught about the intricacies of technology by you. He hacks into your electronic and looks at your search history. By hacks I mean learns your password. He accidentally got a virus on your computer once. Any social media you have is immediately monitored by Tate. He creates his own account and boosts every one of your comment. Wants to commit another mass murder whenever someone gives you a negative comment.

yandere Tate Langdon who crawls into your lap at night.

yandere Tate Langdon who tells you his deepest and darkest secrets. Besides the entire stalking, manipulating, and murder fantasy stuff.

yandere Tate Langdon who has very special things planned for your first Halloween with him. A romantic picnic on the beach at night. A bubble bath with rose petals afterwards. Laying in your bed and listening to Niravna. Your enemies disappearing. Violet, Vivien, and Ben suddenly disappearing. Thanks magic! Now there are fewer obstacles in the way of your eternal and ever lasting love.

yandere Tate Langdon who helps your low mental health and constantly praises you. He love bombs you so very much.

yandere Tate Langdon who plans on having you commit suicide after the rest of the ghosts are gone, and your family. He'll convince you and won't let you leave the house until you do.

yandere Tate Langdon who is wrapped around your finger so tight. All he does is for you. You could even manipulate him if you are skilled enough— be careful though. He's an unstable mass murder with mommy issues.

yandere Tate Langdon who is ready to burn down the world for you.

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pookalicious-hq · 2 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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jomamaofficial · 6 months ago

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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 · 1 year 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

259 notes · View notes

redara · 8 months ago

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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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nikitasys · 6 months 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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ursa-tan · 1 year ago

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Soft

Wally Darling x Reader (Platonic or Romantic)

Requested: No

To your surprise, Wally's hair isn't a solid mass of hair spray and bobby pins! Rather, its an intricately weaved together hair style that nearly falls apart when you run your hands through it. Though Wally doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.

Word count: 609 Reading time: ~2 mins

TW: None No descriptions of the reader's gender + they/them pronouns, but the reader is briefly mentioned to be wearing a dress

You sit on the blanket Julie has laid out, legs tucked under you with your dress' skirt pushed over your knees. It's a beautifully sunny day, just like every other day this week as been. Which is why Julie had decided that it was the opportune time to put together a picnic. Wally interrupts your light day dreaming when he walks over, sitting next to you with his legs crossed.

"Hello neighbour," he says, voice soft and monotone as always.

"Heya Wally, enjoying today?" You ask, glancing at him for a second before closing your eyes and letting yourself get lost in the feeling of the sun on your face.

"I am, it's wonderful. Are you?"

You hum out a response, shifting slightly to lay your legs in front of you. Leaning back on your hands becomes more comfortable than holding yourself up.

Suddenly, an unexpected weight is placed in your lap, gently laid across your thighs. You crack an eye open, having to readjust to the bright sunlight. When you can finally see properly again, you're met with the sight of Wally. His head in placed in your lap, eyes closed and signature smile on his face. His fingers are intertwined and hands laid on his stomach while his legs are straight out, relaxed and slightly parted.

"You comfortable there?" You chuckle lightly, placing a hand on Wally's chest and toying with the end of his silk ascot.

"Very, thank you neighbour." He doesn't bother opening his eyes to look at you - which is rather strange for Wally, but you brush it off as him being relaxed.

Slowly, you remove your hand from his chest and place it behind you, leaning back again. Although, from the way Wally opens his eyes and looks at you, you can tell he he wasn't particularly fond of your choice. But your other wrist hurts and you need to give it a break, so you choose instead to play with his hair. Or at least you attempt to.

Everyone in home knows Wally takes a lot of pride in his appearance - not in a vain way, he just likes to look good. And as a result of that, you expected his hair to be solid, held together by mass amounts of hair spray. What you don't expect in the slightest is how soft it is. Your fingers disappear easily into the blue pompadour, sinking into the soft, almost fluffy mass without a problem.

You expect to find a bobby pin in there somewhere, and while you do, it does take a moment. Completely lost in how soft his hair is, you don't realise that Wally's hair has begun to unravel. Gently, it begins to untwine, falling into your lap.

"Neighbour?" Wally opens his eyes again, looking up at you, "What are you doing?"

