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quazartranslates · 3 years

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Welcome to the Nightmare Game - CH136 (Final)

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

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Chapter 136: Goodbye, Neverland (Extra)

{cw: religious homophobia}

Would you fall in love with such a person? You have the same sex and different beliefs. It is a sin to love each other.

For the former Ning Zhou, this was unthinkable.

But fate had played a cruel trick on him, making absurdity become reality.

Neverland was in a world of ice and snow. The shortest day had not yet arrived, but the coldest time of the year was almost over. Ning Zhou, who had just stepped out of the spiritual barrier, knelt on the glacier in exhaustion, and the hot tears that had just flowed out of his eyes froze into ice. Neverland was just around the corner, but it seemed as if he would never reach it.

In the face of the coldness of death, he had finally put aside all his hesitations and concerns and shouldered his guilt, even if he would fall into hell after death and bear the punishment of eternal fire.

Ning Zhou slowly stood up from the glacier, watching the bright lights that were like the eternal kingdom of heaven was on the ground. Amidst the ice and snow the Vatican stood on the ice sheet, majestic, holy, and ethereal.

He knew that this was the last time he would see Neverland.

Ning Zhou walked down the glacier and walked into the Vatican with awe.

Through the row upon row of buildings, the noise of the world rang again in his ears. Several children ran past him laughing and frolicking. Because they ran too fast, they almost ran into Ning Zhou. Ning Zhou took a step back, avoided the children, and watched them run away laughing.

Ning Zhou could hardly remember what he was like when he was as small as them. He was thirteen years old when he’d come to the Vatican, and Maria had just died. According to her last wish, he was sent here by his teacher Arnold and met the Pope for the first time.

He was a kind old man, his eyes were full of wisdom precipitated by years, and he had taught him a lot of things, not only the knowledge of survival, but also the truth of life. It could be said that after Maria died, it was this wise old man who had shaped his personality. In Ning Zhou's eyes, he was not only God’s speaker on earth, but also an elder whom he respected from the heart.

But today, he wanted to tell the old man who had raised him that he was in love with someone whom he was not allowed.

Ning Zhou passed through the city of ice and snow without a face. In order to welcome the residents of the Holy City who would come here soon, this polar city was expanding. It was like the projection of the divine world onto the living world, full of prosperity and warmth everywhere, far away from all the evils in the world, just like the home he dreamed of.

But after everything, he was going to leave this pure land, and from then on he would wander in the wind and rain all his life.

Stepping into the border of the Vatican, bathed in the power of ethereal and holy power, Ning Zhou's abdominal wound once again burned with pain, which combined with a stabbing pain all over his body. He frowned and strode forward regardless of the pain. Through the huge snowy square, countless ice sculptures silently guarded the heaven on earth, soaking in the cold air together with the guards patrolling back and forth.

Ning Zhou looked toward the deepest part of the Vatican, a magnificent cathedral, where the Pope was standing as he completed a prayer alone under the huge cross, the Canon spread out on the podium at his side. Gold and silver points of holy light were faintly visible in the cold, fluttering up and down.

Ice benches ran on both sides and in the middle was an aisle covered with gold and red carpet. Ning Zhou walked along it towards the Pope and looked up at him from the base of the stairs.

The Pope turned around and gazed at Ning Zhou kindly: "A few days ago, the will of the blazing angel returned to the Holy See and told me that your faith was shaken. Son, tell me what happened?"

Ning Zhou bowed to him and said calmly, "Under the crown of the Pope, I... fell in love with someone."

"You are embarrassed about this." The Pope saw through his heart.

Ning Zhou replied honestly: "Yes. The person I fell in love with is a man like me. He comes from another world and is an non-believer."

The Pope's voice suddenly became severe and solemn: "The Lord said, 'Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination'; If a man sleeps with a man, just like a woman, they have done an abominable thing and so they must be put to death, and the sin should be attributed to them. You know this is a sin, and if you blindly obey these rebellious feelings and desires, you will be punished by eternal fire."

"Yes, I understand," Ning Zhou calmly replied.

"Then repent. God will forgive sinners who are willing to repent. Tell me, are you willing to repent?" the Pope snapped.

Ning Zhou raised his head and looked him in the eye: "No, I cannot repent under the crown."

The Pope was silent for a long time, and the high crown on his head and the red vestments on his body seemed to overwhelm the old man. He said wearily, "Your mother chose to entrust you to the Holy See before she died, not to let you go the same way as her. You kept the last name of your foreigner father, the name your mother gave you, and... a heart lost for love like hers.

"Ning Zhou, my child, I give you one last chance: give him up and confess to the Lord."

Ning Zhou closed his eyes and a wind seemed to blow past him. He seemed to return to the Garden of the Holy Tomb in the afternoon, quietly staring at the lover sleeping in the tree stump full of petals, watching while every minute and second his heart was suffering in the fires of guilt, a kind of desperate pain, yet it happened that he felt the sweetness of sin.

His memories suddenly fast-forwarded and came to an abrupt end in the Garden of the Holy Tomb at dawn. His lover had returned there again, but was never to open his brown eyes again... He suddenly understood that his heart, which he’d tried to persuade, cheat, and block, had already fallen into hell.

He was guilty of a crime for which he did not wish to repent.

"I'm sorry, crown, I can't. I tried, but I couldn't. He sacrificed again and again for me, refused the temptation of the Devil for me, and died because of it. I’ve failed his life once, and I can't fail his love again. I am willing to accept eternal torture in hell after death, but please allow me to be loyal to my heart in the short time when I still live in this world." Ning Zhou opened his blue eyes and spoke succinctly and firmly.

"Even if you will lose everything the Vatican has given you, even if you must leave this country forever?" asked the Pope.

Ning Zhou lowered his eyes, untied the buckle, put aside the dagger and the pass order given by the Holy See. He knelt in front of the cross on one knee: "I am ready."

After the anger reached its apex, it became a deep disappointment. The Pope came down from the high platform with a scepter in his hand. The cross-shaped scepter inlaid with gems pointed to the top of Ning Zhou's head: "The glory given to you by the Lord will be fully recovered."

Ethereal music came from the cold air and the golden light fell from the sky like raindrops. Behind Ning Zhou, it painted and wove into the shape of a blazing angel with six wings. He watched all this sadly, spread his wings silently, flew to the ice sculpture of an angel in the church, merged with it, and was no longer inspired by him.

The holy power flowing in his blood was taken out a little at a time, and the pain of it being torn from his soul made Ning Zhou sweat like rain in the extreme cold of tens of degrees below zero, feeling as if he were dying.

The scepter left Ning Zhou's head and the Pope sighed, "Is it worth it for a dead foreigner?"

Ning Zhou struggled to stand up, his face pale, but his eyes were still bright: "I can't deceive my heart. Does love dissipate when its object dies? No, the Lord said love never stops. From the day he died and every day from now on, this feeling will be precipitated by time and memories. The longer it is, the stronger it will be. I can't pretend that I’ve let go. This would be the most unforgivable shame."

He seldom said so much, but every word came from the bottom of his heart: "Under the crown, love should only be love. I have never lost my piety because of love. I will only be stronger because of it. It should not be a sin. If it is a sin, please let me bear this sin and fall into hell after death... I don't regret it.

"I still believe in my Lord, I abide by all the commandments except that one, and will continue to fight against the Devils. My heart will always belong here no matter where and when."

This was the last sentence Ning Zhou said before he left.

He left everything given by the Vatican and left alone. The Pope watched his distant back and sighed deeply: "Those who fight against the Devils should be careful not to become a Devil. 'If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.'"

Ning Zhou didn't answer again. At this moment, he firmly believed that he wouldn't fall in the current, because his soul had already docked in his own harbor.

The road to leave his hometown was longer than the one to enter it. He had lost the power of faith. It was tantamount to seeking death to trudge through the extreme cold with human frailty alone. Only a body that had carried out severe training all the year round could cross the vast ice sheet by its own strength.

Ning Zhou walked alone in the extremely cold ice and snow. Under the vast expanse of the starry sky, he recalled the scene when he’d passed through the spiritual enchantment of the Holy See not long ago - while walking through this heavy enchantment, everyone would be eroded by past memories and those distractions contrary to faith would be magnified hundreds of times. If you couldn't wash yourself of it here, you would be lost in the ice sheet forever.

Ning Zhou thought he would get lost here. However, when he really set foot on the ice sheet under the starry sky, an illusion he’d never imagined appeared in front of his eyes.

He saw that the ice sheet was covered with white roses, from one end of the world to the other, and the overwhelming white under the pure starry sky seemed to announce that the love between them was pure.

It was not evil, it was not immoral, it was not unnatural, it was not perverse - this desire, it was just love.

The deep and remote green aurora danced on the horizon, illuminating this empty and cold wasteland. From stepping into the spiritual barrier to finally leaving this white rose sea, Ning Zhou never saw Qi Leren again, not once.

-He was no longer his distraction, he was his whole world.

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The author has something to say:

PS: Some lines refer to Christian teachings, but they are not the same religion, just refer to it; The man who fights the devil... This sentence is Nietzsche's; In the face of cold death, he finally put aside all his wandering worries and shouldered his guilt, and turned to Yeat's "The Cold Heaven": And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason.

PPS: a little nonsense after the end. When conceiving the Nightmare Game, the author wanted to find out the feeling of writing this kind of piece before completing the Egg Game and prepared to write a simple story of a fast-paced horror game, in which the attacks are coming from the environments and the victim is constantly dying.

However, when the story of Novice Village was gradually perfected, when the predetermined characters were getting fuller and fuller, and when the brain hole was getting out of control, the author couldn't help but want to dig down. So the world view became bigger, the setting became more complicated, and the emotional drama became more tortuous. Finally, I finished the outline of the first Nightmare Game with the idea of exercising how to write emotional drama. At that time, the author thought: Yes, I just want to write such a story.

When conceiving the end of the first part, the author seriously considered several options, and also thought about setting it so Qi Leren wouldn’t die, and instead Ning Zhou would share his life with this person forbidden by the Holy See and take him to Neverland; or he would become a demon, follow Su He to the underworld, and they would both love and kill each other from now on. But in the end, I chose this ending, which is actually the best ending and the best beginning for these two people. They can abandon their stubbornness, face up to themselves, and start over. This is death and a new life, which perfectly conforms to the aesthetics of the author.

Qi Leren is not dead (those who will be resurrected are certainly not dead), but Ning Zhou has firmly established that his love was swayed in the end, and with this in mind + all alive + destined to be together = HE, so please touch your chest and tell every little friend loudly that this is a happy ending full of love and hope. As for why it doesn't end with the two people meeting again after seven days, it’s because the two people can't meet for the time being even after seven days, as Ning Zhou went to Purgatory... This is the second story.

Although it's my first time writing CP*, when I look back, all the sugar I sent is poisonous… But it doesn't matter, we have the second one! In the second part, Chen Baiqi's sister has a saying "God assists", which she likes very much. She announces in advance: "How much courage does it take for a person to deny his past, destroy his present and future with his own hands, and make himself struggle to abandon his faith before and after his death, just for his right to love. From now on, you are his God and his sin. You should heal him, redeem him, be his scabbard, be his armor, and become his faith. Qi Leren, you should take good care of him."

*{EN: Character Pairing}

I give full marks for this assist.

Thanks to the readers here, I really appreciate your support. Sometimes I am really not a good author, and I often write willfully regardless of the market. However, the author thinks that although I can't make readers like every work, at least I can make myself like it. If my brain waves are lucky enough to keep pace with the readers while satisfying my cute point, it is the greatest fate.

Here, once again, I love the master reminder with a stupid face. She must regret dating me because of the Nightmare Game now, but it's too late to get on the false boat.

The plan for the second half of the year is tentatively set as Egg Game 3 and a silly white sweet medium-length brain hole. The outline of Nightmare Game 2 will be carried out synchronously, and the second one will be opened as soon as possible. In addition, the manhua of Nightmare Game 1 is also being done. The pre-sale time depends on the progress of the two artists, the art being set, and my writing. You can pay attention to my Weibo @ 薄暮冰轮, or directly pay attention to the @ secret newspaper in charge of agency.

The text has been roughly revised, and I'll pack a TXT and send it to Weibo later. Goodbye until the next story, love everyone, Mwah~

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Editor’s Notes:

We still have one non-canon extra left, but I know not everyone reads those so I will put my final comments here.

Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and spoken to me directly! I’ve really enjoyed working on this and have appreciated the engagement my little pet project has gotten. With that said, I will be taking a one month break before I begin posting Nightmare Game II, so the first chapter will be up on May 10th, mark your calendars and check back here then. If the date changes for whatever reason I will announce it both here and on [my twitter]. Sorry to leave you all on such a cliffhanger ending.

To fill the Nightmare Game-shaped holes that I know must be in all of your hearts, I have two novel recommendations. The first is that I want to once again urge you to read BMBL’s other trilogy The Easter Egg Game if you haven’t yet, as its connection to Nightmare Game will become more prominent in Part II. It is much shorter so I promise it won’t take as much time to read as this one has. My other recommendation is Kaleidoscope of Death, which is actually the reason I started reading Nightmare Game in the first place as I had finished reading Kaleidoscope and was desperate for something similar. I would say the horror in Kaleidoscope is honestly much better than in this, though I prefer Nightmare Game’s overall story. (A warning though that it includes quite a few crossdressing jokes.)

Thank you again for sticking with this series and my editing of it all the way! I hope you’ll continue reading in the future. Until then, farewell ( *・∀・)ノ゛

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#Welcome to the Nightmare Game #欢迎来到噩梦游戏 #danmei

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kombatea · 3 years

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You´re safe with me / Sub-Zero (1)

Warning: Yandere

Note: Based on request. It was so hard to imagine him being anything but a gentleman to any woman. Especially the one he loves.

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„That was amazing! I have never thought that I am capable of something like that.“ You say to your friends after the lesson impressed by your abilities. You have come a long way since you arrived at the temple.

„Maybe you should try it like this next time.“ Your friend says as he grabs you by the waist and lifts you to demonstrate a new technique that you just learned.

„No! Put me down!“ You laugh.

„Love to see you all in such a good mood. I am satisfied with your performance.“ Says Kuai.

„Grandmaster! I didn´t even see you coming.“ One of the students from your group gasps.

„Well, I hope so. Isn´t that one of the abilities of a good warrior?“ He smiles.

Your friends nod, say goodbye, and slowly disappear to leave you alone with Kuai.

"I am proud of you." Smiles Kuai.

You turn around to check the room. When you are both sure that you are alone, you hug as tightly as possible.

"You are probably tired, but what would you say about a short walk?"

"I would love to go. Spend some time alone with you? Anytime." You smile and press a kiss on his cheek.

When you get to the main entrance, he stops.

"Please, dress up. I do not want you to get cold."

"It is fine. I am slowly getting used to it."

"I am serious."

"Well... Ok." You frown and take your heavy coat.

Kuai helps you to dress up and heads outside. He is silent the whole time until you are far from everyone.

"I love it when it is snowing." You say to break the silence.

"Like one of your friends."

"I am sorry?" You stop surprised.

"Do not play dumb. I see how close you are."

"He is my best friend. I do not see anything bad about it."

"Of course you do not." He chuckles arrogantly.

"Kuai! I do not understand..."

But before you can finish, he grabs you by your arm.

"Then let me tell you when you want to act innocent."

He is so close that you can feel his cold breath right in your face. He wants to continue but suddenly freezes. You know that he heard something. Someone is coming.

"Grandmaster!" The distant voice of a young student is quickly getting closer as she runs towards you.

"I... I am so sorry to bother..."

"That is ok. Try to catch some breath." Kuai smiles politely.

"I finally got the answer!" The student almost jumps because of how happy she is.

"From your family?"

"Yes! Yes! Thank you so much for encouraging me to contact them. They want me to visit."

"You see? I have told you that they will be more than happy." He says and frowns. "About that visit... I think that I do not need you here next week."

"Really?! I do not know what to say. Grandmaster! You are the best."

Before she runs away, she turns and thank him a couple more times. When she is out of your sight, Kuai's bright smile fades right as he lays his eyes on you.

„I think that we should come back. It is almost time for dinner.“ You say to end this weird and unpleasant conversation. You know that he is not done with you yet.

„Yes, that is right.“ He answers almost silently with his eyes on you.

But before you can make even two steps, Kuai grabs you again.

„I do want nothing but the best for you. I hope that you know that.“

You are confused, unable to react. You have never seen Kuai act like this. But his grip tightens, and you know that he wants his answer.

„Of course.“ You smile.

„Good.“

With that, he lets go and slowly walks by your side. Your hands are shaking, and your mind screams for you to run to be far from him. But you know that there is no chance to be able to outrun him. Thankfully it takes just a moment, and you meet other students that are gathering in the hallways for dinner. Everyone looks so happy and calm. You immediately feel safer. Kuai stops by every group to have a chat with everyone. He looks so graceful. You can see how everyone admires him. Suddenly you are full of doubts. There is no way that he would be like that. Abusive? Never.

„Hey. What is going on?“ Asks one of your friends when you sit down.

„Nothing. Why?“ You put on your brightest smile.

„Just checking.“

Time goes by, and you loosen up with all the people around. The muted chatter and smell of a freshly cooked meal is like a balm for your soul. You laugh at something when sudden chills go through your spine. Instinctively you look at Kuai only to realize that he is watching you. You smile at him, but his glance is without any reaction until someone came to him and his face instantly brightens up. When you finish your dinner, you head straight into your room, full of confusion.

„Hey! Gloomy face!“ someone shout at you from another side of the hallway.

„Really? Nicknames?“ you smile at your friend.

„Sorry. Wanted to catch your attention.“ He winks at you.

„I am tired, so can we get straight to the point?“

„I know that I have already asked you, but... Is everything alright? You look off.“

„As I said, just tired. But thank you for your concern.“ You hug your friend as a way to say goodnight, and you get in your room.

A deep sight leaves your lungs after you close the door. You feel that you need to ease your mind, and there is no better place than the baths. It is such a glamorous name for a small room with one big tub. No one uses it because no one has time for such an activity. Not even you, but even though you need to wake up early, you are still willing to sacrifice an hour of sleep.

„They know better.“ You say to yourself. Hallways are empty. Everyone is probably already sleeping. The schedule is crazy, and it took you a long time to adapt to almost nonexistent sleep.

