#while learning himself how to take this mass of sheer will into his own body without being broken in turn

[eorzeashan]

I keep thinking of how Watcher 2 goes uh, Cipher, there were no ghosts in the Dark Temple, which genuinely baffled both me and Eight, because she's completely sincere about it. Like you don't believe in ghosts but you believe in guys who shoot lightning and lift things with their minds...? What do you think made those people go insane then, a gas leak?

It's actually pretty typical within SWTOR for Imperials not to question superstitious matters or anything related to the Force either out of purposeful lack of knowledge, unwillingness to believe in it given how technologically advanced the Empire is and so they defer to science, or plain fear of the unknown and everything associated with the Force, but it's always a bit of an interesting shock seeing where particular officers lines lie about it. In Watcher 2's case, spirits do not exist. Regardless of the walking specter who made your personnel be in pain for no reason a few hours prior, cough.

Eight's the rare example of an Imperial who is immediately ready to accept and understand these outlying forces so he definitely believed there were spirits and other things at work, but more than that, I headcanon that Jadus sent him into the Dark Temple alone not just as a test of skill, but to test if their Force bond had manifested and would protect him from its malicious influences. In which case, it absolutely did and the agent emerges unscathed from the Temple of babbling soldiers. This also minorly awakens Eight's potential to see the world through Jadus' eyes, and so he has proof of the mysticism that other Imps refuse to accept-- another point that most likely makes investigative branches like the IRS looked down upon.

In other words, though he can't affect such things and is more Force-blind than Theron, Eight has become a medium of sorts because of his powerful connection to Jadus that leaves a mark on his being and has the willingness to quite literally open his mind to these forces. This makes him more attuned to odd situations that involve the Dark Side while retaining a self that is utterly mundane, so he acts as a sort of middle-man between the world of Sith and Imperials: the perfect union of the force and force-blind.

In the basic class story, it hasn't manifested fully but by the time of KOTFE/ET, it takes a dramatic spike in power because of Valkorion's influence and the extreme growth he and Jadus forced on each other in order to win that final battle. This is explained in-game as Valkorion leaving the ability to use the Force or amplifying it after the expacs, but Eight will never have the ability to use it, and I have no intention of ridding him of being normal despite all the ways he isn't. However, Eight and Jadus pull out all the stops to defeat the former Emperor and this nearly kills the former-- he collapses immediately after the two Sith have a psychic battle in his head and his vitals flatline, to which Lana and Theron panic. Then, Jadus himself finally appears in the flesh and whisks his Hand away. The two Alliance directors are unable to stop him, weak as they are by the battle, and no sign is found of either Eight or Jadus when the dust clears.

Eight is found weeks later in a hidden facility with no recollection of what happened prior, though he's purposefully vague about his "savior", and what happened between them. When Lana touches him, she feels a shock-- and realizes it's Eight, who she feels all the more keenly through the Force. He realizes this too, and those eyes that bore into her now look past her vestige into the depths of her soul. It feels like someone else is there. She cuts off the temporary connection immediately, the sense of wrongness remaining.

Eight still isn't force-sensitive. Nothing registers even when they test him.

And yet, no one can explain how he sees things he shouldn't, and how it's even possible for him to connect with others in this way. They leave it as another mystery surrounding the agent with no name.

[bigmusclenm]

Give or Take - Part 6

[Story Collection] | [Part 5] [●] [Part 7🔵]

The morning after, Bryce stood by his bed, marveling at the sleeping giant taking up the entire mattress and then some. Mason’s body had grown so much overnight that there was no room for Bryce to get in bed next to him, which resulted in Bryce sleeping on top of his roommate’s massive body. As Mason’s chest rose and fell with every breath, Bryce couldn’t help but sigh in awe. Everything about the enormous sleeping beauty was breathtaking, and Bryce couldn’t hide his excitement as his dick stayed fully hard.

Mason was still 7’0” tall, like the previous day, but his entire body had grown beyond massive proportions. Bryce had added 400 pounds of muscle to Mason’s body, totaling 1,000 pounds of pure muscle mass. Even while lying on his back in Bryce’s bed, Mason’s body commanded attention due to its size. Some of his muscles fought for space with other muscle groups since every inch of his physique was huge.

Bryce looked at Mason’s angelic face for a few seconds, and a smile spread across his face because of how cute the sleeping giant looked. However, the rest of him looked like a monument to masculinity and strength, perfectly blending cuteness and a god-like, chiseled, imposing massive body.

Mason’s traps had grown so thick that they engulfed his head up to his ears, framing his cute face between a hard wall of muscle. Even his strong neck seemed locked due to the impressive traps. His shoulders took most of the mattress width, with massive bulging deltoids that looked strong enough to destroy entire buildings.

Mason’s pecs were so thick that the valley between them was several inches deep, not allowing any light to get in there due to how tightly they pushed against each other. Big and puffy nipples adorned those magnificent pecs, which Bryce had grown on purpose. The mountains of muscles stacked onto Mason’s chest were so huge that Bryce had peacefully spent the night on top of them.

Mason’s arms were a perfect symphony of strength and definition. His biceps, bulging like twin boulders, looked as hard as diamonds, with thick veins snaking their way across the surface. His triceps alone looked thicker than a pro bodybuilder’s thighs, making his arms look like two pillars, strong enough to carry the world’s weight effortlessly. His forearms completed this massive appearance, with the thickness of a man’s legs accentuating Mason’s inhuman proportions.

Mason’s lats spread like enormous wings, pushing his massive arms away from the rest of his torso. His abs were a marvel to behold. Each muscle stood out in stark relief. A deep crevice ran down the center of his torso, dividing the muscles into distinct blocks of power. His obliques rippled with every breath, providing the stability necessary to support Mason’s immense frame.

Mason’s legs were so huge that they made Bryce feel as thin as a stick. They were definitely strong enough to carry Mason’s inhuman weight around. His quadriceps bulged like twin tree trunks, pushing tightly against each other due to their sheer size. Even his calves looked enormous and filled with power.

However, as impressive as Mason’s muscles were, Bryce’s attention went to the big guy’s 4-foot-long hard dick standing tall above everything, accompanied by beach-ball-sized balls. Every inch of Mason’s body was enormous, and Bryce loved it.

In the meantime, Bryce had time to inspect and marvel at his own strong-looking body. After learning his lessons for taking others’ sizes, Bryce grew a lot overnight, surpassing anything he had ever dreamed of. At 6’1” tall, Bryce was taller than ever expected, but his width and thickness made him feel the proudest. Bryce took a few seconds to weigh himself, and the scale showed he had gained 100 pounds, totaling 371.75 pounds. Bryce could only smile as he realized he was bigger and heavier than the biggest bodybuilders.

Also, due to his new method of giving size to anyone, his hard dick had grown to 15 ¾ inches, with melon-sized balls to match. Bryce’s excitement about his own growth was evident, but having a massive Mason peacefully sleeping before him was too great to ignore him.

As Bryce observed Mason resting on the bed, a gentle snore escaped the big guy’s lips, making Bryce chuckle.

“You’re still the cutest,” Bryce said as he climbed up Mason’s body to get on top of him again. “Cutest? Where did that come from?” Bryce said, confused about his feelings and thoughts about Mason.

Even though it was clear their relationship had changed since Bryce started growing Mason’s body, Bryce still tried to deny his attraction toward the big guy. His desire for revenge had changed to lust, and even as he tried to deny it, his main goal was to please Mason and make him feel even better about his new size.

As he crawled up Mason’s body, feeling the warm muscles beneath his hands, Bryce couldn’t help but consider growing Mason even more to use him as a bed more often.

“You’d look good with mattress-sized pecs, big guy,” Bryce said, getting comfortable atop Mason and resting his head on the massive pecs.

“Just give me a few days, and I’ll get there. Or you’ll take me there,” Mason replied with a raspy voice. “I grew again, right?”

“Mason, you’ve been this big since I met you; you can’t...” Bryce said, smiling at Mason, who didn’t believe the lie.

“You know something is happening, and I know it’s because of you. I don’t know why or how, but I know you’re involved in this,” Mason said, attempting to rub his eyes with his hands, but his biceps had grown so huge that he couldn’t reach his face. “Oh crap… damn it, this is... too much.”

“This is beautiful. Don’t worry, big guy, I’ll take care of everything,” Bryce lovingly replied as he caressed Mason’s eyes, helping him clear his eyes. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. Growing people is impossible, and even if I could, why would I grow you?”

“You tell me. You’re the one laying on top of me, and I heard you saying I’m cute, and you said you want my pecs as big as mattresses,” Mason said, focusing on Bryce’s smiley face before him.

“I’m just helping you out because I’m a good friend, and your massive muscles won’t let you do some things,” Bryce said, patting Mason’s massive pecs beneath him.

“Okay, and now explain your hard-on. If you’re only helping me as a friend, why is your dick so hard?” Mason said, raising his right eyebrow, which Bryce had always found really sexy.

Bryce didn’t know how to respond because he knew his dick was hard due to Mason. Bryce was still fighting the truth about the nature of his intentions with Mason, but what worried him the most was that the big man was suspicious about his involvement in the extreme growth spurt he had experienced over the last few days. Bryce pondered for a few seconds if he should tell Mason the truth, but something took him out of his trance. Bryce felt a big, heavy object bumping against his back, drawing his attention back to reality.

“Sorry. You looked lost, and well, you looked so cute,” Mason said, chuckling and bouncing his pecs to impress Bryce. “That was my dick, by the way. It throbbed hard because I like you. I’m not going to hide it. I like you, Bryce.”

“Mason, I already told you I’m just a good friend because you’re so big and, I mean, you can’t reach your face because of those enormous biceps and... all these muscles,” Bryce said, absentmindedly caressing Mason’s pecs.

“You sound like you like me too,” Mason replied, with a cocky grin on his face.

“You’re crazy!” Bryce shouted as he slowly moved away from atop Mason’s body. “I gotta go to work. You can stay in my room but don’t make a mess. Go to your own room if you need to cum.” Bryce quickly got on his feet and ran to the door, leaving Mason really confused.

“Work? What? No, no. Wait, Bryce. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Mason said, trying to stop Bryce’s escape, but it was too late; Bryce had already left the room. “What is wrong with him? Yesterday he sucked me off, and today he runs away,” Mason said, looking at the ceiling in confusion, finally releasing how much he had grown.

Mason lifted his arms and marveled at their size, gasping in awe but getting a bit worried because he couldn’t bend them entirely anymore due to the size of his biceps. He looked down at his enormous pecs and playfully bounced them. Differently from the previous days, Mason wasn’t scared about his growth anymore; he couldn’t hide how excited he was, and his huge throbbing cock only emphasized his excitement.

“I guess it’s going to be just you and me once again.” Mason moved his hands to rub his 4-foot-long hard dick, sending shivers down his spine. “Crap, I better move to my room before I flood this place too,” Mason added, slowly attempting to move out of Bryce’s bed, making it creak under his weight until the wooden frame finally gave up, the mattress heavily landing on the ground. The entire room shook, and Mason feared he would break through the floor into the apartment below theirs. “Careful, careful,” Mason said as he slowly got on his feet, feeling the incredible weight of his new body for the first time.

****

Meanwhile, Bryce had run across the apartment, trying to forget about Mason’s body and words. He tried to force his hard dick to go soft. But it was impossible because the image of Mason’s magnificent body lying on his bed was way too incredible. Even though Bryce had used his job only as an excuse to run away, he did have to go to work.

Going out of the apartment represented a challenge for Bryce because his body had grown larger than the day before, so his old clothes didn’t fit him. He weighed almost three times his initial weight, so it was a new world of challenges for a previously thin Bryce.

However, managing to fit into some of Mason’s clothes tightly, Bryce ran out of his apartment immediately after the entire building shook. He knew the not-so-little earthquake was likely Mason’s fault, but he ignored it and walked away before getting hypnotized by the big guy’s charm like the previous day.

As he walked down the street, Bryce couldn’t focus on where he was going and didn’t care about some people turning around to stare at him. As he wore one of Mason’s tight pants, his full balls and big semi-hard dick were clearly visible, leaving nothing to the imagination. A massive polo shirt barely covered his upper body, fitting him like a second skin. It was the best Bryce could do with the few available resources to cover his massive body.

Bryce stopped by the same construction site he had visited the day before, surprisingly finding it empty. He didn’t have much time to lose, so he continued his way to his office, only making quick stops to adjust his pants because of how snug they were, mainly because his ass had grown fatter due to the fat he had added to the construction worker the day before. A part of him regretted being so reckless about the consequences of what he did with his power but couldn’t see the harm in messing around with other people.

Before arriving at his office, Bryce crossed paths with four young guys who looked like average nerds. The tallest of these guys was probably 5’9”, and the shortest was around 5’2”. They were all as thin as a stick, and Bryce decided to give these guys some size to grow himself without using Mason as a guinea pig. Bryce gave each guy 6 inches in height and 50 pounds of muscle mass. He also gave them 4 inches for each of their dicks, which were barely average to start with.

Feeling great about the size he gave to the four guys, Bryce continued his way to the office, and as soon as he arrived, the hulking figures of his coworkers welcomed him. Gary was 6’2” tall and weighed 270 pounds. Paxton was 6’3”, weighing 350 pounds. Wilson stood almost as tall as Bryce at 6’0” and weighed 250 pounds. Each guy looked incredible in their own way, but they were evidently not used to their new size. They had a new wardrobe to accommodate their new proportions, but their movements were clumsy.

Paxton was clearly having trouble with his hulking figure, as his shirt looked ready to burst, and his pants were barely holding on, with his big bulge straining the fabric almost to the limit. Since Gary and Wilson had a more manageable size, their huge clothes were enough to give them some comfort, just barely. Gary’s shirt could hardly contain his outstandingly building pectoral, and just like Paxton’s and Wilson’s pants, the bulge looked ready to burst. Bryce couldn’t hide his excitement when he saw how big the three guys were.

Paxton, Gary, and Wilson narrated that the three of them had grown overnight, even though they didn’t recognize the changes on each others’ bodies, and that they went to the hospital because they were worried about their health, resulting in the department being closed due to them experiencing the same and because their boss had gone to the hospital the day before for the exact opposite situation.

While the three men told Bryce about all the exams and tests they had undergone, their boss showed up, and Bryce noticed the guy looked smaller, though not as small as he expected. Mr. Jasperson stood tall, and his body still looked strong. The boss’ face was arrogant, infuriating Bryce.

Mr. Jasperson told the crew about the ’mild sickness’ he had experienced the last few days. Even though the four guys before him had bigger muscles, Mr. Jasperson showed no change in his manners, and the more he talked, the angrier Bryce became. So, as soon as the boss stopped talking, the world around them stopped, and Bryce’s devilish mind took over, not caring about the consequences.

“I’m meant to bring balance, and you... need to learn a lesson,” Bryce said right before Mr. Jasperson’s face once the world had stopped. “What about losing 9 inches in height? And what about losing 100 pounds? Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. Oh, and let’s not forget about your dick. Let’s take four inches, and we’ll see if you stop being a dick,” Bryce angrily said, then turned to look at his coworkers.

Bryce was out of his mind as he added 4 inches to Gary’s height, 6 inches to Wilson, and 6 inches to an already tall Paxton. Then he gave 130 pounds of muscle to Gary, 150 pounds to Wilson, and 150 pounds to an already big Paxton. In Bryce’s mind, getting them even bigger should give them the confidence to stop Mr. Jasperson’s harassment. Finally, Bryce added 4.25 inches to Gary’s dick, 5 inches to Paxton’s, and 4.5 inches to Wilson’s, just to make their dicks match their new bodies.

With a devilish grin on Bryce’s face, the world around them restarted again. Before any of them could start talking, Mr. Jasperson’s superior entered the office to announce that the department would only work part-time until they had the results of the exams and tests of the entire crew. Mr. Jasperson looked mad, even though he was part of the problem, and as soon as his superior left, his attitude toward Bryce and his friends worsened.

Part of Bryce wanted to shrink Mr. Jasperson even more, but he didn’t want to lose more of his own size. He had lost track of the size he had given and taken but knew he had to be careful.

As he tried to focus on his pending work, Bryce’s mind kept thinking about Mason and his enormous body lying in bed, waiting for him. These thoughts caused his big dick to throb in his pants, and the seams of his pants were barely holding on.

Having three hotties around him all day didn’t help much, but not even Paxton’s hugeness could compare to Mason’s. However, Paxton was making everything worse as he walked around the office, with his pants hugging a delicious-looking ass that Bryce was dying to get in his hands. Bryce had never seen Paxton with lust or desire. But his new body was too good to resist the thoughts of seeing an even bigger Paxton walking around in the office.

Even though it was only part-time, the workday felt like an eternity for a horny Bryce who couldn’t stop thinking about Mason and couldn’t stop looking at Paxton’s ass. Bryce couldn’t control himself anymore when, about 5 minutes before midday, Paxton leaned forward to pick up a pen he accidentally dropped, and the seams of his pants finally gave up. Bryce and the others had a full view of Paxton’s butt because he was only wearing a jockstrap.

“Oh shit!” Paxton said, quickly raising to cover his ass with a folder. “Don’t you dare to say a thing,” he added, turning as red as a tomato while the others were speechless.

“I... well, I think you have a great butt,” Gary managed to say, clearly in shock at what they all had just seen. This comment made Paxton blush even more.

“Agree!” Wilson added, moving his hands to cover his hard-on.

Bryce couldn’t hide his arousal over Paxton’s ass because his big dick throbbed violently in his pants, making the seams of the front tear open and allowing everybody to see a big bulge through the tear. Silence filled the room for a while until it was time for them to leave for the day. Bryce, somewhat ashamed of walking into the streets with his bulge on display, grabbed his bag pack and placed it at his front to cover his crotch.

The walk home felt longer than ever, and as Bryce arrived home, he found a folded sheet of paper at the apartment’s door. The paper had Mason’s name on one side, implying it was for the big guy. As Bryce started reading the handwritten note, his heart skipped some beats.

One of Mason’s coworkers was the sender, and the note said he was worried because the big guy hadn’t gone to his job. The note also said Mason hadn’t answered their calls either. However, the last few lines got Bryce really worried: “If we don’t hear from you by tomorrow morning, we’re calling the police. We’re worried.” These words made Bryce realize he couldn’t keep Mason hidden for much longer, but he knew Mason couldn’t leave the apartment because he didn’t fit through the door.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t take all that size away from him. I’ll disappear if I do,” Bryce said as he opened the door and walked into the apartment. “Fuck! I’m in trouble now!“

“Why? Was there something wrong at work?“ Mason said, sitting on the floor in the living room, playfully rubbing his huge dick as it nestled between his pecs.

His massive balls looked even fuller than earlier, stretching his scrotum like never before. Mason looked cute, but Bryce then noticed his destroyed bedroom door. It was evident Mason had struggled to get out of Bryce’s room, resulting in the destruction of the door, the doorframe, and even part of the wall.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, but I didn’t fit. I promise I’ll fix it. Somehow,” Mason said, shyly smiling at Bryce, warming up his heart. “I was waiting for you. I need your help. You said you wanted to be a good friend, and I need a hand. My balls are so full, and it is just so difficult to cum.”

Bryce heard Mason’s words with disbelief. With part of their apartment destroyed, Mason could only think about cumming. Bryce wanted to be angry. He wanted to shout at Mason for the destruction, but Bryce could only focus on Mason’s goofy smile and sweet attitude.

Bryce was more confused than ever before, and the note in his hand got him worried about Mason’s future. But his heart beat faster as he thought about growing Mason so much more that nobody could ever take the big guy away from him. As Bryce smiled, the world stopped, and Bryce’s lust for Mason took over.

...

[broken-clover]

17- Sweet

Another prompt where I wasn't totally sure what to do, since it was really open-ended, but I remembered that Amane's hobby is making Japanese sweets and I don't think we've seen him do that in canon, so it seemed like a fun idea. Bang is also here because of course he is, at this point as far as I'm concerned regardless of if it's platonic or not they're like a matched set to me. They're like sugar gliders.

-

Getting to know Amane Nishiki outside of their petty little rivalry had been a fascinating thing. He’d learned about the man’s hopes, his personal passions, his day-to-day life, and his absolutely incredible swinging arm.

Okay, maybe that last one shouldn't have been surprising. As much as he’d derided it as being frou-frou and unmasculine, dancing did require a finely-toned set of muscles, and handling that scarf the way he did required an impressive grip. It was just a little jarring to see it be used on something other than a delicate, sheer scarf.

“One, two, three!”

Once his fingers were no longer at risk, Bang tossed in another handful of water and turned the lump over. When he pulled his hand out, a thick wooden mallet-head arced down and smashed into the soft lump, flattening it against the curved edges of the wood.

“One, two, three!”

Amane was efficient, that was for sure. He hadn’t wasted a second. Though he did his best to be careful, he couldn’t say for sure if Amane would stop swinging if he left his hand in there for a moment or two too long. Finding out the answer didn’t sound like a very good time, though.

“One, two, three!”

This wasn’t his area of expertise, but Bang could clearly see how the mass had started clumping together and turning doughy the more it was handled. He couldn’t imagine how it would taste, though. Tenjo had talked about this stuff before, but he’d never tried it himself. Amane had offered to make it specifically so he could. With the little caveat that he’d have to help make it.

“One, two, three!”

Of course that wouldn’t deter him. Even if it put his fingers at risk, Bang wouldn’t back down from a challenge. In any case, things always tasted better when you made them yourself, didn’t they? The act of making stimulated the mind and the body. After a few initial struggles they had become a two-man tandem, alternating between moving the dough and striking it in rhythm. That by itself had been unexpectedly engaging. It felt as though he was communicating with the man on some unspoken, primal level that only actions could convey. That they trusted each other to do a task.

“One, two…”

Bang waited for the mallet to come down again, but it didn’t come. He looked up. “It’s done?”

Amane wiped the sweat of his brow off on the back of one pale hand. The mallet rested on his shoulder. “Let me check.”

He crouched in front of the wooden pestle, dipping his free hand in to pinch the dough and tease it between his fingers. “Yes, this looks like a good texture. It’ll make good daifuku.”

The mass of dough was wrestled into a separate container. It was perched on the dancer’s hip as he headed back towards the caravan.

Bang trailed behind, surprised at his own eagerness. “So what’s next?”

“Next, we have to make the filling that goes inside. I had the boys pick up some adzuki for us to boil, then we have to mash them, sweeten them, and then sieve out the skins.” He paused to glance over his shoulder. “Unless you’re tired? We can take a break.”

“Ha! You think that was enough to tire out a trained ninja?” The man folded his arms and thrust his chin to the sky. "You insult me, Nishiki! I can endure whatever task you throw upon me.”

“Uh-huh?”

“‘Uh-huh’ is correct! A true man would never devote himself to a task unless he was wholly prepared to be true to his word and complete it! Surely anyone would know-”

“Hey, is Mr. ‘true man’ just going to stand there all day?” After a moment, Bang realized that he had stopped in place, while Amane had continued on and was standing on the caravan’s steps. “Are you coming or not?”

“Ack- c-coming!” Bang sprinted off after him. “Don’t start without me!”

[slowd1ving]

PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ xii.

VII (TWIN TRIBES)

"You've fallen to your answers, started pain, Call upon the face, you'll understand, Unveil us your soul, Take us soon home." wc: 13.5k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

( It’s been a few months since the new teaching intern has taken over for World History. He lacks Dr Amsa’s smile, her voice, and most importantly, her brain. Within his sentences, there’s not a spark of true passion for the subject, nor for teaching. )

( The dust motes are still there – and the number has only increased to your tired, strained eyes. Your head rocks back and forth in fumbling, total exhaustion; hours spent thumbing through forgotten, hidden little tomes does that to the mind. If sleep overtakes you, it’s only natural. He won’t care, either. You don’t think he cares about anything. )

( You still haven’t bothered to learn his name. )

( He’ll be gone soon enough. )

. 　⁺ ✦

Limpid tears warped and distorted your surroundings as you fiercely held onto the scraps of resolution letting you push back against the other ‘something’. The wet trails hadn’t yet spilled and soaked into the cloth, but the sheer hopelessness had driven you to that brink.

You were tired . 

Problems after problems were birthed into the world one after the other – and all because you decided to camp out at this particular outcropping. Those two idiots, it seemed, were followed by misfortune wherever they went; you resisted the abyssal urge to glare at them, and wail in exhaustion. Sincerely and utmostly, you were considering completely striking them from your list of potential allies. It had been less than a goddamn hour spent with them, and already you were faced with the very real possibility of your Untimely Demise right here. 

The circling of the two Horsemen of the Apocalypse had seemingly reached its zenith. With each stride – each step – they approached like an ominous murder of crows at the beginning of the average horror movie. 

You were powerless. 

“Hey – Gyro! That crazy bastard woke up!” 

And there was that . 

‘That’, of course, being the resurrection of the foaming Andre Boom Boom. If there weren’t enough problems to deal with, fate happily gifted you another one. Exhaustedly, you watched as he hoisted himself on his horse; then, your eyes wandered to Zeppeli’s own angry face. 

Wait – angry?

You studied those features closer, more keenly than you had before. Traces of viciousness still crumpled the corners of his mouth and eyes and the harsh juncture of his brows, yet there was something else. His eyes, once so piercing, were blown wide open in a daze you hadn’t witnessed on him before. Even his green lips, once so poised to spew out scathing replies, were ever-so-slightly parted – as if he couldn’t comprehend the sight before him.

What’s wrong with him now?

When you traced his line of sight, all you could see was the revived Andre Boom Boom, sitting bright and well on his horse–

No.

Once, twice, you rubbed your eyes. It was that . That sinister feeling, that ominous foreboding – all of it could be traced to that : that which lingered in Andre Boom Boom’s shadow, that which clung to the horse and seeped into the surroundings. That which was looking directly at you . 

It was oddly shaped, as oddly as (you might’ve been a bit too on the nose here) Depeche Mode. A dull, indigo body encased a whirling green mass where its brain should’ve been, while its face resembled something akin to a radioactive anteater. Simply put, you’d found a new being to rival how horrendous your own spirit looked.

Yet, despite its comical appearance, you could distinctively make out the jagged waves of fear piercing through your very bones. 

Despite its comical appearance, you could feel its hungry, oily gaze land right on Depeche Mode. 

Shit . 

[Don’t worry about me, fool.]

“Brother Aaaaandre! Big brother Andre came to – is the poison finally gone?”

It was the other Boom Boom who spoke. Well, it was more like an exuberant shout, designed to do nothing but shred apart your eardrums. The figure perched precariously on his horse was none other than L.A. Boom Boom, the third of the apocalyptic trio that had come to presumably get rid of the three of you. 

Meanwhile, Zeppeli was still in his trance.

One rough hand was gently touching the area around his disbelieving eyes, while those same eyes were transfixed on Andre. His lips hadn’t yet closed fully, and his golden teeth reflected the dying embers of the campfire. No, it wasn’t disbelief – it was fear , or at least, trepidation which dotted his face with sweat and his eyes with white sclera. 

“You two– you two saw that, right?” 

“Eh– what?” Johnny replied. It looked like he hadn’t been able to spot that thing , yet it was clear as day to you still. 

“That Andre Boom Boom– what the hell was that?” Zeppeli continued dazedly; if this continued, there’d be serious repercussions for your group’s chances of getting out alive. Then, imperceptibly, he blinked – and his expression hardened. “Indeed, I can’t see that shit anymore – it’s just like that other ‘something’ hovering around here earlier.”

Well, you looked away sheepishly as his gaze scanned the surroundings. It looked like he was back to his usual state, something which you were infinitely grateful for. 

[ The time’s up. ] 

“Gyro – your foot ! The bleeding’s getting way worse than before! Are the parts not burrowing into your skin again?” Johnny cried out. His eyes had long since noticed the congealed scarlet liquid soaking into Zeppeli’s trousers, something which you only became aware of at both Depeche Mode and Johnny’s observations.

Immediately, your expression fell under your bandanna. 

Stupid, stupid , you cursed. You’d been lax with your concentration – with a whole pocket watch tattoo to monitor the time, and you couldn’t do even that?

18:24

“Shit – it’s getting worse after being surrounded by them! This is a stupid team attack! Yo – sparisci! ” Zeppeli gritted his teeth in concentration. His face, already pallid against the canvas of the night sky, paled further as he unsteadily took a lower stance to conserve momentum for throwing the last steel ball. “The closer I approach these guys… the stronger the effect on my body!”

Smoke and soot traced through your clothes as you shifted on Group Four. The acrid, caustic smell sharpened your mind, and for a minute, you could only see that button once more. This time, however, the slot machine activated before you even had a chance to press it. 

It made sense, in its own, round-a-bout sort of way. As your mastery over the slot machine increased, of course the visualising aid of the button would no longer be necessary. Though, you weren’t entirely sure whether this sudden mastery was permanent, or if it was a temporary state induced by the hazy smoke burning through any other thoughts.

“If they get right next to us…” Zeppeli began grimly. His hands, so steady before, were raised to his lips as he bit onto his thumb nail. Uncertainty was daubed onto his features with all the grace of a child discovering fingerpainting for the first time. “These might go straight through my body. You two alright over there still?”

How can this fool ask about us?

Your resolution hardened. Personal Jesus, Personal Jesus, Personal Jesus, Personal Jesus , you repeated – over and over, you prayed that the fortune smiling down would continue to bless this humble slot machine. Please , you all but begged. If Zeppeli’s prediction was right, you’d need whatever scraps of rejection you could muster up to cancel that other ‘something’ out. 

“Yeah, we’re still good,” Johnny piped up after glancing at your sullen demeanour. Your eyes were transfixed onto no particular area, and to him, it might’ve looked like you finally lost it. “I guess it’s connected to touching it – it might’ve been the ‘activation’ needed to trigger it. After you touched the knife with his blood on it…”

[Second slot activating: Words Like Violence. Countdown has begun.]

Shit . 

“Zeppeli, can you still hold on for another five minutes?” you yelled, desperately wracking your brains for any sort of usage of this stupid skill. You knew two things about Words Like Violence. One: it had a stupidly short range. Two: it looked stupid.

Of course, there was a secret third thing that had not yet been mentioned. 

You didn’t know how to use this stupid skill like the stupidly stupid being you were. 

[Well, at least you’re honest about your piddly abilities.]

“Screw this – I don’t have any other options, do I now?” Zeppeli groaned acerbically. As you stared at him, he gave you a fleeting, wry smile; one you’d only seen when you’d been his unfortunate bartender. “I just hope you’ve got something within those five minutes.”

“I will,” you promised – tried to promise, at least, but the sparks of doubt had already begun their flurry within you. 

Maybe you should’ve taken up Vincent’s offer to take a bottle or two on the journey.

[Is that not drunk driving?]

Doubt the ABV is high enough here.

Knowing him, he probably stashed a bottle of strawberry wine in your bursting pack, but you weren’t exactly in a position to check. 

“Fuck,” Zeppeli unleashed a torrent of imprecations, both in English and Italian, as he spotted just how close the circling trio had gotten. Johnny whistled lowly at the range, and you couldn’t help but smile even as the gaping pits of horror started uncovering in your stomach. “We’re completely surrounded on this ledge – those weirdos are circling on and on around us.”

[ 3:27 until countdown ends .]

Three minutes until you could try your luck again. 

“They’re getting closer–”

[‘ Can you do this? Nostrils both flat – nostrils both flat!’ ]

[‘ Woah – that’s awesome! Brother Andre, how’d you figure that out? ’]

You tuned out the irrelevant transmission from Depeche Mode– wait, irrelevant? When you peered down at the spirit, it was still within two or so metres from Group Four, staring intently at the circling jockeys. If one thing had come out of this, it was that your little spirit’s hearing had improved greatly. 

[‘– who’s gonna go in to settle this, kids? Are you gonna force your old man to go in?’ ]

“They’re preparing to come even closer,” you translated, low enough that only Zeppeli and Johnny would hear your fateful syllables. 

[ 2 minutes 39 seconds until countdown ends. ]

“This your freakish hearing again?” Zeppeli queried sharply, but if anything, he didn’t seem to be distrustful of the information you conveyed. In fact, he exhaled wryly as you nodded in defeat; then, his mouth hardened to a resolute line. 

