Tumgik
#I only have a broken piece of bone floating in my ankle along with an almost torn ligament and a hole in my cartilage why would I be in pain
russquez · 3 years
Text
tomorrow I'm going to the hospital three years after my surgery for some check ups if you don't hear from me is because I was arrested for fighting all the doctors
8 notes · View notes
wicked-mind · 3 years
Text
The King and Queen: Chapter two
Summary: Y/N is the Queen of Guns and James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is the King of New York City. She wants him as a buyer, but Bucky wants her to be his queen. After all, every King needs a Queen.
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings: +18 only- Minors exit now, AU, Mafia!Bucky, Dark!Bucky, sexual tension, smut- unprotected sex, murder, swearing, mentions of domestic violence and surgery.
Note: This series is about to take a lot of twists and turns (:<
Series Masterlist
Total Masterlist
Tumblr media
Chapter two- You’re my Queen
“I want to know everything about Y/N.”
Bucky demanded when he got home from the night at the club. He stood in his office with his close circle. He couldn’t get Y/N off his mind. He wanted her, he needed her. She was intoxicating to him. Y/N was the woman Bucky needed at his side and in his bed. 
Tony nodded to Bucky, standing a little further back in the room. He was all about the technology and security when it came to Bucky’s business. He promptly left the room to go dig up everything on Y/N he could. 
It didn’t take long for Tony to dig up all the dirt on Y/N and she had quite the history. He came back into Bucky’s office where everybody had cleared out except for Bucky and Steve who were waiting for information. Tony took a seat on the opposite side of Bucky’s desk, placing a large stack of papers on his desk, “That’s everything.” He said.
Steve grabbed the few of papers, scanning through them, “How have we never heard of her before?” He questioned, his eyes flickering to Tony before back to the papers in hand. As he finished reading them, he passed them to Bucky to look over, “Everywhere she goes, death seems to follow. She’s a big player.”
Bucky looked at the papers with a small smile at the pictures that had come up. Some were mug shots of Y/N smiling with a darkness in her eyes that he admired. She had been in and out of juvie in her teen years for arson and illegal firearms and arrested for charges that were eventually dropped. He flicked the pages, seeing her in a white dress with a man standing next to her. The image made him frown and his jaw clench, “She was married?” He questioned through his teeth, tearing the page Steve was reading away from him.
“Yeah, she was married.” Steve said, “Emphasis on the was. She killed him but it wasn’t charged due to it being self defense.” His brow furrowed as he looked at the paper, it was a medical report for Y/N from the night she had killed her husband. The pictures in the medical report showed Y/N beat up and unconscious in an ICU, “His name was Johann Schmidt. He was a big player when it came to guns, shipping out of Germany.”
Tony nodded, “From what I could find, it looks like Schmidt and Y/N had an arranged marriage to create a larger gun business between their families. When Y/N didn’t back off from guns and let him take control, he did that to her.” He said as he gestured his hand to the paper in Steve’s hands.
Bucky stood, reaching over his desk and took the medical reports from Steve’s hand, scanning them over, “Sternal fractures as well as four adjacent rib fractures that coincide with at least two CPR attempts upon arrival of paramedics… Broken orbital bone with superficial lacerations to the face and bruising to the abdomen…” He read out-loud, “Gun shot wound to the chest, bullet grazed left ventricle. Coded on table during surgery to repair the ventricle and remove the bullet. Patient was able to be resuscitated during surgery and is expected to make full recovery…” He paused as he studied the picture of Y/N then placed the medical report down and grabbing the police report from the incident, “Victim states she got in a fight with her husband. He punched and kicked her then held her underwater in the bathtub until she was unconscious. When she awoke, her husband was performing CPR. Victim states he then punched her a few more times before holding her down in the water again. Her spouse again resuscitated her using CPR and argued with her before standing and shooting her in the chest. Victim remembers pulling another gun that was hidden around his ankle and firing it at her husband before calling 911. Paramedics declared Schmidt dead at the scene. Victim denies wanting to talk about the argument which lead to the incident after regaining consciousness at the hospital.” Bucky’s frowned deepened as he read the report alive. If Schmidt wasn’t dead, Bucky would have done everything in his power to find and kill him for Y/N.
Steve had picked up more pieces of paper as he listed to Bucky read the medical and police report, “She’s definitely a fighter.” He said softly, “She had been charged for 23 counts of battery and assault but all charges were dropped within days of the police reports. Oh, and she remarried five years ago, ratted on her husband to the DEA causing him to get 56 years in prison for gun running, and then divorced him the moment he started serving his sentence. He was then killed his second day serving his sentence in prison.” Steve was already holding the paper out to Bucky so it didn’t have to get ripped away again, which it did, “You sure you want to get in bed with this woman? Y/N killed one husband then ratted on the other and got him thrown in jail and probably put the hit out on him. What if she’s playing us?”
Bucky was looking over the paper he had snatched from Steve’s hand, listening as his right hand spoke. He put the paper down and leaned his fists on his desk, a small grin coming across his lips, “Then I’ll just have to be the better player.” He said simply, his eyes darkening, “Y/N will be my Queen. She craves power and I can give her everything.”
The next day, Bucky laid in bed. It was about four in the afternoon and he was getting some much needed sleep after the opening of his club and reading through all of Y/N’s files. He had found himself some platinum blonde woman in the early morning hours who one of his men had brought back and took her to his room. He had fucked her senseless but he wasn’t fulfilled, he was wishing it was Y/N beneath him the whole time. He pictured how she would look, even groaning out Y/N’s name a few times during the act.
Y/N looked up at Bucky’s large mansion as she approached the large double doors. She had been here before with Steve when Bucky was out doing business and knew the layout from snooping around. She knew exactly where to find the King. Y/N was wearing a short navy blue dress with a black leather vest over it and black heels. She was followed by a shorter red head. “Natasha, keep Stevie blue eyes distracted, I have some things to sort out with the King. Everything going good?” Y/N asked looking over at the red head as they walked up the steps to the door.
The red head named Natasha nodded, “Yup, everything is all lined up. Clint and Scott will keep them in the car until you’re ready.” She responded. Natasha was Y/N’s second in command. A skilled assassin that Y/N had met and brought to work for her years ago to help build her empire.
“Good.” Y/N said as she rang the doorbell. The door opened a few moments later with Steve looking at the two. Y/N smiled, stepping forward past him into the home, “Hiya, pretty boy. Meet Natasha.” She said nodding towards the red head who was close behind her. 
Natasha smiled at Steve, following Y/N in immediately. As soon as Steve shut the door, Natasha pushed him up against it and rubbed her leg up Steve’s while Y/N slipped away up the stairs.
Y/N walked down the hallways, knowing exactly where she was headed. She opens the room to Bucky’s door, tilting her head as she saw him sleeping naked beneath a thin gold sheet. Then her eyes rested on the blonde next to him. She walks over, grabbing the blonde by the hair until she was out of the bed staring wide eyed at her, “Well aren’t you a pretty thing.” Y/N said to the woman, “Let’s fix that a bit.” She said and slammed the woman head first into the bedside table.
“Oh my god! Who are you?” The blonde whimpered as she covered her now broken nose, blood slipping between her fingers.
Y/N smiled at the woman, “I’m the Queen. Now get out before I ruin the rest of your face.” She demanded, her eyes darkening at the threat. Y/N watched the woman run out of the room, shutting the door behind her before looking to Bucky who was now awake watching her with a grin plastered on his lips.
Bucky had awoken by the loud slam when Y/N had slammed the woman’s face into the bedside table, watching the ordeal unfold with an eyebrow raised and a grin on his lips. Was Y/N jealous of the blonde being in his bed? Bucky ran his eyes up and down Y/N’s figure, noticing a scar peaking out from between her breasts but hidden by the rest her dress. He was licking his lips as his gaze floated down her figure, fixating at the short hem of the dark dress on her thighs. He moved his hands to rest behind his head, waiting until the woman had left the room before speaking to Y/N, “Afternoon, doll. What do I owe the pleasure?” 
Y/N smiled down at him, climbing onto the bed and straddling his chest. She slowly ran her fingers along his perfect figure, “Well, you see James, I called Stevie blue eyes earlier and he said he couldn’t be my plaything anymore. King’s orders.” She said down to him. Y/N couldn’t deny the way Bucky made her feel. He sent ripples of warmth up her body, especially seeing him below her as she straddled his chest. And that chest… yum. He was tanned and muscular, chiseled to perfection, “And if you take away my toys, I break yours.” 
Bucky’s grin widened as she moved onto his bare chest. He could feel her bare thighs beneath her dress and the lace of her underwear against his skin. Y/N was hot, demanded his attention as only a queen could. He moves his hands from behind his head to rest on her knees, slowly sneaking their way up her dress. Bucky could feel a gun on her upper thigh hidden beneath her dress but allowed his hands to slip past it until they rested on her waist, gripping at the straps of the panties. He licks his lips at the view of her on top of him. The only way this could be better is if Y/N was naked and bouncing on top of him.
Y/N could see the lust growing in Bucky’s eyes which made her smirk down at him, “And my second in command set up a system to alert me when anybody was digging into my life. And it seems that you wanted to know more about me but didn’t bother to ask.” She said softly, leaning down and brushing her lips along his bare shoulder, leaving small kisses on his warm skin.
Bucky clenched his jaw at her kisses on his shoulder. She was teasing him, intoxicating him with ever touch. He could feel himself growing hard beneath the thin sheet, “First, call me Bucky. And second, you didn’t exactly give me a way to contact you, darlin, otherwise I would’ve asked.” He chuckles lustfully. He wanted to rip Y/N’s clothes off and take her right then, but as if she knew his plan, she slipped off his chest still smiling at him as she stood. He frowned a little at her.
Y/N stood at his bedside, running her eyes along his body and tilting her head with a triumphant grin as she noticed the sheet tenting from his hard cock, “Get dressed. I got you a present outside that I think you’ll like. We can get back to this after.” She instructed with a grin, turning and leaving him alone in the room. As much as Y/N wanted Bucky, she loved the way he looked when she teased him. She walked down the stairs, tilting her head as she saw Natasha on Steve’s lap giggling, “C’mon Nat. We gotta unload the car.” She said with a smile and turning towards the front door. Natasha slid off of Steve’s lap, following quickly. 
Bucky groaned in frustration. He wanted Y/N. Every cell in his body told him to rip off her clothes and claim her as his. He wanted to hold her down on his bed and show her how powerful he was. He wanted to hear her scream his name as he devoured her. Bucky pulled himself out of bed and quickly puts on some clothes before walking out of his room and down the stairs. He looked overs at Steve, noticing small red lipstick stains on the collar of his shirt, “I thought I told you to stay away from her.” He growled, thinking the stains came from Y/N
Steve held his hands up, “Y/N brought a friend.” He informed, not wanting to be on Bucky’s bad side, “They went outside.” He said as he stood, walking over to the front door and opening it for Bucky.
Bucky’s jealousy faded away as he was informed the lipstick wasn’t from Y/N. He walks out the door that was held open to be met with the sight of Y/N, her redheaded friend, and two large males dressed in all black that he assumed were Y/N’s bodyguards. In front of them were three people with hoods on their heads, hands bound behind their backs, “What’s this, Y/N?” He asks her, a small grin appearing on his lips from curiosity.
Y/N smiled at him, “My present to you. As I told you before, I have been watching you for a while. I know your biggest competition is the organization known as Hydra ran by Baron Zemo.” She said, walking to the hooded figures and pulling the hoods of off them one by one, revealing three of Zemo’s men. One being Zemo’s right hand, “When I took over Rumlow’s business, I found out that you weren’t the only one he was selling his guns too. Did you know he was giving the majority to Zemo? Trying to help him take over your territory?”
Bucky walked closer to the men on their knees, listening to the words Y/N said. He was a little shocked at the information that Rumlow was double crossing him, he hadn’t expected that. He looked down at the faces of the men before returning his eyes to Y/N, smiling a little at her present. She was one step ahead and could take care of herself. He couldn’t help but feel himself be more attracted to Y/N at this power play. She truly was a queen, and here she was, presenting a gift for her king.
Y/N walked around from behind the captive men to stand by Bucky, looking down at them on their knees in front of her. She leans down in front of one of them, a smile on her lips, “I know you know who Mr. Barnes is. But do you know who I am?” She asks.
The man glared up at Bucky for a moment before looking to Y/N, “Are you his whore?” He spat out at her, looking her up and down with a small lick of his lips. 
Bucky’s face twisted with anger at the mans words towards Y/N, pulling the man to his feet and landing hard blows with his fist to the man’s face. Bucky’s rings cut through flesh like knives, leaving the man a bloody mess on the ground when he was finished.
Y/N chuckles at Bucky’s anger, licking her lips as she watched him beat the man down. It made goosebumps go up her spine at how he inserted himself into a power position to protect her. It made her want him, but she had business to do first. She walks to the next man in the line, tilting her head. She knew this was Zemo’s right hand man, “Do you know who I am?” She asks him, the sinister smile staying on her lips.
The man also glared at her, staying silent for a moment before speaking, “Hail Hydra.” He said to her before spiting in her face.
Y/N’s smile disappeared as she lifted a hand to wipe the spit from her cheek. She could see from the corner of her eyes Bucky moving towards the man to beat the shit out of him. But she was closer and quicker. She pulls the gun out of the holster from under her dress, firing one bullet between the man’s eyes, “So hard to find good help these days.” She mutters over to Bucky who stood there a little shocked that she had just killed him, but she could see Bucky eyeing her even more know, once again undressing her with his eyes. Y/N licks her lips at him before stepping in front of the last man, resting the barrel of the gun on his forehead, “Okay, sweetness, right answer only. Do you know who I am?” She asks for the third time, her eyes were dark with anger. She was losing her patience with these men.
The third man was younger, he looked at the other two men, one dead and one beaten to a pulp before looking to Y/N, nodding slowly with wide eyes, “I do, I do. You are Y/N. You killed Brock Rumlow..” Y/N smiles and pulls the gun back from his head, placing it back in the holster hidden under her dress, “Oh good, you’ve heard of me. Then you know I’m the one who has taken over Rumlow’s gun business. And from my understanding, he was leaning towards Hydra’s side when it came to the war Zemo and Barnes are having concerning territory.” She said with the smile never leaving her lips, “Now, I will not be selling guns to Zemo. I know he isn't in the country currently so you can tell him that yourself when he gets back. And you can also tell him to shrink back his territory. Mr. Barnes will be expanding his business into the current Hydra territories as he has been trying to do. If there is any backlash, Barnes and I will exterminate you. Am I clear?” 
The young man nodded frantically, “Yes, understood. I will tell Zemo, I swear.” He stutters out.
Y/N smiled down at him, “Perfect.” She looks over to Natasha and her two body guards, “Go drop him off and clean up this mess.” She ordered before turning to Bucky with a smile. She walks towards him, placing her hands on his chest and letting them roam up to rest around the back of his neck, “Good present, huh?” 
Bucky grins down at her as she snaked her arms around the back of his neck, gripping her waist between his large hands, “Mhm…” He hums out as he lowers his head to her neck, biting softly at her skin. He would be lying if he said the power play she had just made didn’t turn him on. Y/N was powerful and was on his side. Now he just needed to be between her legs, claiming her as his queen. He looks over at Steve, “Help them clean this mess up.” He ordered out harshly, before looking back to Y/N, “I’m going to claim my queen.” He grinned down at her, lust in his eyes. He parts his lips, allowing his tongue to run over his lips again at the sight of her. Bucky couldn’t wait anymore, he needed Y/N. He wanted to slam himself straight into her core. He easily picked Y/N up, throwing her over his shoulder and making his way back into his home. He carried her up the stairs, opening the door to his bedroom with one hand and shutting it behind him with his foot. He puts Y/N down on his bed, climbing on top of her. He grabs at her wrists, pinning them down on the sides of her head, “Enough teasing.” He growled as his lips kissed her collar bone. He releases his grip on her wrists, moving his weight off of her as he started pulling off his pants, “Take it off before I rip it off.” He demanded, eyeing her dress.
Y/N grins up at Bucky as she laid beneath him on his bed. She knew the play with the Hydra pawns would get him going while also showing how committed she was to their business relationship. But Y/N wanted more than just a business relationship, she wanted the king. She wanted power and Bucky was the most powerful man around. Y/N licks her lips at his demand for her to undress. She happily stripped the fabric from her body, leaving her in only her black lace panties and kicked off her heels to the floor. Y/N bit her lip as she watched Bucky take off his shoes, pulling off his pants and shirt off. She lifted her leg to run her foot up the middle of his legs slowly.
Bucky grins crookedly down at Y/N as he saw her bare breasts as well as the long surgical scar between them, knowing it was the mark of a fighter and survivor. Her body was perfection and all his. He quickly removed his boxers, his large, hard, thick cock slapping up against his stomach after it was freed from the fabric. He licks his lips, grabbing at her underwear and ripping it off in one quick tear. He admired her body for a moment more before climbing back on top of Y/N, pressing his face into her neck and nipping at her skin, “You’re mine.” He said lowly, possessively.
Y/N smiled at the sight of his bare body. She knew he could pleasure her in the ways she needed. She wiggles her hips slightly from under his large frame, already dripping wet since she had straddled him earlier. She snakes one hand down to grip his cock, positioning the tip at her wet entrance. Y/N needed him. She runs her other hand up through his hair, gripping the brown locks between her fingers, “Prove it.” She challenged, wrapping her legs up and around his waist.
Bucky grins into the skin of Y/N’s neck at her words, groaning slightly as he could feel her slick coat his tip. He was used to mindless whores just melting beneath him, doing whatever he wanted. But with Y/N, he could feel his power being matched. They were playing with each other, feeling each other out literally and figuratively. He pulls his head back from being nuzzled in her neck, wanting to see the look on her face when he pushed inside of her. With one quick thrust, he pushed himself into her core, groaning at Y/N’s tight walls squeezing around his cock. Bucky watched as Y/N’s face twisted into pleasure, tilting her head back and a beautiful moan rolling from her lips. He pulled himself back out, before slamming his hips once again forward.
Y/N moaned as Bucky thrust in and out of her forcefully, not needing to fake her moans as she did with Steve. He filled her perfectly like they were made for each other. Her legs tightened around Bucky’s waist, wanting him to stay inside of her. He was hitting all the right spots in her body, making warm tingles pulse through her body with every thrust. 
Bucky quickened his pace at her moans. God, she was beautiful beneath him. Everything about her was beautiful. The way she tilted her head back in pleasure, the sweet moans that passed her lips, the way she squeezed his waist with her legs. It made him wild. He gripped his hand around her throat, staring down at her face that was twisted with pleasure. He quickened his thrusts, slamming deep into her which made small groans fall from his own lips, “Say I’m your king. Say it!” He growled down at her.
Y/N bit her lip as her body bounced slightly at his thrusts, moaning with each time he slid deeper into her core, hitting her spot. She met his eyes as he spoke, seeing them darken in a possessive fashion. She kept her fingers curled in his hair, pulling slightly at the dark strands, “You’re my king.” She breathes out between moans, her body starting to shake slightly as she was getting close to climax.
Bucky grins at her words, watching Y/N’s body shake beneath him. He leans his face back down to hers, smashing his lips against her and forcing his tongue into her mouth as he kept a quick pace thrusting into her. He bit her bottom lip as he ended the kiss, moving his lips to her ear, “You’re all mine. Anybody else ever touches you, they’re fucking dead.” He growls into her ear, biting down on her earlobe, “You’re my queen.” He moves his hands to grab her legs, forcing them away from his waist and prying them up to rest on his shoulders so he could deeper thrust into Y/N’s core, wanting to fill every inch of her, “Come for me.” He demanded into her ear.
Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut when he repositioned her legs, feeling him deeper inside of her, constantly hitting that sweet spot with each thrust. Her stomach was twisting in pleasure as waves that felt like fire ran over her body, causing her to whimper and moan underneath his large body. He was perfect for her and she knew he could give her the world. She couldn’t hold her orgasm back any longer, releasing herself all over his cock as he thrust in and out of her with a loud moan that echoed through his bedroom.
Bucky moved his kisses and bites down to the nape of her neck, grinning against her skin when he felt her release her juices around him. He pushed himself as deep into her as he could, releasing his load as deep into her as he could. He stayed inside her for a moment, continuing to scrape his teeth across her skin, leaving small bruises along the way. He loved the way her walls clenched around him as she orgasmed. Y/N was the best Bucky had ever had and was all he would ever need. He pulled out of her and stepped back, admiring her body again. Or should he say his body. He had claimed her, and she was his now. Bucky grabbed his shirt off the floor, cleaning both of them up before throwing it into a hamper in the corner of the room. Bucky ran his eyes over Y/N’s body again as he walked towards her, his eyes lingering along her figure. The way her fingers gripped into his sheets slightly from the pleasure they both just endured, watching him with fulfilled eyes made him smirk. He crawled back on top of her, kissing up her body until he found her lips with his, kissing her deeply as he stroked her hair, “I mean it, Y/N,” He whispers against her lips, “I’ll give you everything, anything. You’re my queen.”
____________________________________________________________________
TAGLIST: @hommoturttle​
273 notes · View notes
lilliebellfanfics · 3 years
Text
Melizabeth Week 2021
A note about this series. This is a clan swap where Elizabeth is the demon heir and Meliodas is the goddess heir. It's a writing experiment to play with their characters and the general pieces of NNT during the first Holy War that might be different if their roles were reversed, while also having some high-stakes situations and opportunity for romance. This will be heavy on the angst, action, and hopefully a bit funny / cute as these two idiots become friends and more.
I'm speed writing the chapters so expect spelling and grammar issues. Maybe even some random writing notes I've forgotten to remove. I will clean up finals for AO3 once the series is finished. I also may not post every day during the event, but I plan to finish this series over the course of the month if I can't keep the pace for the week. We'll see how it nets out.
Would love to hear thoughts & feedback as these are posted 😁
Day 1: Flight/Freedom
by: Lillie Bell
---
On the edges of consciousness, Elizabeth listened to her surroundings. Her centuries of training under Chandler, years of tutelage and broken knuckles and fingers and legs when she didn't perform to his satisfaction, centuries of scars she had ignored and forgotten when she was able to leave and fight alone thanks to the Holy War, came as second nature as her mind and body awoke from the magic that had rendered her defenseless.
So she listened. And, though her ears buzzed from the magic used to disable her, no sound came. No sound of footsteps, no feel of wind or air on her face. Not outside, then, because there were no birds, no heat from the late summer. She breathed in the stagnant smell of moisture and metal and stone. Her nostrils tingled as they flared against the numbness holding her body still.
There was a dull ache at her temples. Her tongue burned from where it had dried to the roof of her mouth. The aftermath of the mages' magic was still circulating through her system, leaving only the knowledge of her limbs. The flopping feel of arms and legs disconnected from her core, and an acrid sweetness in her mouth.
She willed her body to stretch her fingers and toes, then her arms and legs. The limbs were limp and burning against whatever paralysis their magic had inflicted. Her body was heavy against a surface, bones feeling twice their weight against her chest.
And she opened her eyes.
The room was sideways - no, she was sideways, she noted as she observed the squared, metal grating of a prison cell. Stone on her left, grating before her with a hinge and the door. She strained to the right - more grating and another door for another cell. Two cells next to each other and, judging by the pressure at her back, a wall behind her.
She was higher than floor level - some kind of bed or cot, then, was what she rested on. Given the dank smell, she appreciated the courtesy of the Belialuin mages, even if she was their prisoner.
The skin of her lips burst, cracking along the dried edges, as she moved them. An elbow twitched, reverberating pressure against her ribs signaling the location of her right arm.
She called forth her demon power to dispel the paralysis. Pulled deep on the hot, black cords within her that housed the power of the demon clan's heir. A husk, hollow emptiness found her.
A scratchy whisper of a scream issued from her immobile vocal cords. Her eyes stretched against the lazy muscles as they bulged. Had they sealed her powers?
As if conjured by her building thoughts, a small girl appeared before the prison grates.
"Me-Me," Elizabeth struggled against the magic binding her. Her hand fell over her body as she reached for the girl.