After you come into the place, you get your water ready. Right as it starts to boil, you combine it with the cold water in the tub and make the perfect blend for your bath. With a few drops of vanilla essential oil that you cherish like a treasure, you immediately feel at home. You almost moan when the warm water hugs your exhausted and cold body. Everything is so calm and quiet. You feel the same. With every slow movement, water plays a melody that makes your eyes feel heavy. With each blink you make, you are closer and closer to fall asleep. But after a moment, you suddenly wake up because you hear something. Slow, quiet, and confident walk coming to you. You know it is him. He is so close that you can feel his presence. Usually, you would be excited to spend some time alone with him, but after tonight, you are not so sure anymore.

„I should stay in my room.“ Cross your mind the second you spot his facial expression. He always looks angry, but now he really was. In some sad way, you already knew that you are the reason for his bad mood.

Kuai comes to you and silently studies your face and body. After a long moment, he gently starts to pick stray hair from your forehead.

„I would risk everything for you...“ He whispers right in your ear.

„And I would never ask you for something like that.“

„You made me feel like no one else before. All I want is your full attention.“

„And you have it.“ Your voice trembles.

„Stop... lying.“ He growls as he lays his hand on the back of your neck and slowly starts to massage it with the thumb. The coldness of his hand sharply contrasts with the warmth of the water.

The fear growing in your stomach is traveling through the veins into your whole body and paralyzes you.

„I saw you... How you smile at him. Shamelessly hugging him in front of me.“

„What´s wrong with being close to your friends? Especially in a place like this. In the middle of nowhere.“ You say while trying to stay calm.

„Really? That is interesting. What type of story will you tell about this?“ Kuai takes out a small detailed glass pendant.

„You were in my room?“ You jump and spill half of the water out of the tub.

"I saw him when he brought it in."

You are speechless. You can not even tell if you tremble because of anger or cold.

„Answer me!“ He insists as he hides your necklace in his hand.

„It is a family necklace. Mother sent it in the nearby city, and he was kind enough to bring it to me as he picked out something for himself.“

Kuai looks at you with a disgusted gaze and throws the necklace against the wall. You see it break into small pieces. The tears fill your eyes. Full of frustration, you try to escape, but his hands are tightly holding yours by the wrists.

"Why did you do that?!" You scream.

You fight him with all of your strength. When he finally let go, you slip on the water and fall. Sharp pain goes through your body like a wave. You hit your head so hard that you lost consciousness for a while.

"Can you hear me?" Kuai´s voice is full of impatience and worries. He is sitting on the ground with you in his arms. Somehow he already managed to wrap you in the towel.

"My head..." You mumble and try to reach the wound on your head that is pulsating with pain.

He pulls your hand down and stands up with you still in his embrace. You try to fight him again and break free.

"Calm down, please. I do not want you to hurt yourself even more."

As he carefully walks down the hallway towards your room, you start to lose consciousness again.

"You can not sleep right now, my beautiful." He smiles at you as he opens the door and lays you on the bed. "You scared me. You know?"

"I am sorry." You smile back at him.

"I do not know what I would do without you." He sighs. "I have never wanted to let anyone in my life and especially in my heart. I was so scared that I will somehow hurt the person that I care about the most. But I have never expected that it will go another way.“

„What are you talking about? I love you. You should trust me."

"I definitely can try." Kuai smiles.

"I am so thankful that you helped me, but you should go." You kiss his hand.

"No. I will not let you alone. Not in this state."

"It is ok. But what about you? We should not risk your reputation. Just imagine if someone would saw you here."

"You are right. But promise me that you will stay in bed. I will send someone to check on you."

"Thank you so much. But now go, please." You look at him with your sweetest smile.

Kuai looks at you one last time and leaves. You wait for a while, and when you are sure that he is not coming back, you jump out of bed. You want to lock the door because there is a long night ahead of you. What should you do? Is it safe to stay? You love it here, but what if he will get worse? You reach for the handle, and the door almost hits you right in the face. Panic starts to fill your body when you see him standing in front of you, and his beautiful smile slowly fades into an angry gaze.

#mk #mk11 #Mortal Kombat #mortal kombat 11 #mortal kombat x reader #sub zero x reader #sub zero #kuai liang x reader #Kuai Liang #fanfiction #kombateafanfiction

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charlottesmidnight · 3 years

Text

31 October || The Marauders

Summary: From 31 October 1971 to 31 October 1981. Time really flies doesn’t it?

A/N: Another kinda messy fanfic for you guys which will probably be my last one for like a week because I have to back to school school :(

Word Count: 1.5k

31 October 1971 James and Sirius dashed down the hall of hogwarts in an attempt to beat each other. However, the person who beat both of them was the one and only Professor McGonagall, their so-called favourite professor. “Mr Black, Mr Potter,” she eyed both of them cautiously, examining their messy robes and untied tie. “I wish to remind you that the next time I catch both of you running in the hallways I will make you run laps on the quidditch field until your legs no longer permit you to run” She said in a voice laced with seriousness while she flicked her wand to fixed the mess that was Sirius and James’ uniforms.

Sirius and James nodded politely, gleaming at their favourite professor as she rolled her eyes in annoyance. Right as she turned her back, the young boys immediately resumed the race to the great hall. The quickly dissipating loud footsteps caused the professor to sigh deeply before she returned to what she was doing before.

The 11-year-olds dashed to the Gryffindor table, with Sirius throwing himself onto the seat just ever so slightly faster than James managed to. Laughter erupted from the table of fellow 1st years as Sirius stuck out his tongue to a sulking James who slumped down into his seat. “This is where I said I told you so.” Sirius gloated, a smile stretching from ear to ear. “I believe you do owe me something now…” Sirius said as he stretched his hand towards James. “You’ll get your lemondrops when we get back to the dorm” James rolled his eyes, slapping away Sirius’ outstretched hands

31 October 1974 They had been preparing for the full moon for what had seemed like forever. Since their 2nd year when they found out about Remus’ so-called “furry little condition” they wanted to come up with a plan to help him. Whatever it might take. Hence, they decided upon a plan that James himself had come up with: To become animagus so that Remus might never spend another full moon alone. After 3 years of sleuthing and researching, they finally managed to acquire the skill of becoming animagi.

That night, the 4 of the marauders hiked out to the shrieking shack together. The moment they entered the shrieking shack, the danger of the situation began to sink in for all 4 of them. “This is a bad idea. You shouldn’t do this, I might hurt you. No scratch that, I will hurt you all of you. Please go.” Remus said, voice laced with insecurity and worry for his friend. He knew he was slowly beginning to lose himself and while he appreciated his friends’ attempts to help him, he didn’t want to hurt 3 of his best friends or do something even worse to them.

“No!” Sirius exclaimed exasperatedly, as he held onto Remus who was already losing his strength and control. “Remus, you are our friend, our brother, and we are definitely not letting you go through this alone. Not anymore.” James said with resolve as he glared back at Remus’ pleading eyes while Peter nodded, putting up as brave of a front as he could muster.

The marauders didn’t say much to anyone about what happened that night. A few people stared a little longer than they should’ve at a few of the new scratches and bruises the 4 boys gained that night but most assumed it was probably part of the many pranks they were pulling on someone.

From that night onwards, all 4 boys started to disappear on nights of the full moon every month to somewhere no one else in the school knew about.

31 October 1978 “Oh god please don’t tell me that there are more boxes,” Sirius gasped dramatically. James rolled his eyes as he replied, “No Sirius, there are no more boxes.” Exaggeratedly, Sirius threw his hand in his air, cheering. “Man-child he is,” Lily remarked sarcastically to Remus as she watched the two friends come into the house.

Right as Sirius entered the room, he collapsed on the new sofa, still covered in white cloth. “Hey! Butt off my sofa,” James exclaimed, lightly slapping Sirius on the head. Whining, Sirius was eventually dragged off the new sofa, landing on the carpeted floor with a thud, garnering a few chuckles from the rest of the group.

“Hey, what’s that?” Peter asked innocently as he pointed to the little black box placed at the side of the room. “Oh, that’s a big black box that has tiny muggles in them.” James replied confidently, causing Peter’s eyes to widen in both confusion and horror. Remus and Lily burst out laughing while Sirius furrowed his brows, looking around like a lost puppy in a park. “That's not-” Lily did not even have a chance to finish before Remus quickly interrupted her. “That’s exactly what it is.” Remus replied, smirking.

Laughing, he crawled forward and toyed with the knobs, turning on the muggle television. Peter jumped backwards as the muggles began conversing with each other while James tilted his head slightly. “Wait, those really are tiny muggles?” He asked. “Yup, you see we can even control them by turning this knob right here.” Lily said, barely even able to keep her laughter in. Sensing right through her lie however, James lunged forward at Lily, tickling her at her sides. Sirius, still disturbed, quickly fiddled with the buttons and knobs of the television before finally managing to turn it off. This only left Remus laughing at his two confused friends who really lacked a brain at times.

31 October 1980 “No, I’m fine here, standing perfectly still in the corner.” Sirius said as he leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom.

“Come on pads, you’re his godfather, you kind of have to hold him at some point!” replied James as he cuddled the little newborn swaddled in a blanket Molly had stitched for him.

“He’s so tiny… What if I break him?” Sirius replied, genuinely concerned and worried for the safety of his godson. He did not have the best reputation with kids after all. In fact he had close to zero experience with tiny humans like this one.

“At this point Harry’s more likely to break you.” sighed Remus exasperatedly causing Lily to snicker.

“How am I supposed to hold the tiny human anyways?” asked Sirius causing Remus to roll his eyes dramatically.

“You’ll figure it out.” James said as he practically shoved baby Harry into the hands of Sirius.

After quite a while of uncomfortable shifting on Sirius’ part, he finally managed to figure out how to actually hold the little child. He eventually looked up, giving the rest of the marauders (and Lily) a lopsided grin which they all returned. For a first-timer, he sure was good with kids.

31 October 1981 Clambering off his motorbike, SIrius found the one and only Hagrid standing in the front yard of the Potter residence. Fearing the worst, Sirius rushed the Hagrid only then realising the bundle of cloth that stirred in his hand. Hagrid gave him a look of sadness and pity and Sirius shook his head, and rushed past the front yard, flinging the door open so hard it nearly broke.

He saw only the back of a man, he collapsed onto the floor, head buried deep within someone’s chest. The scene felt all too familiar, nights of restless sleeps and nightmares all seemed to have hinted towards this: his greatest fear. He stumbled backwards, knocking into something he didn’t really care about anymore.

Startled, Remus turned around sharply, eyes swelling with tears. Sirius wished he hadn’t turned around because now there was an even clearer view of his friend his brother, pale and lifeless, dead on the floor. Sirius turned his head towards the stairs that led to the bedroom. He wanted to ask if Lily was alive and he opened his mouth but the words were unable to spill out because he already knew.

Remus shook his head, tears already spilling out of his eyes, rolling off his cheeks. Sirius already knew Lily was dead because if she were alive, Harry wouldn’t be in Hagrid’s arms, he would be in his mother’s. Harry… He thought. Almost as if paternal instincts kicked in he barged through the same front door to get Harry. From behind he heard Remus attempt to follow but his body seemed too emotionally drained to function.

“Hagrid, give me Harry. Now.” He said possessively which only made Hagrid sigh, his eyes softening. “I can’t, Dumbledore's orders” Hagrid said. “Bullshit, I’m his godfather!” Sirius spit. He knew Hagrid had no part in this but he was simply too tired and disoriented to talk politics. “I can't,” Hagrid replied.

“Why not?” Sirius fumed.

“You were the Potters’ secret keeper… Only one person could’ve told Voldemort their hiding place,” Hagrid stated in a soft voice.

This was when it clicked for Sirius. His eyes widened before they overflew with anger and rage. With resolve, Sirius instructed Hagrid to use his motorbike and get his godson to safety. Hesitantly, Hagrid nodded. Within the next second, Sirius had already disapparated away, leaving nothing but a couple specs of dust at the front door of the Potter residence.

What Sirius didn’t know was that the next time he would see his best friend and his godson again was 12 years later.

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theres-an-impulstor-among-us · 3 years

Note

Now that team ITS is playing Phasmophobia on stream (I mean they are when I am sending this) can we get ghost hunters team ZITS?! I'd love to see the full team of morons (affectionate) dealing with ghosts.

I love Team ZITS so much, they’re such morons (affectionate). Just a few notes for this one:

1) CW: swearing

2) This loosely takes place in Phasmophobia. Some details are different/altered to fit the story better

3) Also I would just like to clarify that even though they reference playing Among Us, all my fics are set in the fictional world. I will never write about the real people, only their Hermitcraft characters/personas.

...

“Okay, guys.” Impulse addresses his team in the back of their van, handing out pieces of equipment as he talks. “We’ve got a poltergeist living in this house right here. Our job is to get evidence and get the hell out before it kills us. Any questions?”

Zedaph raises his hand. “Yes, what happens if it kills us?”

“We die,” Tango says wryly. “Permanently. So don’t get killed.”

“I guarantee at least one of us isn’t getting outta here alive,” Skizzleman remarks. “And all the times we played Among Us is telling me it’s gonna be Tango.”

Tango shoots him a scowl. “Hey!”

“Well, if you really don’t wanna die first, find some kind of electrical room and send Impulse there,” snickers Skizzleman.

Impulse rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Skizz. Anyway, we only have one piece of equipment each so we gotta make sure we work together. Skizz, you’ve got the camera to take pictures of the ghost. Tango, you’ve got the EMF reader so you can gauge the strength of ghostly presences. Zed, you’ve got the temperature tracker so you can check when the rooms get freezing. Everyone understand?”

“What have you got, exactly?” Skizzleman inquires.

Impulse holds up the item in his hand. “A flashlight that doubles as a UV light. I’m the one who’s gonna go first into each room and probably get killed in, like, ten seconds.”

“A true hero,” says Zedaph, nodding.

“And don’t forget that the instructions say that if the flashlight beam starts to blink, that means the ghost is hunting,” Tango adds. “We should stick close to you so we know when to panic.”

“Gotcha.”

The team makes their way towards the dark, dilapidated house.

“Man, the only way this could be more stereotypically creepy is if it had cobwebs in the windows,” mutters Skizzleman. “I dunno about you guys but I have zero trouble believing a ghost lives here.”

Impulse pauses outside the house, glancing back at his friends. “Okay, the name of the ghost is William Thomas. And it said in the instructions that saying a ghost’s name will anger it, so try not to do that.”

With that, the four creep into the house.

They tiptoe into the first room in the house, Impulse shining his flashlight hesitantly around to make sure they’re alone. He switches to the UV light but no fingerprints show up anywhere.

“Hey, have you guys heard that song about Shia LaBeouf being a cannibal?” Zedaph asks out of the blue.

His friends stare at him.

“No I haven’t, and also, what the hell?” says Tango.

“I’ve heard it,” Skizzleman says. “What made you think of it NOW of all times?”

“I was just thinking about how the ghost might be a cannibal and eat our bodies when it kills us, and that made me think of that song and now it’s stuck in my head.”

A pause follows this.

“Aaaaand now it’s stuck in mine too,” Skizzleman sighs. “Great. Thanks.”

“The image of a ghost feasting on our corpses is stuck in MY head and now I don’t want to move,” Tango says. “So thanks for that, Zed.”

Zedaph grins to himself. “Anytime.”

A tense pause follows this.

BANG!

Skizzleman screams. “AHHH, WHAT WAS THAT?!”

Impulse, heart now racing, instinctively shines his light towards the source of the noise. “I think it came from upstairs! Tango, Skizz, go check it out!”

“Why me?!” yelps Skizzleman.

“Because you’ve got the camera! Now go!”

Tango drags a protesting Skizzleman away towards the stairs.

“Okay, while they’re doing that, let’s start eliminating rooms as the epicentre,” says Impulse to his remaining friend. “Keep the temperature tracker up.”

Zedaph nods. “Will do.”

The two start exploring the downstairs rooms. The kitchen and dining room show no signs of paranormal activity but when they enter the living room, something changes.

“I’m cold,” Zedaph whispers, the temperature tracker trembling slightly in his hand. “It says three degrees. Not quite freezing yet.”

“Right, okay… Stay here and monitor the temperature, I’ll go check for handprints by the stairs.”

He moves off into the hallway and shines the UV light around at the staircase.

Upstairs, Skizzleman is clutching the camera so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. “Oh my god, I hate this so much. I feel like I’m gonna have a damn heart attack.”

Ignoring him, Tango activates his walkie talkie. “Impulse, can you hear me?”

“I hear you,” comes Impulse’s crackly voice. “Found anything?”

“Nothing yet. We’re just having a look around.”

“Okay, good. Remember, saying the ghost’s name a lot will make it mad so if you want to aggravate it a bit to get evidence, do that. But make sure you don’t say it too much or it’ll REALLY get angry.”

Tango nods. “Gotcha. Talk to you later.”

He puts away the walkie talkie and turns to Skizzleman, who is staring around the dark room with fearful eyes. “H-Hello, Mr William Thomas? Or, uh… Bill? Can I call you Bill?”

He gets no response from the ghost, so he tries again: “Hey William, do you play Minecraft?”

Tango stifles a laugh.

A few seconds later, a heavy-looking lamp in the corner tips over and falls all on its own, nearly crushing Skizzleman.

Impulse glances sharply up as he hears Skizzleman scream. He immediately hears Tango’s loud voice reassuring him, so he forces himself to relax. Nothing bad is happening. His friends are okay, they’re just a little on-edge, like Impulse himself. He just needs to relax.

Inhaling deeply, he takes out the plastic water bottle he brought with him. As he sips at the cool water, he hears Skizzleman’s voice yelling from the upstairs bedroom: “HEY BILL, FUCK OFF!”

Tango’s voice shrieks back, “SKIZZ, DON’T PISS OFF THE GHOST WHO’S TRYING TO KILL US!”

“IF HE’S TRYING TO KILL US ANYWAY THEN WHY CAN I NOT TELL HIM TO GO FUCK HIMSELF?”

Impulse chokes on his water.

“Impulse, I think Skizz is freaking out,” says Zedaph, peering round the door. “And I’m starting to freak out too. The temperature went below zero, like, six times in a few minutes.”

“Right, okay, that’s one piece of evidence collected,” Impulse says. “Two more to go, then we can get outta here.”

As Zedaph opens his mouth to respond, they both hear a loud thumping noise and Skizzleman screaming.

His heart leaping into his throat, Impulse and Zedaph dash upstairs at top speed and both almost trip right over Skizzleman on the landing.

“Skizz, what the hell?!” yelps Impulse.

Lying face down on the carpet, Skizzleman is glad it’s dark so the others can’t tell how red his cheeks are. “I… tripped over my own feet.”