[‘ I’ll go, Dad – those guys didn’t give me fire straight away! I was this close to having lizard venom course through my entire body! ’]

“It’ll be him who comes first – Andre Boom Boom,” you uttered worriedly, but Zeppeli didn’t react. In fact, his eyes were fixed onto a point in the horizon that you couldn’t make heads nor tails of. With the wind whipping through his cloak and streaming his hair behind him in curling rivulets, that bastard must’ve thought he looked so cool. 

Honestly, he did look a bit cool. 

This idiot – what the hell is he planning to do?

Carefully, you watched Zeppeli. His hands had finally slipped the steel ball out of its holster, and it rotated and buzzed with a virtual life that sent static electricity even through you. God, after all those times watching those spheres drive into someone – and here you were, feeling your hairs stand on end as you watched the spectacle once more.

But, won’t the spheres get whittled down again? You chewed your lip in trepidation, until you felt the metallic taste of blood coat your tongue. 

[‘ Hey, look! He took out that other steel ball. Guess there’re two, after all. He threw it at Sandman and got that penalty, remember? ’]

[‘ Does he think it’ll reach Big Brother without the iron running out? What a fool. ’]

[‘ Hah – he doesn’t know that Andre’s the most talented out of all of us. ’]

“They’re going to use the same tricks as last time,” you recited woodenly. Yet, still, Zeppeli didn’t cower.

“Let’s go! Our family will be first in the race!”

You didn’t need to rattle off their words anymore, it seemed. With a bloodthirsty fervour, they shouted and grinned chillingly. Had you been even a little drunk, you would’ve already run ten minutes ago. But alas, you were stone-cold sober at this unfortunate moment. You looked away.

No, it would be more accurate to say you couldn’t look away, and were desperately trying to. Any second now, and your ears would be filled with the sound of flesh being pierced by shrapnel once more – any second, and you’d smell the coppery stench of coagulating blood seeping into the hard earth. Zeppeli didn’t so much as flinch as they approached. 

Like the static buzz of a lightning strike, his hand shot forward to fling that fateful sphere. 

“It won’t reach, dumbass!” The syllables were spat out scathingly from Andre’s grinning mouth. His eyes were wide - with triumph or mania, you couldn’t entirely tell. Fool. At least, that’s what Zeppeli’s assured stance seemed to say. 

As the sphere formed a parabola in your awaiting eyes, the trajectory seemed to be falling short of the target. 

What?

“You’re throwing it differently? It’ll never make it, idiot!” He raised his bloody palm mockingly, already discarding the possibility of any successful attack. With a snort of derision, his eyes roved over your dazed group – poised to attack.

Well, that’s what should’ve happened. 

“ Vaffanculo ,” Zeppeli muttered with a matching manic grin. Blood streaked across his face from where he’d wiped it, and his golden teeth were stained crimson as he observed the consequences of his motion. 

Like a stray missile, the sphere burrowed into the hard, rocky earth a mere metre away from Andre; it tore and spun through the earth, until stones were dislodged from their cradle. Ah. A stone shot from the ground like a bullet, racing towards the still-smiling Andre Boom Boom.

“Looks like they only have influence over iron,” Zeppeli stated, rather nonchalantly. He wiped the coagulated blood on his hands onto his pants, watching carefully as the jagged rock pierced pock-marked flesh. “A rock can be shot… A rock…”

“It’s a hit.”

It was a casual statement, but the scene before you was anything but. The jockey had a hole gaping straight through the left side of his stomach, so cleanly torn out that you could see the stars peeking through among their canvas in the sky. He wailed with pain, clutching at the missing flesh – the area around the wound was macerated beyond recognition, twisting and rippling and puckering with a brutality that horrified you. 

“Johnny, second– actually, just Johnny – get your stuff on your horse,” Zeppeli gave a cursory glance at the two of you; his eyes roamed over your packed bag already strapped to Group Four’s saddle, while Johnny’s was painfully sparse. He perched bareback on Slow Dancer, and his possessions were still strewn about the area haphazardly. “There’s two left – and these guys are simply bizarre – let’s go.”

“So now you’re getting on your horse,” you muttered acerbically. 

“Did you say something? Not all of us have freakish hearing,” Zeppeli’s grin was all teeth. He definitely heard. With the way he stumbled from his wounds, and the crooked, malicious smile he sported, you could only watch in apprehension as he tossed Johnny’s things into the star-spangled bag. Your hands twisted around the reins, just as the message reverberated through your very bones. 

[ Countdown ended .]

“Nothing,” you lied distractedly. 

“–that’s what I thought. Y’know, for such a hare-brained –” 

Personal Jesus, Personal Jesus , you prayed as the reins bit into your fingers. A boreal chill crept up your arms when the slot machine began spinning once more – all you could think about was the metallic blood that threaded throughout the space. 

“–sometimes it’s simply being obtuse, but it’s also being quite resourceful, I must say – here, Johnny– ”

It felt like your cells each experienced countless deaths and rebirths as you squeezed your eyes shut. Your head spun, and you could feel the wretched throes of vomit clasp your roiling stomach with the intensity on which you focused on the stupid mantra running through each neuron. 

“Shut up,” you had a grin of your own under the cloth. All that, and your nose had begun trickling blood – which quickly flowed backwards as the message rang out clear and true.

[ First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun .]

“–the fuck? We need to leave and you’re here disrupting my encouragement to Johnny?” Zeppeli argued while fighting off the corners of his mouth from turning upward. Argues for the sake of it , as if there weren’t two enemies currently deciding on whether or not to charge now that their strongest was slumped on the dirty ground. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved your hand dismissively, not missing the shiny nurse get-up the spirit now sported. “The five minutes are up.”

“What?”

You didn’t reply. As Zeppeli swung himself onto Valkyrie and navigated her down the slope, Depeche Mode was already by his side, littering the ground behind him with gun parts. 

“ Via andiamo, ” Zeppeli breathed, looking back at the two of you. Like clockwork, his eyes swung to peer back at his healing leg and partially healed pants – before he squinted at you in suspicion. 

“Johnny, go,” you instructed, picking out your nails as nonchalantly as possible. Just drop it. “Something wrong, Zeppeli?”

“No,” he scowled. “And why d’you only call Johnny by his first name?”

“Because he’s nice,” you retorted. Seriously? “ Go, before something else happens.” 

The wind tugged at your jacket. It pulled at your hat with the capricious fingers of a petulant child, leaving its glacial imprints lingering on your neck. Even with the sweat that traced your face, you were frozen onto the saddle with each stride of Group Four’s. 

“I’m not feeling that strange buzz in my blood,” Zeppeli commented through the choking whirl of dust in his slipstream. “While it’s healing, the ability itself is fading as we gain distance – and my trousers seem to have begun repairing as well.” 

“What kinda trick is that?” Johnny yelped incredulously. Fearfully, he kept glancing backwards – only to meet your deadpan expression as you focused on not falling off Group Four. Eyes ahead . “Are those guys using poison or a ‘disease’?”

“More a ‘curse’ than trickery, from what I can figure out,” Zeppeli’s deep timbre was torn by the wind. Faintly, you could feel Depeche Mode scorn his words, but you could only shrug helplessly; after all, you’d thought pretty much the same thing of the spirit curled up by your sternum – and if you who possessed such a spirit thought that way, why wouldn’t he think it too? “Those guys first made contact with me, then closed in on us. When I was in the ‘middle’ of them, a powerful attack manifested itself – a ‘curse’ attracting iron.”

“So, a big fucking magnet,” your repeated your earlier observations scathingly. 

“You don’t seem to be as surprised as Johnny,” he shot back. Cautiously, he stared at what fragments he could of your impassive brow. Could he tell? Could he have seen the threads binding you and Depeche Mode?

“Are you?” 

“Yes, you asino ,” he hissed. A tanned hand drew across his face exasperatedly, pausing only to rub the juncture between his nose and forehead. “Of course I’m surprised. Bizarre people, strange occurrences, and strange fantasmi – it’s a wonder I’m still sane in this race. See, you’re the only one who’s too used to this.” 

Shit. 

“This late at night, could it not be a dream?” you shrugged out. Without noticing until now, Group Four had sped up until you were a mere length away from Zeppeli. The mare had overtaken Johnny, who now had to make up the rear of the pack. Hurriedly, you schooled your brow into what you could only hope to be neutrality. “Stranger things have happened, have they not? Like those strangely spinning spheres, for example?” 

“I forgot you’d fallen asleep so easily,” he scoffed derisively. Shoulder to shoulder now, and you could count each line painting a picture of a frowning face. “These spheres are a culmination of art and science and reasoning – not like that arcane ability plaguing me. Wake up.” 

“Whatever you say,” you yawned, dragging out the last syllable in exhaustion. Zeppeli gestured with an annoyed “ see? ”, but your body was too leaden to properly acknowledge it. “Think we’ll be able to actually get any sleep tonight though?”

“You already have!” he yowled, pulling at his golden hair with utmost frustration. If he kept it up, whole wefts could very easily flutter to the ground with that much enthusiasm. “ Anyway – enough of your idiosyncrasies and weird sleeping behaviour – it’s night, and we can’t help that. We’ll get ahead of them, to that watering hole fifty-so kilometres ahead.”

[‘ Those guys are getting away! I won’t let you run, pigs! ’]

Immediately, the haze clouding your mind sharpened into acute awareness. 

“Faster,” you urged, wracking your brains to listen to the faint scraps of what Depeche Mode transmitted. “That father is planning something.”

“And you say my spheres are strange?” Zeppeli swore exasperatedly, but Valkyrie lengthened her stride into a gallop nonetheless. 

“Do you know what he’s going to do?” Johnny bit a blue nail worriedly – you had no answer, not yet.

[‘ Hey, Andre. Move a little to the left, why don’t you? ’]

What? You frowned. The only reason why such a stupid command would be—

“Shit,” you croaked out hoarsely. “He’s gonna try get more of Andre’s blood on us.”

“You–”

It was too late. 

A gunshot rang out. 

Johnny’s face crumpled into a neat little atom of terror. 

Sanguine, oily liquid spattered onto your bared wrist. 

Those three things happened simultaneously; there was no particular order in which you registered them. The blood might’ve come before the gunshot, or Johnny’s terrified eyes might’ve come after it all – it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because he had droplets of red staining his cap and arm and face, and you could feel the spray of blood on your hands. 

“It won’t take effect if we’re far away, right?” Johnny bit his lip in consternation. Sure enough, the trio weren’t making any particular effort to chase after you – and it seemed that victory was on the horizon. “Look, they’re staying behind – could this’ve just been a last ditch effort to shoot us?”

You exchanged a haggard look with Zeppeli. 

“They wouldn’t have gotten Andre’s blood on us had that been the case. Remember, all we know is that they can attract iron to people, and not much else,” you recounted faintly. “If they’re not chasing after us – especially after one of them was gravely wounded by us–”

“By me, you mean. You guys sat and shivered.”

“–gravely wounded – then that means they’ve got some other plan,” you finished with no small amount of tiredness permeating each syllable. At the almost-protest of Johnny, you were forced to open your mouth once more. “Look, that man went through the effort of shooting through his son’s wound – this sort of aim would prompt one to think that he could aim closer to us than letting it fly over our heads, correct?” 

“He shot to get blood on us–” you continued, holding up your thumb to make your first point. “–after which he didn’t chase after us, after Zeppeli did something revenge-worthy–” here your index joined your thumb in the air. “–by getting blood on us, they’ve got the ability to attract iron fatally if they get close enough. But they didn’t go after us, shooting blood after Andre was wounded. There’s an awful lot we don’t know about their abilities, so it stands to reason they’ve got an alternative form to get back at us,” you finished off, briefly letting your middle finger join your other two. 

“Those crazy bastards definitely won’t let us off the hook like that,” Zeppeli agreed callously. 

“Exactly – we should put enough range between us and remain alert even after we think we’re safe,” you concluded, but it was easier said than done. For all those pretty words that spewed out of your mouth, you were letting down your guard involuntarily anyway. Sleep forced your eyes to droop, and even the biting chill of the wind couldn’t wake you up. 

It went like this: the leather reins twisting around your fingers smelled like sweat and mandarins, and you were oh-so-tired. 

It went like this: your red jacket hung uncomfortably warm against your back, yet you shivered with the feverish chill that pulsed white-hot through your mind. 

It went like this: the salty taste of sweat and coppery threads of blood pooled on your tongue, and everything shattered.

“–you idiot. Johnny, come round their other side,” the voice wasn’t as harsh as you’d expected. At your right side, you could feel a firm hand cradling your shoulder – calloused like rough-hewn wood, and smelling of metal. 

“What?” you mumbled. Deliriously, you blinked your eyes wide open once more, only to realise Group Four was still moving fast beneath you, while Zeppeli had propped up your dazed body so you wouldn’t fall out of your saddle. 

“–your grand speech, yet this is the second time you’ve fallen asleep,” Zeppeli chided, eyeing you with mild annoyance. “Where’s that alertness gone? You could’ve fallen off your horse and been trampled by us!”

“Sorry,” you replied apologetically, tasting the phantom mandarins still on your tongue. 

“Just don’t fall asleep while galloping again. Look, we’ve slowed to a canter, and there’s only a good forty-five kilometres left,” Zeppeli let go of your shoulder, and the chill was back. 

“Forty-five kilometres,” you repeated meekly. 

“Are you going to parrot everything I say?” he exhaled with acerbic amusement, and he jostled your shoulder with his hand once more. 

“Absolutely not,” your expression hardened. Languidly, you clicked your tongue, and Group Four responded to the aid by lengthening her stride once more. “I won’t fall asleep again.” 

( Forty-five kilometres. The stench of death still lingers in the respite. )

. 　⁺ ✦

“He’s been following us at an amazing pace.” 

You could taste the cool, radioactive taste of stars slipping past your throat and into your bloodstream – like tiny pockets of sherbet dissolving on your tongue – popping and crackling with lemony coolness. 

“Can you see the rest of the Boom Boom family, Johnny?”

Every orifice was filled with the caustic echo of exhaustion. 

“Fuck, who the hell is that? Vaffanculo, crazy bastard.”

Heartbeats wept in an endless crescendo of lethargy. 

“I don’t see them at all – stupid binoculars – it’s dark, and he’s following completely alone!” Johnny’s streaming rivulets of wispy hair came into focus. Like luminescent ribbons, each plume bent and whirled in the air, until all you could see were those fine strands (if you were being totally honest, that focal point was the sole reason you hadn’t lost your mind completely yet). 

Had it been countless days? Had it been an endless cycle of glancing fearfully behind while riding for your life? When had you last taken a swig from your dwindling canteen?

You couldn’t answer any of those questions truthfully; delirium had carefully woven its lethal tendrils around your tender brain. 

“That’s so bizarre,” you mumbled in subdued agreement – yet your mouth hadn’t fully gotten rid of its slack when you finished your words, leaving your bandanna as the only thing propping your jaw up. 

“We’ll be at the water-hole soon,” Johnny assured you apologetically, yet you heard the soft webs of half-truths strung through the syllables. We might not reach that water-hole, in any case. 

“Could it be that it’s not one of the Boom Booms?” Zeppeli questioned – both thoughtful and hopeful. It didn’t suit him, yet tiredness had driven him past pessimism and into a state of mania you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know about. “They work together, right?”

“Could very well be one of them,” you shrugged. “Maybe another stayed behind with Andre, while this one’s got some secret third thing we don’t know about. Or maybe it’s someone else entirely – all we know is that it’s probably another enemy - with another of those weird spirits you were talking about.”

“What a stubborn set of bastards,” he muttered. From behind, his shoulders were set stiffly in frustration – while faint flashes of moonlight reflected off his darkened hair. It had been tied off into a hasty braid as the breeze only ever got more biting; the heavy rope swung to-and-fro like a clock’s pendulum – naturally, your eyes were drawn to this fascinating sight. “This one’s been following for what – three hours?” 

Surreptitiously, you checked your tattoo. 

He was right. 

21:38

The dark blur behind you was slowly gaining upon your ragtag group. Cicadas croaked their last of the night in the cacti, and despite the situation you smiled beneath the cloth. 

( It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. )

Like snapping piranhas, the reverberations conveyed through Depeche Mode tore chunks of flesh out of you and left them behind in the perpetual shockwaves. It might’ve very well been hundreds of times that you summoned the spirit, over and over and over and over, until you’d had the good sense to stop sapping your energy through pressing that button. 

“Yes, you’re right,” you mumbled stiffly, too cold yet too hot at the same time. 

“Fuck – all our horses are at their limits!” Zeppeli griped – his hands curled desperately at his reins, and the hopeless frustration practically rolled off him in waves. No, that was wrong. His body was slack rather than tense, and clear struggle was marked in the bent lines of his body. He wasn’t the only one; Group Four heaved as fiercely as an extracted, beating heart. Her coat was streaked with the moonlight reflecting off her sweat, while her bridle foamed and slipped beneath her grinding teeth.

“Is he really part of the Boom Boom family?” Johnny squinted, wrapping his own reins delicately around his hand while focusing his binoculars. “There’s something strange – did they have riding skills like that? And that weird looking hat – I think I’ve seen it before…”

“Who else would follow us so viciously at this time of night?” Zeppeli groaned. He looked rather like a piranha himself – all bared teeth. “If we let them get near, that crazy ‘magnetism’ will start up again! We need to get to the watering hole before there’s a dirty fucking mess. Fifteen to go, damn it!”

“ Fifteen– ”

“Gyro!” Johnny’s surprised gasp had both you and the man in question turn on your horses. With your goggles clouding your view, all you could really see was the faint silhouette against the rocks slowly getting larger and larger. “What the fuck? He’s already climbed up those rocks! Throw a steel ball!”

Who–

Your eyes widened suddenly. 

“It’s Mountain Tim!” Your heart crept onto your tongue, and you could barely force the syllables out. There was no mistaking it – you prayed for it nonetheless – but it was incredibly clear. That striped hat, that starched white collar, that worn set of his determined eyes; all pointed to it being one of your first acquaintances in this strange time. 

But why is he following us?

“Shit.” 

You cursed. 

“Shit, shit, shit, holy shit, shit, shit .”

You cursed some more. 

( “They’re a highly unusual set, according to the sheriff - everything’s out of the ordinary. Just be on the lookout for strange individual’s approaching.” )

“What do you know, bastard? Tell me, what do you know?”

( “There’ve been some candidate murders I’ve been tasked to investigate. All potential targets I’m to pursue.” )

You couldn’t respond as Zeppeli shook your shoulder. 

“He– he likely thinks one of you is a murderer,” you forced out, sickened by the very syllables. 

“What?”

“He’s a bounty hunter investigating the set of murders that took place recently,” you looked up, only to see the two stare at each other in sheepishness. Slack-jawed, all you could do was gaze on in despair. “Don’t fucking tell me…”

“Mrs Robinson attacked us first with those insects!” Johnny muttered in protest. The elusive Mrs Robinson, come to save him in the midst of the accusation. Fuck, you really didn’t want to know.

“That ranger’s got the wrong people,” Zeppeli added thoughtfully. “How exactly did you find this out?”

“He’s my acquaintance–” to that, Zeppeli’s face curled up in mild disgust. “–and he was tasked with investigating a set of unusual murders by the sheriff.”

“See?” he interrupted, still sporting that scornful glare. “One, there’s been a set – two, they’re qualified as ‘unusual’.”

“So we’re just glossing over Mrs Robinson? Cool, cool, ” you nodded conspiratorially. “ It’s not cool, you idiots! It counts as a murder if his body’s been found! Fuck! I’m travelling with murderers!”

“Shhh!” Zeppeli hissed. “Do you want him to hear? For the last time, we were attacked by some crazed bastard like these ones who kept insects in his body – and he got shot through by cacti. By all means, he got killed by those weird plants! And by all means, he was attempting to get rid of his competition by killing us! ”

“Does he know that?” you wailed as quietly as you could. “He’s not gonna see the whole situation play back – all he’s gonna find is a dead body–”

You paused. Something wasn’t right. Something really wasn’t right – from the caustic, sulfuric stench of doubt, to the prickles of suspicion daubing your veins. 

“Hold on. He told me this right after the first stage,” you bit your glove through the bandanna thoughtfully. Zeppeli looked at you, pausing the motion of opening his mouth to let your thoughts run their course. “And if the Mrs Robinson thing is today, and there’s no one else – fuck, there’s been some interference and he’s been led to believe you’re the culprit!”

“Well, shit then,” Johnny muttered low under his breath. 

“How the hell did he connect those stupid dots? What proof is there?” Zeppeli snorted derisively. In the moonlight, his eyes flashed an angry green. 

“Listen, I know the guy, and he’s not the type to act rashly,” your syllables were tinged with fondness as you recalled how solid he appeared in your mind’s eye. “There must’ve been something damn incriminating for him to follow you guys.”

“You believe it too?” 

“No, you idiot,” you groaned out. “Think. Who should be following us, but isn’t?” 

“The Boom Booms,” Johnny replied, almost immediately. His hand was clenched in a tight fist around his telescope; you could sense the annoyance radiating from him like a furnace, even in the boreal wind. 

“So, it stands to reason that they’ve put him on our trail,” you concluded. Or, at least, you tried to conclude. There was still something else that was nagging you.

(“ I’m not supposed to tell you this .”)

“And how would they have known about Mountain Tim seeking murderers?” The threads of a further, more brilliant conclusion started coalescing into an incandescent web of intuition. “He never told anyone else.”

“Unless they were the murderers!” Zeppeli finished, sighing out in mild satisfaction. 

“Guys.”

“Exactly,” you frowned. “It’s not clear how exactly they fooled Mountain Tim, but don’t think they’ve been left behind.”

“ Guys. ”

[Listen to Johnny.]

The abrupt message from Depeche Mode had your stomach immediately set to a roiling worry. It festered and writhed, like masses of worms unearthed under a crumbling log. It crawled into your veins, laying its putrid eggs to germinate and eat away at you. 

“What’s going on?” You tried to keep your voice confident, yet each syllable cracked into a million fragments – leaving naught but a fragile whisper. What’s going on? – it was the epitome of words seeing assurance. What’s going on : the default nail-biting, cowardly question. You were a stinking coward.

“He’s already climbed to the next set of rocks – I– I thought it was just some crazy speed, but the more I thought about it, he’s not speeding up out of his own volition! We couldn’t tell because we were running…”

“Johnny. Spit it out.”

Zeppeli was unusually brusque. Actually, it would be more accurate to say he was significantly more brusque than usual – though you knew better. Past the clipped, callous words, you saw the sheer exhaustion that threatened to plummet whatever meagre scraps of energy he still held onto fiercely. 

“We’re being pulled. ”

His horrified expression was haunted by phantoms of denial and the shining trails of sweat. Trembling fingers clawed at his face, but that wasn’t what caused your own expression to fall significantly. The metal hardware bolstering his equipment was slowly sinking into flesh; blood poured from every point of contact as it got displaced.

He got blood on him, you realised gravely. 

“Shit – that means they must be near,” you swore. Somewhere, they had to be lurking. Shadows crept everywhere; every rustling bush and blurry figure had you turning in suspicion.

But it was strange. 

You saw him get splattered by the blood. 

You felt the liquid trail down your wrists. 

Frowning, you inspected yourself with haste. Nothing – the magnetisation hadn’t taken effect yet.

[Yeah, dummy, not yet . You’ve got a longer window of time in which to operate; I can hold off the magnetism for a few more minutes if I’m still with you.]

Depeche Mode sounded more tired than usual; its monotone syllables creaked and groaned like a malfunctioning automaton. 

When you looked up again, the situation wasn’t any better. Johnny was tightly gripping onto Slow Dancer’s mane, while his saddle was balanced precariously on the side of her withers. Shit. You still couldn’t spot the offenders. 

“Hold on,” you cursed, swivelling round to gaze at the accelerating Mountain Tim. “The closer he gets, the more dire this magnetism gets.”

“Get your buddy to stop,” Johnny bit out; his blue lips bled from where his teeth had worried away at the tender skin. In the dim light of the moon, his knuckles were clearly marked white against the purplish-hues coating his frozen hands. You felt bad, suddenly – this was what you should’ve done from the start. 

“Mountain Tim!” you yelled out hoarsely, yet he didn’t halt. This is bad – this is bad, this is bad. 

“Shit! It’s me – you’ve got the wrong idea about these two, I swear!” 

“Do all your friends ignore you like that?” Zeppeli scratched behind his ear while watching with morbid fascination. 

“He’s not responding,” you murmured dejectedly. Then, in an instant, your expression changed to one of mild horror. “What if he can’t stop, and is also being pulled?”

There was a brief pause.

“Then, we’re really screwed, aren’t we?” Johnny forced out. 

“Hey, ranger bastard! Sparisci – turn the other way if you don’t want to get annihilated!” Zeppeli cupped his hands over his mouth. The reins slid into the crook of his elbows, and his shoulders shook with barely-suppressed exhaustion. 

“Fuck – it’s too late! I’m being pulled!” Johnny yelped. The bit in the bridle was wedged in his cheek – it pulled taut at the skin of his face above, imprinting a metallic ‘D’ in the flesh. By now, all the hardware had rapidly begun floating from his saddle; each ragged stride from the mare threatened to dislodge the leather completely. “The metal from my harness is being pulled to me completely!”

It happened almost instantaneously. Johnny was on his horse, but he was also not. 

His body was flung off the mare, crashing and hurtling towards the ground like a comet. If you had to recount the tale to anyone, you’d have left out the sickening crunch you heard when his body contorted in the reflection of your glassy eyes. 

“Johnny!” you gasped – croaked – out. Fuck . 

The whirring began. 

“ We need to get rid of our tail –”

The whirring continued. 

“ Or at the very least get him to stop–”

[First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]

“Go– go to him,” you wheezed. A cold, metallic burn spread in your throat: the kind that appeared when over-exerting one’s body in icy weather, the kind that made one think they were coughing up blood. Shit – the range . Leather reins bit into your gloves as you pulled Group Four to a wretched, desperate halt. 

“It’s not just him– gah !” Zeppeli didn’t flail as he was wrenched off his horse. His back was curved inwards, and from what you could glean in the dim moonlight was that he looked rather like a skimmed pebble. 

Dense. Flat. Unmoving. 

That was only when he was in the smooth arc of the beginning projectile motion. 

He rolled in the air, and the packed earth was more favourable to him than it had been to Johnny. Stay with Johnny , you decided brusquely. 

[On it.] 

“Fucking hell,” you swore as his body juddered at his attempts to get up. It wasn’t hard to dismount. Your saddle was already coming apart at the stirrups where the hardware had aimed itself so kindly at Zeppeli and Johnny. 

What was hard was looking upon the man’s body as the metal wormed its way further into his torn flesh. 

“Since when am I a magnet too?” Johnny grabbed at his face with hesitant, tentative hands; that was only the impression you got from Depeche Mode, though. Your eyes were trained on Zeppeli – you struggled upon even thinking about where to start. 

You’re a surgeon, damnit! What do I do ? 

“Take my hand,” you spoke roughly. He looked at your outstretched palm incredulously, before grabbing tightly onto it. 

“There must’ve been something on the bullet he shot – it got onto me!”

It got onto me too.

“We need to find that stupid family,” Zeppeli gritted his teeth from where he shakily grasped your shoulder. Blood was smearing all over Vincent’s jacket. His hand was warm through the material. “They’re bound to be controlling the magnetism from somewhere.”

“You said it first, genius,” you uttered, though you were searching on the ground for your binoculars regardless. Unfortunately, your bag had been somewhat inhospitable to the first few layers of things, metallic as they were. Various cans and pots were strewn in the sand, but it did make finding your binoculars easier. 

“Pass me those,” Zeppeli took the tool from your hand before your lips had even formed the syllable in return. 

“We don’t have time for you to be looking around,” you scowled. “I don’t think Mountain Tim can stop, and I’m the only one who’s not been drawn to him yet.” 

“Do you have a plan for us, then?” Zeppeli retorted, but it was more like a gasp as another screw jammed itself in his back. 

“I’ll look and you take Johnny and move further–” you began, but something else crossed your mind at that second. “No, wait. I’m not affected by the magnetism yet, so I’ll take Group Four and backtrack so I can tell Mountain Tim to do whatever in his power to ride the other way.” 

“So I can still use these, then,” he deadpanned, but he regarded you differently. Sure, there was a quiet reluctance in the set of his mouth, but his brows had set in determination. 

“Sure,” your voice was undoubtedly more muffled as you turned away. The warm hand on your shoulder was gone, and so was your saddle. And Group Four’s bridle. 

“Well, shit,” you swore, but bareback was the least of your worries with metallic maniacs plotting your death. A nearby stone provided the extra height to pull yourself onto Group Four. What the fuck do I do now ? Vincent never had time to cover bareback riding. 

The Appaloosa was almost feverish under your chilled body. Despite the desperation in the grip of her mane, she still stood placidly in the small outcropping where you’d dismounted, as if you’d never left her.

“Go to Mountain Tim,” you whispered hopefully, wrapping your legs tightly around the barrel of her stomach. Already, you were slipping and sliding without the heavy, deep-seated saddle anchoring you firmly on; it wasn’t like you had the option to tack her up again at this moment. 

Desperately, you clicked your tongue and pressed your heels into her side; it seemed you’d used all your luck for the year when she took off and didn’t leave you in the dust. As you gained on the enlarging figure of Mountain Tim, you could see his face in the shadow of his hat for the first time.

“You need to turn around!” you yelled, clutching onto your horse with all the strength you had.

“You– hell, what are you doing here?” Mountain Tim slowed, but it seemed that he was scrabbling to a halt more than anything. “I thought I saw Group Four, but I dismissed it completely– don’t you know who these people are?”

“I already know what conclusion you’ve come to, and I’m telling you it’s completely false. We’ve already encountered the murderers – it’s not them, but a family of three with magnetism powers,” you babbled incoherently, gesturing as you felt an antsy burning begin to warm up your stomach. “Look, I can’t explain properly now, but I need to move away from you right now before we get pulled into each other!”

“Wait–” Mountain Tim attempted to speak, but you were already wheeling Group Four around – just as something green and shiny struck the rock above you.

Fuck me . 

You coughed as small rocks pelted you; it was a feat in itself to urge the nervous mare to move faster before she too got injured. It was like you were the sacrifice metal to get oxidised first, for the pebbles swerved in midair before reaching the Appaloosa and slowly drove into your body instead. The iron!

“Gyro Zeppeli, I swear I’ll kill you,” you muttered vengefully. Upon reaching the rough perimeter of the other two, you looked back to see Mountain Tim’s face peppered with small cuts. He was still hanging on to his horse, but it was clear the magnetism was beginning to seriously impede his efforts. 

“You didn’t have to try get him off his horse,” you scowled, dismounting once more. “I already told him to turn the other way ‘cuz of the magnetism – go back to the previous area, Group Four .”

“Did you really think he was going to listen, nyo-ho ?” Zeppeli bared his teeth in a triumphant grin. “He’s already chasing us because he thinks we’re the murderers, so do you think he’d listen to your reasoning?”

“But you are !” you yowled in frustration. Whatever tirade you were about to unleash onto the man had to wait, though. 

It was at that moment where Mountain Tim’s grip on his disintegrating saddle finally relented. 

“– instead of falling, my pistol is stuck to my arm.”

We’ve already gotten too close. You could hear him without relying on Depeche Mode. Stick with Johnny for now, as long as Personal Jesus holds out, you commanded. 

[Three minutes, thirty-seven seconds remaining. The magnetism for Johnny is slowly getting weaker whilst I’m here.]

“ He’s coming this way ,” Johnny yelled hoarsely. His hand was outreached like he could possibly stop the incoming ranger, but you could only watch with horror as the ranger accelerated. It was like time had frozen for you; he was captured in the air like a well-timed photo: lasso looped against the merciful moon, hat still teetering on his head. 

“Zeppeli, brace yourself,” you held onto your jacket, as if it could possibly save you. It couldn’t. There was nothing you could do. “He’s going to ram into you!”

“– he’s charging through the air!” 