"Oh!" It's almost as if his words bring you back to reality, make you aware of what you're doing, "I'm so sorry Wally, I didn't mean to ruin your hair," You mumble, removing your hand from his hair.

However, your movement doesn't get far as the puppet in your lap reaches up to grab your hand in both of his. He guides it back to his head, placing it back in the same position it was in before you took it away.

"I can fix it later neighbour." Wally smiles up at you, letting his eyes fall shut again.

You chuckle lightly, threading your fingers into his hair again. Once again you lose yourself in the feeling of his hair. You twirl the loose curls around your fingers, watching them coil and then fall away from around your digits.

#fanfic #fanfiction #x reader #Wally Darling #welcome home arg #welcome home #wally welcome home #welcome home wally

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feverdreamsanddelusions · 11 months ago

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@whumperofworlds tumblr doesn't let me edit asks so here we are

kidnapping ask game

[tw guns, kidnapping, mention of execution, multiple whumpers, dehumanisation, probably very bad writing of fake politics sorry to everyone who understands real politics, but this popped into my head and i couldn't let it go. i know i could've done it with a king or a prince but i love the title chancellor too much so semi modern it is]

A kidnapping like this should've been entirely impossible. Infiltrating the security staff of a nation's leader as a couple of rebel dogs should've been something out of a fantasy book, yet here they were, pressing guns to Whumpee's back as they finished up their speech. The crowd was huge, and there was no way Whumpee was going to create a mass panic, and subequently, cause a lot of casualties.

They should've agreed to televise the stupid speech. Fucking dammit. If there were cameras, these hyenas would've felt way less comfortable.

One of the 'guards' leaned in and whispered, "Time to go, Chancellor. Clock's ticking, and we have places to be."

Whumpee swallowed and tried not to look too terrified. They were supposed to radiate strength and calm. Hell, they'd told these people last week that the rebellion had been dealt with. Of course, they knew it wasn't true, but to have made such an egregious mistake...

There was nothing to do at this point. They said their goodbyes and listened to the applause for a few seconds longer than necessary, trying to will the enemy away as though they were just part of a particularly bad nightmare. But the guns didn't disappear. In fact, the barrel of one was pressing into their kidney so insistently that they were sure it would bruise — not that that was their biggest worry.

Eventually, they stepped away from the stand and walked out, followed by the two guards who had threatened to shoot them in front of the nation's most important people and thousands of civilians. There were more guards joining them, and for the first time, Whumpee thought they should've taken the time to get to know their staff. They had no idea whether these people were also undercover rebels. They had no idea who was safe to ask for help. They had no idea what the consequences of such an ask would be, if directed at the wrong person. Or even if directed at an ally.

When they exited the building, Whumpee realised they were surrounded beyond anything they could've imagined. Their usual car was gone, the press was nowhere to be seen, and the guys in the back of the van that was awaiting them had everything from restraints to weapons.

None of their allies were going to rush to their aid. Their political opponents were likely going to use this to secure their power. And the rebels, well... Whumpee didn't want to find out how many days they'd get to live after these people figured out that an unpopular tyrant would gain them more sympathy being executed than held hostage.

#whump #whump drabble #guns #kidnapping #mention of execution #multiple whumpers #dehumanisation #res writes

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shadows-over-sunn · 2 years ago

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📹 *breathless* continued, 10:28-

📼 I WAS RIGHT! MURDER!

📹shut up, scream when we get to my house. My parents aren't home so you won't wake anyone!

*door slam*

📹📼: ahhhhh!

📼: oh my God. That was a flipping mass gra-

📹: I know oh my God TOBI! TOBI! CMERE BOY! *running sounds* *off sound* oh my sweet baby youre okay youre not torn to bits

📼 I'm gonna let him hug his dog in peace. Oh shit...I can hardly breathe right now. Recording end ummm shit 10:37 pm

#dog disappearances #tw dog death mention #tw mass grave mention

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helloiamadrawer · 7 months 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 · 1 year 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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creatore-is-an-amarena-addict · 2 years ago

Text

MIDNIGTH OF THE 88

Tw: mention/unconsensual use of drugs, kidnapping, stalking, use and mention of alchool, emotional manipulation/exploitation, affectionate/touchy whumper slaughter of the english lenguage

Onna sipped on his morning coffee as he read throw the newspaper, there was a whole page filled with the statistic related to kidnapping: who has more changes of being abducted, who is more at risk, peoples that avoided it, peoples that spend more than 2 months under their captors... and peoples that never got found...

