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impalalord · 4 years

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You know, it's the littlest things that can change the course of life. The smallest action could topple a building, or start the construction of one instead. For us, and for the galaxy at large, humans were that change.

After they made first contact with another species, humans did what they do best and immediately got themselves wrapped up in a war with a species that had far more firepower than they did. Of course, being a fledgling species who could barely grasp warfare in the void of deep space, much less the use of common technology that would have taken them centuries to develop themselves, it ended poorly for them.

The Humans turned out to be Idealists, with individuals and small ships volunteering themselves to help in a war effort to defend their outermost colonies because their own governments would not. That was another oddity about these Humans, they did not enter the galactic fray as a single unified group. Instead, they were a loosely collected group of governments and nation states held together with treaties and deals.

At first they lost volunteer soldiers and emissaries, then they began to lose ships and outposts. Instead of demoralizing them, this seemed to fill them with rage and cause them to lash out in anger. This too ended poorly, as they fought an overwhelming force with nothing but kinetic weapons and solid-fuel engines, the galactic equivalent of sticks and pebbles.

Their losses were staggering, as the Dryzal swept into Human territory and pillaged whatever they deemed fit. Worlds were lost and razed, endless voices were silenced as the horde marched forward. But this destruction did not satisfy the Dryzal, so they took more from the young species.

The eventual destruction of their homeworld, the razing of the very cradle from which their species was raised, caused Humanity to become a drifting species among the stars. They became intergalactic wanderers with no start or end of their journey to speak of. Their birthplace was nothing more than radioactive dust, and the fire of rage seemed to have died from their eyes. Anyone who went through a spaceport most likely saw a few solo humans wandering throughout the interior, with their gaunt, sunken faces and disillusioned cold eyes. Any sane being gave them a wide berth, afraid that they would be sucked into their cold, soulless depression, unable to escape.

Humans travelled from world to world, working on any ship that was willing to take them without too many questions. They weren't strong, and they weren't fast, but they could learn quickly and had no problem doing any job as long as they got paid. They spread across the galaxy and learned the inner workings of every species

In truth, humanity had not lost their rage, or their hope. The destruction of their homeworld cooled that fiery, liquid rage in their eyes and hearts into a icey hard steel that was sharpened further with every passing day. They bided their time, licking their wounds and learning their lesson. Lashing out would get them nowhere without a solid plan.

So they spread themselves across the dominion, unseen by the populace due to their reputations as wraiths. Barely living beings that lived in the shadows and dregs of society. Learning everything they could about each species, quietly recruiting others who had earned similar fates. Humanity no longer had an army of soldiers and starships, instead, they had an army of workers. Castaways, the dregs and refuse of intergalactic society, banded together, working behind the scenes as janitors, mechanics, cooks and repairmen. Quietly building and growing until the time finally came.

Their uprising came on a seemingly normal day; transportation stopped, communications jammed, power lines cut and food stores emptied. Militaries scrambled to try and find the source of the unrest, but everywhere they went the answer seemed to be ‘everyone.’ A random janitor was just as likely to be part of the chaos as a militant roaming the streets.

After several hours of the chaos, a single signal passed through all of the VidNet. A single live video of a young male human sitting at a desk. His dark hair disheveled, his clothes dirty and tattered, his average face covered in bruises and cuts. His voice was calm and collected, but also cold and firm as he began to speak to the universe.

“My name,” he began, “is Tim. I was nine years old when the war with the Dryzal began. My parents were not soldiers. They were farmers and pacifists. They believed in the good of the universe and taught me to look for the good in all people, of all species. It is your fault I have broken that pacifism. My parents were killed in front of me on my tenth birthday. Our colony was razed and I was dragged, screaming and crying, onto a ship by a neighbor who was lucky enough to survive the purge. We set out for Earth, the homeworld of our species, hoping that someone would respond to our distress calls.”

The human paused for a moment, and sighed. “We didn’t just send distress calls to our own kind. We sent them out across the entirety of the Dominion, using every language we could find in our database. Only a single species came to help us in our time of need, the Ruvol. Much like us, the Ruvol had lost everything without any assistance from the Dominion. All they had left were a ragtag fleet of merchant ships, barely able to fly, much less fight. Yet they were the ones who came to us when we needed it the most.”

“The Ruvol did not care that they might die, or that the last remnants of their culture would be lost forever. They saw us struggling, and they gave us their hand. In the end they saved about two dozen colonies from destruction before they were all killed above Trelnax V. By then I was eleven, and I had volunteered to help the Ruvol in their evacuation plans. Once again, I watched everything I put my life towards destroyed in front of me, before being dragged back to Earth. The Dominion refused to respond to our communications.”

“I was twelve when the Dryzal finally reached Earth, their slow warpath finally reaching its destination. I was on an outbound shuttle to help with relief efforts on another destroyed colony when they came into the system. They didn’t even bother to try and conquer the planet. They just unloaded a barrage of nuclear warheads and turned everything we held dear to radioactive dust. Yet the Dominion stood by and did nothing but watch.”

“Now, exactly eight years after you stood by and watched, you beg us to help you. Our friends and allies fill your streets with fire and chaos, your communications cut and transportation is gone. Why should we, the same beings that you threw to the street, help you? There are many among our cause who have similar stories, species we pulled from the fire ourselves because you would not.”

“The Kenek at Oaphus, twelve thousand nine hundred and sixty three humans died protecting their world, zero Dominion forces present. The Grocon at Laphus, eight thousand six hundred and seventy one humans dead, zero Dominion forces present. The Swaans at Bleu, seventeen thousand, four hundred and thirteen humans dead, zero Dominion soldiers present. A pattern began to emerge in our favor, each time we gave our lives to save these species, they vowed to fight with us in our cause. Each time their worlds were attacked, they cried out for help. You never answered, so we did.”

“Entire species filled with rage and hate for your inability to lift a finger are finally coming out, their feelings boiling over the edge of the pot. You have committed the grave sin of sloth, and now you are paying the price. This universe is no longer yours to control. You all had your chance to rule over everyone, and you ruined it. You were happy to sit peacefully in your ivory towers as worlds burned below your feet.”

“Now your Ivory Towers become your prisons instead, as control slips out of your grasp and falls firmly into ours. We vow to never make the same mistakes you have. Goodbye and good luck.”

After that transmission everything changed. The Humans lifted us out of an era of stagnation and into an era of expansion and growth. Though it was not a peaceful era, it was a better one, and for that we can never truly repay them. That is why on this day every year, we remember. We remember the worlds and species wiped away by the Dominions inability to give others aid, in hopes that we may never repeat their failures.

