#why would you cut your nails...... sick and twisted | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trashmouth-richie · 1 year ago

Text

𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗

pt 2 of do you like the way the water tastes?

eddie x fem!reader

summary: eddie walks you home but doesn’t do what you expect, when you try to confront him it doesn’t go as planned.

Your work shoes were rubbing at your ankles, friction from the water and the inability to never really feel dry after spending the afternoon at the pool, prevalent on your reddening skin.

But you could care less.

Eddie and you had been walking home in small awkward silence for the last ten minutes. Every once in a while his boot would crack a rock down the sidewalk and you’d kick it back to him, playing again, like children.

The silly boy at the pool with you was now being coy, rosy cheeks hiding behind a curtain of curls when your knuckles brushed his while you walked.

He clears his throat a few times, maybe the chlorine was making his throat scratchy? Or possibly his bravado fell once the two of you were alone?

Either way, you focused on the way his fingers went to his mouth to bite the nail in a nervous habit, the click of his tongue ring on the back of his front teeth in another little routine for him. The noise makes your belly burn. so you break the ice.

You bump into his shoulder, one hand twirling the ends of your hair, the other taking advantage of the heated skim of his skin on yours, “really had me fooled at Benny’s.”

he chuckles quickly, exasperating a small snort that he covers with a cough, “ ‘m sorry, probably should have said something better than that— just thought you’d like to ditch work and swim with me— I mean us.” The pretty blush creeps across his cheeks again and you can’t help but grin.

“Well,” you joke, stretching an olive branch out to him, “I’m glad your sick little plan worked.”

The heat creeps up to his ears and he chances to look down at you. Your smile widens and his gaze has you turning away, suddenly sheepish.

His eyes never leave you, but his better judgment stops him from grabbing your hand. “yeah,” he manages, hot tongue licking his own lips. Daring to stare at the way the sun catches on the slope of your nose and sweat beads on your cupid’s bow, “lucky me.”

—

“No kiss or anything?” Stella squeals through the end of your phone a week later.

Eddie had walked you all the way to the door of your apartment building. The small talk was sweet along the way, and you thought when he paused on his way to leave and looked at your lips that he would lean into a kiss.

But he never did. And you felt stupid.

Surely he’d ask for your number?

But he didn’t do that either.

Instead he leaned into the door frame, ghosted his nose along your chin and whispered into your ear, the same clink of his tongue ring on his teeth, “see you around, sweetheart.”

What probably took a matter of 5 seconds lingered on your skin for hours. His smell; all chlorine and cigarettes. The way his cheeks burned in a crimson tinged tan from the sun.

It was intoxicating.

Addicting.

And you were left confused. He had almost kissed you at the pool… so why was he shy when you were alone? And even worse, silent.

“Nancy Drew couldn’t crack this case,” you explained to your best friend, “I thought we would… I don’t know.. go out? Maybe sneak a kiss?”

You were annoying yourself. Why was this bothering you so bad? It’s not as if you had a ton of boyfriends in your lifetime, but you knew when someone was flirting.

And Eddie Munson was laying on the charm, hot and heavy.

“Maybe he has a girlfriend?” Stella quipped, “maybe he was just letting you down easy?”

Sweet Stella was always so genuine, she'd tell it to you straight but deliver it in sugary goodness. And even though she was sweet the words cut you like a knife.

“Fuck, who knows, I gotta go… see you at work?”

She says her goodbyes and you slam the receiver down, the ding satisfying to your ears.

Was Eddie playing you? Your stomach twists at the thought and you nearly kick yourself for letting him get the best of you. You didn’t even know him enough to be this upset.

Pushing him out of your mind the best you could for the rest of the afternoon you wait tables, pocketing next to nothing in tips because you won’t crack a smile. Coffee stains your apron, and ketchup coats the toe of your shoe, the smell making you gag in disgust.

Anything and everything that could go wrong at work did. At least to you. Stella and Dawn seemed to be having a great shift but you were brooding in your own head about the audacity Eddie Munson had to not even call, or have the balls to tell you that he wasn’t interested.

Being led on was worse than rejection. And this stung horribly, wedging the stinger into your chest further with every huff of annoyance you let out.

Stella’s smile cheers you up, her uniform cinching her curves in all the right ways, her pockets nearly bursting with loose change and folded bills in tips.

“Maybe he’s shy?” She says over a shared cigarette in the back near closing time, her brain had been working overtime trying to make you feel better.

Shrugging your shoulders you scoot onto the plastic bucket you’ve used as a chair since starting at Benny’s junior year. “I dunno Stell, I feel like a giant fucking loser.”

It was true, you hadn’t heard anything from him since he walked you home. You even made an embarrassing call to Gareth to see if you would bring Eddie up. But he never did. You were annoyed with yourself for giving a shit when clearly he didn’t.

“Well how about this,” she says sliding down next to you, “I’ll close up tonight and you go home and rest. No sense in feeling like shit and being at this dump .”

—

The drive back to your apartment is short, and hot, the air conditioning that hasn’t worked all summer in your car suddenly driving you mad. The old radio that fuzzed and only came clear in one station decided to quit indefinitely right in the middle of your favorite song.

Before the transmission is thrown into park, you’re on the verge of screaming, and when the key sticks in the ignition you slam your hands into the steering wheel. Could this day get any worse?

Frustration brews when you finally finagle the key just right so it pops out of the vice and your elbow catches the dash, hard. The last straw.

Smoldering tears well in your eyes, but you swallow them down. And it’s in that moment that you decide you need answers right the fuck now.

—

Forest Hills Trailer Park was on the outskirts of town, nestled up against a vast, thick tree line. You didn’t know which trailer was his, taking a chance on a tan one that had a van parked out front that looked similar to his. Only to be embarrassed beyond belief when an old lady with missing teeth and tight curlers cursed you out for interrupting Oprah, a slam of her shitty screen door in your face.

Stomping down the steps you narrowly avoid a nail on the second step. Causing you to lose your balance and topple over into barely-there grass covered lawn. Face first into the dirt.

Great.

The drag of soil and the pull of grass snapping from the earth rings into your ears and shoves under your nails as you scrape your hands on the yard of lot 11, pushing yourself up.

The first rogue tear slides down your dirty face and you don’t even bother to wipe it away. Simply shifting to sit on your butt while you dust gingerly at the gravel and fresh blood from your knees.

You were wrong before: today could get worse. Much worse. Coffee, ketchup, grass and dirt all paint your work uniform. You were a mess. A pissed off, mess.

You hear your name in a question. And when you look up there he is. The one you had been searching for. Standing above you with a concerned expression, trying hard to hide a grin. He’s wearing a bandana around his head, the pungent smell of grease and sticky oil wafts to you when the wind picks up and he gets closer, a socket wrench gripped lazily in his hand.

The dirt on your cheek and bits of twigs stuck in your hair only add to the messy glamor of how you already looked. But Eddie can’t help but stare, the same heat in his cheeks and swimming in his stomach from the day at the pool when you look up at him, tears ready to fall.

“Didn’t know Miss Jeanie had a granddaughter,” he says with a slight tease, “thought she was too damn mean to ever be married.”

When the scowl set on your face didn't budge he changed his tone, shifting his weight from laid back and almost cocky with a hip out to standing like he was getting scolded. Both feet locked in place and his head down, shoulders sagged, peeking at you through his bangs, he stammers, “a—are you okay?”

A loud sniff leaves your body as you shove yourself up from the ground, not seeing the hand Eddie threw out to help you, “yeah,” you spit, wincing slightly as the bend in your knees stretches open the broken skin, “just peachy, I try to spend my Saturdays falling down the steps of some rickety ass trailer in hopes of avoiding a nail through my foot.”

Eddie only stares, mouth set in confusion as he tries to think of a quick reply, something witty, maybe something to make you laugh, but you don’t give him the time.

Turning on your heel, you stumble over a rock but catch yourself. Again, not seeing the way Eddie had ran forward with an outstretched hand to help. You’ve never been more mad and embarrassed in your entire life, and all you wanted to do was get the hell out of here.

It’s not until you have the door of your car open does Eddie register what he wanted to say, “what are you doing here?”

It comes out wrong, accusing compared to the way he thought it would fall flirty from his lips. And you’re stunned, the tears falling freely now.

“Fuck, I mean— shit—” he stutters through his explanation, tongue tied and twisting in on itself, “n—not like ‘what are you doing here?’ but…” embarrassment works up his neck and hides on the tips of his ears, “I—I meant, Uhh— shit, d’ you need a band aid?”

The tears make clean streaks down your face and you wipe at them angrily. “N-o I don’t need a f-frickin’ bandaid, Eddie!” You needed a hot bath, a nap, a fucking cigarette; anything but this frustratingly awkward conversation with you resembling a bum and Eddie looking like a Greek Mechanic God.

“Well, you’re bleeding,” he emphasizes and points to the bloody scrapes on your knees.

You knew they were bleeding, they stung and burned with each step you took, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of helping you out.

“I’m f—fine,” you stutter.

“Shh, c’mon sweet girl,” Eddie says, closing the steps between you both and shutting your car door, his forefinger curled to catch a tear from dripping down your cheek, “lemme clean y’ up and then you can tell me what brought this cute little face down to the slums.”

You had come here to give him a piece of your mind, demand to know why he was so hot and cold. Instead you had made a fool out of yourself, and were a blubbering mess.

—

Eddie’s trailer was the one next door to Miss Jeanie’s. Misjudging the yard his van was parked in as hers, you silently kick yourself as you follow him up the three steps leading inside.

His trailer is welcoming in a young bachelor type of way. Comforting outdated trinkets, guitar amps and cords strewn across the surfaces— keeping the dust and empty beer cans company.

“Sorry,” he says, picking up some beer cans and tossing them into the trash, “roommates a slob, have a seat Uhh— wherever,” he says gesturing around with his hands and disappearing down a narrow hallway.

You look around and take a seat at the table, “didn’t know you had a roommate,” you call out, looking around the small cluttered living space. Tapes and magazines cover the small table along with a faded green homemade ashtray filled almost to the rim.

Eddie comes bounding back down the hallway, carrying a small first aid kit and a washcloth, “I don’t,” he quips, delivering a wink that has your stomach somersaulting. And when he notices the heat rise on your cheeks, he gives you a toothy smile in an attempt to hide his own blush.

And it was like no time had passed. Like he hadn’t been avoiding you for a week, but rather that you were still swimming in the cool blue water of the pool, kissed by the warmth of the sun and his arms around you when he pulled you in.

His thumbs trace the edges of the kit in a nervous habit, “Alright, let's take a look at those knees,” he looks from you to the kitchen counter, “do you uh.. here—” with a sweep of his arm he shoves the magazines and scattered tapes in a dusty cardboard box and tossed it on the table, “sit up here.”

Quirking an eyebrow at him, you give him a puzzled expression, which he answers with a laugh, “Dr. Munson needs to be able to see what he’s doing.”

For the first time since arriving in the trailer park, you let out a small smile, “doctor huh?” you question hoisting yourself onto the counter.

Eddie works beside you filling a bowl with warm water, “shyeah, I’m the band's primary caregiver,” he explains in a mockery tone, “even gave myself stitches a few years back after hiding from the cops when Jeff’s party got busted.”

He extends his pale arm towards you brandishing the silvery crook of a scar on his forearm, “twelve stitches, not the prettiest thing but it did the job.”

The air of your giggle was exactly what he was looking for, and his dimples dip into his cheeks with a smirk, hiding behind uncombed curls.

Thick fingers open the lid to the kit and he pulls out the old packages of gauze and bandages. Dipping a washcloth into the warm water he whistles a tune you haven’t heard, wringing the cloth out, the water splashes gently into the bowl.

He glanced over at your cut knees and winced, “not gonna lie to you, ‘s gonna hurt like hell.”

Nodding with a sniffle you quietly say, “I’ve had scraped knees before… doctor.” The grin he tried to hide spreads and tickles the corners of his eyes.

“Just want my favorite patient comfortable,” he says leaning into the joke.

“Favorite or only?”

His laugh is loud and boisterous, a thousand leagues away from his gentle touch on the delicate raw skin as he presses the cloth carefully around the scrapes and cleans the wound.

“Both,” he says, looking up at you through the thick black weeds of his lashes, holding your gaze for a second longer than he should have, pushing the limits. “Ya gonna tell me what you were doin’ playing in the dirt by my trailer or should I guess?”

“I— I was,” you think quick of a lie, but you almost tremble when his head lowers and his curls tickle the tops of your bare thighs, the feeling sends prickles of goose flesh in its wake. All senses on overload, and you squirm when his warm hand sits atop one of them.

“I heard that there was a place to rent here, and well yeah if you must know— I was researching that information for Molly and Gareth.”

The sensation is quick lived as he hurriedly empties the bowl and struggles to open the bandaid package, using his teeth instead and spitting the paper to the floor.

“Really?” He questions, in almost a whisper, after expertly placing the bandaid over the cut. Leaning with palms on either side of you, his stare is playful, “cause Gareth told me they already found a place.”

Your blood runs cold and you can smell the brine of sweat on his bandana as he gets closer and boxes you in. Stuttering out a phrase somewhere between, ‘I-was-looking-for-my-other-friend’ and a muttered gasp, he only laughs.

The same click from his tongue ring you heard at the pool on the back of his teeth as he clucks his tongue sang in your ears, you’d do whatever you could to hear that again. Shaking his head, he looks at you with the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen, “you sure about that?”

Here he was again, laying it on thick and juicy. But two could play this game.

“Yeah,” you counter back, leaning forward into him, not giving him the upper hand but wanting to tease him— unable to forget the week of silence.

Whispering and curling your lips close to his ear you can hear the way he shudders, “thanks for the bandaids Doctor Munson,” your breath fans on his skin, and you ghost your lips across his cheek, “but, I gotta go.”

You didn’t. But the satisfaction of having him close and then you being the one to to push him away was fucking satisfying.

Eddie scoffs and pushes off from the counter, crossing his arms across the stained front of his once white shirt, “Two lies from those pretty little lips, sweetheart you’re just asking for trouble.”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, hopping down from the counter and walking towards the door, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

You were.

“That's three,” he says, eyes following you like he was lost. The flirty vibe he had been giving was falling away from him.

Turning the knob you glance over your shoulder, “looks like I’m out.”

In two long legged strides he’s beside you, pulling the door shut with a big hand over your own, his face looks almost flustered like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of you, “Go for a drive with me.”

“No,” you sing-song to him looking at your bare wrist as if you were wearing a watch, biting back with a teasing hint of venom of your sour attitude, “it’s late, maybe next week.”

He snorts a laugh and the dimples he had tried to hide earlier appear, making you almost melt into the worn linoleum.

“Ahh c’mon Pinocchio,” he teases, reaching to your cheek to brush a smear of dirt from it, “maybe a little fresh air will help you remember why you came here in the first place.”

“I’ve already ridden in that death trap on wheels, screw boy,” you say pointing a finger into his chest.

He crowds you again, licking his lips and biting his tongue ring through his perfect teeth to show you the silver bulb.

“Oh baby no, we aren’t driving the van,” his fingers wrap around the hem of your sleeve on your work uniform and he looks down at you with a devilish grin, “we’re taking my bike.”

tag list: @em-guitar-pick @joejoequinnquinn @raven-rust @hiscrimsonangel @josephquinnsfreckles @strangerfreak @bebe07011 @b-irock @chloe-6123 @whenshelanded @take-everything-you-can @mandyjo8719 @parmawiolets @mommybaby-witch @hellfirefiend @nevermoreraven1 @emmaisgonnacry @secretdryrose @eddiemunson4life420 @littlegingerbat @tlclick73 @definitionwanderlust @yvedesi

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie fan fiction #eddie fanfic #eddie munson imagine

498 notes · View notes

artyandink · 2 months ago

Text

the art of heresy forged 1982

SUMMARY: Modern day, 2022, and you have no clue what’s going on. You knew what you went through. You knew it was real, but why were there people trying to convince you that everything that happened to you wasn’t real. Hell, you called bullshit. But you get your chance to fight back when you get a call at your door.

TW: psychological torture, traummentions of sex, Ben (cause he’s an individual warning), it’s The Boys so be careful guys, really creepy shit, crack, fluff

STW: voyeurism, exhibitionism, missionary, unprotected sex

A/N - divider by @chachachannah

Song Inspo: Heaven by Julia Michaels

cracked armour

NOVEMBER 1982:

You were in the middle of one of your usual sessions with Ben when the door swung open. Ben had you pinned beneath him, both of you completely absorbed in each other, bodies tangled in the sheets, sweat clinging to your skin, and you were right in the middle of things—no warning, no knock, nothing. Just the door creaking open and the shrill voice of Crimson Countess cutting through the room like nails on a chalkboard.

“What the fuck?”

Ben didn’t even flinch, didn’t pause for a second. He just kept going, driving into you with that same reckless abandon he always had, as if nothing had happened. You, on the other hand, couldn’t help but glance over at the door to see her standing there, wide-eyed, her hands on her hips, her mouth twisted in a mix of shock and anger.

“Jesus Christ, Marjorie,” Ben growled without breaking his rhythm. “What the hell do you want?”

You let out a snort, barely holding back a laugh as you gripped the headboard to steady yourself. “Yeah, you can see we’re kinda busy here.”

Marjorie—Crimson Countess—looked like she didn’t know whether to scream or cry. Her perfectly manicured fingers clenched into fists at her sides, and she sputtered for a second before finding her voice. “Busy? You call this busy?”

Ben chuckled, deep and throaty, not missing a beat. “Yeah, sweetheart. Busy. You know, this thing we’re doing here. Real complicated. Takes focus.”

You couldn’t help but throw in your own dig, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you smirked up at her. “You could always pull up a chair, Marj. Take notes if you need ‘em.”

Her face flushed crimson, almost matching the ridiculous red getup she always wore. “You’re disgusting. Both of you.”

“Yeah, well,” Ben grunted, “you’re still standing there, so clearly you’re not that disgusted. Maybe you’re into it.”

“Or maybe you’re just curious,” you added with a wicked grin. “It’s okay. We all know you’re not getting it like this from anyone else.”

That set her off. She threw her hands up in frustration, her voice rising in pitch. “You’re seriously doing this while I’m standing right here?”

“Damn right, we are,” Ben said, his tone casual, as if he was discussing the weather and not in the middle of absolutely wrecking you. “Not like you’re gonna stop us, are you?”

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan as Ben’s pace quickened, but you were having too much fun watching Marjorie squirm. Her eyes darted between the two of you, disbelief etched into every line of her face.

“This is fucking sick,” she spat, taking a step closer to the bed but keeping her distance like she was afraid to get too close.

“Sick?” you laughed, arching an eyebrow at her. “Nah, this is fun. But you wouldn’t know, would you? Too busy playing PR princess while we’re back here doing the real work.”

Ben let out a bark of laughter. “Real fucking work, yeah.”

Marjorie’s eyes narrowed, and for a second, you thought she might actually lunge at you. But instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, her voice cold. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, Ben, but this is gonna blow up in your face. The public—”

“Fuck the public,” Ben cut her off, his tone sharp. “I don’t give a damn what they think. They don’t matter.”

You grinned up at him, locking eyes as you added, “And neither do you, Marjorie. Not here, not now.”