"Ellie, I'm so sorry." Tears were in her eyes as she pressed against the bars. Elizabeth continued to mouth her name, the whisper of Merlin stretching across the space between them.
Merlin pulled a flask from her dress pocket. It hovered above her hand before her fingers pushed it into the cell, guiding it over to Elizabeth where it uncorked above the chapped lips still forming her name.
"Please, drink it." Merlin's voice was small and quiet, her hair covering the tears running down her cheeks.
The flask turned, blue liquid pouring into Elizabeth's open mouth. It was hot and thick, catching in her throat as she pressed her tongue to swallow. Her weakened throat muscles struggled against the viscous liquid and she coughed as it caught in her lungs.
"Please," Merlin begged, her other hand coming up to splay her fingers. Elizabeth's body rose from the iron shelf, and twisted as Merlin moved her hand through the air. The flask came again as Elizabeth was tilted on her back, Merlin's telekinetic fingers massaging her throat to help the rest of the flask go down.
A few minutes later and Elizabeth's body burst into awareness. The bruises and cuts on her arms and legs and ribs throbbed to life. The dull thrum at her temples turned into a full blown throbbing headache. She closed her eyes as the world pulsed orange and green.
Merlin gingerly lowered her to the ground, her legs tucking beneath her as the heavy, heavy weight of shackles around her wrists and ankles had her resting her hands on the floor.
The rushing of smell - mold and mildew and rust and excrement - and taste - blood and sweet and the bitterness of Merlin's potion - pounded with the headache and pains of her body. Elizabeth breathed, reaching again for that dark power to heal her. Reaching for the demon-powered rage that would burn Belialuin to cinders as soon as she was recovered enough to unleash it.
The power was there, but out of her reach. The brightness of her shackles drew her attention before her body was encased in fire. She cried as her flesh burned before the fire disappeared as quickly as it came.
"I'm so sorry, Ellie." Merlin pressed against the bars, her hand reaching into the cell toward the suffering demoness. "They learned of the courting and took you. Took you both."
"Both?" Ash. Her mouth tasted like ash.
Merlin's eyes turned to the second cell. Elizabeth followed her gaze to see a small body - legs and back to her. A large, brown vest covered the back and white pants the legs. The arms were exposed and muscled.
"Who?"
"Meliodas of the Goddess clan."
Elizabeth started, her body pained with the rigid movement. She looked at the goddess again. Memories of bloody battlefields, stumbling upon him healing her troops, his easy smile when they crossed paths and swords. His patient look whenever she scoffed at his talks of peace. Hard to imagine peace when his clan had allied with the giants, humans, and fairies to take down the demons.
"What have they done to him?"
Merlin was stepping over to his cell, another flask appearing from her pocket. Her hand raising to lift and tilt him with her telekinetic magic as she had with Elizabeth. Elizabeth could see his shock of blond hair and the front of the strange brown vest - metal and intricate with swirls that showed the white shirt beneath before solidly covering the broad expanse of his back. Elizabeth gasped, noting the missing wings.
The flask floated into the cell and uncorked. The liquid poured into his partly open mouth.
"Merlin." What had the Belialuin mages done?
"They clipped and sealed his wings." The tears flowed anew, her cheeks turning red as she rubbed away the wetness with her sleeve. "Your powers are sealed through the shackles, his in that vest."
Elizabeth looked at the intricate metal swirls around her wrists and ankles. In other circumstances, they could have been considered jewelry, looked delicate enough to go with the dresses she wore in court. When she traded her leathers and daggers for frills and heels and curled hair.
Her hands gripped at the floor. Meliodas coughed as the sludge caught in his throat. She heard the clang of his metal vest against the floor. The minutes of silence before the gasping awakening of his body from the paralysis.
And she felt the thrum of his power just before he burst into flames. The grunt as his scream was squelched by ash. Heard the scrape of his fingernails in the open loops and swirls of the metal vest as the smell of singed feathers filled the room.
"Why?" Elizabeth whispered.
"You are prisoners. Research subjects, more like it." She watched the ground, unable to meet their gazes. Elizabeth focused on Merlin - anything to drown out Meliodas' clawing and the mixture of rage and despair burning under her skin.
"They learned you were coming - the heirs of the demon and goddess clans - to court me to join a side and decided it was a great opportunity for research."
The bite in her voice was palpable. "They used me. My father and the other mages - they threatened to destroy Gowther until I gave them the details. Until I betrayed you, Sis-sis."
"Merlin." Elizabeth stood, her skin stretching against the burns. Her connected wrists slid through an opening in the bars. Merlin stepped into her embrace, the metal pressing against their bodies.
"You haven't betrayed me, Merlin. You saved us tonight."
"I will find out what they are planning. I promise I will free you." And her golden eyes held Elizabeth's gaze, shimmering with tears and conviction.
"I love you, Sis-sis," she whispered, curling again into the demon's embrace. Elizabeth held her close. Merlin's breath was hot against her stomach as the girl sobbed.
When her tears had abated, Merlin stepped back from the bars. The young mage nodded, hands fisted. And then she was gone.
Elizabeth leaned into the solid iron, her hands gripping the metal to ground her. She focused on her breathing, in and out, in and out. The rage called her, but she pushed down the siren's call of the darkness that was so much a part of her. Lest she burn again.
She appraised her injuries. Painful, but nothing that would fester overnight. The headache was dulling again, enough that sleep would be possible. Her body was exhausted and she turned to the iron shelf that served as a bed.
She caught Meliodas' gaze as she shuffled to the opposing wall. Through the fatigue that pulled her into slumber as she climbed onto the shelf she noticed his eyes were green, the triskelion nowhere to be seen. It was her last thought as she collapsed on the shelf.
~~~
It is strange, he was thinking as he watched her eyelids close and her breathing even out.
Blue eyes. Beneath the black marks of the demon clan, sealed now with the mages' strange power, her eyes were blue.
And she had been comforting Merlin. He had only seen Bloody Ellie, the heiress to the Demon King, leaving a destructive wake across Britannia. He was surprised at the affection she had shown the small girl.
And that was Merlin. A runt of a girl, nothing like he expected. A child prodigy with the magic of infinity, born of the mages of Belialuin who had managed to stay neutral in the Holy War. And, as it appeared, also an ally of Elizabeth.
Perhaps, Elizabeth could be his ally as well. He just needed to convince her that peace - not this Holy War - was what she should be fighting for.
And as he looked at her slumbering form, taking in her parted lips and curvy hips and thighs, the long silver hair that draped over her shoulders and chest, he found a blush covering his cheeks at the desire that roared through him.
He had forgotten how beautiful she was. Only a few centuries his senior, she had made a name for herself on the battlefield and in the demon courts. Bloody Ellie, Demon Ellie…
He sighed, the vest pressing painfully against his collarbone. The weight of it made his shoulders slump and back sore. The bones and joints where his wings sprouted from his back ached and the muscles were torn where the mages had harshly clipped and tucked his wings into the metal contraption.
He settled as best he could on his stomach. Breathing deep, counting the seconds and minutes and hours as he fitfully fell in and out of sleep. Chased by the dread that even if they escaped, even if they won their freedom, flight was not possible for him.
---
29 notes · View notes
mynachopaper · 4 years
Text
Tickle Anomaly Files #7
Codename: Shivering Strings
Subject: An oversized cello originally found in Belfast, Ireland.
Description: Standing at 2.5 metres (8.2 feet) it is impossible to play properly, the bow found with it is also much too large for a human to feasibly play.
The wood forming its frame is dark brown, testing revealed it to be maple. There are also strands of unknown material woven into the strings and body. The bow itself appears to use human hair instead of horse hair. DNA tests have found no match.
Found in a run-down inn 37 miles from the city, the cello was collecting dust in the basement of 'The Qurvering Quail' until a recent incident. The owners reported strange music mixed with screaming emanating from the basement. Once they rushed down they only found their barmaid, she was shivering and covering her ears. Beside her was said subject, leaning against the wall. The barmaid would refuse to speak on her experience and soon went catatonic.
The owners claimed they had been gifted said subject years ago by a relative for their wedding. However they were more than happy to be rid of it as it made them uncomfortable. Foundation agents retrieved the subject and brought it to site zero.
Once the preliminary examination was complete the foundation decided a live victim would be perfect for testing. Luckily we had a recent capture.
23 year old Olivia Broen was recently caught trespassing near the east wing. She had broken into the lower archives, once caught she claimed she was only searching for "Some CIA shit to sell on the web not kinky SCP fanfics". Unfortunately she had seen too much of our sensitive data and had to be made a permanent test subject. Her reaction to the news was quite severe, thankfully we gagged her before her screams disturbed our agents.
We brought her to test chamber 9, once there we removed the blindfold and gag. Next we stripped her of her shoes and jacket, leaving her in basic clothing to make her vulnerable before we bring in the subject. We left, locking the door. She was alone in the empty white room. After some time she became hysterical, slamming the walls and kicking the frame. Eventually she tired herself out and simply laid down.
Behind the two way mirror sat agents Londra and Prentiss. The following information was recorded in their report.
P- She seems to have curled up on the floor, I think she's doing some breathing exercises. Her hair is frazzled and she's biting her nails.
L- Glad we have a live one today. It's always nice to be first to witness something magical happen.
We unlocked the door and wheeled in the cello. Olivia leapt back and clung to the wall. She seemed to be terrified of the subject. We stood it in the corner of the room before leaving.
P- It's much more intimidating than the photos give credit. It's tall dark curves seem to permeate the glass. I'm not sure how anyone could physically play it.
L- Tall, dark, and handsome. I wish I could meet it's maker. Surely a giant creature perhaps, or a large otherworldly being. In any case my ears hunger for its song.
Hours passed, neither the subject or Olivia changed. Eventually she succumbed to her fate and crumpled to the floor, sleeping in the fetal position.
The agents also fell asleep a few hours later.
2:37 am. The microphone picked up a soft hum. Motion cameras detect slight vibrations emanating from the subject. Olivia is still sleeping, the agents are given a soft alert.
P- We've woken up in the early morning, the system is detecting some sound and movement. I can feel a low hum shake through my bones.
L- I can feel its presence, it reverberates in my core. I can taste the cruelty in the air. I can't help but smile.
Olivia wakes up. She slowly turns towards the subject. Her eyes widen as she crawls back, softly whimpering. The frame of the cello hums, vibrating in the low light. The bow twitches on the ground, small jerks of movement inch it towards Olivia.
P- The subject is active. Cameras are running to capture the event.
L- The calm before the storm, such thunder shall crash...
The strings of the cello snap off, lashing out as they snake along the floor. The sound of scraping echoes in the chamber as they crawl along the tiles. Olivia screams as they approach her, desperately trying to sink into the corner as they wrap around her ankles. She is pulled to the ground, her hands grasping at any form of grip as she is slowly dragged towards the dark figure.
P- Oh God, it's like nothing I've ever seen. The strings seem to be longer than they appear, they seem to act intelligent, cruel.
L- Such spectacle, a terrifying display of predatory prowess. I am both jealous and fearful.
As Olivia is dragged closer she starts begging. "PLEASE! PLEASE! I'M SORRY, HELP ME!". Her arms clinging to what little traction they can find. The strings separate, two latch around her wrists while the other two hold her ankles. They slowly pull her upright, displaying great tensile strength. She is stretched over the cello, aligning perfectly where the strings would be.
P- I wish I could help her, her begging was terrifying. I cannot possibly imagine the fear coursing through her.
L- Such sweet begging, I cannot possibly imagine the fear saturating her lovely skin.
The bow shakes violently on the ground, the sound causing Olivia to shudder. It starts to levitate, slowly floating towards her body. Suddenly a quick cut rips through her shirt leaving her midriff and ribs completely vulnerable. She yelps as the tattered remains gently fall to the ground.
The bow rests on her side, she is frozen as the tension builds.
Slowly it begins to draw across her stomach, gliding along her sensitive skin. She shrieks as it passes over her belly button. Each slow drag extracting squeals from her. A low sound can be heard, actual chords being played. No known tune or symphony is recognised.
P- It's so alien, unnatural. I am not familiar with this piece, or if it is even of this earth.
L- Strange is the beauty of sound. There will always be a unique song somewhere in the universe.
The bow picks up its pace, switching to her ribs as it begins to play over each one. Sending her into a crescendo of screams as it spreads ticklish shocks throughout her body. Making her squeal an octave higher once it glides between her ribs.
P- It's playing her with such precision. Whatever made this intended it to merge torture with music. Every sound a part of a nightmarish harmony.
L- It pierces my soul. This beauty could only have been made by such a connoisseur of ticklish suffering. My heart swells as her screams send shivers down my back.
Olivia starts to lose her mind, her body drained of its energy as she is played beyond her limits. Her hair whips around her head as she cackles into the night. Tears stream from her eyes as she slowly loses herself in the music.
After 6 hours the bow stops playing, the subject releases Olivia, letting her slump to the floor, exhausted. Its strings slink back into place as the humming fades away.
In the morning Olivia is taken to the recovery ward. However, it has been noted that the usual classical music played during lunch hours has caused her to panic. Full restraints have been employed to keep her safe for the duration of her stay.
Agent Prentiss has requested 2 days of leave for psychological recovery. Status: Granted
Agent Londra has requested both the subject and Olivia to be moved to her quarters for personal enetertainment.
Status: Granted
Object class: Tool
46 notes · View notes
shootingcookielover · 4 years
Text
Part 3 is here! This one fought me a little, but I managed to finish it at the most productive hour of night 2:53 in the morning. I should probably go to sleep, but ya know, time is an illusion and all that.
Part 1, Part 2
taglist:
@infinitesimalpancakes @glitchybina @taylorxoxo22
Warnings
Blood, glass, barely functional tongue, character gets hit with morning star, as always if I forgot something feel free to tell me
Platonic Janus/Patton/Logan or romantic if you’re so inclined I guess, but it’s not the focus
Janus watched with wide eyes as the white-clad Remus hit Roman’s head with his morning star. Or tried to.
The weapon loudly smacked against Roman’s sword. To keep the morning star away from himself, Roman had to use both hands.
Relieved, Janus leaned his head forward and let the shards of glass fall from his mouth. The blood he’d been choking on splattered onto the dried, brownish blood from before. He decided to ignore the tiny pieces of flesh on the floor. His tongue was probably fairly useless due to the injuries.
He gasped for breath, which made his mouth burn more than it already did. The injuries weren’t all that novel to Janus. He’d allowed Remus to exercise this type of thing a long time ago.
Being forced to eat glass somehow was much more painful than letting it be done with permission.
“Leave him alone!”
Clang!
Janus glanced up. The two creativities and surprisingly Virgil were busy fighting. The anxious side was using a dagger, that, Janus assumed, had been given to him by Remus.
Meanwhile Patton and Logan were inching towards Janus.
His shoulders sagged in relief. His chains clinked against each other.
Patton sent him a wobbly smile, the fatherly side was obviously upset. Tears were brimming at the edges of Patton’s eyes.
He grabbed the chains with trembling hands. Logan gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before turning towards Janus.
He leaned down. “We are here to help. Do not worry.”
Janus nodded, not bothering to pull his mouth into a smile or even closing it. The injuries made it impossible to do that without an increase in pain. He knew from experience.
Patton and Logan worked on the chains. Janus knew they wouldn’t be able to break them without help.
He closed his eyes. Concentrate, he thought, as he clenched and unclenched his fist. One of the few he could still move.
He pictured a key, a key that would open any lock. All locks. 
A small weight appeared in his hand and, oh, the relief flooding his veins as he held the key out to Patton. The fatherly side looked surprised.
Janus didn’t bother didn’t bother to try saying anything, neither wanting to irritate the cuts nor believing that his tongue was still up to it.
Patton took the key from Janus’ hand, but his own was trembling too much to put it into the lock. 
Logan grabbed the key from Patton, giving him another reassuring squeeze. Quiet tears were running down the fatherly side’s face.
Janus decided to close his mouth after all, Patton was clearly upset by the injuries.
It burned, but Janus could deal with it. He had somewhat of a high pain-tolerance.
The first lock clicked and the chain loudly clanked against the wall. 
“Stop!”
The crackle of lightning filled the room and the overwhelming scent of ozone floated through the air. Janus turned his head, hiding the snake eye in his shoulder while squeezing the other closed, against the blinding flash.
When he blinked his eye open again, he could feel himself freeze.
Both Remus and Virgil had collapsed on the floor, smoke rising from their burned clothes. Logan was rubbing his eyes under the glasses. 
Patton had wrapped his arms around Janus’ torso. That explained the spike of pain, Janus thought. The fatherly side was squeezing one of his broken arms.
Roman stood above Virgil and Remus, anger seeped from his very form. He had his teeth bared and his eyes almost glowed.
The sword in his hand dripped blood. Some left over charges of electricity ran along his frame.
Janus cursed under his breath as Roman came closer.
Logan stepped in front of Janus, shoving the key into Patton’s hand behind his back. The fatherly side was still trembling and crying.
-
Roman wasn’t upset. It was strange; he felt like he should be, but he wasn’t. He felt almost… giddy.
He actively had to stop himself from skipping over to his guest and his uninvited ones. On his way he placed his foot on Remus’ hand, taking delight in the sharp crack. 
Keeping the frown on his face was rather hard work. Roman didn’t feel like working hard.
All he wanted was some fun.
Was that so much to ask? Roman twirled his sword as he locked eyes with Logan.
If he punched the logical side just right, the shards from his glasses would blind him. 
Roman’s hand moved before he could think better of it.
“Wait, Roman-!”, Logan threw his arms up in defense. The punch landed against the logical side’s forearm with a light crack.
A twinge of disappointment flashed through Roman. “What the hell, Logan!”, he cried, upset, crossing his arms.
He hadn’t noticed the disappearance of his sword. 
“I apologize, Roman, however, I do not wish to be punched.”, his words melted into another, everything coming out just slightly too fast.
“You’re nervous, Logan! Why? I’ll rip out the jugular of everyone who wants to kill and/or rape you!”, Roman excitedly clutched his sword, giving the best reassuring smile. One of his razor sharp upper teeth pierced his lip and sent a sliver of delightful pain through Roman.
“Ah, well. Thank you. I would hazard the guess that this situation is quite terrifying. Because of you, Roman. It appears you and Remus have… swapped core functions.”
Roman’s neck cracked in joy as he harshly tilted it side-way. “Is that like swapping hearts?”
“Swapping hearts? I’m afraid this term is not on my vocab cards.”
The logical side’s hands trembled as he went through them.
An excited giggle broke free from Roman - sadly not literally - and he replied: “Oh, it’s really gay-forward actually!”
Just as he was about to pull out Logan’s heart, something wrapped around his ankle.
-
Remus blinked his eyes open. Lightning?
That was Remus’ secret weapon!
Well, had been his secret weapon. Only because it was technically not allowed in their little duels. 
But if Roman played dirty then…
So couldn’t Remus and it made his skin crawl.
The voice of his brother reached his ears.
“Is that like swapping hearts?”
Remus glanced upwards. Roman was talking to Logan and…
Oh no. Not on Remus’ watch.
His hand snapped forward, wrapping around Roman’s ankle. With a harsh pull Roman smacked face-first into the glass shards Janus had spat out.
The Duke got to his feet and pulled out his morning star.
He’d never felt protective over any of the other sides before, but right now, his insides seemed to burn with rage.
It was new, not quite as uncomfortable as all the other new sensations, but still far from comfortable. It made him seeth and see red and swing his weapon without thinking.
“Don’t. kill. my. friends!”, each word was punctuated with a hit from his morning star.
The anger faded  as soon as the words were out. Confused, Remus dropped his weapon.
He looked towards the others; Logan who was still standing in front of Janus protectively, Patton who was doing… something around Janus’ lower torso area and Janus himself who was staring at Remus with a look of sheer bewilderment on his face.
Remus quickly waved his hands and the chains disappeared. Janus staggered, but Logan and Patton quickly wrapped their arms around the lying side to help him stand.
“Let’s get out of here.”, no, Remus’ voice didn’t shake, it was as steadfast as it always was.
Of course it was. 
His fingers found their way up to his neck.
“You should help Virgil.”, Logan remarked as the trio walked towards the door.
The creative side nodded. “Yeah.”
He walked over to where Virgil was laying and kneeled down next to him. Hesitantly he reached out and shook the anxious side’s shoulders. “Virgil?”
-
Virgil could barely breathe through the ice in his chest, pressing against his lungs, filling them, squeezing his insides. He felt the hand on his shoulder, heard the voice, but everything was so distant.
He felt the ice in his upper arms, in his legs, traveling towards his knees. His throat, just above his collar bone.
The feeling was weirdly familiar. It was supposed to alarm him of something going wrong and there was something very wrong currently, Virgil knew it.
But what was it?
There were few ways to find out, the easiest way was to just look.
Virgil managed to crack open one of his eyes. Everything was slightly blurry. A giant blob of white and green sat in front of him. 
The voice came from him.
The voice was distorted and layered and somehow missing something.
Paranoia felt his chest constrict in panic, his teeth bare themselves as he scooted away from that thing, it was wrong and shouldn’t be here, not like this, it was wrong wrong wrong-
He sunk out with a hiss.
-
Remus watched Virgil sink out and stood up again. Worry laced his thoughts.
He felt the king’s memories clawing at his mind, trying their best to get in but failing.
He felt like he’d witnessed something important, but he couldn’t place why or what.
Only when Roman gave a light groan of delight - no Roman shouldn’t take delight in pain, Remus should, he should enjoy the pain, getting hurt - and stirred a bit, did Remus realize he should probably leave as well. 
With wide strides Remus left the room. He closed the door behind himself and with a wace of his hand a lock appeared on it.
-
“A- are you sure you’re okay, Janus, kiddo?”, Patton’s face was a mask of concern and it made Janus quite uneasy. 
He’d never been cared about; he was fairly certain that Remus wasn’t- or… hadn’t… been… capable of actually caring about others. 
He liked to think that Virgil had cared, but the anxious side had left the moment he could. That wasn’t really all that reassuring. 
So Janus did the only thing he could think of. He leaned back, an amused grin playing on his lips.
“Why, I’m doing just awfully, dear Patton. We all know how wounds carry over into the mindscape, after all.”
The fatherly side sighed in relief and finally seemed to relax a bit, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. 
Logan stood before them, regularly adjusting his tie and glasses. He was clearly nervous.
Janus rubbed the side of his face, scrubbed his scales clean of his own blood.
Patton shuddered and scooted closer to the lying side. 
“Can I… can I give you a hug?”, he asked, hesitantly, looking at Janus with big, pleading eyes.
Janus averted his own but gave a curt nod. “Of course not.”, he mumbled.
Shortly after a tentative arm wrapped around Janus’ shoulders and a face burrowed itself into his side.
The lying side pulled out two more arms to hold Patton. The fatherly side scooted even closer and shuddered.
A quiet sob erupted from Patton and Janus pulled him even closer, rubbing comforting circles into his back, while slowly petting his head and rubbing his side.
To Janus’ surprise Logan sat down on his other side.
The logical side didn’t say anything, his eyes not on the lying one.
Janus sighed and lifted his only unoccupied arm. Logan hesitated for only a second, glancing up at Janus’ eyes, before looking away again and scooting up against Janus.
The lying side wrapped three arms around the logical one.
This was weird, Janus thought, tilting his head back and resting it on the back of the couch. But not bad.
Logan rested his head on Janus’ shoulder.
No, not bad at all. 
“...guys?”
Janus’ eyes fluttered open and he sat up immediately. Patton raised his head, face tear-stained, eyes red and puffy. At least he’d stopped crying.
Logan, meanwhile, practically flew off Janus, scooting to the other end of the couch.
“Yes, Remus?”, he said, adjusting his glasses. “Where is Virgil?”
The creative side shuffled uneasily. His eyes skitted about the room like a panicked animal. It was so unlike the Duke it actually unsettled Janus quite a bit. 
He remembered what Logan had told Roman: “It appears you and Remus.... have swapped core functions.”