-Transcription of Dr. Cassien Agnaits’ Remembrance day lecture at the University of Tylon IV, Standard Galactic Date 110864

#humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #earth is space australia #space australia #earth is a deathworld

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trenchcoatimpala · 3 years

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So I was thinking about Dean burying Cas in the ma’lak box and this happened.

wc: 1.6k

also on archive

“Dean, I can’t let you do this,” Sam said as Dean stepped into the Impala.

“I have to,” Dean replied, his voice was taut as he tried to hold back tears.

“No, you don’t.”

“He won’t stop, Sammy. He’s never going to stop.” Dean felt the words break as they tumbled from his mouth, shattering in the air.

“But it’s Cas,” Sam argued.

“I know,” Dean choked out as he reached for the door so he could pull it closed, shutting out Sam’s protests.

“Dean!” Sam’s muffled voice reached Dean’s ears but he paid his brother no mind.

Before he could allow himself to falter, he put the Impala in reverse and left the motel parking lot, leaving Sam staring after him.

The drive to the bunker wasn’t a long one, but it was the most agonizing thirty minutes of Dean’s life.

When he stepped outside, the world seemed to stop. There were no sounds of creatures scuffling among leaves, no calls of birds, no rustle of branches as the trees talked to each other. Everything was quiet, as if the planet were holding its breath, waiting.

Dean’s footsteps echoed loudly in his ears as he entered the bunker and walked slowly down the stairs. The main room was dim, only one light was on at the middle library table.

Dean’s mouth suddenly went dry and he had to clear his throat to get his voice to work. “Cas?” he called out warily. A shadow appeared from behind a post and Dean’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Cas,” he said as he took a step towards the shadow.

“Dean.” Cas’s reply was merely a whisper. His voice was nothing more than a rasp, as if it had been dragged across rocks and whipped by the roughest of waves. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Dean swallowed back the tears that wanted to spill across his cheeks. “I had to.”

“And what of Sam?”

“He tried to stop me.”

Cas took a staggering step forward, bracing himself against the table with the light on. “Is he far behind you?”

Dean nearly gasped at Cas’s appearance. His eyes were sunken in their sockets, their color, once bright blue, was now dulled and drained. Blood soaked the left side of his face and coated his trench coat and shirt.

Dean forced himself to reply to Cas’s question. “He’s not coming.”

Cas nodded slowly, the motion seemed to take over his whole body, causing him to shake and tremble. “Good.” When Dean failed to speak, Cas let out a sigh. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Dean said quietly.

“Neither do I,” Cas admitted. “But I am beyond saving.”

“I thought that way once,” Dean replied as he allowed himself a single step closer to where Cas stood. “But I was wrong. There’s still time for you, we can figure something out.”

“No!” Cas roared.

And there it was, the anger born by the mark.

Dean knew firsthand how hard it was to keep that anger buried, it scratches and claws at the corners of your mind until finally it manages to break free. For Cas to have held it back this long was impressive.

“Cas,” Dean began.

“I said no,” Cas snapped. “There’s no way out of it this time, Dean. You know what you have to do.”

Dean’s tears finally fell. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Cas hissed as he gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood groaned under his hand. “And you will. You have to.”

Dean shook his head. “No, no, Cas, please don’t make me.”

“Dean,” Cas’s tone was hard yet it held the smallest glimmer of sympathy. “I’m barely keeping everything at bay. My grace is fighting the effects of the mark, but it won’t be long before the mark takes over completely. We’re running out of time, this has to be done, while I’m still in control.”

It was true. All of it was true. Cas had already killed so many during moments when he lost himself to the mark. An angel with the power of the mark was unstoppable, the world would be demolished if such a being were allowed to continue to roam freely.

“I need you to do this for me, I can’t do it alone.”

“I know,” Dean whispered into the silent bunker.

“Then take me to the box.”

Dean hesitated and Cas let out a snarl.

“The longer we delay, the faster I lose this battle.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean said, holding up his hands. “This way.”

Dean led Cas down the bunker hallway into the dungeon where the Ma’lak box waited, open and ready.

Cas stopped in front of it, eyes trained on the metal carvings and nodded. “This should do.”

Cas moved to climb into it but Dean put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Wait.”

The angel looked like he was about to argue but he only sighed. “What is it?” The barest glimpse of the old Castiel came through in the way Cas tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

“You need to know something before you do this.”

“What?”

Dean faltered, fumbling with his hands while he tried to calm the slamming of his heart in his chest. He managed to raise his head to meet Cas’s gaze and he swallowed as his eyes dipped to Cas’s lips.

Words would fail Dean, he knew that, so he took the chance to express his feelings in action instead. He surged forward, pushing Cas back against the door and connecting their lips in a bruising kiss. Dean didn’t expect Cas to kiss back, but he did, hard and passionate.

When they pulled apart, Dean saw tears in Cas’s eyes. “Dean,” he breathed.

“I love you,” Dean said before he could lose his nerve.

Cas sighed, his eyes suddenly regaining a tiny bit of that brightness they used to always carry. “I love you too.”

“Then don’t do this,” Dean pleaded. “Please. Stay, let me figure something else out.”

Cas shook his head, sadness arresting his features. “I can’t.”

Dean’s heart broke inside him, each piece lodging itself into his chest as pain tore through him. He bent his forehead against the angel’s and pressed another kiss to his lips.

“Cas,” his voice broke and Cas reached a hand to cup his face.

“Dean we have to hurry, if we delay any longer I’m afraid I might hurt you.”

Dean took in Castiel for the last time. The set of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, the oceans that were his eyes, the outline of his lips.

He knew they were out of time. He had to say goodbye.

“Okay,” he whispered as tears slid down his cheeks.

Cas carefully stepped away from Dean and headed towards the box. Dean moved to help him and the second that his hand landed on Cas’s back, he sensed the change.

Faced with an eternity in a box, the part of Cas that bore the mark must have broken free.

A hand swung towards Dean’s face as a blood-curdling scream tore out of Cas’s mouth. He could barely see through his tears as he blocked Cas’s blows.

“Cas, please,” he begged as he held Cas back against the box.

Cas struggled in his grip, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re no match for me.”

Dean released Cas momentarily and the angel moved to attack him again, but Dean was faster. The angel blade he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans was in his hand before Cas could take another step and soon it was embedded in Cas’s chest.

Cas gasped as his grace poured through his mouth, destroying everything that was left of the angel the mark had made its puppet.

Cas slumped against the box, limp, and Dean collapsed beside him. The pieces of his broken heart wedged themselves deeper into his chest and he sobbed as he pulled Cas’s body onto his lap, rocking him as he held him tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “Cas, I’m so sorry.”

