#why did Burn lash out at me so extremely by the end

[thrillerhark]

had a dream where i was only nominally in charge of the narrative. it was my dream but some characters would punish me for it. as the dream went on more and more people i knew in real life, people i didn’t “create” left the story as other characters bled into it. it was still a dream so it’s not like i had any real control to begin with. woah .the consequences.

[thewhitehairedwitchgirl]

I just read part of a fic that claimed to be writing a more "critical" version of Jiang Cheng, and I'm usually wary of such because when ppl say they're going to be "critical" of JC (or indeed any character) they usually mean they're going to turn him into YZY 2.0 with no redeeming qualities aside from being the absolute worst version of himself 24/7. Every JC/Jiang Bashing fic I've ever read is just the most one dimensional portrayal of MXTX's extremely complex characters, even if the author has to make up crimes and drama that actively contradict canon traits (rip yanli)

And that's fine. It's fanfiction. You're allowed to write whatever you want and if readers don't like it the exit button is free. However, it just irks me because I don't even really like JC and some of these portrayals make me want to defend this man in court.

For one, branding him as a mass murderer for being at the siege. Okay sure, but in that case so is literally everyone who persecuted the Wen Remnants even if only through wilful ignorance and passive allowance. The Lans, the Nies, and every minor sect. Yet why does LXC get a pass when he also was involved with the death and slaughter of the Wens? The primary message of the book was the dangers of mob mentality tyranny, and that all the great clans and leaders were at fault.

I see JC as a victim. As a child he was punished for acting familiarly with WWX while also punished for not being as skilled. Then as an adult he witnessed the death of his entire family and sect, and lashed out badly. Yet why is that his sole defining character moment? As if he didn't spent the end of the war wanting to protect his family, INCLUDING WWX. Of course he blamed WWX for Lotus Pier burning. Everyone did, including the Wens. They were obviously always going to attack, but WWX was a convenient scapegoat.

I won't pretend their relationship was healthy, but it also wasn't monstrously abusive. The reason JC lost his core was because he was trying to protect WWX from a patrol of Wen soldiers. Even after their fight, JC still snuck JYL into the city to see WWX and was the one who suggested that WWX be the one to choose the baby's courtesy name. It's explicitly stated that a lot of the reason their relationship went so sour was because the other sects (namely the Jins) manipulated/preyed on his insecurities.

TLDR: stop making me defend this man.

[h50europe]

Only Love Can Hurt Like This (Merthur)

by writingcreature

Merlin leaned his head against the window pane. His thoughts were far away. Not even the light of the oncoming vehicles blinded him. He simply did not see it. What he saw was Arthur dying in his arms. Again and again. The scene was playing in an endless loop in his head. It had been that way for ages. 

Since then, Merlin tried to convince himself that what he and Arthur had felt for each other never really existed. But then... why did it feel like someone had ripped out his heart or his soul had been shredded? 

Merlin was at the end of his rope, utterly exhausted and couldn't even tell when he had last slept. He closed his eyes and gave in to temptation. He knew that if he got involved in this mind game, he would be hurt even more. Only, by now, he had become addicted to that bittersweet pain that burned hot through his veins. 

There it was, Arthur's voice. And when Merlin opened his eyes, he found himself back in Cauldron Manor. The sanctuary he had created in his mind to be close to Arthur.

"Don't you think you've had enough today?" asked his friend as Merlin poured himself another glass of whiskey.

"Nope, I don't think so. If the stuff would at least get me drunk, but not just for a few hours," Merlin replied, embittered. He emptied the glass in one gulp and slammed it down on the sideboard.

"Must have been one of those days," Arthur stated dryly.

Merlin turned around, "When isn't it one of those days? Huh?"

"Sorry, I was trying to show compassion." 

"Compassion... Don't you think it's a bit late for that? If you had an ounce of compassion, you wouldn't have left me alone back then. You wouldn't have died in my arms." Merlin's eyes began to glow. Rage was boiling inside of him. 

"Do you think it was easy for me? I always wished to grow old with you." 

Merlin had turned away from Arthur and closed his eyes. A tear forced its way through his long lashes and ran down his cheek. The anger had given way to a pain that threatened to tear him apart. His chin quivered.

"Then just come back to me, Arthur. Find your way out of the darkness. Let me be your beacon," Merlin whispered. 

"Believe me, if it were that easy, I would have done it long ago. But I don't know how." 

"God, Arthur, it drives me crazy not knowing where you are or how you're doing." 

"I know, and I'm sorry. Merlin, you know how much I love you, right?" 

"Of course I do. I didn't mean to..." Merlin's voice failed. He waved his hand, and Arthur disappeared.

It hurt him too much.

"I'm yours, Arthur. Until forever," Merlin whispered as another tear ran down his cheek. "I wished you were much more than just a figment of my imagination."

Merlin was back in the empty motel room. The sky had darkened, and lightning flashed, followed by booming thunder.

The rain pelted down. One of the lightning bolts struck next to a cave that had once been a druid's refuge. Seconds later, a hand forced its way through the mud. 

Merlin snapped his eyes open, "Arthur!" 

The reason for this miracle was their deep, honest love for each other, an extremely rare constellation of stars and magic. But fate would not make it that easy for them. We all know that the powers that be often resort to unfair means. And that everything comes with a price...

[acourtofthought]

I’m curious as to what you think elain and Lucien have in common, personality wise? What do you think their story will be about? What will be their conflicts? Obstacles? Suspense? That kind of thing.

I love you for this ask and I apologize because you're probably about to get way more than you bargained for.

I'm not sure SJM has created two characters who so strongly mirror one another. Rhys and Feyre were similar but they had noticeable differences to me in terms of their personality. Like Rhys really struggles with forgiveness and letting go of the past while Feyre is pissed at 3 pm, then over it at 3:04 pm (with Tamlin it was more like 3:55 but she's even moved forward since ACOFAS while Rhys is still holding a grudge as of SF). 😂. Feyre is also more open while Rhys still tends to hold his schemes close to the vest.

But Elain and Lucien. They are these two characters who have both suffered immense losses and violations to their bodies. Yet they still internalize their anger and sadness and don't lash out at others. I think people mistakenly believe they don't have much depth as a result but I actually think it's because of their reactions that prove how much they actually feel. All the times they aren't talking, yelling, or demanding to be seen is time they're spending turning everything over in their head. They're also observing the world around them, they're watching the interactions of others. And all that time they're spending simply paying attention adds to their knowledge of how relationships and society in general function.

They have also both ended up in places that they did not choose for themselves. Their responses to that are what I'd consider both a strength and a weakness. I love their optimism and attempt to make the best out of any situation they find themselves in but at the same time, they can be too complacent as a result. They haven't learned to fight for what they want and where they want to be and instead just allow life to happen to them.

Some other very similar core values they seem to share is a respect for tradition (I actually could provide text from the books to support all this but that would end up being extremely long so I’ll spare you).  They have both mentioned an awareness of traditions and values of a certain place and why it’s important to uphold them.  

They both share in the ability to apologize for having made mistakes and we actually see them make changes to their behaviors showing that they've learned from those mistakes. 

It’s a weird thing to note but neither Lucien or Elain have said “Fuck”.  Lucien has said “Shit” and “Hell” and Elain has said “Hell” but I find it interesting that they both share a similar manner of speaking and neither is what I’d call crass or vulgar.  Speaking of “Hell”, they actually insult people in a similar manner and make similar jokes.  After the Human Queens left, Elain said they could all “burn in Hell” and Lucien told Amarantha she could crawl back to the shit-hole she came from (we find this out after he tells Feyre about something that was sent (Amarantha) from the shit-holes of Hell.  And they both made a joke about Amren being cranky.

They are both extremely social, good at talking to people, enjoy parties, enjoy the outdoors, and neither is afraid to show love and affection to their loved ones.  Lucien told Feyre she was a better friend to him than he was to her (I don’t necessarily agree but Lucien felt it) and Elain acknowledges that she failed Feyre (it's note worthy that it happened before Elain even has a book) but realizes she’d always been the foundation that held them up.  And both Lucien and Elain have held Feyre in their arms to comfort her at different points in the series.

 

As far as their story, I think it will start in Spring. Lucien is permanently stationed there as of SF and while I’m not entirely sure how Elain will end up there, there seem to be definite hints that it’s coming.  I have this weird head-cannon that I can’t seem to shake that Elain is going to feel the drums of Fire Night and find herself pulled there because the magic is calling her to restore Spring (and she’ll possibly perform in the Rite with Lucien though I could see a few problems with that, one being that if the Magic chose someone for her (even if she were unaware of who that Male was), would she again feel violated as a result?  Or would she feel connected enough to the lands that she was comfortable with it.  If she is an owl shifter than her physically get there would be easy enough. I've also considered that the book will open with her staying in the townhouse to give herself some independence after some of what happened in SF.

Even if Calanmai doesn’t happen or doesn’t happen right away, I’m still certain she’ll be going to Spring where she and Lucien will begin interacting.  I think they will both be extremely instrumental in getting Spring back on it’s feet, helping the people believe in the leadership again.  Once that happens, the armies will be in a stronger position to join in the upcoming war efforts. And I do think the reason Elain will be capable of this is that she's been gifted Goddess of Healing like powers to restore a fallen land.

I also see them traveling to the continent to help free Vassa.  It’s possible Koschei is Valg and from TOG we know that fire can defeat him though I don’t think Lucien’s fire can stand up to the lake where he’s at.  There’s a line in SF where Briallyn states Eris’s fire wouldn’t have withstood it so I think that’s a hint of something that will be a problem for Lucien.  Either this would be an opportunity for Elain to step up and use what I think are her healing powers (again, something else we know that can defeat the Valg) or maybe along with Elain’s powers, Lucien will discover more of his Day powers.  I’m not 100% if they’ll actually defeat Koschei or just manage to free Vassa while Koschei finds a way to escape from the lake.  If SJM plans on bringing the Asteri to Prythian in the final book (and depending on what number book Elucien’s would be) than I could see her having them defeat Koschei in their story since the Asteri would then be the new big bad.    

Major conflicts would be both Lucien and Elain addressing their past loves and finally letting go of them so they can move forward.  Elain learning to let go of her stubbornness over something she believes wasn’t her choice and realizing that even with accepting her destiny, she still has a choice in it.  I don’t think Elain will act quite as hostile as Nesta did towards Cassian but I have no doubt we’re going to see a little fire from her when she first starts interacting with Lucien. She might touch upon how her sisters and even Az view her as someone in need of protecting when she no longer needs it.   I also think we’re going to witness the emotional bombshell that is Lucien discovering who his real father is as well as making some sort of peace with both Eris and Tamlin.  I’m not sure Lucien will ever have the same close relationship with Tamlin as he once did but I can see them finding peace with one another and then maintaining a casual acquaintance in the future.  I do see his relationship with Eris growing stronger though.   

Really, there are so many loose threads surrounding both Elain and Lucien.  She would take their story in so many directions.  (Will they stay in Spring for awhile or head to Day? Will Helion be High Lord for years to come or will SJM find a way to have Lucien take over? Could Lucien step up as High King? ). Personally I don’t think the Autumn Court will play a huge role in Lucien’s book only because I feel like it would make more sense to be a focal point if Gwynriel end up together (what with her unknown grandfather and all and Eris, looking to take over the throne, as an ally of the NC.  But still.  Lucien does have ties to Autumn, Spring, Day, the Human Lands, etc. and Elain has always wanted to travel.  They both have unknown powers, they’re both sort of the underdogs of the series, they are the only Mates of the series who instantly knew they were Mates and had the bond snap into place.  

I could be way off base with all of this but I just hope that the one thing I’m not wrong on is an Elucien endgame!

Also, I apologize because I was rambling with my thoughts and it might all sound a bit convoluted!

[parragone]

so, another wip, this one awkward because i'm struggling with some descriptions

monty/lion/doc, this section focused on monty and lion, but I've always felt like maybe Lion might find relief if he had the chance to be hurt in a controlled setting or scene

and while Doc wouldn't be willing to hurt him, Monty sure as hell would and would understand how this helps Lion, so

it's. it's an impact play bdsm scene without sex, what do you want from me; the sex comes later, I promise Lion gets taken care of by Doc

brief mentions of blood and scarring because Lion struggles to not overdo it

There was a sort of comfort in pain.

It was something he had kept to himself for years, or tried to. He found that pain, in any controlled form, relieved something in his heart that nothing else did; the workout routine combined with the constant and rigorous training from his unit satisfied part of it, but he’d often found he craved something more intense, more intimate than training could achieve.

Which was why he was extremely grateful that when he had mentioned it on accident to Gilles, the man had been more than happy to provide. There were rules in place, of course, safe words and nonverbal stops, ways for a scene to end without so much as a second thought. The agreement to only engage in a scene when Gustave was home was made when the doctor found out and insisted on it, and Olivier would be a liar if he claimed it did not make some part of him weak and comforted to know that the man was merely a room away if he needed his presence.

Gustave was also the one who had given him the buzzer that he currently clung to like a lifeline. It was easy to focus on the little silver thing in his hand between strikes, especially when a scene kept him blindfolded as this one did; if he dropped it, Gilles would pause to put it back into his palm, and so he felt no worry about his grip. He could let his shoulders slack and gravity pull his wrists against the restraints above his head, the bite of the rope into his skin a vague reminder that he could easily pull the knots out on his own if he felt the need.

Olivier was acutely aware that his knees ached and shoulders burned, but both sensations were somewhat dulled by the fact his back stung with each strike. His thighs stung with the familiar sensation of bruises, a reminder that he had been made to earn the right to kneel in the first place. Gilles had fallen into a slow, steady rhythm that would only stop when either Olivier called for it or when he felt the younger man had visibly sagged. He could expect the lash every ten seconds, give or take one or two, and it was easy to remind himself not to brace for the impact. The skin wouldn’t split if he didn’t brace, but would instead leave deep bruises that would ache for days after the initial sting faded.