“Virgil… didn’t seem like himself.”, Remus answered, shoulders hunching up. “His eyes were all black and there were eight instead of two… He seemed panicked and then sunk out…”
Janus was on his feet in an instant. 
-
Patton fell over as Janus jumped to his feet. He quickly pushed himself up again, glancing at the back of the lying side.
“What didn’t you just say?!”, he asked, walking closer to Remus, who backed off almost scared.
Patton pushed his hair out of his face. It stuck to the dried tears on his cheeks. “Has that happened before?”
Janus sighed. He reached up and adjusted his hat before turning towards Patton and Logan. “You two shouldn’t remember it. You weren’t there.”
The fatherly side frowned, reaching up to rub his forehead. There was something he recalled, something vaguely related to what Remus had said.
Dark, black eyes, bleeding even darker, black ink. Spindly, hairy legs, way too many legs encasing him in a cage. 
Patton shuddered and the memory slid into oblivion. Forgotten.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pull it back. Couldn’t even remember there was something to pull back.
He caught the small frown Janus threw his way before he focused on Logan.
The logical side was standing again. “I’m afraid I don’t. As the archivist of memories I might be able to find what you are referring to, however that might take up to two weeks.”
Janus shook his head. “Yes, because we definitely have that much time.”
Patton scooted more into the middle between the two sides.
Janus sighed. “Virgil… Virgil wasn’t always--”
“An asshole?!”
Patton jumped as Roman appeared out of nowhere, right next to the lying side.
Janus staggered before stumbling over his own feet and falling onto the fatherly side.
Roman giggled. “You two want some privacy?”
Janus scrambled off of Patton and onto his feet.
The fatherly side hesitantly got up.
He glanced around, looking at the hostility. He wanted to calm the situation, wanted Remus to put away his morning star, Logan to stop standing so straight, to relax, wanted Janus to stop glaring so maliciously.
He wanted Roman to be Roman again, the hero he knew, the prince, the knight in shining armor, not… not this.
But....
he didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to calm the situation and he certainly didn’t know how to fix the underlying issues. He’d never known how to do that. He thought he did, once. It felt so long ago now, the last time he’d felt confident in any solution he’d presented the others with.
Now he had to admit it, though, now there was not even an instinctual solution he could provide the others with.
He didn’t know what to do, how to help, nothing.
Patton retreated behind Janus, almost hiding himself away from the two most prominent reminders of his mistakes.
Remus and Roman, the most tragic result of the self-righteousness he’d displayed in Thomas’ younger years. 
They wouldn’t be having this problem in the first place if Patton had realized earlier how little he actually knew. How complicated morality actually was.
-
Logan realized only a second into the conversation that something was off about Patton. The fatherly side had yet to contribute to the discussion and the way he hid behind Janus seemed out of character.
The logical side approached Patton, ignoring the discourse going on between Roman, Janus and Remus.
He softly placed a hand on Patton’s shoulder. The fatherly side jumped, looking over at Logan.
“Patton, are you alright?”, the logical side asked quietly.
The fatherly side shrugged, a smile on his face. 
It looked a bit… different than it normally did. More… unsure than usual.
“It’s just… a lot, you know, Logan?”
The logical side nodded, pulling his hand back. “I suppose that is true, with Roman’s deviation, Janus helping us out and Virgil being gone…”
Logan quieted down, just as everyone else had. Their focus was on him and that made Logan feel… uneasy, he assumed. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant feeling. He straightened his shoulders before meeting the gazes of the other sides.
“How do we proceed now?”, he asked, adjusting his tie.
“Gangbang?”, Roman suggested.
Remus somehow managed to slip past his twin, so now he was standing protectively in front of Janus. 
“How about you go and leave us alone?”, the duke replied, threateningly pointing his morning star at Roman.
The other side pursed his lips as though in thought, before shaking his head and flopping down on the couch. “No, I don’t think I will!”
-
The cushions were uncomfortable, Roman quickly realized. Which didn’t make any sense; he’d always loved the furniture in their living room. It was comfy and soft and nice.
But now it was way too soft and Roman decidedly did not like it. He pulled himself on the back of the couch, relishing in the feeling it provided him with. Much better.
Something about his new position upset something in his head, but he didn’t pay it any mind. Which, in itself, was weird and made Roman frown. 
Why wasn’t he dwelling on the strange things he was experiencing?
Well, he simply didn’t.
With that, the thought was over and done with.
Roman laid back, relaxing on the comfortably hard backrest. 
30 notes · View notes
Pennywise: Survival pt. 2
Warnings: blood and gore, hard vore, suspension sex, rope bondage, double penetration, two dicks
IT was in a murderous mood and had been for the past two weeks. It could imitate emotions without flaw but it HATED feeling them and somewhere along the way, it had developed a fondness for the human. A fondness not so different from the attachment a child feels for a favorite toy. It had almost broken that favorite toy. It had watched while the deadlights made the body sick, warped the weak mind. It's true form was too much for the fragile creature and the toy had almost shattered.
It could have eaten her right then, almost had eaten her. Her flesh was seasoned with lust and fear and desperation, but it wasn't done with her. Not just yet.
And how dare she make it hesitate to feed! It was the eater, meant to consume all. Instead of lashing out at her however, it had taken it's anger out on any of the weaker species who had the unfortunate luck of crossing it's path. It relished in their screams and suffering, savored the taste of their sweet fear. It was content to follow it's nature, until she decided to leave Derry. It tried to stop her. Two weeks was not enough time. It wasn't ready to deal with her yet, but humans could be impossibly stubborn and impatient.
The last straw had been her attempt to take her life. She belonged to it until it was finished with her. It would punish her, oh yes. Make her wish she was dead. And if it broke it's favorite toy in the process, then so be it. Her death would be on it's terms, not hers
************************************
You tipped over the edge of the building and fell with arms outstretched…
Right into a puddle of dirty water. Your body had only fallen a short distance, but the impact still knocked the air out of your lungs. You tried to suck in a breath, but only succeeded in swallowing down a mouthfull of stagnant water. Sputtering, you coughed up what you could and used your sleeves to wipe your face clean while you looked around your new surroundings. You were in Pennywise’s lair.
The stage box sat open underneath the mountain of Pennywise's collection. You still didn't know what motivated him to hoard such things, but that was just one of many missing pieces to a puzzle you couldn't hope to understand. Light and shadow danced across the floor of the cistern, reflected in the pools of water. You didn't want to look up, but your eyes were drawn to the bodies circling.. floating.. in mid air. There were many more than there used to be.
An echo caught your attention. Halfway up the far wall, water poured from one of the large drainage pipes. The water faltered for just a moment and you caught the echo again. It sounded like something was moving through the pipes. You pushed yourself up from the cold cement floor and tried not to think about what had soaked through your sweater, making it cling to you like a soggy second skin. Walking to the pipe, you tilted your head to the side and decided that yes, that was where the noise was coming from.
The water slowed to a trickle and when you looked up, you found two glowing yellow and red eyes staring at you from the darkness inside the pipe. The eyes seemed to consider you for a moment before two glove clad hands grabbed the edges of the pipe. Fingers drummed on the threading before Pennywise leaned forward, twisting in a somersault that nothing with a spine should have ever been able to make. His arms shifted with sickening pops and he turned to look down at you while he dangled from the lip of the pipe. Pennywise let go and fell, fifteen feet, to land in a crouch right in front of you. You took one look at him and quickly backed away. He was wearing the familiar form of the clown, but his hair hung limp around his head and his face was twisted in a snarl. Slashes of red splintered out from the lines running up his cheeks while rows of sharp teeth protruded past his drool covered lips. He looked furious.
In your rush to get away from him, you tripped and fell backwards. His claws swiped the air where your belly had been just a second earlier.
“Pen?... Pennywise!”
You pleaded with him as you crab walked backwards. He had punished you before, but he had never come out with claws swinging. He could have disembowel you!
“I HATE you. I hate allllll of you! Every last one!”
Pennywise growled. The venom in his words made you flinch.
“Everything about you is weak. Your bodies are fragile. Your lives are gone in the blink of an eye.”
His hand whipped out and grabbed you by the ankle. Claws bit deep into your skin as he pulled you across the muck covered floor and straddled your legs.
“You tried to leave! Tried to end my fun!”
His voice distorted. Drool poured from his lips to cover your face and chest while he accused you. Sharp claws raked down your belly, splitting open your sweater and cut into the skin beneath. You cried out from the sting as blood started to seep out of your wounds.
“What…?”
Before you could ask him what he was going to do, Pennywise threw his head back and an inhuman roar reverberated around the cistern. His eyes rolled as his jaw opened up and he lunged with teeth outstretched for a vicious bite. You managed to get your arm up just in time and he bit deep into your forearm instead of your face. You screamed when you felt his teeth scrape against bone and he pulled back, ripping a chunk of flesh from your arm. Pain and adrenaline flooded your system while you tried to fight him off, but there was no way you could win. Pennywise grabbed your wrists with one hand and pinned them above your head before turning his savage face towards your belly.
“No! No no no no no. Please Pen!”
You sobbed hysterically and pleaded for your life, but it did no good. His tounge laved over the claw marks on your stomach, lapping at your blood while the tip prodded into them, pushing deeper. He looked into your eyes... and sank his teeth into your abdomen, tearing a giant hole in your side. Pennywise pulled up and you watched your meat stretch and rip free between his teeth. Something primal hit your brain.
You didn't want to die!
Hot blood gushed out of your body along with your remaining strength. Pennywise lowered back down and your body twitched as he ripped into your guts. You could smell your own intestines.
You didn't want to die!
Your vision went dark but you could still hear yourself being torn apart. Mustering the last of your strength, you reached out and squeezed Pennywise’s hand.
“I don’t want to die! I want to live.. no matter what it takes. I want to live.”
You cried, even as you felt blood bubble from your lips. It was too late and Pennywise was laughing at you. He had just killed you and now he was laughing over your corpse.
You blinked as he came back into focus. Where was the pain? You looked down at your body expecting a mess of meat, organs and torn skin, but you were still in one piece. There were a few light scrapes through the shreds of your sweater and your arm was a little bruised, but that was it.
““HehhehheHAHAHAHA… No please... I want to live.”
Pennywise put on an exaggerated look of terror and lifted his shaking hands up as if to ward off a blow, mocking you as you struggled to understand what just happened. You ran a hand over your stomach. No, you had felt yourself die.
“But… what?…. how?”
Pennywise howled with laughter.
“You wanted to die, didn’t you? Didn't care if Pennywise ate you anymore? Oh how the tune changes when you are being devoured! It always does!”
You couldn't believe it. He put you through that, made you feel what it was like to be torn apart, just to prove a point!
White hot rage filled your body and before you could think about the consequences of your actions or try to savor your second life, you took aim and kicked out your boot, right at his stupid clown nose. Any other time and Pennywise could have easily caught your foot, but he was laughing and in his crouched position he was off balance. Your heel connected with a nasty crunch and his head snapped back before he fell flat on his ass.
Shit
128 notes · View notes
taccuinodaemonico · 4 years
Text
The reason
Tumblr media
Solemnly you sit, a well-deserved laxness after a battle won. The known requiem for rest stirs up in my bones; dirt and mud on cotton provide good cover that the others may not hear my ode to sleep rattle. I have taken great care in making you feel comfortable, my loyal companion. Your wooden body casts a half-shadow on the ground below , cast that darkness still that the vanquished below us see it, spread it wide and I shall rejoice in the achievements made in the name of Will.
I look to our rising morning. A prime motor to give all engines breath. It renders the shadow weak. The giver of conduit cannot allow the reaper’s tools to exist, it will destroy them with time, render them useless with each rotation. Marks of death shall be rendered null by the rays of the Highest, void are the declarations of war by His movements alone. However, there is another life benignly standing there, he is hiding behind a skull of iron and a reason to kill, yet I see him for what he is.
My death in the future or my regret in the past. Choir of corrosion, that resounds in my muscles, stop your songs and your shrieking, I say while clutching my companion’s silver ears. Giving him the ritual breakfast of lead, his gullet is satisfied and gives me a click of delight; I knock his nose back in a killer motion, my dearest friend gives me permission to execute Will with his calculated tremors. Those sounds are more worthwhile to me than anything a decadent opera house can churn out. Sounds of nature where are you? I can only hear the roaring iron thunder, to each flash of lightning a groan by splattered blood and ripped clothing responds, thanking the masterful grim overture; I smile and silence wandering mind. There must be concentration for me to fulfill my duty.
Sword of modern times: I edge my vision on your cleanly finished back, my eyes cross your single silver hair, grant me true shot or give me pity. I see my unaware game sitting along the brown trench reading something. Read? Why read? You are about to be destroyed by the machination of man taken to its highest degree, you are about to suffer little but die forever, you will never see your kin again and you read? Enough questions.
A jousting with no pushback or shove, my loyal retainer thrusts back and lets a single casing float in the air, the same air that now holds that reader’s brains. Glory to the victor. I walk back to camp and the clicks of lead in the chamber echo off one empty spot. A sound better than any tree I’ve ever heard fall.
The barracks, a sorry state of affairs. Where men linger and crass words abound, the guilty truly have no pride. My retainer swings to and fro, as I carefully avoid the sleeping guards on the floor, the clinking of the iron laps doesn't go unnoticed and I am soon asked of my late show.
No answer will suffice, they will never accept the truth as it stands, I am an involuntary judge for the unknown. Training was supposed to make universal arbiters out of men, yet the sticky spring mud launches questions at us as we greedily stomp it. They called us the tip of the spear, yet I feel like the spear is planted far away in a linden garden, someone thought flowers would grow from that wood shaft. If they do, let my children know.
Here comes a display of verbal whipping. The corporal’s voice is sounding more and more like a turbine of annoyance, its fumes are gliding directly in my ears and into my brain, allowing a short respite as he is feverishly building up his homily. So my thoughts wander on plumes of smoke, the dark clouds take my essence yonder, I follow the spiraling of light, the well of goodness whose waters are the consciousness of mankind. Is this the river of shared knowledge the philosophers wrote so much about? Do we find ascended knowledge in distraction?
Now white clouds lead me to an old mausoleum preceded by a most beautiful garden of flowers. I march with a keen eye to nature: Daffodils mark the spots where cherry trees grow, bushes of blueberry are surrounded by anemones mimicking the former in their own way, finally we see tulips waving to the beat of their windswept oak cousins.
Finally, time to rest. So I sit among the spoils of broken seeds. and to my eyes bewilderment I see a leather bound book, hidden below a muddied vase. Percy you rat, even in my daydreams you chase me. I flip the pages and a particularly long title strikes me, the mind races my brow to the final period. A tale of a lost king pierced on two lone pillars in the desert. The meaning escapes me, but what is escaping still now are the works of art exploding from the old tomb, a foray made by a gust of trickery! Those monumental gates which guarded beauty are nothing compared to the wind of passion who broke them. Paintings, busts and more sons of culture whirl around me as if I am a snake’s plaything, these pythons of paint will be the end of my orderly mind. Already I see my reason crack when the stranded of Géricault ask me: “O’ man of arms why do you know of me and my destiny? I grapple to this broken ship’s mast and you struggle to keep your acumen intact”
So why do I read? Why do I contemplate art? The questions make me rise and rise in the air as more pieces are added to the hurricane that has taken me captive. Why do I stumble and dart across the tornado of culture created by poetry and canvases? I bump Psych and the Venus Victrix on my way up. The collisions make me jolt, with that, I assume I am still alive and sigh.
Ever rising in the air: that Monet has not killed me yet, that Lacroix has not yet taken my heart from my chest and ripped all the organs linked asunder with its mighty workmanship. Perfection has not killed me but I seek the thrill, so my existence comes down and not finish.
I wish for the eye of the cyclone to close around my neck as my eyes lay on that perfect verse, on the perfect curve, the perfect light. That I may die as I observe this Godly manifestation of the river of shared knowledge. Therefore, those ghostly waters who wet my ankles, will take me and I shall become art in someone else’s image
I wish for everything to end in such a sublime and powerful way that the end itself will shape a new beginning, that my end is merely a means thru which I might pursue more art, more knowledge and more reconciliation with nature.
In the end is it not what we want? To die in the arms of Mother Nature as she shows us the best of man? Do we not wish to die happily, as we take that mortal wound? Do we not want to separate the arteries by final incision made by pen, flute or canvas?
A ringing sound brings me back to my senses, a loud bang and the typhoon is dispelled, no more art or wind, the earth does not yet swallow me for I feel its hard surface. I look up and the tulips have turned white, angel’s trumpets now surround autumn trees. The lily of the valley hangs over me and those bushes of poison ivy loom still over my soul. My face is drowned in the trench’s mud. A true shot has taken my soul, my helm stands next to me, my reason to kill is no more than a faux letter of marque.
My body slumps and gives way for the dead roots below to take hold, I see my arbiter far away, as the glimmer of his companion’s flash gave him away. He is whispering: “why read if the reason is to die happy?”
-G.C-
3 notes · View notes
crowsent · 4 years
Text
Whumptober 2019 Shackled
Yusuke Kitagawa, Persona 5, Shackled
CW: child abuse, minuscule gore (barely there but just in case), Madarame’s existence, Madarame’s shitty parenting
=
Madarame had been everywhere. There were statues of him, paintings of him, photographs taped to every wall. Madarame’s voice echoed somewhere high above in the shrine. The obsessive desire to please and venerate permeating the very air until Joker suffocated in it.
It had been an accident, discovering that Madarame’s pupil, Yusuke Kitagawa, had a Palace. It had only been at Ann’s insistence that they even bothered to explore at all. They were still looking for potential targets for the Phantom Thieves’ next heist and maybe, Kitagawa might be their key there. Sheer coincidence and fate’s guiding hand had led them here.
But Kitagawa’s Palace, his Shrine, was far more unnerving than anything Joker had seen in Kamoshida’s Palace.
Some part of Joker still refused to believe that a run-down shack could turn into something like this.
The run-down shack had transformed into a traditional Japanese temple with pointed spires and multiple floors. A torii gate bound with shimenawa served as the entrance to a well-lit foyer. Like any other shrine in the real world, there was an aura of calm in the air, of serenity. Distantly, Akira heard the soft click of a tsuzumi somewhere, along with gentle strums of a shamisen and the rhythmic beat of a wadaiko.
Kitagawa’s Palace was breathtaking.
And terrifying.
The walls of the shrine were vividly painted with moving images. Kanou-style tigers and cranes stalked along the walls. Heavy, ink-lined tides swept over everything and replaced the walls with simplistic landscapes only to have that in turn shift into gorgeous ukiyo-e portraits.
But, Joker noticed, the scenic paintings on the shrine walls showed something more sinister. The paint would depict monsters that writhed in screamed, hellfire ravaging entire forests, demons and ghosts and terrifying pictures of death and ruin. Then it would return to normal. As if the horrors Joker noticed were nothing more than passing thoughts. An insignificant pebble thrown into a tumultuous river, carried by the rapids for a time before sinking to the bottom.
What could Kitagawa’s cognition be like, to have his subconscious depict such a peaceful, colourful place plagued by such disturbing imagery?
Panther shivered, stepping in between Skull and Joker. “Do those pictures move!? Ugh. They’re so creepy.”
A breeze blew in from nowhere, rustling the trees and making Panther hug herself for comfort. The wind was cold. Biting. Frigid. Skull grumbled. “This dude is seriously effed in the head. I mean. This entire Palace is just.” He gestured angrily to the walls of the temple, now displaying an angry demon ripping apart the arms and legs of a human. It changed to show a lotus flower floating on a pond. “What kind of person even is this Kitagawa guy?���
Joker steeled himself and stepped forward. “We’ll never know if we don’t take a look around.”
“Right!” Mona chimed in. “Let’s get going.”
And now that they had traversed the inside of the Palace and reached the final room all the way at the top, Joker could confidently say that he absolutely detested every inch of this place. It was beautiful, but wrought with distortions so twisted it was difficult navigating up the shrine at all.
After every level, Madarame’s voice would ring out, harsher than the frigid winds they had to face, sharper than any blade they could ever find.
This isn’t good enough. See these brush strokes? Pathetic. Do it again and do it right, or you’ll face the consequences.
What did I tell you!? This piece is fucking garbage! I can’t show this at the exhibition! Is this how you’ll repay after all these years? You’re worth less than nothing.
You did a fine job Yusuke. This is good enough for this month’s exhibition. I’ll be expecting a new piece from you soon.
On.
And on.
And on.
Joker can’t take any more.
The topmost floor, wrought with a blizzard so cold Panther had to walk sandwiched between Skull and Joker, was nothing compared to Madarame’s voice.
Useless.
Again!
Can’t do anything right.
What do I even keep you here for?
Smile for the cameras, Yusuke. You’re my star pupil. What will people think of me if you look like death? Smile. Smile goddammit.
After Kitagawa, Joker was going to change Madarame’s heart or die trying. Just hearing those words from a man Kitagawa clearly admired made Akira’s blood boil.
“Last door.” Joker looked at his companions. Panther beside him, Skull on her other side, Mona tucked in Joker’s collar where the cold wind would hit him less. All three of them nodded. Joker smiled thinly though his lips felt as though they would fall off.
“Let’s go in.”
The doors to the final room, despite their size, gave way easily. The four of them pushed their way inside and with a thunderous roar, the doors slammed shut. The icy wind howled outside. The inside of the last room, the very heart of the shrine, was deceptively warm. Mona crawled out from Joker’s collar to perch at his shoulder.
“Is that a Shadow?”
At the centre of the square room, was a small Shadow, the size of a human. It wore a sheet white kimono, stained with blood. It knelt facing the door with thick golden manacles around its wrists, shackled to the floor. Both of its legs were nailed to the floor by its ankles. Behind it towered a giant golden statue of Madarame with his hand outstretched.
A ring on Madarame’s right hand connected to the Shadow in the centre of the room. To a collar around its neck, tight enough that the Shadow’s face turned almost as blue as its hair.
“Oh my God,” Panther gasped. She gripped onto Joker and Skull’s arms, trembling. Skull radiated anger. Mona muttered silent prayers for Kitagawa in the real life. Joker just stood frozen.
Kitagawa’s Shadow was literally trapped in the shrine. Even if he tore free of the stake pinning his bloody ankles to the floor, even if he ripped the manacles off, he would forever be trapped in the shrine. Collared to Madarame like a dog.
“This is how Kitagawa views himself. His distorted heart thinks of the shack as a Shrine to Madarame.” Mona’s voice was sad. “Kitagawa must think that would live and die as nothing more than a glorified pet.”
Sprouting from Shadow Kitagawa’s back were nine bushy fox tails, far too large for his frail, gaunt body to support. Kitagawa had hunched over from the weight of the nine tails with inked tips. The tails painted portrait after portrait, landscape after landscape, and meekly laid them at the feet of Madarame’s statue.
It took an eternity for the Shadow to look up against the weight of its own tails. Its hair was strikingly blue, and snow-white fox ears twitched above its head. It had no eyes. The sockets where the eyes should have been were empty pools of nothingness crying a constant stream of tears. Or blood. Or ink. Joker didn’t fucking know.
And Shadow Kitagawa looked at them with a tormented expression. Haunted by the collar choking the life out of it, by the stakes that had ripped through its very bones, by the manacles keeping it bound to the Shrine, but the tails that forced it to paint and paint and paint.
“Thieves.” The Shadow spoke slowly, with a croaking voice. It tilted its head this way and that, trying in vain to see the intruders who have desecrated the Shrine. Obviously, it couldn’t see the four of them, and hung its head instead. “Why have you come into this Shrine? This Shrine for the Great Artist Madarame, who had given a lowly being such as myself shelter. Why have you come to steal from such a benevolent man?”
Panther gritted her teeth, fists clenching into a tight ball. “Benevolent? Madarame!? Don’t be ridiculous!” Smoke puffed out from Panther’s lips, a testament to her anger. “He’s using you! Don’t you see Kitagawa-kun? You and all the artists who studied under Madarame are being used for his own selfish gain!”