Castiel was dead.

The thing that would soon wake up in the angel’s body would not be someone that Dean knew, it would be a twisted and soulless perversion of Castiel, and not something Dean could ever face.

Summoning as much strength as his body could manage, he lifted Cas into the box and arranged him against the cold metal.

Dean allowed himself a few moments to look at his best friend, the love of his life, in his final resting place. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Cas’s forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered over another sob.

He reached up to close and lock the box and then he called Sam.

“It’s done.”

“So what’s next?” Sam asked.

“The ocean. I’ll meet up with you after.”

****

Dean headed to the docks, where he boarded a small fishing ship filled with men that didn’t ask questions. They took Dean out as far as they could and just as he moved to toss the box over the side, Dean heard Cas wake up.

“Let me out!” he screamed.

Hearing Cas’s voice, but knowing it wasn’t Cas, drove a dagger into Dean’s already destroyed heart.

The thing inside the box suddenly quieted and a small plea reached Dean’s ears. “Dean, please.”

Before Dean could do something stupid, like open the box, he pushed it over the edge of the ship, and watched as it sank, carrying Cas with it.

“Goodbye, Cas,” he choked out.

Dean collapsed once it was out of sight. He cried so hard he couldn’t breathe, his chest was constricting and he had half a mind to tie anchors to his feet and jump in after the box.

But he didn’t.

When Dean returned, Sam didn’t try to console him, and Dean was grateful for it. He wanted to be left alone to grieve.

With Cas buried, everything looked completely hopeless. Chuck might be gone, but they were still losing to the monsters, and the future didn’t look bright. Dean wasn’t one to give up, but sometimes giving up was the only option, and Dean was inclined to accept that the end was upon them.

Without Cas there was nothing to live for anyway.

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@jellydeans @tearsofgrace @anotherdowneyfan1 @casgetoutofmyass0907 @angiecharmie @nines-in-the-tardis @fivefeetfangirl @destiels-canonahhhhhhhhhh @medusasfavoritestatue @lilac-void @wantstoflyafraidtofall @gayhuckleberryinatrenchcoat @thepixelagora @hermit-cas @thelahatiel @multi-fandom-dark-lord

#supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #destiel #canon divergent #au #deancas #ma'lak box #alternate universe #angst #death #grief #my writing #trenchcoatimpala writes #fanfic #fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction

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henoda4 · 3 years

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--Just a little ficlet I had rolling around in my brain after the latest manga chapter. Can be read as platonic or romantic bkdk. Hopefully not too OOC, and probably some grammatical errors. Enjoy!--

* Manga spoilers- for those not caught up to chapter 317, ye' be warned!*

Finding that which is Lost:

It's been days, multiple infuriating days of searching, flying over rooftops and zigzagging through desolate alley ways and getting mostly useless information from the occasional civilian. Bakugou was pissed, hell he'd been pissed since he'd woken up in a hospital only to find out Deku was still unconscious, and then later to a goddamn letter and a nerd who'd gone off to fuck-knows-where. Uraraka had tried to tell him that he was probably just scared more so than angry, that they all were. Naturally he told her to shove it. But more than anything he'd been pissed from the moment that All Might walked right back into the UA dorms, fucking months later, looking absolutely miserable and terrified. The former Pro Hero had barely gotten the explanation out of what he and Deku had been up to before he'd straight up slugged the man. Deku left All Might behind? Deku's pushing everyone away? What the fuck does that even mean? Godammit, didn't he warn the damn nerd not to do this shit?! All Might at least had the decency to look apologetic, as if he knew he deserved the hit.

As he moves the buildings start to blur a bit and he recalls a memory from the recesses of his mind. He and Deku had been very little, he doesn't recall how old exactly, he just knew it was at some point before he had driven a wedge between their friendship, and it was the first time both of their families had gone on a camping trip. The two children had wandered away from the campsite for a bit to explore. He recalls several minutes passing and him and Deku getting separated, and even though /he/ wasn't scared of anything in the woods, he wanted to keep Deku close, you know, just in case, poor nerd would probably bawl his eyes out without him. Sure enough after a few minutes of searching he heard loud sobs and found the green haired boy crouched underneath a tree, his knees all scratched up from taking a tumble. Deku's green eyes lit up in relief upon seeing him and his little heart swelled at the reaction.

"Kacchan!"

"Stupid Izuku! I told you to stay with me!"

"I know, I'm sorry Kacchan, I guess I got lost."

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah-"

"Well, come on then!"

He grabbed Deku's hand and yanked him upright, then practically pulled him along behind him.

He put on his best All Might voice impression, "It's okay now, ya' know why? Because I'm here so you're not lost anymore. Let's go back Izuku!"

If he'd turned behind him, he'd have seen the beaming smile aimed his way.

But all he heard was the small, "Thanks, Kacchan."

Back in the present moment, Bakugou was snapped out of his memory by a blur of green, and he abruptly came to a halt on a rooftop. Looking over the edge, he saw down to the street below where there was another flash of green and just as suddenly a figure stepped out, their silhouette half covered in shadows. His eyes widened, he was far away, so he couldn't be sure. But that lightning, the black-green tendrils that trailed the figure, it had to be...it couldn't be. He leapt ahead to the next building over making sure never to lose sight of the ground below, and then jumped down the side to stay out of the figure's line of vision. He silently thanked Hatsume for the upgrades to his gauntlets that rendered them way quieter than usual. As he peaked around the corner he saw the figure walk close to the sides of the building heading his direction. Suddenly their head came under a direct beam of light from a street lamp, and he felt his whole body freeze from the inside out.

The person in front of him, was unmistakably Deku. The teal jumpsuit, worn and disgustingly dirty and covered in various degrees of drying blood, his leg bracers ripped to shreds, those ridiculous bunny ears frayed, and those red shoes that he would recognize anywhere. It was Deku, but not Deku as he had named him, a useless person, incapable of doing anything, and not Deku as the boy himself had taken the meaning, a person capable of anything, full of unlimited promise. No this was Deku as in a doll, a mere foreboding vessel of power and purpose. There was nothing in those green eyes, glowing but soulless. It was Deku, but it was no longer the Deku he knew, and it definitely wasn't Midoriya Izuku.

"I know you're there. Although if you're not here to attack me, then what is your purpose?"

Bakugou flinched at the voice, momentarily having forgotten about "Danger sense", All Might had tried to explain before, but he'd been a little too preoccupied planning how to get around the security at UA to go after Deku to pay close attention to the details.