87.9999% of peoples kidnapped in the state of Ferine are never found even after years...

"Well" Onna said lowering the grey paper "time to make that 87 turn into an 88" and he looked straight to the boy across the street, walking to his school like every other day.

The unfortunate one, naive and unaware, was called Seji, and today, he had planned to go to a nigthclub with a couple of friends, and finaly, after months of relentless stalking, Onna had all the info he neaded and just the perfect plan in mind.

The men ran his hungry eyes on the walking figure one last time and walked to his car again.

After checking every single inch of the house to make sure everything was perfect for Seji, Onna got in his car with everything: syringes, chloroform towel, ropes, gags, roofies, gauzes, cloth, fabric, tape, handcuffs, pancuronium bromide and a taser just in case, you never know after all, even if the "target" was barely half his size.

He was finaly there, luckily for all of them, Seji's friends had choosen a pretty well adjusted and well manteined nigthclub.

As he entered and saw the masses of peoples jumping and dancing around under the neon ligths Onna tought to himself "wow, such a busy party... i don't think somebody would notice if somebody just disappeared" Just has he tought this he saw him: noisesly spouting towards a friend of his, even if the music complitely cancelled his sweet voice.

After some more seconds of clear arguing Seji walked all the way up to one of the walls, going complitely out of the grups view. "This is going to be easy" Onna thought "more than i originaly planned"

He took a deep breath, as much as the packed club allowed and prepared to have a conversation, then snatched 2 red cups filled with unknownown alchool from the nearest stranger and walked over to his target.

Onna trowed his back to the wall near Seji and started talking "What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?" Onna was fully prepared to asweare to a cooky reply of some sort, maybe a simple "get lost pervert" knowing the boy's personality, but instead, Seji didn't even look in his direction, he keept staring at the ground with his skinny arms crossed on his... flat chest...

For a second Onna had a little crak in his perfect mask, the guy he had infront of him was the only person he had ever "met" that could make his perfect poker face tremble slightly "Im getting mad at my jerk friends... at a damn party! *sob* how pathetic is that?" Seji didn't even move when he sobbed.

Onna knew that the boy's friends wherent jerks in the sligtest, witch ment that the boy was either drunk or really emotionaly unstable at the moment.

"You know what they say about toxic friends, better forget about them"

Onna said as he leanded the red cup to the boy that took it witouth looking up and took a sip with a trembling "Thanks" as the men game himself a mental uppercut for not drugging the cup, he just lost one of the easies paths to succeding, but the nigth was still long after all.

After a lot of talking, Onna was entranced into the chearfull expression of the boy that was usualy rigid and emotionless, maybe it was the alchool or the emotional instability, but the men hoped it was becouse of his own presence and remember why he was there, what he wanted to do, and why.

Onna checked his wristwatch, it was almost midnigth, Seji's friends had gone home, and it was almost time for Seji to go home.

Onna got up to excuse himself "ill go to the bathroom, get us some drinks if you want, they're on me" and walked to the club's restroom "It's nice to know that high-end nightclub's bathroom are almost worst than the slums" he tought as he took the syringe and sedative from the hidden poket in his shirt. He carefully inserted the syringe in the bottle immagining it to be Seji's pretty and vulnerable nec-

"Is that heroine?"

"It's just my insuline, i got type 2 diabetes" Onna lied pretending he hadn't hear the door open, the faint steps, and the warm breath on his neck.

"I came here to wash the makeup off, i hate not being able to touch my eyes."

Onna acknoleged the red makeup smugged by tear streacks for the first time, and was almost sorry that they would have been washed away, they looked rather cute

"Also, i didn't knew what drink you wanted, tho i don't think ill drink it with you, im getting kinda dizzy"

"Let's go ouside and take some fresh air then"

They where near Onna's car, behind the club, where nobody could hear or see them.

"Ok if i play my cards rigth i can succed without the need to scalp him too much"

Just has Onna thougths this, Seji took a break from talking about the men's tatooed eyeballs to say something very different

"You know... for a stranger met after a fight with my every day friends your a really cool guy... what do you say we hang out more a day of these?"