“The only thing I see is Lord Madarame’s generosity.” The Shadow grasped desperately for air. The collar was made with iron spikes, Joker realised belatedly. The sharp ends dug into Kitagawa’s skin, raining rivulets of blood down his neck, onto his already ruined kimono. “I am nothing without his guidance. All the artists who studied under him were happy to give their souls in his service. We are honoured to be used.”
“Why are you still defending him!?” Skull screamed. “He’s hurt so many people. Countless artists whose hopes and dreams were broken by his selfishness!” Skull’s leg trembled. Panther switched places with him so he could lean on Joker as he fought to remain standing. “Madarame has driven a student to suicide and if you don’t open your goddamn eyes to the effing truth, then you’re going to let countless others be driven to the same fate!”
“LIES!”
The Shadow screamed. It echoed in the walls, reverberated in Joker’s very bones, rattled the whole building. But Kitagawa’s Shadow was not angry. It did not attack. Rather, it jerked its hands up as far as they could go to cover its ears which had folded down. There were red welts around its wrists where the manacles cut into its skin. Kitagawa’s tails were in a frenzy, painting frantic lines everywhere, turning the walls into a discordance of colours and shapes.
“Lord Madarame would never. He’s a good man. He would never!”
It was afraid. It was afraid of facing the truth.
“You knew, didn’t you?” It’s eyes, if it had any, would have been trained on Joker as it snarled viciously. Instead, all Joker saw was hollow emptiness, and a Shadow that trembled at the mere possibility of hearing the truth. “You knew what Madarame was doing all along. But you ignored it.” The Shadows tails, all nine of them curled over its body, as though that could protect it from Joker’s words. From the truth. “Why did you hide from the truth Yusuke?”
Quietly, so faint that it couldn’t have been more than a soft whimper, the Shadow said, “Where else am I supposed to go?”
“Oh, Kitagawa-kun.”
“Dude.”
“Kitagawa…”
“Where else am I supposed to go!?” The Shadow’s voice caused the walls to crack. Ink poured out, soaking the Shadow’s tails into a murky black. “Sensei is all that I have. My only tie to a world that has no place for me. Where will I be, if not by his side?”
Blood squirted from Kitagawa’s wrists, his neck, his ankles, and the Shadow howled in pain, in anger in desperation. A prisoner of his own mind.
“I am shackled.” As if to emphasise, the Shadow tried to move. Tried to free itself. The stake which had nailed its legs to the floor, and the cuffs that kept it from moving echoed with a metallic clink. “There is no hope for me outside of this place. This temple. This shrine to Sensei’s ambition, to his desire, is the only place where I can exist.”
It sounded desolate. Like the howls of a hapless fox, ensnared in a trap. Like a fox which had tried to gnaw its way out and failed, only to resign itself to fate.
If Kitagawa accepted the fact that his teacher, his mentor, the man he looked up to as his father, was nothing but a liar and a cheat, it would shatter the way he viewed the world. Everything would change. Kitagawa would have to live with the fact that he was complacent, meekly obeying everything Madarame ordered and turned a blind eye as one of Madarame’s students took their own life.
“I would leave if I could.”
The statue of Madarame, the one which had sat silently as Kitagawa screamed his throat hoarse, yanked its hand back.
The Shadow yelped, wheezing, pulled in two different directions. It’s neck was blood red now, and the manacles looked ready to cut both its hands off. Kitagawa’s tailed flailed wildly.
Madarame’s statue stretched its hand out again and the Shadow collapsed as low as its collar allowed it to. It trembled and hefted its burdensome tails once more to paint.
“Leave, profaner,” said the Shadow. “Leave me to my fate.”
The doors swung open once again, and a glacial wind tore into the room. The Shadow’s kimono did nothing to protect it from the cold and it trembled, muscles seizing, lips turning even bluer.
“I can’t believe this.” Panther quivered as she stepped outside along with the others. “We have to send a calling card. We have to. We can’t just let this happen.” Joker nodded.
They were going to save Yusuke Kitagawa, even if he did not want to be saved. Akira will fucking drag him kicking and screaming into the light if he had to.
----
A letter came.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t for Sensei. Rather, addressed to Yusuke himself. It was fortuitous that Sensei wasn’t home to see it.
Yusuke sat in the corner of the atelier like he often did as a child and opened the envelope.
Sir Yusuke Kitagawa,
You who have not committed any atrocities in life but have suffered a fate to be doomed forever into the servitude of an unjust man, have turned away from the truth. You have blinded yourself to the verity of the world, and have chosen to shroud yourself in a Shrine of lies. We have decided to uncover that which you have chosen to hide, and expose the truth to your very eyes. We will no longer allow you to blind yourself to the truth that lies before you. We will take your distorted heart without fail.
From, The Phantom Thieves Of Hearts
“What the hell is this?” Yusuke crumpled the letter into nothing more than a paper ball. He chucked it into a bin along with all his other failed ideas. It’s nothing more than a prank. Sensei won’t see it. Sensei can’t see it. Yusuke’s fine. It’s fine.
Everything’s going to be fine as long as he finishes his next piece.
Yusuke’s not going to pay attention to such nonsense. Madarame-sensei would never do any of the vile things he’s been accused of.
Surely not.
He would never.
At the highest floor of the Palace Shrine, a Shadow cried out with a broken voice. “Free me.”
“Free me.”
I would leave if I could.
I want to leave.
Let me leave.
Free me.
Please.
50 notes · View notes
ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years
Note
Do you have faceclaims for Daniel, Nate, Ryan, Ashley, and Abraham?
I don’t! I actually struggle with finding anyone who kind of fits my mental image of them so I don’t really have anyone specific. But I can definitely work through the features that I associate most with them:
Daniel Michaelson: 26 years old. Tall and thin in the waist and hips but with muscular shoulders and arms. Wide, bright blue eyes that look a little too large for his face, with a hint of shadows underneath. Coppery red hair that has a little wave in it and absolutely refuses to be anything but terribly messy. Freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks and shoulders most obviously. He has a nicely angled jawline broken by the notches of scarring carved deeply into them, and a similar dip in the bridge of his nose - with slightly fainter red lines that run up his cheeks and over his cheekbones, as well as along the underside of his jaw where they are not usually as noticeable. His hands and arms are heavily scarred, as is his back from his neck down to his hips. He has a thick ring of scarring around his left ankle. 
He has the letters A, D, and N scarred into the back of his neck, and keeps his hair long enough in back to cover the A up by his nape.
He has the look of someone who is always worried about what can go wrong and smiles rarely, usually without showing his teeth. Danny wears nothing but comfortable T-shirts, pajama pants, and jeans. He’s been wearing the only nice sweater he owns constantly since Nate off-handedly mentioned one day he thinks Danny looks good in sweaters.
Danny Aesthetics: endless mugs of milky coffee, nervous, shy smiles, bare feet, soft fabrics like fleece, the words ‘I can be good’, and ‘I don’t belong to him/I belong to him’, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (he identifies heavily with Jonathan Harker’s captivity in Dracula’s castle), fear of the dark, chains, freckled skin, curtains opened to let in sunlight, tears, hands that don’t quite touch, St. Germain martini with a little flower garnish floating in it, broken glass
Nate: In his thirties, Nate’s face is a rougher and more angular than Danny’s. He has straight black hair that falls over his forehead and is cut just above dark, thick eyebrows. He has a scar that cuts into the top of his lip that isn’t very noticeable unless you’re looking for it. His eyes are a mossy green that seems to be more or less vibrant depending on how pissed off he is at any given moment. he has high cheekbones and a wide mouth. Shorter than Danny by about three inches, he is more muscular and not as thin. One of his hands never closes all the way.
Nate Aesthetics: Cable-knit sweaters in dark colors, walks in the woods, good whiskey, the smell of leather, full bookshelves, narrowed eyes, the words “I’m not going anywhere” and “I’ll do anything for you”, black coffee, Casablanca, the darkness of the sky when only a little bit of sunset is left, a kiss to a bare shoulder, a face turned away, a tarnished brass key, a trap with sharp metal teeth
Ryan Michaelson: 24 years old. In the thing that probably gives away which fandom this started as an AU about (in some pieces I wrote for that fandom but never posted online), Ryan is well-built and only a little shorter than Danny with warm brown skin and unruly black curls. He’s handsome in a way that catches eyes everywhere he goes, with a wide mouth made for smiling, and seems to always have a bit of a smile on his face even in his most serious moments. His eyes are a light brown that looks nearly like amber when in direct light. 
Ryan Aesthetics: Sunshine in a clear blue sky, a stack of missing person’s reports, a perfectly tailored red suit, a peppermint mocha with extra candy cane bits crumbled on top, the words “I never stopped looking for you”, a bright smile, bruised knuckles on hands with perfectly manicured fingernails, the sound of laughter over the music and background noise of a party, a bone-crushingly tight embrace, a hand that doesn’t quite touch another person’s shoulderAshley Denner: In her mid or late thirties. Or potentially much, much, much older. Eerie, unsettling beauty in a cold face. High cheekbones with eyes that are slightly upswept at the corners in a vaguely high Northern European way. Pale skin that is too pale to look natural and seems to soak up light and warmth without feeling it. Eyes that are so colorless they look like scratched-up ice. A thin-lipped mouth. Long, thin neck. Fairly short but still somehow looks willowy. Immensely cold. Never smiles without some sort of malevolence in the expression, except when she looks at her twin brother. White-blonde hair with a slight wave that falls to mid-shoulders, usually pulled back in a tight, low ponytail or bun. Athletic, somewhat muscular build without much in the way of curves. 
Ashley Aesthetics: Knives with serrated edges, clear vodka or gin in a glass filled to the top, holding hands with identical white skin, albino raven, black ice nearly invisible on a road, venus flytrap plants, the bone-breaking chill of a midwinter day, an empty cornfield that goes on for miles with no life to be found, the visual of teeth biting into skin until it bleeds, the words “I see why he loves you so much”, black iced coffee
Abraham Denner: In his mid-to-late thirties, potentially much, much, much older. Handsome and charming in a way that simultaneously makes you uncomfortable if you look at him for too long. He has a slight stubble most of the time, as he often forgets to shave. He looks similar to Ashley, in that he has high cheekbones and upswept eyes. His eyes are also similar to ice-chips, but with a hint of something in them that sometimes seems to move. Muscular and athletic. Pale skin too pale to be natural. He is always cold. White-blonde hair in a slight wave that falls to his shoulders, usually pulled back in a rough low ponytail to get it out of the way. He is always smiling. 
Abraham Aesthetics: a reptile sunning itself on a rock, blood dripping off a shining blade, a thin layer of ice over a frozen lake with a dark shape that moves under the water, arms wrapped around someone’s chest from behind with a chin resting on their shoulder, Jack Daniels and coke, ropes wrapped around wrists, the words “you weren’t my first / you won’t be my last / I think you’re my best”, the woods in the dark, a wolf with bared fangs, a charming, brilliant, white-teethed smile, open cellar doors with pure darkness inside, a Frappucino with horrifying neon colors
7 notes · View notes
kylorengarbagedump · 5 years
Text
Little Bird: Chapter 10 (NSFWish)
Read on AO3. Part 9 here. Part 11 here.
Summary: Fine, you'll admit that your Commander has manipulated you. That was intention this entire time. Right?
Words: 2500
Warnings: Handmaid AU, Oops! All Feelings :(
Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader
A/N: WOW WELCOME TO MY UPDATE APPROXIMATELY 10 MONTHS LATER. AMAZING TRULY REVOLUTIONARY.
In all honesty, I have no idea what happened, but writing that one-shot just got me fired up to write a chapter for this piece! I really hope you enjoyed it, because I'm trying to up the ante a lil bit!
Thank you so much for reading, everyone! I love you <3
Where were the damn wings?
Before you replied, you squatted, groping the ground, shimmying back as your head spun to find your wings. Something firm brushed your ankle, and you snagged it from underneath your dress, face warm while you tugged the covering over your scalp. Pinching your lips between your teeth, you glanced at Emma, like this would suffice as an answer.
She frowned--as if she were disappointed. “What is going on?”
Your jaw tightened. “Do I really need to answer that?”
The crickets seemed deafening, now. Emma’s full cheeks glowed pink. She shook her head, a long sigh falling through her nose. “You have to be careful,” she mumbled. “Just follow me.”
Head bowed, you obeyed, tucking the rest of your hair into your wings as you walked. She led you back past the pond, grass rustling under your feet while you avoided the backdoor and moved to the side of the house--a place you’d never been. Your heart skipped. Emma wouldn’t sell you out. Would she?
Swallowing, you murmured, “So…”  
“I heard noise,” she said. “That’s why I came outside.”
“Oh,” you replied. “What, uh, what… did you hear?”
“Voices.”
“You didn’t… see? Hear anything else?”
Emma snorted softly. “You don’t need to be caught with his tongue in your mouth to hang for it.”
Your ears burned. On one hand, you couldn’t be more grateful that Emma had been the one to find you. Out of everyone in the home, besides Ren himself, she seemed the least interested in getting you strung up by your neck. But in Gilead, everyone had a tipping point--Emma included. Being Marthas, she and Rose had the least to lose, and the most to gain from a tentative allegiance with Johana. But the grace of humanity had kept you noose-free, so far. Ren was right to fear its weaponization.
“What do you think of the system?” you whispered. “Of Gilead.”
Emma stopped at a white-painted door at the side of the home, hesitating to find the knob when she realized it was already cracked open. She paused, and then looked back at you, brow furrowed. “I think you need to be quiet and go to bed. Goodnight.”
She disappeared into the darkness of the house, footsteps soft scrapes against the floorboards. Face on fire, you eased the door shut behind you and snuck back to your room.
Weeks passed without another incident. For all of Ren’s talk of knowing you, he didn’t seem very dedicated to the idea. You’d barely shared a word with him since the night in the garden. There were evenings, though, when he’d arrive home, and you’d feel his eyes stick to you, the lewd tangle of thoughts in his mind almost audible. During these moments, you’d both stare for long and empty seconds, willing your fantasies to meld in the space between your bodies before being stolen back to reality. A brainless, needy part of you loved this--as if you were privy to his desires, knowing him in a way that even Johana couldn’t. The mere illusion of of power, of importance was enough to get you high, and you craved more, craved to have this part of him all to yourself, to be, in the simplest terms, special.
That was how he did it, you supposed--a few weeks of absence had been enough to make your heart grow fonder, to make you forget his demand you accept your role. It soothed the rejection and fear of vulnerability within you. And even though you knew his intention, knew that this was all to distract you from talking, from asking questions, knew that it was meant to keep you loyal to him, you didn’t care. You wanted, needed a moment with him alone, needed to soothe the primal ache in your body that throbbed in the absence of his touch.
Had he broken you? After all, you didn’t just need him. You needed to know him.
It was difficult to determine when you’d sneak out to find him. It would need to be during the day, you figured, so that if you were found wandering the home you’d have some sort of plausible excuse. In planning, you found it much easier to avoid Johana than anticipated--for whatever reason, her presence had been far less oppressive in the past few weeks. Rather than stomping down the halls on her tiny feet, she floated through the house, suspended on invisible wings. You hadn’t seen her so much as snarl at you in days. The reason didn’t matter, and you didn’t much care. All the more simple for you to get at what you wanted.
One issue: Ren was typically absent during the day. You’d seen him come home early once or twice, but had never managed to catch him--and catching him would’ve been your only shot. You settled on an innocuous meandering through the front gardens after your walk, something you’d really never bothered to do, regardless, in hopes you’d be the one to meet him at the door. By chance, of course.
As you wandered outside, you winced at the sun, hanging bright in the mid-afternoon. Huge beds of red, yellow, and purple flowers were shaded by tall grasses, spiral stone paths winding out from the gates and to the entrance. Near the grasses, benches sat to provide a view of the blooming plants--given the heat, you shuffled there, the sound of stone along your shoes quickening your heart. Anxiety fluttered in your belly, through your arms, down to your toes, an excited grin creeping onto your face. A whisper of shame followed.
What the hell was wrong with you? Plotting to seduce your Commander, burgeoning anticipation for his presence? Of course, you needed to accept reality, but did you need to be so damn giddy about it? The insight into your own manipulation failed to make it any less pathetic. When you sat, the voice of shame screamed for you to stand back up, to get back in the house, to forget anything with Ren had ever happened. But the memory of his kiss--that desperate tenderness of his lips, the glimmer of emotion in his eyes under the starlight--there was something unshakable in those moments. Something that, to you, seemed like hope.
You’d cling to any flicker of that in the eternal darkness of your existence.
Or maybe it was just easier to rationalize that you were doing this by choice, rather than following the traitorous desire of your body to get railed again. If only you could sit your subconscious down and explain to it that you were being held as a captive for your uterus. Perhaps then it would understand the context that made its cravings so vile.
But whether it was hope, or whether it was stupidity, you remained on the bench.
As you followed the path of bees from stamen to stamen, the front door opened--and Johana stepped out. Heat rushed your neck, and you snapped your head to the ground, hoping to appear preoccupied. But not a single derogatory word came out of her mouth.
“Oh,” you heard her say, “I was looking for you. Didn’t think I’d find you out here.”
Swallowing, you glanced up. “You were, uh, looking for me?”
In what seemed to be a dream, or maybe nightmare, Johana fucking smiled. “I was.” The sight of it on her face--genuine, and directed toward you--seemed so alien that you pinched your thigh. Nope. Still awake.
Her quick steps carried her to the bench in a few breaths, and she sat next to you, still grinning. The radiance of her presence chilled your spine. Johana had always sulked through the world, eyes sunken, her face tight and pointed like a shrew’s--but in the light of today’s sun, she seemed… beautiful. The cheeks that seemed hollow now seemed blessed with high, sharp bones--which were quite pretty--and you noticed now that the line of her jaw was well-defined, that she had a small dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose. A flush revived her sallow skin. Her irises glittered, blue and clear as water.
Forget what was wrong with you. What was wrong with her?
She took your hand in hers, cradling it like a child’s. “I wanted to apologize to you. For being so cruel.”
You pinched yourself again. Nope. “Oh. Well--”
“I recognize the service you’re doing for our family,” she said. “I don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful. Really, it’s my dream to raise a child with the Commander.”
“Um…” Not one inspired word came to your lips. “You… Uh…” Were you honestly going to thank her for praising your service as a womb slave? “This is, uh, this is just unexpected for me.”
She nodded, furrowing her brow. “Well. I can understand that. But things have changed.” She squeezed your hand. “I would love for you to forgive me. I’m looking forward to participating in the Ceremony with you tomorrow night.”
Fire licked your neck. You were thankful to be wearing gloves--your palms were sweating. “It’s tomorrow night?” You couldn’t believe you’d forgotten.
“Yes,” she replied, smiling. “It’s important for us to work together so my child can be brought into the world--so I hope you do accept my apology.”
Before you could speak, the Commander’s car rolled into the driveway and coasted to a stop, causing you both to crank your heads in its direction. Johana’s grip crushed your fingers. Seething, you tried to meet her gaze, but found her entirely focused on the car, eyes wide and face beaming. Something sunk in your stomach. It wasn’t a squeeze of admonishment--it was a squeeze of exhilaration.
Ren stepped out of the car, buttoning his suit jacket, catching the stare of his Wife as he looked toward the front door. You knew he must have noticed you, as well, but if he did, there wasn’t even the slightest acknowledgement of your presence. He moved toward the both of you, shoes clacking on the path, failing to glimpse you for even the slightest of seconds. This should have been what you wanted, as a Handmaid--to exist as a statue, translucent under the Eyes, a phantom in his presence. But the gnawing in your stomach continued.
“Good afternoon, Johana.” He stopped at the side of the bench, and Johana released your hand. Finally. “I didn’t expect to find you out here.” You wondered if anyone expected anyone to be outside in the world of Gilead.
Johana smiled again. Her large, white teeth split her face in two. “Oh, yes, sir,” she said. “I was actually apologizing to our Handmaid. For how I’ve been.”
Ren’s eyes narrowed, moving to scan the garden. “Really.” He wiggled his wedding band around his finger, twisting it toward his palm. A breeze ruffled the thick waves of his hair. “Mature of you.”
“Well,” she said, “I want the absolute best outcome for our child. Don’t you?”
“Mm.” His chest fell in a soft sigh, and he turned back to her. “I’ll be upstairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ren walked to the door and disappeared inside. It was as if you weren’t even there.
Johana spun around, excitement crackling off of her, and took your hand again. “Well? You forgive me, don’t you?”
Your gaze fell from the door, to the grass, to your gloved hand, wrapped in hers. The longer you stared, the more distant it seemed. “Yes. I do.”
“Wonderful.” She let you go, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “I’ll leave you be. And I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.” She supplied you with a final grin, and went inside, the sunshine leaving with her.
You sat, mind spinning. There was a reason Johana’s behavior churned your guts--and in horror, you realized it was jealousy. A Handmaid, jealous of a Wife. It was pitiful. After all, they were married. You were the interloper. But you rewound your earlier justifications. The idea that Ren, buried underneath his hypocrisy, might have cared for you--the hope that the existence of his compassion could, one day, mean freedom. Escape.
Perhaps that was the reason he’d been all but ignoring you. That it wasn’t because he was trying to draw you in, but because he was with her. And if he’d really been ignoring you in favor of her, someone you’d always thought he found repulsive, after that night those weeks ago--what did that mean for your future?
But there had to be another reason. You knew that he felt something different with you. Something Johana would never give him.
Right?
Wiping the sweat from your brow, you stood. You knew your logic was faulty, but the gnawing ache in your stomach was now a ravenous pain. Before you understood what you were doing, you were marching into the house, slipping through the sunny halls, and tip-toeing your way up the iron staircase, hoping to avoid Johana’s nauseating positivity. You’d prove to yourself that hope was alive. And you’d at least bring her behavior up to him. After all, this had been your plan from the beginning--to see him, alone.
Acid burbled inside you. The one day you were lucky enough for him to come home early…
When you reached the top of the staircase, you heard a giggle ricochet through the hall, and you froze, heart stalling. From beyond his bedroom door, waves of breathy gasps, feathery and feminine. Fuck, no, fuck. Your heart wasn’t stalling--it was crashing. Your brain a storm, you whipped around, about to tumble down the steps, but jerked yourself back. Your pulse throbbed in your temple. A sicker part of you wanted to hear more. You wanted to know if it was good. Or better.
Sweat sopping your nape, you swiveled around and crept forward, drowning in the resonance of Johana’s voice. Her moans were low, and long, edged with delight. Images of what he could be doing flashed--were they naked, was he kissing her, where were his hands--and then she gasped again. Swallowing, you edged closer, and then you heard her speak, an ecstatic plea.
“Commander,” she whimpered, “oh, God, please…”
“Tell me how you want it.”
His response was unexpected, and it paralyzed you, breath caught in your lungs. You wanted to pause this moment, dissect every little timbre of his voice until you could know, for certain, the level of his desire, the content of his thoughts, the sincerity of his need.
“Mm… You tell me, sir.”
Ren growled, muffled by the door. “Johana…” His voice was a groan. It was greedy. “Fuck--”
“Oh--fuck--yes!” Johana’s breath became rhythmic, euphoric, harmonizing with quiet grunts that were far too familiar to you. “More--oh, fuck--”
You couldn’t tolerate it anymore, not a single second--you pivoted and scurried back down the hall, head pounding. The sick part of you clung to the stairs, hungry to wait until he came, craving to hear what he sounded like, starving to know their pillow talk.
But you needed to get out, you needed to hide in your room, you needed to fucking slap yourself until you came to your senses and realized that this was your fucking life, now, that you were a fucking slave to a man who didn’t give a shit if you lived or died, that every minute of your existence was stuck in the clutches of the Republic of Gilead and every delusion of escape, every fantasy of hope or reprieve or fucking humanity was dead. They were finally, finally, fucking dead.
104 notes · View notes
histaries · 5 years
Text
|
The cursor blinks on an empty page in front of you. 
Not literally. There’s no cursor. You don’t have your husktop in front of you. You’re outside, staring into the red atmosphere of the planet, away from the rolling hills of pink flesh, to the sky, where a gate should be. Where a gate once was. Your revival, you’re sure, will do nothing to advance the standing of the game, if solely for the sake of revival. It won’t bring those gates back. But you suppose alive is better than dead. For yourself, and for a lot of people. 