“Oh, I hate you so much.” Impulse hauls his best friend to his feet. “Please tell me you have some more evidence for me.”

“I got a level 5 reading,” Tango says, standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

“Okay, good, that counts. We got freezing temperatures downstairs, so now we just gotta look for-.”

He breaks off as an ominous noise sounds from downstairs.

The group stare at each other in terror.

“Please tell me that was just someone’s stomach,” Skizzleman groans.

Impulse’s flashlight beam starts blinking.

“Run!” Impulse screeches.

The four scatter.

Skizzleman and Zedaph dash inside the bedroom and jump into the closet, both breathing hard. They fall silent, listening intently for any sounds outside the closet.

A minute goes by. Then another. Then a few more.

“So,” whispers Zedaph. “Come here often?”

Skizzleman can’t help a quiet snicker, despite the situation. “No, I really don’t. What about you?”

“Well, oddly enough, this isn’t my first time hiding from a ghost in a stranger’s wardrobe.”

“That genuinely does not surprise me one bit.”

Zedaph’s walkie talkie emits a sudden burst of static, giving the two a fright. “Zed, come in. Where are you guys?”

Zedaph fumbles with the device and hurriedly whispers into it, “Impulse, I think the ghost is still nearby.”

“Nope it’s not. It’s currently having a very intense staring contest with Tango, so we could do with your help right now.”

Zedaph and Skizzleman exchange a look of horror.

Downstairs, Tango has been backed into a corner, frozen with fear as he makes terrified eye contact with the gruesome poltergeist, who is less than three metres away from him. “Impy,” he whispers out the corner of his mouth. “Help me.”

Impulse dithers by the door, itching to go help his best friend but unsure of exactly how to do that without getting one or both of them killed.

Zedaph and Skizzleman appear next to Impulse seconds later. “Can we distract the ghost in any way?” the former asks urgently, as Skizzleman takes a picture of the spirit.

Impulse hesitates. “I-I don’t know how we’d do that.”

“Well, we have to do something! We can’t just let it kill Tango!”

The poltergeist moves jerkily to the side, causing Tango to let out a strangled cry and press his back harder against the wall. “Help!”

Reacting quickly, Skizzleman snatches the temperature tracker from Zedaph and tosses it at the ghost. It passes right through its body, nearly hitting Tango.

“Hey, William fucking Thomas, stay the hell away from my buddy!” Skizz yells at it.

“Dude!” Impulse yelps, as the poltergeist turns on them. “RUN!”

The three scramble for the door.

Tango, seeing his chance, dodges around the ghost and follows, almost tripping over at least twice as he does.

Skizzleman again trips over his own feet on the concrete pathway, and since he’s at the front of the group, the other three promptly fall over him and end up in a heap on the ground, panting hard from fear and exertion.

“Oh my God,” gasps out Impulse. “Is everyone okay?”

Zedaph sticks his thumb up. “Very much below average, thanks.”

“My heart is about to die but yeah, I’m fine,” Skizzleman breathes. “I’m gonna have nightmares about this for months.”

“Months?!” Tango is lying sprawled on his back, his heart still pounding in his chest. “Dude, I’m never gonna sleep well again.”

Impulse pushes himself into a sitting position and watches the ghost float around angrily in the front doorway. “Looks like he can’t leave the house. PLEASE tell me we got three pieces of evidence.”

At the same time, all three of the others speak:

“Temperature,” says Zedaph.

“Photo,” says Skizzleman.

“EMF reading,” says Tango.

“Right, then.” Impulse gets to his feet and opens up the back of the van. “Let’s get going. We can process the evidence in the van.”

Skizzleman is the next to stand up and come to the back of the van. Rubbing his chest, he raises an eyebrow at Impulse. “Dude, we are DEFINITELY stopping at Taco Bell on the way home. We DESERVE Taco Bell.”

Impulse chuckles. “Oh, you’ll hear no argument from me there, dude.”

As Zedaph hops into the back of the van, he grins back at his friends. “Now that was what I call a Shia Surprise.”

Impulse frowns and starts to open his mouth but Skizzleman shakes his head. “Don’t even ask, bro.”

Finally, Tango hands the EMF reader to Impulse and wordlessly starts to head to the front of the van but Impulse stops him. “Tango, are you okay? I-I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more in there.”

Tango slowly shakes his head. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I’m just a little shaken up, that’s all.” He gives a pale grin. “Just promise me that next time we get the urge to do something stupid with the paranormal that we’ll use a oujia board like normal people.”

Impulse laughs. After that experience, he’s just happy his friends are all okay.

“Deal.”

#impulsesv #tangotek #skizzleman #zedaph #team zits #hermitcraft #phasmophobia #cw swearing #Vaunna writes

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dragonheart-swtor · 3 years

Text

To Let Traitors Live

Summary: Quinn makes a bad mistake and gets kicked around like a football for it, which is remarkably merciful as far as Zavi's punishments go. It's the Quinncident, y'all know how this goes by now. Obvious spoiler warning for Chapter 3 of the Sith Warrior storyline is obvious.

Tags: Torture, choking/Force-choking, Force lightning, Zavi’s bad habit of viewing people as Sith property, canon-typical violence, I don’t think this is graphic violence but I’m not totally sure, read at your own discretion, Zavi does get shot but not badly, Quinn gets kicked around like a football but he’s okay in the long run

Find me on AO3 at Dragonheart37!

-----

Zavi paused as prickles ran up the back of xir neck, an old danger-warning xe was well familiar with. Xe scanned the room, but found nothing obvious to cause it – no people, no droids, not so much as a blinking light that might indicate an explosive. The only other moving thing in the room was Captain Quinn – who, speaking of, hadn't stopped when Zavi had. He'd kept moving further into the room, steps brisk with purpose.

Before xe could do more than raise an eyebrow ridge at this, he stopped and folded his hands behind his back, still facing away from xir. “My lord. I regret that our paths must diverge. Out of respect, I wanted to be here to witness your fate.”

Zavi narrowed xir eyes. “I don't like the sound of that.”

“Your senses always have been keen.” Quinn turned to face xir, face impassive and hard despite the cold, tense dread and anticipation radiating from him that he couldn't hide. “It pains me, but – this entire scenario is a ruse. There's no martial law, and no signal emitter.” The lines around his mouth deepened, and Zavi knew what he would say next before it crossed his lips. “Baras is my true master. He had me lure you here to have you killed.”

Zavi thought about unclipping xir lightsaber from xir belt, but left it there for the moment – the warning prickle at the back of xir neck was still quiet, not yet imminent, and Captain Quinn was a threat xe could handle. “You would betray me now, after all this?” xe asked, low and dangerous. “I have protected you, Captain. I helped you eliminate Moff Broysc. You owe me.”

“You've helped me immensely,” he agreed. “I act today with a heavy heart.” Scripted tripe. “But without Baras, I'd have no career. I owe you, my lord, but I owe him more.” He turned to pace away, not a threat but an inability to keep still released in carefully measured steps. “I didn't want to choose between the two of you. But Baras has forced my hand, and I must side with him. Once you're gone, your crew will either join Baras with me, or be killed.”

Zavi curled xir lip with distaste. “You know who I'm working for now, Captain. If you stand with Baras, you stand against the Emperor himself.”

“The Emperor is an absentee landlord,” Quinn snapped. “Baras is doing what any true patriot would do.” He unfolded his hands from behind him, revealing something in his hand – the warning prickle along Zavi's neck grew in intensity, and xe reached for xir lightsaber as he pressed the button. The door behind him slid open as he spoke, revealing two heavy war droids – specialty models Zavi didn't recognize, lurching forward to stand on either side of Quinn. “After all this time observing you in battle, I have exhaustively noted your strengths and weaknesses,” he continued. “These war droids have been programmed specifically to combat you. I calculate a near zero percent chance of their failure.”

Zavi laughed aloud at that, crimson lightsaber snapping into existence with a vicious hiss. “After all this time observing me, you should know better,” xe sneered. “But then, your confidence in the odds always has been your biggest weakness. You should know by now that the Sith are beyond your petty calculations.”

“If anything, I am underestimating my droids' chances,” Quinn said evenly, though xe tasted fear in the Force. “But I suppose we shall see. You'll find they are virtually immune to you.” He pursed his lips. “I'm sorry it's come to this, my lord.”

Xe barked another laugh, far less amused this time. “Don't waste your breaths on apologizing. You have so few left.”

And the droids opened fire.

The first shots were far too late – xe was gone well before they blasted a smoking crater into the durasteel where xe'd been standing, leaping in an arc up over their heads. They turned to track xir in the full arc, not restricted in vertical movement like most droids, and xe was forced to dodge again, rolling to the side as they fired again. Xe slashed at the nearest one's leg, but xir saber ricocheted off – in the shock of that, xe was slow to dodge the next volley, and heat blazed past xir arm, painfully hot through xir armor.

Zavi hissed, launching xirself again. This time, xir saber carved an arc across the body of the droid as xe passed it in the air to land on the other side – but the damage was superficial, a glowing mark across the reinforced exoskeleton. Cortosis, or something similar – Baras had spared no expense, and neither had Quinn.

Quinn. The skin of xir back went ice cold as if cued by remembering him, and xe rolled forward as a shot darted overhead – not one of the droids, but a blaster pistol. Bastard. Zavi snarled, forced to parry a shot from one of the droids – the force required pulled a guttural noise of rage from xir, and immediately pain seared across xir belly as another blaster shot rang out – glancing, through Zavi's armor, but burning pain nonetheless.

Zavi darted under one of the droids, narrowly avoiding being stabbed by one of its legs, thoughts racing. Quinn had indeed done a good job, as always – the usual weak points on a war droid were reinforced on these, enough to withstand a lightsaber blow, and their shots were both fast and powerful. Already the walls and floor were seeping smoke from pitted wounds where the droids' blasts had punctured the thick durasteel. Even the near miss Zavi had already taken was screaming pain from the heat through xir own armor. One solid hit, one mistake, and this would be over.

Wait.

Xe backed up, watching the droids track xir movements, then launched xirself again before they could be ready to fire, directly at the body of one this time. Instead of attacking and leaping away again, xe clung to it like a burr, too close for it to do more than spin uselessly as it tried to target xir.

The other one, however, had no trouble finding its target. A split-second whine as it prepared to fire, and xe tensed, preparing to leap away again -

A blaster shot, and pain exploded in xir thigh. Xe screamed, in shock as much as pain, and stumbled as xe flung xirself away from the droid just in time, stumbling on the wounded leg as xe hit the floor. The droid xe'd been riding refocused on xir just in time for its fellow's shot to hit it full on with a scream of metal, rending it where Zavi's lightsaber had weakened a seam in the metal. The droid staggered, and for a terrifying moment xe thought it might right itself – but then it toppled, half its legs kicking frantically as the other half collapsed beneath it.

Zavi dared to spare a glance for Quinn, blaster still pointed at xir, and let out a screaming roar, fueled by hatred and rage and pain and accompanied by a blast of Force that knocked him clean off his feet and sent his weapon skittering across the floor. Xe had no further time to spare for him; the second droid was firing again and xe had to roll away, shouting to vent the pain without slowing down. Xe circled the droid, managing not to limp too much, and in a moment of desperate fury gathered the Force to xir and shoved.

It didn't knock the droid over – it was even heavier than it looked – but it did make the next volley go wide, and gave Zavi an idea. Gritting xir teeth against the wrenching agony in xir thigh, xe ran forward, ducking and rolling to slide underneath the droid again – and this time stabbing xir lightsaber straight up overhead, with as much force and Force as xe could muster behind it.

The droid shrieked and threw off sparks, making Zavi shield xir face with an arm as xe scrambled out from beneath the thing, not trusting xir ability to hold it up off xir as it fell. Xe slashed at the gun barrel and took it off for good measure, but the droid was already dead, computer core pierced and destroyed.

When xe was sure it wasn't going to get up again and have another go at xir, xe turned to Quinn.

He'd gotten up and was going for his blaster. Zavi yanked it to xir and flung it to the side; it hit the wall so hard it burst into pieces of metal and sparks. Quinn stared at Zavi with wide, frightened eyes – his fear was palpable in the Force between them, and it did nothing to stem xir pain or xir anger.

He swallowed hard. “I don't – I don't understand,” he stammered. “What went wrong? I calculated precisely, you – you should be dead.”

Zavi took one step forward. Quinn took one back. “You are a fool,” xe hissed. “All your observations, all your calculations, and yet you still don't understand.” Xe took another step forward, and this time he held his ground, apparently realizing there was nowhere to go. “It is useless to defy me.”

The fear staining the Force black only grew as Zavi drew slowly nearer, and yet Quinn managed still to keep it from making his voice shake – he always had been good at that; xe should have realized sooner it would have made him good at deception. He sank to his knees. “My lord,” he started.

Zavi bared xir teeth in a warning. “I do hope you're not thinking of debasing yourself even further by begging for mercy.”

He shook his head. “I have betrayed you,” he said, lowering his head. “Conspired with your most hated enemy. I – I don't expect your mercy.”

Zavi closed the Force around his throat, lifting him off his knees as he grasped instinctively at the choking force. “That,” xe hissed, “is the first intelligent thing you've said today.”

Xe threw him backward with enough force that he slammed against the back wall, knocking the breath out of him with a choked noise before he slid to the floor. Xe stalked toward him, closing the distance at an almost leisurely pace, in no rush now that there was no further threat. No, mercy was not a word xe found in xir vocabulary today – xir wounds burned as xe moved, and the pain only fueled xir anger further. The droids had been some challenge, but droids weren’t satisfying prey – droids didn’t feel pain or fear, didn’t feed Zavi’s bloodthirst, much less sate it.

Quinn got up to one knee before Zavi lashed out again, snatching and flinging him with the Force in one movement, sending him tumbling across the floor. His ribs, already bruised from the first impact, threw out pangs of pain as they cracked under the blow, and Zavi drew them to xirself, reveling in it. Xe coiled Force around his throat and squeezed, lifting him off the floor – his stifled fear cracked and bled panic, an instinctive terror too deep to suppress. He clutched at his throat, legs kicking instinctively – xe bared xir teeth in something between a smile and a snarl at the panic and fear staining the Force around them. He would fight back, betray his lord? Then xe would remind him why the Sith reigned rightfully supreme.

It was only when his movements started to grow more feeble and the light of his consciousness started to flicker that xe dropped him again. He crumpled, coughing and gasping, and Zavi circled him at a distance, hissing fury between xir teeth until Quinn finally recovered enough to hear xir properly.

“Did you think me an idiot?” Zavi asked. “Did you think you were stronger than a Sith lord?”

Quinn opened his mouth as if to answer, and xe snarled, throwing out xir hands toward him. Rage and hatred boiled under xir skin, lit paths of fire down xir nerves and exploded from xir fingers in brilliant crimson light that arced to his body and killed whatever he was going to say before it could leave his lips, twisting it into a pained cry as his body convulsed. Xe swallowed his pain and demanded more, held the lightning until xir arms shook.

“Did you think,” xe hissed, “that you could defeat me?”

Xe let the lightning subside and Quinn slumped to the floor, body shuddering and twitching from the aftereffects as he lay prone. Zavi stalked around him again, restrained fury driving xir to restless pacing, as he struggled to bring his limbs underneath him again and push himself slowly up to hands and knees.

Xir boot came down on the back of his neck, forcing him back down with his cheek pressed against the floor. Xe curled xir lip at him as he struggled for breath. “I don't recall giving you permission to get up.”

His chest heaved, pulse racing under the press of the hard leather – xe couldn't feel it through the war boots, of course, but the Force was as attentive as always – but he didn't try to move again. Zavi watched him gasp for air for a moment, supply limited but not choked off completely by the pressure from xir boot on his neck, and took a few deep breaths xirself to reorder xir thoughts.

The urge to wring his life from his miserable body was undeniably strong, the Force singing for blood still – but Zavi was the master of xir emotions, not the other way around, and logic made xir hesitate to rend him limb from limb just yet. Much as xe would have liked to crush his bones and bleed him dry, to make him suffer for this betrayal, something gave xir pause as xe looked down at him, helpless at xir feet.

“You make a unique problem, Captain,” xe admitted, watching his face as he silently fought for breath. “Up to this point, you have been exceptionally useful to me. It would be a shame to lose you now, when my fight is coming to its peak. But to allow a traitor to live?” Xe clucked xir tongue. “It simply isn't done. Nor am I personally inclined to ideals so impotent as forgiveness.”

Xe released him, turning away as xe spoke. “On the other hand, you may yet be useful to me. And to face my dear master with the very soldier he tried to use against me at my side...” Xir lips curled in a twisted smile at the thought. “It does ring of poetic justice, doesn't it? After all, what is his shall belong to me by rights soon enough. Why not make a point of starting early?”

Zavi turned back to Quinn, examining him. He hadn't tried to get up this time, not even to hands and knees – had simply shifted himself enough to turn the awkwardly pinned posture into true prostration, kneeling with his forehead pressed to the floor, palms flat beside his head. He didn't try to answer, either, apparently realizing it was a rhetorical question. He always had known when to shut up and quietly put himself at xir mercy like a good Imperial.

“No, I don't think Baras would like that at all,” xe mused. “What disrespect, to allow his would-be assassin to live.” Xe smiled coldly down at Quinn. “What outrage, to make his most useful toy mine.” Xe tilted xir head. “And what do you think, Captain? You've always been so delightfully adherent to tradition and custom. What do you make of my new dilemma?”

He hesitated. “Darth Baras would never forgive such a failure, my lord,” he said slowly, not daring to look up at xir. “Most Sith would not. But... your assessment of his reactions is likely accurate. It would make a point.”

Zavi smiled again, mirthless this time. “Not even going to try to convince me to spare you?”

“You asked for my honest assessment, not to be convinced, my lord. I didn't think it would be appreciated.”

“I do appreciate an Imperial who knows not to overstep his bounds.” Xe considered him for a moment. “Sit up, then, and say what you will in your defense.”

Quinn sat up to his knees, raising his head. “My lord, I... if you will permit me to stay in your charge, my dedication to you will never come into question again. I swear it.”

“Pretty words, but I've heard them from your lips before. It didn't prevent this betrayal.”

He swallowed. “I will do my utmost to make up for it, my lord. I know I don't deserve your mercy, but should you choose to grant it, you will have my service for life. You will never find a more faithful servant. The loyalty that forced my hand today belongs to you now.” He bowed his head again in deference. “My life is in your hands, my lord – as it always was; I see that now. I was a fool to ever stand against you.”