He figured to hell with it and stepped out into Deku's line of view.

"What the hell do you think I'm here for Deku?"

Now Deku froze, his head raising slightly. His voice came out quiet and hesitant, completely unfitting the ominous aura his appearance gave off.

"Kacchan? Is that really you?"

"Who the fuck else would it be?"

To his surprise Deku started approaching him again, the tendrils of black whip receding and the lightning dimming to nothing. When he was close enough he yanked his hood down, and Bakugou got an up close look at the grime and blood caked on his face, the sunken eyes and black bags of sleep deprivation.

"What the fuck happened to you Deku?"

The green haired boy seemed nearly ready to collapse, as if he was standing upright on sheer willpower and adrenaline alone. Bakugou fought the urge to grab him and throttle him, as fragile as he seemed at the moment, like a breathe would knock him over. Instead it was Deku who grabbed him by the arm as if he couldn't believe his eyes alone, and needed the physical confirmation of his presence.

"I'm glad you're okay. I was worried... after you, you know."

Bakugou felt his anger boil back to the surface.

"Worried about me?! What the fuck?! Worry about yourself for fucking once! Do you have any idea how upset everyone was when you took off after nearly dying, and then left only a fucking letter! How worried sick your mom is?! How scared your fucking shitty friends are?!"

He didn't realize he was shaking until he felt Deku's hand slide down his arm slightly.

"I'm sorry Kacchan, I know I should've talked to you in person. But I had to go, and if I had waited, you would have tried to stop me."

"DAMN RIGHT I WOULD HAVE!"

Silence.

"I told you not to do this shit on your own Deku, I told you not to play the hero on your own. Do you not think I'm strong enough to help you?! Are you actually fucking looking down on me this time?!"

"No, of course not! I told you I've never looked down on you. I just....I can't see you get hurt for me again. I can't risk anyone getting hurt again because of me, because I couldn't do anything to protect them....I can't let that happen! I have to do this on my own. OFA was given to me so I could-"

"You're such a fucking idiot. You think you can take down every fucking villain on your own? Take down AFO on your own?"

The little shit had the nerve to smile awkwardly at him, "I've managed fine so far."

Bakugou yanked his arm out of Deku's grasp, and gestured at his whole body.

"This! This is not fine! You're barely standing, you're covered in blood and you look like you haven't slept in weeks. When's the last time you fucking ate? You can't keep this up Deku, even in his prime All Might didn't handle shit like this. And I know I said some real shitty stuff in the past about you being quirkless, but you are more than just OFA's vessel. You were the one to fucking get that through my head.. that we are more than just our quirks. So what the hell?"

"I-"

"Just let me help you Deku."

"But Kacc-"

"Dammit! It took me years to understand that you genuinely wanted to help me not because you thought I was weak, but just because you're a natural born hero and you care about me or some shit. Just..just let me return the favor for once. You don't have to do this alone."

He turned his head away uncomfortably, suddenly acutely aware of how inept he was at expressing himself in these delicate situations. How was he supposed to get through to Deku? Would this be enough? The nerd always seemed to be able to read him like a book, he hoped that proved to be the case now.

"Ka-"

He felt his eyes sting with unshed tears. He was running out of options, aside from pummeling the nerd into submission. But for once he wanted to chose a different option.

"Please Izuku." He lifted his gaze to meet his child hood friend's. A silent plea hanging in the air.

In the span of seconds that felt like an eternity they kept eye contact and Deku seemed like he was trying to find something in that contact, like a promise, or a confirmation, whatever it was, he finally sighed and lowered his gaze to the ground.

It was barely a whisper.

"Okay."

Bakugou let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Can you walk nerd?" He extended his hand out to the green haired teen who took it right away. He tightened his grip immediately.

"Yeah, but I'm a little sleepy-"

Before Deku could finish, and without a word Bakugou yanked the other teen towards himself and lifted him up. The teen seemed surprisingly small and light in his arms, a far cry from the monstrous visage he painted when they first crossed paths several minutes ago.

As he walked down the blocks and could feel the tension leave Deku's body as his form went slack, he gazed down to see the nerd's eyes slowly closing, he must be exhausted. He kept walking down the vacant streets, on alert for any potential threats, the nerd's weight a comforting presence in his arms. He assumed the other teen was already unconscious .

He briefly gazed up and saw the stars through the gaps between the building silhouettes, he thought back again to that time in the forest as kids.

He whispered in the dark, "It's okay now, ya' know why? Because I'm here so you're not lost anymore. Let's go back."

If he had looked down a second time he would have seen the subtle but content smile aimed at him. But all he heard was the small, "Thanks, Kacchan." before the teen fell asleep in his arms.

#bkdk #platonic bkdk #bkdk fic #bnha bkdk #bnha #mha bkdk #bnha angst #bnha spoilers #bnha 317

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littlest-dark-age · 3 years

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Burning in water, drowning in flame

You should have known….he could never escape the family he tried so hard to shrug off of him as if they were a mere chill in his bones. But the way he held you, loved you, told you that you were his lone solace in his dreary world. Oh, but people lie. That you should also know….

He'd never be truly free, never able to show your love to the world as he so deeply wished. That thought alone could rip his soul into shreds within his body. The thought that regulus black was so utterly powerless in the ways it mattered. Always being shoved under a thumb, one way or another.

He's lost count how many nights he's laid in his dorm room, tucked into covers to stave off the ruthless chill in the air, and wonder how different it would be had he been born into a different family. What would change in your relationship if you two hadn't been forced to sneak and hide your affections in the shadows. Tears never left him but the ache in his chest made him feel like he was taking his last breath, as if the mere thought of you being forced apart would make his body shut down.

Tears did pour down his face the he realized what the mark on his arm meant. What it would do to you. But it's not until he saw the look of horror on your face when you saw the dark ink that's seeped into his skin did he realize just how much it changed.

You couldn't believe it, the sharp pain going through your chest when you saw a glimpse of the dark mark on his pale skin. You knew he hadn't meant for you to see it, and in that moment so much clicked. How regulus hadn't wanted to even take his shirt off around you, the distance that wedged its way into your relationship so unexpected, how he didn't quite seem to look you in the eye anymore. You'd simply thought he had someone else, as much as it hurt...it would still be better then this.

This meant he would die for that vile man, whether it be tomorrow or years for now. This meant that if you were to fight against the dark lord, you might end up fighting the love of your life. It meant that no matter what, he couldn't help you or love you anymore….