“–fuck, my blood vessels feel like they’re about to burst–”

It was a second before annihilation that it happened. 

Mountain Tim’s body split into neat little segments. 

You screamed, but there was no sound in the vacuum created. 

No, there was no vacuum. You were really screaming, with the wind ripping out all the pieces and swallowing them. 

“Huh?” Zeppeli spoke, dumbstruck, and the picture shattered. 

Mountain Tim’s body was suspended between two rocks: both had been tightly lassoed with the rope you had just seen on his belt. His hand was one segment, his upper torso and head another, his legs another – and it continued. No, it would be inaccurate to say that he was split up, per se; all the parts had that rope strung through like a grotesque marionette. 

There was no blood. Not a singular drop, save the small, bloody craters in his face from the rocks and debris of Zeppeli’s spheres. He was like compact bunting; the only difference was that he was alive , with teeth bared to tell the tale. 

And slowly, that bunting began wriggling on the rope towards his torso, just like maggots towards their food source. It was undeniably horrifying, but fascinating , so much that you couldn’t look away. 

[Well, that’s new. He’s like us too.]

Depeche Mode’s flat, amused commentary broke you out of your stupor. Of course – why had you felt like he was so solid? What was it about him that made you feel that tentative kinship? 

“I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” you murmured. 

“I threw a rope.. I can separate my body parts as far as the rope stretches,” Mountain Tim spoke. His deep voice was quiet, yet there was only a few feet between him and you. The wind had ceased its howling, as if it, too, wanted to eavesdrop on the strange happenings. “I’m guessing in this situation here, when the three of us get close something not-so-pretty will happen. We’ll be drawn to each other, I’ve been told – but that’s the nicer way of putting it, is it not?”

It was silent. 

“It does seem like I misunderstood my suspect,” he continued from where he’d begun slowly ascending the rock towering over him. “Johnny Joestar… to whom does this magnetic power belong?”

The breeze stirred against his face and let his hair stream in rivulets around him, but his mouth didn’t close. “Tell me in detail – what the hell is going on here?”

. 　⁺ ✦

( “Where would you go if you could time-travel, Dr Amsa?” It’s an innocuous question from a bored student who’s only respite is doodling in the worn textbooks. No, actually, that’s the second respite; the first is indulging in curiosity. When one’s a history teacher, there’s naturally going to be some overlap between the past and the commonly associated vice. )

( “The Seven Wonders of the World, the university of al-Qarawiyyin, seen as the first in the world, the Kingdom of Nri,” she lists them off after thinking briefly, often glancing at the heavy book she pages through. It’s unclear whether she’s really thought about the topic, or if she’s just placating a student with the first thing that comes to mind. )

( It doesn’t really matter either way. You forlornly look at your messy illustrations of crooked pyramids and decide that her sophisticated answer is much better than yours. )

( Well, that doesn’t matter as well. Time-travel is limited to a bored imagination – it’s not like you’ll really be catapulted into the past anyway. )

. 　⁺ ✦

“I’m buying a gun at the next checkpoint,” you resolved quietly.

“What was that?” Zeppeli cocked his head in a picture of half-boredom.

“So I can shoot myself the next time this happens.”

“What does–”

“–The ability to control iron… I see – the Boom Boom family was the real culprit. If I’d approached you without noticing and getting stopped… then we’d all be dead right now,” Mountain Tim interrupted gravely. Unbothered by the constant strain on his arms, his voice remained steady and his shoulders didn’t shake from him continuing to hang from a (literal) thread. You’d be impressed, if you weren’t still mildly nauseated from his severed limbs. “Let’s get farther away.” 

His body slotted together once more and he was whole; though, he still clung to his rope as if it was part of him. 

“But wait – what’s up with you?” Zeppeli called out as the ranger started to climb upwards once more from the plateauing rock. He paused, and regarded the man next to you carefully. “The Boom Booms messed you up pretty hard – are you even human?”

“Well, how about you?” Mountain Tim countered; in that moment, you couldn’t tell whether it was deflectiveness or genuine curiosity that drove his syllables. “What are those steel balls?”

“Those are just part of my ‘technique’,” Zeppeli curled his lip, affronted. His golden teeth flashed in the dim light, and you unconsciously stared at them. “There are parts of the human being that are still a great mystery, as demonstrated tonight.”

“I see… mysteries of the human being,” Mountain Tim replied thoughtfully. Despite your urgency to leave this place and never come back, you gazed at him with placid curiosity. “I’ll explain to you guys then, since this was partly my fault for targeting the wrong people.”

“It was fifteen years ago – 1875 – and I was sixteen and fresh-faced in the army. We’d been assigned to venture into unmarked and unmapped territory of Arizona Desert–”

You swore you felt a spectral finger trace your arm.

“–But we all got lost. All sixteen of us wandered the desert for days, searching for even an ounce of water to let us survive the heat. That was the area the local natives called the ‘Devil’s Palm’: a feared and inhospitable place.”

“The Devil’s Palm…” you murmured, suppressing the ice freezing over your veins.

“You know something?” Zeppeli nudged you with his foot, staring at you like you’d grown another head. You shook your head with your lips pressed tightly beneath your bandanna, and he missed the stricken look in your eyes as he turned his head back to the ranger. 

“Our unit had stepped into that place. Compasses were useless there, and the ground was moving because of the quicksand – that’s why we got lost. Mountains would disappear, and in their place canyons would form. The landscape itself was constantly changing.

“They say the ‘Palm’ travels many miles in a day. Where it could be found a month ago – it would be no more. From what traditions I was told, a shooting star crashed there once, destroying everything. Now, it is a cursed, barren place – and nobody knows its location until they happen to see it themselves… It’s been travelling this area for tens of thousands of years.”

Goosebumps dotted your shivering arms. 

“What, are you scared?” Zeppeli muttered, jostling his shoulder with yours. But he, too, wore a rather unsettled expression you’d never seen on his face before. 

“We failed to find water,” the ranger continued monotonely. “The horses died. Our unit fell one by one. I was being fried to death. But that place carried destiny in that cursed hand. I awoke one night; my skin was flaking off and I did not know how much time had passed. The smallest drop of dew had gathered onto a rope, and I was absorbing it.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I had become one with the rope. Thanks to that, I was the only survivor. It could have been a type of ‘gravitation’ – the ‘Palm’ has the power to awaken sleeping abilities within people.”

Great, you thought sourly. Mystery solved, Scooby Gang. 

“The natives call it the ‘cursed ability’ – and perhaps it is. Me and everyone in that unit were supposed to die. I, personally, call this ability ‘stand’. There is no mistake! The Boom Boom family must have also stepped into the Devil’s Palm!” Mountain Tim concluded. A stand.

A stand. Was that what this ability was called? Your stand . You. Your spirit forged into the material world – a stand . 

“Stand…” Johnny’s mouth was widened with surprise. 

“That’s what those fantasmi were,” Zeppeli muttered in annoyed realisation. “The ‘magnetic force’ is getting weaker. Keep it up, ranger, keep moving up with that rope! Looks like the only way we can get rid of it permanently and move on is to beat the shit out of those creeps after we find them.”

“Nope, there’ll be no need for that.”

You swivelled in mild terror. There, behind you, crouched L.A Boom Boom. He stared directly at Zeppeli, while slowly tracing a face in the sand. It wasn’t any you recognised: a humanoid face with a donut shape on its head.

[ A stand .]

“Shit, they snuck up on us!” Johnny yelped. Behind L.A were the two others from that evil family: all approaching silently with hardened expressions. 

“There’s no need to find us or distance yourselves,” L.A purred, baring his crooked teeth. His finger was still jammed into the sand, while his empty gaze was now fixed straight on you. “The only direction you can go is closer to each other… right, Daddy? That’s what he said, at least.”

“That’s a nice jacket,” he continued, picking out his fingernails. “I think I’ll have it on my saddle.”

Unconsciously, you drew it tighter around yourself.

“Need any help, L.A? Or can you cut that bastard Mountain Tim’s rope by yourself?”

“Ehh? I’m not so confident…” he glanced sideways, while the sweat on his face glistened: mercurial in the moonlight. 

It was then that Zeppeli decided to strike. His arm swung, like an adder, poised to throw his steel sphere straight at the hesitant Boom Boom. 

But he was too late.

Like a cresting wave, a mass of amorphous black wrapped tightly around his body. You gasped at the sensation sweeping across your body – looking down from your limited manoeuvrability, Johnny had been coated too. No, it wasn’t even a singular, cohesive mass, it was– 

“Iron sand!” Johnny bit out, but it was too late. Your body, along with his and Zeppeli’s, was being drawn to a singular point where you’d annihilate each other.  

Your torso was wedged sideways across Johnny’s shoulder’s, while your side pressed into Zeppeli’s. Slowly, you could feel your limbs contorting to be ever closer to the two; it was uncomfortably warm, and you were burning up despite the freezing night air. 

“Is this – shit – iron sand? He’s forming shapes with the ‘iron’ in the sand! It’s sucking onto me – so heavy!” Zeppeli yelled, and the words ruffled the air around your ear. He really was too close for comfort, you griped. 

“It’s making its way towards Mountain Tim!”

From the abyss, a face emerged – a more sophisticated image of the crude sketch in the sand. Its tongue emerged, and arms sprung from the midnight. Like a pent-up lover, it launched itself straight at Mountain Tim in a rather passionate embrace and you could only watch in horror.

That was until the pistol that was still attached to his rope fired straight at L.A. You watched hopefully as the bullets almost grazed him, but they were deflected by a second night: a creature practically identical to the previous stand, something that could only belong to that putrid father. He glared at the ranger, while you could only stare at the dented bullets falling into the sand near you. 

It was becoming increasingly harder to breathe as the magnetism pushed you further into Zeppeli. His torso was now pressed completely to your front, while you sent an apology to poor Johnny who bore the brunt of two people. The iron continued to drown you with dark powder, and you wanted nothing more than to cry. 

“I knew this would be too dangerous for you to do, L.A.! You have to bind their hands with the iron – don’t let them do anything. Do you feel blessed? We’re such a blessed family. Just cut that damned fool’s rope.”

Could you get out of this by summoning your own stand?

[ Don’t do that yet. Don’t forget that they’d see me straight away – you’d be instantly dead meat. Besides, it’s a 50/50 chance of me not being able to nullify the magnetism on you regardless.]

“ I feel so blessed ,” L.A intoned, clasping onto his father as that second stand continued its prowl around the two. 

Fuck, you swore tiredly. 

It was then that the rope precariously holding Mountain Tim snapped. 

“Shit, these dicks ,” Zeppeli groaned in horror. 

“We’re so screwed!” Johnny squawked. This close, you could see each blond eyelash tremble – every freckle get coated in the mercurial sheen of cold sweat. Mountain Tim’s body came crashing in your direction, and you braced yourself with tightly shut eyes.

[ As soon as you feel him on you, summon me. In the debris, I’ll be able to hide .]

“Johnny, do you have an open hand?” Zeppeli gritted out. It was only then that you noticed his hands stuck tightly underneath you by the iron sand, like some gruesome reverse hug that you never wanted to see again. “Do it! You have to do it, Johnny!”

“What?”

“The spin – you have to get them using the spin , Johnny!” Zeppeli motioned urgently with his head, almost knocking your teeth out. You scowled at him, but he didn’t notice your glare. “There’s one on the ground there, pick it up!”

“Huh? What the hell are you talking about?” 

“That bullet – the one Mountain Tim shot! It’s lead so you can toss it without the influence of the magnetic force! You need to make it spin.”

You thought lead exposure was a pretty bad idea regardless, but you kept your mouth shut. 

“Me?” you felt Johnny glance in the Boom Boom’s direction, then his body froze up. “Too late! He’s coming – Mountain Tim’s body is flying!”

If you thought you’d braced yourself correctly, you’d be sorely mistaken. The ranger hit the pile of you so hard you could feel your teeth rattling around in your skull. Ouch .

Fuck. That was the moment in which you felt the extent of the magnetism start affecting you in earnest. Like supernovae, your blood vessels began bursting in your face, until your bandanna was soaked in the smell of copper. The small scratches on your limbs started streaming sanguine ribbons – all you could do was watch through red-tinted pupils. 

“They’ve united!” the father crowed delightedly. “I wonder how far their organs will fly out – will we get a new intestine record?”

“Johnny– you have to – ‘lesson three’!” Zeppeli forced out. His hat had miraculously stayed on, even when his head was being crushed into the gravelly sand by Mountain Tim’s back. “When we were camped out you said you spun the cork – it’s exactly the same now!”

“But– but that was just a coincidence!” Johnny stammered. Up close, you could hear how his accent thickened in stress – how every stirring of air felt denser as a result. 

“Believe in the power of the spin! The power of the rotation is limitless – trust in that.”

If you were being honest, you didn’t trust in it. You closed your eyes and resigned yourself to your fate. You couldn’t even focus enough to press the red button in your mind; the ragged pieces of crimson floated aimlessly around in the echo chamber, useless forevermore. 

“Johnny – you must! My body is bursting!” Zeppeli yelled out, rocking the already turbulent waters of your pitch-black mind. 

“I– I did it! Look, Gyro, it’s spinning–” 

How hopeful.

Briefly, your eyes fluttered open. You could taste nectarines on your tongue – orange oil bursting at your fingertips – the flavour of excitement. 

Then, his wrist was crushed under the boot of the father. Well, not crushed. Macerated. Grinded to a writing pulp. That’s how you saw it, anyway – not that you could see much of anything. 

The oranges popped into fireworks. Sulphuric, bitter, acerbic – all had the note of profound disappointment. You had accepted your fate when something else tipped the balance. 

“Step back a little more, L.A – don’t even think about relaxing until this is all over,” the father intoned. “Be careful. The dying can make some pretty desperate final moves–”

His lips continued moving, but all you could hear was a low buzz. TV static, or maybe the shrill tinnitus that occasionally came to call. 

[Watch out.]

I already know I won’t make it , you replied sardonically. There was everything to watch out for; though, beneath your snarky response, you could feel a trickling chill of realisation drip down your spine and arms. 

Where are we?

Arizona Desert.

Where are we?

“Daddy– what– what the hell? You said ‘be careful’ – no – come back – that wretched hand – hurry up Daddy and come back.”

L.A’s face had twisted into an effigy; a sepulchral mask of horror you’d find only after walking through thousands of tombs. 

Through the buzz, you read his lips slowly and carefully. 

Where are we?

The Devil’s Palm. 

You didn’t know how you forgot your surroundings so quickly. Within you, Depeche Mode stirred with a vitality that seemed far removed from the exhaustion you’d felt seeping into you just ten minutes ago. 

And beside you, something else was awakening. 

It started small: ripples in the dark sand that could’ve been attributed to the small breeze streaming languidly about. You’d been pressed so your front was now directly on Johnny’s shoulder; now, your eyes were directly in line of view of his hand. Like watching a magnet create patterns in iron shavings, so too the sand spun around his fingers in geometric loops. 

“Johnny Joestar,” Zeppeli gasped out. His eyes were wild with frenzy, while his face was soaked in nervous sweat. “What the hell is that?”

Johnny flipped his hand to look at his nails – for a few seconds, he stared through them as if nothing was wrong. Then, he squinted. Something must’ve changed for him, but you’d seen them for what they were from the very start. 

His nails had transformed into opalescent blue blurs. No, that was incorrect – those nails were spinning , so fast you could see the afterimages forming strings around the plates. Johnny continued staring, dumbstruck at the sight. 

“My– my hands! The nails… What the hell are they doing, Gyro? My nails are spinning!” he sputtered. You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head: poor guy. You almost sympathised, but you had bigger problems to worry about. 

And by the looks of it, so did the Boom Booms. 

“Johnny, this is a ‘stand’ – this isn’t the same when I use the spin with my steel balls!” Zeppeli chattered nervously, leaning back and elbowing you in the process. 

“– Daddy, just hurry up and come back – hurry and… your leg!”

A lone leg was standing where the father had stood just a second prior. It was severed neatly just above the ankle, and was trembling ever-so-slightly, as if it hadn’t a clue which way to fall. The man to whom it used to belong paled at its sight; blood had already started pouring fiercely from his newly amputated leg. He wouldn’t last long. 

He opened and closed his mouth in shock, before screaming just as the foot fell sideways. 

Left.

You hadn’t seen what chopped it off, but you could only draw the most preliminary of conclusions. 

One of Johnny’s spinning blue nails was no longer there. 

In the next moment, the man’s body was slashed vertically in half. 

Then, Johnny’s fingernails sunk back into their normal colour: short, hastily-trimmed pink nails with a jagged nail plate edge. 

“You fucker!” Johnny’s body was lifted by the neck as L.A wrenched him free of you and the pile. “How dare you do that to Daddy! How dare you!”

“ Fuck,” Johnny gasped as his fingers tried in vain to wrench L.A off his neck. The man’s other hand slowly drew iron sand into where Johnny’s major arteries were; you could’ve sworn your own heart froze at the sight.

Shit, please work. You begged for that stupid button to reappear, but no matter how much energy Depeche Mode had, you couldn’t calm your focus down at all. 

“I’ll tear through your arteries!” he yelled through fat tears. You closed your eyes tightly. God . What was with this place giving you hope then tearing it away immediately? 

But Johnny didn’t make a sound. Rather, it was L.A’s shrill scream that you heard.

His fingers and half his foot were lying in the packed dirt. The culprit? Johnny’s fingernails were shining blue once more. Your eyes blew open as the force of the spin caused him to twist out of L.A’s grasp and flip through the air. 

“This– this can’t be my body! These legs… that couldn’t even walk – they jumped!” 

It was at that moment when you could finally breathe again. Zeppeli and Mountain Tim both rolled off you as you pressed your palms flat against the sand in an exhausted push-up. The iron powder – harmless shavings once more – felt lighter than air. 

“Yes! The iron sand that was wrapped around us fell off!” Zeppeli held a relieved smile on his face as he brushed the grains leftover on his body. You could taste mandarins once again. “The magnetic force is gone.”

“Gyro… I’ll ask you once more – what the hell was up with my fingers?”

“It’s a power of rotation that I don’t know about,” his expression shifted to nervousness and a fair bit of determination. “I swear, I absolutely have no clue. I’m as damn curious as you are!”

You got up shakily, over to where your things were. The damage wasn’t as severe as you’d anticipated – it seemed while Depeche Mode was over with Johnny it had also taken a few seconds to fix your things. Your saddle was good as new, while your equipment was still solid: albeit a bit scattered. 

Quietly, you tacked Group Four up once more. After all that, you had the feeling you’d make your escape soon enough. You stifled many a yawn, but the peace was much appreciated when your palms were still clammy with fear.

“Johnny Joestar…If you’re saying that what you did was beyond technique, then make no mistake. This is definitely a ‘stand’ – you’ve come under the influence of the Devil’s Palm,” Mountain Tim spoke up from next to your elbow, something which almost caused your hands to slip on the bridle as you adjusted the noseband. He passed you your bag wordlessly, and you thanked him almost silently. 

He smelled of sweat and amaranth, now that you could breathe without choking on metal. Under the dust, it felt as though he’d been drinking recently; a faint aroma of spirits and whiskey clung to his clothes. And beneath that was the smell of fresh timber. A strange mix for a ranger, but an interesting combination nonetheless. 

You attached your bag to your saddle and strapped it in securely. 

“We’ve been in it without realising,” he continued, and you broke out of your little bubble. What an idiot – why’d you been gawking at the man for the past minute? “We’re probably in the area right now. Call back your horses – we need to get out of here immediately.”

Right. 

How could you be so careless? 

After you’d vowed to be meticulous to avoid this place, and you’d ended up here once more. 

“I don’t know why it’s here,” he mounted his horse, clicking his tongue until it wheeled westwards. Could be coincidence! Or it could be that the land pulled us in.”

“It’s no coincidence,” you spoke up. With heavy shoulders, you mounted too – until the breeze licked at your face once more. 

“That’s right, probably the latter,” he agreed. 

“Get on your horses,” he ordered, gripping his reins urgently. “The ground will move and the land will change – if we don’t escape now, we’ll get lost! Forget about finding the waterhole.”

As much as you wanted to stay (who knew, maybe the winds would take you back to your time once more), you knew he was right. You’d die if you stayed here again – that was a truth you could feel in your guts. 

“Stop right there, you bastards! I’ll get you back – never will I forgive you for this!” 

When you looked back, all you could see was a wailing kid holding their dying father. Snot dripped down his face, and tears streaked hot and fast down his blotched face. His mouth was wide open with a perpetual wail; there was a certain level of hopeless rage on it that made you shudder with whiplash. Just a few minutes ago, you had that same stricken despondency. That was you . 

I was you. 

Though, when you looked at Johnny’s bleeding neck, you lost the sympathy. 

“Leave him,” Mountain Tim continued with a detached nonchalance. You couldn’t blame him; he’d been intentionally misled, found out they were the murderers he’d been looking for, and had almost been murdered himself. “The Boom Boom family is finished – they won’t be able to escape the desert with those wounds, and the Devil’s Palm won’t let them go. They’ll likely run out of water by noon tomorrow, and the rescue team will never find them.”

[This guy’s actually pretty scary, not going to lie.]

Hoofbeats traced the air until a final proclamation from L.A Boom Boom had you look back. His face was dark with shadows, while his eyes bore straight into Zeppeli. 

“Gyro Zeppeli – there’s no way you’ll reach the goal anyway,” he prophesied. Even with the tears running down his thin cheeks, there was a casual tranquillity in his words. 

(Gyro Zeppeli, dead at twenty-five. Excavators found his body in a Napoli tomb near the old palace. After the monarchy fell in the 1890s, the palace was mostly disused until cultural heritage organisations acquired it. The body was identified as the same Zeppeli who raced in the Steel Ball Run, until his death towards the end of the race, 19th January 1891. With help from Luisa Zeppeli’s memoirs, we’ve also identified him as one of the Zeppeli executioners for the King, whose family later went into hiding. Further research indicates that he was also trained as a surgeon-practitioner, graduating from the University of Naples Federico II.)

You shivered. 

It sounded like a blatant bluff, but you knew better. Unless you succeeded in taking down the president, that was a true prediction. 

“Do you think we’re the only ones after your life? Wrong! Wroooong! You couldn’t be more wrong! Just ask that person from your ‘country’!”

You couldn’t see Zeppeli’s face. When he turned, his countenance was a blank, stony mask. 

“The reason we were after your life wasn’t because you came in first! It’s because this person promised $200,000 for your death! There’s a booooounty on your head – you’re so dead!” His face lit up with maniacal joy, and he started laughing. It echoed loud and hard in the canyons, until it bounced off the walls with a feverish delirium that made you question your own sanity. 

“Who hired you?” Zeppeli asked coldly. His eyes, crinkled up with a smile just a few minutes ago, were emotionless and dark in the shadows of that slatted hat. You could hear his accent thicken at his barely concealed fury, and Group Four paced nervously at the change in the atmosphere. You really couldn’t blame the mare. 

“What are you guys doing? Hurry up, you three! The prints we left earlier are fading – we need to get out now ,” Mountain Tim yelled. He was several lengths ahead, and you could faintly feel the ground trembling – just like it had all those weeks ago. 

“I’ll fucking kill you, bastards.”

The cold rage was interspersed with the cackling of a madman as you left that cursed place behind. 

. 　⁺ ✦

“Gyro, what did he mean when he said that someone from your country was out for your life? Just what exactly was L.A Boom Boom talking about?”

When you glanced at Mountain Tim, he was silent alongside you – though you got the feeling his silence was out of politeness whereas yours was out of exhaustion. 

“I said, it’s none of your business.”

Zeppeli was curt. Even after travelling for around a mile in silence, his lips continued to press into each other – as if by compressing into a single point he’d make everything better. You couldn’t see his eyes. You doubted they’d lost that intense anger that refused to cool within. 

“Not this time,” Johnny insisted. His brows were scrunched with frustration: an emotion you hadn’t seen displayed on the jockey, but you’d felt lurking deep in him. Those toned arms had tensed in challenge; unstoppable force had finally met its immovable object. 

“I have the right to ask,” he continued. Each syllable was heavy with deliberation. He didn’t sound curious – no, he sounded painfully sober. “I almost lost my life back there. Mrs Robinson, too; he must’ve been there because of the bounty on your head.

“What’s your reason for entering this race, Officer Zeppeli? It must be related to that article, mustn't it? I’ll have you tell me!”

Zeppeli looked forward soundlessly. 

You knew, even without him speaking. 

Surgeon.

Executioner. 

Bound by duty.

“I’ll tell you what you need to know when we’re out of this place and at a checkpoint,” he spoke simply, and that was all. You understood the underlying message just as well as anyone present: I’ll tell you, and you only. 

And that was that. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Dawn was whispering at the horizon when you finally saw the decrepit town licking at the corners of your eyes. The air carried the faint, smoked smell of the sky slowly warming up, while your limbs ached with a chill that seemed impossible to dispel while riding. 

It was a tiny town, barely made to fit several mismatched families – let alone a herd of jockeys. The land was barren, the buildings were worn and the fresh American flags strewn on banners did little to tilt the atmosphere into a jauntier direction. 

The horses began pacing faster at the sight of the respite. Even in all its miserly glory, you too felt prickles of excitement at finally dropping onto a bed – and perhaps even getting to eat before doing so! 

Zeppeli looked back at you and met your eyes. He wore a jagged grin, one that oozed foreboding and ill-intent. His golden teeth were on full display – shining with the promise of competition. 

“Fuck,” you swore as he kicked Valkyrie into action. The Thoroughbred snorted and lengthened her stride, even as her muscles no doubt burned with exhaustion. Beside you, Johnny too let loose a string of profanities as he coaxed Slow Dancer into a faster canter. 

Group Four pulled at the reins at the sight of two other horses ahead of her. Despite your efforts, controlling her was futile and her pace quickened, until the wind tugged at your muscles and contorted your mouth into one of roaring laughter beneath the bandanna. 

“It’s not even a real end!” Mountain Tim yelled, but his words were for naught as you rode furiously – desperately – just for the sake of it. He was perhaps the wiser of your ramshackle group: wise enough to continue the walking pace he was comfortably riding in. 

“Eat shit!” Johnny called out as he passed the sign marking the town’s perimeter, just a nose ahead of Zeppeli. He slowed to a pace, right as you triumphantly sprung into the radius.

“He was not ahead of me,” Zeppeli argued, halting and spinning Valkyrie round so he faced you. “I was in front the whole time! You saw it too, did you not?”

“I’m not sure,” you replied thoughtfully, but a shit-eating grin was present underneath your bandanna.

“I know you saw it,” he insisted. 

“I saw Johnny win,” you shrugged. “ Aren’t you a sore loser…”

“What was that?” Zeppeli sputtered. “I hope for your sake I didn’t just hear what I thought you said.”

“See? I won, fair and square,” Johnny’s blue lips still had traces of blood on them, but you didn’t notice when they parted in a bright, sunny smile. You froze, staring at him for a few seconds before blinking and shaking yourself out of your exhausted stupor. 

“You wish,” Zeppeli muttered, but he didn’t argue further, instead choosing to squint at you in annoyance. 

“See you guys later.”

“You’re leaving already? But we long for your company so,” Zeppeli bared his teeth sardonically, and you could feel the warmth practically ooze from him. “Seriously, though, what gives? Are we not going to the same stables?”

“Yeah, but I’m staying as far away as I can,” you stated matter-of-factly. “No offence, but you two reek of trouble.”

[ And one quite literally reeks. ]

. 　⁺ ✦

Dear Vincent,

It’s been a day since I last wrote – though I’m not sure this letter will find you terribly quickly. I had your stew – the vegetable one, with the onions and peas and the lentils. It was wonderful. 

Don’t worry about me – I made it safely to the checkpoint, and I’ll be setting off in a few hours again once Group Four recuperates. 

Give Dolly and Martha my regards, please. 

Your barkeeper

. 　⁺ ✦

[darckcarnival]

Everything that had been seen and witnessed, had even been experienced albeit just out of sight, Darck remembered. Every single detail, the telltale twists, and sheer facts that had been embedded within the mass of time. Roots that ran so deep, and pulses that still could be felt in ripples to this very day. Something that so many should be able to move on from! Get better!

And yet... It all drags everyone right back in...

Never ending in the cycle, no matter who lives, or who dies. A snake ever eating it's own tail and spiraling in on it's self.

And who better to witness it all than the living dead that was the woman's vampiric self? Never to age, never to die by normal means, but left as a witness to time. A witness of horrors. Carry each weight in mind and soul. A predator to lurk the night to never forget, know every cautionary tale. While turning all that power and capability around on it's head, not playing by the side lines, instead taking behind the scenes work to help where she could just out of sight.

Yet the man whom spun the events into action had still sensed her, known someone, something, lurked just beyond the naked eye.

Though now it would seem, even the culprit himself, and victim, also forced to survive when the sweet embrace of true death should have taken him long ago. Those ugly scars so very obvious, showing every tarnished laceration. As if the very scent of him alone wasn't already palpably obviously in the air, lingering burnt ash that had long ago faded into just background remains. Like his very blood retained every woeful event he's caused, and experienced, in turn.

The man made a monster, and monster burnt into a man.

Fate was the cruelest upon those who take such paths as he.

"Ironic how you say that, when I've seen a great many things so called Fate having a hand in." The woman's voice maintained this calm and strangely at ease tone. The body language remained at the ready, shoulders back. Fear? No. Just wise. Never once to drop her guard entirely. For even a predator without claws still had it's jaws when backed into a corner. She was no fool, and had learned a lot over her years.

Perhaps in a bold move, did the brunette move now. Not circling again, no- rather, approaching closer in front of him. Until she was just five feet away. Awfully dangerous. But for who? For her? Or for him? "A great many things can happen through the turn of one small event, where it changes the course of millions... Same for you, you know. Unfortunately, your choices were driven in the wrong direction."

"Funny. I recall a man who once laughed upon hearing Brian Irons screaming in pain and anger. Having been killed by his own actions. Took fate into his own hands, and twisted whatever future he may have had..."

The woman's hands lifted then, once more showing open palms as if a placating gesture of not armed. Or rather, a show of while there may not be a weapon here, that did not mean that the shorter woman was not without options. "Maybe now, the power is out of your hands and pushing you to choose a new path. You have a chance here. Do better than your past self, make up for your mistakes... Or will you wallow in your woes at the bottom? Will you take the rare chance so few ever get to improve, make up, and use your talents for a better tomorrow, or take the cowards way out?"

"What will you do, Albert Wilde?"

since 1998- too late for him, then. because he had no need for heroes as he stood tall and proud as an adult. perhaps he's relieved knowing that it was a rather recent observation. and even if that wasn't true- well, he'd rather not think about what it meant if it was a lie. (of what it meant if maybe she'd been a watcher from the very start- to think that he'd be deemed someone not worth saving / he knows he's not someone worth saving) she's been watching since 1998 and he thinks of everything that he'd done-

he thinks of when he almost had a place to call home. almost had people to call friends- and he had william, but were they really? in the end, they went their separate ways. united in a hatred for a man with foolish values and for the organization he'd built- and yet ... it was william birkin who had given wesker the virus. in the end, all according to spencer's plan (he was certain the old man was rotting in hell). he thinks of the horrors he led his team into- of how he closed his heart and how he strove to have everything and crawled from the wreckage with nothing-

sometimes, he felt that phantom pain in his abdomen- as if the tyrant had run him through again. he sees it in his nightmares and in the shadows at night- he can't escape that. it's simply another manifestation of the guilt he never thought would come. the guilt that was eating away at him. yes, things changed in 1998- and they only continued to change. once upon a time, he thought they would change for the better.

( he finds little comfort in the material gains of tricell- he's running toward some goal, and he isn't sure what to call it. and no matter where he is, no matter how far he runs, he always ends right back where he began-

he names his answer for it- uroboros, the infinite cycle of death and rebirth. )

❝ jarring? ❞

she's circling him like he's prey, like she's the stronger predator, and he hates it. the anxiety clawing at him- he has nothing to cling to, now. there are no more stars in his sky, and he is certain he will never find his way. so he will retrace his steps like he's always done, in those dark and lonely nights- his his heart will die and some part of his soul will be stolen away and he'll fall deeper into his delusions. over and over and over. an endless cycle. uroboros.