Zavi reached toward his mind and pushed, brushing aside what little resistance his disciplined mind afforded him with barely an effort – he wasn't trying to stop xir from looking. His words rang true; even as his mind was tense with fear, there was clawing regret and deep devotion there that xe had felt from him before. This time Zavi went looking for its source, and found only xirself as xe existed in his mind – a burning god of crimson and gold, power and glory demanding the awe and fear of those beneath xir. Quite the flattering image. He was aware of xir flaws – had used them against xir today – but they were overwhelmed by xir virtues in his mind, which was just as well.

And Baras – Baras had been banished to a shadow in his mind, surrounded by fear and dread, but connected to that undercurrent of loyalty only by the thinnest remaining strands. For a moment, Zavi was tempted to snap them xirself – but xe had never been good at manipulating minds, and to break him now with unintended consequences of an apparently small change would be an utter waste.

So instead xe withdrew, satisfied with what xe had seen, and said coldly, “I will keep you alive today, Captain, and we shall see if you can regain my trust. But,” xe continued, holding up a finger to stop him from responding as he looked up, eyes wide. “Your life is now on a timer, Malavai Quinn. I cannot afford to replace you at this moment, but when Baras dies, I will have time on my hands to re-address this again.” Xe narrowed xir eyes at him. “You have a silver tongue, Captain, but it will not save you forever. You had best hope you can prove yourself both loyal and useful to me by the day your timer runs out. And if I ever think you will betray me again...”

“I understand, my lord,” he said, bowing his head to xir. “I am most grateful for the chance to redeem myself. I will not repeat my mistakes, I swear it.”

“We shall see.” Xe flicked xir fingers at him, clipping xir lightsaber back onto xir belt. “Get up. We're going back to the ship.”

He obeyed, moving to fall in beside and behind Zavi – xe stopped him with an outstretched hand and a cold stare. He flushed with embarrassment but reluctantly turned to walk in front of xir, more a prisoner than a companion now as they returned. At least with him in front of xir, not watching, Zavi could allow xirself to favor xir leg a little more, still trying to bleed the pain into the Force and ignore it. It wouldn’t cripple xir - if it were going to, it would have already - but it was painful.

What a bother. And now xe had to sort out how to inform the crew without causing anarchy. Pierce would try to undermine Quinn immediately, and perhaps xe would even let him for once. Vette would be hopelessly obnoxious about it. Most problematic, they would no longer trust him - they would be uneasy every time Zavi took advice from him, and that could undermine xir authority.

Xe resisted the urge to sigh. This is why Sith don’t let traitors live.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #sith warrior #malavai quinn #quinncident #fanfiction #zavi

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ddaenggtan · 4 years

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black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG, some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it.

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway.

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience.

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain.

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands.

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more."

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet.

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring.

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected.

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough.

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago.

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you.

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better.

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home.

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from.

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing.

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering.

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas.

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd.

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal.

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault.

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name?

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do.

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why.

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success.

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts.

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point.

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process.

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing."

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar.

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks.

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you."

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered.

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space.

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat.

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him.

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive.

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already.

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you.

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles.

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows.

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off .

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse.

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think.

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own.

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want.

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way.

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear .

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you.

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are.

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them.

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you.

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself.

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all.

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long.

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar.

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe.

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off."

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws.

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?"

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper.

"You are going to wish that you could die."

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it.

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body.

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight.

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats.

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have.

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages.

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself.

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom.

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns.

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.”

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs.

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says.

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them.

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you.

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers.

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out.

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues.

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest.

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head.

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is:

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead.

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway.

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer.

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you.

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.”

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal.

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference.

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is.

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new.

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will.

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking.

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore.

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that.

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you.

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings.

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment.

Someone says your name and you swing.

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor.

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway.

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to.

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building.

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too.

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you.

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love.

If you can love.

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed.

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself.

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is.

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there.

Until the night when it’s not.

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win.

You would take it back if you could.

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster.

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital.

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal.

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them.

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive.

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips.

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again.

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly.

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you.

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you.

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist.

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair.

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out.

“I didn’t-”

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have.

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking.

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her.

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough.

It’s never enough.

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan.

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster.

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing.

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it.

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips.

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with.

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go.

Frustrated, you pull back.

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown.

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress.

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees.

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh.

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free."

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath.

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat.

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve."

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits?

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again.

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time.

Not with Taehyung.

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him.

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating.

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could.

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up."

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind.

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been.

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately.

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you .

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you.

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder.

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come.

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.”

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for.

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose.

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena.

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake.

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs.

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have.

He’ll learn.

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it.

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face.

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes.

The giant swings.

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vidalinav · 3 years

Text

Queen of Monsters: Chapter 7

Summary: Nesta and Cassian reach an understanding

Rating: M (Warning for mentions miscarriages/stillbirths)

Read also: Chapter List, General Masterlist

I am so late for this update. Also, I wrote this on the fly so hopefully it’s edited well enough but who knows really. Certainly not me.

Nesta felt acutely aware that she was flitting through emotions. Like she was writing her feelings on a notebook and ripping out every page. Excitement dropping behind her with neat, printed script, then sadness, then grief, something like disappointment landing at her feet. Nesta could only feel irritation at the transient moods—anger that not only was she littering but that she was wading through it all and drowning in paper cuts.

After their spat, Cassian had dropped her off at the inn and quickly flown away. Nesta huffed at the thought of him, sulking and quiet. She had felt… on top of the world at the thought of going home and that look, the dark eyes and furrowed brows, that blasted look made Nesta want to roar. Suddenly guilt had unwelcomely wormed its way in, settling in her chest, and her world had gotten that much smaller in the blink of an eye.

But Nesta paused short at her thoughts.

Home? That was an odd way to describe the city she despised.

On a good day, Nesta had only tolerated Velaris. All the noise had given her a headache—the people yelling, the children laughing, the endless chatter that seemed to envelop the city in a soft hum. And the smell? The smell had made her nauseous. Spices, baked bread, and the Sidra. The Sidra sinking to the sea, carrying the fishy scent with it.

Nesta remembered that scent most of all, remembered wanting to laugh at that. Such a beautiful place and yet the imperfection permeated the city as much as any of the starlight, as much as any of the dreams.

But perhaps what really made Nesta reel were the people themselves.

How many times had they congratulated her on a victory won? Their smiles laced at the edge with cold, winter memories as they remembered too what war felt like. But perhaps if they remembered it like she did they would not praise her for cutting off a monster’s head, when at one point she had she wished it on all of them.

Nesta clenched her fists, bringing them up to her mouth. The warmth lasted only seconds as she breathed into them, and she cursed herself for once again forgetting her gloves.

Even now she didn’t want to say his name. In her head, she’d referred to him as that monster and nothing else. She tried not to think of him, to hear the whisper of his laugh or the horror of his words. Nesta thought that if she allowed him to seep into the marrow of her bones, he’d be the actual victor of the war and not the girl who’d looked up at the sword plunged into his neck and twisted…

So Nesta refused to think of him as she trampled through the snow laced town, the buildings all covered with thick ice. She found herself wanting to find those females again, hoping that they were spewing hate and other nonsensical ideas to the impressionable young…or not so young beings of the camp.

She wanted to hear the yells, feast on the hostile anger, and let it renew her own. Let it seep into her bones so that once again she’d remember why she was here and why she was not in Velaris.

Nesta was almost near the center of town, the winding streets pulling her forward, when she noticed a form taking shape in the distance. The figure stood huddled in furs and the wind seemed to gather strength, blowing a flurry of snow her way. Nesta, in all her anger, didn’t notice that the world hadn’t been quiet that day. Waking mountains huffing out a humdrum of wind.

Nesta would have walked right past the figure, no greeting, or smiles. But she caught the extended arm, the jolt of a grimace as the… female leaned against one of the building walls. She clenched her stomach and as Nesta neared she could see that the female was pregnant. Heavily so.

It was Lord Ovis’s wife and as she hunched over, letting out a gasp, Nesta could only see the horrifying image of mucous-like blood on crisp white.

She swallowed her distaste and ran to her.

“Don’t touch me,” the Illyrian gasped as her wings flourished out. Nesta’s hands reached out to hold her steady but the female hit them away.

“You’re in pain,” Nesta replied derisively, noting the sweat on her brow and scent of must in her clothing.

“That’s no business of yours,” She gritted out. Nesta paused in her pursuits, giving the Illyrian a bland look and glancing to the street she’d come down from. The female would have to walk up a hill, maybe two, or… fly, though Nesta doubted she could by the looks of it.

“Where are you trying to go?”

The female yelled out in frustration, to tell her to get lost probably, but Nesta stood taller at the tone.

“Look,” Nesta demanded, the female squinting at the command. “I don’t know how much you think you can do this by yourself, but there is no one here! And I doubt there will be people trekking up these mountains when it looks like a storm is coming. So where. Are. You. Going?”

Maybe, Nesta was also a touched panicked judging from her voice but the female finally relented, grunting out an explicative Nesta was surprised to hear from this female who was always dutifully quiet.

Alright, Nesta thought, this can’t be too hard.

“The inn,” the Illyrian spoke. Nesta must have looked confused because the female rolled her eyes impatiently. “Daphne, the inn owner’s wife… she’s delivered before.”

She has? Nesta remarked to herself. Nothing about that female seemed to scream midwife, with her fake smile, the tight skin of her cheeks so forced Nesta thought it might have hurt to act pleasant. Midwives should have been stern but kind, who radiated calm. Nothing was peaceful about that female who wouldn’t even give her directions.

Nesta resisted laughing in outright shock.

“The inn it is then,” Nesta confirmed with a nod of her head, holding on to the Illyrian as she leaned against her. The wings were heavier than she thought, and they dragged behind, making the walk infinitely harder in the snow.

But they arrived with little complaint, Nesta huffing almost as much as the female who kept a level-head for someone about to give birth. She doubted she’d act the same if it was her.

As Nesta pulled open the door, Daphne rushed forward at the sight of the female, forcing Nesta away.

Nesta scoffed at the small attack. As if she walked herself up that hill!

“You must be freezing! Let’s get you into a warm bath. Gina!” She called, setting the female at a seat and then rushing towards where Nesta knew were the kitchens, “Get some hot towels and warm up some water and bring it to the room. Don’t dally!”

Nesta watched the plump female disappear behind the door and looked to the other who was now seated at the settee, her head back and her eyes closed.

Her job considered done, Nesta turned to leave, but the female gasped harshly, clenching her fists to her stomach. When the Illyrian looked up again, she zeroed in on her, and Nesta swore she saw agony in her face. Pain and… something worse. Something Nesta wanted to run from. Far and fast away.

“Please find my husband,” She croaked, the words tinged with warning.

Nesta stared at the female, the obligation settling in, and she stepped back with the discomfort of it all.

Nesta didn’t voice her answer as she walked through the doors, as the wind whipped her hair, as the temperature seemed to drop within moments. She didn’t look back at the inn as all of her feelings began to whirl around her once more.

Nesta merely ran.

Far and fast away.

When Nesta arrived at the training fields, her hair half-askew, her hands patting at her face to warm herself, no one was there. That made sense though because the training fields were all outside and there was no use fighting when the cold hit worse than any punch. So, Nesta ran to the large shacks, the saunas that she knew were tucked away from sight.

She almost felt it indecent to enter such a place, and the old her would have been thoroughly appalled, but this new Nesta had seen far more of the male body than her previous counterparts, so she simply shrugged her shoulders and pushed open the doors.

They creaked as they moved and Nesta peered inside, cautious that she might see more than what a night of drinking let her heartily accept.

When she saw no one was there, Nesta wanted to scream in frustration.

“You shouldn’t be here,” A rough voice came out from behind her, making her spine stiffen.

The male leaned against the doorway as she turned towards him. His stance casual in his boots and leathers. He didn’t wear any coat, which she thought was arrogant of him when the wind whirred from outside and shook the building.

Kallon’s gaze slid over her and Nesta wanted to back away, the thoughts of Thomas appearing in her mind. He didn’t move from his place though, and Nesta would not give him the satisfaction of cowering.

“I’m looking for your father,” She replied, her words poignant and pernicious. Kallon raised a brow, but his expression marked one of boredom. Nesta’s jaw hurt from how hard she gritted her teeth. “You’re mother is going into labor.”

Kallon seemed to grow taller at the words, his wings rising to block the light of the door. The menacing shadows painted him in full glory. Still, he was not the worst beast she’d seen.

“I think she’s having… complications,” Nesta explained as best she could. Somehow she felt an ache in her chest for the female, her pain leaving a scar where Nesta thought she’d feel nothing.

“She is not my mother,” He glowered. She could hear the solid steps of his boots, one after the next as he angled closer to her. Sharp taps like the pulse she could hear through his chest. “And I don’t really care what happens to the runt.”

Nesta peered up at him, noted the shiny gleam of his dark eyes, the facial hair that stroked up his cheeks, his nose high and pointed. Kallon was too used to be intimidating, she thought, because he walked slowly as if he was a predator.

Nesta was no prey.

“That’s your blood,” she said, a bite to her words. “Your family. Your brother or sister.”

“No blood of mine would ever be tainted by so low of a female.”

Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening with the shock she couldn’t contain. “You’re a real bastard aren’t you?”

“I am not a bastard,” He announced, stepping in front of her. Nesta had to tilt her head to look into his eyes. “But that thing is as good as one… Didn’t your dog ever tell you? What we do to bastards around here?”

Her fists clenched as he jeered, some fire rising in her chest until she could only hear a soft hum. Her chest ached from keeping it all in, but she willed herself to remain calm, that power in her veins laying unbridled, biding its time.

“The only bastard I know is standing right in front of me and if the village is ready to throw you to the wolves, please let me know when procession starts.”

Kallon’s gaze turned to liquid ore as his nostrils flared as if he’d start roaring fire, but she merely crossed her arms. Her chin raised defiantly in that you mean nothing look. Nesta had practiced it well.

“You look surprised… Did you think I would be intimidated?” She titled her head lightly and laughed. “Why should I be afraid of pups who can’t see past their own importance?”

She danced away as Kallon stood as rigid as ice, his back so straight she thought he might tip over if the wind decided to blow the roof off. She laid her hand on the door of the empty sauna, the hinges creaking as she moved to shut it.

Kallon remained staring at where she’d been before, his muscles tense and his wings tucked behind his back.

“You should have just told me where your father is,” Nesta mused, the male stiffening at her voice. “it would have saved you some pride at least.”

Nesta didn’t wait for his response as she continued, in search of that lord who deserved a beating for the way he raised his son.

Gods help the next one.

If there was anything that Cassian learned in his time being here, it was that Lord Ovis liked to talk. Not to his family, and certainly not to his comrades, but the sound of his voice must have seemed sweet to his own ears because he never stopped talking.

Cassian sat in the council room with fifteen other Illyrians, and though he knew he was supposed to seem regal and uptight; Cassian didn’t have it in him to pretend he had a stick up his ass for more than five minutes.

That was more Rhys’s style.

He swallowed down his laugh, imagining what the rest of the Inner Circle were doing right then. Probably not as bored as him, when he wanted to take the pencil in front of him and stab himself in the eye. He doubted they’d let him leave even so.

Cassian mind drifted to Nesta and what she was doing at this moment. He wanted to groan at the thought of her as he shifted in his seat, laying his head on his knuckles. She’d been puffed up and rosy during their argument and infinitely too soft when he’d flown her back to the inn, but she’d been calm at least…

Cassian had been a fool. For so many reasons, but...

He did say that. Didn’t he? That he couldn’t understand how her sisters could love her. It was only a few weeks after that that they learned Nesta was drinking more, slumming it with some male or another every night. He’d seen her once. During the day, in the beginning and she’d mostly looked tired. He imagined she wasn’t sleeping, but she looked worse than tired. Like carrying her own bones was too much of a burden and the weight was crushing her.

Cassian wanted to roll down in his seat at the guilt that welled up in his chest. He’d promised her… he promised to protect her. Her family. The people across the wall. Promised her so many things that he never voiced allowed, and not once had he followed through. He’d missed every opportunity.

But she’d promised nothing, and she was beside them all. She’d… protected him.

Cassian blinked away the sting in his eyes.

Just as he was about to sigh in defeat, his thoughts properly stored and tightly locked away, the door flew open. The wood slamming against the walls.

At the commotion, the males stood fast. Lord Ovis maneuvering around the table as his wings brushed back, ready to fight. Cassian remained in his seat, staring at her as the light seemed to wrap around her form.

Nesta didn’t even look at him as she stepped past some of the soldiers, moving through them as if they were stalks of wheat and she had little time for them. She zeroed in on Lord Ovis and he stood tall at her perusal, shock painted on his face as she looked him in the eyes.

The next words out of her mouth seemed to shock both of them.

“Your wife is having the baby.” Her brows furrowed as she talked, the words rushing out of her. “She went into labor and she’s at the inn.”

At the information, Lord Ovis let out a breath, settling down as he stepped back to his seat. Nesta looked to him when she noticed Lord Ovis beginning to sit, and Cassian didn’t know what to say. She stomped towards the male anyways, fire in her lungs.

“I just said your wife is in labor,” she hissed.

Lord Ovis simply shuffled some papers on his table, muttering to the male next to him to get him some water. Cassian scoffed.

Nesta threw up her hands, “Are all of you this ignorant?”

Cassian could see some of the males shuffle in their seat at the insult, surprise and outrage rolling through the room like thunder. Cassian simply took note of the snow on Nesta’s coat, her face flushed from the cold. He looked to the open door, where the wind chased the snow, roaring out its displeasure.

His gaze hardened at the thought of her running through the storm.

“She needs you there,” she urged.

Lord Ovis sat back in his seat in lazy arrogance. “That would be improper.”

“Improper my ass! Your wife was standing next to a building in the middle of this storm,” she pointed to the open doorway as some of the other males looked, “she couldn’t even make it up the hill and I helped her there. She asked for you personally, though now I’m wondering why the hell she would when you seem to be good for nothing!”

He watched as he face seemed to turn a darker shade of red, the color rushing down her throat, but Nesta continued, stark, aching mad.

“I’ve been all over this blasted camp for two hours looking for you. And you know what?” She asked. “You’re son is shit by the way. You did awful job raising him.”

Lord Ovis blinked blandly, smacking his lips, and yawning faintly. He then turned to look at him, his eyes cruel as he laughed.

“You should learn to control your female,” He jeered. “A leash would do good.”