It meant so much, so many thoughts begin to swirl in your head you can feel the ache coming from a mile away. Looking to regulus's face, hoping his own eyes would hold tears just as yours do in this moment. But you did not fine tears. You did not find sorrow, regret, guilt or even melancholy. You found a blank slab, similar to the mask you've seen him wear when he was at home. His features looking even more sunken then they normally would, eyes seemed to be crudely hollowed out. You'd prefer white hot anger or even a shameful look instead of the soulless stare he couldn't tear from your heated face.

Regulus could feel the flames of your glare, searching his face for a reaction. The only reaction he could muster from his hollow body is to shut his eyes and turn his head. He knew it wasn't what you wanted but for the first time in a long time, he wasn't able to give you what you wanted. But he couldn't stand the way you were looking at him. Face etched into a look of horror and pain, knowing that he was the one who placed it on you. You knew, or thought you knew, for so long who regulus black was. But now. Now you know, but you can't figure out the reason behind it. Deep down, you were still trying to fool yourself that you hadn't saw what you did. That the love of your life was still the sweet boy who called you little bee and lived to nuzzle his face into the soft skin of your belly when it was just the two of you.

In an attempt to collect yourself, you put on the face of anger instead of heartbreak.

"Since you wish to do this to yourself-" the sneering of words towards him made reg look at you. A tone so unfamiliar to him he wondered if someone drank polyjuice and it was them the whole time. He looks into your glassy eyes and felt himself jump into the flames they hold, accepting the way they seemed to drown him.

"Lay down. Lay down and wait like an animal"

Taglist @plzineedhelp @randomoutsiders

#regulus black x reader #regulus black imagine #regulus black #harry potter x reader #harry potter imagine #harry potter #regulus black x y/n #harry potter x y/n

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duskroine · 3 years

Text

identity.

Who are you?

“ I am Ophelia Dusk! A heroine of legacy and virtue -- a follower of the stars! ”

And who are you?

“ You haven’t heard of my name? It is I, Ophelia Dark! The greatest swords-woman in all of ᖇ E ᗪ ᗩ ᑕ T E ᗪ! ”

Then... who are you?

“ Princess Ophelia Dawn, fairest in all the land no matter where my legend takes the ears of the curious! ”

Y o u a r e n o b o d y.

. . .

The throne is cold beneath her. Frigid against silk and frills and lace. Her cape is longer -- uniform replaced for a gown. Her circlet crown is tight around her head. The shield to her empty, empty mind.

Protection.

Footsteps echo off the pristine walls. Windows tinted and glass stained with gold ( It’s the gold around her wrist ) and blood ( It’s the blood she coughed up earlier that morning ).

Security.

The person stops before her -- a cloak pulled over their head but their lips quiver behind the shadow cast over their face. She can see the way their cheeks hollow and cave in -- as if they didn’t fit their face. Their wrists are small, barely caught in the shackles around them.

Trust.

Everything she couldn’t give her people.

. . .

Huh... her people?

“ Is that all I am to you? ”

She shakes her head -- her body nods instead.

A scoff falls from their lips. It’s sunken ( like their cheeks ). As if the life had not only been sucked from their body, but their mind, too. Soulless and without shelter. This kingdom isn’t their home. It isn’t hers either.

“ All you royals are the same... ”

She plants her feet on the ground -- her body forces her to rise. Lightning dances over her palm, fingers, and wrist. She knows the dance before it’s even carried out. Before the curtains, velvet and silk, are pulled back. She knows the song before it’s sung. Pages and pages of blank lyrics -- the incantation burns her throat as it crawls up into her mouth.

“ A bunch of sick, twisted bastards. ”

Her hand rises from her side.

“ How does the power taste, Princess? Is it fresh, served off a-- ”

Silver platter. She knows their words before they speak them; maybe that’s why the lightning travels so easily through their body. She knows them, and they must know her. They do know her. ( The real her? Or this her? ) Her finger touches their forehead -- it was a mistake to bow to a fake, wasn’t it?

They makes too much noise when they die.

Tyrant. Tyrant. Tyrant.

The circlet crown tightens around her head just as her fingers press harder against theirs.

Tyrant. Tyrant. TYRANT.

Dusk colors the sky and strikes the stained glass of the throne room’s windows. The person’s eyes glow; Ophelia’s torture is open for all to see. The people see her through the walls of her castle. Through her hundreds of soldiers. Through her own eyes. Through her skin and decisions and her.

Tyrant. TYRANT. TYRANT.

She’s a tyrant. Maybe... maybe in another life, she isn’t. The knowledge of royalty will remain a secret to that young, eccentric Ophelia. She’ll be able to practice magic and serve someone -- no more ruling for a dead princess. She’ll die a tyrant.

CURSED TYRANT!!

She pulls her hand away when the person stops shaking, almost abruptly. They’re eyes flutter, crimson irises now shine a bright aquamarine. She stares, harder. Stares through him and at the entrance of the throne room. Maybe even farther. Maybe to a new home, one that she could have lived in.

Her hand is heavy; black stains the back of it.

Ophelia does not remember this mark. Tyranny. She does not remember whether she should be afraid or pleased. She does not remember if it is the bane of her existence.

. . .

Her circlet is loose, pressed underneath a headband.

...Nina’s.

Lysithea’s fingers weave into her own, hands pressed together as the smaller of the two girls shuffle closer to the other. Ophelia’s exhale sticks in her mouth. Afraid but courageous. Alone but in the company of others. Sensitive to colors but aquamarine continues to glow in the corners of her vision. Here but her body feels light, as if she’ll float out of this reality and into a different one. Maybe her real one.

Ophelia remembers the mark on her hand. Tyranny. She remembers tears and screaming and hands reaching out for her. She remembers a throne and a meadow and a lost battlefield. She remembers a wedding...

She remembers that none of those memories are truly hers.

#toaunlocked2021 #unlockedwesternfaerghus2021 #ᴏʜ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴜʟꜰɪʟʟ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ ᴍᴇ. ( drabbles )#{ tw // death }#{ sometime this morning i had written down a drabble idea in my notes app.. here's one of them? }#{ lysithea bestie is gonna be in another drabble too }#{ NO BUT REALLY!!! they're friendship has me very very uuuuuwwewehewhwaseww }#{ ylisse being the country is very vague for the small point of: i don't brain enough for it }

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sasorikigai · 3 years

Note

“ what were you dreaming about? “ ( for fire hubby, any of their modern verses )

‘hiroshima mon amour’ writing prompts. || @sonxflight || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The birth of Hanzo Hasashi’s perpetual resurrection will one day, become irreversibly lost and gone berserk; like a violent revolution, the birth of a new age. One day, he will simply end up on a rampage. This road he walks, this warpath he continues to walk along his beloved as the world will feel their shared wraths. For his burning ire is ice cage, as the never-ending ire would manifest as coiling viper ready to strike its foe, like boiling water rattling the heavy steel of his soldered, beaten physique. Like a vortex, the destructive firestorm of his thoughts will churn, akin to a mighty storm in the sky. Perhaps this uncontainable rage will be his end, his undoing - so out the fire must be poured, spilling ablaze with wanton abandon, like molten metal poured into sword, revealed in unfiltered desire that the all-consuming anger must perforate through the slatted slits of his burning adamantine cage.