❝ yes, that must be true- if you were watching, but you should know that more often than not, the dead seem to come back to life. ❞

she's on edge and unarmed, but there's something that makes him feel like she's far from defenseless. but, perhaps the same could be said for him. for so long, he had acted the part of some unreachable ideal, always perfectly put together. he fashioned himself into a god for a new world- he imagined what it would be like to fly, and then like icarus, he burned.

you are a man lost, she speaks, and he lets out a rather thoughtful hum- it isn't an inaccurate assessment. he's been lost for quite some time. wasn't he lost in childhood? a frightened little boy sent from the bright luxury of his cambridge home to a midwestern city that he'd never really heard of before. to live with his father's distant relative, he'd been told. he never saw any similarities in oswell spencer- and if nothing else, there should've been some link. because that had been a lie. when he'd learned the truth, he'd wanted nothing more than to burn everything that man owned to the ground. and so he did. and to his luck, oswell spencer did not crawl back out of the ashes. not like albert wesker had.

sometimes, he wondered if it would ever be possible for albert wilde to have done something like that. the wide eyed boy who surely would've grown into a fine young man- perhaps he'd have a family- he'd be making a name for himself, he'd be a story of hope. instead, engraved on a tombstone in the forest hills cemetery was the name of the boy who was said to have died with his parents. albert wilde, born september 14, 1960, died in 1965 in a horrific accident- yes, he was most certainly lost.

❝ isn't it funny, how lost things will turn up when you least expect them to? maybe that's what others call fate. ❞

[binniesthighs]

dakimakura | reader x jisung

Pairing: self insert, female reader x han jisung 

Genre: smut, pwp 

Tags: softsub!jisung, harddom!reader, friends to lovers, pillow humping (m), masturbation (m), cumshot, begging, piv cowgirl, praising, dirty talk, corruption kink (f & m), degredation 

Word count: 2.4k 

Inspo: i blame you @jisungsplatforms (but I also love you *mwah* hehe thank you for this inspo! the realest friends introduce you to new kinks lolll) 

When the lights turn off, or in the dead of night, Jisung can’t help himself. 

How can something that feels so good make him feel so guilty? 

It had been a gag gift from some holiday or birthday--he can’t remember at this point. Sure, he thought that it was real funny at the time--what was even funnier to him was the fact that one of his friends had actually seen the thing, thought of him, and then spent money on it. Their loss, not his. 

By comparison, it wasn’t much larger than he was. Jisung knew that the large, body sized pillow could fit him well and he could fit it smushed onto his twin sized mattress when he pushed it up against the wall. It could almost be like it wasn’t even there. 

Jisung didn’t even know the character’s name, but he had tried to look it up once. The search yielded no results and he gave up easily after that too. All that he knew was that she must have been from some sci-fi thing--the very kind of anime show that he didn’t often watch. He really was one for the softer, cuter, more romantic ones that would leave him wanting something like that. 

She had red hair and a red outfit that had been illustrated to look as if it shone. She had cute features: a thin waist, a tiny nose and a pleading brown eyes with fingers hooking into the waist of her pants suggestively. Her thighs were perfectly shaped; unrealistically so--as they often were. Naturally, her breasts were humongous: a stark contrast to the rest of her body which was thin and lithe. 

The other side of the pillow, or the the side which he kept face down, ridded her of all of her clothes. The character wore baby pink lingerie which was nearly sheer. It left little to the imagination: her perky nipples protruded the fabric, and her glistening pussy slicked wet on her thighs and between her hairless folds. On top of it all, her orange hair had strewn everywhere onto the mattress-like image she was placed on, and her tongue dripped with in saliva that dripped down her neck. 

“Real classy.” Chan had called it. 

Jisung said that he was going to throw it out after it spent one night in his room when he was too tired from the festivities. 

He had heard that these things were comfortable, so he didn’t see the harm in trying. 

Jisung wrapped his leg around the body pillow to cuddle it, and the action itself was embarrassing enough to send a blush to his cheeks. The large mass did feel comforting, like another body in his bed which had only even been home to him. In the dark of his room, he could barely see the design, but knowing that it was there was something else. To save himself even further shame, he flipped it to the side where she was clothed. Even though no one had seen him do so in his sacred single-room, he still felt a cringe creep across his mouth. 

Just once. Just once I’ll look at it. 

He promised himself before turning the pillow over. 

Sure, her breasts were gorgeous: perfectly plump looking and doughy to play with...just as he had often fantasized about. His mind wandered to even more crude thoughts: what would she taste like, how would she sound if he had fucked her: would she be loud of soft? Would she be tight? 

Between his legs, he felt the heat rising, and jerked his hips at his wandering thoughts against cushion of the pillow. 

The blankets of the bed shifted, the frame creaked, then he found himself looming over her orgasmic face and all he could do was run wild with even more questions. Perhaps she would be soft, she would squeak, she would mix his name with her moans. 

Jisung straddled with pillow in his boxers and sighed out at the pressure of his hardening erection against her waist. He rolled his hips once, twice, a third time... 

“F-fuck...” 

He pressed his full weight against the pillow as he wetted the insides of his underwear with his dripping tip. His shaking fingers clawed out at the corners to hold himself steady, and with his unstable breaths he looked down at her. Tiny and stifled moans bit at his lip where he rocked his hips, slowly growing addicted to the friction. 

“F-fuck.” He cursed to the empty room again.  

Jisung didn’t know that he would enjoy edging himself so much, but with that first night, he was learning plenty of new things. 

After all, the pillow didn’t end up in the garbage, but rather the laundry. 

~🌹~

You had known of his little secret. 

While Jisung had thought that he could keep himself quiet, the steady creak of his bed during the late hours of the night gave him up obviously. 

You thought that it was cute. 

In fact, you had often imagined what he would’ve looked like desperately grinding himself over that pillow until he could take no more, or how he would milk his cum all over fabric and let it string between his fingers. Some nights, he would even go for more than one round. He must’ve been so agitated, so untouched, that he could do something like that to himself. 

You wanted to see it. 

The floorboards betrayed your steps to his room where the thumping had started near the hours of 2 or 3 in the morning. He had even left the door cracked open a little; as careless as he was. 

From the other side of his door, his breathy little moans were unbelievable. The fact that he could do something to himself was remarkable. He could work himself up to the point of overstimulation all on his own, and he would do it multiple times. 

“Mm.” He whimpered out, and the sound of his sheets crinkling followed. 

It was undeniable that you felt a similar heat below your waist, and it wetted your panties and clit so obviously it ached for you bring a touch for relief. Your thighs rubbed together to find some kind of sensation, but you wanted to wait the longest you could. You would save it all for him. 

“Jisung? Are you still awake?” You asked softly with a knock on the door. 

He scrambled with a tiny yelp and the sound of the pillow getting thrown to the floor poofed. 

“I can’t sleep, I’m coming in.” 

He had done somewhat of a good job covering it up...if you had ignored his discarded boxers also on the floor. Jisung pulled up his blanket all the way up to his nose. The light from the hall flooded, and you could still see the rosy blush to his cheeks. 

“I-I’m awake. Come-come in.” 

“You okay?” You asked, trying not to eye the evidence on the floor. 

“Yeah! Yeah! A-HEM! Yeah. All good here.” 

Under his thin sheets, his legs wiggled and you wondered if he had been close, and if you had just ruined his orgasm. 

“What can I help you with?” He timidly asked with legs still impatiently twisting. 

“Oh...I just couldn’t sleep, so I was wondering if you could help me?” 

His eyes widened, “How so?” 

“Well, for starters, you could show me something.” 

“Show you?” Jisung’s nervous eyes flicked from you to the discarded pillow, which had embarrassingly even landed on the scantily clad side. 

“I hope that I didn’t interrupt you.” You teased him further with a growing grin. 

“I-interrupt me? I wasn’t...I wasn’t doing anything? I was sleep--” 

“--Jisungie, I think that the both of us know that you definitely weren’t sleeping.” 

Jisung stammered, and you could tell that he had tried with all his might to not look back down at the pillow. 

“Was-was not? I was sleeping.” 

You strode confidently over to the rejected pillow, not even surprised to feel that it had been lightly wet from some kind of body fluid. You waved it in his face with an even more smug grin. 

“You’re terrible at keeping secrets Sungie. You don’t have to be so shy about it. Not when I know already.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He said, becoming defensive.  

“Don’t pretend like you fuck this cute little pillow of yours and ruin it. I’m not blind Jisung. Also...there’s no shame in that...” 

“I do not!!” 

“If you don’t then would you like to explain why I can see your cute dick bouncing under this blanket?” 

Jisung yelped out even louder and threw his hands down his body to cover the obvious area, nearly hitting himself at the same time, then hissing out at his sensitivity. He shied, finally realizing that he couldn’t hide it any more. 

“...It’s embarrassing.” 

“Awww you’re so cute Sungie.” 

“Can you not tell anyone?” 

You laughed, “I think it’s a bit late for that. If I know...likely everyone else does.” 

“Ah shit.” 

“I could...help you, if you’d like?” 

Jisung appeared to crumble into a shy little ball. “What do you mean? This is embarrassing enough.” 

You asked permission to peel the sheets back, and he let you do so with a shocked little glisten to his big brown eyes. It was just as you had expected: his cock was pink and hardened furiously with his tip that flared and bubbling with precum. It was deliciously thick with a considerable length, the kind that you knew would’ve felt amazing in your throat. 

“Look at you...so worked up...you did this all yourself?” 

Jisung nodded with his face in his hands. 

“I-I can’t help it sometimes. It just feels s-so good.” 

“Can you show me baby? Show me how you grind into this pillow of yours? Wouldn’t that feel nice?” 

You brought the redheaded anime girl back to his bed which he peeked at through closed fingers. 

“When you look at her, what does it feel like? You wish that you could fuck her? Feel her warm pussy around your cock that only gets tighter and tighter...”

Jisung whimpered at your coaxing and nodded to every word. “ ‘Want to know...want to know what it feels like...” 

“Show me how you do it Sungie, cum all over your dirty pillow for me, soak it. Ruin it.” 

The adorable boy nodded, then shifted to straddle it once more now facing you. He swam in his oversized tee, and he was looked just as soft as you had expected. 

“L-like this?” He said, sinking over the cotton with his throbbing dick. 

“Just like that baby. Keep going.” 

Jisung dug his fingernails into the pillow as he thrust over it and flicked his hips nearly directly over the character’s waist and stomach. He couldn’t meet your eyes at first, but focused only on the way that he fucked it, but as soon as your praises started to fill his ears, he wanted you to watch him. It felt pathetic, but he loved it. 

“That’s it Sungie. Does it feel good? Fuck, look how cute you are. You’re that desperate that you would fuck this pillow? You want to know what it feels like?’ 

“Mm-yes.” Jisung muttered with even more broken gasps, “W-wanna know...what it feels like...inside...please--” 

“If you cum for me first, maybe you can find out.” 

Jisung looked up to you, pleading.” “R-really? You’ll let me?” 

“You want to fuck me Jisungie?” 

“Fuck--yes.”  The small boy nearly growled. 

“Cum for me first.” 

He huffed out in his focus, but nodded, while thrusting his hips harder. 

Everything about him was a sight to behold that sent your arousal straight to your clit which twitched just for him. As badly as he wanted to fuck you, you wanted to fuck him too; fuck him until he couldn’t make sense of his words, or until he had begged you to give him a break. 

Jisung continued at his face, and the longer he went, the more whiny his moans became. Pre-cum pearled at his tip which turned even redder against the fabric, and his back arched when he found an angle that he preferred. When he got closer, his eyes screwed shut, and his eyelids fluttered when he brought out his orgasm. 

“F-feels really good...” He said with a tiny euphoric smile. “C-close.” 

“Cum for me baby, just like the dirty baby that you are fucking that pillow. Is your dick that desperate to feel a cunt? This is the best that you come up with?” 

As your words turned dirtier, Jisung appeared to loose himself further, groaning out louder, and drawing his hips in deeper and collapsing over the length of the pillow. 

“M’ gonna cum, f-fuck, please wanna feel you, so, so bad.” 

“Prove it.” You challenged him further. 

With a strained little grunt that was much too cute for his own good, Jisung came over the design of the anime girl on his pillow, and he splattered her with white. His whole body shook with his high, and he shivered as he milked himself over her till his dick twitched with nothing more left to give. 

He gasped out and looked to you for approval, which you gave him overwhelmingly seeing the way that his thighs even trembled too. 

“Did I do good?” He asked while jerking himself further, not even caring that it made him flinch. 

“Of course you did babyboy.” You praised, and leaned over the sticky mess to give him a quick kiss. “I’d make you go longer, but I’m feeling impatient.” 

Jisung watched when you striped your bottom half of your sweatpants, and nearly drooled seeing you dip your hand between your folds to rub slowly at your swelling clit and swirl your fingers with your own cum. 

“See what you do to me Jisungie?” 

He nodded vehemently and threw back his beloved pillow to make more space for you. 

“Oh my god...this is really happening.” He whispered out. 

Your hand slid over to his dick lathered with his cum and you twisted around it with your own hand, then roughly toyed with his slit. After, you took your own slick to mix and rub around his length. He collapsed to his back overcome with the pressure from your hand. 

“Oh god.” He hushed with legs still trembling. “Please fuck me, I-I can’t wait...hurts...”  

“Oh I will Sungie.” You returned, and positioned your hips over his, and teased at your entrance with his pink head. “It’s my turn to ride now.” 

~🌹~ 

Bunch of (Ro)ses! 

@minaamhh @dazzlehoseok @synnocence @jjewibeans @hyunsluvv @unexceptional-h @bobawithchaitea @lechanters @sailorhyunjinz @silencefavarchive @eunaeiekim @lunarskzzz

[astaroth1357]

Leviathan's Odyssey 6:

Reunion

*Lucifer is in the middle of packing an extra set of water-wings into a cat-themed bag on his bed. Beel is waiting for him at the door in swim trunks, holding a placated baby Satan who’s gnawing on the ear of his beloved Mr. Whiskers*

Beel: Lucifer, are you sure about this?

Lucifer: Yes. I'm sure.

Beel: But he's so small… Isn't there another way to get him tired?

Lucifer: I don't suppose you have any suggestions?

Beel: ….. 

*unable to answer, Beel turns away with a guilty look. Lucifer just sighs, picking up the bag and finally looks back at his brother*

Lucifer: I thought so… *he passes by but sets a hand on his shoulder* If he's strong enough to have a body count, he can learn to doggy paddle. Now let's go.

*in an effort to curb Satan's boundless destructive tendencies, Lucifer finally read a parenting book and decided that giving their little hellspawn some physical activity could make him easier to manage. Lord Diavolo offered them his private beach for a few days to that end, so some swimming appeared to be in order. Satan was still much younger than any of his brothers when he taught them, but nothing about this child was normal. He could probably handle a little water as long as he was supervised...*

*the trip through the portal was uneventful for the brothers, as was setting themselves up on the beach. Belphie had been the only one to complain about being dragged onto another family outing, but he seemed content enough to sleep in a deck chair while Beel set out (and ate) the day's snacks. The sun wasn't helping Lucifer's headaches at all, and since Asmo had wandered off to take pictures in his new speedo, care of baby Satan fell to Mammon*

*to the secondborn's credit, he actually remembered what they came there for and brought his little brother out to the water’s where the waves lapped the shore*

Mammon: Okay, little guy… Lucifer wants ya good and tired so let’s play in the water for a bit.

*he takes Satan off of his hip and lets him sit in the sand right where the water will come up to hit his legs, not nearly deep enough to be of any danger, but enough to get him accustomed to the stuff. Predictably, the baby demon is mesmerized by the cool new substance hitting his skin and Mammon can’t help but grin at his amazed expression*

Mammon: Yeah, this is called the “ocean” little buddy! *he kneels down next to him and scoops some of the water into his palms to let Satan stick his hands in* It’s all made’a this stuff. Can ya say, “Ocean” for your big bro?

Satan: Perwish!

Mammon: Thaaaat’s not even close, but I guessed ya tried... *he sighs and looks out for a moment at the lapping waves then back at Satan* Want to go out a little deeper? See more water?

*Satan coos at him and holds his hands up to be lifted, so he takes that as confirmation and helps him to his little feet. Thankfully for House, he’s not terribly mobile without help, but when someone holds his hands for him he can more or less walk upright. Mammon helps him takes a few steps deeper into the water until the level reaches about to his knees and he seems quite pleased with himself as he watches the water rise and fall slightly over his legs*

Mammon: Ya like water, buddy? Ya must because you haven’t tried drownin’ me yet… *he laughs only a bit at his own joke… partially because he’s only half joking*

*Mammon lets Satan stand in the water for a little bit, glancing around at the rest of the shore around them and trying to think of what kinds of things he could collect and sell from the beach... He gets so preoccupied by his thoughts, that he doesn’t notice the size of the waves beginning to swell until they start going well past Satan’s waist… When his little brother begins to make a fuss, he looks down in surprise at how suddenly the water level had begun to rise*

Mammon: Huh? What the heck??

*he’s quick to scoop Satan back up, but as he’s getting his brother settled back into his arms, he hears a growing commotion coming from the beach behind him*

Lucifer: -mon! Mammon!! Ge-!! *though he recognizes the voice, the roar of the waves drown out most of the words*

Mammon: *frowns* What?? I can’t hear you! 

*when he looks back at his shouting brother, he can see the eldest is up on his feet along with everyone else - even Belphie is awake and they all look… alarmed? What’s going on??*

Lucifer: Get out of the water!! NOW!!!

Mammon: “Get out of the…?” *confused, Mammon turns back to look out over the ocean… but what he sees sends a chill down his spine*

*there’s a dorsal fin in the water. But it’s no ordinary fin… It’s a towering monstrosity, easily the size of a ship’s sail, with dark spines running through indigo webbing… Though it’s a little ways off from where he’s standing, that only makes its sheer size more horrifying and not less…*

*Mammon grips onto Satan like a precious treasure then bolts from the water as fast as he can, scrambling so frantically that he nearly falls into the sand in the process. When he returns to his brothers, Lucifer pries Satan from his hands while the rest pull Mammon back into the group. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he’s been scared half to death…*

*meanwhile, the fin in the water slowly drifts across the horizon. Though its pace may appear lazy, its relative size means its covering miles upon miles easily… To their collective horror, it appears to sink below the surface for the briefest of moments before something else rises out of the water… First two branch-like structures: multi-pronged, sharp, and as dark as night, then a mass of purple between them, seemingly connected together… The purple substance is dripping with water and pools around whatever rising form is taking shape above the surface…*

*where the purple mass parts, they see two glowing eyes fixate on them from afar… their pupils nothing but thin slits against the amber that surrounds them… Each eye could easily fit a whole wing of the Demon Lord’s Castle inside and even from this distance their scale is staggering…*

*the eyes watch the group for what feels like an eternity, blinking languidly, before they close and sink again below the surface, the “creature” seemingly disappearing into the waves*

Mammon: …. Lucifer….?

Lucifer: *swallows a moment, holding Satan tight against his chest* … Yes?

Mammon: What the HELL was that thing?!?

*for once, Lucifer seems to be at a loss for words… Diavolo had assured him that this shore was uninhabited and safe! Whatever that monstrosity they just saw was, he could hardly begin to call it “safe!!”*

*before Lucifer could collect himself enough to answer, they spy something else approaching the shore at a fast pace, so fast in fact that none of the brothers get a chance to change forms before it's already breached the surface and landed on the beach in a kneeling position. The creature some yards before them appears to be shaped like a man covered in black scales… each one shimmering with an indigo hue in the artificial sunlight. Like the beast from the water before, the creature’s head is a mess of purple but when seeing it closer it only appears to be hair... Its hands and feet are taloned with thick black claws and a long, black tail slinks its way out of the water to seemingly test the feel of the air around it…*

*they hear the creature inhale deeply while still crouched against the sand, maybe testing out its lungs, before it slowly rises on its reptilian feet. With more of its body revealed, the brothers can see that it’s not entirely scaled: pale skin covers its bare chest and spreads up to parts of its neck and face where the scales don’t reach… One of its hands grasps a jagged red trident, seemingly ripped and carved from coral, while the other flexes in its now waterless environment… but there’s something familiar about its face…*

Belphie: *squints at the creature, rubbing his eyes furiously* Am I dreaming... or is that…?

Asmo: *staring at the beast himself in aghast horror, though of what can’t be said for certain* I-I can’t believe it...

Mammon: *covers his mouth with the back of his hand, seemingly unsure how to react himself* Is... Is that…?

*Lucifer tries desperately to regain some level of composure, but he’s just as shocked as his brothers… If his suspicions are true, then maybe… just maybe...*

*the feel of Satan’s tiny hand gripping onto his swim-shirt grounds Lucifer for the moment as he tears his eyes away from the mysterious man and down to the child in his arms… and his blood runs cold…*

*Satan is staring at the man with just as much horror as the rest them… his little fists digging into the fabric of his shirt enough to tear. For just a second, he looks up at him with pleading eyes before burying his face into Lucifer’s chest... like he wants to hide... In all his time with this baby demon, he’s never actually seen him so pale… so... terrified*

*when he looks back at the man on the shore, he’s wearing a smile but one of razor sharp teeth gleaming in the light, giving his mouth an almost ghastly glow… and those amber eyes he had hoped to see again stare back at him with no love left…*

Lucifer: It’s good to see you again… Leviathan...

*a true sentiment, but hallow words to utter it... Something tells him that this won’t be a “happy” reunion...*

Parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Fic: The Talk

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences (I honestly don't know how to draw a line, there's mention of fucking, but no actual fucking)

Fandom: Triple Frontier (2019)

Ship: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You

Summary: You initiate THE TALK with Frankie about wanting kids, which you don't. But does he?

Notes: This is for all of you who don't want kids. Not those who can't have them, but those who just don't want them. There's a lot of fluffy married-with-kids Frankie fic out there, and that's fine. Kids are a wonderful thing for many people, but not for all. I like reading those fics because I like reading about responsible, soft fathers. But sometimes it gets to me how having kids is written as the only way to fulfillment, to making the perfect family. We still live in a society where a Good Life features certain stops along the way - college, a steady job, marriage, a house, kids - and twosomeness is often seen as not enough. (I realize of course that the idea of twosomeness also is problematic, but one thing at a time.) Again, nothing wrong with getting married, having a house, and having kids. Do your thing. Be happy. But there are people who find happiness in other things. And those people are just as happy.

”We kickin’ Friday date night off already, mi alma?”

Your gaze, up until now fixed on your bare stomach in the full length mirror, moves to Frankie, who’s coming up behind you and pressing a kiss to your shoulder, never letting his eyes off the image of you in the reflective surface in front of you. You’re in your underwear, fresh out of the shower, and you are about to get dressed to go out to dinner when something had caused you to linger at the sight of yourself. Critically, you had pinched a chunk of belly fat between your thumb and forefinger, frowning at the mass of it. You had never been a petite girl but it was clear that for every year, your body gained another pound. You were comfortable enough in your body, but it sometimes threw you, just how the years changed it.

”We’re not missing our reservation,” you tell Frankie with a small smile as his hands move to cup your breasts. ”I’m hungry, and patience is a virt – hue!” The last syllable comes in the form of a small squeak when he pinches your nipples, both of them at the same time.

”Sorry,” he apologizes with his lips moving up your neck. ”I know they’re tender ’round this time of month.”

You murmur something and Frankie rests his chin to your shoulder.

”Penny for your thoughts.”

”I was just thinking about how fat I thought I was ten years ago,” you confess ruefully. ”And in ten years I will be looking back at pictures from now and wonder how I ever thought I was fat now, because it’s going to be so much worse ten years on.”

”You know you’re not fat, right?” Frankie’s voice is matter-of-factly but his eyes are filled with emotion. You two have been over this before.

”I know, Frankie,” you tell him softly, then, a hint of teasing in your voice as you obediantly repeat the lesson you’ve learned from him: ”And even if I were, it wouldn’t matter to you.”

”You better believe it.” He presses another kiss to your shoulder and his hands move to your hips, where the waistband of your panties cut into the flesh, creating the curves you had been so conflicted about just now.

”More for me to love,” he murmurs, now at your ear. Hands moving over your belly, he tickles the dip of your navel before settling his large hands, fingers splayed open, over your lower belly. You meet his brown eyes in the mirror.

Oh, damn.

He’s got that look you’ve seen on your friends’ faces when they talk about babies. That inward, dreamy, secret smile they display when they touch their growing bellies. That radiant, loving pride their significant others have when touching their pregnant women, making you want to tell them to get a room. It’s too private, it’s too intimate to show in front of you. And then, the brief look of pity in their eyes when they finally realize that you’re in the room. Poor soul, she doesn’t have anyone, she will never know this happiness. When Frankie entered your life, it got a little better, but it didn’t take long for you to notice how the language around you changed. You’ll know when you and Frankie have kids of your own.

Thing is, you don’t want kids. You never did, not really. You figured you’d maybe change your mind, but the older you get, the more certain you are. And although the topic had been touched with Frankie – who was okay with not having kids – you never really had The Talk.

And now he’s holding his hands over your lower belly as if there was something growing in there, something he himself put there with a deep, hard thrust, one of those plunges right into your core, the ones that almost make you weep with the sheer force and pleasure of it. Is that hope in his eyes?

”Frankie,” you say, realizing that this is going to be painful, and loath to bring it up today, on date night, when you’re about to go out and have fun. ”You know I don’t want kids, right?”

You gauge his reaction carefully. Is this the face of someone whose dreams were crushed in the blink of an eye? No, you mostly just read surprise.

”I know, mi corazón,” he replies slowly. ”We’ve talked about it before. You know my position in this.”

”We haven’t, though,” you insist, and now you take his hands from you and turn around so you can face him, see him directly and not just his reflection. His hands stay in yours and you like the way he grips your hands, as well: not too tightly, but enough for you to know that if you’d let go, he’d still have you.

”We’ve never really discussed it,” you explain. ”I’ve said I don’t want kids, and you said that’s fine, but that’s not a discussion.”

”I didn’t realize there’s something to discuss,” he confesses, a little perplexed. ”If you don’t want them –”

”That’s the point exactly!” You raise your voice a little, as you always do when you’re passionate about something. It took a long time for you and Frankie to learn each other’s way of communication: when you’re excited or earnest, your voice goes up and you talk with a lot of exclamation marks. Frankie used to read that as anger, on account of his own emotions always being expressed in a voice lower than usual, but with extra heat.

”It was not a discussion because you just agreed with me, but you never expressed what you actually wanted! If there’s some part of you that wants kids, you need to really think this one through, because I won’t be able to give you this. And one day, sooner or later, you might resent me for it!”

”I would never –”

”No, listen to me, I’m serious,” you interrupt him, another one of your bad habits when you’re engaged in something. ”You don’t know that. Really, you don’t know that. And I can’t expect you to know it because nobody can tell what’s going to happen in the future. But you know the answer to this question: did you ever see yourself as a dad?”

You stare, unwavering, into his eyes, unafraid whatever his answer might be. You have an inkling, anyway. Frankie, however, is clearly uncomfortable. He wets his lips and there’s a small frown between his eyebrows. A long moment passes while he thinks.

”Yes,” he eventually answers, his voice hesitant. ”I did figure I’d have kids some day.”

”Thank you for being honest,” you tell him softly, raising one hand to his cheek, drawing a finger over his patchy beard. He smiles weakly.

”You need to think about this, Frankie,” you tell him, the volume of your voice lowered. ”You need to be absolutely sure. Because I love you, and I don’t want this to break us up when, one day, you realize that you want kids more than you want to be with me. Not if you could make that decision now, and go start anew with a woman who wants the same future as you. I don’t want to take those years from you.”

He inhales to protest, but your forefinger is quickly at his lips, shushing him.

”I know.”

He looks at you for a long while, conflict in his warm eyes. You can only imagine what’s going on in that head of his.

”Okay,” he says at long last. ”I’ll think about it.”

”Thank you.” You lean in for a kiss, and his lips meet yours, in that way only he can kiss: first his lips are only slightly separated and he brushes them against yours, delicately, tasting you. Then he applies a little more pressure, closes his full lower lip around your upper or lower one, tastes a little more, releasing and doing it again at a slightly different angle, like he’s testing every approach he can think of. Then, finally, he slips his tongue between your lips, your teeth, to meet your tongue, and by that time you’re already a hot mess. He takes his time, savours you, arms sneaking around your waist to pull you in, pressing all of you against all of him.

You’re reluctant to put an end to the kissing, but you know where you’re both headed and however nice a good fuck would be, you’re still hungry, and you’ve been looking forward to going to this restaurant.

”Mmmfrankie…”

”I know…”

He traces his lips to your ear and whispers I love you in that low, intense manner of his, and you know that he’s really going to think about the matter just discussed, and you think you know what his answer will be.

And you’re right: a couple of weeks after, he brings up the subject again, and tells you that he’d rather be with you for the rest of his life and not have kids than have kids but not have you.

That’s enough for you.

[pollylynn]

Title: Jitters WC: 2100 Episode: Always (4 x 23)

He was a fearful child. It’s a strange truth that he seldom thinks about, but he was, all through his childhood, very much about things that go bump in the night, about ghosts and boogey men and dedicated axe murderers who enjoyed a good long-term stalk first. He had early-onset vivid imagination and an absolute gift for winding himself up into a tightly wound ball of abject terror. He was sleepless, he had nightmares, he would sob uncontrollably with frustration when he simply didn’t have the words to tell anyone who might’ve listened—and people who might’ve listened were not exactly thick on the ground—all the hair-raising details of what, exactly, his mind had conjured up for him to be afraid of. 

On the rare occasions that he thinks about it now, he supposes—with an expertise born of the fourteen or fifteen or seventy-six pop psychology books he’d bought when Alexis was little, hoping he’d internalize their wisdom by virtue of mere proximity—that it makes sense: They moved a lot. He was alone a lot. The world, to him, was constantly new and unfamiliar. It was unpredictable and full of shadows, both literal and metaphorical. And it might not do wonders for his Master of the Macabre street cred, but it was probably inevitable that he would be a fearful child. 

He hasn’t thought about this truth in a while. He seldom thinks about it, but if he had to put a date on it, he thinks the last time he might have thought about what a fearful child he was would have been a year ago, almost to the day. It would have been the night her father showed up with a misguided plea to save his daughter’s life. 

Jim Beckett had shown up on the doorstep of a virtual stranger and emptied his minimal store of small talk right out of the gate. He’d told a story of her that sounded so emblematic of her and so instantly true that his own fingers had itched for pen and paper. She would not allow herself a night light. Whatever she was or was not afraid of, she simply would not allow herself the comfort of a night light. He’d felt the unfamiliar urge to confess then, as strong as the need to write, he’d felt an alien tug at parts of his mind that he has always been so careful to keep quiet. 

It’s so odd, now that he thinks about it, how something like a compulsion had come over him in a moment that it would be gross understatement to call inopportune for unburdening himself.  But he had really wanted to tell the man all about the fact that  he had been a fearful child, that he had worn out always-on button night lights and cartoon character night lights and night lights he’d steal from the living room, from his mother’s room, from friends’ houses or literally any place he could get his hands on them. He would plug them into every available socket in whatever room happened to be his that week. 

 He had wanted to tell Jim Beckett the halting, agonizing story little Ricky Rodgers, age eight, trying to toughen himself up with darkness, how he’d saved up his allowance for a night light with the quickest switch his hardware store tests had found. He’d spent weeks—absolute weeks—forcing himself to flick it off, lying there with his finger on the switch, trying to count in slow, measured breaths to see how long he could make himself go. One . . . two . . .threefourfive flick. 

Yes. That’s the last time he thought about it. He’s sure of it now. He has spent a full year not once thinking about what a fearful child he was, how he’d had to learn to cope with it on his own, how he never actually learned to cope, because what he does is he ignores it. He pushes it deep down and locks it away. He pretends, with the full force of his early-onset, carefully cultivated imagination, that there’s not a thing in the world to be afraid of. 

That was a mistake. 