Only Gilles could do this, and he knew it. He knew that fact so well that he had memorized the way Gilles would pause every few minutes to trace one hand up his spine, he knew the tone of voice the man would use by sheer instinct. There was no one else who could get him to unravel this way, only Gilles could rip down every wall he’d bothered to put up and leave him willingly half-collapsed in his restraints; this could last for another hour if Olivier wanted, until the lash broke skin and the pain went from a cathartic release to guilty confessions. 

That was how these sessions normally ended, with blood streaked down his back while Gilles untied him and cleaned him up. Never enough to cause serious damage, but enough that small lines had permanently raised in his skin. Gustave had told him once that they were thin and paler than his skin, but they were enough that he could occasionally feel them during training when his shirt twisted the wrong way. They were another thing about this that he had memorized, and he could track in his mind when the flogger struck one or more of them in a pass.

It was normally so easy to let it happen, let it go until it hurt so much that it was no longer merely a release, but the realization that he wanted something else stuck him at the same time as the lash. Somewhere in his mental fog, he knew that all he had to do was find his hands again and use the buzzer. The difficulty was simply that he could not seem to get out of his head, let alone find his hands.

A calloused palm ran up the raw skin of his spin and wrenched a gasp from him. Gilles only did that when he had said something without a response, had he missed something? Olivier lifted his head from against his shoulder with whatever strength he had left and tried to turn and look at his partner before he realized he was still blinded.

“I asked a question,” Gilles said, his voice and tone softer than it would have been nearly an hour ago. “Are you still in there, Noll?”

“Yes, sir,” Olivier managed after a moment, words somehow thick in his mouth. “What…. What did you ask, sir?”

“I asked how many strikes you’ve received. Can you answer that for me?”

He wanted to say yes. Gilles would be happy with him if he did, but it was so far beyond any part of his headspace right now to remember his numbers. “No, sir. I wanted…”

The pause lingered too long. Olivier rested his head against his shoulder again with a deep, ragged breath; when had he become so sensitive to the air on his back? Gilles had yet to remove his hand and it brought whatever train of thought he had to a complete stop, the skin tender and raw under a firm touch. 

“Wanted what?”

He had lost his words again, but he found his hands. One squeeze of the buzzer expressed what he couldn’t seem to get out of his mouth, and he felt the hand at his back leave him almost immediately. The rope around his wrists came undone with careful efficiency, and firm hands took his wrists so he couldn’t collapse to the floor. Maybe he sagged a little more than he thought he would when he felt himself get pulled forward and into Gilles’ arms, but he justified it to himself with a quiet reminder that Gilles would tell him if he wasn’t allowed to.

“That’s the first time you’ve ended it before we got to blood, Gus will be pleased,” Gilles murmured quietly. He had placed Olivier’s arms around his shoulders for ease of comfort, which meant that the younger man could relax completely; the floor was cold, yet oddly comfortable as Gilles got his legs to stretch out. “Something change, love?”

“Think so,” Olivier mumbled into the skin of Gilles’ neck. The world really had become only himself and Gilles on the tile floor, and it would stay that way until the blindfold came off. "Head's... weird."

“Do you want to see?”

“No.”

“Mhm, a shame. You’re quite pretty like this.”

[vendettavalor]

@tacticalvalor said: it's so much easier to see the world in black and white. gray… i don't know what to do with gray. -> vincent to star

⚔️ Garrus Vakarian Prompts // CLOSED ⚔️

"It's not your fault. That's how they want you to see things. Because if they can paint it as black and white - good guys and bad guys - that makes it easier for them to do the things they do." Star draws the cigarette from her lips, blowing out a long stream of smoke. She doesn't like it honestly. She detests the smell and the taste and the way it clings to everything. But she's stressed from all the testing, so she's picked it up to try and cope. Zaccarian doesn't know yet. She must have a good smuggler.

"Empires thrive on creating a narrative where the world is plagued with problems caused by some group. The Them. And those problems can only be solved by the Us. The Empire makes themselves that Us, putting forth solutions and fixing the problems, all while damning Them. They want to sow hatred and animosity, and little by little, they take means to demonize and eliminate Them so that by the time they get to the really extreme methods, people are so sucked into the narrative, they just want Them to disappear. They don't care how - whether its cruel or inhumane. So long as they believe it will fix the problem." She explains it so casually, so flatly. As though she's seen it before. She's lived through it. Watched the downfall of thousands, the deaths of millions. All in the name of Imperial progression.

"The people never dig deeper because their discouraged from doing. Because if they did, they'd realize there is no Them. All those problems? The Us created them, and then they staged solutions for those problems. It's all just a lie to get you on board with their atrocities. And Them? They were the ones that knew that and wanted to pull back the curtain." She's bitter. There are tears beading up on her lashes and she's clenching the end of the cigarette in her hand so tightly her knuckles are white. The only thing that snaps her out of it is the end of it burning her fingers. She swears as she drops it.

"They don't want things to be gray. They want black and white. Good guys and bad guys. Heroes and monsters. That's why they made me. And when I can't be their hero..." she trails off, biting her lip.

They'll make her the monster, and dispose of her too.

[beantothemax]

(Woe. Text fic of Darkest Dungeon and Octopath 2. This time with more introspection about living despite the horrors with Plague Doctor.)

Paracelsus: I figured out why the Moonshade Order pisses me off so much.

Temenos: Oh? Do tell.

Kazan: I’m sorry what?

Partitio: Oh uh. Mr Kazan it’s just something that Temenos is-

Paracelsus, interrupting: Just some rubbish about Temenos’ work. You can listen to if you want. Not like we have anything to do on this ship. Unless you want to get scurvy. Then it would be mildly more interesting and my precious little leeches will finally have something to feast on for a bit.

Kazan: …

Temenos: …

Partitio: …

Paracelsus: It’s a joke. Mostly. Apologies for that.

Paracelsus, sighing: Back to the Moonshade Order. I found out why I get so mad about them and probably why everyone else gets a bit mad about them too. I suppose it’s the rather…defeatist part of life. 

Paracelsus, leaning against ship banister: Their goal is to enshroud the world in darkness. Possibly due to the belief that there is nothing left living for in life, or perhaps the belief that the world will not become better. It’s depressing and sad. It’s something I’ve seen already and it doesn’t get any easier.

Partitio: …What were those people like? If you don’t mind me asking, Paracelsus.

Paracelsus: …

Paracelsus: Imagine a city. Brimming with knowledge and people. It’s filled with life and it’s filled with hope. It’s said that the city will be a city that brings humanity to their highest peak. A city where miracles will be found and shared throughout the world.

Paracelsus: Now imagine that something…terrible is found. Something so terrible and horrible and everyone found out about it. Perhaps they found that their gods aren’t real. Perhaps they found their city is said to end in death. Perhaps they simply had too many problems going on beneath the surface.

Paracelsus: The people then can’t handle it and so they believe that everything they did. All the miracles and knowledge they gained was for naught. So they strike a match, and burn themselves. And they keep on burning. And they keep on burning until their skin melts like candle wax and their muscles and bones are exposed. Eyes melt under the heat and still they set themselves on fire because everything is hopeless to them. They set their beloved city on fire and they set the great libraries and museums on fire.

Paracelsus, emotional: And from a distance all you can do is cry out and save what you can. Slashing at flames and carrying others to safety. Because the people simply refuse to listen and instead burn decades- centuries of work and human life and burn anyone who disagrees.

Paracelsus: And you still feel bad about them because they are sad. They’re people who lost hope so they lashed out and hurt everybody else. They were once people who had dreams and had a life. And now they’re reduced to this. You want to help yet all you can do is put them down because all they do is burn and burn and burn.

Paracelsus: It’s like that. 

Temenos: This happened to you didn’t it?

Paracelsus: (snorts) Was it the graphic description or the fact that I started choking up half way through it?

Kazan: Sounds like it was your home. I’m sorry for what happened to it. I know that feeling all too well.

Paracelsus: …It’s in the past.

Paracelsus: All you can do is move forward.

Paracelsus: …And that’s what happened. The fires went out and eventually we rebuild. Not as big as it was before but we rebuild and we recovered.

Temenos: And now you’re here.

Paracelsus: And now I’m here.

Partitio: …Yeah I can see it. Maybe a more extreme case of what could have happen to Orerush but- Yeah I can see it.

Paracelsus: Hm. Now onto the Moonshade Order.

Paracelsus: They’re like those burning people. Destructive and setting themselves on fire because they feel like the world is forever going to be horrible and we will never move on. And that’s just- That’s not true. The world changes. Slowly but it does.

Paracelsus: They focus so much on the Failures of the World that they forget that there is still genuine good out there.

Paracelsus: Did you know that in that burning city, I saw people helping each other? I saw people clinging onto sanity and saving what knowledge and people they can. They helped me and my friends despite it being a hinderance to their resources simply because we were travelers and we needed help.

Kazan, surprised: And it was out of their own volition. No strings attached?

Paracelsus, laughing: None! I can still see Dismas trying to refuse the excess amount of food but they just kept giving.

Paracelsus: The Moonshade Order sounds like a group of people who have seen their failures and the world’s failures and decided to take the easy option of death. World-wide death mind you but still. Death.

Temenos: Considering Vide is meant to bring the world to oblivion…I cannot help but agree with you.

Kazan: Apologies for sounding blunt but you seem to be rather unsympathetic towards them despite acknowledging that they’re broken people, why is that?

Paracelsus: Like I said. They’re choosing the easy option. They’re giving up and well. I will feel bad for how they got here but they are basically surrendering without a fight.

Kazan: And you know it’s the easy option. Forgive me for pushing but I would like to see your point of view on facing failure.

Partitio, interjecting: If you want to! Only if you want to!

Paracelsus: …I made mistakes in my past. Horrible mistakes. Hah, during college too.

Paracelsus: I was ridiculed in my school. I was ridiculed for my bold theories and for going against the tide in terms of conventional science. I could prove the theories on the human body correct. I just needed a chance.

Paracelsus: …My professor died, slumped over his desk. Disease in the Lungs. He insisted it was in the intestines and the medicine for that only made the disease progress faster. I was the only one there, so I took his body, opened him up and…well…

Partitio: Oh.

Paracelsus: I had a complete diagram of the human body. Fresh and everything. And then I thought to myself, “If the human body can recover itself from death after a short amount of time from a wound, then what if I could do it after a long period of time! Where the cause of death was a disease!”

Paracelsus: I never liked my professor. He would rebuke my theories and believed me to be a person of no future. So I gladly made him my first subject.

Kazan: It failed didn’t it?

Paracelsus: Worse. It worked.

Paracelsus: It worked and then he woke up. He woke up and wailed and bled out everywhere. I couldn’t restrain him to stitch him up and when I tried I just made the bleeding worse.

Paracelsus: And he just- He just kept crying. No words, just this awful crying.

Paracelsus: I had to put him down. And after that, I dropped out of college. Yet I can still- I can still hearhim. I can still hear the cries and I can still smell the blood. I think the worst part is that some part of me enjoyed it. I remember myself grinning and laughing at the idea of finally being vindicated that I forgot that doctors are supposed to do no harm.

Paracelsus: Maybe this is nothing compared to the things another person went through but it still was horrific. It was horrific to me.

Paracelsus: I wanted to do nothing but rot in bed. That seems right for me after all. I brought a man back into a world of suffering and made those moments hell.

Temenos: And yet you’re still here.

Paracelsus: And I’m still here.

Paracelsus: …If I decided to rot there, then I would be telling everyone that I wasn’t meant for this world. I wasn’t meant to go and live and when I realized that, well that got me up fast. We all make mistakes. We all have our failures and me refusing to look at them just makes me a fool and a coward. For me to give up is fucking stupid. No one in the medical field got it right on their first try, and if they did then that’s a miracle. I fucked up. So what. I have to get up and redeem myself because the other option is dying and what good does that do for anyone?

Paracelsus, sighing: If the world really is as hopeless as the Moonshade Order says it is then doesn’t that give us more reason to try harder? To try and make it better? The world did get better and we can see it through history and our achievements. We as humans are flawed and we will continue to beflawed. Despite these flaws however all of us have a choice to try. To just. Try to make the world better or to reach out.

Kazan, scoffing: Sounds overly optimistic.

Paracelsus, annoyed: Better than lying down and accepting what comes onto you. That’s just a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m sure your cynicism went and gave you plenty of disappointments in life. And I bet you went and chalked all the good things as luck that won’t ever last and never let yourself fully enjoy them. Well fuck you. I hope you go and learn to have hope for the world and start to realize that we as humans made it this far despite the odds stacked against us.

Temenos: (disguises a laugh with a cough)

Paracelsus: …Sorry for snapping. I don’t know you. I just- I’m not stupid. Not everyone is going to get a happy ending but at least we can say we tried. Someone one day will see us and if some of us don’t get happy endings they can say we tried and they can see the happy stuff in the middle.

Paracelsus, looking out into the distance: Me and my friends faced failure and death time and time again. We faced horrors that we didn’t even know were possible and now all of us are displaced from our home. And yet we’re still breathing, alive, and trying to move forward. Some of us made mistakes worse than others but we’re still here.

Paracelsus, glancing at Reynauld, Dismas, and Junia all bantering with each other: …I’m glad we’re still here. I’m glad all of us are trying to do better.

Kazan: …Huh.

Partitio: That’s a good philosophy to live by Paracelsus.

Paracelsus: It’s the one that stopped from going insane. It’s not the best philosophy.

Partitio: Still. It’s a good philosophy.

Paracelsus: (snorts)

Temenos: My. I did not know this side of you Paracelsus. Who knew you had a way with words?

Paracelsus: I don’t. I just listen to Dismas and Baldwin spit poetry lines before we sleep and sometimes hear Reynauld and Junia say some prayers. Very annoying when you want to sleep but great for when you want to sound cool.

Partitio: Wait Dismas does poetry!?

Paracelsus: Honestly I would rather go and fight the Heart of Darkness again than repeat this to anyone else. Better get this in memory.

Kazan: The Heart of what.

Paracelsus: (phew) It is hot as hell in this funky ass hot ass region we’re in.