The seasons of his maelstrom emotions may shift quickly, towards the better state of tranquility and calmness. Hanzo Hasashi should have felt a shiver within his heart, with the repeated vicious cycle that will perpetuate the summer in his mind. His proverbial heat would linger on his skin, with the breathes of Ryou Sakai’s promise enticing him in every way. The story has long been told; for the immortal warrior who still wields hellfire from his first inception of unexpected resurrection had been a soulless creature bound in the sinful strife and the gnawing erosive curse of his guilt and wrath to walk the Earthrealm as a living corpse. Fueled with bloodthirsty revenge for the loss of his family and Shirai Ryu clan, would he let the triad of his body, mind, and soul be bound by the serration of Netherrealm’s rocks and dirt.

In the throes of his wakefulness, would Hanzo Hasashi’s time erase his physical existence, for his pain has not been subsided - only his demon’s shadows linger in the corner of his memory. Nights, would he be indulged in their coalesced unification, as he feels Ryou Sakai’s touch, caressing him sweet and tender, as if his beloved was assuring him of better tomorrows, past the cruel tribulations of the yesterdays. His hell may still play away behind his head; so morbid and theatrical, ever creating visions so personal. The persistent scars, the wounds, the hollow eyes encircled by the sunken ash of his skin continue to become the evidence of his exhaustion, lest the successive streaks of autumn paints his rubicund features.

“I dreamt of the centuries’ past, where death was considered a bloody fucking curse as my freedom as Hanzo Hasashi hit the rock bottom.” The immortal assassin is glad that he doesn’t have to elaborate further; for there is no individual that knows him through and thorough better than Ryou Sakai. Knowing his husband, he could have very well being observing, scrutinizing the topography of his facial expression, which never deceptively hides a thing. The multitude verses of his life, enkindling this destitute and corruption is Hanzo Hasashi’s nearly slain spirit, brittled fragments scattering as he rises from the confines of his perturbed slumber, with his balmy, yearning hand adhering to Ryou’s collar, his long fingers curling around his shoulder. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#✗ life as an ongoing experiment (immortal verse)#✗ epitome of sunlight (ryou sakai || sonxflight)#sonxflight

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slashthedice · 4 years

Text

Be Mine Forever (Ch. 4)

And here is where our story ends. It's been a long time coming, but I wanted to make sure I got it right. This is the ending I've had planned since the beginning 9 months ago, so here it is in its final form. NSFW below. Read the first part here, second part here, or the third part here. Or read the whole thing on ao3 here.

The tiled floor was cool beneath your warm hands. About half an hour into your impromptu and extended stay in the bathroom, you realized that you still had your coat and boots on when you began to overheat. Your shin throbbed from where you had slammed it into the edge of the bathtub, promising the formation of a bruise. You sat with your back against the door, legs outstretched with your coat draped across your lap as something to hold on to.

You had an inkling that you now understood what it felt like to be a prisoner awaiting execution. The only difference was that you did not know the crime with which you were being charged. Still, you could feel the headsman’s axe, or rather pickaxe, looming above you. You chastised yourself for the gallows humor, but found it surprisingly comforting as you awaited your fate.

It was an odd feeling knowing that the man that had given your life so much joy and meaning was now the one that would take that life away. Even still, you couldn’t find any negative feelings to direct at him. Yes, you were scared and confused, but you were also so glad that you could finally see him, even if it was to be the last time. He looked to be physically healthy, and if the overwhelming strength he had used against you was any indication, appearances weren’t deceiving.

His mental stability was a matter that was much less easy to ascertain. You still remembered the feral way he had lunged at you when they had first rescued him. The burn of his rage-filled eyes was at the forefront of your mind, seared into your thoughts. You suspected that he had nothing but ill intentions for you, but you wanted nothing more than to help him. You needed to quiet the storm you had seen churning inside of him, but you didn’t know how.

You kicked absentmindedly at your boots with your now bare toes. It seemed an odd thing to have happen while you were being held in captivity in your own home, but you were growing bored. By this point you guessed that a couple of hours had gone by, and your initial rush of adrenaline had long since passed. You were tired, and in the dim light of the bathroom there was little to do besides count the tiles on the floor or attempt to read the backs of shampoo bottles. You refused to let yourself fall asleep, however. You wanted to be awake when Harry came back for you. You wanted to look him in the eyes before he killed you. You wanted to know why.

You didn’t have to wait much longer.

Your heart seized up when you heard the distant sound of the door to the garage opening. Then came the heavy sound of Harry’s footsteps approaching the bedroom once more. His stride seemed to slow the closer he got, steps becoming lighter and more cautious. He was in the room, but you couldn’t tell much more than that. You pressed your ear harder against the surface of the door, knees digging into the tile as you waited with your hands braced on the wood.

The shriek of whatever heavy object he had placed in front of the door as it was pushed out of the way startled you. You launched yourself backwards, scrambling back until you hit the edge of the tub. Ah, there was the bell to toll your death. The executioner was here.

You waited for him to throw open the door and strike you down right there on your bathroom floor. You wondered how long it would take before anyone found your body. Surely they would notice your absence at work. At the very least, Rhonda would eventually notice that you had stopped calling.

You thought of the future you would never have. You would never get married, never have kids, never grow old and retire with the man you love. You thought of all this, but you found it hard to mourn for this hypothetical future. Such a future had been ripped from your grasp a year ago. That Valentine’s night had assured that you would never have the fairytale ending you had grown up dreaming of. Your ending was here, and there was no sunset to ride off into.

The seconds ticked on, and each one seemed to stretch on for an hour. You watched the knob, waited to see it turn, but nothing happened. You heard nothing further from the other side of the door.

Feeling emboldened by the lack of action, you pushed yourself to stand, padding quietly towards the door. Had Harry left? Was he letting you go? You closed your eyes to focus on any noises. The heavy sound of his breathing filtering through the gas mask was still audible. He was still there, still in your bedroom, still waiting.