****************************

He is, not to put too fine a point on it, losing his shit over fear right now. 

She is afraid. She has been afraid all year, and she has not allowed herself the comfort of a night light. She has not, for an instant, tamped the fear down through sheer force of will and decided that there is not a thing in the world to be afraid of. 

He has not thought of this. He has, somewhere along the way, allowed himself to . . .what? sublimate that same fear into the manly emotion of anger? A year ago, he was afraid. When Jim Beckett came to him, when Roy Montgomery stood before him, when the boys, and Lanie, and every last person in their overlapping lives turned a heavy stare on him to let him know that it was up to him to make her save her own life—yes, he was fucking afraid then. 

And he was afraid afterward. He was starkly terrified every single day, until weeks stretched into months, until—through the toxic alchemy of a soul-deep wound inflicted by her silence—he wasn’t afraid any more. He was livid, he was furious, he was anything but afraid, despite the fact that he saw red blossoming on her parade gloves every time he was fool enough to close his eyes. He saw the wicked geometry of the rifle resting with sickening ease on Esposito’s palms. 

He— whatever lies he might have told himself—was afraid every second until the months passed, until his phone rang, until the mysterious Mister Whoever dropped a night light right into his lap. He could control the situation. He could steer her away. He could finally do what every damned person who knows her, in this realm and the next, seems to think is his sacred duty: He could keep her safe. 

But her phone never rang. She never had a night light dropped right into her lap. And she wouldn’t have taken it anyway. 

And he is watching her now, so afraid. He is seeing her now as he should have been seeing her this whole last year. There are shadows under her eyes. There’s a brittle quality to her voice, her movements, her weight in the world. She has wondered how? when? who? will it hurt? will it hurt again? 

He is losing his shit over the wages of his own fear, and he doesn’t even have time for that, because she wouldn’t take the night light. She won’t take the night light. 

She sublimates her fear into fearlessness. She transforms it into determined, reckless action. She has been chaotically afraid all this time, and now that fear has found form. She cuts off every avenue of escape. She will not tell Gates. She will not trust anyone. She will run at this, headlong and alone, just like her father knew she would, just like Roy knew she would, just like he has, all this last year, known she would the minute his secret saw the light of day. 

And it comes terribly to light. 

It is the only option left to him and the gash it tears in the fabric of their lives is unspeakable. There is one last fear—one shivering leaf falling to earth—when she looks up at him with shadows dark beneath her eyes and she asks what she already knows. 

Are you a part of this? 

It’s gone before he can choke out his answer. It is transformed into the tectonic force of her anger,. 

He begs her to find another way. He pleads with her in words he should have used a year ago. He begs her to hold her life dearer than this thing that is terrible and fearsome and more than anyone should have to bear. He begs her to see that for all that, it is over and throwing herself on the pyre cannot bring her mother back. 

He begs her, and the last fear was not quite the last. He begs her to think of him—of everyone who loves her—and it is not enough. 

And there is his worst fear realized. Nothing could ever be enough. 

***********************

He is basking in a shower of silver sparks. He is basking in the thrill of new-born fear, sizzling, insistent, and wondrous. 

He is afraid to touch her. She is sleeping at last and her poor body is a mass of welts and bruises and cruelly broken skin. Her glorious body is not of this world. He is afraid—he is certain—that if he gives into the urge to trail his fingers over the barest inch of it, she will shimmer out of sight. 

He touches her anyway. He finds uninterrupted skin and drags the pad of his thumb over it. She stirs and groans. Her brow furrows in the almost-absent light of the bedroom and now he’s truly afraid. He is positively trembling because who knows what she’ll do. Who knows what she is like when she wakes without a tiger in the next room? 

He knows. His life flashes before his eyes a hundred times as she falls on him with such ferocity that he dares to laugh into the crook of her shoulder as he thinks that they’ll have to wait until next time or the time after that to do it without the tiger. 

He holds her, afterward—after what excruciatingly, wonderfully seems like the year of the tiger. He takes the bold move of winding his arms around her and pulling her body against his. He’s grateful there are explanations other than abject, all-consuming fear for why his heart is thumping so hard against her skin. He is as grateful as any member of the faithful gathered at week’s end that she has no reason to ask if he’s afraid she’ll clock him for having the audacity to snuggle. (If he were wearing boots, he would be quaking in them at the possibility that she might clock him for having the audacity to snuggle.) 

She drifts off to sleep again, with her ear pressed to his thumping heart. He lies absolutely still, too fearful of too many delightful things to even want to move. 

This is genuinely terrifying. 

She is here with him. She wants him more than she wants her mother’s murderer. He is enough, and this is his greatest fear realized, too. She thinks he’s enough. 

His stomach is in knots. Prickles of fear race up and down his skin. His mind is knocking at every available door, poised to announce that this is a terrible idea, that he is a fraud, that the two of them are doomed, that she must have meant to knock on the door of the apartment across the hall, that she has a brain tumor or ergot poisoning or she’s been taken over by an alien life form with exceptionally low standards when it comes to sex partners. His mind is positively tap-dancing through the tulips, and each tulip represents something he urgently needs to spend some time being afraid of. 

But he is not spending time on any of those things. Oh, he is afraid. Kate Beckett is in his bed and fear is the only thing that might help him survive the night. 

He is afraid he won’t be able to keep up. 

He’s afraid she’ll discover where he’s ticklish. 

He’s afraid he’ll discover where she’s ticklish and he won’t be able to resist. 

He’s afraid of morning breath and bed head and whether or not he snores. 

He’s afraid that if either of them moves the bed will spontaneously collapse out of spite for all all they have put it through in the last few hours. 

He’s afraid that he might have to leave the warmth of her body to pee. 

He’s afraid that physics—because physics is a jerk—dictates that he cannot make her coffee and stay here with their limbs all tangled up in pleasant confusion. 

He is blissfully afraid of the hundred awkward moments they’re going to blush their way through when morning comes and he’ll say and she’ll say something dorky and ridiculous, because this is scary. 

It’s so scary, and he’s basking in it. He’s basking in the thrill of new-born fear, sizzling, insistent, and wondrous, in a shower of silver sparks. 

A/N: Hallucinatory tigers ain’t got no morphousness at all. 

images via homeofthenutty

[kim-miri]

HALF(have a little fun) pt. ii

read part one here!

→ Sayomi Zoldyck is the eldest child and twin sister to Illumi, of the renowned Zoldyck family of assassins. At the age of ten she’s taken away to Meteor City by her mother, Kikyo Zoldyck, unbeknownst to the rest of the family, as well as newborn Killua, and left to fend for herself. This is the story of the long-lost Zoldyck and those she becomes acquainted with, all while she just wants to have a little fun.

» part two / ?

» pairing: eventually - chrollo x oc x feat. hisoka

» warnings: drugs, blood/violence

» a/n: helloo~ this is my first write ever, and it’ll probably be a pretty long series. I’m also balancing school and a part-time job so forgive me for slow updates! If you’re reading this, thank you so much for showing interest and please leave comments below with your inputs!

» word count: 2,506

☾ ii.

Name: Sayomi Zoldyck 小夜美 | "小" is small | "夜" is night | "美" is beauty |

Hair color: White

Eye Color: Purple

Nen: Manipulator (same exact abilities as Illumi)

Abilities: Same as Illumi Zoldyck - Body Alteration, Hypnotic Spell, Corpse Control, Needle People, Katana

☾ ii. part ii: a backstory(2/2)

In front of Illumi and Kikyo, Sayomi laid unconscious, bleeding through the cloth bandages from the torture she had received the other day, as well as her new wounds from the fight.

Despite her daughter’s current state, Kikyo was dissatisfied with the fight, now yelling at Illumi for going easy on his sister. She hadn’t realized that Sayomi had never even attempted to strike back against Illumi.

She was blinded by her hate and disgust towards her daughter, not even aware of what she was complaining about anymore. “You should have been harsher on her! She deserves nothing but pain for disgracing our family!”

Illumi’s eyes wavered at the sight of Sayomi crumpled on the grass in front of him. He felt sick to his stomach.

His mother’s words were nothing but empty shells to him, but the smallest amount of guilt struck his heart as he turned away from his sister to face his hysterical mother.

Now facing Kikyo, Illumi’s eyes seemed to darken and narrow with each insult that came out of his mother’s mouth. His right hand twisted and bundled the fabric of his training pants, materializing into a trembling, pale fist.

And though he wanted to express the pent up anger trapped within himself, he didn’t, as he knew it would only make things worse for Sayomi.

Instead, he chose to stand his ground without a word, only staring forward with a vacant gaze towards his mother.

Kikyo was about done screaming at her now two broken twins, and she clenched her jaw tight as she made her way to her fallen daughter, nails outstretched.

She was going to get rid of her insolent daughter. 

Now having seen that Illumi was stronger than Sayomi, Kikyo saw no point in her daughter continuing on to disgrace the family name. 

Her hand shot down to close around Sayomi’s neck, only to be stopped with a piercing shriek that she then recognized as her own. 

Illumi had stepped between his mother and sister, shooting a hand out to stop his mother from harming Sayomi any further.

Unable to control the anger that was mixed in with his urgency to stop his mother, he had gripped too hard and snapped his mother’s wrist. There was a sickening crack as Kikyo cried out and hurriedly stepped away from the twins.

“ILLUMI! MY WRIST!” Kikyo stared at her son in horror, teeth grinding together as her wrist went limp by her side.

However, Illumi had already started off in the other direction, leaving his sister and mother behind as he made his way back to his room. 

☾ ii.

Normally bright, vibrant violet eyes were hidden behind a set of full lashes and eyelids that seemed to be too heavy to budge. Sayomi wasn’t in the infirmary or her room, however.

The arrhythmic sound of a rumbling engine and tires rolling over uneven cement surrounded Sayomi in a barely conscious state.

Kikyo sat still in the back seat of one of the slick black cars owned by the Zoldycks. Her wrist remained limp on her lap, going unnoticed as she continued to stare ahead at the road in front of her.

On her left was a drained version of her daughter, still recovering from her unconsciousness and unable to open her eyes. The car was silent, eerily silent, as the butler drove on without a word.

The Zoldyck estate was now far behind them, as hills and abandoned lots passed with a blur moving on to unknown lands.

Three hours in, Sayomi’s eyelids lifted with much difficulty, as she struggled to keep them open. Her cheek rested on the smooth leather of the car door, her forehead pressing into the cool glass of the window. 

Everything around her seemed hazy, but she was able to squint hard enough to see her own dishevelled reflection in the window, as well as the unfamiliar scenery that continued to pass by.

Focusing harder on the reflection in the window, Sayomi was able to spot her mother sitting beside her. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she moved to lift her head off of the car door. 

Upon Sayomi’s movement, Kikyo turned to look at her daughter with distaste evident in her expression. “Good morning to you, Sayomi dear”.

Sayomi only acknowledged her mother’s words with a grunt, too exhausted to think or speak.

With a lack of urgency, Kikyo moved to retrieve something from the holder beside her, a glass bottle that seemed to contain water. Unscrewing the lid nonchalantly, she handed the bottle to the faint girl beside her. “Drink up dear, you must be exhausted.”

Although in the back of her mind, Sayomi questioned the sudden hospitality of her mother, she was much too fatigued to give the offer a second thought as she reached out for the bottle.

With a shaky hand, Sayomi accepted the drink with a soft “thank you”, taking a swig of the liquid without hesitation.

The drugs Kikyo had mixed into the water were odorless and flavorless, but Sayomi had endured countless forms of harmful substances and immediately sensed something was off. 

Noting the small cringe evident in her daughter’s face, Kikyo made quick work of pinching Sayomi’s nose closed, forcing her to choke and swallow the drugs.

Sayomi gasped for air as she dropped the bottle in her hand, the contents spilling over the floormats beneath her feet. 

She whipped her head to see her mother smiling contently, and started to speak when the lights went out for Sayomi for the second time that day.

☾ ii.

Kikyo was cruel. And without her husband or father in law there to stop her, she was unhinged and acted out against her daughter full of spite and pure hatred.

Ever since Sayomi was born, the attention of all the elders and family acquaintances shifted from the new woman of the Zoldyck family- Kikyo, to the bright bundle of joy- Sayomi, who displayed Silva’s features on her face like a mirror.

She was jealous of her own daughter, recalling all she had to go through to be accepted by the Zoldyck family herself, while Sayomi seemed to fit right into their legacy without having to even lift a finger.

The driver was well aware of their destination and felt like he was making the wrong decision by going through with Kikyo’s plans. But he knew the consequences of disobeying his employer and continued towards Meteor City, his two hands gripping tight on the wheel.

☾ ii.

Many different modes of transportation later, and the three arrived at Meteor City, their fancy clothes and car proving they didn’t belong in the waste that seemed to pile on infinitely.

 Kikyo made no movements from her seat in the car, only gesturing with a single pale finger towards the butler. “Leave her here, please.”

The butler nodded and reached over to the passenger seat in order to retrieve something before moving to lift Sayomi out of her seat. 

Sayomi was carried off to a somewhat clearer spot amidst the dump, her luminous white hair waving in the breeze as the butler left her leaning against what made out to be the rusty remnants of a fridge. 

He held between his arm and side the katana Kikyo had brought with them. Placing it at Sayomi’s feet with a sigh, he bowed to the 10 year old still deep in sleep and wished her well.

Silently, the butler turned away from Sayomi and made his way back to the car, trudging through the waste and broken fragments of millions of lost items.

As he started the car to return back to the Zoldyck estate, the butler’s mind repeated a verse he had once heard through the many jobs he experienced.

It was the Meteor City motto: “We’ll accept anything you leave here, but don’t ever take anything away from us.” 

The citizens of Meteor City were said to have a bond thinner than water and thicker than blood… How would Sayomi fit into this broken down community?

He wasn’t sure she could.

☾ ii.

Back at the Zoldyck mansion, Kikyo was met with the sight of about 50 butlers rolling on the floor in agony, needles sticking out from their faces and necks.

In front of the gate stood Illumi, his black eyes full of rage once again as he approached his mother. “I know what you’ve done, mother. The butlers gave me more than enough information.”

Kikyo only smiled at her son, unwavering at the mass amount of butlers he had taken down. “Good then, dear. I hope you’ve learned something from the consequences of your sister’s decisions.”

With that, she continued on past the devastated twin and into the mansion. 

Illumi stood his ground, watching his mother leave him without any remorse for his other half, his twin. 

A single tear slipped out from one of his eyes, running down his pale cheek to drip off of his jaw. 

He would find Sayomi, no matter what. Even if he couldn’t right this moment, he would wait and save her when the time was right.

You’ll be alright Sayomi. 

We’ve been through worse.

☾ ii.

Zeno and Silva returned from their mission late the next day. Just stepping towards the gate, both could feel the heavy atmosphere around them, in addition to seeing the sheer number of butlers with patched up faces.

Meeting each other’s eyes for a split second, the two assassins heaved out heavy sighs as they pushed through the great front gate with ease. 

Their walk towards the mansion was quiet for the most part, the only sounds interrupting the silence being the faint chirp of crickets and an occasional bullfrog in the distance. 

It wasn’t the first or last time there would be trouble at the Zoldyck mansion.

On occasion, there would be a fairly successful band of intruders that would deflate the mood at the estate, or one of Kikyo’s tantrums that led to the injuries of many of the unfortunate butlers that happened to cross paths with her.

Judging by the large number of butlers injured this time around, the two placed their bets on a fairly successful invasion.

Making their way through the doors of the mansion at last, Zeno and Silva sought out Kikyo to find out just what had occurred in their absence. 

However, before they even made it halfway to Kikyo’s chambers, Illumi came running towards them, a rare occurrence for the usually inexpressive boy.

His long, black hair was the tiniest bit mussed and his round eyes were wider than usual. 

Without pausing to catch his breath, Illumi broke the news to the two elders. “Father, grandfather. Sayomi is gone.”

Perplexed and bewildered at the sudden turn of events, Zeno and Silva sputtered out sounds of confusion as they pressed Illumi to explain in more detail. 

“Mother…-mother made us fight and then… she left Sayomi at Meteor City!”

Silva’s mouth dropped open in clear astonishment, pushing past Illumi to find his wife. There was no way he would leave his only daughter to fend for herself in Meteor City. 

His pace quickened as he turned the corner, heading straight for Kikyo’s room with a hard-set jaw and rage evident in his expression.

Confronting his wife with a booming voice, Silva demanded the reason behind Kikyo’s actions. “Kikyo. How can you make such hasty decisions without stopping to think first?”

Silva was furious, but with the watching eyes around him, he maintained his composure as the butlers were dismissed from Kikyo’s side. 

Kikyo spoke without a care, only adding to the growing aggravation of her husband. “Ah, welcome back dear... Sayomi’s insolent behavior was in need of strict discipline, and so she will remain in Meteor City until she is able to find her own way back.” 

Sliding a hand down his face in exasperation, Silva groaned at Kikyo’s antics. “Kikyo. Do you even realize what you’ve done to our only daughter?” 

Kikyo smirked in response and opened her mouth to speak only to be cut off by Silva’s voice. 

“There’s no turning back in Meteor City! Sayomi has most likely already been claimed by their rotten community and she’ll most likely be sold off with an aura that strong!”

As Silva took a seat, dizzy from the pure outrageousness of the situation, Kikyo opened her mouth once again.

“Dear. Did you forget that I was once a citizen of that rotten community? This is for her own good, and when our daughter returns, she will be even stronger than any training we could possibly give her. Think about the future of our family, she will be fit to inherit the family business!”

Silva raised his head at this.

It was true he had been mulling over which of his children could be fit to inherit his position. Millions of thoughts ran wild through his mind. He knew it would be nearly impossible to find and retrieve Sayomi at this point, and perhaps she would benefit from the experience. 

If she doesn’t return within two years time, we can always rescue her. No, but will she survive until then? Of course she will. She’s my daughter after all. 

Without even realizing it, Silva had effectively been persuaded into leaving his daughter at the city of ruins. 

There really was no turning back now.

☾ ii.

From the moment Illumi saw his father return with a conflicted expression spanning over his face, he could sense the outcome of his parents’ argument.

Sayomi was trapped in Meteor City.

When Silva officially broke the news to his father and Illumi, the 10 year old took off in a sprint, locking himself in his room.

Illumi was drowning. Too far deep in his own despair. 

His sister’s giddy smile flashed through his mind, her bright violet eyes seeming to burn through his own. 

He had never felt more helpless or weak than this moment. 

As he folded into himself, forming a barricade of arms and legs from everything around him, tears streamed down his face as the absence of his twin burned a gaping hole into his heart. 

☾ ii.

Illumi was never the same after that day.

His emotionless state was reduced even further into a mere skeleton of himself as he mourned his missing half.

Every day was the same exact routine. 

He would wake up with the hopes that everything had just been a bad dream, and that Sayomi would be stumbling her way outside to race him to the training yard.

And every day he would have to come to terms with the reality that Sayomi was indeed gone. 

He put all his focus into training as a way to cope with the situation, pushing himself to new limits each time. 

He obeyed his mother’s every command, killed in cold-blood, and when offered jobs, went through with them without fail.

Illumi’s soul was fading, yet despite the loss in expression, his power continued to reach new heights. 

Now he was nothing more than a machine, a weapon wielded by his parents that brought them fortunes.

☾ ii.

to be continued.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: the pilgrim soul in you (1/1) | Lucien x Vassa

Summary: A missing-moments Vassien fic covering ACOWAR, ACOFAS, and ACOSF, in which, after a while, Lucien and Vassa fall in love.

A/N: I teased this for a while, and it's finally here. Additional notes and tag list at the end. I hope you enjoy 🧡

Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.

-- T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

The best story: that Lucien first sees Vassa at the lake, swooping over the water. That he’s entranced by her at this first glance, dazzled by the bird of fire, that he can sense the woman within nearly bursting to get free. Even in the form she was cursed with, Lucien might say, something about Vassa beckoned him from the first glance.

But Vassa would never let Lucien tell this story, because it is untrue. They first meet as the evening darkens, when Lucien has found the fire made by the Prince of Merchants. Before he spots the father of the Archeron sisters, he sees the strands of Vassa’s hair glowing red and golden in the firelight, generously curled and falling to the middle of her back. Then there’s the blue of her eyes, as bright and dangerous as the center of a flame. Her golden-brown skin, a shade or two darker than his own, luminous in the combined light of the fire and the stars, so that he can’t help but imagine how it would feel under his fingers.

His breath catches in his throat at what wells up in him, a feeling that is bright and dangerous.

Of course, she spots him seconds later, and then there’s a dagger at his neck, and Lucien is mercifully distracted. Vassa might be a young queen, but she’s clearly had experience with would-be assassins.

“I was sent by friends at the Night Court to try and break your enchantment,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm, but not so calm that she’s suspicious.

“I didn’t need faeries to set me free.” Her voice is lower than he’d expect, a rich alto, the words lilting with a musical accent. She does not growl the words, only tucks his hair behind his ears with her free hand, revealing the delicate arches, a gesture that lays him bare. But he does not think about his vulnerability. To do so would only increase the possibility of pain. Instead, he thinks that he’s surprised to feel callouses on her fingertips, decides to ask what would roughen a queen’s fingers at the nearest opportunity. Even then, he’s planning for a long string of moments with Vassa. “You aren’t the only beings who care about the saving of this world.”

At this point, Gabriel Archeron steps into the circle of light, and the resemblance to Feyre and Elain and Nesta is strong enough that Lucien blurts out their names, claiming he has news, and eventually the knife is removed from his neck.

Lucien makes himself a mix of charming and sorrowful as he tells the Prince of Merchants all that has happened to his daughters, trying to find a sufficient level of honesty that will not provoke unpleasant revelations later, while still convincing them to let him travel in their group. When he has finished and Gabriel has blinked away tears, which Lucien pretends not to see, he turns to Vassa.

“I was sent to make an entreaty to you,” he says. “My land will soon be at war, and the situation is grave. Hybern has been massing its armies for decades, and their spells are as formidable as the magic that binds this world together.”

“If your faerie armies can hardly withstand this onslaught,” she asks, in that thrilling tone that seems to emerge from deeper within her body than ordinary speech, the perfect ideal of a queen’s voice, “why do you expect that my human armies should go willingly to their own slaughter?”

“In my country, the High Lords and generals do not lead from the back of their armies. They fight on the front lines.”

“They have their own power to shield them.”

“Your armies would not battle on the front lines, majesty.”

She smirks at him, her teeth little moons in the firelight. “You sound quite naive when you speak on the workings of battle, emissary. You’re lucky that I have already promised my armies to your friends’ father. We ride to meet them at the coast.”

Lucien shoots a glare at Gabriel, who is smiling at the glow of the dimming fire.

“Queen Vassa flies by day, of course,” he says, the dry humor in his voice so perfectly balanced with graciousness that Lucien understands the reasons for his reputation. “Her wings are swift.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien sees Vassa’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. Surely as a queen she is used to adulation.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to keep the enchantment?” Lucien asks the queen, as he turns back to the fire, trying to rile her a little further. Let her know what sort of journey this will be.

The change in Vassa, though, is apparent even to his half-gaze. The sudden tension in her muscles, a readiness that isn’t training but sheer terror. Her golden-brown face, a shade or two darker than his own, goes pale.

“You said your people could free me,” she says, and though she tries to make her voice commanding, Lucien has politicked in every court in Prythian and cannot miss the terror laced into every word.

Against all his better instincts, he tells her: “We’ll free you.”

She turns his head so he can’t see it, but still Lucien can vividly imagine her smile, brilliant and sparkling in the night.

&

&

&

At first, Vassa thinks she will hate Lucien, the way he smirks and teases and generally makes it clear to everyone that he’s full of the arrogance of the High Fae. Then she realizes that, as much as she hates to admit it, Lucien is the most intelligent creature she’s ever met. His mind simply spins faster than any of her court advisors. He sees a thousand possible futures so clearly that her astrologers, famed on the continent for the accuracy of their predictions, would gnash their teeth in jealousy at his seeming clairvoyance.

It’s when Vassa begins considering his gaze with respect instead of annoyance that she knows her feelings have well and truly changed. Because Lucien’s gaze is unnerving in its omniscience: his russet eye sees everything visible, and his gold eye seems to pierce into an unseen world.

Sometimes, in the little sleep she snatches every night, Vassa dreams that Lucien Vanserra, emissary of the High Fae, can see straight into her heart. And though she begins these dreams afraid of what he’ll see, her weakness and fear and failure, at some point his lips quirk into the smallest smile, and Vassa wakes up feeling rested for the first time in months.

By day, it’s all Vassa can do to force the firebird to follow Lucien and Gabriel on the journey toward the coast and her army. The firebird’s mind is so different from her own, easily distracted and unable to parse experience into human comprehension. But the firebird’s eyes turn the world into a jewel box, and the firebird spends too much time staring at the glint of Lucien’s hair in the sunlight, sparkling every shade of red and orange and gold.

In the evenings, by the fire, Lucien’s gaze is not so piercing as it is in her dreams, and though she can admit to his masculine beauty, to her human eyes it is not as overwhelming as what the firebird sees by day.

By the fire, he makes sarcastic remarks that punctuate Gabriel’s stories, insisting that his daughter Feyre is even more brave and kind and stupid than her father lets on, that Nesta is a holy terror. Lucien does not say anything when Gabriel mentions the other daughter, Elain, only clutches his cup or fork a little tighter, makes his breathing too steady.

At a thousand endless state dinners, Vassa has learned to observe the tells of royals and ambassadors. She’s barely had a chance to use this skill outside of card games with her ladies-in-waiting, but now she’s sure that Lucien has met and desired this Elain.

It’s better this way, she tells herself. They are wartime allies. He will likely end up married to Elain Archeron and Vassa will get her curse broken by someone among the High Fae and she’ll reclaim Scythia and her rightful throne. Eventually, she’ll find a politically advantageous consort. Perhaps, once her rule is secure, she will take a lover.

Still, as they draw near to the coast, she finds herself laughing at Lucien’s remarks. He ducks his head towards her in little asides, explaining Prythian politics or making jokes so dry that her laughter nearly startles her. She realizes that, as much as she will always love Gabriel Archeron for finding her, for leading her away from Koschei, her eyes will always go first to Lucien.

Vassa tries not to think about what it means. A young queen cannot afford an ill-considered love affair. Still, when Lucien’s eyes, russet and gold, land on hers, she cannot force herself to look away.

&

&

&

For their first three days at sea, Lucien worries that Vassa will fall into the ocean when she transforms from firebird to woman. The minute the sun begins to kiss the horizon, he watches her flame-bright wings and braces himself to winnow if she cannot position herself safely over the boat.

Always, Vassa manages to land safely on the deck, and Lucien swallows his anxiety. In spite of all his good intentions, the fact that she’s surrounded by the Scythian generals who adore her, Lucien can’t help seeking her gaze, can’t help scanning the length of her body for any hint of harm. All he finds is Koschei’s curse wrapped tight around her, and then Vassa’s sapphire gaze on him, the flash of her bright smile.

He thinks of Elain and he does not think of Elain. Elain, the mate who does not want him.

One day soon, before they’re reunited, Lucien will have to tell Gabriel that his middle daughter is mated to the male he’s crossed the continent with. But instead he listens to the stories the Prince of Merchants weaves about his adventures, basks in the glow of his regard. Gabriel Archeron was born when Lucien was already centuries old and tired of this world, and still Lucien catches himself basking in his fatherly countenance.

He thinks, maybe even a miserable life with Elain would be better if he had such a father-in-law.

Then Vassa catches his eye, ducks her chin to whisper that Gabriel is certainly exaggerating, she’s been to the town he speaks of and the river is not nearly as terrifying as he’s making it out to be. In fact, she says, her voice low and lilting in his ear, she and her ladies-in-waiting crossed it with skirts in hand. Then, her whisper going so soft it’s barely audible, she makes a vulgar speculation about Gabriel’s virility, the kind of phrase that would make her generals shout with laughter.

Lucien can almost feel her full, soft lips against his ear, so that he has to force himself to let out a quiet laugh. The skin of his body feels too tight. His blood thrums inside him. Somehow he makes himself turn back to the meal, laugh again when she repeats her aside to Gabriel, now at full volume, her speculation now even more elaborate and ribald. As Lucien predicted, the generals roar their approval at their queen, and Gabriel flashes her an approving smile.

For just a second, Lucien finds himself wishing that Vassa had told him a different story, which would belong only two of the two of them, not a mere rehearsal of what she’d say to everyone dining with them. He pushes the thought away quickly, focuses on the plate in front of him, lifting the spoon to his lips.

Later, when Gabriel and the generals have retreated to their rooms, Lucien finds Vassa on deck, her head thrown back as she stares at the stars.

He should go to his room, cramped and dank as it is, but instead he stays watching Vassa. Despite the dark, he can see her bright eyes considering each constellation. He can hear the beat of her heart, louder than the waves.

He considers approaching her, asking her what she sees in the stars, if it’s beauty or some vision of the future that draws her. But Lucien is a mated male now, and although he’s sure the conversation would be innocent, increasingly, closer proximity to Vassa feels like a betrayal.

Finally, he forces himself to turn away, to walk to his room and bolt the door.

Elain could take a hundred years to want him. It doesn’t mean he can be in bed with another female (another woman) for that century of purgatory.

Still, maybe it’s the distance from Elain, maybe the sea itself has bewitched him, but even as he falls into sleep, he can’t stop seeing Vassa, luminous and sarcastic and brilliant, behind his eyelids. Imagining how she might feel if she were tangled up in this narrow bed with him.

&

&

&

They arrive in Prythian just in time, Vassa realizes later, once the sun has dipped below the horizon and she’s human again. She can only vaguely recall the sound of screaming, the iron scent of blood, the feeling of flesh under her talons. She had not known the firebird could attack.

Gabriel died at the hands of the King of Hybern, her generals tell her, and though she still walks through the ranks of her soldiers as she’d planned, she hardly registers the faces of the men and women who have guarded this world. She does not remember what she says to the wounded or to those who came out unscatched.

Afterwards, her hands are covered in blood.

She finds herself walking in the forest, not caring if she could be attacked. Surely any monsters have enough sense to fear the magic she witnessed on the battlefield.

Still, she startles when she hears the footsteps behind her. She whips around and there is Lucien, scratched but whole, golden even in the night, no matter the dark leather armor that covers his body like scales.

“You’re all right,” Lucien says, the relief in his voice so deep it’s practically a sob.

Vassa forgets all her reasons for keeping her distance as she launches herself into his arms, presses herself so tight against him that she can smell his citrus and sandalwood scent, hear the beating of his heart. So that the armor he wears digs into her cheek, her ear.

“There’s blood on your hands,” he says, reaching for her fingers, running his thumb over each digit. She tries not to shiver at the contact.

“I needed to visit the wounded. It’s a custom among Scythian queens, to thank their warriors personally. To grieve with them. But I have no idea what I told them. My people have not been at war since well before my reign.” Still, she was trained for this moment. She should have known.

He releases her fingers, his hands working up her arms, until he’s pulling her against him, his cheek resting on her head, the place where her crown belongs.

“No wonder your people love you,” he says.

A dozen sarcastic comments rise in her mind, but they are all wrong for this moment, when all she wants is to stay this close to him, held so tight that death and despair cannot come between them.

Eventually he says, “Your people will think that you were kidnapped by faeries.”

“If only they knew,” she tells him. “Do you think that I could speak with Feyre Cursebreaker tonight?”

Instantly he looks guarded, and then she remembers Elain, the faerie female who Lucien loves. She pulls herself away from him, just enough that she could step away if anybody found them in the woods.

“I think Feyre has been asleep for hours. Nobody is awake but the wounded and the healers and the guards.”

“Which one are you, then?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he says, and when he smirks at her, that flash of the teeth that mark him as High Fae, a thrill runs through her entire body.

Elain, she thinks, then says primly, “It is a queen’s prerogative to be wherever she likes, is it not?”

“There have been no queens in Prythian for thousands of years.” His hands are still on her back. His fingers are tangled in her hair, and if he wanted, Lucien could tug it, angle her mouth so as to be easily kissed. Instead he looks at her as if it’s the last time he’ll ever see her face. Maybe it is.