Temenos, squinting in the distance: Is- Is that the Grim Reaper????

Death: (distant neigh)

Sarmenti, coming in and drinking some water: Hey guys whatcha talking about here? Oh shit is that the Grim Reaper?

Paracelsus: I know we’re friends with Damien but why is she coming after us? He’s not even on this boat.

Temenos: And Damien is…the one who flagellates himself correct?

Sarmenti: Okay fine “friend” is a bit of a strong term but we’re on mostly good terms with each other and acquaintance sounds far too formal.

Partitio: That’s Death.

Sarmenti: Yeah and I’m a Jester.

Kazan: Why does she have so many eyes. And why is everything now becoming black and white?

Sarmenti: She likes to be dramatic don’t worry about it.

Death: (pointing at the Jester and Plague Doctor) You’re next.

Parcelsus: Let me ask my best friend.

Death: That’s not how it works-

Paracelsus: Dismas said no. (Throws sulfur at Death and sets her on fire)

WOAG. wow. that was!!!!! a lot!!! whoa!!!!!!

I did some looking around this fire city and I have decided that I really like the librarian guy because I think his categorizing move where he puts your party in alphabetical order is extremely funny 👍

him aside I like this!!! I do not know enough plot details to really get a grasp on everything but your writing style is swag as ever :]

[chilopodacrudus]

Piers meets God

And part 2 on the Piers story in which he meets God lmao.

I know absolutely no one is going to read these but I'm having a lot of fun.

CW for mild gore; nothing extreme.

Everything is peaceful for a brief moment in Piers mind. Black and black then a sudden burst of stark unrelenting light. His eyes snap open; a deep pained breath is drawn in and the pain starts. His stomach wound flares with a sharp intensity and he coils up clawing at the cold marble ground.

He wasn’t alone but it took him a moment to realize as cold yellow eyes with shining red dot pupils gaze down upon him in a...disgusted way.

He rolls over onto his side and scrambles to get onto his feet; it’s almost too much for him to bare.

Piers: He takes one look at the thing in front of him and cackles. “Oh...a hallucination...my brains’ going dark and you’re what it came up with...great…” ???: A large; looming presence stands before him. An otherworldly visage of insectoid chitin laid upon humanoid form. Long; lithe legs ending in bird like talons, the claws impatiently tapping against the cold ground that Piers lays. It’s face; humanoid for sure but with a divine glow, long lavender hair flows along with even longer striped insect antennae. The silhouette is completed with four vibrant red fae like wings along it’s back. It speaks; unamused, perhaps slightly uncaring. “Is my visage that much of a displeasure for you; you’re not exactly what I want to see right now either Piers but here we stand” Piers: Another wave of pain wrecks his insides; his guts barely hanging in, he panics when he notices just how gruesome it is. “Why does...why does it still hurt...it should be over” ???: A small pleased smile creeps upon it’s lips. “It’s far from over but thankfully your Lacey finally put an end to your reign. Your Earth is a safer place...ever so slightly at least.” Piers: A snarl lashes across his lips as he snaps his head to the side; a feeling of blood lust coming over him ever so briefly. “Lacey…” ???: “Do I detect ANGER in your voice? Are you kidding me? You still wish to kill your friend even now? You really are an impossible case...I’m not even sure why I give any of you humans a chance now; call it an old habit all you want but no...I’ve been wanting to give you a piece of my mind for awhile now but you are nowhere near SPECIAL Piers. Do you know how many thousands of other souls I’m speaking to at this very moment? You are a drop in the bucket; you are nothing, a speck.

Piers: The reality of his situation is dawning on him rapidly as he decides to press his fingers into the wound; wincing and yelling from the pain he drops to his knees. “It shouldn’t hurt…” He speaks under his breath finally laying his eyes on the creature in front of him. “So what even are you...the Devil? This is hell? I’m in hell?” He laughs to himself at the absurdity of it all.

???: It’s heard this more than once and you can tell by the tired look in it’s eye. “I’m God. I; unfortunately, put it all in motion up to this point. I am responsible for you and the other pests that rot the earth. I’m not surprised you feel this way but no...there is no one ‘Devil’; not anymore. I have taken double shift so I deal with filth such as you now too.” Piers: Fear grips him with a twinge of amusement; this looks like a beast that crawled out of the deepest depths of hell in his eye but he’s so exhausted he decides to go along with it. “God…” He nods and looks away. “I see...so what...you’re here to chew me out and talk about how horrible of a person I am. I’ve heard this all my life “God” it doesn’t mean any more or less coming from you. I know what I did; I’m not insane but I hel-” God: A grin appears on it’s face as it stops Piers in mid sentence. “Yes yes you ‘helped’ people; you murdered the parents of poor helpless children. Is that your justification?...I do...understand...I do but no Piers; what of the others? God opens it’s eyes wide and a flash burns Piers mind; the death throes and pleading cries of ‘the others’ filling his brain. He screams clutching at his face tears streaming down his cheek until relief finally comes after what feels like days. He collapses; his mind wanders and finally snaps back into this new reality.

Piers: He pants; sweating now glancing and shaking as he stares up at God. “I don’t….I..” God: “You don’t need to say anything; I’ve seen what you’ve been up to, I’ve seen it thousands of times. Perverse gratification in the death of others; you’re nothing but a disgusting sadist through and through. You’re just one of the ones that justifies it by doing a bit of ‘good’ in the world on the side. You’re. Not. Special. In fact...that human form is not befitting of you; not nearly, why don’t I grant you something more in line with the shade of your soul.

Piers: A flash of heat pulses through Piers body; so hot it sears his flesh from underneath. His eyes roll back; his body snaps forward, nothing but pain, prickly and hot. He yells as his body morphs into a hellish form. Spikes tear from his shoulders; his feet stretching into a digitigrade form causing him to fall to his knees in which curved thorn like blades pull upwards along with his elbows and heel. His spine stretches and tears from him; muscle weaving over flesh forming a long whipping tail ending in a blade. Claws rip from under his nails and toes. He pants; a brief moment of respite before the final touches appear. His ears extend; now pointed and bat like, a pair of large bright ivory horns tear from his skull. His face starts to hurt so badly he starts to beg for death as his mouth extends ghoulishly and his human teeth tear from his mouth; replaced with a dagger smile. He grabs his face and tears at it; his newly gifted claws tearing hard down the left side leaving a horrible gash. “Make it...make it stop” his voice is changed; much more befitting of the killer he is as the last of his humanity is ripped from him; his eyes, tearing from his face only to be replaced with bright solid white before slitted red pupils form.

God: It gazes upon it’s work and see’s fit to smile; satisfied. It clasps it’s hands together and nods to this new creature in front of him, standing now at 8 foot tall. “Good...that’s much better.” Piers: He pants looking over himself in disbelief; when the searing heat fades, the pain in his stomach flares again he yelps finding that it hasn’t healed. “After all that….still this” God: “Oh don’t worry it WILL heal...in a few years” Piers: “Years…” God: “Time isn’t really accounted for down here; decades have passed on your Earth, thousands more dead, thousands more born. But that isn’t what you’re going to worry about” God looks behind him; a curtain of white pulls open and unveils a strange place. It could be described as a town of sorts; bustling with life, humanoid shapes blinking in and out and going about their business. A mist surrounds it; dimming the lights and activity. The mist pools into the bright white room where they both stand. God looks over his shoulder; amused. “Far from the fire and brimstone you humans tend to think it is but...this is your new home.” Piers: “This is...hell” He grits his teeth unsure; the place didn’t feel as hostile as he thought it would but it wasn’t exactly inviting.

God: “Yes. You will find it has it’s quirks but you should do...just fine. Go on; I’ll check in on you in a few years.” Piers: He walks forward seeming compelled to but he snaps his head to God and growls. “What am I supposed to fucking do? What now? What is...what is the purpose…” God: “That’s for you to decide Piers.”

God and the pristine white room it was standing in fades leaving Piers in the middle of a busy street; he quickly dodges to the side of a strange vehicle of sorts and steps onto the sidewalk. People...or what were people; glance at him. Some seemingly amused most indifferent. He begins to walk; stumbling over himself as he wasn’t used to his new legs, his tail whipping wildly behind him as he was yet to tame it. He wanders and he notices after awhile that he’s getting nowhere. The same street; over and over again, as if he was on a treadmill though the ‘people’ surrounding him seem to have no problem.

Piers feels a hand on his shoulder and a shorter creature smirks up at him; the head of an eagle and the body of a reptile.

Creature: “You’re new” Piers: His eyes opened wide like a wild animal. “….y..yes..” Creature: “Getting around here is a bit more complicated than just walking...think about where you want to go. What do you want buddy? What do you want more than anything right now…” Piers: He rolls his eyes back and closes them thinking to himself. “I want a fucking drink…” He slowly opens his eyes shocked to see that he now stands outside of a bar. He looks down the road; he was clearly still in the same town but the road where he once stood is long in the distance. His chest heaves as he gives up and walks inside.

The bar is pleasantly empty but there are a few patrons. The bar keeper; a large beast with several more eyes than needed smiles warmly at him. Bar keep: “Piers!” he takes a scroll out of his pocket and slides his fingers across it. “Yep no mistaking it; welcome come have a seat.” Piers: Stops in his tracks before limping into a seat and slumping down nearly collapsing in a heap. “How did you know my name” Bar Keep: “You’re one of the new guys; most of you tend to stop by here first” He gives a hearty laugh and pours Piers a drink. “Plus...you’re obviously new...your guts are hanging out there friend” Piers: Holds his hand over his stomach; it still hurt, badly but he was almost used to it by now. “Y..yea..I...listen I don’t..” Bar Keep: “No reason to talk right now...drink...rest...you’ve got an eternity to get yourself together. Now if you need me...I’ll be in the back.” Piers: He nods and stares at the drink slamming it back as he thinks to himself ‘This is just a nightmare..I’ll wake up...I’ll definitely wake up.’

[midori-laboratories]

Frozen Ashes: Chapter 17 - Part 3: Homecoming Queens V

Book 3 of The Calendula Chronicles.

Story synopsis: Albert Wesker molded his captive into the perfect, pliable bait for taking out Rockfort Island's paramilitary facility, and cracking open the Ashford family’s secrets. But who’s really in control, once chaos breaks out?

The stakes have never been higher for Marigold, but she may not be fast enough to save everyone.

Book 3 of the Calendula Chronicles series. Written as the other side of The Antarctica Incident.

Want to catch up? The story's a ways ahead on AO3

Chapter summary: Alexia and Marigold move from one extremely awkward topic to the BOW in the room. Meanwhile, Donald McNally prepares for guests.

64.media.tumblr.com

Alexia’s eyes hardened. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“How we were made. Alfred found his notes on his Veronica project. Did you know?”

Marigold blinked at her. “No…not the details,” she said slowly. “Your father-”

“He’s not our father,” Alexia hissed. Under Marigold’s grip, Alexia’s hand had tightened, and begun to grow hot.

Marigold stared at her niece, consciously keeping her grip firm on Alexia’s arm. For a moment, Marigold processed her words, then said, “You actually mean that, don’t you.”

Alexia looked back at her, getting frustrated - but the heat in her hand had stopped growing. “Auntie, we were a project. Alfred was a byproduct - you saw how Alexander barely even gave him the time of day. It broke him, Auntie. I know you liked to play at being stupid for the board, but you must have known something.”

Marigold sighed. “I knew your grandfather was helping him with the Veronica project, before…before. I wasn’t involved at all until after I was infected.”

Alexia stilled. “Until after?” There was a dangerous pitch in her voice.

Marigold held steady. If Alexia let her impulses take over to lash out, things would get ugly, but this would be the very worst time to show fear. “Alexia. I can understand being angry, but remember that we both have reasons to be angry. You obviously used the Mold in T-Veronica, and I’m clearly missing quite a bit of context. Do you really want to find out first-hand why Grayson’s mother decided to leave me alone, rather than go on with her plan to kill the messenger? I can handle that sort of pain, but we’d both regret it. Just because I’m not flammable doesn’t mean you wouldn't burn.”

Alexia’s eyes widened. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I told your brother I wouldn’t hurt you when he found out I knew you’d…” Marigold looked away, composing herself. “That I knew. He needed to hear it. I meant that. But I can’t help what my blood will do to you if you decide to spill it on a whim. Either you can let me tell you what I know, or this ends badly for everyone.” Marigold looked pointedly at the arm in her grasp to underline her meaning. “You’ll have to learn to control your temper much more, now. It’s not an easy thing- you know I say this from experience. People are so much more fragile than you realize.”

Alexia gaped openly at her aunt’s warning, and Marigold pursed her lips. “Alexia, I was never supposed to be involved at all. I only knew anything when they realized they could get a comparative baseline for what the virus changed. I can’t imagine Veronica’s genetic material was in pristine condition after all this time - I thought they were using my samples like a map - like flipping switches in a breaker box for memory retention, stronger immune system, that sort of thing.”

Alexia was quiet for a moment. “They…he did, after a fashion. According to his research notes. Not quite the way you’re thinking, but…you really didn’t know.”

Marigold cocked her head, thinking. “He didn’t tell anyone about you two until you were over a year old - I got the birth announcement a week after I got back from that horrid Romania trip - the first time my virus went active in a way that truly worried me. Knowing that we weren’t going to die out was a lifeline for me at the time. I didn’t ask questions.”

“Why the hell not?”

Marigold shrugged. “Habit, mostly. It was always safer for the family if I couldn’t be tricked into telling someone about the work. Did Alfred tell you what I did on Rockfort? To the soldier?”

“He…said you bit someone.”

“I’ve only done that to three people.” Marigold winced at the memory. “When the virus isn’t already involved, there’s a sharp paralimbic mutation that increases suggestibility and creates a connection. It’s more subtle when it’s just something like sharing drinks. It’s also why I stayed in corporate for as long as I did. If Spencer was willing to do that to me without cause, I needed to be ready to..divest him of his influence should he go off the deep end.” Marigold paused. “I was lucky an old girlfriend at the Raccoon City office drove me down to the mansion, at least, even though the rest of it was a disaster. I was able to get her to tell him to run, and then have her do the same. It did my head in, pushing that through my medication. That’s why I stayed away from it after I came back- it was offered a few times, but I couldn’t let myself be weak like that again. Not when it counted.”