You turn the stone gifted to you once over in your hands. You think you might hear Sollux calling for you, but you aren’t sure; you don’t spend the time standing there to find out. A second later, you’re gone. A second later, you’re standing on the Land of Dew and Glass, where Feferi was waiting for you. 
That’s the blinking cursor.
She tries to talk to you. About Sollux, you think, or about Eridan, or-- you shouldn’t even pretend like you’re paying attention, because you aren’t. With her at your side, for the first time since trapped, the two of you leave the timeline. 
You travel back further than just the Vast Glub, you travel back before the game. You go as far back as possible, for as in tact a body as possible for Feferi to merge with your soul. She is, after all, a witch, and organic life is hers to manipulate, but that requires more than the pile of rotten flesh and bones that will be sitting there by the time the game begins. In the timeline the two of you go back to, you have only been in the ground a night. 
Your ghost is there. She speaks to you with more success than Feferi, because she anticipates no answer. She says she knew you’d come. You ignore her. 
Though Feferi looks prepared to dig, helpless as her expression is in anticipating the undertaking (ha), you decide not to torture the poor girl in testing her. You stand in front of her, and with the guidance of your hands, the dirt vacates the grave, each grain rolling out and onto the turf beside it. Then your attention is on your corpse, and you once again are using psychic powers to lift it, battered and bloodied and broken with limp arms and ankles and head hanging, out of its grave, into the air. 
Feferi is speaking again. You still aren’t listening. Your ghost isn’t, either. She’s watching. You’re reminded that you could leave your dead body here, and Feferi could revive that ghost instead, spare the entire timeline the pain that comes with your death. But you’re not going to do that, and neither is Feferi. And, for all you know, this could change your past self’s path, this could trigger a timeline where the glitch with the planets and the gates didn’t happen. Where you all still had a chance, because of this body’s disappearance. 
(You doubt it.) 
And then, you’re standing in your hive, once more. 
What’s left of it. Leveled, crumbling. Frankly something close to tragic. You’re standing in the ruins of what was once your hive on the Land of Quartz and Melody, is a more accurate description. Feferi is still glubbing on, body still floating in the air, and you can’t help wondering as you lay your corpse’s body down if she ever makes a habit of shutting up. You don’t remember her being this talkative. Maybe she’s nervous.
“You’re shore you want to go through with this? It’s oh-cray to change your mind.” 
For the first time, you actually look at her.
Over, and up. Up at her, because she’s an adult, and you’re still trapped in the body of a child. 
“I’m not changing my mind,” your voice answers, hollow and empty as ever. She wants you to change your mind, you think, because...
...does it really have to be said out loud? 
Eridan still pines for her, and she still pines for him, and he still pines for you, and she knows all of that. 
You look back at your corpse, and the first few moments, you watch. You can see those few moments. You see it lift into the air once more, and for a split second, you see the green light wrapping itself around the cadaver, seeping into the cuts and changing it into something else. For those few moments, you’re an observer. 
Then everything is black. 
You don’t see your soulbot shatter into pieces where you were standing a few yards from Feferi, and you don’t see how she tugs at the right strands of DNA to send your body along its natural progression, along those extra sweeps that had passed in this timeline. You don’t see how your body falls gently to rest against the ground once more. When you open your eyes again, you hardly even think of any of that. You wake up with your mind blank, staring at a purple sky. 
You can feel more than just the ground. 
You can feel the grass. You can feel the soil against your skin, and a few pockets of rock, the fabric of your shirt and the pressure of a size or two too small, you can feel your hair against your cheeks. You push yourself slowly to sit up, and you feel a chill with the breeze, and you swear you can even feel the vibrations against your skin when Feferi speaks again. She’s asked you something. You don’t know what. You don’t care. 
Except, you must care, because next thing you know, you’ve lunged straight at her. She’s underneath you now, and you have her cold arms pinned over her head, and speaking of things you can feel, you can feel the anguish in your expression. You can feel how your lips pull back to bear your teeth, completely built on instinct, since there’s not much threatening there; you can feel your brows, knit in frustration, in anger, in suspicion and so-far-unspoken accusation; you can feel your nostrils flared. She’s trying frantically to get you to calm down. She could hurt you, she knows that, but she doesn’t want to, or she would have already. She’s trying to talk you down from whatever’s just possessed you, and she tells you as much. 
You spit in her face, and she outright gasps in surprise at the insult. She clearly anticipated a much more grateful reception.
“Don’t use that word like you understand it!” you shout in her face, voice notably less hollow, less robotic than it once was, even if still off as it always has been. “Don’t change the subject!” 
“From what??” 
“You used him!” finally finds its way out from between gritted teeth. “No, you used me! You used me to get to him!”  “Aradia--”  “You cashed in on my death to try to swim your way into a quadrant with him that he never even wanted!”  “Aradia!”  “Who does that, Feferi?? Aren’t you ashamed? Aren’t you sorry?”  “Get your fins OFF of me!” 
You blink. 
You slowly release her arms and get to your feet, taking a few paces away from her. You hear the ground shuffling behind you, likely the sound of her getting back up. 
“I didn’t minnow you were going to be so fra-gill,” she huffs.  “I’m not fragile,” you shoot back. 
She opens her mouth to protest, but you’ve grabbed her arm before she can get the words out. The stone is in your hands again, swiped up from the ground beneath, and then you’re back on her planet instead of yours. 
“Aradia, let’s talk about this--” 
That’s all you hear before you’re gone again. Just as quickly as you’d arrived, to drop her off, to leave her there, to return to being alone. Nothing more. You can guess that she’s messaging Sollux -- Sollux, gods, your heart hurts to even stumble across the name, you can’t unpack that yet -- right now, to tell him you’re acting insane and hysterical and erratic, or maybe Equius -- you can’t unpack that yet either -- hoping he could distract you, perhaps even Karkat to calm you down. It doesn’t matter. Your palmhusk is still on LOBAF. 
You’re overwhelmed. You feel so much, so much you were so scared -- was that fear? -- you would, and now here you are, feeling all of it. Feeling everything that touches you, feeling heartbreak, feeling rejection, feeling so much resentment you don’t know what to do with it. You have things to do, you have things to collect, including your thoughts at some point, but you feel like you can’t even move. You’d cry, you’d sob, if you had the space in your thinkpan to decide to do it. 
Your name is Aradia Megido, and you just spent three sweeps longer dead than you were supposed to. Alive as you may be, you are not okay with everything.
6 notes · View notes
fandomoniumflurry · 5 years
Text
Life is a Highway Part 4
masterlist
This is a co-op writing piece with @keepcalmimthecupcake from an rp story we did and are going to resume.
Summary: What if the Impala was made human? Enjoy the antics, angst and humor we have in store for you!
Warnings: none really. sprained ankle and awkward
If you like our work, consider buying us a coffee. :) Emelia’s link  Dean’s link
Tumblr media
“I’m not worried at all. I know you wouldn’t replace me. You love me too much. You always tell me you do.” She smiled at him warmly, hoping he would see that the affection was mutual. At his inquiry, she nodded. “Yes! I am running on empty.” Her brows furrowed as she headed toward the door.
When she spoke of how much he loved her, his eyes grew a bit. He could feel Sam's eyes on him and the smug little smirk and he didn't dare look at his brother. His face wrinkled slightly as his eyes averted from the woman with a clearing of his throat. "Right. Let's go." He grabbed his coat and out of habit his keys and led the way out the door. Once outside, there was a moment when he felt he should go into a panic attack then remembered. The Impala was walking out right behind him. He looked her up and down quickly before shoving his keys in his pocket along with his hands and made his way down the sidewalk without a word. Clearly, he was still not used to her being skin and bone instead of leather and chrome. His reaction made her giggle softly to herself as they walked down the street.
After they’d walked along the sidewalk for a moment, she turned to him. “Hey Dean…...what is good to eat? I’ve never had food. Except when you guys drop it on me or spill on me.”
He jolted back slightly when she suddenly turned to him, making him stall for a moment. "Well, I mean everyone has their own tastes so--" His words were left hanging before her attention was grabbed by something else.
“Hey Dean! Look! Swings! Kids always seem to have lots of fun on them. Can we go try them out?”
His eyes squinted to look across at the swings. His eyes grew when she asked if they could go, blinking a few times as his mouth hung open. "I..I guess, if you want." He wasn't sure he would have been able to say no to her anyway, not the way her eyes lit up. She was like a child learning everything for the first time. And yet she was so old and experienced in so many ways. He smiled warmly and nodded his head in gesture to the swings. "Come on."
When he agreed to go try out the swings, she bounced in delight. Grabbing his hand, she stood at the edge of the curb and waited for the oncoming car to pass before crossing over to the park. "Whoa." He managed to squeak out when she pulled him along. He couldn't help but laugh at her excitement once again. They entered the gate and she pointed to a bench near a huge oak tree. “That’s the bench I woke up on. The nerdy dick was over there.” she said, pointing to the tree.
Her comment about the trickster only seemed to make him laugh harder. "Looks like a very nice bench." He commented lightly with a grin on his face. When she finally let go of his hand, he stood back a little ways, crossing his arms over his chest.
Now that she had this walking thing down, she strode over to the swings and tried to sit on one, but slid off and fell to the ground. A hand shot up to Dean’s mouth when she landed on her ass in the soft sand. She frowned and tried it again with the same results. He cleared his throat and stifled any kind of laugh or smile, only to fail and he nearly snorted trying to hold in his amusement.
The third time, she was able to balance herself properly on the swing and sat there looking up at Dean. “No one is here so this one is free. I don’t know how to make it move, though.” She looked around the swingset, trying to find a mechanical device. Confused when she spotted nothing, she looked over at Dean. “Where do you start it?”
He didn't know why he even thought she would be able to pull this off on her own. She was still learning how a human body even worked. How was she supposed to know how to operate any kind of moving object? He strode closer when she finally got it the third time, his lips spread in a wide smile. The smile warmed as he came to stand behind her, a light chuckle passing through parted lips at her question. "It's not a machine, Em. You gotta push. Here. Hold on."
His hands gently pushed against her back making the swing go forward slightly. It was an odd thing to be at a park pushing this woman on a swing. He hadn't done this kind of thing, well since Sammy was little. Even though the redhead was 50, she was in a sense, still so young. Humanity was new to her and it kinda warmed Dean's heart to be able to show her the world in a whole new light. He pushed a little harder before giving instruction. "Kick your legs back and forth. Get a rhythm going so you can go higher."
She felt him give her a few gentle pushes then listened carefully to his instructions. She kept kicking her legs out but it wasn’t making her go higher. It was spastic more than anything. She kept trying, though, and soon enough, she’d found a rhythm and felt herself floating higher into the air. “Whoa! Is this was it’s like to be a bird? Flying is fun!” She laughed loudly and moved her legs faster now, soaring high into the air.
Dean's laugh was more genuine and warmer than it had been in a long time. Her joy and wonder with the world was refreshing and it actually made him feel pretty good. He stepped back when she finally got into a good rhythm and watched as she got herself higher and higher.
It was a little too high for her now, and she began to panic. “Hey Dean! How do I stop this thing?!” His smile faded when he watched as the panic set in on her face. "Ok, calm down. Just--"She tried to turn around and look at him, but she made the mistake of losing her focus and getting distracted making her fall off the swing. It all happened in a matter of seconds and as soon as she landed he darted across the sand.
Her face landed in the sand and she lifted her head up, sputtering out sand. The fall had knocked the wind out of her and she looked over at Dean, her eyes widened with fright when she couldn’t catch a breath. She kept gasping, trying to speak, but it was no use. She couldn’t breathe. Tears prickled her eyes now, embarrassed at her fall and scared because she couldn’t get any air. She sat in the sand defeated and hoping Dean wouldn’t laugh at her too much for being such a klutz.
He came down on his knees next to her, helping her to turn over. Sand stuck to the wet spots on her cheeks and Dean quickly brought his hands to either side of her face. "Hey, hey, calm down, breathe. You're ok. I got you." His thumbs moved gently across her face, wiping away the sandy tears. His chest rose and fell as he tried to show her what to do. "In and out, sweetheart." He watched her eyes carefully to make sure she was understanding.
She tried to steady her breathing as he was instructing, but it still took a few minutes before she was able to breathe normally again. She looked up at him with tears still sparkling in her eyes. “I’m sorry I wrecked myself.” She hadn’t meant to worry him. And she knew that look on his face. That was his worry face. She wondered if it was a good time to tell him that she couldn’t move her foot.
He gave her a warm chuckle, his thumbs still stroking her cheeks. "Hey, it's ok. I should have warned you about not going too high." One hand moved to rest against her arm as he scanned over her form.
She remained on the ground for a bit longer then decided to try to stand up. She clutched onto his shoulders to try and lift herself to her feet, but went crashing back into the sand with a loud hiss of pain. “Dean! My wheel is broken! It cracked when I landed.” When she tried to get up, his arms were there to catch her. He winced, like he had been the one in pain. His hand moved to her ankle and his jaw clenched. "You might have broken something."
The pain was unlike anything she’d experienced before, of course. Sure, she’d been battered and bruised, but it was different when you were metal. Now she was just an annoying nuisance of a person. Not only did Dean have a trickster to worry about and possibly another case, but now he would have to take the time to fix her. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so….fragile.”
When he turned his face back to her, his face wrinkled slightly. "Hey, didn't I say it was ok? I'll take care of you just like I always do. It's just like a bent rim or a blown tire." He nodded his head before he moved to get to his feet. With an arm around her back and another arm tucking under her knees, he lifted her out of the sand and made his way back across the street.
She knew she was in good hands with her hunter. He always took care of her, fixed her up good as new. Her arms wove around his neck and she smiled as he picked her up. While walking back to the motel, she wondered how humans fixed their wheels. They wouldn’t be able to replace the parts….right? Her eyes widened at the thought, but didn’t want to be a bother and ask Dean too many questions. She would trust that he would know what to do to fix her, like he always did.
7 notes · View notes
valisi-clark · 6 years
Text
The first time that Erwin saw him, they were both children. They were in different schools, and they were both touring the capital building on separate field trips. But they found each other at the water fountain. They both stared. They forgot to drink any water. Neither of them moved until their teachers insisted. And they swapped glances over their shoulders while they were pulled away from each other.
Erwin remembered him and didn't understand why. He thought that the boy must have lived near him. That wasn't the case. He couldn't find him again.
Twelve years later, Erwin was in a concert venue that was so crowded that he sweated through his shirt before the first band finished playing. The liquor that had been poured down the back of his shirt made him feel sticky. He couldn't get a good breath with so many people around him, but he helped to pass along crowd surfers anyway. He could feel the music in his bones. The shared adrenaline of the room made his entire body throb. The headliner stepped onto the stage, and the crowd pushed forward.
Erwin felt someone pressed harshly into his right side. He lifted his arm to give the person room to move. When he looked down, Levi looked up at him. They stared again. Then, Levi leaned towards him and yelled something. Erwin couldn't hear him. Before he could lean down, the hardest part of the best song began. The crowd began to part. Levi grabbed Erwin's bicep so hard that sweat squeezed from the cotton of his shirt. Erwin grabbed a fistful of Levi's shirt. Someone else wrapped their arms around Levi's waist and pulled him away. Levi slipped out of his shirt. Erwin dropped it to move after him. The crowd was faster. Erwin watched while Levi was picked up and put on top of the crowd. Levi fought. The crowd carried him anyway.
A mosh pit began, and Erwin pushed away from it, keeping his eyes on Levi. The music increased to an impossible volume. He watched Levi float on top of the crowd around the mosh pit. When he saw Levi fall down into the crowd on the other side of the pit, he forced his way past three layers of people. He moved into the pit. A man threw a fist at him, and Erwin put his boot into the man's ankle. No one took another shot at him while he moved through the pit. On the other side of the parted crowd, Erwin searched for him. He was gone.
After the concert, Erwin insisted that his group of friends wait with him outside of the venue. They stayed with him for an hour before they ditched him to go to the bar. He smoked half of a pack of cigarettes waiting for Levi to find him. Levi didn't come. When there were only a few sparse groups of people left outside of the building, Erwin felt a pain in his right arm. He put the cigarette between his lips to hold it while he lifted his right sleeve. Levi had left fingerprint bruises and shallow, bloody scratches on his skin. Erwin exhaled smoke.
That night, at home, he took off his shirt and looked at the marks in the mirror. He searched for Levi online until the sun came up. He couldn't remember everything. But he could remember the nights Levi would come to his room. He remembered the desk in his office. The lingering scent of black tea. He remembered the way Levi's hair looked when it was stuck to his forehead with sweat. He knew the way Levi tasted. And that was enough to keep him hopeful for a year. Then, he stopped looking.
Three years later, Erwin leaned over and snorted the line of coke on the bar. When he stood upright, the bottle of Rush was pushed under his nose. He closed his eyes, pressed his other nostril shut, and inhaled until he felt himself stop thinking. The flood of heat in his face made him smile, and he leaned back in his chair. Erwin grabbed his boyfriend by the hair and shoved his tongue into his mouth. His hips bucked involuntarily, and they were laughing when their mouths parted. His boyfriend leaned over the bar. Erwin saw Levi on the other side of the room.
Levi's mouth was pressed against another man's, and both of his hands were pulling on the man's belt buckle. Erwin stood from his chair, and his boyfriend caught him just before he fell. He heard laughter, and he felt himself being moved. He pushed. The man kissed down Levi's neck. Levi leaned his head back and opened his eyes. Levi's lips parted. His hips moved. Erwin tried to be seen. He needed Levi to see him. He opened his mouth and no sound came. He felt himself being picked up. He felt drool running down his chin.
Erwin watched the ceiling pass by while he was carried out of the bar. Outside, he waited for Levi to find him while he counted stars. Then, he was being pushed into a cab.
The next night, Erwin went back to the bar and asked the bartender about Levi. No one had ever seen him before. Erwin went to the bar every night, with and without his boyfriend. His boyfriend hated it. Erwin ended the relationship. He kept looking.
For three more months, Erwin went to the bar every night. Levi never showed. He stopped looking again.
A year later, he finished his Master's degree. He met his future wife.
Four years later, he had a wife and a son and a daughter. They had his eyes and her hair. He was working on his doctorate, and he had a small office in the University. His days were routine and scheduled. He loved helping to bathe the kids and put them to bed. He felt an ache in his chest with every goodnight kiss. His favorite part of the day was having a glass of wine with his wife after the babies were in bed. Her laugh made him smile. Her head on his chest made it easy to sleep.
One evening, Levi's mugshot was on the news. Erwin almost knocked his wine glass over  when he grabbed the remote to increase the volume. She complained that he would wake the kids. He memorized Levi's legal name.
“Do you know that guy, Ellis?” she asked. Erwin shook his head.
“No,” he said. He turned the volume down again. “I thought I did.”
“You don't know anyone like that,” she said. He smiled at her.
“Like what?”
“I hope you don't know anyone who's dumb enough to try and rob a bank,” she said. He kept smiling, but he felt the resentment take root. He wanted to start a fight with her. He wanted her to regret the words. And he hated it. He resisted it. He tried to force himself to forget. He changed the subject. They watched her favorite movie. He rubbed her feet. He took her to bed and kept her awake all night. She spent twenty minutes combing the knots from her hair the next morning. The makeup that he wouldn't give her time to remove was smudged all over their wet sheets.
Erwin sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the water running while she showered. He thought about Levi while he rested his head in his hands.
His routine helped to distract him. Erwin didn't deviate from his normal schedule. That's how he was able to resist for so long.
In December, Erwin couldn't stop himself. He looked up the address of the penitentiary. He researched how he should address the letter. He read all of the rules about things that might stop Levi from receiving mail. Erwin put pen to paper. Over and over again.
Hello
Dear
My name
I've seen you so many times
Do you believe
I think I know you
I have to try
Erwin threw all of the crumpled pieces of paper in the garbage. He pulled out a single index card and wrote on the lined side.
Is your name Levi Ackerman?
-Erwin Smith
He sealed the index card in the envelope and sent it out with the mail that day.
Two days later, Erwin flipped through his mail at work. He ripped open the envelope as soon as he saw it. The same index card that he had used had been sent back to him. A response was written under his own words.
I can get visitors on Sundays from 13:00 to 17:00.
-Levi
Erwin pulled a sheet of notebook paper from his desk. He put his pen to the paper and stared at the response. Levi's handwriting was just the same. It was beautiful. Erwin looked away from the index card, and the pictures in frames on his desk caught his eye. He stared at his wife's image. The pictures of his children stung. They had his eyes and her hair. His jaw went slack. His heart broke painfully. He imagined going to the prison to see Levi. He imagined living with his wife until his children were older. Levi could get out of prison in fifteen years with good behavior. He imagined the entire betrayal. The divorce papers. His mouth felt dry, and his eyes felt wet. Erwin closed his mouth and swallowed. He blinked until he could see clearly.
I can't
Levi, I tried to find you but
I'm marri
I want
I have two
I didn't think you were real
I want to murder every man who has ever seen you orgasm
I'm so sorry
I can't wait
Why did
I shouldn't have written
Erwin looked at the sheet of paper with broken words. His eyes turned to the index card.
I'll see you on Sunday.
- Erwin
237 notes · View notes
tomahawk-swing · 6 years
Text
Death and all of his Friends
The subway was moving at normal speed. It wasn’t too crowed, and never remained longer than usual at the stations. Dingo’s luck couldn’t have been any higher.
He sat at the far edge of a seat row, his head leaning agaisnt the railing. His uniform felt tighter than ever, his bag weighed onto his knees. Classes might be over for the day being, but his ordeal wasn’t. Just thinking of all the homework he had left made he want to fall asleep, and never wake up.
He envied the man who sat across from him, his feet tucked under his seat, preventing the large bag he had set under the row from moving away. The man had his face entirely hidden in the shadow of his hood, his hands tucked in his sweater’s pocket. Dingo couldn’t wait to get home, rip off his tie, get rid of his shirt and blazer, and finally slip into his beloved hoodie.
The train pulled into yet another station. Amongst the several people to climb up, Dingo spotted an elderly lady, walking with the help of a stick. Automatically, Dingo stood up from his seat, and gestured for the old woman to take it. He received a grateful smile, which he returned, before he moved to the other end of the alley.
A few minutes passed. He was only one station away from home now. At the penultimate station, he saw the old lady climb down, and address him another smile from afar. The man with the sweater climbed down as well but left he bag behind. Dingo wanted to grab the bag and run after its owner, but the alley was too crowded. The automatic doors closed.
The bag exploded.
The blast engulfed the crowd in a cloud of thick smoke. The windows exploded, the passengers’ screams of horror, pain, terror, all blended into one voice. It went out at once, replaced by a heavy silence. A silence of death.
The stenches of burnt metal, charred flesh, singed hair filled the train. Not a single passenger was still standing. People could be heard screaming outside, calling for help. Some tried to open the doors, but the heat of the explosion had melted the metal, trapping the survivors inside. Help could only crawl through the broken windows, at the price of burning their hands on the frames.
Time was slowing down. Dingo’s ears buzzed painfully, as if a drill was piercing through his eardrums. Torturous pain coursed through his side, a weight pushed his body down, making it impossible for him to move or breathe. The sickening stenches and the lingering smoke only made it all worse.
Unable to hear, Dingo could only try to move. His eyes were blinded by the stinging smoke, so he pushed at the weight on his body without realizing what it was. Using all the strength he still possessed, he managed to free himself. He pressed his eyes against his sleeve, and threw a quick glance at the obstacle, before tears came streaming down his face again.
Wide opened eyes stared back at him. Dull, drenched eyes. The eyes of a corpse.
Time stopped. Dingo felt intensely cold, a clear contrast to the wave of scorching heat that had followed the explosion. The buzzing in his ears slowly faded, but he still couldn’t hear a sound. He was able to wipe his eyes again, and prop himself on one elbow. The pain through his side was unbearable, but he held on.
He looked down at his torso. A large piece of metal pierced through his side, and had remained stuck there. His white shirt had already turned scarlet, and the stain kept spreading.