She looked like she’d been slapped, her lips twitching as she tried to come up with a response. But there was nothing she could say that would matter, not when Ben had made it clear that he didn’t give a shit about her or anyone else.

Ben slowed down just enough to smirk down at you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Think she’ll stick around for the grand finale?”

You laughed, not bothering to hide the wicked gleam in your eye. “Maybe she’ll take a few notes after all.”

“Doubt it,” Ben grunted. “She’s too uptight.”

Marjorie’s face was flushed red, her breathing ragged as she stood there, hands still balled into fists. “You two are fucking insane.”

“Maybe,” Ben agreed, his voice thick with sarcasm. “But at least we’re having a good time. You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll pass,” she snapped, her voice shaking with anger. “Enjoy your little game while it lasts.”

“Oh, trust me,” you shot back, grinning. “We are.”

She stood there for another few seconds, her eyes darting between the two of you before she finally turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her with enough force to make the walls rattle.

“Fucking drama queen,” Ben muttered, his eyes still locked on you, his breath coming in rough, heavy bursts.

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the now-empty room. “She really thought she could do something, didn’t she?”

Ben shook his head, still chuckling. “Dumb as a sack of bricks.”

“Yep,” you agreed, your laughter subsiding as you arched your back, pushing up against him. “Now, where were we?”

He grinned down at you, that familiar cocky smile spreading across his face as he rolled his hips again, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through you. “Right about here, I think.”

“Good,” you murmured, wrapping your legs tighter around him. “Because I wasn’t done.”

Ben smirked, his grip on your hips tightening. “Neither was I, sweetheart.”

For a moment, the encounter with Crimson Countess was nothing more than a vague memory, something to laugh about later. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the way your bodies moved together, the way every touch, every word, sent sparks of electricity shooting through your veins.

You knew this wasn’t normal—not by anyone’s standards. Most people didn’t keep going when someone walked in, especially someone like her. But you and Ben? You didn’t give a fuck. You never had, and you never would.

That was part of the fun.

“Think she’s gonna run crying to PR?” you asked breathlessly, your hands tangling in his hair as he moved faster.

“Let her,” Ben growled, his eyes blazing with that familiar mix of arrogance and lust. “Let her tell whoever the fuck she wants. I don’t care.”

You couldn’t help but grin. That was why you liked being with Ben. He didn’t care about appearances, about what people thought. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and didn’t apologize for it.

And neither did you.

The two of you were a match made in hell, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The tension built between you, the air crackling with electricity as you moved together, faster and faster, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel your muscles tightening, the familiar heat pooling in your stomach as you hurtled toward release, and from the look in Ben’s eyes, he was right there with you.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “Show me what you’ve got.”

You bit your lip, a moan escaping your throat as you arched against him, your body shuddering as the tension finally snapped. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you, leaving you breathless and trembling beneath him.

Ben wasn’t far behind, his own release hitting him like a freight train. He let out a low, guttural moan as he collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving with every breath.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your breathing, the only sign of the chaos that had just unfolded. You lay there, tangled together in the sheets, bodies still buzzing from the intensity of it all.

Eventually, Ben rolled off of you, propping himself up on one elbow as he reached for his discarded cigar. “Think she’s gonna tell Vought?”

You snorted, running a hand through your sweat-dampened hair. “Who gives a shit?”

He lit the cigar, taking a long drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke into the room. “Damn right.”

You couldn’t help but grin as you lay there, feeling a sense of satisfaction settle over you. You didn’t care what Crimson Countess did, or what Vought thought. All that mattered was the moment, the thrill of it all, and the fact that, for now, you and Ben were untouchable.

“Next time, maybe lock the door,” you said with a smirk, glancing over at the still-open door.

Ben laughed, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest. “Why? Adds to the fun.”

You shook your head, still grinning as you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

With Ben, things were always unpredictable, always chaotic. But that was exactly why you kept coming back for more.

2022:

You stood at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping eggs like it was second nature. The sizzle of the pan filled the small kitchen, a comforting sound that grounded you in the present moment. The sun streamed through the windows, casting a golden hue across the countertop. Everything seemed peaceful, normal even—well, as normal as things ever got.

Behind you, Ben was grumbling as usual. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, cigar clamped between his teeth. His face twisted in that all-too-familiar sneer of disdain as he scrolled through his phone, eyes narrowed at the screen like it was personally offending him.

“Jesus Christ,” Ben muttered around the cigar. “What the hell is this shit? Who the fuck needs a phone that talks to you? Back in the day, we just picked up the damn thing and dialed.”

You couldn’t help but snicker under your breath. “Welcome to the future, old man.”

Ben scoffed, taking a long drag from his cigar before blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “Yeah, well, the future’s fucking stupid. Half the shit they got nowadays is useless. What happened to good old-fashioned simplicity, huh? You know, when a car was just a car and not a goddamn spaceship?”

“You sound like a cranky grandpa,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder at him with a smirk. “Next, you’re gonna tell me how much better everything was ‘back in your day.’”

“Because it was,” Ben shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You didn’t have to deal with all these gadgets and apps and…what the hell’s this thing?” He held up his phone, jabbing a finger at the screen. “A fucking smart refrigerator? Why the hell would I need my fridge to talk to me? Just keep my beer cold and shut the fuck up.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the stove as you scooped the eggs onto a plate. “Sounds like you’re just too old to figure it out, Ben.”

He let out a bark of laughter, stepping closer until you could feel the heat of his body behind you. “Too old? Sweetheart, I’m in my prime. These tech bros just don’t know how to make shit that works.”

“Right,” you replied, sarcasm thick in your tone as you leaned forward to grab a plate. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Ben moved closer, his large hands finding your hips as he pressed himself against your back. The familiar weight of his body was warm and solid, grounding you even as he continued his rant. “You’re telling me you like all this high-tech bullshit? What happened to just waking up, grabbing a cup of coffee, and going about your day without some gadget asking you to rate your sleep or telling you how many steps you’ve taken?”

You laughed softly, your hands steady as you set the plates on the counter. “It’s not that bad. Just different. People like convenience.”

“Convenience, my ass,” Ben grumbled, his voice low in your ear as his hands roamed lazily from your hips up your sides. “It’s just making people soft. Too much reliance on these machines. Hell, half of ‘em probably don’t know how to change a tire anymore.”

You leaned back into him, feeling the rumble of his voice vibrate through his chest. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not one of those people.”

“Damn right you’re not,” Ben muttered, his hands slipping lower, fingertips brushing along the hem of your shirt. He was getting handsy again, not that you minded—usually.

But then, his hand dipped lower, skimming over your stomach, and your body tensed. It was subtle, a brief stiffening of your muscles, but enough that you felt the change. Your breath hitched for just a second, your heart skipping an uneven beat.

Ben didn’t seem to notice at first, his lips grazing the side of your neck as he grunted something under his breath. But you could feel the tightening in your chest, that uncomfortable sensation creeping up on you, like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

He paused, his hands stilling for a moment. “You good?”

You forced a chuckle, shaking off the tension as quickly as it had come. “Yeah, fine. Just—got a weird cramp. Probably from standing too long.”

Ben’s grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t pull away entirely. His breath was warm against your ear as he spoke, his tone more curious than concerned. “Cramp, huh?”

You nodded, turning the stove off and focusing on dishing up the food. “Yeah, nothing serious. Just one of those things.”

Ben was silent for a beat, his gaze lingering on you as if he could sense something was off, even if he didn’t know what it was. But, true to form, he didn’t push. He never was one for digging into emotions, at least not unless they were his own.

“Well, if it’s nothing serious, then I guess we can keep going later,” he said with a smirk, his hands squeezing your hips again before giving you a playful slap on the ass.

You rolled your eyes, the tension in your chest easing slightly as you grabbed the plates. “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“Damn right,” Ben said, swaggering over to the table like he owned the place. “And you love it.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Despite everything, despite the complicated mess that was your life, there was something comforting about Ben’s rough-edged confidence, the way he bulldozed through every situation like nothing could touch him. It was like having a storm in your corner—loud, chaotic, and impossible to ignore, but also undeniably powerful.

Still, as you sat down across from him, the brief flicker of unease from earlier lingered in the back of your mind, a shadow that wouldn’t quite go away.

Ben took a bite of his eggs, glancing up at you between chews. “You’re quiet today. What, did I finally wear you out?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not even close, old man.”

“Old?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You wanna talk about old? I’ll show you old when we hit round two later.”

“Pretty sure you’re already on round fifty by now,” you teased, taking a bite of your own food. “Might need to slow down before your back gives out.”

“Fuck you,” Ben grinned, clearly amused. “You wish you could keep up with me.”

You grinned back, the banter lightening the mood, but that tension in your stomach still hadn’t fully disappeared. Ben’s hand on your stomach—it had been nothing, just an absent-minded touch, but it had brought back memories you’d buried a long time ago, memories you didn’t want to face right now.

You shoved them down, locking them away where they couldn’t reach you. Not today. Not while Ben was here, running his mouth about the good ol’ days and griping about technology. You weren’t going to let the past creep in and ruin your morning.

“So,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair and taking another drag of his cigar, “what’s the plan for today? Gonna make me breakfast every morning from now on, or was this a one-time deal?”

You smirked, leaning back in your own chair. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not your maid.”

Ben laughed, a low, rough sound that sent a thrill down your spine. “Damn shame. You make a hell of an omelet.”

You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the half-eaten plate in front of him. “You mean these eggs?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Close enough.”

Shaking your head, you got up to clear the table, but Ben’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. He pulled you down onto his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Let’s skip the dishes,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Got something else in mind.”

You felt that familiar heat rise in your chest, your body responding to his touch despite the lingering discomfort from earlier. But still, there was a part of you that hesitated, a part of you that couldn’t shake the memories his touch had stirred up.

“Ben,” you started, but he cut you off with a kiss, his lips rough and demanding against yours.

Whatever you had been about to say was forgotten, lost in the heat of the moment as you gave in, letting yourself get swept up in the chaos that was Ben. His hands roamed your body, fingers digging into your skin as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

For now, the past could stay buried. You had enough to deal with in the present.

You pulled into Georgia’s driveway, the crunch of gravel under the tires the only sound as Ben sat next to you, looking about as out of place as a bear in a tea shop. He was fidgeting with his cigar, lighting it for the third time since you’d left your place. He glanced at the house with narrowed eyes, lips pulled into a scowl. You could practically see the gears in his head turning.

“Remind me again why the hell we’re doing this?” Ben asked, his voice gruff, irritation evident as he took another drag from his cigar. “I’m not exactly the family man type.”

You chuckled, pulling the keys from the ignition and turning to face him. “Because it’s polite to visit people, Ben. Especially when they’re family. You’ll be fine. Just don’t swear every other sentence, alright?”

Ben scoffed, leaning back in his seat and blowing smoke out of the window. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just sit there like a good little puppy and pretend to give a shit about... what? Kids' soccer games? PTA meetings? Jesus, I’m already regretting this.”

“They’re not asking you to join the PTA, relax. Just... be nice. Try not to traumatize the kids.”

Ben muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t argue further. You both knew this wasn’t his scene—family gatherings, kids running around, small talk with people who weren’t about to get shot or punched. But this visit wasn’t about him; it was about Georgia, your niece, who you hadn’t seen properly in years.

You got out of the car, and Ben followed with his usual swagger, rolling his shoulders as though preparing for a battle. You had to hide a grin—he was more nervous than he let on, and the idea of him being awkward around kids was just plain funny.

As you approached the door, it swung open to reveal Georgia standing there with a broad smile. “Auntie! You’re here!”

She wrapped you in a tight hug, and you smiled, hugging her back. She was all grown up now, in her forties with kids of her own, but she still had that sweet energy she’d always had. There was a part of you that found it almost grating, but the pride you felt for her managed to outweigh the disdain.

“Of course I’m here,” you said, pulling back to look at her. “I’m not gonna miss a chance to catch up.”

Georgia’s gaze flickered to Ben, standing awkwardly beside you, his cigar clenched between his teeth as though it was the only thing holding him together. “And you brought... Soldier Boy.”

“Yeah, well, he’s hard to shake off,” you teased, nudging Ben in the ribs with your elbow.

Ben grunted, giving Georgia a half-hearted nod. “Nice place you got here.”

Georgia smiled, a little unsure of how to respond to Ben’s gruff demeanor but polite as ever. “Thanks! Come on in, both of you. Ryan and the kids are in the living room.”

You and Ben followed her inside, stepping into the cozy warmth of the house. The smell of baking cookies wafted from the kitchen, and the faint sound of children’s laughter echoed from the other room. The normalcy of it all hit you like a wave—this was the life you could’ve had, maybe. If things had been different.

Ryan, Georgia’s husband, was sitting on the couch with their kids—a girl about seven and a boy around eleven. The boy, Liam, looked up at you with curious eyes, while the girl, Ella, was more focused on her tablet.

“Hey, Auntie,” Ryan greeted, getting up from the couch and offering a hand to Ben, who hesitated for a split second before shaking it.

Ben wasn’t much for pleasantries, but at least he was trying. “Ryan,” Ben said, his tone short but not entirely dismissive.

You smiled and sat down next to Georgia on the couch, the familiar comfort of family making you relax. Ben, however, stayed standing for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do with himself before eventually taking a seat next to you, his broad frame practically swallowing the chair.

The small talk began—how the kids were doing, Georgia’s job, Ryan’s latest project at work. Ben mostly grunted in response, keeping his words to a minimum as he watched the kids with a wary eye, like they might attack at any moment.

After a while, Georgia stood up, clapping her hands together. “Alright, Auntie, you ready to help me finish up those cookies?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I remember how to bake?”

“Come on,” she laughed. “You used to be good at it. Besides, we’ll let the guys bond, right?”

You shot Ben a quick glance. The thought of leaving him alone with Ryan and the kids was mildly amusing, but also concerning. Still, you figured he could manage for a few minutes. “Alright, lead the way.”

As you followed Georgia into the kitchen, you heard Ben grunt behind you. “Don’t take too long. I’m not exactly the babysitting type.”

Ryan chuckled. “You’ll be fine, man. It’s just kids.”

In the kitchen, Georgia handed you an apron, which you waved off, and set out some dough for the cookies. As you started rolling it out, she glanced at you, her expression softening.

“So... what’s going on with you and Soldier Boy? Are you guys... a thing?”

You paused, your hands stilling for a moment before you resumed rolling the dough. “A thing? I wouldn’t call it that.”

Georgia frowned, her curiosity piqued. “But you came here together. You’re, like, a couple, right?”

You sighed, knowing this conversation was going to happen eventually. “It’s... complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

You shot her a look, trying to decide how much to explain. “We’ve got an arrangement. We’re... close, but it’s not exactly the whole flowers and dates kind of deal.”

Georgia tilted her head, trying to wrap her head around it. “So, you’re... not dating?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” you admitted, smirking at how understated that was. “It works for us. We’re both rough around the edges, not really the romantic type, you know?”

Georgia raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t push further. “Alright. As long as you’re happy.”

You snorted. “Happiness is overrated. But yeah, I’m good.”

She didn’t quite seem to buy it but let it go for the moment. Instead, she started telling you about Ella’s latest school project and how Liam was getting into sports, and you let yourself get lost in the simplicity of family life, even if it wasn’t yours.

Meanwhile, back in the living room, Ben was having a slightly different experience.

Liam, the eleven-year-old, had been watching him closely ever since you left the room. Eventually, he scooted closer, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Hey, Soldier Boy,” Liam said, his voice hesitant but eager. “Can I ask you something?”

Ben raised an eyebrow, glancing at Ryan, who was distracted by something on TV. “What is it, kid?”

Liam fidgeted, looking around to make sure no one was listening. “How does... uh... how does sex work?”

Ben blinked, completely caught off guard. For a moment, he just stared at the kid, processing what he’d just heard. “What the hell?”

Liam’s eyes went wide. “I mean, I just... I heard some stuff at school, and I thought maybe you’d know.”

Ben sighed, running a hand over his face. This was definitely not in his wheelhouse. He glanced toward the kitchen, silently cursing you for leaving him alone with this.

“Look, kid,” Ben started, leaning forward, “sex... it’s complicated. You don’t need to worry about it yet. But when the time comes, you do it like a man.”

Liam blinked. “Like a man?”

“Yeah,” Ben continued, clearly out of his depth but powering through anyway. “You don’t... overthink it. Just, you know, be confident. Be in charge.”

Liam nodded, though he looked more confused than enlightened.

“Right,” Ben muttered, realizing how unhelpful he was being. “Look, maybe ask your dad, alright?”

Just then, Ryan glanced over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Ask me what?”

Liam hesitated, glancing between his dad and Ben before shaking his head. “Nothing, never mind.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow but let it go. Ben, on the other hand, was desperately hoping the topic would never come up again.

Back in the kitchen, you were helping Georgia place the cookies on a tray when you heard Liam’s voice echo from the living room, asking about sex. You froze, eyes widening as you shot Georgia a look.

She chuckled nervously. “Uh... should we intervene?”

You shook your head, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Let’s see if Ben can handle it.”

After a few minutes, you and Georgia returned to the living room, carrying a plate of freshly baked cookies. Ben was still sitting on the chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, while Liam was quietly munching on a cookie, his mind clearly still processing whatever Ben had said.

“So,” you said, setting the plate down on the coffee table, “everything go alright while we were gone?”

Ben shot you a look that could’ve melted steel. “Peachy.”

Georgia laughed, shaking her head as she sat down next to Ryan. “Well, I’m glad you two could make it. It’s been a while.”

You smiled, relieved that the worst of it was over. “Yeah, it’s good to catch up. Even if Ben here had an... interesting conversation with Liam.”

Ryan chuckled, glancing at Ben. “So, how’s your visit been?”

Ben cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. “It’s been... different.”

Georgia gave you a questioning look, clearly curious about the nuances of your relationship with Ben. You just shrugged, deciding to keep things light.

“Different is one way to put it,” you said, glancing at Ben. “But it’s been good.”

You and Ben trudged back into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind you with a familiar thud. The evening had been a whirlwind of awkward interactions and half-baked explanations, and you were more than ready to escape into the solace of your own space. Ben, still visibly perturbed by the entire experience, tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and slouched against it with a sigh.

“Well, that was a goddamn circus,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle of whiskey you both kept in the cupboard. He poured himself a generous glass, taking a long swig before turning to face you. “Never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad to be back here.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and tried to shake off the strange discomfort that had lingered from the visit. Your thoughts had been preoccupied with a myriad of things throughout the evening—your niece’s sweetness, the kids’ innocent curiosity, and a gnawing sense of something unspoken.

Ben caught your distant look and raised an eyebrow. “Something on your mind?”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you grabbed a glass for yourself and poured a modest amount of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled inside the glass, offering a brief distraction from the conversation you were about to dive into. “Just thinking. That’s all.”

Ben took another sip, clearly not buying your casual demeanor. “Thinking about what? Don’t tell me you’re still stuck on how I handled the kid’s question about sex.”

You winced slightly, the memory still vivid. “Not exactly. Just… other things.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed, his expression softening with a touch of genuine curiosity. “Like what?”