Alexia started to retorted, then stopped herself with a slow smile. “So you do understand,” she said, almost to herself. “Even if you don’t want to. Refusing to be a mere tool in someone else’s game.”

Empathy was still not Alexia’s strongest trait, but they were pointed in the same direction again. That had to count for something. Marigold took a deep breath and let it out. “So just how did it come to pass that my little brother, who I practically hand-raised been screaming in a basement for the last fifteen years?”

Alexia finally looked away. “The test went badly. We couldn’t contain him. There…wasn’t any pain.”

“There’s almost nothing but pain, Alexia. I can still feel it. He knows your names.” Marigold pulled her hand away. “He still knows mine. It’s almost a mercy that this place will burn.”

They both went quiet again. Marigold looked up, spotting the old messer blade mounted on the wall. “That used to be in my father’s office,” she said distantly. “I used to look at it all the time. It wasn’t mine to touch, even if your- if Alexander showed no interest.” She smiled a little. “It was still sharp back then. I bet it still is.” Her eyes wandered to the bookcase, and her heart nearly stopped.

She’d told Alexander that she wanted to set up a Teig O’Kane protocol on her last visit to the family. And the book she was looking at didn’t belong there.

Marigold stood suddenly, crossing over to the bookcase. On the third shelf was a leatherbound book that was distinctly out of place amongst the textbooks and ledgers- “Irish Fairy Tales and Folklore of the Isles.” She pulled it out from the shelf- and an envelope fell out.

She froze a moment, glancing at Alexia, who looked equally bewildered- she hadn’t put this here. Marigold bent and picked the envelope up, pulling out a single page. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Alexia looked wary.

“I…it’s something we need. Something Alexander- both of you, actually- were working on.” She looked up at Alexia. “I need to find his work- there’s questions I need answered- but this is an immediate problem that we need to deal with. Do you know about the bunker?”

Alexia frowned. “I know it exists, but not how to get in. Alexander thought it was frivolous.”

Marigold actually chuckled. “Father - your grandfather - started to see the threat, after my accident. They didn’t see eye to eye on the matter, so he started walking me through the plans almost as soon as I could get out of bed again. I’ll need to find the access codes, but I can open everything before it.” She folded the letter in two and slipped it into her pocket. She turned to look at the blade mounted on the wall, and crossed the room to it. “I’ll have go into the facility, then. It will take some time to get everything, and I need you to keep an eye on your brother until I get back.

Alexia stood, clearly relieved to no longer be reliving the past. “Get yourself ready, then- I have a spare access card in my room. I can make you a copy.”

Don cut the transmission. His new contact was an outfit, HCF, led by an ex-Umbrella man. On the one hand, someone smart enough to get out when Umbrella was starting to crumble would be hard to put one over on, especially if things went sour. On the other, it meant that they’d hardly bat an eye at his price, nor what it took for him to keep the place from falling down around their ears.

And make no mistake: keeping Spencer from demolishing the place once the outbreak was fully entrenched would be a feat in itself. He grimaced as he got up from his surveillance station. The cold mingled with age setting into his bones reminded him once again that he was no longer the strapping young man who’d arrived here decades ago. To think that a few short months ago, his biggest concern had been getting out before Spencer had him liquidated for a younger model of Monitor.

Don hadn’t been idle this past year. Alfred had granted him temporary access to the facility’s plans for “repairs” before taking off for Rockfort. Looking over the plans, there were secret passages and access points between the mansion and this level that only the family seemed to know about. Before he’d had access to this level, they’d only been a scant part of a backup plan, an emergency escape route in case he ever needed to twist Alfred Ashford’s arm for a way out of this place before his time was up. But now…

Now things had got interesting. Potentially, they’d also become incredibly lucrative. But the rewards involved carried with it the kind of risk that the average person didn’t come back from. Especially since the…growths coming from the walls had some sort of sensory functionality to them. He’d been so very careful to avoid them, so far. Just because Alexia had been more competent than her brother didn’t suggest that she had a shred more mercy.

He remembered her as a reedy, skittish little thing who’d nonetheless shown a flair for lab administration. Sometime in 1983, when Alexander had vanished, her eyes had lost that skittishness in a situation where it should have been made worse, replaced by something sharp, barbed. The old part of him, that Umbrella had sought out and bade him to keep concealed, instinctively recognized someone who’d had blood on their hands, and had deemed that fact to be an acceptable one.

He’d kept his distance.

The average person with the average moral compass might balk at the cold calculations required to keep this place intact a little while longer, Don thought. Yesterday, he’d spotted a group of maintenance workers holed up in a supply room on the cameras. There wasn’t quite a dozen of them, most of them were middle-aged, worn down. He’d trained most of them himself. They’d trust Don, and would be led where he told them to go.

There was enough to get the germ of a plan in place.

It was amazing what could be accomplished when you were willing to cut a few throats on the way, get your hands dirty. Nosferatu itself would be enough to peak Lord Spencer’s interest for a bit, staying his hand.

HCF would be here in just a few hours - just long enough to **set up **the little sweetener he’d been thinking over, to keep the old man from blowing the place up. From the sound of it, the mercenary outfit had thrown plenty of meat into the grinder at Rockfort Island, and allegedly at Raccoon City before that. Surely they’d be able to spare a little more.

The maintenance workers had been lured down like a pack of fearful, hungry stray dogs. They’d been so grateful to Don for sharing his secured living space, a lab next to his surveillance room set up with blankets and food. They’d been even happier to see the case of Chilean wine he’d scavenged. “Let’s see if this is still any good - might as well drink to the end of the world while we wait for rescue, eh?” Those working in the transport facility had an appreciation for gallows humour. They’d laughed merrily, and drank their fill.

The drugged wine had done its work. Stretching his weary muscles, he grabbed a work cart to select the first of many, whistling a jaunty tune.

Nosferatu was sure to be famished, and it was time to set up the feeding pen. If he did this right, Spencer would have plenty of BOW data to moon over until he could extricate himself from this godforsaken place.

[zaph1337]

Monster Hunter Rating 42: Black Gravios, the Black Armor Wyvern

We’re reaching the end of the monsters introduced in Monster Hunter G; after this, there’ll be only a couple of Elder Dragons left, which I’m looking forward to talking about! But that’s no reason to rush this review, so let’s talk about Black Gravios and do it right!

(How it appears in Monster Hunter Freedom 1)

(How it appears in Monster Hunter 4)

Appearance: When I talked about Gravios, I made note of how they looked like truly ancient dragons: wizened and almost skeletal. Black Gravios obviously still have those features, but with their new coloring comes more of an emphasis on their volcanic aspect, and therefore, their powerful presence. Even their wings, which originally looked like they were made of sand, now have a color more akin to cool lava, and their tail spikes have orange tips, as if they’re burning hot.I’d give this a 9/10 like I did with the original Gravios, but looking back on it now, I don’t know why I gave it so generous a score. If I graded it now, I’d probably do as I’m doing here and give it an 8/10.

Behavior/Lore: Much like Black Diablos, Black Gravios are not a subspecies, but a variant; the change is brought about by a Gravios somehow developing an unusually high body temperature for their species. This increased heat induces a change in the chemicals within its shell, causing it to darken in color. That’s not the only change, though: while normal Gravios are usually sedate--only lashing out when something draws their ire--the same can’t be said for Black Gravios, which are incredibly hostile. This change in demeanor is probably caused by their abnormal body heat, as there’s no reason I can see why they’d need to be more aggressive. Something this tough doesn’t have a lot to worry about, after all, and their mineral-heavy diet means they don’t have anything to compete with, save for normal Gravios, I guess.

There’s really nothing else to talk about here, though I will say it’s interesting that this isn’t just a case of “aggressive monster becomes even more aggressive.” The fact that Gravios are normally calm monsters makes a stark contrast between them and the black variety, especially since the aggression seen in Black Gravios is brought about by what’s probably a health issue. This probably affects their entire lifestyle, not to mention their environment; while normal Gravios are territorial, they’re not going to lash out at other monsters without good reason. Black Gravios, on the other hand, are intolerant of everything, and I’d imagine that would cause any monsters forced to share living space with it to change their habits to avoid running into one, given how strong the stone wyverns are. It doesn’t help that Black Gravios need to release their fiery attacks frequently in order to stay cool, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they went looking for fights in order to get some use out of that; they may feed predominantly on ores and other minerals, but they’ll still eat meat to supplement their diet, and I can’t see them saying no to a BBQ.

I appreciate how much there is to think about with Black Gravios given how their main behavioral difference is “more angy.” Granted, a lot of that is thanks to the standard variety being so different in demeanor, but still! 8/10.

Abilities: As you’d expect, the higher internal temperature of Black Gravios means that their fire-based attacks are deadlier, and as I said, they need to use these attacks often to prevent getting too hot. This likely changes battles with them, causing them to be less reliant on sleeping gas and physical attacks. Their heated gas is also expelled after repeated use of their lava beam, meaning that staying close to them away from their heads isn’t as safe as it should be. Their darkened shells are also extremely tough, especially on their neck and legs, and can even deflect weapons at maximum sharpness.

This is...fine, I guess, but I wish that there were new fire attacks; given that Black Gravios are tougher than normal, it’d be neat if, for example, they used techniques that would normally be too risky for the normal kind to try, or did something utilizing their hotter temperature. 6/10.

Equipment: As you’d expect, the Black Gravios equipment has a “volcanic rock” aesthetic that the normal kind doesn’t, which should have clued me in as to why the Sword and Shield I showed in my Gravios review was out of place. Woops. Well, this time I’ll show you a shared-material weapon on purpose--Dual Blades from MH4 called Melting Wail (well, that’s grim):

The description on the wiki, when translated to English, says “Taking advantage of the characteristics of an armored dragon, it is a twin sword with two attributes: fire and poison. The trick is to slash like pulling a saw when attacking.“ That doesn’t seem effective, but it’s almost certainly painful. Considering the Hunter’s Guild tries to place emphasis on respecting nature, you’d think that they’d outlaw the use of weapons that are clearly meant for inflicting pain more than they are for quick kills. I get that the weapon designs and lore have no real bearing on gameplay, but dang. Moving on, here’s the Black Gravios Gunlace, called...the Black Gunlance. No comment.

The description from Freedom 2 says that a single shot from this weapon can “rain down hell.” Dramatic. Anyways, this takes an interesting approach to Gunlaces: rather than the barrel being full encased within the lance, half of the gun part is exposed, which seems like it’d hurt the weapon’s ability to pierce things. It definitely seems more like a ranged weapon than one for close-quarters combat. The shields cool, though. Finally, here’s the Black Gravios Long Sword from Frontier G:

Did I say sword? I meant naginata. My mistake. Jokes aside, this is really cool! The red metal looks like it was made from ore that came from Black Gravios, rather than being ordinary metal that the parts are affixed to. The “vents” on the handle give the weapon a fiery feel, even if they’d be more likely to burn the user if this weapon was used in real life.

Other than the Long Sword and Sword and Shield, the Black Gravios weapons are okay, but not excellent or anything. I think Black Diablos’ weapons did the black, craggy look better, but that’s just me. Onto the armor, I only showed the Gunner set when talking about Gravios, but I’ll show them both here, starting with the Blademaster set as it appears in MHO:

These remind me of NRG from Ben 10, albeit with skinnier arms. Seriously, the contrast between the massive shoulder pads and the small arm guards is too funny to have been unintentional. What was also likely intentional is the crotch-guard, but in my opinion that’s much less funny and more “why would you do this.” Here’s my question, though: do those vents actually add anything of defensive value to the armor? Considering they’re all over it, I’d hope so. Next up is the Gunner armor from the same game:

It’s actually different from the Gunner armor I showed in my Gravios review, which gives me some new stuff to say! The men’s armor is the most similar, but it has a few differences, including its “visor” (I don’t know if that’s the correct term here), which reminds me of a grumpy Darth Vader (so, just Darth Vader, I guess). The women’s set, on the other hand, looks almost nothing like the one I showed before, especially the helmet. Speaking of which, am I crazy, or can you just barely see her face in there? I think I can see eyes, but I’m not sure, though if they aren’t I have no idea how she sees in that thing.

While the new colors make the equipment look distinct from Basarios equipment--something I couldn’t say about normal Gravios gear--most of the weapons are kinda bland, being outdone in their aesthetic by Black Diablos weapons. The armor, on the other hand, fits the volcanic theme perfectly, though I do think the number of vents can be toned down a little. All-in-all, I do slightly prefer the Black Gravios equipment as a whole over the normal kind, but not by enough to earn it an extra point. 7/10.

Final Thoughts and Tally: Well, that was interesting. While Black Gravios follow the same trend many other variants and subspecies do--being much more hostile than normal--it stands out for how aberrant this kind of behavior is for unprovoked Gravios. This alone makes it appealing to me, but in terms of what it can do in battle, there’s just not a lot there we didn’t see already. Just like with the equipment, I like this monster more than its normal form, but not by much. 7/10.

[lytters]

recalculating, reevaluating || b. katsuki

katsuki has always had one plan since he was young – to be a hero. he’s been sure of it ever since he was born, hell, even in his mother’s womb. his mother likes to laugh about how he’d kick up a storm in her belly whenever she watched a hero fighting on television. she jokes that he was already practicing how to be one so that he could be born fighting.

throughout his childhood, he trained himself, pushing his body to its limits, working on his quirk until he has complete mastery over it. by the time he gets into UA, he’s already halfway to his end goal. now as much as UA was a school for potential heroes, it’s also still a highschool. and it means the the experience of crushes, and love, and heartbreak is a package deal.

katsuki watches as his friends (not that he’ll admit it to their faces, being the tsundere he is) fall in love, then out of love, and back in again. he watches as they get confessions after confessions because heroes-in-training is a huge appeal to the masses. and of course he experiences his fair share of confessions, he’s damn attractive and he knows it. but never once did he entertain any of them; he’s worked hard to reach where he is, and he’d be damned if he got distracted from his only plan in life.

he thinks he’ll never fall in love, because he’s already in love with one thing – being a hero.

until you. he never saw you coming until you were there, unassuming, all-consuming.

you, an unremarkable face in the crowd, just another civilian he’s saved and will continue to save, plain, little old you caught his attention. it hadn’t been in a life-changing moment. no, in fact, it had been an extremely mundane event that had him reconsidering everything in his life. and all you did was thank him sincerely with a little charm you had on you.