The boy’s attention was taken away from his wound, when he spotted movement in the corner of his vision. A figure was standing a few meters away, swiftly making its way around the fallen bodies. Dingo first believed that they were gracefully hopping between the corpses.
The silhouette was dressed in a long, pitch-black dress, that went down to their ankles. There was nothing below it - the figure wasn’t hopping, it was floating above the bodies. A deep hood covered their entire head. The only part of their body Dingo could see were two skinless hands, sharp, bony fingers sprouting out of the dress’ overlarge sleeves.
“What a mess ...” The silhouette commented, unnoticed to Dingo’s wounded eardrums. “This is how low humanity has stooped ... Cowardly crimes, where the murderer runs from the crime scene to be, leaving his victims to such a cruel fate. How am I supposed to take those tortured souls with me ? This makes me almost regret the times of the black plague ...”
The figure carried a large stick, topped with a crescent-shaped, pointy blade. A scythe, Dingo recalled. It took his foggy brain a few seconds to put the pieces of the puzzle together.
Death itself was standing right next to him.
He hadn’t heard the silhouette move closer. Were his eardrums still out of commission, or was the figure perfectly silent ? He soon figured out the truth.
“We meet again, young man.” The cloaked figure spoke in a deep voice, so deep that it seemed to resonate within Dingo’s very bones. It was chilling, frightening. A single shiver crawled all over Dingo’s skin. The last of his strength finished to faded, and he collapsed to his side again.
“How many times have we crossed path ? How many times have I leaned above your agonizing body, only to be denied the honor of taking you with me ?” The figure was now crouching next to Dingo. They slipped a finger under his chin, the sharp end of it digging into Dingo’s skin, allowing another chill to course down his entire being.
“Too many times, you’ve clung so deseperately to life that I could only let you go. You forgot all your encounters with me, of course. I couldn’t let you brag about defeating Death itself so many times.” The figure commented, in a tone filled with cold anger.
“Too any times, I’ve leaned over your agonizing body ... I’ve heard you beg for another chance, say that you still had people to protect, swear that you would never get into such a situation again ... But all those times, you broke that promise.”
Dingo was at a loss for words. Even if he could form a coherent sentence, the words might not make it through the knot that tied his vocal cords together. All he could do was listen, listen to the surreal figure, listen to its unbearable words. Listen to the last words he would ever hear, before Death lost their patience.
“This asks for punishment.” The cloaked silhouette concluded. They released Dingo’s chin, and slowly stood up. Without warning, a fleshless hand grabbed hold of the metallic piece that dug into Dingo’s skin, and pulled it out in a brutal motion.
Dingo howled in pain. He curled around the now open wound, and felt a warm fluid pool under his side. As cold as he felt, he didn’t want this warmth to keep spreading. He knew all too well that it was only a temporary relief.
“Here is my first suggestion : you will die here. The explosion will be branded a ‘terrorist attack’, your name will be added to the list of casualties, and every year, the entire country will mourn your death, along with those of all the corpses that fill this car.”
“You will die a sad, pitiful death. A victim of this new kind of ‘war’ modern humans have invented. You weren’t able to stand for yourself, and simply try to stop the villain from seeing through with their evil plan. The villain was sitting right across from you this whole time, but you had no idea.”
Dingo couldn’t take this anymore. He couldn’t accept such an end to his story. “I don’t ... I don’t ...” He croaked. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it still carried all the despair he felt. “I don’t ... want to die here ... I can’t ... I still have ... things to do ...”
The figure let out a short chuckle : “Of course. How could I expect your speech to be any different, this time ?” Their head shook in the depth of their large hood. “Very well. You might want to consider my second suggestion, then. Or rather, let’s forget that I’m giving you a choice ...”
“You won’t die here. But here’s the catch : you won’t walk away from this tomb with your life, either.”
“Allow me to explain.” The silhouette crouched down again. Their cold hands closed around Dingo’s, and took them away from his bleeding side. "Your life as you’ve lived it so far will end here. You will become the new bridge between life and death.”
Dingo felt Death’s hand reached for his head. The cold palm met his forehead, while the fingers digged into his skull. The silhouette picked up their scythe again, and made a swinging motion.
The blade stopped a millimeter away from Dingo’s neck. Very slowly, it was pressed into his skin, just deep enough to open a slight cut there. Blood trickled from the wound, one droplet, another one ... then no more.
A tremendous shiver spread through Dingo’s body. His veins were filled with cold fire, devouring his every nerve and muscle, shaking his frame with terrible spasms. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out of his mouth. Only his twisted traits and tortured body conveyed the unbearable pain he was going through.
The pain slowly subsidied, leaving only a cold sensation, as if Dingo had been laying in a deep layer of snow for an entire day. He couldn’t feel any of his limbs, nor hear his heart beating. He felt cold, so cold. Cold as a corpse.
The pressure was lifted from his forehead, and the sharp blade stopped digging into his neck. The silhouette stood up, a hand held out for Dingo to take, and commanded : “Stand up.”
Feeling returned to Dingo’s arms and legs, and he noticed that he no longer felt any pain in his side. He took the fleshless hand, and lifted himself up to his feet.
The moment his palm met Death’s, Dingo felt a prickling sensation spread across his skin. He jumped slightly, and immediately stared at his hand. What was wrong with it ?
“You’ll want to watch what you touch with those hands.” The silhouette warned, with a hint of amusement. “Of course, this wouldn’t truly be a punishment, if there weren’t some drawbacks to it ... But I will let you discover all the details of your new condition on your own. I have wasted enough time on your case.”
Dingo was utterly confused, but he found himself unable to speak again. His eyes were looking for a face in the shade of the silhouette’s hood, but there was nothing to be spotted in the pit of darkness.
"Do not think you have escaped my wrath. If you try to run away from your punishment, I will personally come to put an end to our little agreement. One doesn’t simply make a deal with Death itself, and break it in all impunity.”
“Honor my name. Adore it, fear it.” The silhouette solemnly commanded. Their voice became louder all of a sudden loud as a crack of thunder, louder even than the explosion that had started this all.
“Respect that name, young man. Because from now on, it will be yours.”
Silence fell at once, and the silhouette disappeared. In its stead, only a black cloak remained, similar to the one the figure was wearing. Dingo picked it up and slipped it on, only to realize with surprise that it suited him perfectly. Without a second glance for the corpses that lay all around him, he bolted for the nearest window, and ran away.
The rest of the world was slowly starting to move again, and by the time it had went back to normal, Dingo was already climbing up the stairs, escaping the attacked subway station along with the panicked crowd.
Death’s words kept resonating at the back of his mind. He couldn’t make any sense of them, but his instincts were on high alert. This couldn’t mean anything good. Whatever the ‘punishment’ was, he would suffer from its consequences. But in a way, he was relieved.
Whatever the implications of this ‘deal’ would turn out to be, he would have to live with them. If it meant that he could still share the existence of all his loved ones, that he could still protect them ... It had to be worth it.
How could it be any worse than death ?
9 notes · View notes
snow-slayer · 7 years
Text
Why So Lonely - Fandango Fluff
Here’s some Fandango trash (20 pages of it) fluff I’ve been working on. I think a few things need to be revised, but I haven’t posted anything new lately. Feel free to send any edits or suggestions!
Summary: A demon is rarely welcomed anywhere, but Scaramouche could not bear to see one tormented and killed, so he brings him to his home. (AU where Samurai Jack kills Aku in the past).
Why So Lonely
             Too much blood. Losing it all … I kept dragging my useless body deeper into the woods, as if the wolf would lose interest. There’s no need to look back into the fierce eyes. No need for anything anymore.
           If only I could have found more lingering souls. Surely the wolf had killed something else nearby? Just one might be enough … Might be enough to escape. The teeth sank into my leg again, ripping a piece out.
           It was just toying with me now. Fresh pain shot up my leg as I clawed at the ground. The powerful jaw had crushed my ankle a few minutes earlier. Not like I could have outrun this beast. Not in my starving state, anyway. It probably sensed that when it had taken the first lunge, my cyan blood staining its maul from the gaping wound in my side.
           There was a tree in front of me. Funny, I had killed my first rabbit here. Such a small soul … A fitting place to die. I curled up in front of it, one hand still trying to staunch the blood streaming out of my side, my entire body shaking. Maybe if I had wanted to put on a brave face, I could have sat up and welcomed the killing blow. Offered my throat proudly. I just wanted respite from the pain.
           Respite was coming. The wolf would have been fine, but something else was approaching. It was tall and it had a funny looking two pronged sword. That’s all I could make out before I closed my eyes forever.
~/~
           Something cold and wet touched my foot. I jerked, crying out first in shock, then in pain as I tried to move my ruined left foot.
           “Easy, babe! I haven’t had a chance to get your ankle in a cast.” There he was. At least, I assumed it was the same tall creature from the woods. Smiling now. I scanned him over quickly, starting at his black, steel hat. My eyes widened as I saw the blade, now sheathed at his belt.
           Pressing myself backwards into something soft, I watched as the tall robot froze. He had been slowly approaching, but now studied me. I guess he realized what I had been looking at because he took the dagger and case from his belt, knelt down, and slid the blade across the room.
           “Sorry about that,” he passed me a sheepish grin. “I forgot that I still had it on me, babe. Usually I just leave it in the closet when I’m home.” Home? He was stupid enough to take a demon to his home?
           “Let me just make sure the stitching is holding on your other wounds, and then I’ll set your ankle, okay, babe?” He did not seem intent on trying to kill me, so I nodded. We pushed the comforter he had wrapped me in out of the way as I got my first look at the stitch work. He need not have worried, as it looked incredibly secure to my untrained eye. His steel fingers traced over the stitches on my side as he ‘hmm’ed disappointedly.
           “I’m a little out of practice, babe, but it will hold.” His expression remained unchanged as he looked at the stiches on the back of my leg, ever so gently lifting it off the couch. The movements barely irritated the crushed bones. As he placed my leg back on his couch, I saw the dog, what had previously awoken me, lean closer to continue its own examination. The robot shooed it back before rising to his incredible height and disappearing from the room. The dog stared at me, and I stared back. I’d never seen so many people smile in the presence of a demon like myself. The dog’s lips looked like it was smiling, the wagging tail only adding to the appearance. Its tongue lolled out its mouth, making it look even happier. I had seen dogs before, but never one with such a unique tongue. It was heart shaped, and purple, nearly the same shade as the robot’s coat.
I mimicked the panting, which seemed to please it, as it stood up, tail wagging faster. What am I even doing? The robot returned, beaming as he carried supplies.
“This is my dog, Lola! It looks like she really likes you, babe.” He gently picked her up with one hand, setting Lola on my chest as he took her spot. Although her tail was small, I could feel her whole body vibrating with the force of the wagging. She licked my face a few times. Tentatively, I reached up and patted her on the head, unable to do anything but smile as she leaned into my hand.
“I’ll try to be gentle, babe, but it might hurt,” the robot warned, raising my leg again and putting it on his lap. Clenching my teeth, I tried not to cry out as he worked. A pathetic whimper kept sounding in my own throat, which Lola tried to soothe by licking my face more frantically.
“There! All done, babe. The plaster has to set for a while. Why don’t I fix you something to eat, babe?”
“Okay,” my voice came out choked. He was gentle, but rearranging bones was never pleasant. My broken ankle was again replaced to the soft cushions. The robot wrapped the comforter around me and his dog, Lola’s head the only part still visible. She had settled quite a bit, no longer working to lick away the tears that had threatened to fall as the robot worked.
My eyes slipped closed. It had been three days since I had last had a morsel of nutrition. The forest had been too quiet with winter rapidly approaching. I could usually absorb the remnants of a soul once a predator had made the kill or catching something small to tide me over for a day. Usually, I was left alone in the woods. I suppose I was not really considered a nutritious meal myself, but the wolf had stalked me out. Weakness perhaps made me a good target, or perhaps we were in the same boat, so hungry that it didn’t matter what we consumed.
I had to admit, that whatever the robot was fixing smelled good. From my brief trips into town (if I could stand the harassment and darkened stares), I was under the impression robots did not eat. I myself did not need food, nor gain much value, but that didn’t mean I would not eat on occasions. The robot was singing quietly, not helping me stay conscious.
“Bon appetit, babe!” He swept across the room, his heels clicking on the floor. I groaned, still half asleep as he pulled me up to a seated position. Instinctively, I reached for Lola to make sure she did not fall, but she was no longer there. Leaning me over his lap, he kept me upright enough with his left arm, almost as if I was weightless, wrapping his right arm in front of me. It was a good thing I had no pride as he fed me. I slurped at the soup, if not for energy, then for the warmth it gave. His cooking was superb. Once the bowl ran dry, he let me rest, still leaned against him. He can throw me down whenever he wants, I decided.
“I didn’t catch your name, babe.”
“Demongo,” I murmured as if it mattered.
“Scaramouche. Nice to meet you, babe.” I might have murmured a likewise before I fell asleep.
~/~
           “You have to wear clothes, babe. I personally don’t care if you’re naked, but you can’t come to my work like that. You have to look civilized, Demmie baby,” he explained, rummaging through his closet.
           “I’m a demon.” Need there be any other explanation? He gave a halfhearted scowl, tossing something on the bed next to me. “Besides, why am I going to your work?”
           “Because you need more souls, right, babe?”
           “Yes?” I had explained how I used souls a few days before. Unless he was an assassin or something, I could not see how his work played a role. Him as an assassin was hard to picture, especially with the care he put into sacrificing the deer for me. He would only kill a beast for me to eat if it was near death. Still, there was regret in the robotic blue eyes.
           “And you can gather them discreetly and from a moderate distance away, yes, babe?” I nodded as he picked through what was tossed on the bed. He picked one of the shirts and held it out to me. I hissed.
           “I work at a hospital, and it’s a sad fact of life that people die, babe. So why not collect them? You said yourself that nothing else happens to the soul. It just vanishes. It’d be perfect for you, babe!” I barely caught what he was saying as I thrashed, unable to shy away from what he was dressing me in.
           “They won’t let me in,” I retorted, hissing again before surrendering and taking the pants he held out. “I’m a demon.”
           “I know. You said that earlier, babe. Do you want a tie or a bow tie?”
           “I’d rather die.”
           “I think you’ll look good in a bow tie. I promise, you can take it all off when we’re heading home, babe.” I sighed as he wrapped the material around my throat, tying it off perfectly. As soon as I pulled the pants on, he was putting another suit jacket on me. “You look great, babe!” It was no longer a hiss, but a growl deep in my throat. He pulled open the closet door fully so that I could see myself in the mirror.
           Damn, he was right. I wasn’t going to admire the view, though. It was too confining. Even the flames, which flickered with a hint of blue again, seemed too stiff. He would be lucky if we got out of the hospital before I ripped off the garments.
~/~
           I always watched from afar. It was not my place to interact, nor did many of the residents of the hospital want me to. Scaramouche was the star of the show. He sang and played his flute, entertaining the children currently. Even though he towered over them by at least four feet, they were not alarmed. Spinning, dancing, singing along, they were making the most of a dreary location. I had fed for the day, so I merely sat and watched. Sometimes we would go around to the rooms, and Scaramouche helped me blend in by forcing me to carry brought pieces of floating trash (“Balloons, babe. They’re balloons and people like them.”) and other times I would pretend to be his official flute holder as he sat and told stories.
           The kids were drifting away. As much as a good song entertained, there was ice cream served with lunch, always appealing as I had come to understand. The kids brushed past the new comer who stood just inside the doorway. Scaramouche glanced up to check on me, so I gave a slight nod to the door. The young adult must have been waiting for an invitation, as he hesitantly came over once Scaramouche beckoned him over. He cast a suspicious glance at me, only because I was not blessed with the gift of invisibility. A little levitation if I had the energy, but that was the extent of my powers.
           His voice was soft. Leaning into speak to the robot, I only caught the last part, a hasty “if you’re not too busy.”
           “Of course not, babe!” Scaramouche raised his flute, the blue lights disappearing as he prepared to play. It was not a children’s song. That much I could tell right away. Too sad, and somber for that, but just enough hope to avoid a label of depressive.
           It was just the three of us when the song ended. The young man’s lip trembled as a few tears slithered down his face. I don’t know how something so tall and menacing was so gentle, but Scaramouche pulled the boy into a hug, silent for once.
~/~
           “Do you think we’ll get to meet him today?” I posed to Lola before flopping down in front of her. “Or do you think he’ll be too busy for poor Scaramouche for the umpteenth time?” Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought her dog grin wavered just a bit. There was not long to ponder as she began licking my face.
           “Have you met him?” As if she could answer, I mused to myself. “Maybe you just want him to be with someone, anyone, huh? That’s your goal in life: to make him less lonely.”
           Scaramouche must be lonely. He had no other reason to keep a demon in the house. Sure, he had no soul (I checked), but his dog was so vulnerable. Here he was, leaving me alone with her again. Perhaps I had earned his trust, especially when he told me why Lola was given to him.
           X-49, one of Scaramouche’s friends (although it sounded more like a father figure sometimes), had a dog named Lulu who had given birth to four pups. Lola had a heart shaped tongue like her siblings, but it was purple. X-49 had decided she would adore Scaramouche’s coat. He introduced him, and they got along instantly.
           Of course, it helped that she was predesigned to love music. Almost like a child, she would dance when Scaramouche played the flute.
           There was a click as the door was unlocked. I stood up, smoothing down my flaming hair to appear less aggressive. Two robots walked in the door, although Scaramouche looked much more pleased than his shorter counterpart.
           Sal was not half as exciting as Scaramouche made him out to be. Scaramouche introduced us along the lines of “boyfriend meet my strange, demon house mate, Demongo.” Of course he said it in a much more polite matter, but I was studying Sal. The shorter robot roamed around the main room for a moment, moving trinkets and running his robotic fingers along the framed pictures. I sat on the couch, beckoning Lola over from the dog bed in the corner to which she had retreated. His face rested in a disinterested look, but I thought the corners of his mouth dipped a bit when Lola jumped in my lap. Trying not to be rude, I tilted my head down, scratching the top of Lola’s head.
           Sal continued his exploration, disappearing into the master bedroom for a long few minutes. He poked his head in my room. Biting my tongue, I reminded myself that it was merely the guest room, and one I may need to vacate for the night since Scaramouche had a real guest and not just a demon.
           “Dinner’s ready, babe!” Sal’s meal was placed first, as it should have been, although mine looked much more appetizing. Sal’s was a nicer brand of oil than what Scaramouche usually consumed, but there’s only so much you can do to make it presentable. Lola received her home cooked meal before Scaramouche joined us at the table.
           It was oddly quiet, even though more people sat around the table. Sal not only had little to say to the demon in the room, but little to add in general. Scaramouche chatted pleasantly, as if oblivious to the tension.
           “Feelin’ pretty tired. We hittin’ the sack early?” His eyes drifted to the master bedroom, much to my surprise.
           “Sure, baby. Let me just clean up from dinner.”
           “I’ll get it!” I volunteered quickly. Usually, my requests to help out went unheeded with a wave of his hand. Tonight, the hesitation clouded his features.
           “Are you sure, babe?”
           “No problem!” I bestowed upon him my best smile. So his boyfriend was more important than a guest (as it should be, I hastily reminded myself). He dropped off an arm load of the dishes in the sink before the two of them retired to the master bedroom, closing the door behind him.
           It took a while, but the kitchen was clean. Not spotless, but the dishes were away at least. Now that the sink was off, I heard the scratching. Lola was gently pawing at the base of the door, her nails clicking occasionally. I felt a pang at the dog’s dismissal for the night. The door to the master bedroom was nearly always open, allowing Lola to come and go as she pleased.
           “Come on, Lola. You can sleep with me tonight.” I went to pick her up, hearing a slight growl. Jerking my hands and body away. She let out a quiet whimper, ashamed before padding over to me, the cute smile gone.
           “It’s okay. You just startled me. Worst things have growled at me.” Picking her up, she apologized with a few kisses to my face. I too, usually left my door at least cracked open, but not tonight. I wanted to at least give Sal a good nights sleep.
~/~
           A jingle, a bark, maybe a quick wrap at the door. Those were normal ways to wake up on a Saturday morning. Usually when the sun was up. Shattering glass was not in the equation.
           The second crash made  me jump, arms up incase I needed to defend myself. Lola was already clawing at my door. Kneeling down, I patted her on the head, trying to calm both of our nerves as I pressed my ear to the door.
           Yelling. It was Sal, but I could not quite make out the words. Sometimes there was a pause, a quiet murmur from Scaramouche before another shouting match.
           “I don’t know if we should get involved.” I slid to the floor. “What if I’m the reason for this? Aren’t they good friends?” Lola offered no comfort this time, merely trying to dig through the door. I heard stomping, and didn’t want her to get under foot, so I refused her exit. My resolve to lay back in the bed was broken as I heard something collide with my door, hard.
           I recognized his groan and it was close to where I was spying on them. Steeling my nerves, I turned the knob, keeping Lola back with my foot.
           Six inches was all I needed to see. Part of it was obscured by the purple coated robot, but enough destruction caught my eyes. Furniture overturned, shattered glass, and a black substance spilled on the floor.
           “Are you—” The door was ripped from my hands, slammed closed. I tried pulling it open, but it would not budge.
           “What’s going on?” I shouted, both feet pressed against the wall as I pulled with all my might. The shouting went on a bit longer and there was another sharp thump against my door (his head hitting the door, my mind screamed). My arms hurt from straining, so I sat on the ground.
           After an hour ticked by, my shaking only subsiding a bit when Lola climbed into my lap with a quiet whimper, I tried the door again. It eased open.
           Peering through, I couldn’t see anyone. The disaster was slowly being repaired. Granting myself a few more inches, I finally found him kneeling in the kitchen mopping up the black substance with an already stained towel. The hinge let out a small squeak, a huge screech in the silence. He glanced up, eyes wide.
           Before I could get the words out, he asked the question on the tip of my tongue. “Are you alright, babe?”
           “Yeah, I’m fine.” I picked up Lola. A shard of glass in my foot would be painful, but only for a few minutes. Shuffling out, I got a little closer to him, noticing the tears in his usually perfect coat. “Are you okay?”
           “Just a little fight, babe. I … must have said something to offend him. Go back to bed.” Lola was wriggling in my arms, trying to free herself and get to him. I took a few steps closer, his warning coming seconds too late.
           I swore at the sharp pain, leaning back on my heel. He was over in a second, eyes burning with concern. Before he could do anything, I thrust Lola into his hands.
           “No worries,” I grimaced, jerking out the piece of glass covered in a light blue. “I heal fast when I’m well fed.”
           “I’m so sorry, babe. I thought I had cleaned up there, but … it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have pressured him to come, babe. I just thought … I just thought! … Never mind,” he glared down at the ground, shaking his head violently. Nervous laughter escaped me before I even realized what was happening.
           “It’s alright. Hardly a scratch!” I put a hand on his shoulder, showing him the tiny cut, which I was rapidly healing before our eyes by consuming the energy from the souls stored within me. “You can’t even see it! Can I help you clean up?”
           “No!” the tone was too harsh and we both realized it. “It’s alright, babe. Get some sleep. You look exhausted.” Funny he would say that when it looked like his movements were sluggish with a lack of charge and his eyes were growing dull. Gently, I lowered my foot back to the floor, and took Lola back from him. She was satisfied, having been held for a moment by Scaramouche. I turned back to the guest room (screw it, my room), and opened the door, noticing that I left a black smudge on the knob. I shifted Lola to one hand and studied my fingertips, sticky with the black substance similar to that I had seen on the floor.
           Stealing a glance back, I saw the source. On the back of his shoulder was a black stain seeping lower down his back.
           “You uh … you have something on the back of your right shoulder,” I murmured. He tensed, before letting out a quiet laugh.
           “I guess I got some old grease spilled on me.”
~/~
           Blood. I jerked awake much later, rubbing my fingers on the sheets as I remembered the sticky, black fluid. It was a horrible lie, but I was too tired to notice then. Dashing to the bathroom, I pulled out the dirty disposable towel I had used and sniffed it. It had a burnt and oily smell. As I suspected, it was his blood.