You had two options: stay put until Harry got tired of waiting and came in to get you, or open the door and face him head on. Your fingers trembled above the brass door knob as you reached for it. You wanted to see Harry, and you were tired of cowering in the bathroom. You loved him and he had loved you once, that had to mean something. You tried to calm your racing heart and shaking hands, wanting to face him with confidence.

The hinges creaked loudly with the slow swing of the door. You found a large black shadow perched at the edge of your bed, head downturned towards something in his hands. Harry looked monstrous in the gloom, illuminated only by the combination of moonlight and the dim glow of the street lamps that spilled across the comforter. You followed the unnatural lines of the gas mask, it seemed hard to believe that there was a man beneath it at all.

As you took careful, shuffling steps forward, you saw the wear and tear on the coveralls he wore. The seams were splitting in the shoulders, and there were areas in which holes had appeared. Even in the relative darkness, you could see patches where the black fabric shone with wet stains. The coppery scent hung around him in a heavy aura speaking of recent acts of violence. You shuddered to think of where it all came from.

You steeled your frayed nerves and stepped towards him. As you neared the unmoving shadow, you saw what was clutched in his bare fingers. It was the shirt that had been your symbol of comfort and hope in the long months without him. His thumbs trailed over the soft material reverently. He did not look up at you.

“I never stopped waiting for you,” you said without thinking, voice barely above a whisper. “I never stopped hoping that you would walk through the door.”

His head turned slowly towards you. You looked for any indication of emotion, of recognition, of something to show you that he still knew you. You needed to know that it was truly Harry in there, that this dark specter that had scared and hurt you was not all that was left. He made no move to come towards you and he remained silent. There was no reaction to your words.

You took a few more steps towards him. He could have reached out and grabbed you if he wanted to. You ached to touch him, to take his hands in yours and tell him how much you loved and missed him. You wanted to wrap him up in your arms and never let him go. You refrained from doing so, not wanting to push your luck. You still weren’t sure how he would react.

His head followed your movement, the soulless eyes of the gas mask shielding his expression. Finally, you stood before him, looking down to hold the emotionless gaze of his mask. With trembling hands, you reached for him. This time, he could see what you planned to do, but he did not stop you. You held your breath when your fingers met the edge of the mask. With painstaking slowness, you dragged the apparatus up over his head, gasping slightly as more and more of that oh so familiar face was revealed to you.

His jawline was coated in a thick stubble. You remembered, a lifetime ago, watching him shave in the bathroom mirror. You saw his chapped lips, and were reminded of the way they felt against yours, burning and perfect. The familiar slope and curve of his cheeks and nose, reddened from the heat trapped within the mask. You were terrified, heart bursting. What would you find when you revealed his eyes? Would you see the man you loved or the shadow of hate?

The first thing you noticed was the darkened, bruise-colored shadows beneath his lower lashes. They were sunken and tired, the eyes of someone that had not known a good night’s sleep in a long time. His dark irises seemed heavy, weighed down by whatever thoughts gathered behind them. You wished you could read his mind, you wanted to get inside his head to know why all this was happening. He blinked at you slowly, like someone just waking up from a dream.

Your quivering hands cupped his face in your palms. You needed to reassure yourself that this was real, that Harry was here in front of you, sitting on your bed like he had never left. His stubble scratched your soft skin, sandpaper against silk. A few stray curls were stuck to his forehead with sweat and you longed to brush them aside with your fingers. His hands were unmoving in his lap, fingers tangled in the old flannel. You wished he would touch you, hold your waist and tell you he still loved you, that this was all a nightmare and he would never hurt you.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, burning as they welled in your waterline and began to spill. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

“I thought I lost you,” you said, voice tremulous with your admission.

A voice in the darkness startled you, its sound brittle and hoarse.

“You left me.”

Those three words struck you, piercing your fragile heart. You felt your teary eyes widen, but you held his gaze. You expected to find anger and betrayal in his expression, to see a reflection of the creature that had attacked you. All you found was a tired, defeated man.

“No, no,” you insisted. “Harry, I did everything I could to get you back.”

You couldn’t stop yourself then, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. You tried to pour everything you had into the kiss, to give him your heart and soul, to show him how much you missed him. He didn’t kiss you back, mouth unresponsive against yours. You felt his fingers close around your wrists, and your already cracked heart broke a little more when you thought he was going to pull your hands away from him.

When you pulled back, he spoke again. “You abandoned me. All of you.”

You shook your head vehemently. “Not for an instant. I was there everyday waiting for them to rescue you and bring you back to me.”

You leaned in and kissed him again with mounting ferocity, you felt his grip on your wrists tighten. Your tears smeared against his cheeks as you pressed into him harder. You broke away only when you needed to breathe.

“You forgot me,” he sounded more like he was convincing himself than accusing you.

“Never. I love you. I never stopped loving you, not for a minute.”

His eyes snapped to yours, searching for any hint of a lie. You held your breath, praying that he would find your sincerity. Your heart was in your throat, constricting your airway until you were sure that you would pass out.

He moved faster than you could follow, and a startled sound came from you when he grabbed you and pulled you in hard, finally, finally kissing you back. He was insistent, desperate, and you melted into him immediately. He released your wrists. His hands found your hips and he pulled you closer until you were standing between his legs. You held onto him as tightly as you could. It was simultaneously familiar and strange, comforting and heartbreaking. You were drowning in him, but you couldn’t have been happier.

You had gone through these motions with Harry countless times before. You were intimately familiar with the way his hands felt on your body. You knew the taste of his lips and the feel of his arms around you. You knew the dark hair that you’d find on his chest and arms, knew all the curves and planes of his body. You knew how he moved. You knew what he liked and didn’t like, what would make him pant and moan and beg. You knew him.

But this time was different.

You didn’t feel as confident as you remembered. This felt like the first time, the uncertainty and the newness unignorable. You were unsure of what was okay and what wasn’t, you didn’t know what he wanted anymore. And despite the ferocity with which he kissed you, despite the straining desperation you could feel in his hands and arms as they held you close, you knew he was unsure too.

His hands were burning when they slipped under the hem of your sweater. You gasped into his mouth as the calloused skin of his palms and fingers skimmed the expanse of your stomach and smoothed over the plane of your back. He swallowed the sound of your tremulous moan as he deepened the searing kiss. It was hard to focus your scattered thoughts on anything but the feeling of him. If you weren’t careful, he would consume you entirely with his fire, but you would be happy to allow it.

You were too scared to engage in your own exploration. You were terrified that if you did you would wake up from whatever dream you had unwittingly tumbled into. You wanted to, though. You wanted to rediscover every inch of him, mapping out all of his dips and curves. To find the scars and imperfections you had touched and kissed a million times in the past, and to laden affection over any new ones. You wanted to run your fingers through his dark hair, and to trail your mouth down his abdomen. Fear kept you frozen in place, holding on to him as tightly as you could while he attacked your mouth with his own and felt the warmth of your body beneath your clothes.