“i’m sorry i don’t have much to offer, but this charm has always brought me good luck, so i hope it brings you good luck too. for saving me.”

katsuki wants to scoff in your face, to throw the charm back at you. he doesn’t need luck; luck’s for idiots who waste their time wishing, never working. but the sincerity in your eyes, the gentle way you press the charm in his hand, it struck something in him. he spends nights thinking about you, tossing and turning as he dreams about the charm, how genuine you were in a world full of extras and fakes.

he can’t figure out what exactly it was about you that keeps drawing his attention back to you. he hates it. he hates you. who are you, a nameless face, to the rising pro-hero lord explosion murder: dynamight? why can’t he stop remembering your eyes, your touch? it’s months of this aggravating cycle, and without a name, he can’t track you down and demand you to explain to him these vexing feelings.

he’s finishing up patrol when he spots you in the crowd, smiling without a care in the world. he’s instantly angry: how can you be smiling like that, after causing him so much mental distress? you’ve costed him so many nights of sleep, and yet here you are, practically bouncing with joy. it is with these thoughts bouncing around that he storms towards you, ready to vent his frustrations.

all of these comes to a screeching halt when you turn that smile on him. everything clicks then, in one mortifying moment – katsuki had a crush on you.

he burns up in an instant, his palms sparking in a way it hasn't done since highschool. he fights to keep it under control, to maintain a cool demeanor as you make your way to him. he’s faced villains ten times scarier than you, taken them down in matter of minutes. and yet he can’t help his heart from racing, his face from flushing in ugly, blotchy patches as you stop in front of him with that damned smile.

“hey! i’m not sure if you remember me,” you look up at him shyly through your lashes, and he can’t decide if he wants to throttle you or profess his feelings for you. of course he remembers you, the one who’s been haunting his thoughts, his dreams. but he doesn’t say that, waiting for you to finish what you want to say. “you saved me a couple months back, and i gave you a charm?”

katsuki is a well-educated man. he’s scored consistently in the top five in his highschool cohort, and now holds a cumulative grade point average of 3.98 as he studies in university while working a pro-hero. the point is, he’s smart. but for all the words he’s learnt, he seems to have tossed them all out the window then, because all he can do is nod and grunt his affirmation.

that doesn’t deter you though, and dear god, it should be illegal how cute you are when your eyes light up and you bounce on your feet lightly.

“that’s great! i, uh, i hope the charm’s been working for you!” you bite your lip nervously, and katsuki wants to die. the thought must show through on his face, because your smile drops, and you back up uneasily. “uh, anyways, i just wanted to say hi, and thank you again. i’m sorry for bothering you, i’ll leave now.”

no, damnit, don’t leave. katsuki watches as you bow quickly, turning to leave.

“wait.”

katsuki has always had one plan, and one plan only – to be a hero. but here you are, and now he’s recalculating, reevaluating. he wants you; he wants to be yours. he’s going to be yours.

“i’m ending patrol soon, d’ya wanna get dinner?”

say yes, say yes because katsuki will die of humiliation if you don’t. you turn back to face him, a hopeful light in your eyes. say yes, please.

“i would love to.”

[inkykeiji]

i’m about to show you the beginning is the end

anonymous said: touya-nii reader def had to reason with him as to why he cant mark her neck (school, friends) and hes all wtf? he spirals for a good hour as to why u dont want him to leave those pretty love bites u cry for + adore for the world to see? awww how funny and cute would touya-nii be overthinking this.. he just cant understand & u have bring natsuo in to help u

character: todoroki touya | dabi

genre: angst with the teeniest, tiniest sprinkle of fluff

notes: aaah okay!!! this is set in my touya-nii AU, approximately a few weeks after part three of the main series. you don’t have to read the main series before reading this to get the gist of it, but it would help to have a little knowledge about what happened & why their relationship is in such a volatile state! | title credit: this is love by air traffic controller

warnings: no smut but still 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest/pseudocest, verbal fighting, extremely toxic relationship, marking/bruising/hickeys, drug use

words: 4.8k

synopsis:

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear you aren’t used to hearing those three little words, chest deflating with the softest little whimper, your own brilliant love shining through your glistening eyes, so bright it blisters his skin.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Don’t you love me?” His voice tapers off into a whisper, that solitary tear finally, finally breaking free of his lashes, rolling down his cheek and leaving a gleaming stream in its wake. A thumb swipes through it viciously, smearing salt water across his cheekbone, his jaw clenching twice as he swallows thickly. “I thought you did.”

Wisps of smoke curl through the air, effused from a slow-burning cigarette held with artful carelessness between Touya’s lithe fingers. Twisted on his side and propped up with an elbow digging into his mattress, he idly scrolls through his phone, irrelevant news articles and celebrity gossip blurring past his eyes while you stand in front of his full-length mirror, getting ready for your class.

Rei hates it when he smokes in the house, says it irritates her eyes and nose, says the scent triggers headaches.

But what his mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

There’s a lot of things she doesn’t know, after all, isn’t there? A lot of things she willfully ignores about her son, pretends she doesn’t see or smell—the small smattering of crimson on the sleeve of his jacket, the stinging stench of metallic copper than sews itself into the fabric of his t-shirt and twines itself through the strands of his hair—so, really, what’s one more?

Nothing she won’t learn to tolerate.

He can feel your gaze on him, bouncing off the reflective mirror and gliding over the bare skin and lean muscle of his chest, journeying down to the still unbuttoned jeans sitting low on his jutting hipbones, waistband loose and exposing the elastic of his briefs.

“You’re so beautiful, niichan,”

The compliment is murmured out, nothing more than a mesmerized huff of breath, words infused with a sort of whimsical appreciation that sends one of those unfamiliar rushes of warmth surging through his chest.

He’s never felt this way about anyone before. 

His stare lifts to meet yours, lazy and half-lidded, clear sapphire slow and purposeful as he traces the contours of your face—the curve of your cheek (sticky with dried salt from your sobbing), the slope of your nose (still twitching with residual sniffles), the shape of your lips (raw and swollen from his tongue and teeth)—then drifts down to the busy fingers fussing around your neck, delicately pressing a powder puff against your marred flesh.

It takes him a moment to fully comprehend your intention, brows knitting together as his eyes narrow, squinting in concentration then widening as the realization hits.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He’s nearly choking on the question as he shoots up from the bed, half-smoked cigarette stubbed out in an instant, feet slapping against the hardwood and long legs crossing the room with a few quick strides. Slender fingers cuff your wrist, squeezing firmly and halting your ministrations, a cry of pained surprise catching in your throat.

“Niichan!” The honorific slices through the air as your gaze flies to his, hand going limp in his grasp, puff falling to the floor. “I—I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t play fucking stupid,” he spits, grip around your wrist tightening as he yanks you closer to him. “My marks. Why are you—Why are you trying to hide them?”

The words splinter in his throat, breath exhaled through flared nostrils in short, hot puffs as he frenetically glances between your face and your neck, blood gone thorny in his veins.

“O-Oh.” Blinking heavy tears from your vision, you look back towards the mirror. “Well, I-I love them, Touya-nii, I really do—they’re so pretty, and I—”

Your voice fades softly, eyes wistful, almost dreamy with the mist filling them, as they unhurriedly scan the blooms of periwinkle and blue-black painted across your exposed throat—golf-ball sized welts of lilac and violet that climb their way to your jaw, just shy of crossing the line onto your cheek—savouring them with admiration.

“And I wish I could show them off; truly, I do. But—” your eyes dart back to his, partially obscured by your lashes, bashful even as you search for his acceptance, his approval. “But they’re too dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Too—” Too dangerous?

The word claws it’s way through the inked flesh of his cheek, shoving itself past the wound and down his throat to churn the acid in his stomach, the hand around your wrist going lax as he stumbles backwards from the impact.

Too dangerous? But how could that be? This is what you wanted; this is what you wanted, what you begged and cried for, what you committed such an atrocious act of indecency for, isn’t it?

Unless…

Azure descends from your neck to your breasts, your hips to your feet, pausing for a moment before sliding back up your body, slowly, slowly, scrutinizing.

“Were you…” he trails off, roughly clearing his throat to rid it of the incessant tremble fusing itself to his voice. “Were you lying to me when you said you wanted all of me?”

“What?” The gasp is kicked from your chest by shock, eyes widening and head shaking with vigour as you step towards him, fingers griping through the air, reaching for him. “No! No, Touya-nii, of course not,”

“No?” he laughs, and it’s harsh, strangled, broken, wet. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, strong in your conviction. “You don’t even need to ask, you know—”

“Do I!?” He questions, and now his tone is sharp, hard, loud, smooth, feet beginning to pace. “Do I, really? Because—Because you whined, and you bitched, and you pled for me to be yours, for you to be mine, and now that you are I can’t even claim my favourite person? Because, what? It’s too fucking dangerous? What the fuck does that even mean!”

“Niichan,” you whimper out the honorific, head beginning to shake again, crystal teardrops rolling down your cheeks. “I—I just mean—Well, you know, your mom and my dad had so many questions the last time this happened. They asked me where they came from and why I was allowing someone to do such a thing to me. How am I supposed to respond to that? What am I supposed to say? I never leave or enter the house with anyone but you!”

“Nothing!” he explodes, feet skidding to a stop as he whirls to face you, blue flames flickering behind the water shielding his eyes, any signs of weakness incinerated in an instant, burnt up in the flames with a single blink. “You aren’t supposed to say anything, because none of this is any of their business anyway!”

“My friends at school, they asked, too,” you continue, words tumbling from your mouth at such a fast pace they collide and crash against one another, desperate to explain, desperate to be understood. “Who gave you those? and we didn’t know you had a boyfriend! and why didn’t you tell us about him before? I couldn’t even respond, because I know you don’t want me lying about having a boyfriend—”

“No,” he seethes, the word blistering his throat. No, of course he fucking doesn’t. “You shouldn’t have to lie about them at all!”

“But I can’t—I can’t tell them the truth, and I can only evade these questions for so long before people begin to get nosy, before people begin digging…”

“Who cares what other people think? What does it matter?” Two large hands rake through his tousled hair, fingers knotting in ink and tugging hard, hard enough to have his own features crinkling in pain, hard enough to momentarily calm the confusion roiling in his skull, the hybrid between a laugh and a yelp hitching in his chest. “I want to show the world that I belong to you, and you belong to me, and you’re—you’re fucking covering them up!”

“Touya-nii,” you whisper entreatingly, reaching for him again, falling short once more as he gracefully slips from your grasp. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think it’d be this big of a deal…”

Something cracks in his chest at your words, procuring an ache so deep, so dark, so fucking devastating he’s terrified it’s going to swallow him up whole, suck him down from the inside out and drown him in its agony.

Because that fucking hurts, knowing that you truly don’t understand; don’t understand why he’s so upset, don’t understand why this is so important to him, don’t understand what those hickeys symbolize. 

These are marks of love, these are marks of ownership, marks that have been crafted and carved into your skin with utmost affection, he makes sure of it; each sink of sharp incisors engraving his passionate possession onto your flesh, each lave of his slick tongue sealing the blossoming bruises with a declaration of devotion.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Why the hell wouldn’t you want to proudly wear the little masterpieces he’s so conscientiously sucked and bitten into your supple skin, created with such care and attention to detail? Why the hell wouldn’t you want to tell the whole world, boldly and bluntly, that you are taken? Especially when you beg and plead and shout and scream to have the rest of your body sculpted with his teeth?

Honestly, how else are others supposed to know that you belong to him?

Do you not love him as much as he loves you? Do you not want the world to know you’re his? Do you feel ashamed to be so beautifully tinged with his markings? What other reason could you have to want to hide them away, to conceal them and pretend they don’t exist, except for feeling regretful and humiliated by them? 

Everything burns, stings, like each question tearing through his mind is a talon ripping through his body, shredding his organs to ribbons.

Strong arms wind themselves over his body in a pathetic attempt to keep it from unraveling, fingers curling tightly around his biceps, nails scraping against his smooth skin, leaving red, raw tracks in their wake.

Was this the wrong choice? Was it a mistake to let you into his heart? He loves you; this much he knows for certain. He’s never felt this way about anyone else before—not even close—and he’s never found an angel as perfect as you are, but—but is it worth it? Is it worth this kind of terrifying, uncontrollable anguish? Is it worth allowing you to have such control over his emotions?

“Touya-nii! Hey! Touya-nii!”

Your voice cuts through the tide of chaos, beseeching eyes searching his face. Concern has woven itself into the wrinkles of your forehead, tears still steadily streaming from your eyes, small hands working to uncurl his own from his biceps, dislodging his nails from his flesh.

“Where did you just go right now, baby? What happened?”

Baby. Baby. You’ve never called him that before.

But he can’t tell you; he doesn’t know how to. His head shakes in response, eyes shutting tightly, a singular teardrop clinging stubbornly to his bottom lashes.

“That’s—That’s okay,” you murmur softly, a half-suppressed sniffles stuttering your words. “You don’t have to tell me, that’s okay,”

God, you’re so soft, so sweet, so good to him, dainty fingers rubbing soothing little circles into his gouged muscle, each caress eradicating a little more tension, his body beginning to slump into yours, transgressions melting from his mind.

But then you speak again, and it all comes hurdling back, all of the fury and the betrayal, eroding the pleasant fog you had temporarily instilled in his brain like some sort of caustic acid.