You hesitated, weighing whether or not to dive into the topic. The conversation about kids had been avoided during the visit, and it wasn’t exactly a subject you were eager to tackle. But Ben’s probing look made it clear he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“Well, since you asked,” you said, taking a deep breath and settling into a nearby chair. “I was just thinking about… if we’d ever wanted kids.”

Ben’s face twisted in thought as he settled into the chair opposite you, his posture casual but attentive. “Kids, huh? Funny you mention that. I’ve definitely thought about it before.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You have?”

Ben nodded, taking another swig from his glass. “Yeah. Back when I was with Marjorie, we had these… grand plans, you know? The whole family thing. Thought it’d be great to have a kid or two running around. But then life happened, and… well, I guess that’s not on the cards anymore.”

You nodded, a touch of sadness flickering across your face despite your efforts to stay composed. “Yeah, life happens.”

There was a brief silence as Ben stared into his glass, the room filled with the soft clinking of ice. You could sense the weight of his unspoken regrets and the path his life had taken, and it struck a chord with you. But you were far more adept at masking emotions than Ben, and you focused on maintaining your tough exterior.

“Did you ever want kids?” Ben asked, breaking the silence, his eyes still fixed on his drink.

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of your glass a little tighter. “I don’t know. I never really thought much about it.”

Ben raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Never? Not even when you were younger?”

You shook your head, forcing a casual tone despite the tightness in your chest. “Not really. Things were always so… unpredictable. I guess I never thought I’d have a stable enough life to think about having kids.”

Ben leaned forward, his expression softening. “You know, I always figured you’d be great with kids. You’ve got that… protective streak.”

You looked away, feeling a pang of unease. “Yeah, well, things don’t always work out the way you plan.”

Ben took another drink, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “True enough. But sometimes, it’s worth thinking about what might have been, you know? Even if it’s just for a moment.”

You nodded, the words hitting closer to home than you’d expected. “Yeah, I suppose.”

The conversation fell into another silence, the clinking of glasses and the faint hum of the city outside filling the void. You took a sip of your whiskey, trying to steady your nerves as you thought about the life you’d lived and the choices you’d made.

Ben broke the silence with a chuckle. “You know, I think we’d have made a hell of a team if we’d ever decided to have kids.”

You managed a wry smile. “Yeah? How’s that?”

He grinned, leaning back in his chair with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, you’d be the strict one, keeping them in line, and I’d be the one teaching them how to break the rules.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Ben’s grin widened. “You’d have made a great mom, you know.”

The compliment, however casual it was, made you stiffen. You took a deep breath, trying to keep your emotions in check. “Thanks. I suppose.”

Ben seemed to pick up on the shift in your mood, though he didn’t comment on it directly. Instead, he just took another drink and studied you with a thoughtful look. “But hey, we’re still here, still kicking. And that’s something.”

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. That’s something.”

The conversation drifted away from the topic of kids as you both delved into more trivial matters, the evening winding down with a sense of settled familiarity. But the discussion had left you with a lot to think about. Ben’s offhand remarks about children and what could have been stirred up old emotions, ones you weren’t entirely prepared to confront.

As the night wore on and you both settled into a more relaxed routine, the weight of the earlier conversation lingered, a reminder of the paths you’d taken and the choices you’d made. And while Ben seemed content to move on, you found yourself grappling with the implications of what might have been, even as you masked your thoughts with a veneer of nonchalance.

Fuck.

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

TAGLIST: @goldngguk

@sweetpeachbombshell

@slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57

@1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99

@autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @manicjk @riah1606

#soldier boy angst #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy #the boys #soldier boy x reader smut #soldier boy x reader angst #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles #artyandink #arty writes #the art of heresy #cracked armour

59 notes · View notes

yoke9494 · 3 months ago

Text

Just us two. (Mitsuya pt3.)

Read The rest here. Pt1. Pt.2

Final chapter for (Why not me/Why not me too?)

Slight Draken angst.

Mitsuya smut.

_______________

Your heart was pounding..

Your throat was rapidly constricting as you tried to breathe. You could feel the warmth of your tears falling down your cheeks, staining them once again.. a different reason but another heartbreak from the same dragon you once cherished.

"I hate you!" It came out more meek than you wanted it to be. You wanted to sound angry, you wanted to sound mean! But your heart was falling apart all over again..

Draken scoffed his face twisted with anger or disgust.. You couldn't tell... "Yeah I bet you hate me. That's why you went after my best friend when you realized I didn't want you! Are you that desperate to get back at me?! Desperate enough to try and find another version of me?!---"

You cut him off. With labored breaths and nails digging into the skin of the palm of your hand.. "Version of you?! Are you fucking kidding me?! He is nothing like you! If anything he is better than you are in every way! You alone Draken make me sick! You aren't the person I fell for anymore! You're just an asshole who looks like the Draken I cared so much for! I'm done with you!-- He was the one who sought me out because he was worried about me! He cares about me and appreciates me! It's a lot more than you have shown me when I moved the world for you!"

Your body shook and you swallowed the lump in your throat. You needed to end this before you let your anger get the best of you. Before you said something you'd regret... "I don't want to speak with you anymore.. Get out--"

You pointed to your room door. He had closed you both in and began to talk down on you. Blaming you for something you didn't understand. Why was he so upset with you? Why was he angry about Mitsuya kissing you goodbye?! You were just a friend remember? He had no right to suddenly change his feelings about you.

You hated him so much. For treating you like his property, like you'd do as he says with a happy race. You hated him for completely ruining the small love high you were feeling from the goodnight kiss you shared with Mitsuya. You haven't been happy in so long thanks to him. Now you're back at square one..

Draken turned with the click of his tongue. You hope he would just leave but he turned and his face had fallin.. He hesitated before saying he wouldn't be bothering you anymore. The two of you were officially strangers..

It hurt... It hurt so bad that once again you cried yourself to sleep. No you didn't love Draken the way you did before. Your heart was stolen and taken care of in the gentlest way. A way that became addicting so fast.. But you lost a friend. A friend you had since you were nothing but a snot nosed kid.

No he wasn't a friend anymore. Just a stranger..

----------------------

Mitsuya furrowed his brows as he listened to your story. Something had been bothering you all morning. He could see it on your face, the sadness in your eyes.

It took him a while but eventually he got you to spill your burdens.

His hand held yours as you both walked to a park. Your day together had almost been amazing! You had breakfast with him and both his sisters. He burned the memory of you trying his cup of coffee into his brain forever. That morning he took it black with too much sugar. He didn't usually drink coffee but sleep was hard for him to achieve last night. You just took over his mind and had him smiling like a idiot in love all night. He swore he could taste the sweet flavor of your lipgloss on his lips all night. He could feel the warmth of your skin on his finger tips till morning.

He had hoped to make you a bit happier with his surprise. But the more you went into your story, the angrier he got.

He'd never think bad about his brother, his twin.. But what the fuck was Draken's problem?!

"I'll talk to him--"

You stopped him. "No! Please don't.."

Mitsuya furrowed his brows. "Why not? Isn't he your best friend? You both were so close.. even more attached to the hip than he and I am. I don't want to ruin a friendship like that."

You shook your head. "It was a great friendship. One I'll miss.. But I caught feelings and he didn't want me. I accepted that and moved on. My heart was stolen and put back together and suddenly he hates me because of it.." you looked up at him and smiled. "I don't know what I did to deserve you but I'd do it a million times over. I lost a friendship but I gained so much more. Maybe one day when we're all older it'll be okay again. Until then I want to see where this relationship will take us. I need this type of happiness in my life.."

Mitsuya almost got teary eyed. He's had people tell him how much better he's made their before. But he never really believed them-- but with you.. It made his chest feel light, all the stress he carried on his shoulders from taking care of everyone seemed to fade away. He really felt appreciated..He could get used to this feeling.. it was so addicting! You were addicting..

"Are you sure? I--"

You laughed and shook your head again. "I promise you it's fine. To be honest actually telling someone about it helped-- like a lot! I'm so used to keeping a lot in."

Your stomach tightened as Mitsuya brought your knuckles up to his lips. He kissed each one before putting your hand back down between the two of you. "I don't want you to keep anything from me. Promise me. No matter how big or small I will listen. We'll figure it out together. Draken is just taking too many emotions in, I guess it's his turn to figure his shit out.."

Mitsuya was too good to be true. Your face heated as you crossed your heart. "I'm sure he'll be Okay-- and I promise as long as you do the same to me. I know a lot is expected of you but I will help lighten the burden any way I can. I'll even babysit your sisters while you go out and do something!"

Mitsuya snorted. "That's sweet of you. They have been asking about you already. This morning wasn't enough "Y/n." time for them. But I like it when it's just me and you too.."

You hummed. It was true that you already missed his sisters too. They were just too cute! But he was right, it was nice to spend some alone time together. You couldn't keep them around all the time--

"I'm going to cover your eyes okay?"

You were hesitant. "You're not going to lead me into a water fountain are you? Or a light poll?"

Mitsuya smiled and shook his head. "Nah, that's more of a Mikey or Baji thing."

Oh you knew, Mikey almost lead you into traffic one time because he got distracted. (He paid for your lunch as an apology.)

But you trusted this man with all your heart already. He's always been so sweet to you... You just never noticed it. And now you'll break your back just to make it up to him.

With a scared smile you closed your eyes.

"Don't peek."

You nodded. "I promise I won't."

A tingle went up your back as Mitsuya placed a hand in the middle. He held you hand with the other and began to guide you somewhere.

Your senses were all over the place. You blamed it on all the excitement you were holding in. Where was he taking you?

You tried so hard to listen for any hints. Your footsteps felt an echo and you could hear vehicles? A bus? passing by.. hmm?

In reality Mitsuya had just taken you off the park trails and had you go under a bridge.

Next it got really quiet? Your skin began to feel a little warm-- the ground was soft like you were walking in grass. Yes, it had to be! You both were at the park.

"Almost there. I need you to stand still for a second."

You almost opened your eyes when he pulled away. You could hear rustling and Mitsuya mumbling something under his breath. His footsteps slowly came twords you-- Why was he still quiet?!

"Mitsuya? If you're actually going to kill me.. Please make sure that when you dump my body my panties aren't showing. I don't want the police department making fun of them."

Mitsuya snorted and began to lead you forward again. "Why? What kind do you have on to be embarrassed about them?"

You opened your mouth to tell him, but quickly caught yourself. "I'm not telling you that!"

His chuckle made your stomach drop. You could just picture his beautiful smile-- the sound of his laugh made the world seem brighter. You never would have guessed you'd ever feel this way..

"Okay. You can open your eyes now."

Finally! ----

You stood in awe as your eyes adjusted to the scene in front of you.. How do you explain it? This was straight out of some romantic movie or something along those lines.

First of all you were under a tree or more like inside of one? It was a huge old tree that hadn't been maintained much. The branches were so thick and heavy that they reached the ground.

But what really caught your attention was the picnic blanket and pillows that were laid out by the base of the tree. It was nearly covered with your favorite drinks, snacks, and your favorite meal from your favorite takeout place.

The picnic blanket was surrounded by fake candles that gave off a warm glow against the branches that covers you both from the outside world..

You couldn't speak.

"Do you like it?"

If only he knew you felt like you had died and this was your peace..

"Oh, I love it so much.."

You walked up to the blanket and looked at everything. How did he know? There were even snacks here that you had to travel to Roppongi just to get.

"Did you really go through all this trouble for me?"

Mitsuya tilted his head. "Trouble? There's no such thing as trouble when it comes to your smile."

Smile? Oh.. You reached up and felt your cheeks-- you were smiling like an idiot.. an idiot in love.

Mitsuya chuckled at how cute you looked. "Come on, sit down. The food will get cold and the drinks will get warm."

You felt bad wrinkling the blanket as you did so-- darn! You should have taken a picture to show Hina and Yuzuha.. They wanted details after your date..

"How did you ever find this place?"

Mitsuya hummed as he began to dish out yours and his dinner. "I found it when I was 10 I believe. You know I used to try and run away a lot when I was younger. I found this tree and tried to live here. I got scared of the dark and ran home."

You giggle while you began to pick at the food. "Awe. I'd be scared too I hate the dark."

He smiled. "I do too. But I end up coming back here because of how private it was. I kept the inside clean and threw out all the leaves and small twigs-- Then I just started coming here to get away from stress. I lean back against the tree and just breathe, sometimes I even read a book or just sit here with my headphones on and get lost in my own world for a while."

You could see why.. The park was actually near a busy street but the branches and leaves somehow drowned everything out.

"Thank you for bringing me here. Your brought the most loudest person you knew to a place you find peace in.. That means a lot."

He let out an amused huff as he smiled. "You definitely aren't the loudest person I know. Have you met Shion? Or heard Taiju yell?--"

He then got a little hesitant when he spoke. "And besides you bring me peace when I can't escape. So why not bring both my favorite person and favorite place together?"

This man... You weren't really one to be speechless but wow.

"I-- I don't know what to say to that. God, you make me so tongue tied.."

He shrugged. "I hope thats a good thing?"

It was, and it didn't stop there. Oh no, the whole time you ate and talked he made you feel like a giggling school girl being told sweet things by a boy she admired.

Even when you both decided to lay against one another after you both had your fill. He laid on his back with you snuggled up against him. His arm under your head while his hand rested on your shoulder.

Being this close it didn't take long before your conversation got quiet and your lips met.

Sweet little pecks turned into roaming hands. His feelings the soft warmth of your thighs underneath your skirt. Yours feeling the toned muscles on his stomach from under his shirt.

Both of you giggling into the kisses before your breaths became heavy-- The way you wrapped you slightly opened your thighs for him when he shifted half his body on top of yours.

Your body jerked when his hand moved between your thighs. His thumb brushing against your clit in slow circles on the outside of your underwear. His body shivering when your nails ran down the skin of his back, as if you didn't know where to hold onto him.

He drank your little moans as your sweet kisses became sloppier, nastier... His tongue swirled against yours, his thumb moving a little faster..

He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers hooked around the waist band of your underwear. "Can I?"

You nodded...

Next thing you knew what was left of the food was pushed aside. The other half of the blanket was draped over both of your naked bodies.

Your pretty skin was covered in marks. His marks-- your shoulders, breast and stomach. Your thighs were his and now you had the prettiest boys head between your legs.

This was a feeling you became addicted to fast. The way his tongue swirled and flicked against your swollen clit. They way his fingers curled, the way they felt deep inside.

He moaned into you as you pulled at his hair. That shocking pleasure was building up fast.

But You wanted more of him. Choked words left left your lips. Your eyes began to roll- "want-- you."

You thighs were squeezing his head for dear life. And it hurt him to pull away. "Cum on my tongue first. I want to taste you."

You quickly realized you'd give Mitsuya anything he asked for, anything he wanted. His tongue replaced his fingers-- that was all you needed to have your back arching off the blanket. Your nails clawing at his hair as pleasure took over you.

You were so sweet. He knew you'd taste like heaven but he didn't think it would be this good. Not one drop of your release was wasted. He really needed to do this more often. He'd never be the one to try drugs, but you were going to be his favorite addiction.

He let you come down from your high, but only for a few seconds.

When he sat up he only kicked his lips while you finally got a good look at his body. He was beautiful-- toned-- your eyes traveled down.

His cock was twitching and pre cum was dripping from the tip. You bit your bottom lip, wondering how the veins would feel against your tongue..

You began to sit up but he stopped you. "What are you doing?"

You felt a wave of shyness before you pushed it away. "I want to make you feel good too. It's only fair if I--"

He knew where you were looking. The image of you on your knees with his dick deep in your throat made him twitch.

But he shook his head. " I appreciate it but we can do that at another time. Right now I just want you. Wanna feel you around me."

Ugh, that shyness reappeared and all you could do was nod and lay back down. You opened your thighs for him as he got closer.

You gasped when his tip slid through your fold. You were still sensitive that you shook when it brushed against your clit-- He quickly found your entrance and slowly began to push in. It was torture holding himself back but he wanted you to be comfortable. He wanted you to enjoy the feeling of him finally being able to be inside of your warm walls.

It took a bit but he was finally in, buried to the hilt as he left you get used to his size. Letting himself get used to the heat and the tightness of your walls.

It was almost embarrassing at how deep his breathing had gotten. But you weren't doing any better-- your eyes lost and half lidded, chest heaving--

"I'm going to move okay?"

You let out a choked "please--"

That's all he needed to hear. Slowly he rolled his hips, quickly getting lost in the way you felt, in the way your walls hugged his dick like you didn't want him to leave.

He never would, you belonged to him now. And he's worship you till the day he stopped breathing.

Wet sticky sounds almost blocked out the sound of yours and his moans. He was always quiet when he pleasured himself but that didn't feel nearly as good as you did.

He was quickly reaching his high. He knew this would happen, this is why he had you cum already.

His thrust became a bit harsher. He watched your now marked tits bounce-- How badly he wanted them back in his mouth.

He was soo deep, you swore you felt him in your belly. Each thrust had you seeing stars-- He kept hitting that sensitive spot deep inside of you. Your stomach was tightened, skin tingled, stars danced behind your eyelids.. Like you were being shocked in the best kind of way!

"Takashi-- I'm going t-to.."

He doesn't know what came over him. You said his name! He's never heard it pronounced so angelic like, he's never heard it sound so dirty.

He leaned down and brought your head up for a heated kiss. Your teeth clanked, tongue twirled, you even felt the mixture of his and your saliva run down the side of your mouth.

Your eyes watered, it hurt to yank yourself away from him-- you couldn't hold it in anymore. Your head dug into the blanket and you let out the most pornographic cry. You said his name like a prayer as your nails dug into his back.

Mitsuya's eyes rolled to the back of his skull. His hips sloppily lost their rhythm. His own body began to shake with how your walls tried to milk him for everything he's got-- He needed to-- he didn't want to!

Tears rolled out of your eyes from overstimulation. A new weird tingling feeling began to form. It felt weird-- it tickled so much.

"Takashi-- wait--"

You were about to push him off. You needed to--

One last harsh thrust had your eyes widening, your breath trapped in your chest, your legs violently shook-

Mitsuya quickly pulled out-- his hand wrapped around his cock- suddenly clear liquid sprayed out on his stomach. His head rolled back and his groaned out your name before thick white ropes landed on your pussy..

He couldn't catch his breath. The sight in front of him was too much.. You had squirted on his at the same time he came on you.

You tried to catch your breath as you covered your face with your hands in shame.

But to Mitsuya.. His pride and ego have never been this inflated. You looked so fucking beautiful laying in front of him. Legs shaking, chest heaving, your cunt was still dripping from your release, his cum slowly falling onto the blanket.

You wanted to cry when he leaned over you again and brought your hands away from your face.

"I'm so sor-"

His lips connected to yours. You both were still a bit shaky but Mitsuya smiled at you. "Don't be. I liked it a lot. I want you to squirt on me every time now. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded before he pulled away and dug into his bag for something to clean you both up.

When he was done he tried to help you sit up-- But you were so tired! "No.. can we just lay here?"

Mitsuya chuckled. "That's fine, but we at least need to put our clothes back on."

You whined, but let him help you up..

It seems the both of you forgot that you were still technically out in public. Though Mitsuya's tree was actually far away from the actual park, the both of you were still outside.

You giggled as he tried to keep you still as he cleaned you up. He smiled the entire time you let him help you out your clothes back on. He still snuck small kisses here and there as he did so.