Cassian couldn’t even hear Nesta’s next words as the anger reached his ears. In a blink, he was there, standing in front of the lord who could use less teeth and maybe one less tongue. He gripped the male’s leathers in his fists and Cassian made him remember why he was the Night Court General Commander.

He reached out a fist, ready to maim, but he felt a sharp tug in his sternum and Cassian looked towards her.

Nesta’s gaze was sharp and focused as she spoke, her voice soft. “There is something wrong with the child.”

At the words, Lord Ovis whipped towards her, brushing off Cassian.

“What did you do witch?”

Nesta looked towards him and Cassian nodded his head in reassurance, though he didn’t know what he was asking of her.

“I felt her pain. I don’t—” she stumbled, shaking her head. “I don’t think…”

“You don’t think what?” Lord Ovis cried.

But Nesta didn’t answer him as he pushed past her, leaving the rest of the males in an uproar as their camp leader braced the storm.

Cassian reached for her as Nesta stood staring at the door, her hand resting on her neck.

She blinked up at him with thick lashes, before he could touch her and he lowered his hand. Her nose was still red from the few hours trying to find them. Cassian wished there were an easier way to contact each other and made a mental note to ask Amren what she thought could do the trick.

He was about to offer to fly her back, but Nesta closed her eyes, her brows furrowing as if she was in pain. This time, he placed a hand on her shoulder, but she clasped her hand atop his, and gripped it tightly. Her words made chills run down his spine.

“I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

Cassian prayed to the mother that she meant Lord Ovis to the inn.

Cassian heard the high-pitched screams just as Nesta flinched. A small movement that no one would have noticed—that he would not have noticed—If it had not been her. Her look made him want to drag her inside, shut all the doors, and block every yell that made it to her ears.

Cassian did none of these things as he looked her over. The skirt of her dress puffed up as Nesta held herself close at the knees from where she sat on the steps to the entrance of that little inn. Her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. No scarf, he noted. The way she shivered had Cassian resisting the urge to take off his own coat and drape it across her.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” He spoke softly, raising his hands in surrender. Always surrender, because he had never been victorious no matter how many battles, he’d won. Cassian could still hear her yells in the back of his mind, and not the ones she spewed just hours before... but of her calling his name. Cassian! Cassian! It echoed. She’d hardly ever said his name then and yet she’d called him, sensing that cauldron’s intent in her gut, in her bones.

Obliterated, he remembered. His comrades had been obliterated, and he had been fine. More than fine. He could still feel that aching sorrow.

Cassian wondered if Nesta felt it too. Perhaps not the same pain, but she’d wanted to help Ada... kicked and screamed her way through.

But her next words surprised him, and the space between his brows crinkled in concern.

“I have nowhere to go,” She blurted out, her eyes blinking slowly as she looked at him. Stray pieces of her hair blew across her face and she swiped it away, tucking it behind her ears until he could see the pointy tip. “I have nowhere to go. I--”

Cassian sat beside her; his wings careful not to brush her form. He could smell the scent of her—lavender soap and crisp winters, fresh air and pine. He watched as she laid her chin in her palm, her knees bouncing quickly as if she were agitated, and maybe she was, because Nesta rarely stumbled on her words.

She didn’t look at him as she continued. Her hand moved to her mouth, her teeth biting down on the nail of her thumb. Cassian watched in awe at the movement. Perhaps without even knowing, she’d shown him another one of her habits and Cassian wrote it down in that seemingly short list of everything he knew about Nesta Archeron.

“Feyre doesn’t want me there. Your High Lord hates me. I have no prospects or money or a place to say. Amren doesn’t even want to look at me.” Nesta shook her head and Cassian thought he might have seen regret, but it flashed away as soon as it began. “I can’t go back there. So where do I go?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but Nesta jumped up, walking a few paces and then turning back around. Cassian watched the movement with rapt attention.

“I’m back where I started five years.” She whispered, her voice going shrill, her eyes wide and bold enough that he wanted to rush to her and hold her close. A forbidden act that Cassian quickly pushed away. Nesta would never allow his touch. “Starving, and alone in that little cabin.”

“You weren’t alone. You had Elain. Feyre...”

“What good did that do?” She screeched, lowering her eyes to floor as she shook incessantly. “You know after my mother died; Elain wouldn’t stop crying. Every day she’d cry, and cry and I’d wanted to slap her then. As cruel as that is... Stop crying, I’d wanted to say, you’re not the one dead.”

Nesta clenched her eyes shut, her fists rolling into balls. Her lips curled in a grimace.

“And Feyre... Feyre wouldn’t stop asking questions as young as she was... What can I do? How should we fix this? How can we help father? What can we sell? As if I did not spend so much time asking the same.” Her gaze hardened, and Cassian imagined bricks forming around a small girl. As young as Feyre had been when she’d hunted, maybe younger still. Wall after wall began to be built and Cassian saw Nesta in there, pounding at the bricks as she spoke.

“But you know what was worse?”

Cassian stayed very still as she zeroed in on him. Her eyes-tinged red.

“We spent so much time trying to help my father, and he still ruined it all.” Nesta covered her eyes with her palms, and Cassian saw Nesta crawl over him in his memory. The softness of her body covering all of his pain, shielding him from anymore. They’d go together. Not because they deserved a good end, but because they wanted to hold on to something that was good and decent. What had she held onto when she was merely a child? What had she kept?

“I can’t forgive him for what he did.” She admitted softly, darkness seeping into those bitter blues. And maybe that was the problem in all of this—that they had wanted her to forgive—to forget. But Nesta could not forget and neither could Cassian when all he thought about was his comrades dying and a soft kiss in the middle of a battlefield.

Cassian’s chest felt heavy and he swallowed so she wouldn’t hear how rough his voice had gotten.

“Then don’t,” He replied. Nesta looked up at him, kicking up the snow with her boot as she looked him over, seemingly shocked that he did not berate her or make her see a new point of view. If that’s what she was hoping for, she wasn’t getting it from him.

“Don’t,” Cassian repeated, shaking his head. The conviction rising in his words. “You’re your own person… do whatever you want to do. Forgive your father. Don't forgive him. Be mad. Don’t be mad. Leave to Velaris or stay here with me or… leave to who knows where.”

“I already told you about the feasibility of leaving.”

“No, you listed all the reasons it would be hard to do so. You are not in that cabin, starving and alone. You are not alone here, Nesta. And if Velaris is not where you want to be, then I will take you somewhere else. If you want me to go collect things from your father’s house and sell them I will. If you need money, I have that.”

Fuck Rhys and Feyre and the rules. Fuck Elain, too, and himself. Fuck them all, he raged. Fuck them all for making her feel like she had no choices.

Nesta’s shoulders rolled back as she straightened, her arms crossing in defiance. “They’ll never let you help me.”

“I don’t need their permission,” Cassian retorted, suddenly angry at the female in front of him, though he didn’t understand why. He stepped to her slowly, closing his eyes as he breathed in the harsh winter air.

When he blinked, she was in front of him. Her eyes the color of pale skies, bright and filled with caution.

“I want you…” he breathed, swallowing his apprehension, “I want you to find happiness in things. I enjoy you angry, yes, that’s true.”

She scoffed, but that darkness that had hovered over her these months, that had trailed behind her like some veil covering her golden hair, began to lift and Cassian saw her… Maybe just a small part of her, but a part he wanted to get to know. To memorize.

"I don’t think you’ll ever be less annoyed with me and I hope you don’t, but I don’t want this... hostility between us anymore. This... mountain we can’t get over.”

“I am not your friend,” she reminded him softly, her lips pursed and pink. He knew what she meant.

“I’d do it for anyone,” Cassian reminded her.

Nesta raised a brow. “I won’t make my decision now.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“But when I do—”

“I’ll be there,” Cassian promised.

I’ll be there always.

Cassian promised.

Tagged: @my-fan-side @ekaterinakostrova @anastasia-orlov @lord-douglas-the-third @autumnsletters @soitsgorgeous @sjm-things @courtofjurdan @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives @queenestarcheron @allilal

Well some things had to progress in this fic or nothing would have progressed so Cassian and Nesta have reached an understanding of some sorts. It’s a slow process who knows what will happen next (shrugs)

Unfortunately/Not so unfortunately, I’m stopping for a bit, for a week or two to finish the last part of the Nesta’s Love is Quiet trilogy. I have no idea how that’s going to go, since I abhor endings, but it will be the first fic I’ve ever finished so that’ll be fun!

I hope you liked this chapter, but if not please don’t tell me lol.

Like, comment, reblog!!!!

Happy Reading!

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian fanfiction #acosf #vidalinav #queen of monsters

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lukneetoonz · 4 years

Text

Ghost of You Part III

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Summary: You were the greatest thing in Katsuki’s life…. now you’re gone.

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader

Warnings: Angst, graphic descriptions, mentions of death, cursing, hospital stuff mentioned(?), also kirishima crying 🥺

Word Count: 1,881

A/N: I am not a clown, I’m the whole circus. I really thought about making a long long chapter but it just didn’t feel right? Anyways, I’m so sorry for the long wait and thank you for sticking around, it means a lot. Here’s to 200 followers!!

NO ARTWORK POSTED IS MY OWN AND IS FOUND ON PINTEREST

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The world around you was black, but you could hear everything- feel everything. Muffled sounds of sirens, people crying, the echoes of commanding bellows, all of it surrounded you… suffocated you. Even if you wanted to open your eyes, you couldn’t. It was like your whole body was a thousand pounds, and you had no strength to even lift a finger. Was this how you die? Alone and scared?

Katsuki couldn’t breathe. If he hadn’t- only if he could of- fuck. Snapping out of his thoughts, he ran to you and picked your limp body up like it was nothing, making sure you were pressed against his chest. “Please… please please please don’t give up. You deserved better, you still deserve better. Please don’t die Y/N…. please baby I love you- I would rather have you alive and hating me then dead…” The ash blonde hero’s voice was weak and shaky, tears welling in his eyes.

Why was it when you were dying, that you could hear Katsuki’s words, but you couldn’t say your own? Not even your final ones. Even after everything, you hated that you loved him so much. Hearing his voice was so soothing to you, when he picked you up it was like the pain numbed slightly… Bakugou Katsuki always did say he would come to your rescue for the rest of his life, and he was a man that kept his word. You wished you could tell him- tell him that you loved him too, but you couldn’t.

The feeling of your body growing heavier made you panic as you began thinking of how Katsuki will think you died hating him, but that’s not the truth. You just hated that you loved him- especially after what he did. You hated yourself for letting him make you feel this way. You hated a lot of things, but you didn’t hate him. Honestly, you don’t think you had it in you to ever hate him. Trying to divert your bad thoughts, you started thinking of the last time Katsuki held you- the last time he kissed you. Would that be the last time either of those things happened, and you didn’t cherish it more…

As red eyes stared at you, running towards an ambulance he started rambling, placing you on the stretcher. Looking on, He saw the paramedics run to your side, putting a mask on your face and an IV in your hand, how could he not have saved you…. Bakugou looked around to find kirishima talking to the police, a grim look on the red haired man's face as he explained in detail what had happened. Suddenly anger started rising in Katsuki, crackles heard as he looked like he could kill the next person to get into his way, unfortunately the anger was directed at his friend.

*•*

As Kirishima saw the chaos, he knew he needed to tell Bakugou what he knew, no matter the consequences. Running up, Kirishima blocked a hit from a villain and looked at Bakugou with a guilt ridden face, “Ground Zero! She works here- 5th floor… she wasn’t off today. Go!” The explosive hero felt his heart stop beating when he heard his friends' words. You were here. Not only that, but you were still inside the half destroyed building with villains.

He couldn’t even tell his feet were moving, the ground soon not under his feet as he used his quirk to fly up to the fifth floor. What Katsuki saw- he will always remember; a scream ripped through him when his eyes followed your falling body. Breaking the glass, he tackled the villain who hurt you and dealt way more damage than necessary, half her face unrecognisable. A hand came and pulled Bakugou off the villain, Kaminari had came to help and he knew he needed to stop his friend before doing something he truly regretted.

“Bakugou! Stop-! I’ll handle the clean up, just go make sure Y/N is okay.” Red eyes burned into the electric hero before huffing, and jogging towards your body. As he saw your limp body, black veins spreading under your skin, he felt as if his heart was ripped straight out of his chest. Bakugou didn’t hesitate to first make sure you still had a pulse, and then when he was reassured that you’re alive, he picked you up and started running, a determined yet worried look on his face.

This was his fault. If he hadn’t been a complete douche, you wouldn’t have even been working there in the first place. Katsuki knew he wouldn’t be able to silence his thoughts, because as soon as they started, he couldn’t hear anything else. If you died, it would be on him. Your death would have been because of him. There was nothing in this world that he regretted more than allowing cami into your bed, but now that regret had a whole new meaning.

*•*

Arriving at the hospital, you were carried out and rushed inside, yelling and orders being tossed around. Still, you were paralyzed, the venom first attacked your motor skills, but now- it was attacking your organs. You could feel your heart slowing down, lungs taking shorter breaths, and your brain tuning everything out. Oh how badly did you want to scream out and tell them what you were feeling, tell them the way the venom was affecting you, but you couldn’t.

A giant poke was delivered to your arm, a warm, but stinging sensation traveling up your arm. Slowly you started falling asleep, one voice very distinct called out right before everything went blank. “Don’t you fucking die Y/N! I need you!!” Bakugou…. he came. A small smile graced your lips, a sign of you having control of the small feature, but before you could test out your other body functions, your whole mind went numb and the world around you went mute.

Tears rolled down Bakugou's face as he watched the medical team wheel you off, he felt helpless. For the first time in his life, Mr Pro Hero didn’t know what to do or how to help. How could he not know how to help you, the love of his life? If he couldn’t help you, how was he going to help anyone else? If you left him, Bakugou Katsuki didn’t know if he’d be able to survive. Rubbing his wet face, vermillion eyes looked around, before settling on chairs he can sit in, so he did. Even if the chairs were uncomfortable, the hero planned on staying there until he got news about you.

Uraraka came running in, a panicked face as she looked around, wanting to know where her friend was. As soon as she saw bakugou’s exhausted and miserable looking figure, she couldn’t help her own tears break through and stream down her rosy cheeks. “What happened?” The shakey female voice pulled Katsuki out of his thoughts as his eyes met uraraka’s. Motioning for her to sit down, he looked away with a sniffle, “Villain attack… a-and she was attacked by one with a spider mutation quirk.”

Uraraka knew that there was always going to be civilians that got hurt during a villain attack, but never did she think you would be one of them. Sure, there were casualties during the bigger attacks, but- that’s normally because they are in the danger zone of the fight, not deliberately attacked. “H-wh- she's gonna be fine… right?” As innocent as the question was, it made Katsuki angry. It made him angry because he didn’t know the answer to that, and he always knows the answer to everything. “Bakugou…” the soft whisper accompanied by eyes filled with sadness and pity, made the ash blonde want to explode, So he did.

“I don’t fucking know!! Okay?! Stop asking me things that I don’t know the answer to! I don’t know how she’s gonna survive this, It was like looking at a corpse already. You’re her emergency contact- so why don’t you go and ask the nurses and stop asking me!” Even if he was yelling, he wasn’t angry, he was worried. The strain in his voice gave him away, and if you looked closely you could see he was tearing up.

“She’s gonna be okay Bakugou…. you know how strong she is, there's no way she would just leave us without saying goodbye.” Uraraka’s voice was shy but full of determination. Before the conversation could continue, a doctor came out, his words muted to Bakugou, vision going blurry while he heard uraraka’s cries, as she hugged the doctor.

*•*

5 days. 120 hours. Yet, Bakugou didn’t care, nor did he care how uncomfortable the hospital chair was. He stayed by your bedside, even if you were unresponsive. Your friends came by, not only to check on you but to also check on Bakugou, they were worried for both their friends. One was in a coma, and the other started to look like a living corpse. Katsuki didn’t eat, didn't sleep, and barely drank anything, it was like he’d given up.

“Bakugou… she wouldn’t like that you’re doing this to yourself.” A hand was placed on the ash blondes shoulder, Kirishima frowning behind him. “Fuck off… you don’t know what she wants. None of us do. She’s basically fucking dead!” Standing up suddenly, Bakugou panted, lips twitching into a frown. Forcing himself to look away from you, he walked towards the door. “I-I need to get some air. Stay or leave, I don’t care.”

Walking out the door, he slammed it behind him, leaving the red haired man in your room, eyes filled with sadness. Kirishima took a seat next to you, patting your arm he sighed, “He didn’t mean it…. he’s just a mess because he loves you- and because he blames himself. I thought he was bad when you broke up, but this- Y/N you would scream at him for not taking care of himself. Please wake up, if not for yourself, please do it for Bakugou. I don’t think he would live if you die.”

As the red haired hero rested his head on your bed, your heart rate spiked, making an alarm go off on your floor, nurses and doctors rushing in suddenly. Kirishima was pushed out of the room, a panicked look on his face as he tried calling Bakugou, only to be sent to voicemail. Kiri didn’t even realize he was crying until the tears fell onto his lips, making him taste the salty liquid. You were his friend, and he knew that losing you meant losing Bakugou too, and he couldn’t bare losing two friends at once.

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Taglist; @katsukiswhore @leeeah-loooser @do-not-talk-to-me-i-am-awkward @desia2 @katsukiwonu @xxlushika @lov4kbg @aj-1154 @six-piece-chicken-mcnobody @nekee-lilac02

#mha fanfiction #mha imagines #ely here #bakugou x reader #bakugouimaginedarlingely #bakugou smut #bakugou imagine #bakugou fluff #katsuki imagine #katsuki x y/n #bnha katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo imagine #mha bakugou

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cant-blink · 3 years

Text

Half-Life

Summary: My first written story for Gigan and Showa Ghidorah. Gigan is trying so hard to go the honest route in earning Ghidorah’s forgiveness, but one’s true nature will always come to light eventually.

Never before has he felt so frustrated over one person...

Or was it three people...?

Eh, it was one person, all three heads spoke as if they were one, so...

He’s getting off track. He casted a glare at the golden dragon, wasting his time destroying plants of all things. This planet drew the serpent in with the promise of life, but the only life here were boring ass plants. Ghidorah didn’t seem to care, he was wiping them out anyway like it was the only thing he could think of.

Gigan wondered if there was anything else better for this three-headed asshole to do.

Guess he shouldn’t expect different. He heard about Ghidorah through his masters. He knew the dragon was created by another race, specifically to destroy. Not that different from himself, actually. He still remembered the days in the nest, back when he was all flesh. And fluff. And eyeball. And more fluff.