“You are quite a new thing, Vassa,” he says, after a moment or an eternity. She’s not sure.

It would be so easy to kiss him, she thinks, and Lucien is clearly honorable, more than even he realizes. He would never harm her, never leave her to be ashamed. If he accepted her kiss, surely something wonderful would begin between them.

But then she thinks of Gabriel Archeron, his warm gaze like a benediction on her, the kindness and bravery he showed when he rescued her from Koschei. The way he spoke of his daughter, Elain, the love that filled his voice when he spoke of her, the daughter he would never see again.

She finds that although it is easy to imagine kissing Lucien, his lips on hers, the opening of their mouths and her fingers searching for a gap in his armor, she cannot ask her body to make any of the required motions. Once, not so very long ago, she was well-schooled in honor.

“We should go back to camp. I’m tired.” It is the first lie that Vassa has ever told to Lucien. It will not be the last.

&

&

&

At political functions, much is made of conversations, tone and gesture. Even a too-long look can be made fodder for months of court gossip.

Even knowing this, even knowing he needs to make inroads with Tamlin, that at minimum all his emissary posts require him to converse with the members of the assembled courts, knowing the Night Court watches him, wondering when he will finally try and speak with Elain, Lucien cannot stop looking at Vassa.

Someone has provided her with a dress of sapphire silk and a diadem of gold and sapphire, has brushed her hair until it is practically a living flame falling riotous down her back. He has never seen anyone more radiant. No matter the ruined estate, the tense conversations, even if the whole world goes to hell in this meeting, it will have been worth it to see Vassa every inch a queen in this moment.

When he spots her talking with Jurian, Lucien can hardly contain his fury. He does not trust the man, no matter that he saved Feyre. Sometimes he barely trusts Feyre.

And when Jurian bends to press a kiss to the back of Vassa’s hand, Lucien has to acknowledge the feeling that’s hot inside him: jealousy.

It’s wrong, he knows, when his whole body shouts whenever Elain is near, his heart practically thumping out her name. Far from her, he was able to forget the effects of the mating bond, only the coldness inside him whenever she would not meet his eye.

Still, no matter how close Elain lets him get, he has never felt himself alight the way he did last night, when Vassa stood in his arms and let him pull her close. He has never scanned the horizon with worry that she will fall into the sea, never laughed at a single thing she’s said.

So although Lucien forces himself to let the conversation between Vassa and Jurian play out, tells himself over and over he might be good for her as if repetition will make him believe the sentiment, the moment Jurian steps away, Lucien strides directly to her side.

“I spoke with Feyre,” Vassa says, by way of hello. “She does not know how to break my curse.”

“Feyre has barely learned her powers.”

“Oh? Are you saying you can do better, One True Faerie?” She swats at him, fingers barely grazing his jacket. Still, he warms at the contact.

Smiling in spite of himself, he taps his temple, indicating his golden eye, the scars surrounding it. “I’ve been told I can see what others can’t, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t tell me that line has worked on a single woman.”

“Lucky for me that the females of my species are much more credulous than human queens.” He allows himself to bask in Vassa’s laughter, too loud to be dignified. “But now that we are in Prythian, there are others with the necessary skills. There are whole libraries that might be of assistance.”

He thinks, but does not speak of Helion as he summons his powers and takes another look at the curse, which is fashioned like a harness on her shoulders, crossing her clavicle and looping around her shoulderblades, Vassa’s heart surrounded by the trip of Koschei’s magic. The magical signature is foreign to him, a long and complicated sentence in a language not spoken in a thousand lifetimes.

“Jurian said there was a place for me in the human realms, if I wanted to take it,” she is saying, snapping him back to the present, the physics of the known world. “Do you think those faerie experts will remember me across the wall?”

“There is no wall anymore,” he says, rewards her with a low laugh when she rolls her eyes at him.

“You’re full of fairytales today, but I suppose that’s appropriate,” she shoots back.

“They won’t forget about you because I will constantly be reminding them that the human queen who saved their sorry selves is still bound by an enchantment.”

“For a moment I forgot how self-important you were.” In spite of her words, Vassa’s smile is sweet and hopeful, the kind of expression only humans wear. In all his long and miserable life, Lucien has never seen such a lovely smile. He hates himself for thinking it but cannot bring himself to turn away from her the way he should.

“There’s more I can do,” he says, breathing deep, letting the imminent mistake wash over him, like dangling his foot off a cliff. “I could stay with you and Jurian, if you wanted. If I wouldn’t be interrupting the two of you.”

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it, a squeal muffled between bitten lips.

“Jurian is a terrific ass and you’ll have to keep me from slicing him to ribbons.”

He’s so dazzled by the feeling of her fingers on his that he doesn’t even bother to look and see if anyone’s watching. For the first time he can remember, every thought leaves his mind.

&

&

&

Jurian would be the perfect man to marry, Vassa realizes within the first three days of their living together. An ancient warrior would not be a strange consort to a firebird queen. True, their arguments shake the walls, and his ideas are old-fashioned to an idiotic extent, and of course there’s the fact that Vassa cannot imagine herself ever falling in love with him. Still, he would be the right choice.

Far better, to be certain, than Greyson, Lord Nolan’s son, who at Vassa’s arrival is paraded with the pomp that would befit a king, not a minor aristocrat. She can tell that there was a sweetness to him once, but that it’s curdled, and what’s left to the boy seems now beneath her regard. She does not know how Elain Archeron once loved him. This fact alone makes her think less of the girl.

Then again, Vassa knows that she is inclined to judge Elain more harshly than she deserves. She tells herself that this is because of the dejected expression on Lucien’s face when he first returned from Velaris after the war, the way he goes quiet when she’s mentioned.

But in her secret heart, when she’s the only one awake in the Nolan manor, Vassa can admit that she’s jealous of Elain Archeron. She hates this emotion. It is not fair, it is not honorable, and yet Vassa feels jealousy wrapping its tendrils around her.

So when Lucien appears in the manor in between visits to the courts of Prythian, she is cordial. She is friendly. Sometimes she even allows her smile to break free, but only if he is telling her about progress towards the breaking of her curse. Only if the implication is that she could be free, and therefore far away from him.

More and more when she’s around him, Vassa feels as if her human self has merged with the firebird: unable to speak freely, bound by invisible chains.

If her arguments with Jurian grow a bit sharper and she smiles more wickedly when she bests him, well, between the curse that makes her a firebird and the heart that longs so furiously for what it cannot have, she cannot possibly be expected to have perfect forbearance.

&

&

&

Finally, there is an evening where Jurian goes to bed early and it’s only Lucien and Vassa in Nolan’s shockingly ample library, the last of the wine between them. Vassa’s cheeks are flushed from another argument with Jurian. Lucien had tried to read through it, but the history he’d selected was inaccurate and every time he looked up, Vassa and Jurian seemed to be grinning in spite of the heat and clamor of their words. They argue like lovers now, he kept thinking, the words spinning before him, turning nonsensical.

“Do you still think that Jurian is a terrific ass?” he asks, before he can stop himself, the wine stretching his words into a drawl. As if the question is unimportant. As if it is not dangerous.

“He’s exactly the kind of man my advisors would tell me to marry. Even my mother would have approved.” Her fingers, on the glass, have gone yellow-white from the strength of her grip. He cannot tell what she’s nervous about.

“I suppose he is miraculous, in his own way. As long as you enjoy going to battle every night.” A hint of the old smirk. Maybe it will unsettle her into revealing the truth.

For a few seconds, the room is still, so quiet he can hear the quickening thump of Vassa’s heartbeat. Weeks or months ago, maybe, Lucien would have been smug over his ability to rile her. Now he only waits to see what she will say.

“At least he’s not in love with someone else.” Vassa does not look at him, and for the first time since he’s known her, her blue eyes do not sparkle.

“I’m not--that is--” Already he has revealed too much. He can feel the heat of her gaze on him and now it’s he who cannot meet her eyes.

“I know about Elain. And I cannot...her father rescued me from Koschei. I will not dishonor his memory by stealing you away from her. No matter what I want.”

He thinks about saying, you have a high opinion of yourself, Queen of Scythia, the kind of thing he’d usually say to her, which would rob the moment of its tension, send them off to their separate beds. Likely, the usual jibe would set everything right. But Lucien has tried to play the dutiful suitor to his mate, has found her thoughtful gifts and has waited until her (their) heart warms, and still she cannot wait until he leaves her behind. Still his thoughts stray to Vassa. And the very thought of her with Jurian is worse than the guilt of leaving his mate for another. Let Elain take a thousand years to come around to the idea of him, let her break the mating bond itself, Lucien thinks, gulping down the last of his wine. She is not the problem. Probably she never was.

“I’m not in love with her,” he says, finally, the words like tumbling off a cliff. “She’s my mate. Chosen for me by the Cauldron. And if I could choose, Queen of Scythia, believe me that I would choose a woman who can win any argument, whose beauty is only eclipsed by her fierce intelligence, and who still has not told me how her hands, the hands of a queen, came to be so calloused.”

“In Scythia, women can be warriors. I’ve trained with a sword since I was seven.” The words are hardly a breath.

He rises from his chair. The book falls from his lap, lands on the carpet with a muffled thump, but he does not turn. He only looks at Vassa’s eyes, the blue deep and sparkling as the middle of the ocean, lit by the noonday sun. Vast and lovely and alive.

He waits for her to look away, but instead she stands up so that she’s right in front of him, the silk of her dress sighing against the toes of hits boots. He always forgets, until they stand close, that she’s nearly as tall as he is. How hard it has been to keep from kissing her, when her lips, the color of ripe berries, have been right in front of him for all these months.

Now, finally, his mouth is on hers, hot and sweet, her lips opening to his tongue, a groan escaping him because Vassa, lithe and lovely, is in his arms, so quick and urgent that he can’t remember whether he reached for her or if she embraced him first. Her calloused fingertips are on his wrists, his neck, working the buttons of his jacket until it falls to the ground.

“I do not want to ruin you,” he says, too far gone with need to blunt the words, trying not to think about the way his cock strains at the seams of his pants. Only the woman in his arms, flushed and disheveled and smiling as she rolls her eyes at him.

“I am the Queen of Scythia by birth and by my own desire. I cannot be ruined by anyone.”

He wants to believe her, and so he kisses her, stops only long enough to undo each button that fastens her gown, take a long look at her lean body, her small breasts that fit so perfectly in his palm, her muscles visible with each movement. Her golden brown skin is scattered with freckles, and he presses a kiss to each one until she tugs at his hair, hissing her frustration.

Between her legs, she’s molten velvet. He strokes her until her little sighs become moans, until her fingers scrabble to reach him, pull him even closer.

“Get inside me, Vanserra.” He nearly laughs at her approximation of a fierce growl, unraveled by the keening sound of desire, a mirror of his own. Still he holds himself apart from her, quirks a brow.

“Need I remind you how bastards are made, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve heard the tales about your contraceptive potions. If you want me tonight, stop stalling.” She crosses her arms over her breasts, and Lucien dearly wants to kiss the smug look off her face.

“I’m glad you’ve been studying our customs,” he says instead, pulling her down to the thick rug that covers the library floor.

At first, he tries to be gentle, but she pulls him closer, her eyes set on his, so that when he enters her with that first desperate stroke, he can see the moment of pain. He cups his hand around her chin, kisses her as he moves in and out, until she begins to pant against his mouth, saying please and yes until she goes stiff and ecstatic, and he follows her, need giving way to a roaring pleasure.

Later, she’s curled up next to him, weaving braids into his hair, and she says, “I know this is only for a little while.”

Before she can continue, Lucien scoops her up so that her body covers his, until he can’t see anything but Vassa’s face, the pensive look she can nearly hide behind her drooping eyelids, a languid smile.

“This is for as long as you’ll have me,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips. “You are the one I choose, Vassa.”

They do not sleep for a moment of the night, and when she goes to meet the dawn, to become the firebird, Lucien holds tight to her hand.

&

&

&

In her dream, Vassa has fallen into the ocean and she cannot breathe. She tries to inhale the ocean water, she’s become that desperate, but her throat is closed, as if her drowning body has been filled with stones.

When she opens her eyes, the ocean is gone but she cannot breathe, and Lucien works frantically over her body, his eyes moving in every direction, his fingers moving through the air as if guiding a miniscule orchestra.

There’s a burning, raging and deep, where Koschei’s spell binds her. She feels the burning in her blood, as if the nature of her curse has changed and now she will remain a human queen, with the firebird doing battle inside her.

And the world is full of air she cannot breathe.

She thinks, looking up at Lucien, his face now revealing a bit more terror but his hands as sure as ever, that this was always going to be the way that she died: curled up in her bed, looking up at Lucien. Only, she’d always thought that she would be old and wheezing, perhaps a little bored of even their great love, ready for a new adventure.

Now all she can think is that she should have kissed him the first day they met. That she’ll die so far away from Scythia. That she’d never thought her lungs, deprived of air, could burn quite like this, as if she’d inhaled fire instead of air.

She reaches for Lucien just as whatever binds her falls away, and despite the relief that overwhelms her, the air that floods her, Vassa realizes with horror that it was her own hair that coiled around her neck, long and thick enough to form a rope.

“It took so long to find the right unbinding spell,” Lucien says, holding her hand tight in his own. His voice is small, the voice of a lost child. “I thought--”

“I need you to cut my hair short,” Vassa says, her voice rough. Each word burns her throat. “Or Koschei will kill me with it eventually.”

There are others who want to kill her, of course. There are always rivals and assassins and foreign rulers who worry that she will conquer the world with her will alone. But no one other than Koschei could activate the curse, could transform her blood into fire. The rope of hair was only the visible manifestation of his powers.

“I know the unbinding spell now.” He dips to kiss her cheek, her temple, and she’s grateful he knows that he cannot kiss her mouth, rest his body on hers, nothing that impedes her breathing. “I can keep you safe.”

“One day you will have court business that keeps you away overnight.”

“And what if Koschei uses a blanket?” His voice is rough over the question and she realizes that he’s imagining the scene.

“If you’re away, I will sleep on an empty bed and Jurian will watch over me all night long. Now go fetch your sword,” she says, trying to make her voice sound imperious, to make him sarcastic and smirking again, her own Lucien.

One flash and the mass of her hair falls to the floor. What remains hovers an inch over her shoulders, revealing her freckled clavicles, the half-wings of her shoulderblades.

“You are lovely,” Lucien says, laying the sword on the ground.

Normally she would take advantage of his position, guide his mouth to all the places that make her go wordless, but now she only catches his gaze, lets him see the fear on her face. It’s one of the expressions she never lets anybody see.

“This curse will kill me soon,” she tells him.

“I will go to every court in Prythian until we figure out how to unbind you from the death-lord. I swear it to you.”

“Every court in Prythian has forgotten me. And why should they remember? In their eyes, my life will go past in a blink.”

“I will never let them forget you,” he says, smoothing her newly shorn hair away from her face, pulling her close beside him, so that she can hear each breath and thump of his heart. “I will make sure that you are free.”

She does not tell him that it’s no longer freedom she craves, exactly. That she wants to be bound to him the way she is bound to her country, to her people, tied by blood and right and strength of will.

Instead she presses her mouth to his and allows herself to forget, just for a second, how to breathe.

&

&

&

Because humans do not celebrate the old Fae holidays, Vassa did not mind his spending the Solstice at the Night Court, but in spite of this, Lucien spent each minute calculating the earliest moment he could return to her.

She’s still awake, curled up on a sofa in the library, when he returns from Feyre and Rhysand’s estate, bearing a piece of cake he’d secreted away in a heavy cloth napkin.

“I didn’t think you would return before tomorrow,” she says, looking up from her book of history, thick with politics and deception and warring.

Always, he is surprised by the bright blue of her eyes, even in candlelight. Always, he knows, deep in his bones, this woman will enchant him.

“I wouldn’t miss a single night with you if it could be helped. And I have not given you your Solstice gift.”

“I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts,” she says, her mouth puckering into a frown.

“You should know better than to always take me at my word,” he says, raising a brow, watching the indignation rise on her face. He lets the napkin fall into her lap, and then a smaller package, which he’d wrapped carefully this morning, while she wheeled over the manor grounds, wings aflame.

She lets out a little gasp at the sapphire earrings which will turn each ear into a lattice of sparkling flowers, bright against the red-gold curls of her hair. He’d contracted a master jeweler months ago, measured Vassa’s ears when she lay sleeping, so that the fit is exact. It’s the kind of jewelry a queen would wear, he thought, when he gave the earrings their final inspection.

One day soon, Lucien knows, Vassa will be free of the curse that binds her. She’ll go back to Scythia and reclaim her rightful throne, earn and accept and enjoy the love of her people.

“I will follow you, ” he says, watching her smile grow as she studies each flawless sapphire, not a single one as brilliant as her eyes, “when you go back to Scythia.”

“You do not have to lie to me,” she says, and her voice catches in her throat with an emotion too complex to name. “These earrings are enough.”

“I will follow you,” he says again, and kisses her before she can argue, pulls her close.

In the morning, he wakes before the sunrise, walks hand in hand with her through the forest, the silence between them comfortable as their bodies move themselves from sleep.

The moment before the sun passes the horizon, Vassa lets go of Lucien’s hand, and turns toward him. An instant later, the firebird circles near his head, swooping around the trees. Lucien almost thinks there is a spark of recognition in those blue eyes, as if he’s managed to lodge inside that animal brain, wedge himself inside the curse, the first step to destroying it all together.

When the wing of the firebird passes over him, he is startled to realize he feels no pain at the heat of the flame.

“You’ve realized, of course, that I love you,” he says, feeling foolish at speaking into the snow-muffled silence, knowing that the animal before him cannot speak, likely does not understand.

But the firebird extends her wings and, with a great cry, shoots up into the air, keening over the forest, her own sun, before returning to the place where Lucien stands, beholding her glory.

For the rest of the day, she will not leave his side.

.

.

.

A/N 2: I've been a Vassien shipper ever since I watched Lucien light up while talking to Vassa in ACOWAR, and I love how this ship has everything: intelligence, beauty, mutual snark, and no problem standing up to the Night Court. Though I have no idea if this ship will sail in the next ACOTAR books, I can't help but root for these truly immaculate vibes.

Tag List: @vassiensupremacy @vassienweek @lucienvassa @lantsov-vanserra @bookstaninthesoul @fireborne6 @flowerbirdsblog (I tagged you if you previously reblogged my preview of this fic -- please let me know if you'd like to stay on or be removed from my Vassien tag list.)

[aurora-the-kunoichi]

For The Love Of Shell - Chapter Forty Five

Another installment of my bullshit! It’s looonnnggg too!

Full Story Here

It was the soft chirping of birds that awoke Leo first, stretching his long limbs above his head he yawned having had the best sleep he had in almost a year. The scent of their activities still lingered in the air and when he moved his arm over the large bed Leo the spot next to him empty and cool. Lurching up from bed he looked to the spot Aurora laid a few hours ago still crumbled from the weight of her body.

“Damnit.”

 She had left sometime in the early morning leaving him alone and unaware of her departure. Letting a heavy sigh leave him Leo flopped back down on the bed groaning in frustration. He had hoped that……who was he kidding, what did he really expect? That an apology and a few orgasms would set everything right in one night? Being alone this morning without so much as a goodbye was what he should have expected. But it didn’t make it hurt any less. Last night was more than miraculous, having her in his arms again, kissing her, hearing his name fall blissfully from her lips again was everything he had wanted, everything that he missed.

 Short lived as it was Leo would savor last night’s memory until the end of his days. He had just hoped it wouldn’t be the last time he would get to enjoy her in that way. He wanted forever.

 The walk of shame back to the healer’s quarters was agonizing. Once he entered through the threshold of the healer’s quarters Leo found his two youngest brothers sitting next to Raph who was now strong enough to sit up in bed. Thank god for the mutagen that coursed through their veins. As they saw him enter Donnie and Mikey jumped to their feet running towards their leader bombarding him with questions.

 “Where have you been?” Donnie questioned pulling his eldest back to Raphael.

 Mikey grumbled behind his brothers as the genius guided him towards their recovering brother. “We were worried sick about you!”

 Reaching the hothead Leo watched his younger brother eye him up and down as if he were gauging his current mood. Then Raph closed his eyes and Leo saw his nostrils flare and his tongue dart from his mouth. Ever so slowly Raph’s lips curling into a devilish grin. “I can smell her on ya fearless, you didn’t do what I think you did, did ya? Because that could possibly make things worse with her.”

 Donnie cocked his head giving both his brothers a puzzled look, “What are you talking about? Smell who on Leo?” Leaning towards his older brother Donnie scented the air around him and released an uncharacteristic growl. “Oh…” his three fingered hand came to rest over his mouth startled by his animalistic reaction.

 Mikey shrugged his shoulders copying Don and Raph and they watched their little bother’s eye dilate releasing his own deep rumble. “Aurora.”

 Raphael adjusted himself to face his red-faced brother. “Ya had sex with Aurora last night.”

 Donnie’s brown orbs flashed with anger; his mouth snapping shut in a thin line. Mikey’s baby blues burned into his soul showing disappointment in his brothers’ inability to take things slow. Their icy glares made him want to hide in his shell, something he hadn’t done since he was a child.

  “How could you have been so careless? Where is she now?” his genius brother growled angrily at his eldest for the first time in his life, the vibrations of his reprimand giving Leo goosebumps of shame.

 “I…I don’t know, she was gone when I woke up.” Leo felt so small right now with his three brothers glowering at him. Did he ruin everything by going to her room last night? He was the one who broke her heart, and he went to her room. But he had gone in fully intent on just talking to her, to apologize, hoping to repair some of the damage he had done a year ago. Sex had not been the plan. They had fought together; she had saved Raph and his lives. He thought it was a good change to mend fences, did he just mess it all up?

 “I can’t believe you did something so irresponsible Leo? You entered into her room in the middle of the night after an emotional battle. Did you actually think she would be able to tell you no? You broke up with her Leo, knowing full well she is still in love with you!” Donnie’s posture was tense, his fists clenched but he was looking down at the floor unable to look his brother in the eye.

 The last sentence stung, and Leo grew slightly angry himself. “I’m in love with her too you know! I didn’t plan on having sex with her; I just went in there with the intent on just talking and telling her I was sorry and that I still loved her. She had been avoiding me like the plague since we first saw her, I just needed to get her alone, to explain things. One thing led to another and it just…happened.”

 “Sex doesn’t just happen bro.” Mikey cut in dropping down next to Raph, his arms folded over his chest.

 The turtle in red grumbled testing his wound with a tentative push of his two fingers. “If you forgot Leo, we all love her, she’s not just yours…...” Letting out a frustrated huff Raphael pinched the bridge between his eyes. “All I know is it better not be another year before we see her again because you couldn’t keep it in your pants oh fearless leader.”

 Soon Gyoji and Master Splinter made their way into the large room. Gyoji stopped a few feet from the brothers while Splinter moved next his eldest.

 “My son,” He started. “Your brothers were worried when you disappeared last night. They insisted coming to find you, but I told them you would return when you had finished with what you felt you needed done. By the look on your faces, I gather it did not go as planned?”

 “No Sensei.”

 Splinter’s hand came to rest on Leo’s forearm making the leader look down at the aging rat, “We must remember my son, time heals all things. There is no manual for life, mistakes are bound to happen so we must be patient and learn from our failings. Give Aurora time, her love for you all is boundless and nothing will sway her from those feelings. Yesterday’s trials were hard, but they set us on the path for reconciliation. I will give you a bit of good news though my sons, you will see her yet again today.”

 The news brought smiles back to their faces as all expect Raph stood to hear more.

 Splinter turned to Gyoji who took the invitation to address the family. “Honored ones, the kingdom thanks you for your help in saving our Daimyo, we are forever in your debt.” Gyoji bowed to them in respect and continued. “Despite yesterday’s horrible events, the award ceremony for the Battle Nexus Championship will still be held in Michelangelo’s honor. It will be held when the sun is at its highest this day. The second-place winner will also be recognized.”

 Mikey got excited smacking Raph in the arm but regretted it instantly hearing his brother groan in pain. “Oh sorry bro! Dude, I’m so sorry…..so, she’s still here?”

 “Yes Ms. Yoshi is still present in the nexus and plans on attending the ceremony. You all will be allowed up at the podium with your brother as he accepts his award. The Daimyo doesn’t want you separated from each other. Raphael the healers have informed me you as well enough to be brought up as well so you don’t miss this joyous occasion.”

 Raphael rolled his eyes watching Mikey’s face nearly burst from happiness. “Yea, it’s joyous alright. He ain’t neva gonna let us live this down.”

 “Nope.” Was Michelangelo’s quick response brushing off imaginary dust from his shoulders.

 When the time came, Raphael with the help of his brothers was settled into a wheeled chair, gathered their belongings and made their way to the Daimyo’s platform high above the battle nexus’s arena. The other three brothers towered over their father but remained behind as the old ninja master lead the way.

 As they made their way up into the Daimyo’s personal perch above the championship the blonde and purple of Aurora’s hair came into view. She was currently kneeling before the seated sullen ruler speaking softly. Her right hand was resting atop his large one in comfort and the edges of his lips lifted to a small smile. He pulled it from beneath hers and rested his massive palm on the top of her head before running it downs the side of her face to give her a gentle pat on her check. The Daimyo nodded and spoke a few whispered words which in turn made the kunoichi smile.

 They watched the private interaction until the pair became aware of their audience and stood to greet them.

 Aurora was dressed in black pants with grey knee-high boots. Her upper half was covered in a sheer blue shirt with a white tank underneath and a long necklace that hung just below her breasts. The blue in her attire did not go unnoticed to Leo who found it difficult to keep his eyes off the woman.  Just hours before she was beneath him, naked, writhing…….calm down. This is not the time or the place.

 “My friends,” The Daimyo started softly, breaking from Aurora to approach the family of five. “I know this trip has been a mix of ups and downs.” The old man swallowed hard as if trying to bury his anxious sadness. “We are in your debt for your help yesterday and of course from a year ago. If it wasn’t for you five.” The Daimyo turned slightly to address Aurora as well who stayed a few feet away. “This dimension and no doubt the rest would be in peril. You will always be honored heroes of the nexus and are always welcome with the highest regard. But this day is a happy occasion; we honor Michelangelo for his triumph in the Battle Nexus Championship as well as Aurora for runner up.” His hands reached out for the pair. “Come, it is time to present you to the people.”

 Without hesitation Mikey approached the Daimyo, he was quick to bow and the ruler’s sad eyes brightened just a little at the youngest gusto.  Turning to Aurora the Daimyo held out his hand which she took and he pulled them forward to the massive opening bring them into view of the mass crowd below. As they looked down at the swaying masses the arena erupted into applause.

 The Daimyo took both their hands and raised them high which made the roaring thunder rise to near ear splitting decimals.

 “My fellow warriors!” the sorrow that filled his voice was gone. Strong and booming followed his words as he put on a show for the masses. “This year’s Championship was found with great success! You honor us with your courage and strength! This year we are graced with a new champion and runner up in their first year to compete. Not only are they fierce fighters but also part of a team that has saved its Daimyo twice! Our runner up is a human from 3rd Earth Aurora Yoshi!”

 He held her hand higher in his excitement virtually pulling her from her feet. She stumbled a bit trying to stay on her tippy toes but a palm to his side stabilized her enough until he realized her predicament and lowered her down to the flats of her feet. “Last year she stopped an arrow from finding its place in my skull and helped us defeat Tigerclaw and his army.” From his robes he pulled a bright purple ribbon with a silver medallion attached at the bottom. He lifted it high and passed the ribbon over her head settling it around her neck. “We thank you for your part in the championship and your help in keeping this kingdom safe.”

 Aurora nodded and was turned forward one more time to be presented to the crowd.

 As the Daimyo turned to address the crowd once again Mikey turned to find Aurora smiling at him. She held out her hand which he accepted getting a squeeze. He couldn’t hear her over the ruckus from below and the bellowing of the massive man before them, but he could read her lips, ‘I’m proud of you.’

 Then he was abruptly pulled from her view and brought to the edge of the platform, his hand was raised with the same enthusiasm and the crowd screamed. It started slowly; muffled words swelling into his name growing in volume until everyone in the arena was chanting. Mikey ate up the attention bowing and adding a little flare with a back flip.

 The Daimyo came up to Mikey resting his hand on his shoulder, “Michelangelo proved himself worthy yesterday to be among the hall of champions. He also along with his brothers alongside Aurora saved this dimension twice over with the defeat of Drako and… my son Ue-Sama yesterday and ending the war with Tigerclaw last year. We are forever grateful!”

 Pulling another ribbon from his robes, this time a vibrant orange to match his mask and a large gold medallion at its end the Daimyo presented Michelangelo with his award. Mikey bowed his head to accept the award with pride. As he stood back to his full height he found his family’s admiration beaming with each face he saw. “You honor your family with your skills and your dedication to your craft Michelangelo.  You should be proud of yourself because I know your family is.”

 With slow hands the ruler turned the young mutant to face him; Mikey could see the tears in his eyes. Despite the happy face he was showing the Daimyo was in pain, an immense amount that he was now struggling to keep contained.  His smile thinned and faltered so Mikey reached up giving him a much needed embrace. This was when he could feel him shaking and waved his hand to Aurora.

 The kunoichi took the cue and pulled the Daimyo from his grip and away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

 Mikey did one more bow and waved, “See you all next time!” before throwing a smoke bomb disappearing from the ledge getting another roar from the captivated crowd.

 The Daimyo allowed Aurora to escort him from the balcony and too Splinter and his sons. “I am truly thankful for your help yesterday, all of you. But I’k sure you all wish to return to your homes for rest.” His hand rose waving Gyoji over. “Aurora you will be sent home today, Gyoji will return you to the location he retrieved you from. Old friend I’m sorry but your son is not yet healthy enough to take the trip through the dimensional portal. The energy within would rip his wound wide open. Raphael must remain here until his wounds have healed more.”

 “We shall stay behind as well if that is alright with you?”

 “You and your family are always welcome.”

 Letting go of the large man Aurora went to her bag and swung it over her shoulder. “Thank you my Daimyo, and thank you for everything. I am sorry about Ue-Sama, I truly am. But I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of him or Drako.”  

 “As a father I hope you are right about my son but as a ruler I hope you are wrong.”

 Leo could feel the panic rising in his chest. He hadn’t thought about what would happen when this was over. She was leaving again and they would have no way to contact her. How long would it be before they saw her again? He moved on instinct stepping towards her, his hand came out to rest on her shoulder. “W-when will….where?”

 At the contact Aurora looked over her shoulder and tried to keep her composure as his beautiful blue eyes bore into her soul. She knew what he wanted but she wasn’t ready to give them her location. Not yet, soon but not yet.

 Splinter’s paw came down on his forearm and Leo released her shoulder, “My dear when you are ready you know where to find us. Our door has and will always be open to you my child.”

 As the white portal opened to her destination Aurora turned to the Daimyo and bowed and turned to do the same to Master Splinter. “Till next time.” She called before slipping through threw the light and disappearing from their life again.

 The Daimyo saw the expressions on their faces as the portal snapped shut swallowing up their kunoichi. His hands came down on Leonardo’s and Splinters shoulders. “Come my friends let us go get lunch.”

 It took two more days for Raphael to be well enough to travel home. Gyoji conjured up another portal, the swirling white light meant home, a proper shower and pizza. The Daimyo face grew solemn and reached down to the old rat. His large arms wrapped around Splinter’s small frame but was careful to do no harm.

“My friend please treasure your sons for you never know when it will be the last day you will see them.” They could hear his old voice struggling with his words as he clung to the old rat. Then his head lifted and looked at the four brothers and smiled passed his sorrow. “Give her time, she still loves you all. I could see the inner turmoil tearing her apart.”

 “Until we meet again my old friend. I shall do my best to come see you more often. My sons are grown and require less observation so I should be able to get away.”

 A gentle smile lifted the ruler’s lips, “I would love that my old friend. I look forward to it.”

 With one final bow the family of five said their farewells and stepped through the portal into the large space below the city streets that was their home.