Onna was taken aback, without thinking, he blurted out the only thing that he had in mind

"I'd love to hang out... why don't you get in the car?"

"Sorry, i gotta go in a bit, but i'd love to stay with you just a little longer"

Rejection bitter rejection.

As Seji leaned in on the men's shoulder, Onna's mind was racing with possible scenarios.

Time was running out, Seji had gotten comfortable but was still a stranger, Onna couldent afford to lose it now and was asking himself why didn't he calculated his response better, he should have said "Why don't WE get in the car" had he came off too forward? Too agressive? Why didn't he accept... was there another way?...

Like always, Onna calculated every possible outcome to this situation, and chose the one with more probability of success.

A pity... truly... but there wherent other ways, and he had come with a goal in mind.

He stretched his arm behind Seji's neck separating him from the car.

"You know, you shoulden't wear your hair up like that, it makes it so easy for someone to grab, but will i be dammed, it gives a view to what a pretty little neck you got ther-"

Before Onna could grasp the boy's hair, he got pushed away, in a second, Seji was in a defencive stance at a safe distance from the men with eyes filled with hatred.

"I knew i shoulden't had trusted you!"

His voice lined with angry betrayal

"Your just a creep! Fuck off you damn pervert"

He said showing the middle finger as he walked away, but before he got out of sight, Onna was already following.

Soon, it had turned from a fast walk home after a "breakup" to a full hunt as the purple haired prey was trying to convince himself that the black eyed hunter wasn't following him.

In the frienzy of turns and rising adrenaline, sadness mixed with anger swirled into betrayal and fear, making the small and dirty alley's look like a labirint, but finaly, the lights of the streets where just one shady alleyway away and finaly Seji calmed down.

Such a pity that the worst "incidents" happend in dirty alleyways.

In the shadows, with a soundless sprint, the chloroform cloth was on the prey's mouth and nose and immidiatly the air was filled with soffucated hums and dying screams, the prey struggled trying to pry his respiratory ways open, but it was all useless, adrenaline strain or not, the hunter was twice his size, in weight, strenght, and height that granted him the front seat view of the boy's pleading, desperate and pouring eyes.

"Shhh, don't waste your energy, everything will be alright in a second" Onna whispered with a reassuring tone, even tho Seji couldent hear him, not anymore, becouse in a couple of seconds, the frightened eyes where starting to close, the hushed humming was getting quiter and quiter, and in a last attemp to free himself, Seji used all of his energy to do a movement that seamed more a convulsion, an adjustment to a more confortable position, than a desperate last attemp to save himself, but alass, the room had gone quiet and the boy had stopped struggling.

"Cute" Onna thougth as he viewed the sleeping face, it looked so soft and peacefull.

Onna brougth the boy back to the car princess stile in an effortless way, planning to tell "he's drunk" to every person that migth have asked, luckily tho, there haddent been no need to use it.

The men popped the car door open and placed the sleeping boy on the seats, he carefully opened his mouth and sealed it again with balls of clean cloths then wrapped him in fabric and tape.

He forced the delicate looking hands into a cross and wrapped the wrists in gauzez, then tape and handcuffed them, same with the ankles, then tied the ankles to the thighs and waist, wrists to the shoulders, fore arms to arms before laying the sleeping boy complitely on the seats.

Onna also removed the boy's shoes, that way, running away would have been more difficult, even if Onna could have cougth up easily and the boy was complitely tied and sleaping, you never know.

Onna had studied the place to the very atoms, there where no cameras, and as he assaulted the boy non of them had touched anything and nothing that could have been a possible clue had fell to the ground, he even took the boy's phone, turned off the position tracking, turned it complitely off and took the battery out, he would had made a copy of the data stored inside and then would had made sure to deal with the rest as soon as he had a moment free.

After controlling the boy's state and the sorroundings, he got in the car, started the engine and brougth his "trophy", to prove of his succeded mission, his very goal, Seji, home.

Inspiration taken by @painsandconfusion 's "trettening prases" list

#writeblr #writer things #writing #whump community #oc story #this will maybe turn into a whole series #this was supposed to be short #@butchering of the english language

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