He would rather not be reminded of how cloyingly cute he looked, but alas, his masters thought it necessary to keep baby photos of him. And download them into his memories, never to be erased...

Point was!! He used to be mortal, whole, before he was old enough to leave the nest for his first hunt. He never got to enjoy that first hunt, for his Masters came and took him. Changed him. Kept him under that blasted mind-control Ghidorah hated so much. Blamed him for.

As if it was his fault. He wasn’t the one who studied Ghidorah’s creation. He wasn’t the one that got the bright idea to enslave him. Sure he was involved in his capture, but it wasn’t like he was in control of that.

The damn dragon and his damn grudges.

Not that different from himself, actually. Gigan can hold a mean grudge if he ever cared enough to.

Hell, he would probably hate Ghidorah more if it wasn’t for their shared past. Both created, made the way they are, by unnatural means. Both had their Masters destroyed (though from Gigan heard, it was Ghidorah that turned on his own creators, as well as destroyed Gigan’s Masters as revenge). Both were free of the mind-control and free to do and roam as they please.

And here Gigan is, spending that freedom following a dragon that didn’t even want him there.

But it’ll be worth it. He was never one to take “no” for an answer, and he admits, he saw something in Ghidorah. Perhaps it was his massive wings, resembling his own sails but much larger. Or perhaps, it was the gold scales that resembled the original gold feathering of his species. They were beautiful, the way they caught the light, as if from a well-preened female.

Gigan lost his own gleaming feathers a long time ago, gone was the last remnants of what he truly was. In the back of his mind, he wondered if THAT was the true reason why Ghidorah didn’t lust for him the same way.

He shook his head. He knew that was bullshit. He’s been following this dragon long enough to see that he showed no such interest in ANYONE. Not even fellow dragons, it seems, ones that resembled him far more than any other lifeforms he had stored in his memory’s database. No doubt, those draconian creatures served as blue-prints for Ghidorah’s creation. But even then, Gigan saw no courtship behavior, no attempt at casual conversation even. No interest outside of the usual “kill them all”.

Gigan loved the kill as much as the next person, but Ghidorah REALLY needed a hobby.

“Hey,” he called out from his seat upon a sizeable pile of boulders, his voice holding a mechanical edge to it. Ghidorah’s response to his voice was immediate and already full of tension so thick, Gigan can slice through it.

“Leave me alone.” Those words again, Gigan’s heard it plenty and it just sounded like noise to him at this point. So he ignores it, as he gave a casual stretch of his arms and tail, before leaning back on the larger rock behind him.

"Whaddya say we get outta here and go to the bar? Grab some drinks, have some fun. Kill a few folks."

"No."

"Heh, bet you don't even know what the bar is."

"Nor do I need to know." Ghidorah hissed, clearly not amused by the cyborg’s playful tone as he turned back to the forest blazing around him. “If you’re there, I want no part of it.”

Gigan frowned, but he doesn’t lose his cool yet. This was all a game of patience, a battle of wills, and he will not be the first to break. He will continue to wear this dragon down until he gives in.

“You’re destroying plants, of all things!” he pushed. “The bar is a much better time than this place. I’ve sharpened these bad boys-” He lifted the blades on his arms for emphasis. “-for the past hour just hoping for something interesting to happen.”

“Then go,” Ghidorah grunted. “Do something useful for once and stop distracting me with your half-life.”

“Oh~?” Well, this was new and served as a confidence boost as he pulled himself up from his seat and stepped over towards the golden dragon. “I’m distracting you, am I? Tell me more about my ‘half-life’ then.”

Ghidorah’s left-most head turned to glare at him, while the other two Gravity Beamed the forest around them.

“I grow tired of having to filter out your presence when I’m looking for new victims to destroy. My crests constantly detecting you and throwing off my hunt for lives more worthy of my time than you will ever be.”

“More worthy?!” He shouldn’t feel so insulted by that, but he does. Especially when the three-headed monster turned away fully. “These are nothing but damn trees you’re wasting time on! They don’t even scream and you think this is more fun than I am?!”

“These trees,” Ghidorah continued without even looking at him. “It gives me great pleasure to snuff out their life-force. They scream in their own way. You, on the other wing, only give me annoyance with your constant blabbering and useless ‘apologies’.”

“Useless apologies?!” Gigan sputtered, his sails fanning open wider with indignation. “You’re lucky you’re getting ANY apologies from me! You know how many others I’ve apologized to? A grand total of ZERO!! But, nooo, apparently that’s not good enough for you!”

“Because I know what a real apology looks like,” Ghidorah growled. “I have seen many who fall at my feet, seeking forgiveness for whatever crime they felt they committed to earn the fate I bestowed on them. I see more genuine regret from those pitiful creatures than I see in you.”

Gigan said nothing for a long moment, the red glow of his eye growing brighter as his anger begins to build. But his voice remains calm.

“So basically, you want me to beg at your feet.”

Ghidorah turned his heads again, watching him for a moment before a cruel look grows upon all three of his faces, his own red eyes gleaming.

“That would be a start, wouldn’t it?”

The cyborg’s tail tip clicked loudly with agitation before he broke eye contact. He should just leave, track the dragon down another day and avoid this bullshit altogether. But if this is what he had to do to finally make some sort of progress...

Ghidorah better be the best lay he ever had.

Swallowing his pride, he stepped closer and with another moment’s hesitation, he lowered himself down. One knee, then both knees. All three of his sails flatten to his back. It was the single hardest thing he’s ever done, and he dared not look up at the dragon. He didn’t want his embarrassment to be seen on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled through his teeth.

“For what?” Ghidorah pressed and Gigan’s tail tip gives another sharp spin. It takes another moment to respond, resisting his body’s urge to upper-cut the tip of his blade into one of those stupid chins. But he doesn’t and his voice softens.

“For what my Masters did. For what I did. I wasn’t in control, but I’m sorry anyway.”

“Hm...” was the only response he got and he finally gives a single glance towards those three faces. And no sooner than he did that than a golden foot slams itself right into his exposed chin and throat, causing him to fall back. He was stunned for a moment, his senses both organic and mechanic struggled to get back online. He almost missed the words being shot at him with venom. “As if I will ever accept anyone’s apologies, much less yours.”

.....

The amount of sheer rage that boils from within his core was unbearable. This game, he lost it. He broke as he pushes himself up with his elbows to glare seethingly at this good-for-nothing, piece-of-shit lizard!

“That’s it! I tried playing the nice guy with you, but I’m done.” He pushes himself to his feet, storming over to the three-headed asshole who stands his ground. “I’m done with your damn attitude!!”

“Then leave, or die.”

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? But I’m not leaving empty-handed. I’m getting what I want, whether you like it or not!”

He swiped for Ghidorah’s middle head with a scythe, the dragon pulling back with the slightest of nicks. Without hesitation, he slammed all three heads into Gigan’s chest to push him away. But the cyborg was not so easily swayed, as he kept his footing and jumped for him with an arm raised. His sights remained on the dragon’s middle head and he just needed one good hit to-

A Gravity Beam met his chest, causing him to fall to the ground. More beams around him brought rubble exploding from the ground and onto his face and chest. Before he can recover, he felt a heavy weight crash onto him, Ghidorah’s feet planted on his shoulders, wisely avoiding the buzzsaw on Gigan’s chest.

Those red eyes glared down at him, those three mouths opening to no doubt unleash another blast of energy. Gigan wasn’t giving him the chance and lifted his tail up, lunging it forward to stab the end into the dragon’s back.

This got a shriek, as a spray of blood escapes from the wound. Gigan gathered his strength, pulling his tail back to get Ghidorah’s weight off his shoulders. He shifted to get to his feet and swung a blade towards the middle head, but it struck the side head that thrashed in the way.

But Ghidorah can’t pull away from Gigan’s grip, those sharp ends fastening onto his spine. One wrong move would cause irreversible damage and clearly, Ghidorah was unused to having blood drawn. Those scales were hard and durable but even they were no match for the weapons the cyborg yielded.

Such a shame though, that he had to stain those beautiful scales.

It’ll be worth it though, as he makes another swipe and successfully landed the tip of his blade directly into the base of Ghidorah’s middle skull, behind the horns where his mane met scales.

Got it!

The jolt that went through the dragon’s body can be felt, and Gigan couldn’t stop a smirk on his face as he met the wide eyes of his newest victim.

“What’s wrong, Ghiddy? Did you forget?” He opened the blades of his tail tip, and pulled his tail free of Ghidorah’s back violently, with another spray of blood. Ghidorah lets out another shriek, but he doesn’t run. “I know far more about you than you’re willing to admit. Have you never wondered how I’m able to track you down so well? You think being mind-controlled left you unscarred?”

The cyborg struck again with a blade; this time, across the dragon’s chest to draw more blood, causing Ghidorah to stumble backwards. Gigan snickered, stepping forward.

“You still have that chip,” He lifted a scythe once more, tapping the pointed tip right into the wound he left in Ghidorah’s head. He can see the blood already beginning to mat into that oh-so-luxurious mane. “The same chip my Masters and I activated when we first met, remember? Of course you do, that’s why you never tried to kill me, huh? Because you knew that I can do it all over again.”

The blade tenderly moved from the wound left down to the dragon’s mane and all the way down that neck, tracing the dragon’s blood onto those scales. “I wanted to go the honest route for once, thought you would be worth the trouble. Figured it was the least I could do.”

Ghidorah still does nothing to fight back, even when Gigan kicked him and sent him crashing down onto his wounded back. Another shriek escapes, but this one was filled with anger. Gigan can see it, the way the dragon’s muscles convulsed beneath those scales. Ghidorah was fighting the chip, a battle sure to be lost.

“I guess I should thank your Masters as well as my own,” Gigan continued as the dragon carried on his mental struggle to keep control. “For being a rather stupid bunch, they chose such a strategic spot to ensure you can NEVER truly be free. For all your grandeur, you always were just a pawn for someone else. Even without the mind-control, all you’ve ever done was follow the programming given to you like a goddamn robot. Yet you call me the half-life?”

He planted a foot onto Ghidorah’s chest, staring down at those six eyes that began to lose focus. “Well, this ‘half-life’ owns you now. So let the fun begin~.”

#ghidorah #king ghidorah #gigan #godzilla #gigadorah #first story deviating from the usual monsterverse stuffs #gigan's dark side #poor ghidorah #when a villain loves you #it's not fun #even for other villains

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mythriteshah · 3 years

Text

The Sultan’s Dream

“Nyra… Glacius… It has been a journey of ten-thousand malms since we stepped foot upon Eorzea. I was but a simple lordling that wanted to make a name for himself, with nothing but my two greatest companions – my best friends – by my side. You two were always there. Through my triumphs and my failures, you were all I had to depend on.

Yes, I have my Angels to watch over and safeguard myself and the Regalia, but even they are not always around – unlike you two. ‘Tis not often I am given an opportunity to simply enjoy the scenery and share my thoughts; there are few whom I trust enough to divulge my deepest secrets. And to tell you the greatest truth of all, Nyra & Glacius… I’m tired. My time spent in Eorzea was one filled with so much turmoil that I would not even wish such a life on my worst enemies. And although I’ve brought the Regalia to a shining age of prosperity, I had still suffered a great deal since I first became an adventurer.

All this conflict is for the cloudkin. I’ve already cavorted with enough primals to live three full lives. And the repeated incursions of the Garlean Empire are evolving into quite the proverbial broken record. There are numerous other adventurers and ‘heroes’ strewn about the realm to make an army; what’s one merchant-lord in the grand scheme of things?

We’ve played our part on this grand stage of imbeciles, Glacius. Nyra. But now it is time for the curtains to descend. I am done fighting and tempting fate – I’ll grow old doing this for so long. ‘Tis time we returned back home to where we belong.”

Thiji reflected back on his speech he gave to his two most trusted companions some summers ago. While he has gained and lost much throughout his time as an adventurer, he was tolerant of the outcomes and made peace with them. Of course, there are certain moments in time he wish would have changed for the better.

His confrontation with the Harriers and their leader in the heart of Snowcloak, though successful in its objective, costed Thiji the life of the only Angel who ever loved him – Mamai Mai, who was given the title of “Lady” posthumously. She insisted on accompanying the then Mythrite Prince and his comrades-in-arms in his assault, offering her pugilistic skills to the table. Unfortunately, she was waylaid unexpectantly by what may as well have been a sub-zero blast of cold by the Lady of Frost. Thiji may have withstood the brunt of it, but Mamai was not so prepared, and she fell as a result. This was the beginning of a martial awakening within Thiji, for this event catalyzed his ascent – or descent, to some – into the path of the Dark Knight. This would later be realized in its fullest when he battled against the fourfold master of the blade in His home turf: Ravana, Lord of the Hive.

“Martial perfection”, the Amalj’aa called it. The apex of one’s skill for which all Amalj’aa seek to strive. This concept stuck close to Thiji as he eventually took up the sword and shield, continuing his adventures as a Paladin during the campaign to liberate Ala Mhigo. When he had faced off against the Lady of Bliss, whose Qalyana dreamers were coaxed into summoning their false deity due to threats from the Garlean Empire, he had received word from Nyra, who bore a message from one of his Angels informing him that his then-Sultana, Nanago Nago - whom was with child and under the care of Sarielle - had succumbed to her own avarice, consuming gratuitous amounts of aether from his weapons collected throughout his journeys during the Dragonsong War. The resulting effulgence – combined with her own innate powers as an Astrologian – caused her and their unborn child to perish in a stellar explosion, effectively removing them from existence. Another crushing loss – greater, even, than the one incurred from losing Mamai. Thanks to the laws of time and space, no one but he and his Angels know of this event. Once more unhinged, Thiji found new strength in not only his martial, but his magical prowess, effectively dispatching of the Lady of Bliss, though at the cost of his own blade and board… and his soul crystal, which he casted away with his armor following the battle.

It always seemed passing strange that the Dunesfolk nobleman from the Near East would gain new strength and prowess by leaps and bounds at the expense of some tragedy – this only further added to his eccentricity. He was a calm individual, but was incredibly vindictive – especially if one ever crossed his Angels, whom he cared for so dearly. Others may not have picked up on the cause of these… awakenings, but Thiji was more than aware of it. Some days following the Largesse, when he was alone in his Aldenard Branch office, he gazed upon a glistening blue greatsword of exquisite make. It was made by a Dragoon friend of his who had a fascination for all things Allagan, and upon the length of the blade was an engraved sentence:

“As long as you make it out of a battle alive, you're one step closer to fulfilling your dream.”

More than just pretty words to the Mythrite Sultan. He had experienced many battles and came out of each intact. Even now, as the kingpin of the Higuri Regalia, Thiji had even conquered a battlefield which extended beyond the physical: the realm of high fashion. He toiled for many winters to get to where he is now; to be the titan of aesthetic and philanthropy which has earned the respect of many (and, for some reason, the ire of some). Yet therein lies the problem:

What dream remained?

Sure, Thiji Higuri was a man of ambition and intellect. But he had not enjoyed the pursuit of a dream since the assault on Djanan Qhat. Ever since he was a child, he was spellbound by a particular play, and never missed a single showing. Thiji had experienced it so many times that he could (and probably still) recite the entire script verbatim. It was a tale of romance and tragedy; of a powerful sorceress with a good heart who stood up for a broken country’s people, and the solitary man who rose up to defend her: the Sorceress’s Knight.

A dream he may have fulfilled after the Dragonsong War, but was snatched away prior to Ala Mhigo’s freedom. It was a sensitive topic, and seldom brought up in the Mythrite Sultan’s presence, lest an Angel earns his anger. Why keep the claymore, then, if he had no dream to pursue? What other meaning could the decorative sword have to Thiji if he is a man bereft of that driving force?

The evening following the Largesse, the Mythrite Sultan was no longer present at the Aldenard Branch. He had begun making for the Main Branch for reasons as of yet unknown – probably to oversee the release of the Blessed Wardrobe’s second clothing line. As usual, his Advisor, Veeveena Veena, was present in his chambers, enjoying some Winter Lassi as she gazed upon the moon with that lovely smile on her face. It was yet another peaceful night in Radz-at-Han, and though she has seen the view many times, it was no less breathtaking to behold for the Near Eastern flower.

Veeveena took a few sips of her drink as the winds suddenly began to rise. The trees amidst the emergent layer of the jungle which could be seen from the city began to sway and billow, and would eventually cause a whisper or three to blow through the balcony. The sudden shift in temperature caught her off guard as the Dunesfolk woman let out a soft gasp, stumbling somewhat, but maintained her posture as the numerous jewels and decorations on her sampot clinked like wind chimes against her body.

“This breeze…” she whispered to herself. “Could it be the North Wind? Has he arrived in Radz-at-Han?” The sheer thought of meeting the elusive debonair was too enticing to resist, and Veeveena would quickly down the last of the lassi, enduring the brain freeze that would follow. As swiftly as she could, she doffed her garb to put on some evening attire before making her flight from the Main Branch Headquarters. Forgoing the usual method of taking the bridge out from the city, she utilized her fans to conjure wind-aspected aether to propel herself upward, gliding down gracefully toward the canopy.

Meanwhile, as Veeveena made her way to the rivulet, a lone figure was seen dancing about. It was shrouded entirely thanks to the shadows cast by the dense canopy beneath Menphina’s light. The figure’s movements were seamless, effortlessly transitioning into fouettes, sliding along the waters from one side to the other as they froze over, striping the rivulet with bands of ice. All throughout was the sound of steel ringing through the night air, and that same icy wind began picking up once more as the figure gathered aetherial energy for a brief moment before soaring from one end of the river to the other in a twirling flourish. Upon reaching the apex of the jump, it performed a flawless jete, the silvery moon cloaking the figure all the while as if the spectacle was taken straight out from a painting. The concealed terpsichorean was releasing the stored energy as it did its finish, resulting in an arch of slick ice to form over the rivulet. Sticking the landing with one final twirl into a plie, it detected movement within the trees. It did not bother to take the time to discern the incoming presence, and instead fled the scene with a blinding dash into the forest floor.

When Veeveena had finally emerged, the figure she believed to be the North Wind was nowhere to be found. All that she beheld was the stark scenery of a partly-frozen rivulet, the banks dotted with shards of frost, and an arch spanning its breadth. “This is beautiful… but the North Wind could not do this,” she thought, as she felt the scintillant snow particles kissing her face. While she was awestruck at the sight, Veeveena had to report this occurrence to her peers. Without wasting another moment, she contacted the Angels at the Main Branch, who would then arrive within the bell.