You both laid back down on the dry side of the blanket. Talking about everything and nothing.

Both so lost in one another that you didn't see the black pair of eyes watching..

----------------------------------------

Once Draken's anger simmered down it instantly turned into deep regret.

Regret with the words he said to you, regret with the way he treated you..

You weren't his to break but still he had broken you in so many ways.

He tried to find you but you were gone all day. He needed to see you.. to beg for your forgiveness, he'd even get on his knees and plead to you..

But he had no luck, even after checking all your favorite spots.

Maybe his twin dragon would know? Maybe you were together? He'd beg for your mercy and thank Mitsuya for fixing the precious person he broke.

He'd beg his brother to take care of you and never hurt you. He doubted Mitsuya ever would do what he did, he knew his twin would make you his world..but he needed to hear it.

When he arrived to his apartment his mother was home. It was a rare day off for her snd she let him know he had left this afternoon with a backpack and picnic blanket..

Draken knew right away where he would be! He's seen Mitsuya's hiding tree once or twice. He didn't judge, it was actually dope..

Maybe he took you there to calm down. To sit in the quiet and help you melt the stress away.

But when he was about to enter through the thick leaves and branches he heard you laughing. Next came the sounds of small kisses and mumbled words..

He didn't want to be he needed to see what was happening.. He wished he never did.

It hurt. It hurt so much and he had no one to blame but himself..

You and Mitsuya snuggled together on top of a blanket. Smiling and whispering to one another, sharing sweet kisses and lounging looks..

He knew he fucked up. You'd never look at him like that ever-- His brain told him to rush in and knock Mitsuya out. His mind told him to steal you away and never let you escape.

But his heart stopped him.

His heart told him it was already too late. You belonged to another, you found who you were supposed to be with. And it wasn't him, it was his best friend..

With a heavy heart he just walked away. He left you alone even though it hurts..

Eventually you'll be in his life again right? He prayed on it for so long..

It took time but eventually you came back. No you still weren't his but you at least said hi to him when you'd pass him..

When he asked Mitsuya about you, his friend was hesitant but eventually told him you were fine. Then he'd tell him about yours and his lastest date.

It took forever but that hurt turned to acceptance. It slowly turned into happiness for you and Mitsuya.

He worked hard on his relationship with Emma and soon forgot about his feelings for you. (They did sneak up here and there but he knew there was nothing he could do)

Especially now when you all grew up. Especially now that you and Mitsuya have been happily married for the past 5 years. (Yes, he was the best man)

He couldn't have you now that you were expecting your 3rd child with his twin dragon.

Your first was a set of twins. Boy and girl.. The perfect mix of their hot shot designer father and their beautiful model of a mother.

He knew he couldn't have you when your friendship with him slowly began to stitch itself back together. No you were never as close as you used to be when you were kids but it was a start.

He knew he didn't have a chance when you and Mitsuya made him and Emma God parents to your kids. It was an honor and he made a promise to love them like they were his.

....... He accepted that he still loves you. But he also knows that'll never be and he won't bother trying.

It was okay... He was going to be okay because you were happy and thats all that matters.

THE END! Thank you all for reading!! ♥️♥️♥️

#tokyo revengers #x reader #draken #mitsuya x reader #mitsuya takashi #mitsuya smut #tokyo revengers x reader

51 notes · View notes

moronkombat · 1 year ago

Note

op the breeding/preganncy stuff w reptile had me insane. can we get some for havik please?

hehe tw: dubcon/noncon, pregnancy, violence, afab pronouns and anatomy

Havik had gotten you pregnant purposefully. All to keep you closer to him.

All of you will belong to him and he will have you tied to him by laying his seed inside you

You would cry, you would scream and beg for him not to but this only fuels his sick intentions with blazing flames

How he will relish in painting your womb with crystal white pearls. How ravaging it will be gaze into your wide and pathetic eyes

There is no escape for you, not in the slightest. You will bear his child and deliver them to him through screams and blood

Wretched hands hook into her skin, the tattered flesh of wrists so abraded and worn from the metal that binds them. Chains dance and their song ripped from them as they are pulled and tugged. Crimson flees down the length of sore and beaten arms. Teeth brush against the shell of an ear and the breath that is whispered into her abhorrent and coated in grotesque chaffs.

She can hear him grunting, feel him moving torrid against flesh that trembles and grips. The body such a treacherous ally to her. Eyes so wet with tears but the velvet warmth slick with natural pleasure. How awful, how agonizingly euphoric the way Havik's cock, thick and full, continues to ravage her so wanton.

He's laughing then, a tongue layering over her ear. He can feel just her warmth dripping around him. What a wonderful orchestra she makes. Wet and sticky, there is music each time he thrusts within her. So already painted she is, so bleached in white all thanks to him. Yet there no stopping yet, no of course not. He must give to her all he can contain. His seed must thrive within her, grow and be nurtured.

A spine curls at the thought and Havik is ripping his nails into her flesh and he hears her cry out in pain. So beautiful, so wonderful...how she screams and screams. It will not be long now until he delivers his twisted seed to her womb.

He recalls her words, her petrified terror. "No! Please don't! I don't want to have your child! You can't! You can't!" That's it, give into the loss of control. Free yourself and be consumed by all that is chaos. Learn from him, become him. Havik moves faster now, blinding ferocity his guidance.

A palm comes to lay upon her stomach, oh how flat it is now...soon that will change. Soon it will grow with his twisted gift. Once his seed has taken its root she will belong entirely to him. Him, just him. She is claimed and the bearer of generations of chaos to come!

"Get pregnant, little pet" his words slither into her while his seed lays its seige.

You cannot deny him this, Havik makes sure of it and it is not long until you know he has succeeded

The illness spins, your body aching and stomach coiling. It not a blight to be cured with medicine and you know this. This a curse you have been condemned to enable its festering

Still, you try to keep it a secret...try to keep your pregnancy a secret from your tormentor

You must not let him know that his child grows within you. What a wretched child they will be, you cannot allow this to happen

But power is stripped from you, there is so escape. Mangled jaws are forever at your neck

You're sick, you can't stop bile from rising. It's too much, and it is expelled. You cannot hide

Havik comes to you then with a look so putrid and rotten, never has he gazed to you quite like this

"My pet...Why did you hide that you got pregnant?" Is what he'd say, eyes tarnished with insanity

You're terrified but unable to move as he approaches you. A damaging hand presses over your naval and soon a tongue is shoved into your mouth

He's celebrating, he's thank you but there is no joy in your soul. None at all

Havik does not relinquish his fixation over your body. He will lay into you again and again, making small cuts into your skin

No matter what, there is always a hand grasping your growing stomach. A constant reminder that you belong to him

There are whispers of how wonderful it is for you to be the mother of chaos

You will birth this world into anarchy and turmoil again and again. This is your purpose, this is your gift

A child is born and Havik does not allow for any sort of reduction of pain

There are screams and cries and Havik can only relish in its glory

Whispered venom is poured into your ear as you strain and break

You deliver your child in a room full of gore and death. A child baptized in it as Havik holds them up, mad and wild

The face of your child you do not recognize. Perhaps it the face Havik had lost all that time ago?

You are not sure, you can't be sure. The clouds of dismay far too grey knowing that you are bound to Havik forever

#mortal kombat #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat fanworks #mortal kombat headcanons #mk1 #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat smut #havik #mk havik #havik x reader #tw: yandere #tw: dubcon #tw: pregnancy #tw: violence

299 notes · View notes

omkookie · 1 year ago

Text

♡ Suitors ♡ · Roger, William and Alfons.🩷

⌈ ⚠️ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⌉ Smut, kind of angsty.

His hands roam your body, his fingers teasing all of your sweet spots and undressing you with a practised hand.

Even if you still resent him for how he betrayed you, your body still loves his touch and craves it. You haven't changed one bit since he remembers… except you've gotten quite snarky and aggressive towards him.

But he still likes you, even if you're like this.

He holds you closely as he penetrates you, his cock sinking into you with one swift thrust before he ruthlessly fucks you into the mattress. Even if you curse him, curse his name, and tell him how much you hate him, you still come undone beneath him. Your nails claw his back so hard that you leave marks behind. He turns you into an overstimulated mess with tears running down your face, and his cum dripping down your legs.

Unfortunately, you don't waste a second to stay any longer once you're done having sex. You put on your clothes and leave him.

It's okay though, even if you leave him the moment that you've finished, he knows you'll be back. He knows that it doesn't matter how many times he makes you cry, you'll always come back.

But why does he feel a pang of guilt in his chest every time you leave?...

You shouldn't have indulged in your desires, as tempting as they were.

He was the worst temptation of all, and even if you hated him you still couldn't resist wanting him and his body.

You touch him, craving more and more of him throughout the night even as you know this will be nothing but a fleeting moment where you exchange intimacy. Your lust for him still manages to overthrow the part of you that resents him, and you run your fingers through his smooth hair while his face makes its way between your thighs.

He takes care of you throughout the night and until morning, his mind curious about what path you'd take next…? What would you do? Go back to your normal life and cut him off, or continue to seek him out like this?

Not wanting to do anything more than fuck him, you leave him once you're done and head off to who knows where.

Only later when you stop visiting him for a late night tryst does he find out that you've found a new lover.

A fair enough play of events for the self-righteous king who left his little robin all alone outside in the raging storm.

Why does he feel some envy when he sees you happily holding hands with your new lover though?

You hate this man full of lies and illusions.

He's a sick…sick…twisted evil man.

Even if so, he continues to please you with his body and toy with you despite knowing you hate him.

He puts his body on yours, your tongues coming together to entangle in a kiss while he strips you of your undergarments and positions you on his lap. His big hands hold your soft thighs as his fingers make their way towards your entrance, and then slide inside of your wetness with ease.

"Isn't this the best proof that you're enjoying it?" He asks you while slipping another finger inside of you, and making your face flush red in embarrassment at how easily his fingers enter inside of your body without any resistance.

He unbuckles his belt, allowing his cock to spring out of its confines and then eagerly press against your entrance. Even if you can't stand him... what's wrong with indulging in the temporary pleasures that he can provide you with and escaping reality?

How he holds you is awfully sweet and gentle… almost like a lover would, while he whispers sweet little words of praise in your ear.

230 notes · View notes

gerbelx2000-blog · 7 months ago

Note

i honestly really dislike the palace rulers being treated so drastically different from akechi in the fandom. even though there's still people who refuse to say anything positive about akechi because he's a terrible guy, the majority of the fandom still treats him like a character and read into his backstory, behaviour, and motivations.

but when it comes to the palace rulers, there's not a single ounce of that attitude for them. it's so strange because not even the story itself has such a crazy bias; the same amount of sympathy towards akechi is given towards the palace rulers too. madarame and okumura are my most obvious examples, with yusuke often expressing his conflicting feelings on the matter, and haru learning about her father's motivations through takakura during her confidant.

in that sense, joker and akechi's relationship parallels that of haru/yusuke and the respective father figure; the two mutually love and care for each other, but unfortunately, one cares more for themselves and it causes their bond to break.

the cut backstories for the palace rulers add a lot to their character, and maybe that's why i like them so much. it makes them feel as rounded out as akechi was (in vanilla, i know he's much more humanized in royal's third semester. that might add to the bias, actually) and it makes me feel kind of bad for those sick, twisted bastards.

but obviously, that content was cut, and it's not very widespread knowledge, unlike akechi's backstory which he explains in-game, right in your face, unavoidably.

there's also this thing i've noticed that i call "fandom activism" where any deep analysis into a good-written character that is a genuinely bad person is seen as condoning their actions because WE ALWAYS HAVE TO SHUN THE EVIL GUY!!! WE CAN'T TALK ABOUT THEM IN CASUAL CONVERSATION!!! WE NEED TO HOLD A FICTIONAL CHARACTER ACCOUNTABLE FOR THEIR ACTIONS EVEN THOUGH THEY'RE NOT REAL AND...... the way we treat them makes no difference in the world? huh.

personally, i was informed that the way i talk about kamoshida makes people uncomfortable. it's not like i said anything creepy about him, all i do is read into him the same way one would with akechi. he's a genuinely good villain, the same way akechi is! and his mindset is really interesting to look into!!!!! i think they're all missing out!!!!!!!!

my last line of defense is that the palace rulers are unfortunately made way less conventionally attractive than akechi is. that's something i don't like about them, and the fact that everyone lets that sway their opinions of them even less. i know atlus pulls the "make the unsympathetic character ugly" shtick a lot and it's suuuuuuuuuuck.

yeah. i'm kind of peeved about this and i thought you were the best person to send this to. kaneshiro isn't a cute twink but i'm still going to love him with the little attention he gets........... :')

FRICKEN NAILED IT THERE! NICE JOB!👍👍👍😭😭😭 AND I CAN RELATE TO YOUR PAIN AND STRUGGLES!

#persona 5 #persona 5 royal #suguru kamoshida #ichiryusai madarame #junya kaneshiro #wakaba isshiki #kunikazu okumura #masayoshi shido #goro akechi

37 notes · View notes

jigglypuff1994 · 6 months ago

Text

The Devil Wears Gabriel - Chapter 13

Queen Bee scoffed. "Cut the act, Ladybug. I know who you are." Her arms folded and face twisted in a scowl.

Marinette's breath hitched. "H-how do you...?"

"Pollen, buzz off." Queen Bee's magic washed away in a bright, yellow light, blinding Marinette for a moment. When the black spots cleared from her eyes, Marinette had the second surprise of the day.

"Chloe?!" Marinette gasped, gaping at her.

Chloe rolled her eyes. "Surprise, Dupain-Cheng. I'm Queen Bee." Tapping her foot in annoyance, watching Marinette slowly come to after the shock of the reveal.

Marinette blinked her eyes once, twice, three times, trying to piece the puzzle together, connecting the dots between Queen Bee and Chloe Bourgeois. The same Chloe who gave Marinette the most shit yet guided her in her civilian life had her back in her hero form, as well. Honestly, once the initial shock wore off, Marinette wasn't that surprised. Knowing Chloe in and out of her hero persona, she acted the same.

But if Chloe was Queen Bee, who the hell was Chat? And ohhhhhhh. That explains why he was complacent about Chloe being captured by the akuma. She was a miraculous holder, and he knew that. He gave her the bee miraculous after all! Her thoughts slammed her back into the present. Marinette couldn't resist asking, "Does Chat know, too?!"

Chloe groaned, putting her head in her hands. "Ugh, I swear. You two need some serious one-on-one time in your civilian forms. I think you two would get along splendidly. The both of you constantly annoy me! You're both utterly ridiculous!"

Marinette breathed, "That doesn't answer my question."

"Yeah? Well, then ask him yourself! I'm tired of this pining and whining between you two. Jump off the snake train and bone the cat already. I'm sick of this!"

Marinette furrowed her brows. "So, he doesn't know?"

Chloe threw her arms up. "Obviously! If he knew, he would be here. He's like a stray: give him a little food and some cuddles, and he'll never leave you alone. He's practically touch-starved!" She peeved. Chloe analyzed Marinette for a moment. When she didn't say anything, she assured, "I'm good at keeping secrets, obviously. I won't tell anyone about your identity." She checked her nails as if she hadn't dropped a bomb.

-------------Continued on Link------------------

#chloe bourgeois #queen bee #marinette dupain cheng #alternate universe #prereveal ladynoir #thedevilwearsgabriel #miraculous fandom #miraculous ladybug

6 notes · View notes

tavyliasin · 8 months ago

Text

ATG 14 - Fury? Scorned.

In which an enemy becomes a bedfellow...

Pairing: Mizora/Tav SPICE Rating: 4/5 Content Warnings: Oral sex, light Bondage, rough sex, mild hate-fucking, mild neck grab, light whipping, tail whipping, manipulation, temperature play

Spoilers Act 3, Wyll's storyline Canon Compliance Canon adjacent with Mizora's offer though some divergence in the scene and what happens after. Other Notes The names and descriptions of the hells are mostly canon, the feelings when they are used may vary in some ways from the game descriptions but hopefully that is forgivable to just indulge in a little fun with it all. I also headcanon Mizora as feeling cool to the touch in general, both from personality and from her skin being blue to be honest it's just a simple shorthand for "thing is cold colour therefore feels cold". Click here to read the same chapter on AO3 if you prefer~

Mood/Song Freak Like Me by Halestorm "I'm on the train that's pullin' the sick and twisted Makin' the most of the ride before we get arrested We're all wasted And we're not going home tonight

Covered in black, we lack the social graces Just like an animal, we crawl out of our cages They can't tame us So if you're one of us, get on the bus

If you're a freak like me"

--- --- Full Chapter below the cut! --- ---

Tav paced back and forth across the empty room, floorboards creaking beneath her feet. Was it a mistake? Had she finally made a decision that couldn’t be taken back? She paused. Shaking the thoughts loose from her head, resuming her restless footsteps once more, she turned her mind away from problems and towards solutions. Every devil has a catch, they stick to their laws so you simply have to read between the lines and- “FUCK!” Her own voice surprised her as she cursed the chair that dared to get in the way of where her toes were supposed to be. “Fucking Mizora…”

“Well, there’s an idea~” That horrible voice that Tav had been trying to avoid crept into her ear.

“Speak of the devil and she shall appear?” Tav turned on her heel, staring daggers at the intruder and sorely tempted to throw some too.

“Oh hush now, there’s no need for hostilities. I’m not here about Wyll, let the pup run and play while he still has the time - we shall call that one a mercy. See? I can be nice, if I want to.” Mizora’s smile was unnerving as she spread her hands and wings in a disarming gesture.

“Then why the fuck are you here, devil?” Tav made no attempt to disguise the disdain in her voice. The others had left to fetch supplies and to begin looking for more signs of the prison that held Wyll’s father. She had remained behind - “to plan” she had told them - but in truth she couldn’t bear to look at the conflict in the Warlock’s eyes any longer. Karlach would look after him, along with the others, but she had been the one to push him too far, to make a decision she knew he would see as selfish.

In the moment of silence, Mizora had stepped closer, circling around the rogue with interest, clawed blue fingers reaching out but stopping short of her shoulder. “Truth is, I’ve had my eye on you.” The smile beneath blazing eyes was ever more unnerving as she continued. “You’re a fascinating little thing, and you’ve been on quite the adventures now haven’t you?”

Tav bristled as she felt herself being undressed by the cambion’s gaze, and not the one she might usually prefer to imagine her naked…although… “Reading my diary, are you? That’s considered poor form, I thought you demons liked your rules.”

“Devils.” Mizora corrected her. “Fiends, if you must. But who has need of your precious little words when I can simply watch ?” With one clawed nail, the devil indicated an eye that burned just a touch brighter for a moment.

“Wyll…his eye.”