           Maybe one thing held true from last night: I did look rather exhausted. He was spoiling me, giving me a safe place to sleep for long hours at a time, and I loved it. It was still early, for me at least, but I slept fretfully at best for the few hours I had holed back up in here. With Lola fast asleep, I gently opened the door again. While I tried to sleep, he had accomplished quite a lot. The furniture, while sustaining a few blemishes and rips, had been righted; the glass swept away; the whole floor mopped and sparkling.
           His body was still in the kitchen, but his mind was elsewhere as he wiped down the counters. His eyes passed over me twice before he finally saw me. A soft grin was forced onto his features.
           “Good morning, babe. You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t started breakfast yet.”
           “Good morning.” Sleep well? Are you okay? Are you hurt? The questions raced, but he already looked too overwhelmed. “Don’t worry about me. I’m … not very hungry.” It was a pleasant morning ritual, but one I gained little from. No need for him to do extra work on my behalf, I decided. Of course he took it a different way.
           “I’m sorry, babe,” the smile drooped. “I didn’t mean for the argument to upset you.” I plastered my own fake grin, realizing I kept my face too even.
           “Oh no! I’m not upset. I just … had a lot at dinner. It was really good.” Hopefully that would placate him for now. I wished I could tell him he looked horrible and needed to stop, at least for a little while. Instead, I perched at one of the bar stools, noticing there was one less than usual.
           “How’s your shoulder?” I finally ventured. He had at some point changed into one of his other jackets, so at least his clothing looked unruffled. A flash of fear before the memory of what he told me resurfaced.
           “Cleaned up, babe. The grease might have stained my other jacket though,” the sheepish grin confirmed my theory. Yet, he didn’t complain of injury nor check his shoulder, so I supposed it was just a messy, shallow wound.
           “Are you alright?” I pressed, expecting only more lies. Even if he was lying, I could not be mad. He was doing it to make sure I didn’t worry, because he was a damn good host.
           “Sure, babe. I’m just a little … just …” he gestured his hand, maybe looking for a word, maybe fending the question off. There was no definitive answer, so the silence reigned again. Not even a quiet tune drifted over from him as he worked, restoring his home to its former glory. At least, as close as it could come.
           Shelves were missing items, the walls were bare in places, and I had suspicions that we would be low on dishes. Did he steal from you, too? I wondered. And just how bad did he hurt you?
           “Hey, babe?” I jerked up, having been dozing at the counter. I waved off the apology with one hand, scrubbing my eyes with the other. “If you’re not busy later, maybe … could I ask you to pick up some groceries, babe?”
           “Of course!” He gave me a smile of thanks.
~/~
           It wasn’t thanks, but relief. How could I be so stupid? I stared out the bus window, willing every light to be in our favor.
           “I’m not feeling too well,” he had finally decided after he has asked if I was free. I had just wanted to help, but now I feared he was playing me again. He had told me to take my time when I left, giving me money, too much money when I thought about it. So naturally, I went as fast as demonly possible, missing half the things on the list, probably, but I figured it was for me anyway. I’d check on him, apologize, and then go back if I had to.
           The bus pulled up to the stop and I grabbed the bags and ran. The startled cries and stares didn’t matter. I had the receipt so no one could claim I stole the groceries as I pounded down the street. I reached his small home, tongue hanging out as I tried to catch my breath. Over my pounding heart, I heard the sorrowful howls.
           Shoving the key in the lock after a couple of failed tries, I wrestled the door open, the howls becoming louder. The master bedroom door was closed again. Fresh claw marks, compliments of Lola, had already been carved into the base of the door. He evidently prepared for my return, having placed some sort of weight in front of his door.
           “Scaramouche! Are you ok?” A stupid question, but I was a stupid demon. There was more of the black oil and other liquids tinted in a barrage of colors seeping under the door. I leaned heavily against the door, my knees weakening. There was a soft scrape against the door. A low moan followed.
           “Call … X-49, babe … I … help.” A weird buzz sounded in the pauses between his words. Nearly stumbling over Lola, I raced to the kitchen, grabbing his phone and flicking through the list of contacts. Even in my shock, a hiss escaped me as I scrolled down the short list. I found X-49 and dialed, zero idea as to what I would say to this robot.
           “What’s wrong?” a gruff voice answered. At least it made it easy. If I can get the words out.
           “Scaramouche … he is … he needs your help!” There. Message delivered. There was a pause on the other end of the line, too long of a silence.
           “I’ll be there in an hour.” No other instructions or information, just a click as the line went dead. As ridiculous as it was, I put the groceries away, leaving the front door wide open before I sat down against the bedroom door. Lola eventually climbed into my lap, her whole body still. My eyes were fixed on the front door.
           The robot, X-49 I presumed, barged in exactly one hour since he ended the call. He was shorter than Scaramouche, but his presence was unnerving. Paired with the steely determination and well-fitting dark clothing, he looked downright terrifying. I rolled to my feet, picking Lola up, who shook in relief at the sight of him. He gave her a quick pat on the head before trying the door. Where I had been deterred, he squared his shoulders after setting his case down and pushed harder, forcing the door open. The scrape of metal on wood returned until he stopped pushing. He picked up his case, stepping over the puddle. Setting Lola down, I followed him, immediately regretting my decision.
           The weight I had struggled with was Scaramouche himself. His body was limp, having fallen forward when X-49 got the door open. Grabbing his legs, X-49 pulled Scaramouche flat on his back, my stomach twisting at the sharp clang as his head hit the floor and his arms, wet with oil, dragged unnaturally. The purple coat was already open, so X-49 pushed it out of the way, revealing the plates having been pried open. Wires were cut and tubes were leaking a small but steady stream. X-49 said not a word, reaching into the mangled mess with one hand, oblivious to the oil (Blood! His guts are spilling all over the place!). The tools he used sparked and whined sharply, but the worst was the silence in between. The usual whirl that I had grown accustomed to when Scaramouche was around and that accompanied his every move was now absent. Sure, X-49 made a similar sound, but it was a different pitch. I found myself holding onto the wall, barely upright as I gawked, obsessed at the impromptu surgery. His face never changed. At least with Scaramouche, he eyes would change shape when he worked, and I didn’t know every expression, but I could see at least a few of the emotions. With X-49, there was nothing, and I so desperately craved an update on what was happening.
           “You can wait outside,” he finally stated. “I’ll handle this.” I nodded, but didn’t move. His eyes shifted to me, a studying glance perhaps, before he turned back to his work.
           “I don’t know if he’s going to be okay. The damage is extensive. I’ve stopped the main problems, but there is a chance the circuits are damaged beyond repair. We’ll know after the reboot. Wait in the living room, and I can give you more information in a few hours.” My feet shuffled out on their own, having to jump over the growing puddle. Waiting for me on the couch was something a little easier on the eyes.
           Lola, and two other dogs sat in the couch as if expecting me. I recognized the older one as Lulu, and guessed the other was one of Lola’s siblings. They were all on top of me as soon as I sat on the couch. When X-49 finally reemerged, all three of them were asleep on me, lolling me into a false hope.
           “It seems like the critical functions have remained intact. He will require a few days of recovery and a full reboot. I’ve refilled some vital fluids, but he lost a lot. We’re going to go out, feed you, pick up more materials, and then come back here.”
           “Can … can I see him?”
           “Not much to see now. The floors a mess, but the plates have been replaced. He’s in a critical stasis now. He spoke to me though, told me you needed to consume souls. He will not be able to feed you for the next few days and I will need to take my post after I finish tending to him.” No sense in complaining, so I gently nudged my companions to the couch and followed him. He locked the door behind us, using his own key.
           His motorcycle was much newer and bigger than Scaramouche’s, bearing the emblem of the National Guard. Scaramouche had mentioned X-49 was head guard of his division. I climbed on behind him, feeling a smile touch my lips at the small side car which must be for his dogs. He headed out as I held fast to his waist.
           After an hour of driving, we reached the woods where Scaramouche had originally found me. It was funny how domesticated I had become since then. I still wore the clothes that I had worn when shopping, even though it had been quite a few hours. From the inside of his coat, X-49 drew a gun, heading into the heart of the forest. Without warning, he fired a shot ahead of us, stirring up quite a rustle. He hurried forward and I ran to keep up with him. A dead deer lay before us. I gathered its soul, nodding to X-49 when I was finished. He hunted impressively, none of the reserves that Scaramouche had in the early days. After I assured him several times I would be sustained for the next week at the least, we headed back to the clearing he parked in.
           “I should have asked earlier. Are you okay?” I tilted my head, studying his still neutral face. He forced an awkward smile, but it helped.
           “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just … a different hunting style then I’m used to.”
           “I’m sorry. I forgot that it bothers people to see no remorse. I was just in a hurry. Are you okay with what happened to Scaramouche?”
           “No.” Might as well be honest. I still felt like I could hurl, my nerves still frayed from seeing the self-inflicted wounds.
           “Are you scared?” I nodded. “Are you angry? Sad?” I bit my lip, glancing away from the steady look. His mouth had returned to his neutral look.
           “Maybe? I don’t know. I’m just … I’m scared. I’m upset. I just want him to be okay!”
           “It’s complicated. I see. It’s hard for me to understand what you are feeling because I don’t have all the emotions myself. I know the words and some of the symptoms, but I can’t read them. I know basic desire. Everything else I can only guess at. Scaramouche asked me to make sure you were alright.” That was my tipping point. X-49 probably thought I went crazy. I started laughing, all of this too absurd. Scaramouche wanted to make sure I was thriving as he laid in a pool of his own blood.
           After a few steps, I fell to my knees, sobbing. X-49 let me spend a few minutes getting it out of my system before he sat down on the ground next to me. The embrace was empty, but right now, it was better than nothing. He let me lament a while longer before I told him I was ready to run the next errand with him.
~/~
           I was glad Scaramouche was cooking again. Lola ate what I managed not to burn, but she was much happier with him. My elbows rested on the counter as I watched him mix in the spices to whatever he was making. Neither one of us were alright, but we pretended, nevertheless. He had not said a word on the matter, not even the apology I had expected him to make. I didn’t have the heart to bring it up. He had asked generally if I was okay, and since he had lied to me, I told him I was fine. My questions would not erase the past, just a morbid curiosity. Even Lola could sense something was up, as he had no privacy from her.
           “I’m going to rest for a few minutes.” I wasn’t sure if he wanted my permission or just felt the need to keep me updated. I nodded anyway, watching as he looked like he wanted to say something else, as he had lately looked. He did not add anything, merely serving me and placing a bowl down for Lola before sinking heavily on the couch. The blue eyes vanished as he powered down for a recharge.
           The first few times he had done this after he began to walk around, I panicked. X-49 had warned me, but the quiet was unnerving. It was less frequent than in the first two days, and he looked like he was recovering well. The only thing that hadn’t come back yet was his zest for life.
           X-49 had told me he would be upset, not that he needed to. I had sat at the closed door, listening and my heart breaking as Scaramouche sobbed after the reboot. I’m sure X-49 tried his best to comfort him. After Scaramouche had grown quiet, X-49 had explained that he could not be his lover, as he could not reciprocate the feelings and insisted that Scaramouche deserved better. The conversation sounded rehashed, like he had given a similar one many times in the past. When I heard the footsteps coming towards the door, I dashed back to the couch, where the three dogs had saved me a spot, happily climbing on top of me as if I had been there the whole time.
           I wish I could comfort him, but I was just as useless as X-49, a dying demon from the woods without an ounce of love in my being. I had seen mating, sure, but what did I know of long term relationships? Nothing, except that both parties are supposed to be happy. Lola had climbed into the robot’s lap, watching as I cleaned up after us.
           “You know what love is, don’t you?” I smiled at her. She gave a short ‘arf’ in response, which made me flinch.
           “Shhh, let him sleep. He deserves it.”
~/~
           “You know, babe, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. I’m not keeping you hostage.” The time had come. I had finally outstayed my welcome. Although, it had taken longer than expected. Months longer than anticipated. It had almost been a year since Scaramouche had rescued me.
           “Oh … I’m sorry. I can leave whenever you want.” I at least felt a bit more confident. He was a little more sullen than when I had met him, but it did not seem like a ploy this time. X-49 had visited more frequently, coming once a week, often with his dogs. It was not a long visit, just to confirm everything was okay and that the new plates were holding. X-49 had told me that he had installed a suicide prevention circuit at Scaramouche’s request, so he did not really need either of us.
           The blue orbs flared in panic. Said the wrong thing again. He must constantly think of himself as a bad host. “I mean, I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality any more than I already have.”
           “It’s not that, babe. I just … I uh, well, we don’t visit your home a lot, and, well, babe, if you don’t want to be here …”
           “I like it here. I like you.” Taking care of me! I kept my mouth shut, watching as he stared into the pot of whatever he was cooking. Finally, he settled on a chuckle, having gone through quite a variety of facial expressions.
           “I’m glad you think I’m almost a decent host, babe.” Another chuckle escaped him, but it sounded off. It was infuriating.
           “I’m serious! I think you’re great.” The quiet laughter only paused for Scaramouche to get out another line.
           “It’s okay, babe. You don’t have to do this to make me feel better.” He had his fake grin plastered on his face, but his the corners of his metal mouth trembled. The metal plating rattled as a dominate expression fought to be revealed.
           “But you deserve to be happy!” I finally shouted. Something inside me was boiling, besides my hair. “You’re so kind, so understanding.” He just shook his head, letting out another weak chuckle as he turned his back to me.
           “You … you don’t understand, babe,” he whispered, a hand coming up to his face. I leaned forward on the counter, trying to see what he was doing. The second hand followed, both being pressed against his mouth.
           “What? What don’t I understand?” my voice was too loud, but now it had gracefully transformed into borderline panic. His gave another small shake of his head before he dropped to his knees. The barstool clattered to the floor as I skidded around the counter. From between his fingers dripped the black oil, accompanied by a charred smell. He’s injured! He’s dying again!
           My whole arm trembled as I touched his shoulder. Unable to feel the small motion, I crawled, trying to get in front of him, trying to get him to see me. Lola had joined us as well, sensing something was wrong even in her deep slumber.
           “Do I need to call X-49?” my voice had fallen back into a normal octave range. He shook his head, finally letting out a small whimper.
           “I didn’t … Didn’t, babe. Didn’t mean for you to see me … see me like this, babe.” Even behind his hands, I could tell his jaw was trembling, as if he was trying to physically hold back a cry of sorrow. There was not much oil, but enough to cause concern.
           “What’s going on?”
           “Nothing, babe,” his voice was quiet, but growing steady. “Just … just too emotional for my own good. Don’t worry about it, babe.”
           “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you!” He let out the stricken chuckle once more, raising his shoulders as if he could hide behind them.
           “It’s not you, babe. It’s … well, do you know what I was built for, babe? My purpose?”
           “No?” His shoulders were shaking with his quiet laughter.
           “Me neither, babe. I wasn’t built for anything. I’m a test, meant to be destroyed when the data was collected. I don’t have any useful skills, or talents, or anything, babe. Just a faulty chip trying to cram in too many emotions all at once.” The flow from his mouth was too great and finally spilled to the ground. He leaned forward just enough to keep it off of his coat.
           “What about cooking?”
           “I’m not good enough for any restaurant, babe.”      
“You’re really good at playing the flute and making people happy.”
           “That’s not a real job, babe. They’re only paying because they pity me.”
           “I’ve seen the children. Their eyes light up when you arrive. Everyone loves you there.” His eyes took the small cressant shapes, almost like when he was happy, but too small still.
           “You really don’t have to try this hard, babe. I’ll pull myself together in a few minutes.” I wrapped my arms around his waist, trying to imitate what I had seen at the hospital. I wasn’t sure if it would work on a robot, but it was worth a try. Lola joined in, climbing into his lap and placing her tiny paws as high up on his chest as she could get them.
           “We don’t want you to be upset,” I insisted, nuzzling my head against his shoulder. The hug failed, as he ended up sobbing, one arm around my back, the other pulling Lola close. He quieted after a long while, my knees aching from kneeling on the floor.
           “I’m too lucky to have you both. Don’t take offense to what I said earlier, babe. You’re always welcome to stay here.”
~/~
           “It’s a date!” I explained again. “I put on a bow tie for you.” His fingers came up, to adjust the horrible mess at my throat, but he changed his mind, grin widening. He had been trying to dissuade me, insisting I did not have to go through all this trouble. Especially not for him.
           “Okay, babe,” he finally relented. “It’s a date. You’re in charge.” Yet, his eyes were bright. Brighter than they had been in a while.
           “Let’s go to a big open field! I’ll show you the stars!”
           “That’ll be nice, babe. I don’t know anything about astronomy. Studying the stars, babe,” he amended when I gave him a questioning look.
           “Me neither, but they’re pretty.” Like you. No, too stupid. Not that the statement was worse than when I had the epiphany I liked him. It stuck violently early one morning the week before. The realization was so strong that I woke him, not sure if I should apologize or hug him again. With his arms wrapped around me at that early hour, I definitely felt better about it. He could have treated me like a creature, fed me like his dog, but he had not. He played music for me sometimes, he talked to me, stood up for me.
           We loaded his bike, taking a blanket, snacks, and Lola. Heading the opposite way from my woods, he took us out to a field. There were a few people around, who cast a strange glare in our direction.
           “Here!” I tapped the ground with my foot. Blanket spread on the ground, I plopped down, scratching Lola behind her ears. Scaramouche prepared our snacks, arranging them artfully as always.
           “Wine, babe?”
           “I’m … not whining?” With a tilt of his head, he studied me hard before a laugh erupted from him.
           “I’m sorry, babe,” his voice shook as he tried to control his laugh. “Wine. It’s a drink, babe. You know, the red stuff I cook with sometimes?”
           “Oh! You can drink it? Plain?” In order to spare my feelings, he pressed his metal lips into a tight grin and nodded. Who knew when he packed all that, but he pulled out two wine glasses and a bottle. He filled them both, handing one to me.
           “Shall we make a toast, babe?”
           “You brought the toaster?” He had to turn away again, trying hard not to make a sound. I guess he knows how stupid I really am.
           “Hold your glass up, babe. Like this.” He held his glass up and slightly away from him, a movement which I mimicked. Touching them together with a soft clink, he smiled.
           “To a wonderful evening together, babe.”
           “Yeah,” I felt the need to say something. Detracting his arm, he took a sip. After a quick sniff, I sipped at it, shuddering at the full strength of the flavor. I drained the glass for fear of offending him, wondering if he liked it or could even taste it, since he still had a generous amount left.
           “More, babe?” Shaking my head, I sat my empty glass down, glancing skywards. There was a splatter of stars, but not enough yet. We were silent for a long while. I watched as he rested his forearm on the ground, palm up, a sign of fatigue I knew well from my time in the woods. I cast a glance over, watching as he quickly turned away from my gaze. He’s hurt or tired, and he thinks I’m the biggest idiot that ever existed. I’m surprised it’s not cloudy.
           “Tell me about the stars, babe.” He patted his lap so Lola would come back to our blanket, having been following a butterfly around the field. With her food placed in a bowl, he leaned back, folding both hands on his chest. I laid down next to him, scanning the sky for my usual images. I had spent many nights perched in a tree and out of danger, staring at the stars. This is my only skill.
           “See those three stars in a row? That’s a belt. Look above it and below it. Those bright stars? They form a hunter.”
           “I see it, babe.”
           “And those four, almost in a square, plus the ones in a line from it? It kind of looks like the pans you cook with.” I was on a roll. For a few hours, I spewed out images, pointing all across the sky. Foxes, horses, one that almost looked like Lola if you squinted, and all sorts of things. He’d point as well, adding to our repertoire.
           “You know a lot about the stars, babe.”
           “That’s about it.” All my knowledge was given to him. Perhaps we should stop dating now. I’ve got nothing for a second date.
~/~
           “Hey, babe?” His voice was quiet, as if he wanted me to hear, but did not want to wake me if I was already asleep. I had been on the verge, but I scrubbed at my eyes.
           “Yeah?” I could see his eye take sharp angles in the darkness, like he was ashamed. Cause I sound too groggy.
           “If you, uh, if you wanted to sleep with me, babe. If you, I mean, if you’re lonely.” Oh no! No, no, no! He wants to mate with me! I may be ignorant of a lot of things, but I knew what sleeping together meant: No sleep. He was peering in, only one eye visible, as I stared back slack-jawed. I was fairly certain he could not see me.
           “Sure,” my body betrayed me, answering the opposite of what I wanted while showing how terrified I was. “In a few minutes?” Maybe he didn’t catch the fear, as he was clearly happy. Once his frame had moved from the doorway, I panicked. Pillow pressed to my face, I prepared for the screams that would inevitably come.
           He’s too powerful! Too alpha! He’ll kill me! That shook me out of the stupor. The laugh was muffled, the pillow soaking up the sound and tears that rolled down my face.
           “He’ll be gentle,” I assured myself. “If not, I have the soul energy. It’ll be okay.” Breathing continued to come unnaturally for a few more minutes. When I thought I could walk, I forced myself up, arms wrapped around myself. My feet led me to his bedroom door, left wide open for me. A lamp was on, illuminating his frame as he sat on the edge of the bed and petting Lola.
           “I, uh … Sorry it took so long.” My words sounded so far away, almost completely muffled by my pounding heart. He glanced up, his glee quickly vanishing as he stood up and came over. The hand that had came up to my shoulder jerked away when I flinched.
           “Are you okay, babe? You don’t look well. Your hair is acting funny, too.”
           “I’m not ready!” I blurted out, ready to retreat to my room if my feet would function.
           “Not ready for what, babe?”
           “To mate with you. I like you. I like you a lot, but I can’t!” His head tilted before I hung my head in shame.
           “Oh, Demmie, baby. I would never do anything to hurt you or make you uncomfortable. Come here,” he spread his arms. I sauntered over into the embrace, still shaking. “I only asked in case you wanted company at night, babe. It’s been half a year since we started dating, but I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. I won’t ever mate with you unless you want to.” Nuzzling into his coat, I finally returned his hug. At least he could not feel how tight I clung to him, as I kept my knees from weakening and collapsing.
           “Sorry I’m not good at this dating thing,” I murmured.
           “I’m not either, babe. I’m sorry I scared you.” My shaking subsided as he traced gentle circles on my back.
           “Why don’t you go back to bed, babe? I’ll keep the noise down in the morning so you can sleep in.”
           “I mean, I’m here. I might as well stay, right?” Nervous laughter did not make my point, but he sighed, frustrated with himself, as always. He released me, watching as I walked to the opposite side of the bed he had been sitting on. I climbed under the covers. Leaning down to give Lola one last pat on the head, he followed suit, turning off the lights.
           “Are you comfortable, baby?”
           “Yeah. Scaramouche?”
           “Hmm, babe?”
           “If you didn’t want to mate, why did you ask if I wanted to sleep in here with you?” He was silent, his eyes giving away every thought that crossed his mind. “What do you want?”
           “Oh, nothing, babe. It was just a silly thought anyway.”
           “I want to know! I never know what you want.”
           “Alright, babe. I thought it might be nice to cuddle a bit. You don’t have to, babe.” I slid a little closer, suddenly aware that there were too many limbs. The last time he had held me, I was wrapped head to toe in a blanket.
           “I think I’d like that,” I murmured, waiting for him to make the move. He opened his arms to me, holding me loosely as I tried to figure out what to do with my arms. It took a few more moments of situating before I could get mostly comfortable, my own right arm tucked against me. One of his legs shifted too close. Or do we intertwine them as well? I tried getting my legs comfortable, awkwardly resting one on top of his.
           “Sorry. I don’t know how to do this,” I gave a sheepish apology after another near violent readjustment.
           “Whatever makes you comfortable, babe. We also don’t have to do this tonight.”
           “I think I’m set. Are you good?”
           “With you, babe. Always.”
~/~
           It was a rare day when we were both free all day. I had managed to get a quiet job, out of sight of any customer, but it paid a little bit. Well, enough that I could chip in on the rent. Scaramouche begrudgingly took half of the money I earned. He swore to the moon and back I did not need to pay him anything, especially since the house originally belonged to X-49, who had sold it to Scaramouche for a low price and only collected a small payment each month.