The “S” Trio (Sena, Sona, Suna) and the “L” Trio (Lena, Luma, Lina) were investigating the area as Veeveena brought them up to speed on what happened to the best of her ability. Sosona was easily able to deduce that the lingering aether was not the result of a primal’s thanks to her aetherometer obtained by the Scions of the Seventh Dawn (who, when asked about how she acquired them, stated that they didn’t seem to be using them anymore anyway); Lelena and Lilina, with their own unique abilities, further deduced that the culprit was not using the ambient aether or the influence of a construct; Luluma and Susuna had also come to the conclusion that the focus area was away from any wildlife or beastmen, so none were harmed from the result of this… phenomenon.

What really stood out, however, was Sesena’s observation after gazing upon the frozen arch for several minutes:

“Hey, Angels… do any of you feel… different?” she asked them. “Miss Veeveena?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I thought I was the only one who felt such… emotion from this scene, so I did not address it.”

“Miss Veeveena’s right… I don’t feel all that chipper,” Lilina commented, holding a hand to her heart. “It’s not… aether sickness, but when I gaze upon this scene, I’m seemingly overcome with… sorrow. But it’s a sort of… beautiful sorrow – like a dying maiden being held in her lover’s arms before the last flames of life fade from her eyes…”

The other Angels absorbed Lilina’s words, taking in the scenery, watching the snow particles dance in the air. The longer they remained, the more these senses seemed more profound. They may have been involved in many conflicts both small and large, but the Angels were no strangers to emotion – especially ones as palpable as what they were experiencing. They felt tranquility… yet sadness; bliss… yet loss. It was as if they were traversing a thin line between positive and negative emotion.

“I’ve heard tales of his prowess, Angels, but I don’t think even the North Wind is capable of something like this,” Sesena commented.

“Whomever it is,” Sosona began, “they’re damn good at expressing themselves.” The Angels remained for a while longer, until the icy spectacle would be whisked away by an errant gust of wind, freeing the rivulet from its frozen state in a cloud of diamond dust.

From atop the city in the Main Branch Headquarters, a Lalafell woman veiled in mythril blue and silver watched silently from her vantage point. Lady Mimizo, the Valide Sultan, was surprisingly awake during this bell, her face obscured by one of her fans. But for what reason was she spying on the Angels?

As Nyra flew to her side, Mimizo looked over her shoulder to find a slumbering Thiji, who seemed to be well into his sleep, a rare smile of content made visible on his face. His mother would grin in kind as she gave a kiss to the owl’s cheek.

“[I am indebted to you, Nyra. Thank you for keeping this secret for so long. But soon, the Angels will have to know. Until then, pray hold your tongue a while longer],” Mimizo whispered to Nyra in their native tongue. She would bow her head before taking wing, flying off into the night sky. Mimizo gazed upon the vestiges of the ice particles swirling into the heavens, enjoying the sight for a moment before quietly leaving her son’s bed chambers. She would return to accompany her husband before the Angels would make their way back to report this event to the other branches.

“May your dreams bring you the bliss you so rightfully deserve, my beloved son…”

#thiji higuri #ffxiv #higuri regalia #ffxiv a realm reborn #balmung #lalafell #endwalker #thavnair #hannish #radz at han #thavnairian #short story #dancer

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rizlowwritessortof · 4 years

Text

Black Velvet - Chapter 7

Pairing: Demon!Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2104

Warnings: (for the series as a whole) Demon!Dean (he deserves his own warning, dub-con, rough sex, smut, angst

Baby rocks you to sleep in spite of yourself, and you wake, slightly disoriented, as Dean pulls into a parking space in front of a motel door.

“Have a nice nap, sweetness?” His voice kick-starts your pulse, and everything floods back. Adrenaline works faster than coffee, and you straighten in the seat, fully alert.

“Where are we?” you ask - not that it matters. You don’t really have a choice in the travel plans.

“Honestly, I didn’t pay that much attention. I think we’re somewhere in Iowa. Wherever we are, there’s a lot of corn.” He looks over at you, probably estimating the trouble he’ll have getting you to cooperate – but there’s no fight in you for the moment. “Got us a room. Hungry?”

“Kind of lost my appetite.”

You can see his expression – unreadable, stoic - in your peripheral vision. “Suit yourself.” He gets out of the car and walks to your door, opening it and waving an arm in sarcastic invitation. “Let’s go.”

Your body is stiff from the long ride, and every muscle is taut with tension as you climb out. He shuts the door and latches on to your arm, not hard, but enough to know that if you try to run – well, you won’t get away. He unlocks the door to your room, ushering you inside, and closes it behind him. “Isn’t this cozy?” he remarks, dropping his keys on the table and leaning back on it as he tucks his hands in his pockets, silently observing you as you look around.

You finally turn to face him, your arms tucked around your waist. “What do you want from me, Dean?”

He huffs out a sarcastic little snort, cocking an eyebrow as he stares back. “Oh, come on. You could get laid in any bar in any podunk little town anywhere you went. Why did you drag me along with you?”

“Maybe I have specific tastes.”

“Bullshit!” His smart-ass smile starts to fade, the sparkle of humor becoming sharp with irritation.

“Maybe I’ll regret it sooner than later. But the reason doesn’t matter. What matters is, you’re still mine. I wanted you with me. And I get what I want. One way or another.”

You raise your head, staring back at him insolently. “I don’t buy that. Not for one minute.”

He folds his arms and tilts his head, his eyes narrowing a bit. “Okay, Dr. Phil – enlighten me.”

You fold your arms as well, defiant, refusing to back down. “You couldn’t leave me, because you love me. The part of you that’s still really my Dean loves me.” He laughs softly, shaking his head, but you continue. “I saw it in your eyes. There was a second, when we were… There was a moment that you looked at me, and it was the real you. Deny it if you want, but I saw it. And that was before you had a single injection. So don’t tell me that you can’t be saved. And don’t tell me that my Dean is gone. I know both are lies.”

“You wanna talk about denial? I loved your holier-than-thou sweet little ass riding my cock, damn straight I did. Only thing that disappointed me was that Sammy didn’t walk in on you going to town on his big bad demon brother.”

The sting of his words destroyed any restraint you still had, your temper flaring full force. “You’re a fucking asshole! If you think I’m staying with you, you’re crazy. If you think you’re touching me again, you’re crazy!” You were shouting, fists clenched, too furious to be afraid of the darkening expression on his face.

“You are pushing your luck, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it,” you snap, and turn to head for the bathroom, where you intend to lock yourself in. You don’t make it two steps before he’s grabbing your arm, spinning you around and throwing you against the wall, pinning you with his body, his hands gripping your wrists as you try to fight back. Your eyes spark with reckless anger, teeth clenched as you continue to mock him. “What’s the matter, Dean? I thought big bad demons liked fight in their women.”

A slow, predatory smile slides across his face as he slips one hand under the edge of your shirt and along your waist. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can handle anything you can dish out. And the fucking hell of it for you is – you want it. You can be pissed all you want. But you want me. And if there’s gotta be a little extra foreplay before the main event, I’m fine with that.”

“You are one cocky son of a bitch,” you grit out, your jaw aching from the pressure you’re putting on it. He laughs – actually laughs – and then thrusts against you, and you catch your breath at the hard length of him very evident against your lower belly.

“That I am, sweetness. That I am.” He grins, looking down at you, and then pushes off the wall, leaving you fighting the desire to slide down to the floor, trembling in spite of your rebellion. “Why don’t you go take a nice, hot bath - you’ll feel better.”

“Sorry, I’m a little short on wardrobe changes. Kidnapping is so inconvenient sometimes,” you fire back, but he just smiles.

“Let me worry about that. When you’re finished, you’ll have everything you need.” You stare at him, not trusting him an inch, but what choice did you have? You straighten up, walking into the bathroom with your head held high, refusing to cower before him. “Oh, and don’t worry – the room will be protected while I’m gone. Unfortunately, that means you won’t be able to get out, either. Enjoy your bath.”

You slam the door behind you, cranking the lock, even though you know it will never hold him back if he wants in. There is no response, only silence, and you lean back on the counter, your face in your hands. You grab some towels and the tiny bottles and soaps from the counter top, starting the water running in the tub. You make it as hot as you can stand it, climbing in slowly after shedding your clothes, then settling in and leaning back, your eyes closed. The hell of it is – he’s right. You do want him. When he had you against that wall, what you really wanted was for him to kiss you, hard, and take you right there and then. “What the hell is wrong with me?” you whisper, and sink farther down into the water.

——————–

You stay there as long as you can, nervous about what will be waiting for you on the other side of that door. But you can only hide for so long. And besides, you’ve always been more of a face-it-head-on kind of girl.

You wrap a towel around yourself, holding it tight as you open the door. He’s not in the room, but there’s a mound of shopping bags on the bed, and you approach them cautiously, not sure what to expect.

There’s an entire bag of toiletries – including your favorite perfume. Clothes – jeans, tops, sleep shirts, even a gorgeous black dress. Shoes. A huge bag of lingerie. Nice lingerie, the kind you’d never be able to afford. You stare down at this bounty, almost wishing you had the strength to refuse it. But it was either accept his gift, or wear a towel.

And then you feel his presence behind you, his hands gliding up over your shoulders, squeezing gently as his lips touch your neck. “You like?” You remember to inhale – why are you always so breathless around him? - unable to form a response. “I can get you anything you want, sweetness. We can go wherever you want, do whatever you want. Just say the word.”

It’s hard to form a thought, to focus on anything but his lips against your skin, his hands kneading your shoulders. “Anything I want?” He nods, his breath hot on your skin as he nuzzles against your neck, his lips nibbling just beneath your ear. “How about my freedom?” Your words are more wistful than contentious, and you feel him smile.

He turns you towards him, his face darkly beautiful, dangerous, and you know you don’t have the strength to resist him. “I don’t think you really want that, do you?” He bends slowly towards you, and when his lips touch yours, you melt into him. “I didn’t think so,” he murmurs against your lips, and then he takes possession, sending any coherent thought you had into the farthest corners of your mind. You are focused intently on him, every point of contact between you sending pulses of pleasure to your core, and you barely notice when your towel drops to the floor between you.

With a tiny motion of his fingers, his gifts to you slide from the bed to the floor. He never stops kissing you as he sweeps an arm behind your knees, lifting you into his arms. Another little gesture from his hand turns the covers down, and he lays you gently on the bed. He stands for just a moment, long enough to reach behind him and yank his shirts off over his head, staring down at you intently as he quickly strips down. And then he’s lowering himself over you, his mouth hot and wet as he tugs a sensitive nipple between his teeth before sucking hard, one hand kneading at its twin, pinching until you whimper softly. His other hand moves between your thighs, and he moans against your breast as he glides his fingers through your slick.

He slips two fingers inside you, and you suck in a long, slow breath, your body arching up off the bed. You start to reach for him, your fingers craving to tangle in his hair, to hold him closer, but he lets out a low chuckle, and you realize you can’t move your arms. “No touching. Just be a good girl and take what I give you.” He bites down on your nipple, enough pressure to make you squirm beneath him, and then begins to flick his tongue over the tender nub as he curls his fingers inside you, pumping and stroking within you, brushing repeatedly over that spot inside you that he’s always been able to zero in on, sending sparks through every nerve. His thumb rubs roughly over your clit and you cry out, clenching around his fingers and coming hard, your head spinning, your hands clawing at the sheets.

When you can focus again, he is suckling gently at your over-sensitive breast, slowly removing his fingers from you. He begins to rub softly at your clit, slowly moving his way down your body, stopping to nibble and nip briefly here and there. He reaches the inside of your thigh at long last, and you gasp as he bites down, then sucks hard, marking you. He hums as he cleans the taste of you from his fingers, then puts his face close, breathing deep before running the flat of his tongue over you, his deep groan sending vibrations through you and making you tremble.

“Please,” you whimper as he explores you thoroughly with his tongue, and he laughs softly as you writhe against him.

“I think you’ve got at least one more in you, sweetness. Before I fuck you until you can’t walk straight.” You buck up into him as he sucks hard on your clit, and when you think you can’t stand any more, he nips at it. You scream his name, your voice breaking as you almost sob with the violence of the orgasm that slams through you. You want to crush your thighs around him and hold him there forever, you want to push him away, you want it to stop, you never want it to end.

Your breath is coming in soft little rasping sobs as he eases you down, and he rises to his knees, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth and chin. He stares down at you, almost absent-mindedly stroking his hand over his cock, his tongue playing over his lips as he hums in satisfaction at your flavor. He bends to kiss your lips and then your neck, mumbling against your skin, his voice dark chocolate, sinful and smooth. “You taste like cinnamon, my spicy girl…” He nibbles at your neck, your shoulder, letting your heart rate slow and your breathing calm before he moves to speak softly next to your ear. “And now it’s my turn.”

Chapter 8

#black velvet reblog #chapter 7 #demon!dean fic #demon!dean x reader #dean x reader

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xxforsaken-angelxx · 4 years

Text

> Consult an expert

xxforsaken-angelxx uh knock knock?

centaurstechnician D—> Greetings xxforsaken-angelxx hi im eridan makara the grinmaww im fuckin doin shit i wwas told you knoww things about helm recovvery

centaurstechnician D—> I am called the Engineer D—> As it happens, I know quite a bit about the subject D—> As helm installation and maintenace was my primary focus for six sweeps D—> And the rehabilitation of uninstalled helms the last four

xxforsaken-angelxx ok cool so youre just a funky miracle man

centaurstechnician D—> If it pleases you to phrase it that way

xxforsaken-angelxx no i mean it thats more rehab wwork than anyone here has

centaurstechnician D—> Indeed, do you know how much of their physique is compromised by the biowire’s intrusion? D—> As well it w001d be helpfoal to know how long they have been filly on life support

xxforsaken-angelxx purportedly the biowire aint fuckin wwith anythin an theyvve been there bout fifty swweeps, on full life support for a lotta that

centaurstechnician D—> According to whom? D—> Helms are %tremely bad at self reporting D—> And technicians are apt to overlook anything which does not interfere with the job D—> But assuming all you are dealing with is musc001ature atrophy, and not compromised limb function due to %cessive scarring and nerve damage D—> The I have a regimin of physical therepy %ercises to deal with each stage of recovery D—> As well as diet suggestions. D—> It will take them an amount of time to adjust to taking food by mouth again, and you will want to start with liquids, though a high protein diet rich in calories is imperative to recovery D—> I also suggest that perminant ports be replaced with silicone seating for comfort while moving and laying in any position

xxforsaken-angelxx according to the techs but thats fuckin useful shit

centaurstechnician D—> Are they currently on broad spectrum antibiotics and antivirals? D—> Restarting the immune system is an entire process involving transfusions and system boosters D—> They abso100tely will find their body treating every new thing as a possible intruder once it begins to ramp up D—> So you will need to watch for anaphylaxis, and have epinephrine ready, as well as simpler antihistamines and steriods

xxforsaken-angelxx youre a fuckin useful bitch yknoww that like i knoww wwere prepped for that one but youre less dodgy than the clowwn nurses

centaurstechnician D—> I am nothing if not usefoal D—> Helping to rehabilitate helms legally and freely is a dream > centaursTechnician has sent file exercise&diet.zip D—> My notes

xxforsaken-angelxx *hell* yes

centaurstechnician D—> I understand the subject is entering this affair willingly? D—> There may come a point, more quickly, or further along, where they grow tired of constantly struggling to do normal activites. D—> I have found a simple and uncomplicated short term and long term reward system helps with motivation, as long as you are entirely transparent about your motivations

xxforsaken-angelxx yeah they apparently wwould really like this to be a thing, so but tell me more about that?

centaurstechnician D—> Between keeping a private journal that remains private, and finding out what motivates them, new books? Food? Food is quite popular with psions in general because of their abnormally high caloric needs.

xxforsaken-angelxx i cant evven guess wwhat theyd like but wwe wwill cross that bridge wwhen wwe get there

centaurstechnician D—> once off the automatic regulation of blood sugar by the life support systems, many psions have reported feeling like they are constantly hungry, so food as a short term treat rarely goes wrong

xxforsaken-angelxx noted

centaurstechnician D—> feel free to contact me with any further questions

xxforsaken-angelxx actually heres one wwhat do you do like speech wwise

centaurstechnician D—> Are the vocal chords damaged? D—> If the voice is damaged, cybershades or glasses present an alternative to communication while strength and dexterity is being rebuilt in the hands

xxforsaken-angelxx theyvve refused to talk their wwhole service so i mean i fuckin assume an wwhat the fuck is a cybershades

centaurstechnician D—> It may be a form of protest, specifically. D—> Ah, hm > centaursTechnician has sent file cybershades.pdf D—> I apologize for the slightly rough instructions, this was pulled from a site where they discuss building one from cheap and spare parts D—> But it should still be usefoal D—> They are shades that present a HUD display of a computer interface, and work via a touch contact neural transmitter. D—> They can be both single or paired with a other device for increased computing power.

xxforsaken-angelxx ...thats cool as all shit

centaurstechnician D—> They are invaluable for giving some freedoms to those who have trouble communicating D—> And also for using your computing devices on then fly

xxforsaken-angelxx i wwould FUCKIN imagine

centaurstechnician D—> Language

xxforsaken-angelxx im a clowwn if i dont swwear then i shrivvel up like an unwwatered plant

centaurstechnician D—> I suppose if it is medically necessary I shall allow it

xxforsaken-angelxx i kneww youd understand

centaurstechnician D—> Of course D—> Let me know if there are any other pieces of equipment you need schematics for or questions I can answer

xxforsaken-angelxx one more thing any tips on like keepin someone not horrifically bored wwhen they wwont tell you wwhat they like

centaurstechnician D—> Give them the resources to seek their own entertainment. D—> Remember that they are probably very angry about the fate that was handed them D—> However they choose to express that anger is the only act of will they have taken for themselves from the shambles left to them of their abillity to act D—> You are not entitled to know anything about them D—> Give them the shades, allow them to order and ask for things on their own terms D—> They can find their own way. D—> As long as things are available to them if they choose.

xxforsaken-angelxx mm that makes sense not wwhat nymede wwants to hear though

centaurstechnician D—> There are many realities of dealing with people on the other side of a system you have benefitted from which are.. difficolt by nature

xxforsaken-angelxx shes been havvin a rough time wwith it but its easier wwhen i like fuckin knoww wwhat else to tell her to do

centaurstechnician D—> Feel free to direct her to me as well, if I can help, I will D—> I have been tasked with restoring Goldwave, as well D—> So I do have familiarity with the particulars of the implants used.

xxforsaken-angelxx yeah good fuckin point just might do that ...on a scale a one to ten howw much of a bitch is he to deal wwith

centaurstechnician D—> I believe he is doing his best to behave D—> Although I personally find him enjoyable enough. D—> perhaps a six, a nine if you are not me.

xxforsaken-angelxx thats about wwhat i thought but also i dont knoww howw the fuck you like him

centaurstechnician D—> My Red’s pale would rate him a twelve I’m certain

xxforsaken-angelxx ha

centaurstechnician D—> I quite enjoy his quick wit, and Strength of personality and determination

xxforsaken-angelxx i mean thats one fuckin wway to put it ...youre also wwith the serial killer bitch or somethin though so i dunno

centaurstechnician D—> I am Vriska’s moirail, yes. Ive known her since we were wrigglers

xxforsaken-angelxx im sure theres somethin there for you but i only knoww her for a lotta felonies so its questionable to me

centaurstechnician D—> I am curious about what intellegence about those procedings youve managed to gather

xxforsaken-angelxx not fuckin much i knoww there wwas a lotta murder an some fuckers head got stolen an our one heiress aligned ship that got ovver to the scene fuckin hated it uh she used transportalizer tech wwe dont havve

centaurstechnician D—> I apologize for my little prank with the letter, also

xxforsaken-angelxx OH YEAH THAT BITCH

centaurstechnician D—> :) D—> I’m told she killed every coolblood in the station

xxforsaken-angelxx yeah that she did fuckin brutally

centaurstechnician D—> There is nothing I can say which will lessen the impact of her chosen methodology D—> And I am not going to attempt to. D—> I’m curious, though, Grinmaw D—-> How many people have you killed?

xxforsaken-angelxx none zero none people

centaurstechnician D—> We have the privilege of having that in common, then

xxforsaken-angelxx not the up close vviolence type myself

centaurstechnician D—> Do you prefer a hands off approach, then? xxforsaken-angelxx eh, kinda im supposed to knoww wwar strategy type stuff an i like studyin it but right noww if i havve to actually use it then thatd be a bad sign to say the least centaurstechnician D—> I sincerely hope that your hands can stay clean.

xxforsaken-angelxx nice a you you too though centaurstechnician D—> Thank you

#ooc #logs.txt #this is a bunch of medical talk vis a vis helms #nothing nasty in particular but #thats the content warning its a bunch of medical talk about helms

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resonatingfern · 4 years

Text

Escape

(~3,500 words about Ryrra leaving the Inquest)

It had to be tonight.