“Obviously. I must keep track of the pup lest he wander in front of a carriage or into the jaws of a stray dragon. But enough of him - it’s you I’m here to see.” The fiend’s hand reached out again towards Tav’s cheek, and when she didn’t pull away the cool touch caressed her with a gesture somewhere between a lover and the prospective owner of a prized animal examining the quality of the livestock. Tav gritted her teeth and smiled. This was a game she could play, and she couldn’t deny that - at least on a purely physical level - the bitch did have some level of allure. “Tell me then, Mizora, what is it you think you see in me?” “I knew you were curious, pet.” The smirk that accompanied the mocking term of endearment betrayed the hint of fangs behind soft lips. “Don’t you feel it? There’s something missing. You’re hungry for pleasures beyond this plane, something more satisfying than mortal flesh, blood and bone.” “And that something is you?” Her eyebrow raised, pretending to take the bait. “How very observant! Quick little thing, but not quite. I am your key to that door, if you’re brave enough to open it, of course.” Blue wings stretched up for a moment as she withdrew her hand. “Although, if you’d rather I just leave you to your brooding-”

“I didn’t say to go, yet.” Tav was wondering if being poetic and overly-dramatic was a specific cambion trait, or if it was instead just coincidence that Mizora shared a few things in common with Raphael. She chased off the thought, Raphael usually had the good grace to play fair even when he obscured the rules of the game. “If you really think there’s something I’m missing, why don’t you show me?”

“An excellent choice, pet.” Mizora’s wings spread wide this time, the circle appearing beneath them both - that familiar and horrifying bubbling tar seemingly made of darkness itself. It was simultaneously boiling and freezing, the essence of every level of the hells distilled into an infernal pool at their feet.

The liquid rose, climbing and surrounding them, enveloping the pair in an instant before falling away and leaving them in a space between worlds.

—

Tav wasn’t sure where they were, or what to make of it. Everything seemed coloured with a hue she didn’t recognise, something beyond her comprehension, the echoes of music she had never heard tickling the edge of her senses. She couldn’t tell if it was singing or screaming, but there was something hauntingly beautiful.

“There, you see? Can you smell it?” Mizora breathed deeply, as if inhaling the most delicious scent imaginable.

Tav tentatively followed suit, noting something very familiar.

“Avernus,” Mizora confirmed her suspicions, “home of the river Styx, the sweet aroma of spiced wine and rotting offal. Forget the heavens, pet, this is paradise .”

Tav wasn’t certain she agreed with the sentiments, but as she looked around, trying to make sense of the endless void around her she felt the fiend step in closer behind her.

“ Home .” The cambion’s voice carried a note of pride to it, purpose and belonging stirring a loyalty that no living being would ever hear directed towards themselves. “Take your time, take it all in - let me show you the true wages of your sin.”

Wings drew in around her shoulders as Tav felt the stirring of an undeniable lust in her core. Much as she loathed the woman behind her, the feeling of talons caressing her throat, running along her sides and following the curve of her hips… Even the tip of the cambion’s powder-blue tail teasing at her wrist was enchanting her senses.

“I can offer a taste of any of the hells you wish, you know.” The voice in her ear purred with sweet warmth, eloquently suggesting far more salacious ideas than the words alone would suggest. “The blackened elysium of Dis, Minauros the rotting bog, Phlegethos with its molten seas and soil, the frozen oceans of Stygia...”

Tav shivered as Mizora’s hands continued to travel across her body, cool lips pressing deceptively soft kisses along the line of her neck. Sharp teeth and claws nipped and pricked her exposed skin, gentle for now, but the edge of threat lingering. The decidedly unwise rush of adrenaline only served to increase her curiosity and arousal. Each hell that was named came with a swirl of different coloured flames at the cambion’s fingertips, licking at Tav’s senses not with heat but the very essence that each contained. “The infinite desolation of Malbolge, Maladomini’s long forgotten ruins, the mountains of ice across Cania, and finally Nessus, the seat of infernal power that rules over all of them.” Mizora withdrew her touch, wrapping her arms around Tav instead, hands cupped in front now with the illusion of all 9 fires dancing in her palms. “Take your choice, and I will allow you a taste of the satisfaction you have been denied for so long.” Tav reached up, bringing her hands around Mizora’s, letting her fingers drift through the flames as she considered the proposal. “This is…quite the feast.” “A buffet the likes of which most mortals never even get to witness, let alone sample.” The fiend chuckled, kissing her ear and dropping to a seductive whisper. “Go on then, pet, the decision is yours.” “All of them.” She made her decision easily, enclosing her hands around cool blue fingers. “If I have truly been so starved, then I should taste every single one.”

“You are such a bold little thing, but very well. If you believe yourself able to handle every agony of countless tortured souls, I will show you a bliss beyond that suffering that your frail mortal mind could never conceive of alone.” It was the work of a simple gesture from the fiend to dissolve the clothes from both of their bodies into nothing. “Can you feel it? The heat of Avernus, the fires that consume countless lost souls that stray from the river.”

Tav closed her eyes as the fiend’s hand snaked across them, Mizora’s other hand dancing along the nerves of her skin with heated flames just on the edge of burning. She could hear - almost sense - the Styx, bare toes just touching the water’s surface and finding it to be neither warm nor cold, yet just as intense as if it were scalding her. Pain linked arms with adrenaline, pulling a hint of lust along for the ride as her senses filled with everything that was Avernus.

Tugging at the very edge of her mind, for just a fraction of a second, she felt the slightest hint of cherry and cinnamon like a far off memory that vanished the moment she tried to catch hold of it.

“You wished to taste everything, so let me reward your avarice.” Mizora’s claws raked a line across Tav’s abdomen next, drawing pinpricks of blood to the surface as their surroundings shifted. “Dis, can you feel the darkness now?” Tav nodded silently. Even without Mizora’s hand over her eyes, she could sense the complete lack of light, something deeper than darkness itself. Her skin prickled with the shadows crawling over her like living beings, the fiend’s fingertips chasing the sensations with a teasingly light tough that rose to cup her chest. “The iced mountains of Cania - fitting, don’t you think?” The chill accompanying her words was painful, freezing Tav’s own peak in an instant before thawing her again with a warmer palm massaging across frost-seared skin. “Phlegethos, the molten soils…” The sudden change in temperature drew a gasp from her lungs, words long since forgotten, listening only to the voice in her ear, feeling only the embrace of the hells and the hellspawn who brought her to each one in turn. Mizora lifted her hand away from Tav’s eyes, leaving the vanishing warmth of her palm and the unspoken command to keep them closed. She also withdrew the rest of her touch, stepping back as the atmosphere shifted once again. “The desolation of Malbolge… Can you feel it, pet? The unbearable longing , the yearning for anything but the emptiness.” The fiend was teasing, using the essence of the hells themselves to make Tav needy, to make her desire whatever it was the devil could offer - and it was beginning to work. She almost moaned when those devious hands returned to her body, taking hold of her hips and sliding around behind to dig vicious claws into soft flesh. “Maladomini’s forgotten ruins - ah but you are no ruin, are you? And you certainly won’t be forgetting this.” Indelicate touch shifted, raking lines into her skin and leaving deeper marks. “The rotting bog of Minauros, like the petulant souls of mortal pets who do not know their place.” The breath whispering on the back of Tav’s neck was growing hotter, just as her own body grew more heated with desire. “Stygia’s frozen ocean…” Wicked fingers found her own ocean, slipping inside with a hint of that same cold as Tav felt the bitterly cold air sting her face with mist whipped up from the waves somewhere beneath her feet. “Though far from frozen here. That’s it, sweet little thing, give yourself over to the infernal~” Honeyed poison coated salacious words, fingers beginning to press inside with well practiced motion. Tav felt her strength waning a little, leaning back against the fiend without a second thought. Her head rested against cool skin that carried a bitter scent - something between soured citrus and the hiss of lightning. “And last but never least,” Mizora’s other hand drifted down the rogue’s stomach, her destination matched to her words, “the seat of infernal power itself. Nessus, the most intense, where all rule is decided and control is held.”

Tav whimpered from the intensity. Held in the arms of the devil, her nerves being mercilessly stimulated as the sensations of all nine hells rushed around her like a monsoon. She clung to her fraying sanity like a liferaft, focusing on every whisper and movement, picking apart everything she could use. It was becoming a battle of wills, with only one knowing that she was in the fight, the other just indulging in idle curiosity tainted by a fiendish ego that had a need to prove that none could compare. It would be easy to lose herself, to let Mizora completely take her over, but that essence of Nessus…the power itself coursed through her consciousness, the hint of ambition that drove her to seize the chance. Holding back the edge of her climax by biting the inside of her cheek, Tav let the taste of blood whet her appetite for that same power, the control, the chance to get the upper hand over a fiend who was hellbent on winning. And that started with a lower hand. While Mizora was focusing on Tav’s body, she slipped her hand behind her, tracing along the path of the cambion’s hip to the top of a warm thigh, finding that the woman was not quite as calm and unaffected as she wanted Tav to believe.

“Cheeky little pup,” Mizora’s voice was coloured by a tint of lust, as Tav felt the response to her touch. “Are you certain you want to play this game?”

She leaned her head back further, finding a deeper well of hunger for power, lips reaching Mizora’s ear. “Are you going to let me taste all the hells have to offer, or are you going to hold back?” Tav withdrew her fingers and brought them to her lips, finding the cambion’s taste to be complex, almost burning but with a feeling more of ice than fire. It was…intriguing.

“If you insist, pet, I will indulge your thirst.” Mizora withdrew the touch that had been working so hard to bring her to an overwhelming climax, hands moving to Tav’s hips, turning her around so they were facing one another.

Tav couldn’t tell if they had begun to float or if the ground beneath them had simply fallen away. They were weightless, drifting, the cambion’s wings closing around her like a trap.

“Is this what you want? To resist the pleasure I could give you?” Mizora sounded on the edge of frustration and curiosity, sharpened claws raking across Tav’s skin - a challenge met.

“You think me so selfish as to not make this a fair trade?” She pushed her luck as far as she thought safe, lifting her leg to wrap it around pale blue hips, pressing their bodies together as the sensations of the hells continued to lick across her own body with invisible flames. “Or are you afraid you might want me back?”

“I should have put you on a shorter leash.” The fiend growled, pulling her in closer, tail coiling around her knee with a snake-like grip. “Foolish creature, even as prey you’re barely an ant to the appetite of a wolf.”

“So it’s my appetite you’re afraid of?” Tav smirked.

“Fear, pet, is not in my vocabulary.” Mizora swiftly pulled Tav’s leg away and threw her with a sharp motion of a tail that was stronger than it seemed. Tav felt the rush of air, adrenaline spiking through her body as she was powerlessly flung through the empty space. She didn’t have long to worry for where she might land, however, as the cambion was swooping through the air with wings back like a diving bird of prey. The wicked grin might as well have been a razor sharp beak, the glint of danger shining on the edge of painted lips.

Mizora caught Tav easily in mid air, arms curling around her thighs and parting her legs. Likewise, she found a grip on cool blue hips, locking the two of them in a new battle of wits. Although this time, sharp tongues were turned to new purpose…

Tav wasted no time, quickly getting another taste of the cambion while feeling the fiend’s hunger already finding a feast between her own thighs. Mizora was relentless from the start, lavishing her senses with more of the essence of the hells. Heat, cold, and even some trying to drain away the strength from her body…but she pulled back to Nessus, using the same power against the woman who was so desperate to bring her to ruin. Sparks of the Weave flickered at the tip of her tongue as she directed the magic into her “attack”. She brought her hand around to thrust inside, curling to find any further weak points in the only part of the cambion that could truly be described as either soft or warm. Tav kept a brutal pace, not concerned for the comfort of a woman who was just as merciless in sex as in the contracts that bound foolish souls to her whims. Mizora almost paused for a moment, tail curling around to take hold of Tav’s arm. Though instead of pulling her hand back, the cambion seemed to encourage her to press deeper, rougher motions. Just like her… Tav thought to herself, redoubling her efforts, digging the nails of her other hand into the base of the fiend’s tail hard to make her point. She felt the grip on her forearm release, but quickly followed by a swift strike to her upper back from the arrow-tip appendage. There was a pleased chuckle that vibrated through Mizora’s tongue as Tav moaned at the sting of pain. The contrast between the pain and the ecstasy kept the ebb and flow of pleasure’s tides moving through both of them as neither was willing to cede defeat. There was nothing but the sensations, the experience, the overwhelming combination of the essences of all the hells distilled into a battle that was more of pride than of flesh. Neither cambion nor elf knew which one broke first - both biting back the sound of their climax, though unable to hide it completely.

Before she had even a chance to regain her breath, Tav felt Mizora’s tail slide around her waist, pulling the two apart and whipping her around face to face again. Taloned narrow blue fingers gripped her throat with just enough pressure to make the point without crushing. “You play with fire, pet. I like that.”

“Fire? This is a matchstick to a furnace. Is that all you are, Mizora? A sputtering flame?” Tav pushed her luck, licking the taste of herself from the cambion’s own lips, following with a kiss that shared like for like, ensuring Mizora could swallow her own ‘medicine’. “Hm. Perhaps you are merely a rabid beast who needs taming after all.” Mizora caught Tav’s lip in sharp teeth, drawing hot blood as the elf’s pale wrists were twisted behind her back, quickly bound by a coiling blue tail. She struggled momentarily, but with her arms behind her Tav didn’t have the strength to get free. Not that she was particularly inclined to.

Mizora’s fingers flickered with a myriad of colours, the flames licking around her whole hand, summoning the essences of the hells once more, tracing along Tav’s body. “That’s right, pet, writhe and whine, for the rest of our time your body is mine.” The part of the rogue that wanted to argue was silenced and overpowered by the lust and intrigue that still burned hot. Blue wings enclosed around her as they continued to float in…she wasn’t sure it even mattered. “That’s it, surrender.” Mizora had no intention of being gentle. Continuing to bind her hands with the strength of her tail alone, three fingers thrust inside Tav without warning.

She whined at the intrusion, unsure if the burn was from the stretch or the hells weaving around wicked fingers. The cambion clearly had experience and was willing to play her every nerve to tease out the little gasps that left her mouth hanging open, eyes closed as the sensations threatened to devour her whole. Even the copper-sweet taste of her own blood trickling from her lip onto her tongue was doing little to reduce the heat building deep within her again with the memory of her lover’s sanguine kiss. Although…there was the shadow of something else, the phantom feel of lips where Mizora’s most certainly were not. The quiet echo of her own laugh in her mind, a sending without the stone. “Interesting game, Little Thief, to steal from one such as her… Say the word and we stop, or nothing and we will give you more.”25 words in her own voice, the simple sending betraying the incubus and their game - somewhere in Avernus they had taken her form, and they weren’t alone. She could even feel the edge of the devil’s greed as she pointedly answered the spell with her silence. Mizora had no idea that Tav was leaning back into pure self indulgence, her mind drifting to other tails that could bind her, other lips that could press against her neck, other hands that could thrust with a merciless pace inside her, another thumb that could circle overstimulated nerves-

The cry that left her lips was not for the woman driving her over the brink, nor even the games of two fiends in Avernus; it was one born from the decision to just take what she could from the experience. It mattered little if Mizora thought she had won, that her sharp voice rang out with a mocking laugh, whispering the gloating of a false victory. Tav had what she wanted, and then some.

—

It was some time before Mizora was satisfied, and Tav’s legs were barely able to stagger as the cambion brought the ground rushing back up beneath them, the circle of magic bubbling up with the unsettling tar-like liquid that washed over them. While the cambion had ensured her own clothes were returned, Tav was left bare, her outfit appearing instead in a heap next to her bed Mizora deposited her on the ground beside them.

“Really? That is where you were?” Astarion’s voice cut through the silence, though thankfully his was the only presence in the room besides Tav and the gloating devil stood above her.

“Oh don’t you fret now, I have returned your little toy unharmed. Mostly .” She grinned, sharp teeth bared at the pale elf who continued to pointedly ignore her presence. “Well, I hope it was worth it, darling. Did you enjoy yourself?” He continued only addressing Tav, helping pull a blanket around her shoulders before the cold could bite through to her bones.

“Trust me, pet, she won’t be forgetting me any time soon~” Mizora crooned, her wings spreading slightly with pride.

“It was…acceptable.” Tav shrugged, equally ignoring the devil in favour of her lover. “I admit I couldn’t resist trying at least once. She did offer me a taste of the hells, after all.”

“And that was not something that your other cambion lover would provide?” He raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing at the edge of his expression. “Or the incubus? They seem more than willing to let you experiment, after all.”

A pleased shiver ran down Tav’s spine. “I don’t doubt that, but what’s life without some variety? You did tell me to sample anything on offer, after all. It would’ve been a waste of a chance.” She finally turned to Mizora. “Although, I can’t see what all the fuss was about, honestly. A fun evening, but I shan’t be pining after your touch for the rest of my mortal days. You can leave.”

“I can WHAT?! ” Mizora snapped, wings rising and flames gathering around her fingers. “Oh, you impudent little-”

“What in the hells is going on in here?” Wyll’s voice cut across the room like a blade, stopping the cambion before her spell could unleash itself. “Maybe I will leave, I’m sure you’ll have fun explaining to my little pup why you reek of his mistress~” Mizora’s smile returned, cruel and cold, as she turned her back on the two elves now sitting on the edge of the bed. She stalked across the room, clawed fingers tracing along Wyll’s chest as he stood motionless and furious. “Ta ta, pet. Have fun playing with your friends, while you still can.” With a laugh and a swirl of acrid smoke, she was gone. A moment later, Astarion and Tav were laughing so hard they nearly fell to the floor. “You think this is funny? That you were foolish enough to cavort with a devil who would devour your soul faster than you can snap your fingers?” Wyll stormed across the room, eye blazing with anger. “I thought we were at least friends and here you are sleeping with my enemy after convincing me to…to…”

“Wyll…gods…no it’s not like that. I’m sorry. Astarion, please-” Tav wiped the tears from her eyes struggling to regain her composure as her lover took over the explanation. It took a moment longer for the pale elf to find the words himself, even as Wyll glared down a the pair. “Listen… You should have seen her face. This darling little thing over here looked the bitch in the eye and told her she was forgettable .”

“You… I’m sorry, you said what? ” Wyll’s anger was mixing with pure confusion, the emotions fighting for control over his expression and neither one winning. “She actually thought,” Tav took another few breaths to calm herself. “She truly believed I was going to be some pathetic whining thing desperate for more. I won’t lie, it was unique, but the best part wasn’t anything we did while undressed. It was stripping off her pride and watching her completely lose it.” “She could have killed you!” The anger was winning again, this time with concern rather than rage.

“No, she wouldn’t.” She steadied herself. “Even Mizora has a healthy fear of what we’re up against, she’s not willing to put that at risk. Once it’s over…well, we might have a problem on our hands. But it was still worth it to see that look on her face!” “You are an absolute menace.” Wyll shook his head. “And you shouldn’t encourage this either! Gods, the pair of you…” His frustration, however, was beginning to ease a little. “She really did look more unsettled than I’ve ever seen her before.”

Tav grinned. “Right? That’s not even the best part, when I-” “Alright, I get it. Spare me the details, please. I don’t need more nightmares.” The warlock seemed at least willing to let it go for now, turning around to leave the pair to their own devices for now.

“Suit yourself,” Astarion smirked. “Now, about those delicious details…” “At least let me leave the room first!” Wyll complained, quickening his pace to the door. Once it had closed, and the footsteps receded, Tav nudged her lover. “Maybe we should’ve said less, at least while he was here.” “When he realises that you just managed to get right to the heart of his greatest enemy’s weakness, I’m sure he will see the greater good in your heroic sacrifice.” Astarion put his arm around her, reaching down for the book and quill. “Care to fill some more pages, my love?”