 As they crossed over the threshold into the lair Donnie’s com rang and a very worried April came over the speaker into the genius’s ear. Pressing his finger to the device in his ear he began to listen to their friend. “Yes April, Raph is doing fine. Thankfully the mutagen in our blood has sped up his recovery tremendously. He’ll be back to giving us hell and crushing skulls in a week or two. How did you know? She what? For how long? I see, yes you can come over. See you in 20.”

 “How did April know about Raph already?” Leo asked helping their Sensei to the kitchen table.

 “Aurora…..I guess she’s been in contact with April the past couple weeks. Aurora called her yesterday when she got back to our dimension letting her know about the fight and to check up on us. She’s ahhh coming over with pizza for us and sushi for sensei.”

 Leo looked back at Donnie as he filled the kettle for tea, his mouth open in disbelief. Aurora had been missing for a year and she had started talking to April a couple of weeks ago and April didn’t tell them? The blue leader was upset but refused to vocalize it since he himself might have dashed their chances to reconnect with Aurora themselves. Finishing up filling the kettle Leo started the burner and set the kettle on top of the stove. His attention returned to his injured father helping him to the bathroom.

 “You’ll feel better after a shower Sensei, and your tea will be ready when you get out.”

 Weary and tired Master Splinter thanked his son before closing the door. He was looking forward to a hot shower and his own bed tonight, of course after a hot cup of soothing tea. After a few moments Leo heard the shower start and the shower curtain pull closed. Assured his father was ok Leo returned to the kitchen and started to prepare the tea leaves and steeper for his father’s tea.

 Looking up from his task Leo found his brothers scattered over the lair. Seeing Raph sitting on the couch pressing his finger to his covered wound Leo sighed making his way over to his brute of a brother.

 Sitting down next to him Leo grabbed Raph’s hand preventing another jab to the bandage setting it down on his lap, “What the shell are you doing Raph?”

 “Feeling.” Raph grumbled crossing his arms over his chest wincing at the shooting pain in his side. “Is that ok with you?”

 “Why w…” before he could finish, the whirlwind of April tore through the lair heading straight for Raph and himself. In her left hand she carefully balanced four pizzas and on her right slung a bag from their favorite sushi stop. Setting the goodies down on the coffee table April sat down next to the two turtles and immediately started fussing over Raphael. After a few moments Raph visible softened to their human friend and allowed her to clean his wound with the fresh supplies Donnie had just brought over.

 April had gotten into the familiar rhythm of taking care of her friends each time they came home from patrol battered and bruised. Over the past year as the operations of the purple dragons increased she saw more blood and dark marks on the brothers than she cared to witness. Thankfully none had been life threatening until this day. This was the first time a wound could have been mortal. When she had gotten the phone call from Aurora she could tell Aurora had been worried. The attack on the family was troublesome and set her on edge. Even the hitch in Aurora’s voice as she gave a short detail of the attack sent a heavy chill through her body. Looking to the Leader next to Raph she took note of his bandaged hand and winced remembering the story behind it.

 That hand saved them both, Raph and himself by grabbing the business end of a sword. The sharp metal sliced through his palm and fingers like warm butter before coming to a halt from the pure strength of his grip. It was a testament to Leo’s commitment to his never ending training and continuing pursuit to perfect his body. Leo was always looking to get better, always ready to defend his family and had proven many times the dutiful leader always putting himself in danger to keep his family safe. Splinter had made the right choice to put the blue banded terrapin in charge.

 After ever bit of food she had brought into the lair was consumed by the guy’s ravenous appetite April watched Leo shift in his seat suddenly looking a little suspicious. His bandaged hand ran over his blade crown and released a long drawn out sigh. Even before he said anything she knew who the question would be about.

 “Have you seen her since she contacted you?” His usual commanding voice wavered at the subject of his question.

 “I haven’t seen her yet but I know she’s back in the city somewhere. She keeps promising to meet up for dinner but her current project has kept her pretty busy.”  

 “Current project?” Donnie cocked his head at the notion from across the kitchen table.

 “Not sure yet, she’s being pretty secretive about it but she assured me I’ll get to see it when it’s done. Not gonna lie, I’m super stoked. It’s been way too long. How did she look?”

 Leo watched April from across the table asking about Aurora. He could see the hesitancy in her features like she was playing with something fragile. She didn’t want to upset him but she wanted to know. Then the soft smile turned excited and she nearly jumped from her chair.

 “Wait! Who won the Battle Nexus Championship?!” Her big beautiful eyes scanned each brother waiting anxiously for an answer.

 “You mean SHE didn’t tell you?” Raph laughed leaning back on his chair testing the strength of the old metal on the vintage chair.

 “All she told me was it was someone I knew.”

 Mikey’s sudden push of his chair sent the thing teetering dangerously on the kitchens platforms edge as he stood. His thumbs hooked under the straps of his harness and pushed them forward as if they were suspenders. The soft ridges of his eyes wagged as he stepped away from the table and took a sliding side step towards April. “You anglecakes, have the privilege of looking upon a bona fide multi dimensional battle nexus champion.”

 April could barely contain the squeal of excitement for the youngest brother. Jumping from her chair she ran into his arms giving him a long hug. “Mikey I’m so proud of you! I knew all that extra training would pay off! Did you get a trophy or something?”

 “Yeah I got a gold medallion and there will be a statue made in my likeness in the hall of champions. You should have heard the crowd, it was killer!”

 “Who did you beat to win?” April asked letting go of Mikey returning to her chair.

 “Aurora.”

 “Oh damn.” April gawked at Mikey.

 “Yeah tell me about it.” Mikey’s smile grew.

 Donnie shifted in his chair trying to get the woman’s attention and leaned towards April setting his chin in his hands batting his big brown eyes, “So are you going to give me Aurora’s new phone number?”

 April gave him a half hearted smile shaking her head, “Sorry guys, she told me not to give you the number yet. She’s not ready yet and Don if you hack my phone to get it none of us will hear from her again. Don’t push the issue and let her come back on her own time. I could tell by the tone of her voice the other day she was struggling with seeing you guys, she misses you all, just know that.”

 April stayed for another hour before having to return home to get ready for work in the morning. Soon after, the lair was dark as the turtles and their sensei retired to their own beds for some rest. It had been a stressful few days and the comfort of their own sanctuary brought sleep early.

 It had been a few weeks since their return from the battle nexus championship and things were returning back to normal. After two weeks of highly resented rest Raphael was healed enough to be able to return to patrols with his brothers.

 Their current location was running over rooftops heading towards the newest lead their genius brother had figured out for the Purple Dragons. The chill in the night air indicated the change to fall, from what trees that were dispersed around the city started to change colors.

 “You better be right about this warehouse Donnie, wrestling was about to start.”

 “Yeah yeah Raph, from what reliable sources I found something big is going down with the Purple Dragons tonight. Rebecca wanted us to check it out first before she sent in the Calvary. The one word that kept popping up in the black market chat sites kept saying something about weapons.” Donnie used his bo staff to help himself vault over the next roof landing just behind Leo who had stopped holding his hand up in a silent order to halt.

 As they crept over to the warehouse in question the four brothers looked down into the alleyway finding several large trucks with their doors open awaiting their unknown cargo. There were only a few bodies below watching the trucks so Leonardo signaled the move to the roof of the warehouse to get a better look. A skylight in the far corner of the roof gave the best vantage point and they made their way over peering down below.

 “Jackpot.” Raphael whispered happily pulling his sai from their holsters on his harness. As usual the large mutant was itching for a fight.

 Below was the largest gathering of the Purple Dragons they had seen so far. From what they could see there were at least 50 of the scumbags crowded around a hulk of a man. The first thing they noticed was his stark white long hair braided midway down his back. With the stature almost comparable to Raphael and with a large purple dragon on his left arm that spanned from his shoulder all the way down to his fist, this guy looked like bad news.

 The promise of a challenge made Raph giddy with excitement.

 “That has to be their leader, Hun. We’ve never seen him before and from the way they are all looking to him screams man in charge.” Leo mused scanning over the inside of the warehouse finding several large crates on the opposite side of the gathered Purple Dragons.

 Catching their attention a door adjacent from the gang members swung open and several heavily armed men filtered into the large space below coming to meet Hun. Soon after, a tall but well built man in a black leather coat and dark aviator sunglasses entered moving his way through the armed men coming almost nose to nose with Hun.

 Leo looked to his brothers and held his finger to his mouth needing silence and carefully lifted the skylight giving them a chance to hear the exchange from down below.

 The man in the leather coat spoke first pulling his glasses from his face addressing the gargantuan boss and his lackeys. “Hun, I presume.” He started, smiling when he got a quick nod from the large man. “I presume we have a deal then? I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but your reputation and size of your operation makes you a valuable ally. Plus, I need results sooner than later. If I give you these weapons you and your men will keep an ear to the ground and report back to me any type of unusual activity in the streets.  After that large ship assembled itself above Manhattan a few years ago the government has been on high alert now fully aware we are in fact no longer alone in this universe. There has been a little birdie chirping in my ear and there has even been talk from your own men of four large green mutants taking out your operations lately. I want to know if there is any truth to these accusations and if so I want them taken alive. I would like to study them to find out what makes them tick. From what I’ve heard they were highly trained and have enhanced strength. They could be some use to me.”

 Hun eyed the large crates with interest all the while cracking his oversized knuckles. “So you’re telling me the government is gonna give us these weapons to be their look out? All we gotta do is keep an eye out for the weird freaky shit and let ya know?”

 The man sighed pinching the bridge of his nose, “No, this isn’t coming from the government you idiot. If they knew I was supplying a hostile territorial gang with weapons, my funding would be cut. This is under their radar, off the books you hear me you big baboon. This cannot get back to me you hear me.”

 “No need to get nasty, I hear ya. How do I get a hold of you if I come across these….freaks?”

 The movement to quick to see the man pulled a small white card from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Hun. “Call this number and ask for the name on the card.”

 At those words Leo turned to his brothers giving them a tight frown. Not only were these animals about to get weapons from some government reject but they were looking for them as well? This wasn’t good. Leo moved away from the opening and addressed his three brothers quickly, “We have to stop this, those trigger happy idiots can’t get their hands on those high tech weapons. We need to figure out who this guy is and what section of the government he’s part of. Donnie contact Rebecca and get some back up over here asap.”  

 Donnie nodded and turned away to contact the chief of police and Leo turned to his other two brothers who were awaiting their instructions. “Once Donnie is done we’re gonna cut those lights and take them out. We know the skill set of a Purple Dragon, but those government men look like they’re expertly trained along with those weapons, so be careful with them. The plan is just to keep them busy until the Calvary shows up, they can take it from there and keep things legit. Stay safe and alive.”

 Donnie hung up his com turning back around, “They are on the way, should be here is 10-15 minutes.”

 Returning their attention back to the gathering below Leo motioned for the genius to do his thing. With one push of a button on his wrist the large space below them was plunged it into darkness. The reaction was almost instantaneous bringing loud and angry cursing from within the pitch black void.

 Taking their cue Leo lifted the skylight fully and the four brothers drop down into the darkness ready to stop the exchange no matter the cost. Thankfully with all the confusion of the lighting failure their presence to the unwitting party had gone unnoticed. This gave them the upper hand and the element of surprise which they took full advantage of and attacked. Quickly and quietly the four turtles took out the first 10 Purple Dragons before the rest of the large room’s inhabitance became aware of the threat.

 As flashlights were found and turned-on, streaks of green whipped by in the streams of light startling the men.

 “It’s them!” Someone yelped in the darkness before being silenced by Raphael.  

 “Someone get those goddamned lights back on now!” Hun growled before being tackled to the ground by the hurdling weight of Leonardo. Immediately the large man began to fight the unexpected weight holding him to the ground. Leo watched the man’s eyes widen in shock blocking a blow from his fist. Hun couldn’t make out too much in the darkness, but he could see his large silhouette hovering above him. “Get off me!”

Finding that Hun was stronger than he anticipated Leo was able to get a few blows in before he was unceremoniously thrown over Hun’s head landing on two Purple Dragons. Getting to his feet he avoided as much of the lights that desperately searched for the hidden attackers. Leo leapt from the ground swinging up into the rafters to find his brothers who were now scattered around the warehouse.

 Mikey was the farthest way taking on four gang members single handily.  Donnie was fiddling with something by the crates hopefully figuring out a way to keep the guns from the Purple Dragon’s greedy hands. And then there was Raph who had just found Hun and like two unmovable forces colliding Leo could have sworn he felt the shockwave from their kinetic energy.

 Then Leo noticed the strange man and his subordinates staying back away from the fight. One of them was working on a tablet just behind the man in the glasses. What was he doing?

 Thankfully most of the Purple Dragons were down for the count not including Hun who Raph was still working on, so all they needed to deal with was the governments men. When the lights hummed back to life engulfing the once dark space Leo knew what the man was working on. To Leo’s horror Mikey and Raph were out in the open exposed in full view of the strange government man and his men. He watched the man pull his glasses from his face and wicked smile curled up his wide mouth.

 “So you are real?” he laughed manically stepping closer to the two visible turtles.

 Hun looked up at the beast he was fighting and stepped back in shock, “F-freak! There are freaks in the city!”

 “Freaks?” Raph growled at the large man. “You’re the freak asshole. You’re the abomination to this city, stealing and killing for financial gain.” His large fist reared back and slammed into Hun’s face sending the man sprawling back head over heels.  

 Now Raph and Mikey stood in the middle of the room weapons in hand ready to continue the fight. Leo watched from above, his attention on his two brothers and on the genius high in the pile of crates. Donnie finished and turned to look at his eldest brother giving him a thumbs up.

As the cluster of men started forward towards Raph and Mikey, Leo pulled a kunai from his hip and threw it down embedding into the floor of the warehouse. The blade a warning stopped the government men in their tracks. Their eyes rose to the ceiling and followed the large green mass land a few feet from them blocking their view from the other two turtles.

 “Another one? Interesting? How many of you are there?” the man cooed stepping over the blade to face the large mutant in blue.

 Leo stood his ground folding his arms over his chest, “What kind of government official hands over deadly weapons to a gang well known for their brutality and violence?” his voice was dripping with venom taking a step forward.

 The men behind the new threat took notice and started to engage but the man held his hand up stopping their movement.  “What are you? I must know.”

 “That is none of your business and you will leave us alone.”

 “I’m afraid I can’t do that mutant. It’s in my nature to know the unknown and you are making my head spin with excitement. I’ll find out what you are and if I have to dissect you to do that, then so be it.”

 Leo growled at the thought of his brothers tied up opened up like a can of sardines. His hands clenched into fists ready to wail on the man but Donnie waved at him getting his attention. Signaling the emanate explosion Donnie swung up into the rafters waiting impatiently for his brother.

 The strange man followed Leo’s line of sight and found another mutant swinging up to safety, “And there was four.” He hissed returning his gaze back to the mutant before him.

 Leo side stepped and looked back to see Raph and Mikey already gone. Pulling a smoke pellet from his belt he threw it to the floor engulfing him in a dark blue smoke. In the confusion he slipped to safety. As Leo was clear Donnie detonated the bomb sending debris flying everywhere, flames roaring over the crates engulfing them.

As the men got to their feet they all converged on the leader helping him to his feet.

“Sir, we have to get out of here.”

“Bishop!” another called.

“Yes, yes let’s head back to base. I have a report to write.”

 @imthegreenfairy88 @bluesakurablossom @alonia143 @ravn-87 @blossom-skies​ @tmntspidergirl

[pyroclaststan]

CW: body horror, gore, graphic depictions of injuries, Nanosurge event

The two of you had been running and you made it so far—you were going to get away, you were going to make it, but then Syrah started screaming.

She hit the ground flailing, howling, peeling apart. It was like her skin was disappearing from her limbs, and she kept yelling, pieces of her mouth starting to disappear, too.

There are no words you could ever use to describe the noise of someone gargling on blood and bile and those things as they ate through her lungs and chest and throat.

To describe the sight of your lifelong best friend sloughing apart and disappearing before your very eyes as she tries to scream and call out, only to be unmade.

In her final throws she reached out for you.

It hurt.

Now it feels like burning, and stinging, and itching all at once.

You cannot look away as the horror settles into you, freezing you in place. You watch as your left leg peeled, layer by layer, and eaten like the many before you—like the many around you.

It hurts, but you cannot scream, you cannot sob: you saw how they got into your best friend’s mouth that way. It ended quicker for her than the others but you do not want an end at all.

You kick the remnants of your leg in futility, as if to shake them off with sheer willpower as they eat their way closer. It’s all you can do. The swarm on you is multiplying; you see them like a hive of ants, now beginning to eat away at your fingers.

No one will be coming for you.

There is a chorus of screams a few yards away.

“NO!” a bloodcurdling howl of a voice echoes out.

It is the wretched, horrible scream of someone desperate out there, and your head whips around for the source despite your situation. Someone is close enough that they might see you—you might live.

Further across the field three—no, a body, just two—of the Rangers are gathered. One of them is actually not a Ranger at all but that vigilante you’ve seen, Sidestep, who is standing over the writhing form of Marshal Charge, hands out.

In the fields around you, you see the swarms of those creatures coalesce and gather, all stopping mid air before moving towards Sidestep, floating up and over their head like a rippling ball of shimmering black water. A river Styx of souless little creatures.

Looking down you realise that your leg is no longer being flayed by the microscopic monsters, flesh and bone gone like it was never there; your hands shake as you desperately peel off your shirt to tie around the stump, hoping through your panic it stems the bleeding as your adrenaline fades. You’ve never done anything like this before—your hands are shaking awfully. Blood loss and possible shock making you run cold.

In the few minutes more that follow the pause of those things, as you clutch what’s left of you, you hear more screams and the sounds of heavy footsteps: everyone left is being evacuated and before you know it Charge himself is beside you, scooping you into his arms before sprinting along with the crowds of survivors as if he weren’t screaming earlier. You were just close enough that he saw you; you clench his shoulders with your tremoring hands, unable to stop the tears that pour down your sweating skin. You’ve never known death this closely. You don’t know if your fear or relief is greater.

Surrounding the two of you are the desperate, the pleading, the injured, but you cannot tear your eyes away from their target to see all of them. Your hearing is muffled by a ringing of tinnitus, even as Charge hands you over to another person before running back to save others struggling out there. As all the heroes get to work while they have this new advantage.

You can’t stop watching Sidestep.

They stand there, alone, hands held to the sky as if to hold a barrier around the writhing mass of murderers. You think of the class last week: the Titan Atlas holding up the heavens. You see the way their arms and legs shake, muscles sure to be straining, their heavy breaths under their super-suit. There is no dramatic lighting or music to highlight their effort, this dire situation is all too real. They’re too close to those swarms but they don’t budge an inch, a hand coming to their head as they let out a bellow of pain.

The man holding you is trying to flee with you, but you can’t stop twisting in his arms—you need to see this: you need to witness what Sidestep is doing, what Sidestep has done. Someone needs to remember that they are alone amongst those… demons.

Others are watching too, crying, and after some time when Sidestep’s knee buckles and their hands fall to brace themself the entire crowd flinches as one. The swarm wavers looking like they might escape and spread again, but Sidestep’s hand quickly rises back up and they fall back into their synchronised swim. The terror is palpable, the air is thick, the smells of the dead nauseating in the breeze, but you all cannot stop watching. Even the reporters are keeping a silent vigil, unable to believe any of this.

A hero is saving you.

Time passes and you’ve all huddled together, taking care of each other, locating family, slipping out silent prayers. A nurse who was among the survivors has helped you with your leg so far: medical should be arriving soon, you won’t be saving that leg. You might have lost too much blood, or you will. She’s just waiting for the shock to set it now, holding your hand so you’re not alone through it.

But you don’t care because out there so many have lost more than you. Others are still fighting so you all don’t lose more, even now. And one is stemming the tide.

Charge is behind Sidestep as they keep on despite being brought to their knees and struggling, posted like a sentry but gripping his own arm, and you can almost make out the look of abject horror on his face as he watches the swarm hovering before them; small flickers of static arcs when the hive moves or breaks synchronisation.

Medical has arrived and you are being carted off to a rescue vehicle while containment is still on the way, but you still don’t look away—you can’t look away. It has been hours and they are shaking and they are struggling but they are holding. You burn that sight into the back of your head before the ambulance doors close. Your hero.

Your dream always ends there: you were gone before they’d collapsed. Before it was over.

———

Today is the anniversary of that awful day; the persistent nightmare that haunts even your days through all the scars. It’s hard to go outside most days, hard to watch the news and catch a glimpse of that silver woman that scares you so much. It’s hard to do much of anything that isn’t sitting locked in your workspace, building, tinkering, or fixing. But this day is an exception to all those great fears.

You stop by the florist with the modded hand: she remembers the day as well as you, sometimes the two of you talk about it while you work on her hand. She’s bundling up Syrah’s yearly bouquet, handpicking each flower by some meanings you’ve never gotten around to learning about them, stopping only to help a haggard looking man she also seems to know well with a bundle of white chrysanthemums. You can smell the alcohol on him from here, but that’s none of your business: today is a hard day for more people than you and Maritsa.

She tells you to give her love to your old friend; she never goes herself, no matter how much time passes. She lost too much to that nightmare—a wife, two kids, some family.

Your eyes linger on one of the few white chrysanthemums that man left behind, scratching the scar tissue buildup on your finger’s skin weave, something telling you to pick one of those up, too. Her garden hardy mums cost a lot but you know anything she grows in her greenhouse is well worth the price.

Heading out with your newspaper bouquet in hand, you fall into step with the Los Diablos crowds, easily able to pick out who in the crowd is headed the same way as you. You can see it in their heavy steps and weighted shoulders and you wonder if you show it, too.

The memorial isn’t a plot of headstones—too many were lost for that—but instead a large stone and steel wall, covered from one end to another with names and birthdays of victims. Flowers, candles, teddy bears, liquor, and photos rest on the ground here every year, and every year the crowd and offerings grow smaller. Everyone eager to forget.

You take your place in front of Syrah’s name, fingers sliding quietly against the stone that’s too cold for having sat in Diablos’ heat as long as it has. To your right you see Desiderio placing his usual marigolds—also from Maritsa’s—against the stone, then falling into prayers as he always does. The flowers in your hands begin to feel too heavy so you set them down, quietly sit in prayer with Desi, and hold each other once the tears that always come arrive.

It’s a small, distant family you’ve made out of this place and the only other people who could understand your loss; no matter how much time passes between gatherings you all know you have each other. But you cannot stay all day, lost in the memories: you have one more important stop to make.

At the gates of your destination a man in a grey hoodie and a larger man in a blue one passes you, and once again you are hit by a wave of booze. Looking after them, you notice the back of the smaller, hunched over one: it’s that man again, being escorted by someone you hope is his friend. A few moments more and you draw in a deep breathe, gathering resolve before heading in.

So here you are at yet another memorial. Not the memorial to that scarred, barren earth you pointedly avoid looking at but the memorial to the hero you’d lost, gone after another even that shook the city to its core before they ended it. The hero this entire city lost. The dark headstone that’s all that’s left of Sidestep.

The black and teal hoodie you’ve worn in over the years always feel likes the only thing appropriate to wear as you sit here, sitting before the looming stone in your usual spot, staring at the bundle of white flowers and the half-full beer can beside it. Chrysanthemums bundled up with Maritsa’s trademark twine. A smaller bunch of white lilies next to it, from somewhere else. That man’s modded friend maybe; you know the signs like you know the smell of the dead. All too well.

You scratch the phantom itch crawling along the former calf and thigh of your modded leg, unable to chase away the ghost of a life past. Unable to turn back the clock. Unable to say thank you.

You set your flowers down next to that man’s, hoping that he found peace in his visit here like you do. Hoping that someone’s there to help him through that event and its scars, too. You really hope that was a friend.

The picture of your masked hero is peeling from all the rain and heat, the flowers and offerings dwindling as folks try to forget those terrible events, but you remain. Year after year.

Living is the only thanks you can give them.

[babyybitchhhwrites]

Shikaku x Reader 18+

Title: Kiss it Better

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Words: 3830

Warnings/tags: barebacking, begging, older man/younger woman

♥♥♥♥

Shikaku’s body was a menagerie of scars. Some so old that you could just barely make out the pale, jagged pink lines cutting across his skin. Others more recent and darker. They were a stark contrast against his warm complexion, drawing your gaze and making the others seem less noticeable by comparison. You were struck by the sheer number of them; how every inch of his body appeared to be marred with some physical reminder or another of hard won battles just as much as narrow escapes. There were almost too many to count. Surprisingly, though, they did not detract from his undeniable good looks. If anything, they only added to the pretty picture he painted sprawled out underneath you. 

Reverentially, you traced the path of what looked to have been a particularly gruesome wound with your fingertip. It was probably a miracle he hadn’t been eviscerated. You wondered how he’d ever survived - not only this attack but all of them combined. Just how many battles had he fought and walked away from? You weren’t so sure you wanted to know the answer to that question. 

It’s not as if you could have ever given voice to your curiosity anyway. It wasn’t your place to pry and he was already watching you with a steady interest that made you feel decidedly put on the spot. Like a stagelight had been trained on you and you alone; effectively highlighting your role as the instigator in all this. 

He seemed perfectly at ease playing the observer, your audience of one. Content to let you peruse his body at your own leisure. Those sharp, pinpoint eyes that never seemed to miss even the smallest of details tracked the motion of your hand whenever you’d reach out to touch a new scar before flicking back up to your face again, silently gauging your reaction to each one. You weren’t sure what exactly your expression was conveying in that moment but Shikaku drank it all in with unwavering complacency. If he was offended by your keen scrutinization of his scars, he certainly didn’t show it. 

Drawing your gaze lower, you followed the lean line of his stomach until he disappeared underneath you. The meat of your thighs seemed especially soft and pliable where they were bracketing his narrow hips, bulging around and molding to the firm shape of him. He was lithe and hard despite his age. Despite his role as Jounin commander which consisted almost entirely of desk work. He must have taken the time to keep up on his own training over the years and with some frequency, and it showed. 

You couldn’t help noticing that there were signs of past altercations even this far down on his body, much too below the belt to have been anything but a cheap shot. Who was petty and malicious enough to hurt someone here? A tinge of ire sparked through you as the pad of your finger circled the pock mark blemish that was just shy of his hip bone. It must have hurt like hell getting injured so close to the groin. 

Shikaku drew a quiet inhale then and your head came up. Worry that you’d overstepped some unspoken boundary or touched on a nerve that still ached even after the flesh had long since mended itself flooded your thoughts in a sudden rush. You started to issue a hasty apology but, to your surprise, he didn’t look in any way put out. If anything, the crooked smile playing at his mouth only seemed to suggest amusement and the words died in your throat when he brought his hand up to poke at the pale indentation too.

“Shuriken.” He said, finally breaking the silence. “Friendly fire.” 

Your brows lifted. “Really?” 

Nodding, Shikaku abandoned the pale scar tissue in favor of squeezing your thigh. His palm was rough with thick calluses - yet more proof of his consistent training efforts - and wide enough to give the impression that even the plumpest part of your leg was a mere handful for him. It made you feel small and delicate by way of contrast, like something fragile under his touch, and you shuddered on top of him.

Your reaction did not escape his notice, the curve of his mouth taking on a more sly, knowing edge as he turned his head against the pillow to look at you from a different angle and size you up. “Back when I was still in the academy.” He explained. “Gods, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Just an accident during shuriken throwing practice though. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.” 

“I wasn’t worrying.” You insisted but you could tell he didn’t buy it. Huffing, you slouched forward and splayed your hands across his chest to cover the dense cluster of crisscrossed lines littering his sternum. “You just have so many ...”

“Do they make you uncomfortable?”

You thought about that for a moment. “No. They make me sad.” 

Shikaku pinned you with a wry look of humor. “Whatever for? I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, but I don’t like to think about you getting hurt.”

A warm, rumbling chuckle vibrated up through his chest to set your guts on fire, making your loins twist and curl in on themselves. You drew a steadying breath as your fingers flexed and the nails sunk into the smooth meat of his pecs. There was more give than you’d expected. It was the only indication you’d yet found that his hard earned muscle mass, as slight as it was, had begun to deteriorate with the passing of time. You wondered if anyone else had noticed yet. Then, in the same breath, you wondered why that knowledge excited you so much.

“Aren’t you sweet.” He murmured, distracting you from those thoughts when he palmed your rib cage between his hands. A gentle tug was all it took for him to drag you further up his body until you were perched on his stomach rather than his hips. The casual display of strength had your pussy fluttering in eager anticipation, clenching around little more than your own slick as Shikaku threaded his fingers through your hair and pulled you down into a kiss.

His lips were firm but soft against yours, molding to your mouth in a way that seemed to suggest you two had been made to perfectly fit one another. Leaning further into him, you sighed through your nose and kissed him back. You wanted to stay with Shikaku just like this forever. There wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be than tangled up in bed with him. But, as all things must eventually come to an end, that brief exchange ended long before you were ready for it to.

“When you make that face, I feel like I should apologize.” He said against your mouth. 

“What face?” You whispered. 

“The one you’re making right now.” Shikaku kissed you again; a slow, lingering peck that inspired a shudder down your spine. Eyes that were such a dark shade of brown they looked black - true black - gleamed playfully at you from just a scant few millimeters away while he studied your expression. Taking in your every shallow breath, every minute muscle twitch, and neatly filing it away for later. “I just can’t stand to see you looking so sad because of me. I don’t think ‘sorry’ would actually make you feel any better though.” 

You gave your head a small shake, allowing him to cup your face in the cradle of his palms. He was so gentle with you. Tender despite the calluses digging abrasively into your skin. You hadn’t thought a man like Shikaku actually existed until you’d found yourself working under him and subsequently, perhaps even inevitably, writhing under him in blissful ecstasy only a few short months later. It was almost too good to be true. A dream you never wanted to wake from. 

“I don’t want your apologies.” You told him quietly. 

“What would you have of me then?” 

That was a question you didn’t have to stop and think about. 

“You. I only want you.” 

Leaning up, you pecked at his mouth and then his chin. The coarse hair of his beard tickled slightly as you trailed butterfly kisses along the curve of his jaw and cheek until you could press your lips to the scar slashing across the side of his face. You lingered there for a moment. Feeling the heat of him seeping through his skin and into you before pulling back just enough to speak. “If I could, I would kiss away all your scars. You look very handsome with them. Distinguished. But I wish you’d never gotten hurt in the first place.” 

Shikaku turned his head and nuzzled into your hair, making the tip of his nose brush the outer shell of your ear. “That’s what it means to be a shinobi. You get hurt and learn from your mistakes.” 

“You’ve made this many?” You asked

“And then some.” 

A faint, masculine grunt later, you abruptly found yourself flipped over onto your back. The sudden rush of movement happened too fast for you to comprehend what was happening until you hit the futon with a half stifled gasp. Your eyes widened up at Shikaku as he moved over top of you, sinewy muscles under his skin dancing in a delightful display of subdued strength. With one elbow braced against the mattress, he brought his other hand down to slip under your thigh, grabbing a tight fistfull of doughy soft flesh and hiking your leg up into the air. The faltering groan that tumbled off your tongue sounded needy even to your own ears and you grabbed onto his shoulders with fingers poised like talons. 

Shikaku’s mouth curled into a mischievous little smirk, never missing a beat as he settled between your hips. His pelvis slotted to yours seamlessly, almost like you were two pieces of the same puzzle. The unmistakable nudge of his stiff cock at your pussy lips had you arching against him and trying to curl your captured leg around his ribs; writhing in anticipation as much as you were basking in the immovable force he presented above you. 

He pressed himself flush to you then and your breasts squished against his chest. The sweat slick friction to your nipples sent livewire sparks shooting throughout your body, setting every nerve ending to vibrate. You drew a haggard breath, mewling softly when he bent your leg higher and hooked your ankle over his shoulder. Effectively locking you into place. 