There was no longer room for hesitation. No space for questioning or second thoughts. It may not be the last chance for her, but it was for him.

Ryrra took stock again of what she could stand to carry with her. A change of clothes, half a weeks rations, a tool kit for repair, a small bag of wilderness survival gear. Her sword, strapped securely to her back. A palm sized figure of a moa, formed by delicately twisting metal.

Taking the moa in her hand, Ryrra squeezed her eyes shut. The edges of its beak dug into her palm, leaving a red mark on her skin. When she opened her eyes again her expression was resolute. She placed the figure on the stand by her bed, where it weighed down an envelope sealed and addressed to Figg.

With one last look around the room — the one she had spent the last ten years of her life in — Ryrra shouldered her pack and left. The hall beyond was empty save for the dull, red light that ran along the trimming. It outlined the way through the maze-like interior of Biocauldron Alchemics, slightly pulsing in time with some hidden, slow heartbeat.

Ryrra didn’t need the guidance. She knew the building almost as well as she knew her childhood home. In a way Biocauldron Alchemics was her childhood home. From the age of fourteen and up this had been her world. The twists and turns of the corridors were nothing new to her, and the night patrolling golems in them just a part of life that had faded into the background.

She gave them no mind tonight. They in turn didn’t spare her a second scan. It wasn’t unusual to see a field agent — especially one of Ryrra’s rank — coming and going at all hours.

What she prayed to the alchemy they didn’t notice was that her path wasn’t taking her to an exit. It was leading her towards the housing wing for promising progeny. Where, by all normal measures, she had no reason to go.

Luck was with her and her route went unnoticed. It was one of the perks of her position; work hard and long enough for the Inquest and some behaviors were easily glazed over. It bothered her before, mostly when her superiors used it to shrug off their duties and leave her with more work, but tonight she was glad it worked in her favor.

She reached her first destination with no trouble. The shared bedroom was dark when she stepped inside, and three beds pushed against the the outer walls showed the covered and sleeping forms of progeny. She made her way to the one on the north side of the room, careful to make no noise to alert any light sleepers.

Stopping at the edge of the bed, Ryrra looked down at the young asura there, his face relaxed in sleep. He was in his teens, just on the cusp of adulthood. Her blood burned as she watched his chest rise and fall peacefully, and the anger she felt took a moment to quell. He shouldn’t be here, she thought. He should be somewhere safe, somewhere far from the Inquest and what they planned to do to him.

Ryrra would make sure he was.

“Kievv,” she said softly, and shook his exposed shoulder.

Kievv made a muffled groan as he pushed his face into his pillow, resisting the urge to wake. Ryrra shook him again, this time more urgently. His eyes opened, bleary from sleep and whatever dreams he left behind.

“What — Ryrra?” When his eyes focused they grew wide, and he tugged at his blanket to cover his shoulder and upper body. “What the fuck.”

“Shhh.” Ryrra pressed a finger to her lips, then motioned her head towards his wardrobe.“Get up. Hurry. Grab your things.”

Kievv’s eyes followed her motioning, then settled back on her. She saw him take in the sword strapped to her back and the back beneath it. His mind was working fast; faster than her’s ever did.

“No?” he refused, narrowing his eyes in growing suspicion. “What do you mean ‘grab my things?’ Why are you dressed like that?”

Ryrra looked back to the door while Kievv questioned her. The light from the hall seeped in, and soon she knew a patrol golem would pass by and see the open room. They didn’t have time for Kievv to doubt her.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” she said, and instead of waiting for Kievv to do it himself she began to rummage through his wardrobe and pull out pieces of clothing, tossing them into a heap on the bed. “Just get dressed. And don’t wake anyone up.”

Kievv scrambled from under the covers and stood up only to be immediately restrained by a sweater Ryrra was trying to tug over his head. He batted her away, all the fog from sleep now blown away and replaced with confusion and indignation.

“What is wrong with you?” he hissed, keeping his voice down even though he was uncertain why he needed to. He grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it over him, wiggling his arms into the sleeves. “Fine. Fine, stop, I can put on my own sweater.”

Once he was dressed Kievv shoved all the clothes on the bed into a pack Ryrra had unearthed from his wardrobe. For good measure he stuffed a few other things inside as well: a book he was currently reading, a staff of dark cherrywood, and a handful of snacks he had tucked away in his nightstand.

Ryrra watched him the whole time, though she kept her eye on the door as well. So far things were going better than she planned, which didn’t fill her with confidence. Things couldn’t get well forever.

She expected more resistance from Kievv. He was smart; much smarter than to blindly follow someone in the middle of the night. Ryrra didn’t have time to question his compliance, though. She could think about that later, once they were out of the base and well on their way to safety.

“Ready?” she asked when Kievv heaved his pack onto his back. “We’re going outside. Just follow me and be quiet.”

Again her command was met with little resistance. Kievv simply hauled his bag higher along his shoulders and followed her out of the room, leaving his sleeping classmates behind. Back in the hallway the dim red lights led the way, and the few sentry golems Ryrra had seen on her way in were absent. Their patrols had likely taken them to other sections of the building, keeping the threat of their questioning at bay for now.

They walked briskly, Ryrra keeping ahead of Kievv until she noticed his footsteps had ceased. She paused and turned back to spot him stopped behind her, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You said you’d explain on the way,” he said. He looked around and motioned towards the hallways branching out and leading closer to the exit of the facility. “This is the way.”

Ryrra inhaled deeply and held it in her lungs a moment. A flash of annoyance rose up, but was quieted by the sting of her held breath. She exhaled, letting out as much of the anxiety and paranoia that was fueling her frustration as she could.

This was what she had been expecting from Kievv. It had just come a little later than she thought it would. It wasn’t a setback, just a delay.

“Kievv,” she started, taking a step closer to him and grasping his arm. She squeezed it once before letting it go. “Just trust me for a few minutes, okay?”

“I am trusting you,” he answered, and the soft pout on his face almost made Ryrra want to laugh. But he was trusting her, and she didn’t want to risk that with a misunderstanding. Instead she reached up to ruffle his hair in the same way she’d been doing for years, and started to walk down the hall again.

This time they made it the East Sector exit without any further interruptions. The door was closed, as it always was in the late hours of the day. In front of it stood a security golem, motionless until Ryrra and Kievv approached.

“Halt.”

Its metallic voice rang through the hallway, and Ryrra felt Kievv flinch at her side. She held her arm out in front of him, like she was already protecting him from an inevitable attack. A light on the golem’s front flashed red, and the soft hum of machinery working filled the hallway.

“Scanning identification insert…” A moment passed while the golem performed its function. When it finished the red light faded, replaced by yellow. “Senior Field Agent Ryrra identified. Progeny Kievv identified. Please state your reason for exit.”

“Code seven thirty six,” Ryrra answered confidently, her arm still blocking Kievv. “Tutor Brix thinks Kievv needs more hands on experience.”

“Error.” The golem’s light turned red again. “Progeny Kievv is slotted for Experimental Reeducation tomorrow at oh eight hundred hours.”

Kievv took a startled step back, his eyes wide.

“I’m what?”

“He is unable to leave the premises at this time,” the golem continued in the same metallic, monotone voice. “Return to your quarters.”

Ryrra’s arm was tugged back as Kievv grabbed it, pulling her to get her attention. When she looked at him his face had paled, and she could see where his teeth were digging into his lip.

“Ryrra, what did it say? What’s experimental —”

“Kievv,” she interrupted firmly, and removed her arm from his grip before turning back to the golem. Kievv’s confusion would have to wait, at least until the matter at hand was settled.

“Override code five zero gamma seven.”

“Error,” the golem returned. Its light flashed, and the whirl and click of its machinery sounded again. “Override code restricted. Alerting Security Sector Eight.”

In the distance an alarm sounded, soft at first but growing in strength.

“Fucking alchemy,” Ryrra sighed, and reached for the sword strapped to her back.

It slid from its spot with practiced ease, and she turned it in her hand, gripping high along the hilt with both hands. Raising it above her head, she brought the pommel down onto the golem with the full force of her small body behind it.

The impact shuddered through the blade and into her arm. The feeling was familiar by now, as was the motion of lifting the weapon again and striking a second time. Sparks flared from exposed circuits as Ryrra continued to smash the pommel of her sword into the machine to the backdrop of ever approaching alarms.

When the golem’s red light finally dimmed, its inert body a husk of bent and shattered metal, she took a deep, shuddering breath. This was it. There was no going back now.

With one well placed kick to the golem’s core for good measure, Ryrra turned back to Kievv, grabbed his wrist, and began to run for the exit of the lab.

“What are you doing!” Kievv shouted, his voice rising above the shrill ring of alarms. He was panicked now, clear in the way his tone had raised an octave.

“Getting you out of here, so let’s go,” Ryrra said, and was forced to a stop at the door controls. She pushed a few buttons, entering her personal security code and once again praying to the Alchemy for a bit of luck.

The door’s gears stuttered and began to turn, slowly revealing the dark swamp outside.

Still holding onto Kievv’s wrist, Ryrra dashed towards the opening. She met resistance as Kievv grabbed her arm with his other hand and ground his feet into the tile of the hallway just before the door’s threshold.

“No, wait,” he pleaded, and the look of fear on his face almost did make her wait. “Ryrra, stop! We can’t just leave.”

“We are,” she said, and took a few more steps forward, dragging Kievv along with her.

“I don’t want to leave! Let me go!”

“Kievv!” Ryrra turned on her heels and tore her arm from Kievv so she could grip both his shoulders. She waited until he looked into her eyes to speak again, this time clear and firm. “Experimental Reeducation — they’re going to brainwash you. Wipe your memory. Put it into a golem or some other thing they’ve got chained up.”

Kievv rolled his shoulders back, trying to get out Ryrra’s grip, but with lessening conviction. His breathing was quick and labored, and Ryrra realized he was shaking.

“Listen to me: I’m not lying,” she went on. “If you stay here you’re dead, Kievv. This is it for you!”

“R-really?”

“Yes.”

Kievv’s shoulders slumped and his eyes cast down to the floor. Ryrra saw the beginning of understanding in them, and she sighed softly before letting him go. She didn’t want to scare him, but she didn’t know any other way to make him move.

“Really. I’ve seen it done before. I-”

Ryrra paused, her words halting in her throat. I’ve done it before.

She took her head, wiping the memories away with the motion. She couldn’t think about that now. Not yet.

“I don’t want that to happen to you,” she said instead. She hoped Kievv heard the truth in her words; she hoped he could understand, that he could see the danger that lay in store if he stayed. “And I don’t want to be part of the Inquest anymore.”

The fight left Kievv entirely, and he swallowed hard enough that Ryrra saw his throat bob in time. He looked back up at her, and Ryrra was reminded by the expression on his face that he really was still a kid. Just a scared kid, stolen away in the middle of the night and dragged along without enough explanation.

“So we’re leaving?” he asked.

Ryrra nodded and took his hand. She squeezed it while she laced her fingers with his, and together they started running again — through the door, leaving the imposing structure of Biocauldron Alchemic’s behind.

The night was balmy, the air thick and carrying on it the scent of decaying logs and fetid swamp water. There was a path through the murk, but Ryrra lead them away from it, deeper into the trees instead. The ground sucked at their feet, pulling back with each hurried step, like it too was trying to keep them captive.

After a few minutes she could hear Kievv’s strained breathing at her side. His palm was sweaty in hers, and his pace lagging. He wasn’t used to the same amount of physical activity she was. He was more accustomed to long hours of lectures given within the safety of the lab.

Slowing her pace just a little, Ryrra readjusted her grip on on Kievv’s hand. They couldn’t stop altogether, but if she pushed the young asura too hard in the beginning it might happen anyway. The new speed seemed to help, though, and as they continued to run through the swamp it felt like they might make it away without any more fuss, after all.

That thought was quickly wiped from Ryrra’s mind when she saw a figure step out form behind a fallen log, positioning themselves right in her path.

“Ryrra.” The figure moved forward to meet them, the scant moonlight illuminating them enough for Ryrra to recognize Strebb, a sentry she’d known since her early days at the Inquest. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Ryrra stopped some ten feet away from Strebb and pushed Kievv behind her, finally getting go of his hand. She held both hers up in front of her and fixed the sentry with as calm an expression as she could manage with her heart racing in her chest.

“Let us go, Strebb. Forget you found us.”

“And why in the Eternal Alchemy would I do that?” he asked with a huff of air that may have been a laugh. His hand reached down to his hip, where a pair of daggers gleamed in the stray starlight.

“Please,” Ryrra tried again, though her eyes were locked on his movements, watching them closely and waiting for the opening she knew was coming, along with another refusal.

“Nah, you’re my promotion ticket now.”

Seeing her chance, Ryrra drew her greatsword in one fluid motion and blocked Strebb’s incoming lunge. His daggers scraped off her blade, a shower of sparks lighting around them. He bared his teeth at her, a low growl cutting through the buzz of insects.

Ryrra pushed forward with her sword, shoving Strebb back. He kept his footing and slashed out again, this time lower and quicker than Ryrra could counter. She felt the sting of the cut through her thigh, and the warm rush of blood that began to flow.

Strebb was grinning now as he pressed forward again, a second dagger sliding off Ryrra’s sword just in time. He wasn’t holding back, and the glint in his eyes was familiar — Ryrra had seen it many times before in countless eyes. He wasn’t going to stop until he got what he wanted.

She couldn’t afford to let that happen. If Strebb got through her he would go straight for Kievv, and that would be that. Her little escape plan would end with both of them dead and bleeding out into the murky swamp. A senseless loss of life.

Tightening her hands on the hilt of her sword, Ryrra spun to her right just as Strebb darted forward. She heaved the blade back towards him, its razor sharp edge catching into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

Strebb didn’t have time to shout out in surprise or pain. A stream of blood shot from the wound, pulsing in time with his fading heartbeat. He stumbled forward as Ryrra lifted the blade from his neck, releasing another torrent of blood. By the time he hit the ground, a splash of green water heralding his arrival, he was dead.

“What the fuck!”

Ryrra turned around to see Kievv with his hands over his mouth, his eyes wide and panicked yet again. His skin had paled, leaving the darker patches around his eyes that much more vivid.

“That was — that was Sentry Strebb. You killed him!”

“Yeah,” Ryrra answered, shoving her sword into its spot on her back. She stepped over Strebb’s body and hurried back to Kievv. “And if you keep standing there someone else is going to show up and I’ll have to kill them too, so go!”

She pushed at his back, urging him to move. He started slow at first, but he did go, which Ryrra counted as another small blessing. She couldn’t pause to consider what might be going through Kievv’s mind now, but she knew the shock of seeing death for the first time was going to leave a mark.

They ran on, Kievv looking back often. Ryrra kept her eyes forward, unwilling to lose focus. If she looked back now she might start to remember all the times Strebb had waved her into the lab after a mission, or the thousand other things she was leaving behind.

After a while the swamp began to thin. The ground became more solid, the thick patches of reeds and underbrush less frequent. Ryrra slowed and stopped, leaning her back agaisnt a tree trunk while Kievv all but collapsed onto a rock.

She closed her eyes while she caught her breath. For the moment they were safe.

When she opened them again Ryrra looked at Kievv, all at once proud and terrified for him.

“I’m sorry, Kievv,” she said softly. She knew he deserved a full explanation, but she didn’t have it in her to provide one yet. “I just… I couldn’t let them do anything to you. And I promise I’ll tell you more, once we’re safer.”

Kievv met her eyes and held them, then nodded. There was fear behind his expression, but he was trying to mask it. Ryrra thought it best to let him believe he was fooling her.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” he said. He bit his lip, sharp teeth piercing it a bit too hard. His next words were quiet, and Ryrra had to lean forward to hear them.

“Are they going to find us?”

“Probably,” she answered truthfully. Reaching down, she ruffled the shock of blonde hair between his long ears. “But we’ll be okay.”

We’ll be okay.

It had to be the truth. There was no other option now.

Pushing off from the tree trunk, Ryrra stretched her arms above her head and then down to her toes. When she was done she offered her hand to Kievv and smiled.

“Come on, we have to get out of Caledon Forest before morning.”

#oc: ryrra #my writing

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