---------- ---------- ENDING NOTES ---------- ----------

I am so sorry it has taken me this long to update ATG - I may have been a little distracted by events, one shots, requests, and other series that leapt to my mind from nowhere. I hadn't forgotten, and in all honestly I found this chapter more challenging to write. But it is here, and more will follow again in a few weeks~

I shan't promise a regular schedule, but I do promise that it will continue again. The next chapters will bring Astarion back in as the main romance, and begin to resolve our remaining plotlines to find our way to the ending.

To those who haven't been following my other works, there are a couple of side stories tied to this continuity, and I would love to go back and work in some things like Abdirak who I missed the first time through, and likely some more side stories. The FicFeb works, both the SFW and NSFW ones, contain more of the ATG Tav's backstory and alternate scenarios which I might copy in here at the end as an "extra lore" chapter, and in the series version of ATG as well.

And honestly to those of you who have been on this journey with me since the beginning, I want you to know how very much I appreciate every interaction, every kudos, comment, and piece of encouragement that brings me back to this story not out of duty but out of a very real love and adoration for it~

#mizora #tav #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #a tav's guide #ao3 fanfic #ao3fic #fanfic #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #nsft #wlw nsft #Spotify

3 notes · View notes

pierrai · 10 months ago

Note

Hello!! I have an unusual request—I'm very curious about which ocs of yours would be into branding their s/o!!

Thank you for the request! I've answered this one first because it was easier to write but it was fun! I hope you enjoy ^^ I wasn't sure which OCs you'd want included so I just did all the OCs I thought capable of it!

Character: Multiple Word Count: 1086 Scenario: What OCs would be into branding their S/O? Warnings: Blood, abusive dynamics, implied death

Mira wouldn't intend to brand you at all. He doesn't want to.

He hates hurting people and so intentionally branding you is something he wouldn't even think of while he's still sound of mind, however if you're around him long enough, being 'branded' by him might be something that happens regardless.

You'll find your skin tainted pitch black where he's touched you or where you've touched him. He can't help it—he doesn't want this, please. He'll beg you to leave before it's too late, but it probably is already too late. Why, why didn't he push you away sooner? Why didn't you leave? He got too attached. He liked you far too much and now look what he's caused. His brand is a mark of death.

Though it may not actually get to that point, Eliot would at least think about branding you, especially if the topic comes up at some point.

Any way he can prove he owns you is one he's enamoured by, and though he doesn't want to actively harm you, he selfishly thinks that the small amount of pain it'd cause is worth it for seeing his own personal mark on your skin, and you should think so too. He's thought of simply branding you with his name or the mark of Filomena. Whether he's forsaken his god or not doesn't matter. The crescent moon is his to claim you with.

He wouldn't want to carve the mark into you—he's squeamish when it comes to blood and the sight would probably make him squirm—but using a branding iron would be fine, wouldn't it? If he brought it up... would you get mad at him?

Regardless of how far his fantasies get in his mind, he'll likely never be able to act on them. Luckily for you, his threats are largely empty and his jokes equally so. Unless he thinks he could truly get away with branding you or you bring it up yourself, branding will remain just that: a fantasy.

If your relationship is stable, Haine won't want to brand you. There are other ways he'll happily mark you up that don't hurt as much and aren't as long lasting. After everything you've both been through, leaving a permanent scar on your delicate skin is something that would turn his stomach rather than turn him on.

However if your relationship isn't so stable, he's not opposed to branding you. He hates you but you belong to him. Your mind, body and, most importantly, your soul, all belong to him, and why shouldn't he leave evidence of that?

Maybe he can use his nails or his teeth... bite and carve deep enough that it scars forever and ever. Not like you'll have your body long enough for it to matter, but you're fine with that, aren't you? Even when every piece of you is gone—when you've rotted to nothing but dust, your soul a part of him and your entire being reduced to nothing but a memory to him and him alone—he wants to make his mark on you before that happens.

He's not buying time. He's not delaying what he original intended to do with you. He simply hates you, and he wants you to suffer as much as you possibly can before he finally erases you into nothingness.

Damien's way of branding you is indistinguishable to anything else he already does to you. You probably wouldn't even be able to tell that branding you was his intention if it wasn't for the elated way he told you that was what he wanted. There's no point asking him why he suddenly thought of it. You were well aware by now that Damien was simply sick and twisted and his degeneracy was only amplified when you were involved.

He'll want to cut into you with a scalpel, his preferred choice of medical apparatus. A nice sharp blade that allows him the most delicate of cuts. He can carve whatever he wants, it doesn't matter. He just wants to enjoy the tenderness of your skin as it splits open, the hotness of your blood when it spills over his fingers. He wants to see your insides. They belong to him.

He won't go overboard and leave you tattered with cuts and scars—he's not a sadist, he gleefully tells you—he just wants one area of your skin to cut into and leave a nice scar on purpose. Though he usually only makes incisions for experimental purposes, this one has no other purpose but to entertain him and you. He wants to feel the thrill of leaving a very intentional mark on you. He wants to watch your expression when the blade sinks in, wants to smear blood across your lips and kiss them. The way he cuts up his cadavers and living subjects is calculated and cold, but this is an expression of his love.

You won't need to worry about it getting infected. He's a doctor. He'll make sure it heals up into a nice satisfying scar.

The thought of branding you will naturally cross Alastor's mind at some point. He's possessive and controlling, and he'd simply love to leave his mark on you somehow.

It doesn't have to be a painful way of marking you so to speak. He's perfectly content marking you up with hickeys when you're being intimate with each other. He'll suddenly become eager to trail kisses down your jaw and neck instead of kissing your lips.

He's left hickeys on his one-night-stands before, but usually only one. For a while, doing so was a way for him to amuse himself. He liked watching his partners have to carefully cover up their shame. For you, however, he wants to leave as many as possible in places you can't always cover. He wants people to see that you're his.

If he's feeling especially jealous or possessive, he'll bite you instead. He doesn't care if you protest. He wants this mark to last.

You best hope you don't ever upset him too much, or he just might start thinking of more permanent ways of proving you belong to him. Hickeys will eventually fade, but a brand from a branding iron won't. He should brand you with his own version of his family's emblem. How would you like that?

It might sound like a threat to scare you at first, but if Al suddenly starts investing in an artist or a blacksmith, you might want to start with some damage control.

1 note · View note

guyfieriii · 2 years ago

Text

Okay, Christ.

From the get go, the ambience you’ve built and with the way you’ve described it all so comprehensively, the entire room just formed itself in my mind. I literally had not make no effort to imagine it, the way you wrote it, it’s like the image started from where Price with a sort of spotlight on him and the surroundings, the stage, the people, where the reader is seated all just slowly came into focus I might as well have been watching a film.

Also, I have to emphasize…the nanobot dancers?? FUCKING BRILLIANT!!

Even with the rim pulled down low over his brow, covering the colombina mask concealing the upper portion of his face, you catch the anger frothing in cerulean.

OKAY FUCKING WHAT??? Price in a colombina??? How is it that you keep giving me things I never knew I wanted and now I don’t think I can live without.

—sweet words laced with that detestable thing that rots your insides, and leaves you sick with apathy when it extinguishes. Jaded and wrong and—

His type poisons you with hope, and leaves it to crumble in the hollowed amphitheatre of your aching, mutilated chest when they realise it's futile and do the one thing they're best at: running.

Okay I love this. Because what do we know about John Price? That he is first and foremost a man of principle and will do whatever it takes to do the right thing (his understanding of it). And now I’m a world like this wherein technology turns things that would have been considered black and white into things that are grey it is going to be FASCINATING to watch him do what’s right but in some cases in the worst possible way.

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness.

WHAT. A. LINE!!!!!

A cybernetic thumb and forefinger knead the skin

Muted neon blue cuts through the skin of his cheeks, running over his cheekbones, and dipping down toward the corner of his mouth. A flash of metal on his temple peaks beneath the rim of his beanie

I am blanking on a better way to say this but PART BOT PRICE IS SO HOT TO ME FUUUUUUCK!! Just picturing the metal against the skin of my throat or—

I need to be excused. Sorry.

Also I love how you’ve worked in Verdansk, and Shadow Company and Shepherd. Truly brilliant!!

A man with rough edges and sour words; blunt and bludgeoning.

LOVE THIS!!!

It doesn't prickle against your skin—one that bleeds red, and bruises in flaxen when you dig your fingers in hard enough. It doesn't.

Read this over and over. Love this line so freaking much. The final ‘it doesn’t’ just hits.

His index finger taps a strange rhythm on the rim of the glass as he considers the weight of what you divulged, and your eyes are quickly drawn to his human hand—thick, scarred fingers; knuckles scabbed and cracked—and to his nails. They're short, and jagged. Grizzled. They're dirty, too. A fine line of dirt sits under the gnawed hyponychium, bitten down to the plate.

THIS. IS. POETRY. And to think it’s just the description of his hand. BUT GOD.

Another stroke of brilliance is how you’ve clearly set up the divide of the populace that remains in this futuristic world. It’s simple, concise in giving me context to what the state is but also builds up the stakes a bit cuz it makes clear that Price and the reader are from two different places.

(A man, maker, who called himself your saviour, and ensured you'd never really be free.)

Jesus Christ, Lev.

"I try to find people like you. Bring them home. To justice—or whatever that might be. A lot of 'em claim to not remember, to not know what they did, or why they ran. You tellin' me somethin' similar, love?"

JUST WHEN I THOUGHT HE COULDNT GET HOTTER…HE’S A FUCKING BOUNTY HUNTER (of sorts)?????

ALSO OMG ALEX ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Worry about the payment later—upgrade yourself now.

Jesus this world is fucking bleak and a twisted version of our own current state and I LOVE IT!!!

The assured placidity of a man who can play the long game; a hunter who is used to stalking his prey over long distances.

AHHHHHHHHH omg. WHAT A FUCKING LINE!!

God the way you’ve written Makarov has chills running down my spine. You’ve truly created a chilling villain to this story. Plus the stakes only keep getting higher with what we now about the reader. I have always been in awe of your writing, you know this. But with this story, I am blown away by the sheer creative strength you’ve shown in this world that you’ve built. I cannot imagine anyone reading this first chapter not coming back for seconds and thirds and fourths until we know what happens next because you got the thrill and mystery beneath it all REALLY fucking down. Thank you thank you thank you for a phenomenal read!

NEON MEDUSA | cyberpunk au

Captain John Price x Reader

"Make the smart choice, love." He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years. A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach. Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

》 WARNINGS: THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+ | no smut; allusions to political corruption, moral ambiguity; standard Cyberpunk rules apply; body modification; technological supremacy; the existential crisis of questioning your humanity

》 WC: 11,1k

》 NOTES: Remember when I said I probably wasn't going to do a chaptered fic? Yeah, me too

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT

PART I | STATIC IN THE AIRWAVES

He sits in the crowded bar with nothing to keep him company but a half-empty glass of scotch and a burning cigar.

He alternates between the two. A swallow of his drink. A sip of water. A drag of his cigar.

(Routine. Always in threes. Always with that same pinched look on his face, partially hidden in the shadows, concealed beneath a beanie, and shaded in smoke.)

The ochre tip flares to life when he draws it close to his lips, taking a harsh drag of nicotine. The flash of light, brief and evanescent, illuminates his face in short bursts of orange in a room bathed in indigo save for the stage, where his gaze stays, fixed, almost unwaveringly, on the dancers as they display the greatest feat of technological advancement to date: nanobots.

Their chromatic skin shifts into various hues to accommodate each request made by the patrons, their bodies morphing into something new with each token taken from the hungry-eyed viewers.

Despite the keenness in his sharp eyes, he makes no purchases of his own—seemingly content to just watch the hedonistic spectacle unfolding before him.

It is not uncommon for people to come here and just observe, happy enough to watch whatever the rest of the people—voyeurs—order, but there's something about him that stands out.

(Or maybe it's just you.

He piques your interest in a way most people just don't. Not here. Not in the gold-dusted cesspool of opulent depravity.)

And there isn't anything noteworthy about him. Nothing that stands out against everyone else.

He was easily swallowed by the curated tenebrous that leaked into the tight space of the auditorium—an artificial sense of seclusion and privacy in shades of shadowed indigo that means little when you can see everything from your perch in the observation deck. He isn't flashy in any sense—his broad shoulders are covered in a raw topaz corduroy jacket with tuffs of seashell white plumage around the collar and button lines, and he wears a simple pair of black trousers, and leather boots. A charcoal beanie sits low on his brow.

He's big. Bigger than most of the men in the room—both in width and height. He'd tower over them, and his broad shoulders and thick bulk would swallow them whole.

Your vantage point—a hidden nook in the upper deck known only as the observatory: a domed room completely opaque from the outside looking in with high, arching golden bars dividing each rectangular window making it look a little too much like a cage for you to ever find comfort behind its glass walls—gives you the perfect view of everything in the club. The circular, egg-shaped room with its glass floors and walls has an interface built in to spy on the patrons below.

It's a place where you spend most of your nights when you weren't wandering the alcoves in the underbelly in search of trinkets to sell, or money to make to somehow chip away at the insurmountable debt you owe the owner of the club for saving you, a price you'll never begin to pay back at your current rate.

You come here to watch the spectacle at one of the most exclusive clubs in the city.

(And—

Take notes.)

The bar is a hidden gem of the red light district, a place only known by reputation and hushed whispers in the derelict underground.

On its surface, it looks like any other staple of depravity that the sprawling steel metropolis tries to pretend doesn't exist when foreign diplomats venture close to the technological epicentre of human advancement. Another grim, ramshackle bar in a desolate sea of many. Dingy wax paper covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the passersby a tantalising view of a dancing silhouette beckoning them forward with mechanical fingers, and a bright red grin.

It's only when they try to enter the establishment does the stark differences between every other brothel masquerading as a bar come to light.

A bouncer stands in the enclosed foyer covered in piss-stained cardboard, and a cracked comm with loose wires sparking on the wall. It reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. For added effect, the shadow of a bug skitters into the fist-shaped hole in the wall.

"Password?" He barks, his hand curling, pointedly, over the handle of his gyrojet. A threat.

It deters most people simply wandering by in search of sin.

Except for the ones with an invitation. The password. That prized piece of information gets them access to a club funded by the Inner Circle.

Most of the clubs in this district are known for their loose morals and shady rules, but none are as infamous as the White Horse, who dabbles in more than just pleasures of the flesh. A place where shady deals are conducted in secrecy in the opulent booths overlooking the stage. Where the madams, and misters overseeing the dancers turn a blind eye to illegal requests that are made.

A den of sin and filth wrapped in decadence. A place where anything goes so long as you have the money, the power, the status. Where nothing is barred, and the beds on the upper level are never empty.

More money passes through here on a bad day than those living in squalor near the district will ever see in their extended lifespans.

Men spend impetuosity to drag the dancers away, the nanos shifting into something new, something garish, to their deviant delights.

And men like him are a dime a dozen. You can find one anywhere in the red light district, sipping on alcohol, and feasting on the libertine victuals offered for the taking. Nothing about him is particularly noteworthy. Another concealed face in the louche mouth of debauchery.

And yet—

He stands out.

The only vice he partakes in is a cigar and drink. He doesn't let his eyes linger on the soft curves of the dancers, or the bared flesh they offer up. He watches with a detached, almost clinical disinterest.

Maybe, then, it isn't so much of what he is, but rather what he isn't.

There is a wryness to him, a soft derision in his steel gaze that seems out of place in a seedy bar filled to the brim with licentiousness. Most men come to quench their lustful appetite on the display of grandeur in front of them, making demands with a press of their finger to shape the dancers in front of them to whatever matches their hunger.

None of them has ever looked so disgusted.

He tries to hide it, face folding into something passive, nonchalant, when he thinks people are staring, or when the barkeep makes his way over to pour him another shot, but it breaks sometimes. Beneath the rim of his odd bucket hat, startling blue eyes morph into contempt at the men around him. Even with the rim pulled down low over his brow, covering the colombina mask concealing the upper portion of his face, you catch the anger frothing in cerulean.

It's an odd look considering where he is, and the prestige, the importance (both financial and influential) that he must carry just to be let inside, and yet—

Scorn. Derision. Disgust.

None of it is directed at the dancers gyrating on the flashing stage, putting on a grand performance of a technological prowess yet to be made available to the general public. Their willingness to contort their artificial bodies into various forms—men, women, genderless beings, animalistic features, elongated limbs, and a whole host of pabulum effigies—just for the paying patrons' lustful amusement incites none of the blunt disdain he directs at the men and women around him.

It's not the performers, then, but the audience.

Some come here with their status placed upon their head like a crown, chin refusing to dip down an inch lest the artificial diadem slip from their clinging fingers. They wear their aristocracy like a perfume, letting it permeate in the air surrounding them for all to inhale, to notice. They like to pretend they aren't enticed by the display available to them and are often mockingly cruel to the dancers, and the workers catering to their paying whims. It's a game to them. Coming here is a sport. A fulfilment of a quota.

An invitation alone is worth more than the going price of most cities, and the opportunity to maybe rub elbows with the financier of the establishment is enough to make greed spin in their eyes.

As cruel as they are to the staff, and as much as they like to lift their noses high in contempt, it's a farce. They're posturing.

The intrigue in their green eyes doesn't mask their peacocking.

His, you find, is genuine.

But why?

It's there that he makes his fatal mistake.

A man, a regular from Verdansk, grabs a passing dancer a little too hard, jostling their shoulder until metal grinds together in a piercing whine that goes wholly ignored in the pulsing bass, and jeers from the crowd.

He pulls them down, a lustrous smirk creeping across his face, and whispers something in their ear before jerking his chin toward the upper deck where the rooms are.

The exchange, his rough treatment of them, goes largely unnoticed—or rather, ignored—by the crowd. It's hardly a spectacle—not worthy of their attention like the display on the stage.

But he catches it.

Amongst the vile sycophants and their greedy stares, he stands out in stark contrast when his eyes narrow in anger, knuckles whitening around the glass.

You've only heard of his type in passing. The kind that thinks they're sticking up for something greater than themselves.

A hero. A martyr. A saviour.

Muted whispers in shadows. Promises they'll never be able to keep burrowed into filament; sweet words laced with that detestable thing that rots your insides, and leaves you sick with apathy when it extinguishes. Jaded and wrong and—

His type poisons you with hope, and leaves it to crumble in the hollowed amphitheatre of your aching, mutilated chest when they realise it's futile and do the one thing they're best at: running.

For the greater good, of course.

The battered remains of love in shambles mean little to them when they place the world on their shoulders to absolve themselves of their sins. The weight of it crushes pity and sorrow and contrition and failure into a ground powder that they can sneeze away with—

I had no choice.

Heroes, you find, are usually just a pantomime of their internal ugliness. They lash out at what they name injustice but sometimes slip up and use their given name when calling everything wrong with the world, with them, into question.

It's a good thing that they usually avoid places like this.

One where the people who fight for good, for humanity—the ones who wave and blink and grin on the holographic advertisements on each major street corner, or wander around with their translucent skin and faux smiles as they shell out promises (and products) of a better tomorrow—let their faces twist in horrific depravity under the strobe lights and cover of darkness. Politicians. People in power.