Helpless, all you could do was flex your toes while Shikaku took his time slowly angling his hips back and forth, teasing you with the hard weight between his legs. Gliding it along the puffy slit of your labia and coaxing yet more arousal out of your gushing cunt. Prodding your clit with the ridged glans on every smooth, drawn out stroke. It was maddening and wonderful at the same time. You could feel every bump and vein on the underside of his cock as it drug against you, feel it twitching with the need to sink balls deep into your body. Pulsing with red hot desire. It was enough to drive you wild and you whined softly in the back of your throat.

“Shikaku … please ...”

He groaned encouragingly in response. “Please, what? Use your words, sweetheart.”

You closed your eyes against the deep rumble of his voice, so gentle and soft despite the gruff note in his inflection. That alone would have been enough to send you over the edge if you’d allowed it. You could’ve listened to Shikaku speak for hours on end. This wasn’t how you wanted to find your release though and you squirmed, lifting your other leg to throw it over the small of his back and draw him closer. Trying to make him slip inside you.

It was no good though. Shikaku was as stubborn as a mule when he put his mind to it and there likely wasn’t a person alive who could force him to do something he didn’t want. He merely issued another low, carnal chuckle that made your pussy flutter and spasm, grinding his cock against you with more concentrated thrusts. Slipping and sliding through your drenched folds as if he were well and truly fucking you now. 

You were entirely at his mercy, so wet for him that it bordered on obscene, and you shook as you threw your head back against the pillows with a half choked sob. “Please! I want you to take me … I need it ...” 

“Is that so?” Humming his approval, Shikaku dipped his face down and kissed the tender column of your throat. His beard scratched and tickled, leaving a burning trail in its wake as he worked his way over the line of your jaw and higher still until he could capture your lips again. This exchange was far more heated than the last, more demanding, and you keened into his mouth when the head of his cock bumped your clit with growing insistence. 

Trembling, you tore your mouth from his and gasped. “Don’t make me cum like this! I want to feel you inside of me! Please, Shikaku! Please cum inside me!”

He groaned, tense and halting as a shudder rippled down his spine. You could feel every inch of him rolling with it, not unlike the motion of a cresting wave, and your breath hitched as he adjusted the position of your leg over his shoulder. Shikaku shimmied a little lower then and leaned into you with his weight. His cock found your entrance through muscle memory alone, or perhaps instinct, and you tried to arch against him, eager for the sear of penetration. He had you so thoroughly pinned that it was no use though. Your only available option was to cling to him all the more desperately while he impaled you straight down the middle one excruciating fraction at a time. Forcing you to comprehend each inch of him that entered you in daunting slow motion. 

You seethed. He had you wound so tight that you weren’t sure how much more of this teasing you could stand. The ache inside you only seemed to double down and grow more intense the further he sunk into your contracting passage, stretching you wide around his girth. It felt good. So good it almost hurt and tears of pleasure welled up along your lash line, blurring your view of Shikaku’s marred face. You tried to blink them away to no avail. He made you feel whole and complete; filling you up and taking you just shy of the breaking point. Reaching deep inside and touching parts of you that no other man had ever even come close to brushing against. It was overwhelming in the best possible way and you sucked in a ragged breath as his hand came up to cradle the side of your face, shaking. 

“There you go looking sad again.” He murmured, settling against you at long last with an accompanying grunt and a wet squelch. 

“I - I’m not …”

“I know, baby. I know. Shh.” Leaning close, Shikaku kissed the corner of your trembling lips. Those dark, dark irises studied you up close - taking in the flutter of your lashes, the moisture wetting your eyes, the way your brows furrowed and jumped in wonderful agony. You were sure he could see all of you in that moment, right down to your very soul. “You’re still so sensitive even after all this time. What am I ever going to do with you? Hm?”

A hiccuping moan was your only forthcoming response. You couldn’t seem to get your mouth to cooperate but that didn’t appear to bother him and you were grateful for that.

Smiling faintly, Shikaku backed off just enough to push up onto his elbow. His body, beautiful in its imperfection, flexed and roiled above you. The weight of his cock gradually retreated until you were sure he’d slip right out of you before surging forward again on a single, powerful thrust. You jerked at the intense pleasure that spiderwebbed through you, gasping and groaning. Your pussy flexed, squeezing around him in gooey palpitations that made his breath come a little harder. A little faster. 

His mouth fell open with a barely audible groan, his expression pinched while he watched your face twist up in ecstasy. It looked like he was holding himself back. There was a bead of sweat forming on his brow, right above the scar gouged into his temple and you lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away. Shikaku readily leaned into the warmth of your palm, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. 

They opened again when he angled his hips back and locked onto yours as he drove into you on another powerful thrust. He didn’t pause to let you adjust this time; quickly taking on a steady rhythm of long strokes and sharp, pointed jabs that had you seeing stars. It felt like he was punching the air right out of your lungs and your breathless cries rapidly rose to join the deafening noise of skin clapping against skin. The humiliating schlucking sound of your cunt sucking him in deep on every downward lunge seemed loud between your bodies and only added to the lewd cacophony filling the space between you two. It echoed inside your head and seemed to heighten your arousal that much more, sending you barreling blindly towards the edge of oblivion. It was as if he intuitively knew how to hit that spot inside you at just the perfect angle and, as usual, you were powerless to stop it even if you’d wanted to.

“Shi - Shikaku!”

The breath puffing out of him grew more labored, straining against the exertion. “Go on, baby. Let it go. I’ve got you.” 

You screwed your eyes shut and curled into him, holding on for dear life as the pressure in your loins rapidly mounted and threatened to suffocate you. Nails digging into long damaged flesh. The tension weighing heavy on all your muscles. Your leg quaking uncontrollably where it was stretched right to the edge of real discomfort over his shoulder. The delicious burn of his cock carving out a space within you one relentless thrust at a time. His sweat damp hips driving into the backs of your thighs with loud, wet smacks. The smell of him, intoxicating and woodsy. It was too much. You could feel the heat of your orgasm bubbling over, reaching critical mass, and your hands flew up to cover your face as you shrieked in delight. 

“Let me see you, sweetheart.” Shikaku’s voice rumbled above you. “Don’t hide from me.”

His long fingers curled around your wrist in the next moment, gentle and coaxing. You let him tug that hand away from your flushed cheek, watching as if through a daze when he pressed your knuckles to his chest, but the other slipped back to tangle in your own hair. You could feel his heart pounding out an erratic rhythm against his ribs and he was looking at you like you were the only woman he’d ever known. Like you were the only one that mattered. Your stomach flipped over itself and, just like that, the coil snapped.

Arching so hard that you caught a sharp pop in your lower back, you threw your head against the pillows and wailed. The fingers in your hair clenched, desperate for something to hold onto while you shook with the force of your release. But the tug to your scalp only seemed to highlight the intense bursts of pleasure radiating from your cunt, making you cry out with more fervor. 

As you shattered around him, Shikaku slowed to a standstill. Panting and tense with the effort of holding his own release at bay but content to let you ride out the waves of pleasure on his cock. He stayed lodged deep inside your pulpy cunt, just watching you writhe on him and shuddering each time your contracting walls spasmed and squeezed like a vice grip. All the while, you twisted and lurched, realizing in a far off, dreamy sort of way what he was doing but you were too far gone to care. It wasn’t nearly enough to dampen the sharp twangs of ecstasy cascading over your heaving body and you groaned dazedly when you started to come down from the high some moments later. 

It took even longer to find your voice and when you finally tried to speak, your voice was thick with the lingering traces of your ograsm. “You never cum when I do …” 

A short, breathless laugh rang out through the statically charged air. “I like to make sure you’re satisfied first, that’s all. Is that so wrong?”

You turned your head to regard the far wall, feigning a pout. “Am I one of them?” 

“One of what?” He sounded mildly perplexed now and you couldn’t really blame him for not knowing what you were talking about. You felt silly even bringing it up again but you had to know. For your own peace of mind.  

“One of your mistakes.”

Carefully taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Shikaku manually turned you back around to look at him. The fond look of exasperation you found peering down at you wasn’t what you’d been expecting - especially not when he was still flushed and sticky from having sex - but it made your heart skip a beat anyway. He was everything you could have ever hoped for and then some.

“You know you’re not. What a silly thing to say.” He muttered, craning his neck down to kiss you again in a lazy, lingering exchange that was as possessive as it was comforting. His lips curled against yours when you enthusiastically returned the gesture, leaning up to meet him, but he was quick to pull back and pin you with a knowing little smirk. “If you don’t think I’m paying you enough attention, all you had to do was say so. We can fix that right now.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You said, trying and failing to wipe the grin off your face.

“Even so,” His expression took on an almost boyish, mischievous edge as he grabbed onto your other ankle and hefted that one up over his shoulder too, effectively bending you in half like a pretzel. “How about we rectify it anyway?”

Your heart thumped wildly inside your chest when the change in position made him feel that much bigger inside you. The glans pressed tight into your spongy inner wall, sending fresh waves of exquisite pressure shooting throughout the sensitized nerves, and you groaned. This was certainly going to be another long, sleepless night and you couldn’t have been any happier about that prospect. 

“Please, Shikaku. Please pay attention to me.” You gasped.

“As you wish, princess.”

♥♥♥♥

Link to fic on AO3: Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069682

[deviant3lover]

The Trio, but what if they were young Gods?

Honestly, these are my own personal headcanons ever since I watched a bit of Okami’s boss battles, but I definitely welcome other ideas on what sorta gods y’all would see them like.

I was primarily inspired by in game artworks such as these:

And I wondered, 

“Hmm. How would people see the trio if they were feared/revered Gods? What kind of deities would they be?”

DISCLAIMER: 

In this list, all three of them had died as mortals.

Genos is a vengeful fire god, whose flames have burned and purified great evils that had come to torment the populace, and just as often, have found themselves extinguished at the hands of a greater threat. Everyday it gets harder to do so, with the deity’s power exploding in growth and size due to his diligence.

His mortal body isn’t one of flesh or blood. Not anymore. Instead, his avatar is created from a mass of metal and burning coal as his fuel, furnaces smoldering inside his body. Magic engravings are carved into the metal, acting as his blood and bones, twining the inorganic materials together just as they would for veins and nerves in a human.

A lone old man is one of his most dutiful attendants, and is his first follower. When the young god departs the mortal world to return to the celestial plane, he repairs his broken avatar, or creates a new one with different metals and engravings to house more of the young God’s power in his fights against the demons that plague the world. Too often has his own flames, or sheer recklessness, had been the cause of his own defeats in battles.

Kuseno should know. He’s seen it far too many times when he was still a mere boy. These same markings and metals were the ones that were tattooed on and built into his burnt and distorted skin; they had saved his life and blessed him with magic. 

But they weren’t enough to protect him from death when the boy had found himself getting swarmed by demons. 

All that was left of him was patches of blond hair, blood splattered all over the scorched open field where he fought, and bits of tattooed skin found beside deformed and clawed metal that had long grown cold when he found him at daybreak.

For his follower, the one that had acted as a father figure to him when he was still mortal, Genos makes sure that he will always come home to a place filled with warmth and good food, no matter the season, taking care to protect his crops from overheat or fires. He’s not known for his blessings, but for the people that he loves, he won’t hesitate to cultivate their quality for their loyalty.

He isn’t a cruel god, but he isn’t a forgiving one either. For those whom have wronged him, he makes their crops die, their residences swelter, their precious metals too hot to touch, much less trade: even with the best rubber gloves.

This is his mercy in the face of their blasphemy. If they refuse to seek forgiveness from one of his shrines or messengers, Genos will burn down the protections they use on their most valuable items and gifts, cursing them to never again be used by their hands, nor by the hands of anyone they conscript or affiliate with. His fire is too damning to be stopped by insulators of the finest quality, too persistent to be stopped by barriers of any kind.

Never again will their treasures be theirs to hold, and even Genos’ messengers cannot be entreated to remove it themselves: they must call upon his name and presence if they wished to dispel it.

The cursed ones who insist on using them will find their fingers burned, the items eventually melting and burning down into nothing.

For this, he’s often a god of good fortune for the unfortunate and desperate, for the displaced victims whose homes have been destroyed. Many people praise him for his blessings, and just as many curse and fear him for the damage he can cause to their lives. 

Farmers who’ve kept a good record in respecting him will see that their crops never overheat or burn, and wouldn’t drown from merciless rains. When winter comes, they will not freeze, and neither will them and their families. 

Merchants and rich lords are careful not to offend him, while the poor and unremarkable make small, heartfelt blessings when he punishes acts of cruelty made by authority figures abusing their power.

For some reason, a wandering bald ronin finds himself in the favor of this God, so much so that his acquaintances balk at the sight of all the blessings heaped upon him. Others joke about how an unremarkable man such as himself had a divine being worshipping him.

He mostly remains oblivious to this, until winter rolls around. His stay at a shabby inn remains uneventful and freezing, until a blond stranger greets him at his door and asks to be let in, eyeing Saitama with an intensity that he’s unused to seeing. 

He attributes the sudden burning warmth in his face as body as embarrassment. He’s not used to this much attention being directed to him after all. Introverted as he was, he didn’t hear the other residents softly exclaiming at how warm their rooms became, nor did he notice them staring wide eyed at his new disciple, knowing exactly what his presence meant.

—

Garou is a fearless and awe-inspiring air god that takes great delight in being a spirited competitor and a trickster, pushing his mind and body to the limits of what he can do: both as a celestial and as a mortal. Man, beast, or demon, Garou had taken many forms to combat and play clever tricks on others, constantly experimenting and learning new ways to become a more formidable threat to his enemies, and an incredible ally to those who’ve won his genuine care. 

He’s more active during the night. Demons and monsters are plentiful under a starless sky, and the quieter nights has him travelling the lands in relative peace: unless he decides he’s bored and finds something, or someone, to play tricks on.

He inspires plenty of respect, awe, and even humor for his exploits. His sense of justice however, is notably somewhat distorted in the eyes of the public. Scholars have written about his achievements and debated at length at how he came to be, who he truly is, for how easy it is to misinterpret or misunderstand his character when writing plays featuring the deity. He’s an attractive and rightfully arrogant man, so it becomes all too easy to paint him in a better or worse light depending on the writer. 

Illusions, tricks, impressive physical, magical, and mental prowess, as well as being notoriously devoted to himself, his beliefs, and the select few he deems to be good, it’s not guaranteed that he’ll work with, or against you. He’s a force of chaos with his own code, for better or for worse.

His former master, an older and wiser god, had taught him how to fight from what he had learned from the flow of water- from the steady stream of a river to the thunderous force of ocean waves crashing against a jagged cliff face. Garou had repaid the lessons with sewing discord in the mortal world with his misguided ambitions, using his lessons to learn how to harness the wind to do his bidding, away from Silverfang’s techniques.

Lessons from other age old masters and their followers has him learning every style of every kind, magical and martial art alike, never paying attention to the philosophies surrounding each one out of disinterest.

His insolence had casted him out from the rank and file of the celestials, and he wanders the mortal plane as a demigod in search of a challenge and purpose after Saitama stops his naïve onslaught against the world.

In another life, maybe he would’ve had a more merciful upbringing as a child. But his mortal life was cut short: how? He can’t remember. 

Maybe it was his tormenters at school.

Was he cursed? Were they just cruel?

Maybe it was a stormy night on a treacherous mountain when he tried to journey to a far off dojo for strength, away from what little he can remember from home.

Did he slip and fall to his death?

Maybe he had an unlucky encounter with a demon or two.

Or three. Or ten. Maybe they swarmed, razed, and devoured his village.

All he can remember was that his past life was filled with cruelty, where the world worked against him. When he awoke at the steps leading upwards to a dojo that gleamed an unearthly gold, the ground being amassed of clouds that didn’t touch his skin, and the skies jet black with stars shining like faraway lanterns, the boy-spirit didn’t hesitate on climbing the steps.

Storms and violent winds are heralds for the oncoming chaos he brings to the lands he wishes havoc on: the young god can be as theatric as he is destructive. He may have expressed the desire to become one with the demons, but his acts against humans are significantly less lethal than the ones he commits against demons, more mischief and punishment than cruelty.

A young boy had saved him when he took on the form of a wolf. Call it bad luck, or underestimating the threat, but Garou had been hunted to near death by man and monster alike. 

Tareo stumbled across his unconscious, bleeding wolf form and took him as close to his home as he dared, housing him in an abandoned den safe from the weather’s damage. From there, he travelled to and from his house as days went by, patching him up as best he can while talking about his life and what today had been like, somehow oblivious to the danger that comes with caring for a wild beast, who’s staring at the kid incredulously, knowing this very fact.

In time after the wolf had disappeared from the den, leaving him dispirited and lonely for some time, he becomes acquainted with a ‘Mister’ who frequents the town he lives in, who teaches him how to defend himself against his bullies.

And in the dark hours of the night, when he ventures too far into the more dangerous parts of the village when his ‘friends’ forced him to, an eerie howling can be heard over the wind. They flee not long after when they see and hear the illusions that Garou had conjured in the dark thickets of the forest.

Tareo learns to associate the cold winds with danger. He may be in awe of gods and folk heroes, but he finds himself wondering who he managed to win the favor of to justify divine intervention. Just how often do cold winds press so insistently against him when he goes to dangerous alleys and areas?

Maybe Mister will know. He’ll ask him about it sometime.

—

Badd is a formidable and intimidating thunder god, whose displays of power have kept enemies in fear of committing cruel acts, lest they find themselves lost in a violent thunderstorm, their meager attempts to return home making them look like lost pieces of cloth getting battered around by the wind as the sound of thunder grows louder in the distance.

A cruel mortal will find themselves nearly dying from a tree almost crushing them on a dark night, with only Badd’s occasional flashes of lightning acting as their sole warnings for their brush with death, searing the experiences into their minds, prompting them to avoid the more vile crimes out of fear. Demons will find themselves stricken right where they stand, instantly killed on the spot.

If his followers have strayed to the dark arts in his name, Badd will angrily strike his condemnations on a surface that can withstand his thunder. If they forget, he strikes down his commandments instead, the words white-hot and glowing from his divine power.

Despite his brash and fearsome demeanor, he is the kindest out of the three, the most paternal figure in the trio. Many families dedicate their offerings to him; in return, he makes sure that they are safe from danger, and that their children aren’t stolen away by demons in the night.

He takes a shine to earnest folk. Good, hardworking people will be safer when travelling into more dangerous situations. There are plenty of books written on the patterns of thunder and lightning he sends down, and what kind of omens they are to prepare accordingly. 

Most of it is psuedo-science. Badd may not be the most cunning god, but he knows that enemies can learn different patterns and work against him. 

Zenko had cried with a grief she had never known when he was killed trying to protect her and their home as a young Ronin. Growing up, the pain dulled, and she took up the mantle he had chosen to take, teaching her students on how to protect their village just as he did, travelling the land to spread Badd’s name.

She knows exactly who her brother is now, and acts as his messenger and regent for his followers. It’s been years and she’s grown up, while he’s a busy god defending the other side of the planet from dangerous threats, so their meetings are few and far in between. 

But every now and again, they cross paths and reunite; he always cries and she always comforts him, sighing with equal amounts of affection and exasperation at how sentimental he always gets. Every time they meet, he thanks her for all the offerings she’s made to him, all the devoted followers she’s inspired to carry out his name and commandments. Every time they meet, she hugs her brother as tight as she can and swears his heartbeat now sound as loud as the thunderstrikes he summons on his enemies, the static crackling on the clothes at his newfound power, but he’s still the same big brother that raised her as best he could when she was little.

Zenko misses Badd everyday when they have to go their separate ways, and know he’ll be left devastated when she lives and dies a mortal life, but they treasure what time they have when they manage to reunite.

All Three

Due to their ferocity and fearlessness, many, many warriors pray to them for power and success. They’re far more popular in young fighters seeking to make something out of themselves, just as old gods are more popular with veterans and experienced warriors. Revitalizing food are often offered to them, with the occasional sweet cakes dedicated to Badd. Trophies of their successes (such as a horn from a slain demon, some scales from a malevolent dragon) are offered to shrines for safekeeping after they’ve prayed to them successfully.

All three have soft spots for children and the victimized, and such, many family offerings and whatever could be spared from folks who have little to offer are often found at their shrines. 

They strike a sense of home for the ones who don’t truly fit in. Badd was not well mannered or refined, Garou was mischievous and disillusioned with the world, and Genos had everything he’d known and loved torn away from him when he was young. All three aren’t the best at socializing, are intimidating in their own rights, and are known to be aggressive at times.

For them, they don’t leave much, except for heartfelt prayers and confessions they’d never dare to tell others. The three fulfill it as best they can: in person if they have to, though they are careful to use a slightly different form each time. Who knows what could happen if people started recognizing you when you take on a mortal form?

[duraxxor]

Shadowlands: Chapter 2 - Subtraction

How did I end up here? Has my life truly been as fragmented as I were? Nothing makes any sense anymore. Many voices have spoken. Some familiar while other's, not so much. Yet, all the only physical presence that greets me is the pain in my chest. It's almost as if they are dissecting me for a glorious harvest of organs. Doubtful that they are, it feels as though it is only to remind me of my place in these wailing halls. The only entertainment to pass the time is the maddening arguments amongst my kin along with the various jailbreaks all across the endless floors of this place. I've learned a great deal about this energy flow though. Whispers of various energies of death. Anima. Phantasma. Stygia. I know not what they fully entail, but... it matters not. I am a great many things. Weak. Emaciated. Beaten.

But I'm not broken...

A wail just down the dismal hall of deathly metal echoed directly into the chamber that the unconscious trio were bound by chains. Both beasts lay upon the cold, stained floor while their heart dangled by twin links that held his arms up. His frame no more than a fraction of it's once, muscular glory. Ink-smeared pale skin that were barely covered by tattered, black cloth. Flowing white hair hung almost to the ground as he bowed in an attempt to rest his soul, preparing for the next torture that would be laid before him. The vile racket increased in volume as the sound of plated footsteps echoed across the floor. The very noise made the trio stir in their own ways. Randdu's ears wiggled while Sphula's eyelids suddenly opened and dilated with it's endless, distant stare. Not long after, the armor of Mawsworn rolled across the solid steel as they would be blessed the sound of true death. Though music to the ears of the familiars, the correct melody for Daev himself was that of the footsteps that followed with the clanking of chain, gravity now taking his course as he found himself following completely onto the floor. " Is this... no.... this isn't real... " Daev muttered in delirious disbelief, writhing like a worm before the beat of the drum followed with the shattering of the chains that barred the beasts.

" Who... issssss... thissssss?.... " Sphula hissed tiredly as he tilted his head to behold a hooded knight much like that of the Ebon Blade. The serpent watched as the knight knelt before Daev and began reaching for him. To which, the serpentine familiar protested. " Do not... harm a hair.... on hissssss head.... " Randdu followed with a weak flap of his wings before he hoarsely screeched. Both animals were set off by the visitation of a stranger who appeared to be potentially a foe.

" Stay your... claws and teeth. I am only here to do what is necessary. " The voice coming from the hood confirmed the condition of undeath that laid within the epicenter of this being. Faint, white hairs tickled the edges of the hood which only revealed a familiar nose and chin structure. As he reached to place a gloved hand upon the epicenter of Daev's chest, he muttered something unexpected. "... I'm here, to save my son before it is too late. " The hand now emanated with strings of white tethers that flowed freely into the much younger Daevara, which in return made this new ally's jaw clench. " Take my anima... and rise again, Alphus! "

Daev felt the energies of the being that claimed to be his father pouring into his soul. A subtle gasp following which brought his glassy eyes to glow that white purity. Images flashed before his eyes of the man's own memories of youthful struggles, benevolent love, and even the talks of the birth of a son named Alphus Durand Daevara. It all happened so fast but brought a vision of clarity that only he could understand. It was an overwhelming sensation that caused the youth to involuntarily clutch to his father before realizing that he could see the hooded figure. " ... Father? "

The man smiled, despite being a harbinger of undeath now, he still possessed a joyous sense in any situation. Without hesitation, the man removed his hood, revealing the cyan glow of his eyes along with a messy ponytail of familiar white hair that represented the trademark that was long passed down through the Daevara family. " I just want you to know... I'm proud of you for finally defeated the curse our family couldn't overcome... but right now... you must get out of here... " With that being said, Sephirrion Daevara placed a spectral key into the palm of his hand and nodded to him, picking him up off the ground so that he could stand. " Do you have the strength now? "

Daev fumbled at first as the beasts around him slowly began to rise. Randdu standing on all fours while the serpent began to levitate, anima energy now being distributed to balance the flow within the centerpiece himself. " Is this... another trick... another... torture... has the Jailer finally decided to break me?... " Daev looked at his hands in disbelief, smudged with residues of a variety before he clenched them into fists. It was the offering of the sword that lead him ask another question. " Father... I have to ask... if it is really you... why did you... "

A thunderous notion in the distance sounded that made animal and person tense up. " There will be time to ask later, Alphus... get going. You have friends and family waiting for you... I... will distract them while you escape. That key will get you to the exit. " Daev finally took the sword from his hand, clenching the short blade and opening his mouth before another rumble settled in, this time drawing much closer. " GO! "

" You heard daddy-o, let's get the hell outta' here! Reeeeeee! " Randdu trotted across the floor, tackling Daev to move as the trio began to take off down the hall. Despite the nature of the situation, the elf found himself slower than the beasts not only because of his structure, but because he was looking back towards the man that claimed to be his father who drew his swords and charged the other direction. " Move yourself, Daev! Do you want to die here? Because I sure as hell don't! Reeeee! "

" But... what about him... he risked his neck to save us? " Daev responded back to the unfiltered bat with worry. The serpent slithering his way beside their key to the way out of here. " Randdu issss right. Asss much assss I hate to admit it. We have obligationsss to fulfill and there will come another opportuni- Look out! " The serpent coiled around Daev, forcing him backwards as Randdu screeched loudly when he dodged a swinging guillotine in passing. The metal of the pendulum force whisking by them with that faint, metallic wail that indicated death. " Allow meeee... " Sphula declared as he tightly wrapped himself around Daev and pulled him through a shadowy pocket, instantly seeping out of the floor beside Randdu before the trio was once again reunited.

" That was a close one, boss! " Randdu chittered, flapping his wings as he felt his strength returning more so now. " You gotta' work out more, Daaaaaaev... you'll never win any races with this chicken legs... " Daev gave the bat a look before Randdu felt himself being pushed back by their kinetic link. " Shut it, bat... you try being chained up for an eternity... oh wait, you were! "

The howl of abyssal creatures was heard coming up directly in front of them as an armored bowman with three, smoky hounds come clattering down the halls in their wraith-like states. The lack of physical body made them haunting to look at. Unless, of course, you were a certain bat that saw the raw energies that coursed within them. " Oh yeah, baby! Buffet here I come! " Randdu suddenly flapped frantically and made a mad swoop towards one of the stalkers while the other two were commanded to charge the elf and his serpent companion. Magics suddenly began to hum from within the Sphula's jaws as he wound himself around Daev to protect him. His tail slipped through the floor and came out to swipe at both hands, knocking them backwards before the serpent shot a bolt of lightning at them. All three of the beasts howled out as they found themselves pushed back. One of them even squealing in agony as Randdu began to siphon the energies from it, causing his mass to grow and the energy within him to turn darker. " Yeah! Yeah! Ow! "

The knockback of a bolt was heard just before Randdu found an arrow lodged into his side, making the bat-like creature shriek into an enrage frenzy before the unlucky mawsworn found himself on the other end of his jaws. Armor pieces began chipping and flying everywhere from the sheer madness that was the beast that tore into it. " ... Nothing... escapes... the Maw! " The declaration had been heard a great many times through this halls and most of the time, they were the unbearable fact. " Reeeeeeee! You're wrong! We will find a way to get out of here! " Randdu screeched his own opinion out before he immediately returned to his companions, allowing his energies to spill out and ease there way into them to split the balance.

" Randdu... I never realized you were such an energy conductor. And Sphula... you're... a magic conjurer? I've never used lightning magic before... " Daev seemed utterely surprised by the abilities of his animalistic fragments that were a part of him, bringing about a faint smile as he found his resolved temporarily renewed. " Let's get out of here and find our allies! " Daev took off as quick as his *chicken legs* would allow with bat and snake in tow. Once they come across a flight of ascending stairs, that's when the real challenge awaited them.

Coming through the doorway, the floor had finally revealed to them an massive, open room with a door on the other side that matched the key perfectly to the point that the spectral energies began to glow in Daev's hand. But, there was just one thing standing between them and their exit out of here. Within it's epicenter was a floating oculus forged from a twisted, metal shell with an energy lens within it's core. " None may escape the Jailer's Third Eye! " The voice bellowed out much like the tone of the Jailer's voice did. Energies now channeled within him as he suddenly fired off a beam of phantasmal energies. This, in turn, made the trio split apart in order to avoid the blast.

" Randdu, don't let that thing get too close to us! Flank him! " Daev shouted out in command as the bat screeched in his attack, tackling the incoming, floating eyeball. Wings were a flutter and the sharp edges of his teeth were gnawing at the metal structure. " My teeff isn't working! " Sphula's tail suddenly came out of the ground below the Third Eye as he attempted a tail swipe to knock this thing backwards. Meanwhile, Daev struck from the other side of him with a sword by trying to stab into it's core. But, the trio found themselves battered, pelted, and blasted by a series of physical and magical attacks with each and every attempt they made to attack.

While they were actually putting up a decent fight the way they were, their unsynchronized assault was met with little success and they all found themselves falling to the ground. Daev, clutched his sword, using it as a cane to support his weakening state. " I... don't know... if we're going to make it through this... " Both animal familiars were shakily trying to get back up but having a hard time as it were. " Nooooo.... we were... so close... " Randdu tried to push through and noticed that the Third Eye was charging another focused blast. " Hey! Daev! Move! Get out of there! "

Daev actually stammered, attempting to pull himself away despite his lack of swiftness but ultimately, there was no hope left in his face as he froze up, watching as the beam of bright death was fired off towards him. His first reflex was to bring his arms up over his face until he felt a gust of wind directly in front of him before the blast made an impact with another object. " REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! " The ear-piercing shriek was released from Randdu who had taken the hit for Daev. " Why... didn't you... move... you.... dumbass... uhhh... " Randdu's physical form faded away and the energies that were left over instantly traveled into Daev's left arm, funneled back to the source.

" Randdu! " Daev shouted as he felt himself beginning to panic. For the first time, the man that was once Duraxxor found himself as helpless as ever. Fists clenching as the Third Eye began to charge another attack. " I don't... want to be weak.. I need... more... Power! " He took off towards Sphula, reaching to grab for the serpent so that he could wrap him around his body. " I'm not letting you take the fall for me, Sphula! We'll get through this! "

The energies of the beam began to grow, nearly complete in preparation for another attack much like before. " ... You fool... if you die... I die too... I.. haven't... given up... she issss... closssse... " Sphula explained the little fact that the Sorceress herself was drawing closer, meaning that soon, there would be other's there to rescue them much like his father. " Yeah... you're right... Malakortana won't let us die... right? She's always there... when you least expect it... " Daev spoke these words as if they were the only thing they could truly do in the moment, hearing the energies hum behind them just as his legs began to give out. " I need.. more power! Malakortana! I need your guidance right now! I don't know what to do! I need your STRENGTH! "

The fully charged beam was fired off in a straight shot for them as it made contact, exploding with anima magics in the form of a plume. Smoke lingered in the air after the dust began to clear and the Third Eye peered towards the the area they had stood. At first glance, it appeared they completely bit the dust from his final attack. However, something most unexpecting occured as this anima sentry felt the heartbeat pulse of anima from within. With that being said, the dust cleared and a tall figure stood there, silently. A crimson scaled tail with spines wriggled left and right, jutting just beyond a black outfit that was comprised of a pair of pants and a closed trenchcoat that was embroidered with a deep red design. A hood, delicately hid the features above the nose line of this being. Skin-tone was a paleness with a hint of sanguine glow splashed into it as a pair of onyx lips curled significantly, protruding now with elongated, venomous fangs. From behind said lips, a voice called out.

" It'ss time, we ssettled the sscore, little occuluss. Now, you shall know the power of the bond between usss and The Lady of Vicioussssnessss... “ [ Tags: @sanguinesorceress​ and @safrona-shadowsun​. Bottom art credit goes to @handhour-galleries​ ]