           I sat snuggled under one arm and a blanket, hardly able to focus as Scaramouche read out loud. Lola was similarly asleep on his lap. The warm soup weighed heavily on me now, the soothing tone of his voice lolling me to sleep. A sharp knock at the door brought an unsolicited growl from me as my source of comfort silenced and went to investigate.
           “What are you doing here, babe?” Not a tone I ever expected to hear from him.
           “Just stoppin’ by to visit an old friend.” My eyes narrowed as I glared over the top of the couch. “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” Not that he needed an invitation. Even though Scaramouche towered over him by almost two heads, Sal pushed his way in, a hint of anger flickering across Scaramouche’s face.
           “What do you want, babe?”
           “I just need some money, Scara. Love what you’ve done with the place.”
           “No!” Perhaps he was surprised that I was still here, or the fact that I spoke out. Even Scaramouche seemed knocked into some sort of stupor.
           “Nooo? You’ve got nothin’ to do with this, demon.” I snarled, for all the good it would do.
           “How much, babe?”
           “Five grand.”
           “No!” I repeated, hearing a tremor as I thought about the number. That’s more than what both of us make in a month. Probably two months.
           “You really should learn to control your pet, Scara. Can’t be havin’ a demon get out of line.”
           “Demongo’s not a pet, babe. He’s my boyfriend.” His tone had hit the dangerous note again, filling me with hope.
           “You’ve fallen low, sex bot.” He extended his hand expectantly.
           “No, babe. Not this time.” Scaramouche crossed his own arms, standing just a bit taller. “I gave you money before. You swore you were getting help, babe, and I was happy to pay for that help. But you were lying to me. Then you stole from me, babe. An entire month’s worth of pay and you told me to die. And I almost did, babe. I’d be dead if it weren’t for Demongo.”
           “Jeeze, no need to be so dramatic. I can take half now, half later.” Scaramouche closed his eyes, as if trying to hide the anger. He succeeded, because he was deadly calm when he spoke again.
           “Alright, babe. I’ll give you the money on one condition: We take you to rehab and the money is used for treatments.”
           “Sure, sure, I’ll go.” His hand still remained outstretched.
           “When we get there, babe.” I had to duck lower behind the couch to hide my smirk as Sal’s eyes flared.
           “I said I’d go. Don’t trust me, freak?” Scaramouche gestured towards the motorcycles parked out front, his stance unwavering. I was quite pleased, for all of two seconds.
           Sal lashed out, striking Scaramouche’s jaw so hard the lower half became disconnected slightly. Scaramouche hit the ground hard, spewing out oil as Sal’s foot connected sharply with his throat. Pole vaulting myself over the couch, I flung my body at him. He staggered back a few steps as I rammed my shoulder into the center of his chest again.
           “Get out!” I screamed. My request was met with a fist to the side of my head, sending me reeling.
           “Or what? Scaramouche ain’t gonna call the cops. He didn’t last time, and won’t this time, will you?” Scaramouche let out a moan, less of a response and more of a checking on me kind of grunt. I spat out the cyan blood in my mouth, charging him again. The wolf hit him first.
           Sal’s eyes went wide as a smoky wolf appeared before him in mid leap. The apparition knocked him to the ground, snarling. I slid to a stop. I recognized the wolf as the one X-49 had killed when hunting for me. Did this … come from me? It had been one of the souls I saved for an emergency, having been the strongest. The wolf glanced back at me, waiting for a command, one I was too happy to give.
           The hand that had injured Scaramouche was ripped from his arm in a spray of black oil. The snarling wolf sat nose to nose, baring it’s deadly fangs. The rest of the arm was torn from the socket, clattering to the floor.
           “D-demongo. Stop, babe,” the harsh rasp called out in the midst of gnawing at the as the wolf attempted to find the weak joint. In an instant, the interruption went punished.
           “He hurt you!” I shrieked, the wolf abandoning Sal as it lunged at Scaramouche. A metallic thud rang out, as Scaramouche’s head hit the ground again, the wolf’s paws heavy on his chest.
           “It’s okay, babe. You don’t have to do this.” My own teeth were grinding against each other. I could almost see it myself, the weakened plates having been crushed under Sal’s foot. One quick snap.
           “Look, he’s gone, babe. You can stop.” Both mine and the wolf’s head snapped towards the door. The limb remained, but Sal was gone.
           “You let him get away!” Staring down my snout, I watched as my teeth latched onto the throat, jaw twitching wildly. Just a little more pressure! My eyes darted to his face, the wolf seeing the fading blue eyes, a look of final resignation.
           Suddenly back to where I stood, I collapsed. The floor battered my body, a thin wisp of black smoke flowing into me. Vile liquid, the remnants of the soup forced its way into my mouth and onto the floor.
           “Shh, it’s going to be alright, babe. It’s okay.” His purple coat was wrapped tightly around me before I could protest. Only after I was locked in his protective arms did it occur to me to struggle.
           “I’m leaving!” I shouted hoarsely, thrashing against his arms.
           “I told you, babe, you can leave anytime you want, but please, wait until you are calm.”
           “Let me go! I’ll kill you!” He did the exact opposite, picking me up and walking over to the couch.
           “It’s alright, babe. I trust you. Demmie, baby, I love you.” Sobbing, I buried my head against his metal frame, still begging for release. I thrashed, I screamed, but I was so tired …
~/~
           I nearly threw myself off the couch as I jerked awake. The secure grip around me tightened, pulling me against his frame again.
           “I have to get out of here,” I whimpered, feeling tears begin to leak down my face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
           “Demmie, baby, it’s okay. You were scared and angry. I just wanted to distract you for a moment. He’s horrible, but I don’t want you in trouble with the law, babe.” His arms loosened, finally granting the release I had so desired. It was all so surreal. I pushed away from him, letting the coat slide from my shoulders and fall into his lap.
           “I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you.” I caught sight of the punctured holes, filled with a slowly leaking oil. “If I hurt you again. I didn’t know I could summon the souls. I don’t know how to control it.”
           “You can leave if you want to, babe. I won’t stop you. My house is always open if you want to come back or visit sometime.” Scaramouche glanced away as I swiped at my own eyes, sniffing loudly. He walked with me to the door.
           “I’m sorry that …” For abandoning you.
           “It’s alright, babe. You need to do what’s best for you. I’ll be here.” He wrapped me in a tight hug. Had he held me for one minute longer, I never would have walked out the door.
~/~
           “But you came back.” He was trying so hard to understand.
           “Yeah. I missed Scaramouche so much. For two weeks, I worked on controlling the souls. Cried myself to sleep each night,” I laughed darkly. X-49 did not say if he was confused by my outburst, but kept his face even as we continued the walk around the block. Although I had been back for a month, this was the first time I had seen him again. He had not needed to keep up the weekly visits when I returned. Scaramouche did not mention if he had visited while I was absent, but I hoped he did, regardless.
           “I feel … less dangerous. Did he tell you…?” How I almost killed him. I had conveniently left that part out, just saying that I jumped him since he startled me.
           “Not anything incriminating. Yours and his story are quite similar. He would never blame you.”
           “I know, but … I hurt him pretty bad.”
           “You didn’t mean to.” He’s heard Scaramouche’s story too often. “He sounds happier now that you’re back.”
           “He did,” I agreed, but that had been gnawing at me for a while. He had sounded happier. “Something’s … not quite right. He’s acting strange again. Like, he wants to say something, but doesn’t.”
           “It’s how he is.” Leave it to X-49 to be so logical. I nodded again. The three dogs started towards home, the three heart shaped tongues hanging low.
           “Do you think he’s ready for us?” X-49 glanced at the sky, probably calculating the time.
           “Dinner is likely ready.” We were quiet going back. It gave me time to panic about why he had actually shown up. He was usually quite busy, especially according to Scaramouche. There was no reason for him to be here.
           I was salivating as soon as I opened the door. No way would I ever admit this was one of the reasons I came back. Not the main reason of course, but probably one of the top ten. We took our seats, because it was no use to ask Scaramouche if he needed a hand. I might have felt slightly guilty that mine looked the best of all the meals, but I could not help that I was born an organic creature.
           It was too quiet at dinner. X-49 even noticed, and tried to make small talk. Something’s terribly wrong. I shoved food in my mouth quickly, an excuse to not have to start a conversation.
           “Hey, babe?” He glanced at me, so I nodded, mouth still full. He cast another look at X-49, who suddenly became engrossed in his phone. After a glance down at his own lap, Scaramouche signed before standing. With a few side steps, he towered next to me for a moment before dropping to one knee. I swallowed the remnants. What’s going on?
           “Demongo, you’ve never been anything but kind and caring to me. You make me want to get up and live every day, babe. Without you, I wouldn’t be here today. I love you, and want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He paused, thankfully not laughing at my completely dumbfounded expression. “Will you marry me, babe?” The small box, hidden in his hand, was opened to me. A thin silver ring waited on my answer. I nodded.
           My mouth was so dry I could not form words. Not that they would be half as eloquent as what he had said. There was no need for me to say anymore as Scaramouche slipped the ring on my finger and lifted me out of the chair. His arms were so tight around me, but I could not breathe before he picked me up, so I hardly noticed. I wrapped my legs around his waist, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder.
           He had stopped twirling around the room and kissing my tears of joy away after a long while. X-49 poured the three of us Champaign. The dogs were all yapping excitedly, riled up by Scaramouche’s dancing. The rest of the evening began to blur, mostly due to the two glasses I downed, but I was content. More than content. I was loved, and I loved him.
           We were happy.
12 notes · View notes
shanlorel · 7 years
Text
A Letter
Den'auril, my love,
Do you remember how we used to write letters to each other, back when you were studying to be a magister and I was training to be a ranger? How small and petty our problems then seem now!  You were concerned about going to the college alongside Kael’thas, handling the Hillsbrad winters, and picking a research topic; I worried overmuch about the Windrunners’ regard, learning the wilds, and my social standing.  Those problems seemed crushing, all-consuming then.
How easily I would trade our concerns now for those!  We cannot go back to those early days, though, even if we tried.  Your prince and my ranger-general are dead.  Dalaran floats over a frozen wasteland, and Quel'Thalas is as scarred as my heart.  Your eyes are green, and I am a murderer.
Den'auril, I am not the same woman I once was.  I know you are frowning as you read this, shaking your head, ready to argue, but it is the truth.  You do not really know who and what I am anymore.  Things have changed.  I have changed.  If you knew half of what I have done...but I get ahead of myself.  You may decide how you feel.  It is only fair for me to lay the truth bare before asking anything more of you.
Much of it is inconsequential, but some is not.  I shall let you sort the gilt from the dross—I cannot say but that things that mattered little to me are of great importance to you, or vice versa.  I am rambling, waxing far too long-winded; even now, writing with the intent of telling you what has happened these eighteen years, I hesitate, afraid to go on, leaving ink-blot pauses on the parchment. But there are only two courses of action open to me: throw this half-finished letter into the fire and be done with it, or do as I always have and draw my sword (or pen, as it were) and press on.
It should come as no surprise to you that, after myself and the rest of the quel'dorei were exiled, I ended up at the Quel'Lithien Lodge with many of the other Farstriders.  I was aimless and purposeless, driven not by what I wanted, but by what I used to have.  Quel'Lithien used to be a lovely place, its open walls and arching gables letting in sunshine and the sounds of birdsong.  With the misery of its inhabitants and the Scourge-infested wasteland around it, it became something akin to a prison.  We were besieged from without by trolls and intermittent waves of undead, and from within by our own depression and everpresent mana addiction.  Food was scarce, as was water that wasn't choked with the toxic spores that fell in the wake of the plague-spreaders.  Even the rain in the Plaguelands tastes of blood and fear.
There was precious little to do beyond ranging out into the wilds, hunting undead and hunting game.  I didn't feel the eager pride that drove me as a Farstrider, but rather a grim, fierce determination.  We had nothing to stand for, of course.  Just a dogged will to live.  I thought daily of you, my love, and our little house along the forest's edge, as I am sure the others thought of their own estranged friends and family and lovers.  I still think of you with every sunrise, with every last breath I take before I fall asleep.  But I digress—such was life in Quel'Lithien, full of bitter longing and a constant struggle to live, coming together in meditation to keep our addiction under control and separating to hunt.  I grew lean and ragged, but more importantly, I grew strong.
With the announcement of the Alliance's push on Outland, I bid farewell to living on the plague-scarred borders of Quel'Thalas and joined with the army once again.  I doubt this surprises you, Den.  I am and always have been a soldier at heart.  Women like me shall always chafe without the purpose and thrill of either the fight or the hunt, and even without home or country to defend, I was not without the need for battle.  I spend the next eighteen months at the Allerian Stronghold in Terokkar Forest, although I heard no word of Alleria herself, to my disappointment.  I hold out hope that she still battles on somewhere, for the thought of losing another Windrunner senselessly is not one I am eager to accept.
I do not know if you ever made your way to Outland yourself, but the fortress-town lays at both a strategic and dangerous location. Bordered by the Skettis Mountains at both the southeast and northwest, it is easily defensible, but we faced constant threats from the Bonechewer Orcs to the east, Kael'thas's followers from Firewing Point to the north, and Shadow Council cultists from the Bone Wastes in the south.  We fought nearly daily, weeks slipping by in the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded.
Yet despite this, I felt unfulfilled.  Here I was, with work and purpose, and something in my soul still ached for more.  I wanted you, Den, and I wanted vengeance.  Oh, I called it justice then, justice for Quel'Thalas and the spirit of the quel'dorei, but I cannot lie to you or even myself anymore: it was nothing more than a furious desire to hurt something and make myself feel better.  I still haven't quelled that urge.  Perhaps I never will.  Regardless of its righteousness, that desire spurred me on, and so I joined the Shattered Sun Offensive.  I swore to take Kael'thas's head or die trying.
As you know, we succeeded.  We put an end to Kael'thas, reclaimed the Sunwell, and did our best to free Quel'Danas from demons and his remaining supporters.  I will not lie and pretend I didn't love every moment I spent on Thalassian soil again, but of course I could not stay, and even had I been able to, I would not have.  It wasn't my home, not really, and I knew that as soon as I was deployed there. Even knowing that, even now, my heart still aches for golden-leafed trees and eternal spring, delicate marble towers and roads paved in cobblestone.
Bitter with that knowledge and feeling no better for Kael'Thas's death, I set my eyes on another target.  You always said I had a hawk's soul, and finding my meadow free of rabbits did not remove the need to hunt, so to speak.  I had justice against the one man, and some small measure of revenge against sin'dorei as a whole—do not frown, Den, for you must know how I despise the atrocities performed by those you now call your people—but there was still another group to strike out at.
Mages. Dar'Khan Drathir sold out our people for his own power. Kael'thas struck a bargain with demons and damned us all.  Rommath chained down a naaru and dreamt up the idea of torturing it to power his blood knights.  Oh, Liadrin lead them, yes, but that sin began with Rommath's twisted dream.  And from the whispers to the north, I heard tell that mages' reckless use of magic would soon tear the world apart.  I set sail for Northrend and made a terrible, terrible choice, one that will never stop haunting me, one that I relive every night as I shake in my sleep.
I pledged my support to the blue dragonflight in the Nexus War.  I am sure you are already judging me, or at the very least trying your best to come to terms with that knowledge, but I assure you, whatever pain or punishment you would bring down upon me cannot be worse than what has already been done.  I say this not to silence you; should you despise me, it is your right, and for the number of innocent mages I butchered, I would not blame you.  I tell you what was done only in the interest of disclosure.
I pause again as I write this.  More ink-blots, my letters shaky and wavering, my heart beating double time in my chest.  I do not want to talk about this.  I do not want to relive it.  But you deserve to know why your wife is burnt and scarred and tattooed, why she flinches back from your touch, and why she will never trust magic again.
They broke me, Den'auril.  They tore my head to pieces and never bothered to put it back together.  I came willingly to join their war, and still they ripped into me.  They could not trust a mortal not to betray them, or perhaps they simply took pleasure in it.  They had one drakonid take me on either arm, holding me back as they marched me to a chair with shackles at the wrists and ankles.  They chained me down and left me at the mercy of a blue dragonkin with a neural needle in its hand.
Do you know what a neural needle is, Den?  It is an invention of the Kirin Tor, and it is the worst thing that anyone has ever imagined. It looks like a metal knitting needle, covered in runes from base to tip, about as long as my forearm.  It only has one purpose: to cause pain.  It does so in a capacity beyond anything you can imagine.  I have broken half my ribs, I have been bruised, cut, and beaten, I have nearly died in childbirth, and I would unhesitatingly take all of that at once over spending another minute in that chair.
That damned dragonkin lifted the needle to my temple and spoke the proper words, and then I lost any shred of strength or rationality I had ever once possessed.  It could not have hurt worse had they driven it straight into my brain.  I must have screamed and sobbed and begged, but I cannot remember anything except the fire burning through my brain and the fear that tore through me.  And then it was gone, and I was given a single moment to attempt to breathe before they used it again, and again, and again, a spot of delirious lucidity that soon seemed a torture in and of itself.  There is no fortitude or dignity to be found in such a situation.  The neural needle does not let one become accustomed to the pain, or even to black out from it.  There is only agony.
I was later told that I lasted fifteen minutes before I lost all capacity to even speak or move, my eyes rolled back in my skull and my body limp.  I cannot remember.  All I still have the memory of was the look on the face of the dragon who watched on.  I could have dealt with it taking pleasure from my pain, but not with the absolute boredom in its cold yellow eyes, as if it could well have fallen asleep watching me howl and tremble.
I grew deeply familiar with that monster as my tenure in the dragon-army wore on—and yes, I was eventually well and truly welcomed into their ranks.  They put the first of these rune-tattoos upon me, a mark on my chest that bound me to the drake's will.  If I say now that I am not the woman you used to know, at least I have my will and sense of self.  Under that dragon's rune-magic, I was rarely lucid.  Months dragged on with my head cotton-wrapped and dull, my connection to reality tenuous.  Oftentimes it felt as though I was watching someone else with my face and name, a doppelganger I had no control over or recognition of.  At other times, my memory is simply blank for days or weeks, patches failing to connect different places and different people.
I was a mage-hunter, and the skills that had made me a good Farstrider and soldier served me well in this pursuit, as well.  The dragon, Asrilgosa, grew quite proud of her pet, unleashing me upon spellcasters for sport as much as for Malygos's grand schemes.  My sword cut a bloody path through Northrend.  Whether my opponents were Kirin Tor soldiers or simple scholars, men or women, fighting back or whimpering for their lives...it made no difference.  I tell myself I was powerless to stop my own actions through the magic's grip on me, but I do not know if I can truly believe that, and regardless, it does not stop the screaming in my nightmares.
I still don't know how I got away.  I believe the dragon grew lazy and arrogant, assured of her pet's discipline, and fed me a little more free will to carry out tasks.  One night, in one of my lucid moments, I put my dagger through the fire and pressed the blade to my chest until my skin burnt enough to break the rune's magic and I lost the haze in my head.  I ran off into the tundra and never looked back.
Tattooed, half starved, and haunted by the specters of my own deeds, I found myself rescued by the same mages I had spent so long killing.  The Kirin Tor tended to my wounds and sent me along to Dalaran alongside a small handful of others who had been in the blue flight's clutches. They had all been prisoners, kidnapped from the battlefield and rescued, and I regret to admit that I pretended to be the same.  I joined with the Silver Covenant and tried to heal.  I am still trying, Den, but I do not know if it will ever matter.  My head still feels broken, my memory in jagged pieces, and I feel unsettled by near everything.  I cannot relax without a sword or a cigarette in my hand, and even then, I track the movement of everyone in the room, assessing threats I know are not there.  A hand on my shoulder sets my heart racing as if it were a troll war cry out in Quel'Thalas's wilds.  And I dream every night of blue scales and dark wings and my sanity tearing to shreds at the end of a needle.
And then the Cataclysm came and the blues were our allies, serving nobly alongside the druids in Hyjal and the Firelands, and everyone was meant to quietly get over the Nexus War.  I could not, Den, and how could I?  How could I forgive or forget?  All I had left in me was vengeance and the ability to kill.  They took everything else.  I stayed back in Northrend, doing bit jobs for the Covenant, hunting criminals and cultists and whatever else Vereesa asked of me.  I was still someone's pet, a hunting-hawk broken to the glove, but at least I had a say in my flights and kills.  Yet I took to ranging farther and farther with each one, drawing ever back to Coldarra in much the same way that one with a bad tooth will still poke at it to see if the pain is still there.  But the sight of its snow-capped peaks and the floating surge-needles dashed my courage to pieces at the bridge every time. I still do not think I could take a step closer.
You know this part already, for this is where you come back in.  You were in the Hold, the courier said, you needed help, you needed me, and as you know, I came.  If walking to you then was the second hardest thing I had done in my life, walking away was the first.  For the first time since the Nexus War, I felt like a person again, speaking with you in that prison, and it took every scrap of willpower I have to not forsake my morals and my people for your company.
I spent the next two weeks tossing and turning in my quarters at the Silver Enclave, grasping for any excuse I could find to not head back to you.  As you know, of course, I did not.  I signed on with the Kirin Tor Offensive and set off for Pandaria.  I cared nothing for their war on the Thunder King, but I was with my own people and away from Northrend, and that was enough.  
I fought for Vereesa, I fought for the Silver Covenant, I fought for whatever damn cause someone would pay me for.  The months on the Isle of Thunder were dull ones, full of rainfall and the persistent sound of thunder rumbling on the horizon.  Zandalari trolls were no different than their Amani cousins, not in any real way, and the other former Farstriders and myself knew exactly how to deal with them.  The mogu themselves were something different, but they, too, fell in time.  Even the Sunreavers that dared stray too far from their side of the island fell to our blades.  Do not frown, Den.  We were at war as much with the sin'dorei as we were with Lei Shen, and even Lor'themar's carefully-chosen words could not quell the fury in his peoples' hearts.  As for my own faction, well...You know well enough by now that neither Jaina nor Vereesa need much of an excuse to hunt the Horde.
I stayed there even through the Siege of Orgrimmar, packing up our temporary settlement and helping the last of the quel'dorei return to Dalaran.  I did not, of course.  I couldn't.  You were still there, still languishing in the Violet Hold, and I couldn't bear to return. I found myself in Stormwind instead.  The humans still do not take too kindly to our people, and it was not the most pleasant of stays, but it gave me time to think out what I meant to do next.
The choice was well made for me with the invasion of the Iron Horde.  I had precious little else to do, unless I wished to return to Dalaran and reconvene with the Silver Covenant, and so I followed the Alliance to this other Draenor.  It was not the one we were familiar with—even the very land was shaped differently.  The skills I learned in navigating Terokkar Forest were all but useless in Talador, but I still had my blade and my magic, and I was getting paid for it.
Then the Iron Horde was defeated, the Alliance-Horde ceasefire was signed, and all of the sudden there was damn near nothing for me to do.  A world at peace has no need for a mercenary, and I hit failure with every attempt to find other work.  Most of my food came from game that Snowstrike hunted—I would well have starved without him, I think, as I wandered Draenor.
You know the rest of this, Den, my love.  I found solace with a group of draenei, and I found something more: purpose.  We spoke at length of life there on when last we met, so I shall not waste your time by repeating information you already know.  Suffice to say that that is where my journey has ended, for the time being.  I stand among a people so very different, yet so very like ours.  They do not know what I am, not truly, or at least not the legacy of blood and frost and steel I have left.  I know they must find out what I have become sooner or later, as you are finding out now, and the fear gnaws upon me.
I will be in Dalaran at the start of the new moon.  If you should still wish to have anything to do with me, I shall be at the Legerdemain Lounge at noon, and we may speak further.  I understand if you do not.  Either way, Den, my only option is to stand tall, draw my sword, and attempt to be a better person than I know I am.  Perhaps one day I will atone for what I have done.  Perhaps you can forgive me.  I do not think I will ever forgive myself.
--Shanlorel
4 notes · View notes