It's enough to snuff out any sense of optimism.

This is a place where hope comes to die with a single press of a greasy finger against a holographic screen.

A man like him has no reason to tuck himself into the corner, eyes misting over in anger and contemptuous spite at the patrons who feed the rapid descent of mortality.

The sight of him gnarls a sense of unease in your chest. A burgeoning bloom of that poisonous seed they warned you to stay away from. The one that strikes like a cobra and burns like a molten rock against your skin. That leaves you a raw, gaping wound festering in the cesspool they make sanguine promises to pull you out of.

They never do.

They make grand claims about being given a prophecy of martyrdom, and how they must devote themselves, wholly, to a cause that never comes to fruition like it does in the aeons-old fairytale of a bygone era when romance meant something.

Your fingers curl over the golden bars of the gilded cage you've been left in, and you wonder through the raw ache in your chest as it splits open, another wound among many, who he's trying to save here.

Then, grimly, you wonder how long it'll take for him to give up like the rest.

Intrigue gnaws at you until the needling pinch of curiosity becomes too much to bear.

(Curiosity, and something you'd rather not think about—)

It's easy to slip away from your perch unnoticed. No one bothers with you much outside of bringing you to sporadic liaisons with the man who acts as a silent owner of the bar—among many, many other things—and you use that sense of anonymity to wander down to the ground floor, and toward the man sitting in the corner.

The difference between them and him is made more apparent when you move closer.

A cybernetic thumb and forefinger knead the skin over the bridge of his nose, eyes pinched shut in a passage of pain that flickers over his face. With him too preoccupied with his headache, he doesn't notice you sidle up, and you take the opportunity to study him with an eager gaze.

He's handsome.

Muted neon blue cuts through the skin of his cheeks, running over his cheekbones, and dipping down toward the corner of his mouth. A flash of metal on his temple peaks beneath the rim of his beanie, catching in the shadowed glow of the pink and purple strobe lights flashing through the dim room. The circular curve and the soft metallic give the impression of the beginnings of a cranial implant. One that costs a hefty price to upkeep, but gives the wearer unlimited access to information fed directly to their non-dominant eye.

It's something only issued to the military. To the police force.

But the shape of it is archaic, old. Something of a crest—a familial design unique to the big families, to the clubs, that run the city, or parts of it. Gangsters. Mercenaries. Merchants. Scholars. Politicians.

Nepotism, undoubtedly, shaped the enhancement, but the design is foreign to you. You think of the common ones—the local police force and security, Shadow Company; the innovative engineers of the Inner Circle; the Shepherd family and their long, and bloody, history of politicians, leaders—but none fit the intricate weavings snaking down his temple.

Another peculiarity to add to the growing list.

The limited light in the darkened auditorium colour him a chiaroscuro of light of blue and grainy black, and the way he keeps his palm positioned over his face as he rubs the tension from his brow leaves the rest of his face hidden from your prying gaze. A shame, you think, and make the mistake of moving closer.

Beneath a metal knuckle, his eye cracks open.

"I'm not interested."

The timbre of his voice is rough—a masculine rasp that's abrasive, and thick with something heavy in the back of his throat. It makes you shiver. You blame it on the noviceness of your incipient intrigue.

"Oh?" You mock, and offer back a shrug you hope is more blasè than perturbed. "That's kinda surprising in a place like this."

"I'm not here for that—" his words cut off with a sharp huff, voice tapering off as he digs his thumb into the divot between his brow until the skin is indented from the metal.

The way he says the word is full of an exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he's tired. Of this, of the anger coursing through his veins.

A hero on the verge of cracking apart at the seams..

(It didn't take him long.)

He's a picture of bone-weariness when he bows his head over the table, elbows knocking against the surface with a harsh thud that makes you wince. He doesn't seem to notice it—or maybe he's so far gone, that anything that isn't bitter disappointment or the white-hot sting of rejection feels almost good to him. A break in the routine. A physical hurt in place of the emotional turmoil saviours like him must face.

If, of course, he even is one.

You question your original assessment of him when his wrist bends, and his long, thick fingers wrap around the rim of the glass.

A hero. Maybe you were wrong.

He looks like the same tired men who spend their waking hours working a job they hate, one that grinds against their skin until a hole forms and the wound begins to rot. Miserable. They reek of bitterness and discontentment. And when they're not being burnt out against the heel of a profession that doesn't even know they exist, much less care about the droop in their shoulders, the callouses, the ennui and megrim towards life, they combat the existential despair by saturating their organs in liquid formaldehyde to stop the slow, methodical rot of that pesky little thing called hope. Happiness.

You wonder if he came here for something different to numb the self-inflicted loneliness, or if all that anger he directs at the men is just a reflection of his desires that disgust him so much.

It's the crushing sense of disappointment that maybe you were wrong and, worse yet, maybe he was right.

(In this life, there are only idiotic hopefuls and those smart enough to know better.)

Still.

He's different in a way you're not used to. A man with rough edges and sour words; blunt and bludgeoning.

Interesting.

You wonder what makes him tick. What ugliness he's hiding, and what secrets he's running from.

His neck is thick, muscles tensing when he tosses his head back, and swallows down the last of his drink.

(You wonder what it would feel like to sink your teeth into his jugular—)

"I don't need another drink, either," he says, voice thick from the burn of alcohol, and little more than a growl.

You offer another shrug—one that he doesn't see when he bows his head again, palms scoring down his face.

"Again," you murmur, a fleeting tease. "Still not offering."

His thumb presses into his temple, index finger sliding over his forehead until it rests in his webspace. He inhales deeply in palpable exasperation, broad chest expanding and pulling the charcoal shirt taut across his shoulders.

"Then what the hell—"

His lids crack open, eyes sliding to the side as he stares at you, properly, for the first time since you wandered over.

The surprise in his gaze as he takes you in makes your heart jump, slamming harshly against its bone prison. His eyes—a deep, almost unending blue—are pretty. Piercing.

He swallows again, hand pulling away from his brow slowly—dazed, almost, as if he'd been expecting one of the dancers on stage instead of—

Well. You.

Human. Wholly.

It usually catches people off-guard to see someone so bare, so void of any visible enhancements or upgrades.

On the surface, anyway. The debt you wracked up from the man says something must have been done. That one day, you'll dig too deep into your tissue and find wires and cylindrical tubes instead of veins. A circuit board instead of a heart. An artificial stem instead of a brain.

More android than human.

Your teeth sink into the soft flesh around the corner of your mouth, and you brace yourself for it—for the—

"I didn't realise I talkin' to a bloody bot."

It doesn't prickle against your skin—one that bleeds red, and bruises in flaxen when you dig your fingers in hard enough. It doesn't.

"I'm not."

He blinks at you once, mystified, but then something in his gaze sharpens. A keen awareness, a spatial depth, that seems out of place on a mere man. You think of the holographic images of grizzly bears mid-hunt, stalking their prey through the thick furze, and then of the curiosity that dips from beady, ink-black eyes when they find something that disturbs their territory. An unknown thing—neither predator nor prey.

He turns in the seat, shifting until his body is facing you. His elbow rests on the table, hand dropping down again to hold onto the rim of his glass. The other drops to the back headrest of the seat.

He doesn't move over or offer you a spot to sit. A pointed gesture, you're sure. A sign of your disturbance. An unwelcome visitor.

You ignore it in favour of drinking in the display of his body, loose and lax in the seat with his knees spread, and the toes of his boots akimbo. His muscles flex under the tight, grey shirt, moving with each shuffle of his hips to get comfortable.

He's bigger than you thought. Threateningly so.

"That right?" He says the words slowly, and draws them out in that coarse voice of his.

"Fancy that—a purist."

His words make you snort, and you tear your gaze away from his filthy nails—dirty hands—and shake your head in refusal. Dismay. Exasperation. Some amalgamation of them all.

He isn't the first to assume that of you, and you know he won't be the last.

Your physical appearance is startling to some who quickly think you're an android with your untainted skin, void of any visible enhancements like the ones cutting through his cheeks, etched into his temple, his chin. The entirety of his left hand.

Some consider the relationship between humans and technology to be almost symbiotic. After all, artificial intelligence, modern human evolution, and cybernetics wouldn't exist without the fundamental human imagination, nor their human hands to construct life into these grand things.

It usually falls into two categories—technological subservience: those who believe AI, androids, robots, cyborgs, and nanobots were created by humans and therefore, belonged to humans; and technological coexistence: the merger between us and them until the lines blur, and it becomes one and the same.

(Or, more extreme: technological dominance—zealots who believe that god exists in the mainframe of AI, and worship them like deities.)

On the opposite scale lies the purists. Those who believe that the relationship is not symbiotic, but parasitic. A curse.

"Hardly—" The defensiveness in your tone makes you wince, and you soften the edge of your words when his forehead creases, adding: "It's all internal."

"Internal, huh," his eyes dip, rolling down the length of your body as if confirming your claims. The weight of his gaze makes your skin burn, blistering under the intensity of his bold stare. "That's unusual, ain't it?"

"Not where I'm from."

"And where is that, hmm?"

The way his voice tapers off into a growl makes you shiver. Feverish.

Dangerous. This man is dangerous.

"I—" You swallow down the thick pool of anxiety that swells in the back of your throat. You're not afraid of him, but there's this overwhelming sense of intimidation that bleeds from the furrow of his brow, the unrelenting stare he fixes on you—almost as if you're being interrogated. Unease makes your stomach churn.

Maybe this was a mistake—

His eyebrows lift in a silent display of impatience.

It's not something you speak about openly—or at all, really—but the words brim on your tongue, as if pulled there by the magnetic draw of the man sitting in front of you, fingers tapping against the rim of the empty glass while the other reaches over his chest, torso twisting as he blindly pats around for the cigar burning away in the ashtray.

"I don't know," you murmur, letting the words puncture your chest when they slip past the seam of your lips. "Don't remember much of it."

He considers your words with a slight tilt of his head. Thick, metallic fingers draw the burning cigar to his full mouth, partially hidden behind the wry curls around his lips and chin. He settles in his seat again, eyes lidded, heavy.

"That so?"

The end burns orange when he draws in a mouthful of tobacco-saturated smoke, eyes creasing slightly as the endorphins bloom under the deluge of nicotine coursing through him.

The sight of him, thick thighs spread over the polymer seat of the booth, elbow resting on the table with his wrist bent, fingers still on the rim of the glass, cigar in his other hand, makes something warm fill your chest.

Trepidation, you hope.

You offer a shaky shrug in response, and nothing more.

He hums. "Unusual, innit? Not rememberin'."

The entire history of your life is a black hole until three years ago when you woke up in a luxury hospital room with an unplayable debt on your head and a body that has never really felt like your own.

(A man, maker, who called himself your saviour, and ensured you'd never really be free.)

You echo the words he said to you all those years ago when you asked who you were, where you came from, and why you didn't know—

"It must not be worth knowing."

It's a murmured echo not meant to be taken seriously. There's no deeper meaning behind the regurgitated words that ring out in your head; a quick response to those questions that rear late at night when you can't sleep, and your mind wants to torture you further.

It doesn't matter.

And really, it doesn't. You can't remember it, and in the three years you've been living, reacclimating to the idea of recall and recollection, no one has ever tried to find you.

There's no memo being sent out to the great beyond with your name or face attached to it. No one but him has claimed to know you. To care.

Whatever happened in that life is gone. Empty. A black void of nothing, not even embers or a crackling voice. It's a hole where your sense of belonging goes to rot.

It does not matter. Not anymore.

But the way he flinches at your words—a barely concealed jerk of his limbs, half-aborted when he realises he's doing it—makes you think, for the first time in three years, that it might.

It's swallowed down by a flash of teeth peaking through his amber beard. A rictus grin greets your words.

"That so?"

All you can do is nod.

"Doesn't help convince me you ain't a bot."

"I'm not."

His brow ticks up. "Do bots know their bots? Androids can be made to think, created with sentience, but they aren't. It's only when they hurt, do they realise—they were never human at all."

Your chest tightens. He didn't just strike a nerve, he bludgeoned into it.

"I am," you argue, but the words are less sure, firm, than you want them to be. They tumble out, shaky and filled with the fears that have been twisting inside your head since you blinked into existence, and read accounts of androids doing the same. "I bleed. I hurt. I feel. I think. I—"

He bites on the end of his cigar before drawing both hands up in front of him, palms open and facing you.

"Easy, there." He mutters, voice low and muffed around the stem of the cigar, and—

Soothing.

"I'm only teasin' you. If you say you're human, you're human. That's all that matters, mm?"

You shudder. "I am, I—"

"What's your name?"

You echo the name given to you when you woke up in a daze and were told to meet the man who saved your life. The one he greeted you with when he welcomed you into his luxury office of cut mahogany and reinforced carbon.

When it slips out, the pinch between his brow deepens.

"That's your name? Or is that just what they call you?"

"It's—" you flounder for a moment. "It's my name."

"You don't sound too sure."

"Can I be sure of anything?" You volley back, venom leaking into the words.

"You haven't gone lookin'?"

"For what?"

Where would you even start?

"You know…" he begins, shifting in his seat once more. There is a tension in his brow. An even curl to his lips, teeth still bared. "I try to find people like you. Bring them home. To justice—or whatever that might be. A lot of 'em claim to not remember, to not know what they did, or why they ran. You tellin' me somethin' similar, love?"

"I'm not missing."

His eyes are filmed with a facsimile of something placid. Even. But there is a current beneath the surface. A raging torrent of unsettled water churning up the seabed. It'll drag you to the bottom, and press you flat against the rocks as it roars above you.

You might be able to crack your eyes open under the swell, fingers digging into the murky sediment below your supine body, and vaguely make out of the rippling surface. A taunting mirage just within reach but the tumultuous waves would crush your fingers for even trying to grasp for it.

You shiver.

"You sure about that, love?"

Love. Love. The words stick against some part of your head, clinging to the fibrils and ringing across gyri until every synapse rattles with the heavy tenor splitting you apart.

"—Do you know me?"

The look surfaces.

"No." You seldom feel hopeful that anyone does anymore. Maybe on a distant planet, in a distant city, someone is still looking for you. "But I am lookin' for someone."

"Looking—" your brow furrows together as you eye him warily. Concern etches into your chest. Knotting tight like a spooled ball. "Looking for who?"

He shrugs.

He shifts in his seat, brings his hand away from the glass, reaches into the sherpa-covered folds of his jacket, and pulls out a small device. He proffers it to you, the design is reminiscent of a netphone, but—

Out of date.

You stifle a grin as you take it from him, but it's barely hidden, and he huffs when he catches sight of it. A soft chuff of mirth spilling from between full lips.

"Watch it," he mutters.

Your eyes run along the length of the thin phone—dark chrome, chipped in some places along the sleek, curved edges, but the screen is intact—and you marvel at the oddity presented to you. It's not like the netphones made by Four Horseman Corp., but the design is almost a replica.

The man reaches up, and presses his cybernetic finger against a small, concave placeholder near what must be the mouth of the device, and the screen flickers to life.

A man stares back at you. His hair is blond with the sides shaved, and the top long. Handsome, you think, with his full lips, and long nose. The light dusting of his beard around his cheeks and moustache—just as blond as his hair. He looks like the models that pose on the holographic glass of the boutiques downtown.

"Who is he?"

"Alex Keller. He's been missing for six days."

Six days.

Something ugly rots inside of you.

"And you think he's been here?"

"Last place he was."

"Couldn't be," you murmur, shaking your head. "I'm here almost every night, and I've never seen him before."

"Might not 'ave noticed him, bein' so distracted 'an all."

"Distracted?"

Your lift your chin, confusion etched into your furrowing brow.

When he catches your eye, he jerks his head toward the stage. "You work here, don't you?"

"Work—"

It never really occurred to you that he'd think you were a dancer. A working bot. An android. Pleasure Androids—a disgusting attempt at cheekiness from the makers; the slogan on the advertisement makes pledges and promises about the state of the art pleasure-bots designed to suit your needs, upgraded now with nanobots that change their shape, their anatomy, in the blink of an eye.

You exhale through your nose. It isn't the first time you've been mistaken as such, and maybe if you were, the debt would have some small indent in it by now, but—

"No, I'm not allowed." You murmur, shrugging. "I know the owner so I just come here sometimes to hang out. People watch." A wry smile twists at the corner of your lips. "You see all manner of things in a place like this. Kinda entertaining if it wasn't so—"

Disgusting.

"You know the owner?"

His words are careful. Concise.

"Do you?"

He shouldn't. He is many things, but stupid isn't one of them.

The man says nothing, and gives away little more than a slight incline of his shoulders. Neither agreement nor refusal. His prevarication worries you.

"Hey, who did you say you were again?"

He brings the cigar to his lips, eyes never wavering from yours, and draws in a mouthful of chemical fumes. It was that intense stare that drew you to him, but now that the weight of it is on you, you find yourself feeling like little more than a bug under a microscope.

His chest rumbles when he shifts, twin funnels of smoke flaring from his nostrils. It disperses into wisps, and quickly scatters when it meets the fur lining his jacket.

"I didn't," he mumbles, voice pinched in a low, airy growl tinged with smoke. More evocation.

"Well," you add, brows notching up in a pointed gesture for him to continue.

He doesn't, opting instead to bring the cigar back to his mouth. Ashes drop, landing in his umber beard.

He's messing with you. Drawing your discomfort out.

"Who are you?"

The demand comes out less forcefully than you intended, words trembling with your surmounting unease.

It would be all too in character for him to send someone to spy on you, to catch you unawares, and to feed the hungry with his secrets.

"Doesn't matter."

Your glare does little to away him. "I'm leaving—"

"I'm just lookin' for my friend."

"Like I said, he couldn't be here. I've been here every night this month. I would have seen him." Seeing the gnarled expression that slips over his brow, a broken anger tinged with equal parts frustration and, most breakingly of all, desperation, you add, if only to soften the blow: "I can ask around, maybe. See if the workers know anything."

"I've been," he rasps, words still bleeding with his frustration. "They don't know anything."

You huff, shaking your head. "Asking those kinda questions here is what makes people go missing in the first place. Is that what your friend did? Come poking around and—"

Balming one wound just to prick at it later. Your words, the bitter sting, get you a flash of teeth, bared canines in sharp indignation.

The man leans forward, eyes pelagic and fixed, unflinching, on you. It makes you squirm. Heat blooms under your cheeks. The rush of it makes you dizzy.

"And what makes you special, then?"

You shrug, and hope the tremble in your limbs goes unnoticed. "I get a free pass."

"Why?"

"It helps to know people."

"Like the owner."

"Yes," you murmur, voice laced with your hesitation. "Like him."

"Him, hmm?" His eyes narrow. "And his name wouldn't happen to be Vladimir Makarov, would it?"

"How—?" Then, hastily, you add: "No. The tech mogul? No. Why—why would—"

"Save it." He reaches into his breast pocket and draws out a sleek, black card. Cupping it in the palm of his hand, fingers curled over the edge, thumb braced against the side, he tilts the screen. Immediately, the black filmed surface under his thumb shivers, flickering into a shape. A logo.

The emblem makes your eyes widen. "Military police?"

He hums. When his thumb pulls away from the surface, it changes back to a blank, black rectangle. Void of any meaning. Any substance.