“I just—I just wanted you to know that I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. It isn’t about that; it isn’t about that at all. It’s that I don’t want you to get into trouble—”

“Trouble?” His nose scrunches with the word, features puckering as if it’s the most sour thing he’s ever tasted. “What kind of trouble could I possibly get into, that I haven’t gotten into already?”

“But that’s exactly the point!” you cry, frantic for his cognizance. “What we’re doing might not be illegal in a technical sense, but it’s definitely heavily frowned upon, and it raises further suspicions! Red Flags!”

A growl rattles his ribs as he glowers at you. He hates how you’re trying to make this about him, as if you’re somehow doing all of this in his honour and not for yourself, for your public image, for everyone but your big brother.

“I’m so—so worried, Touya-nii, I can’t imagine—”

“Oh, save your pity, I don’t fucking need it,” sapphire rolls in his skull as he rips himself from your grasp. “Acting as if this is somehow for me—”

“It is, niichan! It is!”

“You know, after everything, after all of the crying and the chasing, I finally give you what you want—what I thought you wanted—and you have the goddamn audacity to act with such disrespect.”

Slender fingers are back in his hair again, nails scratching audibly against his scalp as they tangle in onyx tufts, yanking at the strands as his head shakes in disbelief, a terrifying smile stretched abnormally wide across his face.

“I—I finally tell the world, Hey! She’s mine!, finally leave something everyone can immediately notice so they all fucking know, and you—you—”

His voice snaps with a hiccup as he watches it dawn on you, as you realize he’s never once bothered to mark your neck—something visible, something everyone can see all of the time—before he declared that you officially belonged to each other, only a few weeks ago.

A delicate hand flits to encircle your throat, the pads of your fingers stroking the bruises in a way that’s almost tender, affectionate, a newfound appreciation for them, for what they truly mean, settling in your glassy eyes.

“Touya-nii,” you begin, voice hoarse as it grates on your throat. “I didn’t—”

“No, of course you fucking didn’t.”

His heart slams fast and uneven against his ribcage, unsteady beats forcing a razored, ragged breath up his throat, each one slicing his flesh on its exhale, each one forcing honesty from his lips.

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear you aren’t used to hearing those three little words, chest deflating with the softest little whimper, your own brilliant love shining through your glistening eyes, so bright it blisters his skin.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Don’t you love me?” His voice tapers off into a whisper, that solitary tear finally, finally breaking free of his lashes, rolling down his cheek and leaving a gleaming stream in its wake. A thumb swipes through it viciously, smearing salt water across his cheekbone, his jaw clenching twice as he swallows thickly. “I thought you did.”

“Absolutely, I do! Niichan, I love you so much—”

“Sure doesn’t look like it,” his words drip with vitriolic acid, his eyes glinting in the diffused afternoon sun as they dart back to the partially concealed bruises.

“Touya-nii, you’re breaking my heart!” Your lashes glitter with diamonds as you blink rapidly, a poor attempt to clear your vision, face adorned with fat glistening tears, and oh, how gorgeous you are when you cry. “Please, I’m sorry, let’s fix this, we can fix this, I just—I don’t kn—”

But he isn’t listening, the blood surging in his ears drowning out your shattered voice, tumultuous thoughts crashing against the walls of his skull, so brutal they must crack the bone and seep through the fractures, cascading down his body like wet cement and bonding to his muscles, so heavy, so stifling, and—and—

And he needs to get the fuck out of here, he needs to get the fuck out of here now, cement stuffing his airways and clogging his veins, vision swimming with distress as he stumbles towards the bathroom, quivering hands already beginning to claw through his pockets.

Then the door is slamming behind him, and the rumbling impact is echoing around you, and you’re all alone.

The hiss of water against ceramic engulfs you a moment later, but you know he’s not showering.

It’s faint, cushioned by the steady stream and muffled by the wood of the door, but if you listen close enough you can hear it, can disentangle it from the knotted sounds and pluck it from the pile, that sharp snort as he stuffs his nose full of white powder.

Stabs of guilt shoot through your stomach, their sting compounded by the molten panic that immediately follows, tar-like tears obscuring your eyes, thick and sticky and clumping your lashes with each rapid blink in an attempt to clear them.

You have to fix this. You need to fix this, now.

But how? How?  

The tingling urgency to act burns in your veins, growing spikier with each passing second as your gaze darts around the room, that toxic concoction of terror and trepidation inching up your throat, sludgy and suffocating.

The familiar sound of plastic buzzing against oak cuts through the mayhem and you rush towards Touya’s phone (he had taken away your own after the Tomura incident), cradling it between your palms.

NATSUO: how are they?

Natsuo! Natsuo can fix this. Natsuo has more credence than you, has more credence than everyone, really, and if there’s anyone who can help you fully articulate the points slaughtered during your fight, it’s him.

You can’t unlock the device—you haven’t a clue what the passcode is—but you don’t need to.

A trembling thumb slams down on the text notification, pressing until the conversation opens up, clumsy fingers hastily tapping out a response.

Call me.

Ever the obedient little brother, Natsuo complies almost instantly, the phone resuming its vibration in your hand mere seconds after the text is delivered.

“Alright, look, I know they aren’t brand name, but they’re gonna get you high just the same, I promise—”

“Natsuo,” you cut him off, his name nothing more than a huff of breath on your lips.

The line goes silent for a moment, your breath held stagnant in your lungs with anticipation.

“Oh. Uh, hey,” he finally responds, slow, tentative, unsure. “What’re you—”

“Natsuo, I need your help,”

“Help?” he questions, and you can almost see his spine straightening, authority and alarm bleeding into his voice, that pre-med school training snapping into action. “What’s wrong?”

“Touya—Touya-nii and I had a fight—” You can’t help the way the word shatters with a pathetic sob, your eyes squeezing shut against the thought, exhaling a shaky breath and pushing forward. “And not a normal fight, Natsuo; a big fight, a bad fight—”

“Okay, okay,” Natsuo’s saying, the professional calm in his tone disrupted by the underlying tremors of personal concern. “Is he alright? I mean, is he safe?”

“I don’t—He’s—I think he’s doing lines in the bathroom,”

For some reason, this seems to placate Natsuo, a faint sigh of relief slithering through the speaker. “Tell me what happened.”

Even with your broken hiccups and slurred sobs, it doesn’t take long to relay the situation to Natsuo, who vows to handle it when he arrives before ending the call. You hadn’t wanted him to hang up—there was something about having him on the phone that felt comforting, that felt safe, as if his mere voice could protect you from the wrath of your big brother—but Natsuo had insisted, assuring you that it would be much worse for Touya to emerge and find you on his phone before Natsuo had reached the house than to keep him on the line.

If Natsuo’s being honest, he thinks it’s pretty cute, the way his big brother just can’t seem to comprehend why anyone, let alone his precious little baby, wouldn’t want to proudly display the marks her niichan gifted her; the way Touya seems to think he’s invincible, untouchable, because he breaks the law habitually with leisure and practiced ease, thus somehow rendering him immune to any law enforcement at all.

Natsuo understands better than their poor baby sister does, though. Natsuo understands that heady power that clogs Touya’s brain and cloaks his thoughts, the heavy, hazy veil of authority permanently shielding his gaze.

And Natsuo understands how to deal with it.

As it turns out, Natsuo makes it to you before Touya’s left his little sanctuary, the muddled sound of his little brother’s voice more than enough to coax him from the bathroom.

“What are you doing here?” Voracious pupils rimmed with crystal search the younger man’s face, staggering towards his younger brother and clapping a hand on his broad shoulder.

“Came to see if you were okay,” Natsuo responds a little breathlessly, placing a palm over the hand clamped down on his shoulder and squeezing, his body a source of reliable stability for his niisan.

“I’m not,” Touya’s face twists, the words bitter on his tongue, casting a glare your way.

“Hey,” Natsuo says softly, using a gentle hand to guide Touya’s gaze back to his own. “She told me what happened—”

“Oh? Did she? Did she tell you how fucking disrespectful she’s been?”

“Of course,” Natsuo soothes. “Of course she did, niisan. You know she’s never anything but honest,”

“Honest,” Touya snorts, eyes rolling. “Honest. Is that what we’re calling it? Is that what she was three weeks ago, when she went and fucked—”

“I’m not here to talk about that, Touya-nii,” Natsuo says, the words somehow both firm yet gentle. “You know why she did that, and you’ve moved forward, haven’t you? It’s in the past now,”

Natsuo knows it isn’t that simple, though. Shards of Touya shoot through his mind: how his voice had been thick with tears through the staticky speaker of Natsuo’s phone; the potent panic that had imbued his confessions and explanations as they raced from his lips; the way his niisan became small, scared—smaller and more scared than Natsuo had ever seen him before—when he admitted that he was downright petrified of what was happening to him; all of those strange, unknown feelings coursing through his body, the sheer vulnerability and loss of power, the anger and hatred and terror and heartache, the inability to bear the mere thought of losing you, of you leaving him, forever.

Touya shifts, shrugs, looks away, and nods once, jaw flexing.

Shifting on the edge of Touya’s bed, your eyes look between the two of them, narrowing a little, as if trying to decipher the unspoken memory passing through their eyes, in the air between their chests.

“Maybe I should—”

“No,” Touya snaps instantly, broken from wherever Natsuo had just taken him, eyes blazing. “You stay.”

“She has a point about the hickeys, you know,” Natsuo says cautiously, eyes trained on his big brother’s expressions, ready to revise his statement at the slightest hint of recoil. “Marks such as these put your whole relationship at risk, Touya-nii.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Touya sneers. “Incest isn’t even illegal in Japan, alright? Especially between fucking step-siblings. I checked.”

Oh, Natsuo doesn’t doubt that one bit; Touya’s practically got Japan’s criminal law memorized backwards.

“It isn’t about the incest, though,” Natsuo continues in that slow, soft lilt. “It’s so much more than that, niisan. Incest might not be fully illegal here, but what if the police begin to dig more, dig further, find some dirt with your DNA all over it…”

You can both see it, that smug self-assurance plastered across Touya’s face paired with a dismissive scoff in response, arrogance shining in his eyes—yeah, right, as if they could ever catch him—but the thought still manages to sew a few thin threads of fear through him.

Touya is careful, sure. Touya works for the biggest Yakuza in the fucking country, though. Touya’s currently at war with said Yakuza’s fucking son.

If the authorities come poking around, who’s to say Tomura won’t sell him out, at least in some capacity? Who’s to say Tomura won’t frame him for something, won’t make some sort attempt to get rid of him if the opportunity presents itself? Because with Touya out of the picture, that leaves you, his poor, precious little baby, helpless and all alone…

“Besides,” Natsuo continues after a beat, drawing his big brother’s attention back to him. “You know the hickeys are there—”

“It isn’t the same,” Touya growls, eyes flashing. “I’m not the one who needs to know they’re there! They aren’t just for me!”

That’s right; they’re more than just bruises on flesh. They’re a claim, a stake to ownership, a bold statement.

“You’re right, niisan, I’m sorry,” Natsuo’s saying immediately, pacifying hands finding Touya’s wounded biceps and squeezing gently. A hum vibrates in his throat as he thinks. “What if you bought her something a little more permanent, though? Bruises fade fast and raise a whole ton of questions no one wants to answer, but something physical—something like a piece of jewellery, something she can wear every day—will not.” 

It’s easy to tell that Touya isn’t totally in love with the idea—what makes the hickeys so special is that they are made by him—but he has to admit, Natsuo makes a good point.

“Please, niichan,” you chime in, and your voice is small, hesitant, terrified of shattering what Natsuo has just precariously repaired. “I love you so much, I love you more than anything on this earth, I swear I do, and I’d love something that could help me show it off—something that isn’t as hazardous, because—because—” The words catch on a suppressed sob in your throat, but you power through, voice garbled. “Because I can’t live without you, Touya-nii, I need you to survive now, and I—I don’t want to do anything that puts us at risk; that puts me at risk of losing you, even if it’s tiny. I can’t go on without you by my side!”

Bursts of pride race through his veins, coming to collect into a concentrated ball of glittering sunlight behind his ribs, encasing his heart in its warm embrace.

“I’d do anything for you, Touya-nii. Anything. You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” you stare up at him with such devotion, such sincerity, so much so that it’s spilling from your eyes and mixing with your tears, staining your cheeks and bearing your soul to him with such obedience—so willing to serve, wanting to serve.

And suddenly, he remembers. He remembers why he decided to open his heart to you, why he fell so irreversibly hard, so irreversibly fast for you, why he knowingly took that chance to be vulnerable, fully aware of the potential perils that come packaged with love.

No, it wasn’t wrong to let you in, to let you stay. Yes, it was worth it—is worth it—being honest and raw with you; giving you all of him, just like you begged him to not so many nights ago, in the dark of his bedroom with tears in your eyes and your heart in your voice; becoming wholly and completely yours—and you, wholly and completely his.

A calloused hand cups your cheek, rough fingers running across your sticky skin as he gazes down at you with so much love it aches, this love he’s never allowed himself to show you before, beautiful and vulnerable and so fucking bright it scalds your skin.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he murmurs, revelling in the way you whimper and nuzzle into his palm. “Who will guide you, who will take care of you, if niichan isn’t there? You can’t do it on your own, can you?” he clicks his tongue, like you are the most pathetically precious thing he’s ever owned. “You need him, don’t you, princess?”

Affirmatives are spilling from your lips in an instant, both hands wrapped around his strong wrist and gripping it like a lifeline, keeping his palm pressed almost painfully to your cheek.

“I know, baby, I know,” he’s saying softly, just shy of a whisper. “You need him, I know.”

And he needs you, too.

✰          ✰          ✰

Natsuo’s words ring true in his head, and it isn’t more than a day or two after the argument when he presents you with one of those pretty blue boxes, an ivory ribbon tied in an immaculate bow around it. The small package houses a Tiffany key, the base a heart-shaped locket, a scrawled ‘T’ engraved in the platinum; a cheesy symbolism that you own not only the key, but his whole heart, too—but it isn’t what he truly wanted to gift you with; not exactly, anyway.

A diamond choker—a subtle collar—that’s what you need. That’s what he wants to give you.

But the collar is something that’s special; the collar requires a significant amount of consideration and contemplation on his part, an excruciating amount of searching and studying in an effort to find one that’s just right. This isn’t something he wants to carelessly rush into.

It isn’t perfect, but the Tiffany necklace will work as a placeholder for now, enough to declare his love and ownership until he finds something flawless, something faultless, that suits you—and his proclamation—exquisitely.

[the-final-sif]

Why do you sympathise with Dream/ gen

I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, I’m just a little confused.

I mean he literally killed people to prove a point, basically tortured a kid and destroyed a lot of stuff. (As well as other things)

He is one of my favourite characters on the dsmp so I can guess why you like him, but specifically sympathising with him? I genuinely would like to know why!! If that’s ok!!

I'm honestly confused by this ask, but I'll address a few points just to ramble out my thoughts.

As a human being, I find it hard to see someone getting starved, tortured, abused, isolated, and put through some of the worst things a human being can endure, without feeling sympathy / compassion for them. As a hurt/comfort writer, I enjoy seeing these things in fiction, but I still see them as fundamentally wrong.

He did not "torture a kid", he was abusive/toxic towards c!Tommy who was 16-17 and ended up killing him after being locked in intensive isolation + starvation conditions with him for an extended period, and brought him back to life as proof he could.

Of people perma killed (maybe?) by c!Dream, it's really just Vik & Laser and frankly I think that's fair because they're fortnite players and it was very funny.

I'm literally not even going to engage with the idea that "destroyed a lot of stuff" is even remotely important. Talk to me when people stop burning down c!Ponk's poor lemon trees.

Again I would like to point to a nearly year long experience in which we saw c!Dream being ACTUALLY tortured daily, undergoing starvation, extreme isolation, being abused by c!Sam and c!Quackity, having no privacy or agency, etc. If you are unable to see how people would feel sympathy / compassion for someone in that situation, then I cannot help you.

Did c!Dream do some not great stuff? Oh yeah. He's a 20-22 year old whose got some fucked up world views, who didn't handle very stressful situations well, and who got fucked over in a lot of circumstances. He made very harmful choices. Lots of people on the SMP have done fucked up stuff, and literally none of them deserve to be locked up, abused and tortured for any length of time. No human being deserves that.

Besides that, I think the fact that c!Dream designed the prison for himself, speaks volumes about his character and worldview. He genuinely thought that he'd be okay in the circumstances he set up (even though he didn't even get that much). Knowing that he designed the prison for himself, retroactively sheds new light on stuff like Exile.

Like, even the default conditions of the prison as Dream intended them (small room surrounded by lava, isolation conditions with visits controlled by the Warden, minimal potato only diet, no exercise/bed, no comforts beyond books and visits to the courtyard) were objectively significantly worse then the conditions of Tommy's exile (not arguing that Exile wasn't bad, only that the conditions of the prison were worse). And Dream wholeheartedly believed that enduring those conditions was something he'd be fine with, and worth progress towards his goal. No wonder he had no moral issues with what he did during exile, look at what he considered acceptable to do to himself!

It speaks of an incredibly fucked up worldview, of just how much he believes the plan is worth. How much Dream is personally willing to sacrifice and drive himself to, in pursuit of something that is probably impossible. He's fundamentally an extremely tragic and human character, and I hope he gets worse. I hope his treatment reinforces his spiral and we see him lash out and hold tighter to his impossible, self-destructive ideals.

[father-time-and-baby-new-year]

happy 200! i’m so glad to see your blog grow, it’s one of my favorites and i adore all your writing. i’ve never cried so much and i love the kind of unsettling feeling you write in your fics, it’s perfect in the category of yandere and dark content. in particular, i loved your drabble about shigaraki mourning over a dead reader and i’ve reread that one too many times to count haha! as for asks for headcannons and drabbles, it would be amazing to see that with bully!eren especially since he was such an awful person to the reader. i’d love to see him suffer honestly, but if you don’t want to write it, that’s completely fine! once again, i’m so proud of you for hitting 200! that’s such a huge milestone and hopefully, there will be many more in the future! :)

SYNOPSIS: bully!Eren has to navigate the world without you.

Pairing: Bully!Eren x Fem!Reader

A/N: I can't even explain in words how much I CHEESED at this message like my grin was ear to ear. can't explain how many times I read this. It singlehandedly made my day anon, and to repay you for my happiness....here is some angst. this is a slightly different route than the shiggy one but I hope it still suits you <3

TW: mentions of death, past dubcon/noncon, mentions of trauma, bullying, alcohol addiction, drunk driving, abusive behavior, revenge porn, nonconsensual photography/videography, mentions of infidelity, angst, so much of angst, violent behavior

WC: 2.5k

It's not like Eren had been doing a lot of soul-searching. He's not delusional enough to label his half-assed epiphany of "maybe I'm a shitty person" as soul searching.

It's just the conversation with his very sick mother burned holes through the back of his mind. Carla had asked about you and why you don't come by the house anymore. How she missed baking with you in the kitchen, and how you sweetly smiled whenever you would see soft creamy peaks form in the meringue.

Eren felt like he was swallowing needles as he assured his mother with false truths, that nothing was going on and distance between childhood friends is natural, and if it means so much--ok ok he'll bring you over.

He stays until he sees her chest slowly rising and falling into a gentle asleep. He touches the tip of his ears, unsurprised by how hot it was.

Eren, when you tell a lie, the tips of your ears turn red.

You're not at school the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

Guilt is not an emotion he feels often but the events of the past weekend replay in his mind. It was just a dumb party that Floch threw, and he was surprised to find you cornered by a trio of thee dunderheads. Like a distorted fairytale, he swept you away from the bad guys like a knight in shining armor, to only shove you in an empty room and demand compensation for playing hero.

Fuck, with that big mouth, you would think that you'd know how to suck cock.

Use your tongue stupid slut. If you use teeth, I'll shove this dick in your ass without any prep.

No, I don't care, you're taking all of it.

There's a video on his camera roll. How could he not record it? You're sobbing, mascara running down your cheeks, looking so beautiful and ruined with jizz smeared at the corner of your mouth. He was brutally fucking your mouth, making you take all of his length.

Breathe through your nose dumb whore. Or else you're gonna run out of air.

You were pleading with whatever garbled sounds you were constricted into producing.

Breathe through your fucking nose. This is for your sake. Otherwise, I don't mind face fucking your lifeless body. You'd be more useful that way anyways.

Eren is conflicted with muting the video because he can't stand to hear himself like that. But he didn't want to miss out on your pitiful whines.

He remembers the distraught expression on your face when he was finally done with you. He tucked himself inside, and sneered, "I've got a girl coming here. Get lost." You looked so fucking distraught. Why? All he did was make you suck his dick. He didn't even fuck you.

He should have. Eren thinks grimly when he stares at your empty desk on the first day you didn't show up to school. He's gotten off to the video more than enough times than he can count over the weekend, and he was aching to see your pretty face twisted into a terrorized expression when he flipped up your skirt to grope your ass.

Kindly, Eren decides he'd allow you to have a rest day. But the second day, Eren pays a visit to your house finding it dark and locked, like no one was home and hadn't been there for a while.

On the third day, you're declared missing.

Your incompetent workaholic mother who finally came home and decided to give a damn reported you missing to the authorities who had scratched their heads because as far as they knew, the pivotal 72 hours were up.

Paradis was surrounded by forests. No one wanted to say it, but they were all thinking it. If you got lost in there, chances are you wouldn't make it out.

Eren wasn't always this admired and fawned over. He had his fair share of behavioral issues that frightened people (not you though, not then at least, not when you were children, and you still came back every day to play).

But when he channeled that anger into sports, there was somewhat of a star in the making, especially for some small-town boy. He was becoming extremely popular, and that's nice and all, but at the end of the day, he has a mother whose health was taking a sharp decline. He was constantly under stress, stress that he took out on you.

Where did his favorite stress-ball go?

It's all fucking surreal. Having detectives in the school. Not that there were many students to question (because christ, did you even have any friends after Eren turned everyone against you?).

Eren was questioned. He can't help but mirthfully chuckle. Maybe this was your grand plan, maybe you were able to finally sort out a mountain of evidence against him. If you were going to fuck him over, didn't you want to see it happen with your own two eyes?

The dark-haired boy wishes that was true. If you had gotten your revenge, would you be here? No, revenge isn't the right word. If you got any justice for what he made you suffer, would you come back?

Hi, I'm Detective Hange. I would like to ask you some questions today. You're Eren Yeager, right?

Yes, that's me.

How do you know ___?

We were childhood friends. We're uh, we're not as close anymore.

When was the last time you saw her?

Friday night at Floch's party-

-Floch Forster right? There were a number of kids there from your school.

Yeah. It was a big party. She uh, doesn't usually come to parties but she was there that night.

You were the last person to be seen with her. Other kids have said that they saw you and her entering a room together, and then only her leaving the said room.

[Sigh] Yeah we sorta...hooked up.

I thought you said you guys weren't close anymore.

You can be not close to someone and still hook up with them.

But you guys were close once right?

Yeah. Once.

The dark-haired boy asks if he was under any suspicion. The detective waves their hand in a dismissive gesture, “If her diary tells us anything, it’s only that she really liked you.”

Were detectives even allowed to divulge that sort of information? Eren doesn’t know but the stray detail that they offered off-handedly made him feel like he was swallowing needles.

At that point, Eren honestly still doesn't believe you're gone. You had a habit of running away, even when you were little kids, but you always came back.

Still, he participates in the search parties with a renewed vigor, even going alone in the forest with a flashlight on most nights.

And he's just so fucking tired. The darkest crevice of his mind almost wishes you were dead because this ignorance was just agony. Almost. Because he still clings to the feeling that one day, he’ll stroll into class and find you in your seat in the back of the class, looking out the window like some cliche shojo manga protagonist.

There are folders and folders on his phone. Albums. The most recent one is dedicated to your crying face as you were choking on his dick. Earlier albums are composed of creepshots of your panties, of that obscene o-face, of your skirt flipped up and your ass cheeks, pictures of your cleavage, videos of you thrashing as he dunked your head into toilets like a villainous middle school bully.

Pictures of your neck covered in hickeys, your naked breasts, ass cheeks striped with red after getting spanked, your leaking cunt, just endless and endless media dedicated to pieces and pieces of your body like you were never a whole person.

The earliest ones though tell a different tale, from off-guards to your drooling face as you napped in the middle of the day.

He has a favorite picture. Your eyes are watery from the cold, snowflakes stuck between lashes, nose and cheeks flushed red, and you're smiling. Smiling right to the camera. Right at him.

"Eren, are you taking a picture?" You asked, bouncing in place, giddy that it was finally snowing.

"Not of you, shut up. Get out of the way." His voice is gruff but not harsh.

You laughed and jumped into frame anyway, and the bright streetlamp behind you made you seem like you were wearing a halo.

He wishes he had more pictures of you being...yourself. Because now your crying face displayed over countless pixels haunt him. But like a fucking degenerate, he still jerks off to all the nudes he coerced from you. Sometimes he cries when he's jerking off which is probably the most pathetic thing he's ever done. This is what you've reduced him to.

He hates the sound of his own voice.

Breathe through your fucking nose. This is for your sake. Otherwise, I don't mind face fucking your lifeless body. You'd be more useful that way anyways.

Eren goes through the motions of life without really feeling like he's in the moment. Seasons change and time flies. His mother dies, and his withdrawn father dies a year later. He proposes to Mikasa because it's something he was always supposed to do. She loves him unconditionally, so even when he doesn't put any effort into the relationship but proposes, she says yes hoping he'll change and be a good husband.

He doesn't go to his parents' funerals because they're already dead. What's the point. He doesn't visit the candlelight vigils in your honor either. After tearing his ACL again and a somewhat traumatic injury, he kisses his pro-football career goodbye. To be totally honest, he's relieved. Because he had gotten quite bored, and maybe he was looking for excuses to quit the entire time. It's not like you'd be cheering on the bleachers anyways.

Mikasa has an affair, more out of a desire to see her fiancé feel something for her as opposed to any burning lust. But when she asks him if he's ever cared at all, with tears springing out of her eyes, he's just calmly drinking his fifth of whisky.

The dark-haired man doesn't even look up, "Let's break up."

"Is this about her, huh? Fucking get over it already Eren. She's GONE. And you have some big fucking audacity moping about her death like you weren't making her cry in the bathroom stalls every fucking day you piece of shit."

"Get out."

"You know what, I bet she killed herse-"

SMASH

The dark-haired woman doesn't finish her rant because the whiskey bottle smashes on the wall next to her head, sending glass everywhere and staining the carpet amber. She's unharmed, knowing it wasn't Eren's intention to hit her but Jesus Christ, what a monster.

She packs her bags and leaves the town like she should have a long time ago. All her friends had left years before and she stayed behind because that's where Eren was. She thanks her lucky stars that they didn't marry.

It's funny because he had always imagined himself being the first to move out of their small town, but he's the one staying. He can't leave this place. feels too tethered to ever leave. Every diner and liquor store is saturated with memories of you. He remembers buying cigarettes and exhaling the smoke to your face to piss you off in empty parking lots.

Maybe he stays in case you'll come back.

Eren's days consist of alcohol-fueled hazes. He doesn't know how his liver is still functioning. He doesn't know he's still alive after crashing his car into a tree when he was drunk out of his mind. He was on his way to get some more vodka.

He barely recognizes himself in the mirror anymore, not that he looks at himself much. His hair is long, nestled around his shoulder because he couldn't be bothered to cut it, dark circles under viridian eyes, and a perpetual stubble on his jaw.

His parents had left quite a sizable inheritance so there's no need to work but he's good with his hands. Likes crafting up birdhouses and cabinets, and occasionally does odd jobs around the neighborhood, never charging the elderly.