Your breath quickens when he slides it back into his pocket.

"Why are you—"

"Makarov's been naughty, hasn't he? The future Zakhaev promised is a bright one, isn't it? Better eyesight. Better sense of smell. New, indestructible limbs—" He rolls the knuckles of his cybernetic hand at you, appendages moving instantly. "Stop ageing. Stop getting sick. Everything that could kill us is no longer an issue, hmm? For a price, of course."

"Nothing in life is free—" the words are ripped from Imran's advertisement ages ago. Nothing in life is free, but sometimes a better tomorrow is worth the price of today.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just get a loan through the Four Horseman, hmm? Pay them back a paltry sum every month. Worry about the payment later—upgrade yourself now."

The new slogan. You try not to shiver under his abrasive, scorching stare.

"But," he continues, shrugging. "When you can't pay, is he the one who sends his henchmen after them? The ultranationalists. The ones that take back his tech through force and sell the parts on the black market. And—" his eyes harden. "The cycle repeats. People die, debts go unpaid, and yet—mysteriously enough, he grows richer. Now, why is that, mm? How can that be possible?"

"Makarov isn't connected to the Ultranationalists. He's—"

"A businessman? A pseudo-politician? A philanthropist just tryin' to make the world a better place, hmm?" He leans forward, eyes cutting into jagged ashlar. "Then why is the Horseman funding them?"

"He isn't. It must be some kind of mistake—"

"You say that like you know him. Know him personally."

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me, love. Won't do you any good." He leans back, hand falling to the side of his glass. He taps out a strange rhythm with his index finger—the old tune of some forgotten song. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. "I heard about you."

His words are a strangled pressure around your throat. Heard about you. Impossible. No one has. No one ever does. You're as invisible as Makarov wants, followed around by his henchmen at a sizable distance. They never bother interacting with you. Never speak unless they have to.

You're a flea hiding in the soft coat of a millionaire. Unneeded. Unwanted. A burden.

Your circle mostly consists of people who frequent the underground. The black market where you can find almost anything for a price—even the age-old books about fairytales and fantastical adventures. Information, too, if you know what you ask for.

Your face has never shown up on a missing person bulletin. No one has ever asked about you.

(No one cares, no one knows—

—six days.

Three years.

It doesn't matter—)

In your crushing silence, the man's eyes narrow. There is no flash of victory in his gaze, but you scent the arousal of a predator stalking its weakened prey nevertheless.

"Heard 'bout your debt, too—" he tuts, a rasping coo that sounds how you imagine the bristled tongue of a big cat would feel shredding your skin. "He's the one who saved you, ain't he?"

It becomes too much. The pressure bubbles over.

All your meagre years of existence have taught you to quell the surge of fight or flight, to push it down and stand firm, stoic, amid the array of nefarious people who happened to cross your lonely path in the catacombs where they barter over lives, and makes deals with the devil for any number of precious commodities—even people. A person with a debt, you found, is worth significantly less than someone without. A truism you've heard hissed into your ears when you turned their offer of freedom down.

Handing the leash from one hand to another is hardly autonomous.

You know from these experiences that any sense of weakness or fear is blood in the water. A struggling fish on the verge of being eaten by the predators lured in by its futile struggle to stay alive.

In its effort to survive, it inadvertently signs its death warrant.

If you don't look like you belong, then you don't. A simple fact you've picked up from years of weaving in and out of Makarov's towering shadow.

It's easy to forge some sense of delusive confidence in the face of those people, the ones who clutch at your arms hard enough to leave an ache in your bones, but something about his composure, his gall, to approach you like this makes that carefully constructed mask crumble into broken pieces at your trembling feet.

His eyes, you think. They're not the flat, empty gaze of a predator sparking to life when a piece of meat is dangled in front of it, but something deadlier.

The assured placidity of a man who can play the long game; a hunter who is used to stalking his prey over long distances.

The look in his eyes says he can wait this out for as long as it takes.

Fight or flight. You've crushed the concept down to basal parts: a silly whim that will just get you killed. Fight and you'll be forced to contend with people who've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Flee and you'll never be allowed back inside.

You've never had any choice but to ride the high of adrenaline and paranoia out until they got bored with your vacant stoicism.

(Or—when in doubt—use your trump card of touch me again and do you have any idea what Makarov will do to you?)

Somehow, you know neither option will work on him.

And it itches under your skin. Hackles raising. Heart pulsing. Blood rushing with the heady cocktail of adrenaline.

You turn, ready to flee, but his hand lashes out through the shadows, catching your forearm in a tight grip.

"Look, love," he murmurs, words low, guttural, like he's speaking to a cornered animal. "This is bigger than you. Than me. Do you want that debt gone? To be free of 'im? Well, here's your chance."

A test. The information he knows is too much for any regular officer—even a military one.

"Makarov isn't like that."

There's a flash of something—disappointment, maybe; disgust—but it's gone in an instant. Hidden behind layers and layers of distance.

"Maybe not. But several of his companies showed up on someone's ledger. We know this person wasn't a partner in the Horseman. He wasn't one of the four. But he was collecting money from Makarov."

"It's probably through his charity fund."

"Don't you wanna know why your saviour is funnelling money to corrupt officials? Or why do people who can't pay for upgrades end up dead on the street? Stripped down like a piece of meat and sold for profit. Doesn't any of this concern you?"

"Makarov would never do that—he'd never stain his public image."

"He isn't the man you think he is. None of them are."

"Maybe you're not the man I thought you were. Maybe coming over here was a mistake."

An impasse. Uncrossable.

He's a rat, you think. A plant from Makarov to test your resolve. Your will.

The glare on your face hardens. Yuri must have told him your type. Must have let it slip the kind of man that seems to catch your interest. Broad shoulders, thick thighs. A tapered waist. Gruff, chiselled men with dirty hands, stained from hard work. Honest, good men.

Men who belong in fairy tales. Blacksmiths and forgers. Miners. Ironworkers. The kind who wants nothing in life but simplicity, a warm bed, and a hearty meal. Ones who stand up to injustices but would never, ever call themselves a hero.

A rough gentlemen that wouldn't even consider themselves as such.

Stupid. How stupid.

He was always too good to be true. You should have known better.

When the silence stretches on, pulled taut like a rubber band, he huffs. Shattering the icy tension with another roll of his massive shoulder.

"Here," he reaches into the folds of his jacket once more, and retrieves a new card. A chip. "If you ever change your mind, gimme a call."

Makarov is a smart man.

"I won't."

But he's raised you to be smarter.

Makarov is many things—a money-hungry monster included—but above all of that, he's a businessman with a reputation.

He's only one-fourth of a massive tech conglomerate that puts public relations and corporate profits over everything else—even personal gain. None of the heads makes any decisions without express permission from everyone who eats at the table. Doing otherwise would get you killed.

Have you ever heard the story of a hydra? That's what we are. Four horsemen. The heads might change but there will always be four.

To do something like this would put him at direct odds of everything the Horsemen, the Inner Circle, set forth to do. Risking it all to sell his own repossessed parts at a lower profit margin on the black market is absurd. Crazy.

He'll make more money on the interest each debt accumulates than he would having it paid off in full, or even wiped. It's an unspoken underline all the Horsemen profit from. Their own personal gain.

You can't see him losing that over a meagre payout in the black market.

And as a regular peruser of the market, you would have noticed him, or someone in his circle, down there.

(You know everyone down there.)

It's impossible.

And yet—

The run-in with the man rattles you still.

You're quick to deduce that he isn't a plant by Makarov. He'd never let one of his talk about him like that or accuse him of the kind of things that would bring the Horsemen together in a way that could only end with Makarov on trial.

It being Makarov is a gamble he'd never take.

But him not being on Makarov's payroll is equally risky. It's not exactly a secret that the Inner Circle runs around with shady groups—Ultranationalists., and Konni rogues being some of them—but nothing has ever been confirmed, and the Ultranationalists have never been loyal to anyone except their agenda.

People who tend to ask questions about the Horsemen are either added to the payroll or, if that doesn't work, silenced.

Military. They don't usually get involved in corporate affairs.

But you suppose a missing friend is enough to spur anyone on.

You should forget him. Should push him from your mind, and pretend he was just a figment of your imagination. Something that crawled from the foetid cesspit where hope rots, and stood in front of you offering sanctuary with hands that leaked pestilence down on the grungy floor of the club that bred and reared depravity.

What he was offering couldn't exist in the same space as that place.

But he knew you. Knew about your debt. The one thing you wanted more than anything else offered up in a chrome-plated palm. And—despite everything you've tried to erase it—the only group who'd have the ability to do so approaches you.

It's odd. This whole situation seems strange.

Offering up information on Makarov to the military in exchange for freedom. You know it isn't him. It can't be. The risks outweigh any potential money Makarov would make doing this. His life for a paltry sum when a single person's debt on their upgrades singlehandedly paid for several of his his penthouses in Al Mazrah.

Seems too good to be true, and you were taught to be wary of the hand that feeds you.

Logically, you know you should toss the chip away, and never deal with this again. Or, better yet, to hand it over to Makarov to deal with and bargain for a chunk to come from your debt.

If you were selfish, you would.

No.

If you weren't selfish, you would. But you are, so you don't. You don't because he didn't promise a chunk, he promised all. All of it. Gone. Erased. Voided. The balance on your head would be zero. Nothing. You'd be free of Makarov—a man who saved you only to imprison you in a gilded cage.

A man who is more enigma than you could ever begin to unravel.

Why he keeps you around on a short leash, content to let you weave in and out of his many assets as you please, only having to meet with him every few months in what feels like glorified check-ins to confirm you're still desperately seeking a way to sever the ties that are reinforced with steel.

The man is strange, but Makarov and his murky intentions for you are even more so.

It makes those needling questions rear again. Ones that can't help but wonder if Makarov keeps you around because you happen to be his greatest achievement: manufactured sentience.

After all, even the most sentient androids in the world know, fundamentally, that they are not humans. There is a categorical difference, and the idea of false humanity was deemed too cruel to bestow upon someone—android, cyborg, or otherwise—and so, telling you outright that your insides are an immaculately designed machine is not only illegal, but it's also the one thing he'll do anything to avoid—

"—a PR nightmare," he spits, words soaked in the same venom that leaks from his narrowed glare. You watch the implosion from your perch near the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse, eyes gazing impassively out at the technicolour city sprawling below. His voice carries through the room. "A fucking—"

Disaster.

In a stroke of unfortunate luck, someone in the local police department made a report on a man left for dead in the gritty downtown streets of the city—affectionately named Killhouse—after being stripped of all his implants with near-surgical precision.

No one ever reports on these specific cases because of how often they happen, and where. It's no secret the police keep a wide distance around the area that moonlights as a broken redlight district and the entrance to the black market. It's almost wholly under the thumb of the constantly warring Vanguards—the Hellhounds and the Tyrants are almost always in some type of civil dispute—and a very not-so-secret secret is that they pay the police to turn the other way.

This, then, is quite a deviation in how things are normally done.

His debt to Four Horseman Corp is made known to the world—an insurmountable number that never seems to decrease due to the exorbitant interest piled high.

It brings about uncomfortable questions, and the greedy outlets sink their claws into the morsel offered like starving rats scavenging for scraps. They plaster it everywhere until a discussion starts.

Why is interest so high?

The discourse surrounding the oligarchy on technology is not a new one by any means, but for the first time in a very long time, it doesn't feel like it's going to get swept away anytime soon. The launch of their new nanotechnology is halted until it dies down. Until the media circus has quieted enough not to let sales of a new product tank.

PR nightmare, indeed.

The timing is suspicious, but the cop who made the report is new enough that it doesn't raise too many eyebrows. Human error. A simple mistake.

You think back to the man, fingers idly running over the groove of the chip you told yourself you'd toss out nine times already, and wonder if it's connected.

Makarov's call wasn't too impromptu considering he regularly likes to check in, but he sent Anatoly instead of Yuri and something about the brutal man leering at you sets your teeth on edge.

His usual meetings mainly just consist of him lauding your neverending debt over your head, and reminding you he doesn't accept dirty money. And, of course, to gather names.

Your appearances at the White Horse are less about contemplating the depravity of the upper echelon, and assembling a list of men and women who visit, and what they purchase.

Makarov's greatest achievement—and his biggest spy.

"You hear anything?"

In the darkened glass, his reflection lifts his head from where it was bowed over a netpad, angry eyes skimming through the abundance of articles, and fixes themselves on you. Narrowing.

"Hear what?"

"What else?" He huffs. Wrong answer. "Anything about this when you were at the club."

You haven't been back since that night, offering excuses to your watchman, and glorified chauffeur as to why you couldn't go.

"No," you say and hate the way your mind immediately flashes back to that man. "Nothing really."

He stands up from his chair—throne, really—and lays his palms flat on the surface of his chrome-plated desk. It sparks to life under his fingertips, LED lights flaring through the wires embedded into the grain. A holographic menu in net blue pops up in front of him.

The glass inverts the image, but you could make out the familiar cage anywhere.

"You left your post for a while. Borodin said you slipped away from him."

It's not outright accusatory yet, but you catch the paper-thin wisps of suspicion in his tone all the same.

It doesn't surprise you when he follows it up with, "so, where'd you go?"

"I saw someone," you shrug. "Wanted to get a better look."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know." It's not a lie. Not the whole truth, either, and you think he senses that.

"It wouldn't happen to be a police officer, would it? This stupid shit—," he lifts his hand, sweeping it across the articles drifting by in the side of the screen before laying it over his brow. "—could end me. And the timing, too."

Words bubble in your throat. You don't know what compels you to speak them aloud—maybe the needle of humour weaving through the conflicting tangle of everything gnarling inside of your chest—but they tumble from your lips without any regard to who, exactly, you're speaking to.

"Maybe once you're gone, I won't have to worry about my debt anymore."

The hand rubbing his forehead stills.

You tense, teeth sinking into your tongue until you taste blood. Stupid.

"Is that what you think, kitten?" Slowly, he lifts his head, hand sliding down until it covers his jaw. His eyes are burning. "You don't owe a debt to me—you owe a debt to the Inner Circle. Not the Horsemen, not Zakhaev. But to us."

You turn from the window with a sharp jerk, eyes widening. Despair sinks its claws into your jugular.

"You're an asset. An investment. The technology used to save your life is unprecedented. Do you think we'll just let you go? Do you know how long it'll take to pay your debt off, kitten? Five hundred and thirty-six years—and you're barely paying off the interest as it is."

Makarov often has his lackeys do the intimation for him—Anatoly in particular—while he hides behind the mask of a charismatic innovator just looking to improve the world. It's rare he ever raises his voice, or his hand.

This, the picture of anger perched behind his chrome throne, is the closest to something true to his real self than you'd ever seen before. Anger. Bitterness. Contempt.

He moves slowly around the desk, and you feel every second of it like a blunt stab to your chest. Trepidation, fear.

You've become so complacent with what Makarov pretends to be that you forget who he really was.

When he finally reaches you, the storm cloud in his gaze clears into something like sadistic victory. Vindication.

He leans down, his chin brushing over your cheek.

"You better hope nothing happens to me. I'm the only reason you're not being made to work for us as well. You like your freedom, yes? Then I suggest you pray I stay alive, kitten."

You stare at the image on the screen, and try not to let yourself weep at the sight of it so bluntly looming before you.

A debt owed to the Inner Circle.

A contact promising payment in addition to employment to them. The handler of the current account is Vladimir Makarov.

Maybe it's naïvety, ignorance, but you've always assumed the loan was only to Makarov. He was the first person you saw when you woke up—the first real one, anyway—and something about him seemed almost too big for the small room you were housed in. Too surreal. Everything felt new and strange and familiar and old and comforting and—

And then he said:

You know how this works, don't you?

You didn't. Or maybe, once upon a time, you did, but everything inside of your head was scraped clean with a scaple until the walls were barren and empty. Void of any substance.

Who you were was a black hole. A vaccum.

Makarov was the one who filled the vacant space with purpose. With meaning.

And you hated him for it.

Made to pretend to be whatever he decided fit his needs; a puppet for his amusement.

He owned you.

Made you whole again.

In that, you just assumed that he was the one who footed the exorbitant bill to resuscitate you from whatever hell you clawed out of, narrowly avoiding the gnashing maw of death. It made sense.

And in many ways, you just assumed that he would die.

A corrupt CEO. They're rampant here. Heads roll all the time, and you were content with waiting it out until someone put the barrel of a gun to his forehead and told him his tyranny was up. Freedom drenched in the blood of your financier.

Fitting, isn't it?

You were pulled from the blood-soaked cobblestone, and given a second breath of life by his hands.

Born in blood.

(Born in blood. Died in blood. Born in blood. Freed.)

You slip the chip into your phone, breath held in your throat as the calling card loads.

It's archaic. No one uses these chips anymore except old people, and the government. Untraceable. It's good for a single contact number only. The sight of it makes you huff—a shaky bloom of mirth in your chest.

It feels out of place. You trample it down, hiding it behind a mask of indifference, nonchalance. The same veneer Makarov glues to his own.

(Something you'd rather not think about.)

The screen idles for a moment. No answer. A sham call. A fakeout. A—

He doesn't appear on the screen. It's blank. In the black surface, your sallow face stares back. Traitor.

"I was wonderin' when you'd call."

"You expected me to?"

"If you were smart, you would have."

"If I was actually smart, I wouldn't be calling you at all."

"Mm, I'm glad you did," he murmurs, voice tinny and thin through the speaker. "A debt that big won't just go away…"

It stings. You swallow it down. "Yeah. Guess you got that right."

"What's wrong?"

"Aw, do you care? That's sweet."

"I've been called many things, love. Sweet ain't one of them." He shifts. You hear the clink of his metal fingers tapping over the ancient phone in his hand. A surly old man with an old chip. You stifle a laugh. It's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. This whole thing is—

"—Important that we find the link between the missing parts and Makarov. It might lead us to Alex, and—"

"Huh?" You blink. "I never said I'd—"

"Go see what you can dig up for me. I need something—a paper trail. I can't get into the black market, but you can."

"How do you know what?"

"Know a bit about you, love."

"How?"

"You ain't the only one with friends in high places." Another shift. The grind of metal against metal. "Now, are you in? Or are you gonna try and pay this debt off on your own, hmm? How long will that take you? Few hundred years?"

"Makarov will kill me if I do this—"

"And how many people will be killed if you don't?"

You don't answer. Can't. That responsibility shouldn't be on your head.

He sighs. A rough huff of static through the line.

"If you want that debt gone, meet me at the location m'gonna send you. You called for a reason. Makarov can't touch you if you owe him nothing. Their ship is sinkin', love. You gonna go down with them? Be a prisoner your whole life? Or are you gonna be smart an' abandon ship while you still have the chance, because once I leave that place, m'not gonna answer again. You'll be on your own."

"I'll think about it."

"Make the smart choice, love."

He doesn't give you anything else. The line goes dead with a click. Silence. Unbearable. Stifling. It permeates in the air around you, buzzing like static. A disturbance in the airwaves. A rustle in the stagnant life you've been sloughing through for the last three years.

A moment later, your phone chimes. A map appears. Some remote bar on the outskirts of the city—the only place Makarov's influence doesn't reach.

Make the smart choice. It's your freedom or your head.

429 notes · View notes