He's under the sink, tinkering with a wrench against the pipes when he hears the old lady coo at him.

"We're so lucky to have you Eren. I'm surprised a handsome young man like yourself doesn't have a special lady. The girls must be lining up at your door!"

The dark-haired man winces, and offers no comment, knowing that that the older lady was susceptible to long tangents.

"You know, we're getting a new neighbor." Eren grunts as a response. "They're young, I've heard. Isn't that exciting? Oh my, Eren! I think they're gonna be living in the house right next to yours..."

He tunes out the rest of the conversation because doesn't really care. He just hopes his new neighbors are quiet.

It's Sunday noon when obnoxious noises of moving trucks and people wake him up from his deep slumber. Eren's annoyed to wake up despite the fact he's probably been sleeping over 15 hours. He oscillates between getting too much sleep and getting none, his sleeping habits completely dependent on his dreams.

His nightmares are too visceral, visions of your corpse asking him if he'd enjoyed hollowing your soul with his teeth.

His dreams are achingly sweet. You in your prom gown, shining so iridescently like diamonds were sewn into the silk. He's dancing with you, holding you close, and then after you guys go to your favorite diner and gorge on burgers and milkshakes.

There's a peal of distinctly feminine laughter that stirs up Eren's senses. He's so pathetic, was the mere sound of a woman laughing getting him excited?

He sighs. He thinks of the whore he's frequently visited because of her resemblance to you. Hair color, skin color, face shape--with enough alcohol, he could really convince the person beneath him, was you. Maybe it's time to give her a call, but she's gotten so fucking needy and he hated how her voice didn't match yours.

The green-eyed man peers from the lace curtains, irritated by the brats playing on his lawn. A full family next door? Great, just what he needs.

The friendly knock on his door breaks him out of his daze. He contemplates whether he should answer but on the second more muted knock, he lets his feet guide him.

He turns the knob.

And Eren Yeager completely shatters.

Because it's you isn't it? You're the person standing in front of him? He can hear what you're saying but he doesn't really register it, soaking in the cadence of a voice he had long forgotten because all he had were pleading whimpers and frenzied moans stored on his cell.

He's shaking. Is he dreaming? He's dreaming, right? He knows it's you. You're older, far more beautiful than he's ever seen you. You have a different hairstyle, wearing clothes he would have mocked you for, and there's this joyfulness within you that makes you glow.

There's a mess of emotions electrifying in the pits of his stomach from euphoria, anger, and dread. He could feel his skin growing clammy like he was about to vomit at any second.

"Hey, are you all right?"

Doe eyes full of concern peer up at him. He voices out the syllables of your name like a desperate prayer.

You tilt your head to the side, "How do you know my name?"

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?��� The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨6/End

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) cucking, violence, blood, some untagged extreme events.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: Here’s the grand finale, I hope you all enjoy it!

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You breathed shakily as you clipped the chain of diamonds around your neck. Clark stood and you watched him place his gun down. He rolled his head back and cracked his neck as he shrugged off his jacket. He slung it over the corner of the upholstered chair and your fingers fluttered down the front of your dress.

“Marcus,” he called tauntingly and clapped his hands, “I think you should see this with both eyes, don’t make me take one out.”

“Stop,” you hissed, “please.”

“What do you care about him, sweetheart? He’s a pimp,” he said brusquely.

You lowered your eyes and sniffed. He nudged you with a bent knuckle then hooked his finger under the strap of your dress.

“It’s getting late,” he warned, “let’s go.”

You stepped away from him and pushed down the zipper hidden underneath your arm. You kept your gaze to the floor as you slid the straps down your arms and shimmied out of the taut fabric. You flung the dress away and bent to undo your strappy heels. Clark tutted as he got close and slapped your ass.

“I like those, they go well with the necklace,” he purred and traced his finger up your back to snap the band of your bra.

You winced and stood. You reached back and unhooked the bra and tossed it at him with venom. You exhaled and pushed down your panties as he hummed. It took all your strength and pride not to cover yourself and cower. He came up behind you and traced your shaped with his fingertips.

“Come on,” he gripped your waist and walked you around, only feet from Marcus as he stopped you in front of the ladder, “up.”

“What?” you grabbed the rungs as he urged you closer.

“Go up,” he repeated brusquely.

You climbed carefully and when you got to the top, he tickled the back of your thigh.

“Turn around, sweetheart, and take a seat,” he demanded.

You heard Marcus sob against the gag and you turned as you tried not to slip. You sat on the top of the ladder as you faced Clark and he grasped your knees. He pushed until you let him part your legs and you felt the cool air along your cunt. He bit tip of his tongue out and kneaded your thighs.

“I’ve been patient, I can keep on,” he taunted as he leaned in and his hot breath grazed your folds, “I want to savour this, sweetheart.”

He flicked his tongue along your cunt and you hissed and clung to the sides of the ladder. He pushed your legs back so that your feet hooked around the rungs and held your hips in place. You gasped at the sensation that steamed from your loins and bit your lip. 

You put your bent finger between your teeth and moaned. His tongue moved faster as if encouraged by your weak drawl and your heart fluttered wildly. You dropped your hand to your throat and the diamonds pressed to your palm. You gulped and leaned your head back as you tried to stifle a whine.

He kept more fervent with each lap, and you pushed your thighs against his face. You looked down without thinking and the height made you dizzy. You rasped and grabbed the back of his head as you feared you would fall. He growled and sucked on your clit. You groaned as your lungs burned and your eardrums pulsed. 

You panted as the flames licked at your flesh. You turned your head away from Marcus in shame as you felt the sudden peak rising. Your hand slipped down to grasp the back of Clark’s neck and you squirmed as you came into his mouth. He kept the pressure on your clit and teased it lightly with his teeth until your legs hung limp and slowly dragged his lips down your thigh, a trail of your arousal left along your skin.

“Mmm,” he stood and shoved his hand between your legs. He pushed a finger into you suddenly and the ladder teetered beneath you. He steadied it with his other hand and added another finger, “listen to her, Marcus. How could you let this go? Priceless.”

He pulled his fingers from your cunt and held them up so that they glistened in the light. He presented them to Marcus and raised them to his mouth to suck them clean. You grimaced and looked away once more.

“Sweetheart,” he turned back and kicked the bottom rung, “you can turn around.”

You blinked at him and swallowed. You trembled as you stood on a rung and he caught you before you could fall. He helped turn you around and placed your hands at the top of the ladder and he guided you to the bottom rung. You gripped it tightly as he groped your ass and smacked it several times so the sound reverberated. 

Your flesh stung as he pressed himself to your back and nuzzled your head. He gripped your hips and rubbed his thumbs along your hips. He pulled your waist back so you were bent slightly against the ladder. He pushed apart your ass as slid two fingers down to your cunt.

He ran his fingertips along your wet folds and unzipped his pants with his other hand. You quivered as he came flush against you and bent his knees as he prodded at you from below. His tip brushed along your entrance and he coated himself in your juices before he slid just inside.

You bent your head and gulped in air as he stretched you. You reached back as he pushed in another inch and you pressed your hand to his stomach blindly. He grabbed your hand and twisted your arm behind your back. He thrust into you completely and bent to whisper along the shell of your ear.

“Feel that,” he jerked his hips so that you cried out, “perfect fit.”

“Please…” you croaked.

“Please… more?” he mocked and drew his hips back, only to slam into you again.

“Nnngghhh,” you groaned and clung to the ladder as he rocked slowly.

“This is real art, Marcus,” Clark said as he ran his hands up your side and cupped your tits, “look at her… listen to her.”

“Pl--” you couldn’t speak as your walls tightened around him snugly, begging for more even as the strained around him.

“Mmmmm,” he kissed your neck and sent a shiver through you, “so sweet.”

He nibbled playfully then sank his teeth in as he sped up. He grunted and stood back as his hips clapped against your ass. His motion stuttered for just a moment and suddenly a loop of cloth fell over your head and around your neck. He pulled the tie until it was taut around your throat and wrapped the tails around his hand.

“Ah, look at her wearing her leash like a good kitten,” he purred, “my kitten.”

You shook your head and moaned through your clamped lips. Why did it have to feel so good?

He grabbed your chin with his other hand and turned your face towards Marcus. Your head lolled in his grip and your lashes fluttered as you saw the shadow of the man you loved. You couldn’t just let that go, not in a night. A tear trickled from your eye and leaked down the side of Clark’s hand.

He kept his hand firm around your jaw and his other arm swept around your waist. He lifted you from the ladder and you squeaked. He carried you to the chair, his cock buried as deep as it would go. He bent his legs as he placed you on the cushion and you latched onto the back as he began to fuck you again; harder, faster than before.

Your voice rang out as your groans grew almost to wails. All your anger and sadness bubbled over as the pleasure forced it from your lungs. You bared your teeth and blinked through the blur. Marcus shook his head as the stool wobbled beneath him. You hated him, you hated the man behind you. You hated that you were so stupid.

You came with a shrill cry and Clark dropped your head against the back of the chair. You hugged the upholstery and whimpered as he sped up. He lifted your legs off the seat as he rutted into you, his growls savage and carnal. Your nails dug into the fabric and you closed your eyes, surrendering to the swell of ecstasy.

He rammed into you so hard you were crushed against the seat. He supported himself against the arms of the chair as he pounded into you. He huffed and swore under his breath as you felt him quake and he spilled into you. You braced yourself, disgusted by him and how great it felt.

When he finished, he lingered inside you, his knee against the edge of the seat. He slid out of you slowly and his cum dripped out of you as you sat back to catch your breath, your arms shaky as you pushed away from the cushion. He went to the table where your paints were and he took a clean rag from the bunch to wipe himself. He whistled and caught his breath.

“Did you like the show?” he taunted Marcus and tossed the dirty cloth at him, “I sure did.”

Marcus grumbled through the gag and you backed off the chair. Your walls were tender and tingly, your legs trembling, and your soul racked with shock and spite. You could hardly see as the dim light made your head ache and you shook your head as you tried to escape the afterglow that drained the energy from you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her,” Clark continued, “I can give her anything she wants and what can you do, hmm?” 

You fell against the small square table and your hand scrambled for the dark pistol. You stood straight and turned to limp over towards the men. Clark’s back was to you as your heels knocked clumsily against the wood. As you neared, Marcus lifted his head and his brow wrinkled.

You aimed at Clark but before you could pull the trigger, his arm was around yours. He pushed the gun down and you fired into the floor. He overpowered you easily as his hand wrapped around yours and you fought for control of the gun. He chuckled darkly and forced your arm forward.

He pointed the barrel at Marcus as you tried to push it away and another shot went off and left your ears ringing. You screamed as you watched the blood spread across your boyfriend’s chest. Clark released you and you fell to the floor as the gun spun across the floor. 

You got to your knees and dragged yourself over to Marcus. You reached to touch his bleeding chest and more spread onto the gag shoved into his mouth. The red stained your hands and dripped down your arms as you rose to cradle his head and his breath rattled as you pulled the cloth from his mouth. His eyes rolled back and you felt the strength leave him entirely.

“No, no, no,” you grabbed his chin and smacked his cheek, “please, please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Marcus…”

You were yanked back suddenly and nearly fell over on the strappy heels. Clark spun you to face him and you hit his chest. You looked up at him as he pushed your face against him and embraced you. He hushed you as he pet your head.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s alright,” he cooed, “you won’t be alone.”

Tears flowed down your cheeks and choked you. You sniffled and shook your head as you pushed weakly against Clark, “you’re a monster.”

“You pulled the gun, sweetheart. We could’ve been done…” he snarled as he dragged you over to the window and spun you against the glass, “but the adrenaline always get my blood pumping.”

He pressed you to the glass as your hands streaked scarlet along the window. You heard his zipper again and in an instant, he was inside you. You were on the toes of the heels as he shook the glass and thrust into you deliberately. You leaned your forehead to the cold pane and stared out into the night, the metallic smell of blood tugging at your nostrils.

🎨

You didn’t sleep, you didn’t even lay down as Clark moved your body how he wanted. The water couldn’t be hot enough to scald away your guilt and the memories of a night that never ended. The afterglow of the shower and your night did little to ease the horror of your existence. You felt as if the blood still stained your hands as you buttoned up the borrowed shirt.

You went to the window of the spacious bedroom and looked out as you heard the voices below. The black plastic bags loaded into the back of an equally dark car. You sobbed and smothered it with the loose cuff of the shirt. That was how you said goodbye, watching the remnants of your boyfriend thrown away like trash.

“Sweetheart?” Clark’s voice set your hair on edge and you turned to face him, a towel hung loosely around his waist, “I know it’s hard now--”

“How can you be okay?” you edge away from him as he neared, “he’s dead. You shot him.”

“Wasn’t my finger on the trigger,” he planted his hand against the wall and blocked you with his arm, “you shouldn’t play with guns.”

You sniffed and mopped up the last of your tears. He was so callous, so calculating. It chilled you completely.

“Who are those men?”

“A few soldiers,” he said as he dropped his arm and grabbed your hand, “you look tired. You should sleep.”

“I can’t,” you tried to tug away but he kept a hold of you.

“Well, if you’ve still got the energy,” he pulled you against him and snaked his hands down to your ass.

“You’re horrible,” you uttered as you grasped his thick biceps.

“To some,” he bent so that his nose touched yours, “but I can be real good to you, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, worn and weak. He kissed you and you let him. Marcus was dead because of you. You thought he was the selfish one for wanting everything this man had, but hadn’t you wanted the same? You came here to paint because you wanted to get paid. You were no different and now he was gone and you were stuck exactly where you belonged. It was what you deserved.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he parted and turned you to walk you backwards to the bed, “you’re gonna need your sleep.”

He nudged you down onto the bed. He went to the window and drew the long drapes and the room dimmed. He swept away his towel and let it pile on the floor as he climbed up next to you and reclined with a sigh. You laid back on the pillow and looked up at your reflection in the mirror set into the ceiling.

“Now that is art,” he winked at your reflection as he reached to caress your cheek, “you’ll see it soon enough.”