The animalistic force and tempo of his kisses slowed until all that was left was the intermingling of your breathing and his, lips brushing gently between breaths. Your heart clenched, was this the end of the dream? Were you sentenced to wake to cold sheets and an empty bed?

You felt him grip the bottom of your sweater, pulling away from you just enough to draw the wool garment up over your head. The heat that swept through your body chased off the chill of cold air sweeping across your bare skin. One of his arms wrapped around your waist while the other gripped the underside of your thigh. He drew you in until you were forced to straddle his lap, knees framing his hips. His fingers found the clasp of your bra behind your back as you tentatively reinitiated the kiss. He fumbled with the delicate fastening, grunting his displeasure as he struggled against the ill ease of time spent unpracticed. It finally came undone before he drew the straps slowly down your shoulders and arms, pulling the undergarment away from your chest to leave you exposed to him.

His breathing hitched, faltering in his chest for only a fraction of a second before he crashed against you once more. He pulled you in hard, sealing your pliant form against his own before turning your world upside down. Your back met the soft, fluffy expanse of comforter and sheets while the rough fabric of his dark coveralls rasped against your front. The arm around your waist kept you firmly anchored to him while the other prevented his weight from crushing you. His pelvis brushed your own, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You cupped his face in your hands as you leaned up to capture his lips with your own, eagerly opening up to him when you felt his tongue trace your lower lip. You were completely overwhelmed by everything that was him. His taste was the catalyst for a million bittersweet memories to flash and pool behind your eyelids and strangle your heart within your chest.

Ever so slowly, you allowed your hands to venture lower. Over the unshaved expanse of his jaw, down the column of his throat where his pulse beat wildly beneath your touch, until you found the zipper of his coveralls. Your labored breaths burned in your lungs as you listened to the rattling of metal teeth that followed the slider’s descent. Harry shrugged out of the upper half of the tattered coveralls, leaving him in a tight black t-shirt with the excess fabric hanging around his hips. For the first time that night, you could really see him.

He was still broad and strong, body a testament to years and years of hard physical labor, but he was not exempt from the toll of time. The definition of his biceps and triceps had fallen victim to a year without any real physical activity. He seemed slimmer, and you felt concern gnawing at the back of your mind, begging to know whether they had been feeding him well enough. New scars littered his arms, some looking like blast scars while others appeared almost like gouges or scratch marks.

You looked up at his face and found him staring right back down at you. His dark eyes were almost black as they swept over your bared upper half from behind the curtain of shaggy dark curls that were mussed and wild from his helmet. His chest heaved as he drew in a shaky breath. You wanted to spread your hands over his chest, to feel its firmness and the pounding beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Instead, you undid the button and fly on your pants before you began to shimmy them down your hips. Harry chased your hands away before coaxing you to lift your hips and allow him to pull the thick material along with your underwear down the length of your legs. You heard them hit the floor behind him.

You thought you would feel the same bashfulness you had felt your first time together, the burning sense of embarrassed hesitancy. Yet as you laid beneath him, completely nude and entirely vulnerable, there was no desire to cover your body or hide yourself away. You knew he was looking you over, taking in the image of you he hadn’t seen in so long.

You felt you had reached a breaking point. There would be no turning back from here. You could feel the long cooled patches of wetness on his coveralls from where his thighs pressed into the back of yours. There was no denying what he was capable of, what he had done, what he had wanted to do to you. This was Harry, and you loved him, but the hands that he held you with were now steeped in blood and violence.

You reached for him and he met you, crushing your body to his. If you could melt into him, merge your body and soul with his, you would have. You wrapped your arms around his back and buried your face in his neck. Beneath the unmistakable smell of copper, you found his scent. That smell of musk and pine, intermingled with sweat. It was the most comforting scent in the world, and tears sprung to your eyes anew as you realized how much you had missed it, yearned for it in its absence.

You needed him. You needed to be as close to him as was possible, in the basest most physical sense. He was part of you, and you were part of him.

You slipped your hands between your bodies, searching and grasping for the edge of his coveralls. Your fingers tugged and pulled until they had pushed past the thick material and found the waistband of his underwear. You wavered there, watching the way his chest heaved with each heavy inhale of breath, you could feel the tension of anticipation in each of his tensed muscles. Finally,you took hold of him, freeing him from the restricting confines of clothing. He was already hard and heavy in your grasp, length velvety and scaldingly hot beneath your touch.

You ached for him. Every inch of your body begged to know his as intimately as it once had. Pressure mounted in the stiffened peaks of your breasts as you imagined his hands, his mouth, his wonderfully skilled tongue laving them with attention, and you arched into him for more of that wondrous friction. Your sex pulsed with faded remembrances of his touch, clenching around nothing as you thought of him filling you once more.

Strong hands gripped your thighs, spreading them and opening you up to him. You trembled as he shifted, every nerve and sinew taut with the delirium of expectation. You released him, hands finding his broad shoulders to steady yourself in preparation for what you desperately needed next. A stuttered, moaning exhale tumbled from your lips at the first brush of the blunt head of his cock between your legs. You made a pleading sound in the back of your throat, and with one hand at your hip and the other guiding his swollen length to you, he took what you both needed.

He pushed in and you immediately sucked in a sharp, pained breath because it burned. It had been so long, your body no longer used to him, and for a moment it knocked the air from your lungs. Your legs quivered while they framed his hips. You heard distantly the strangled sound of his groan as he was enveloped in your heat, but it was nearly drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

You wanted him to move, to pound into you and take everything you were willing to give despite your body’s resistance. He did not. He waited, frozen in place with you wrapped around him. He leaned his body into yours until you were chest to chest, his heart beating harshly along with yours. He pressed his lips to your neck and shoulder, hot breath rolling across your overheated skin. Your head spun as you waited, suspended in limbo between the opposing sensations.

Finally, as you adjusted to being filled so completely, you rolled your body into his. Your mind went blank with the first jolts of mounting ecstasy. He was here, and real, and filling you so unbelievably well. There was nothing but the two of you, joined in the most intimate way you could imagine, and for the first time in 365 days of despair and emptiness, you felt whole.

He pulled out of you with agonizing slowness, leaving you quaking with a need for more. You looked at him with tear-framed eyes and were stricken with how painfully perfect it felt to have his body above yours. This was where he belonged, locked in your embrace with flushed, sweat-slicked skin, mouth forming around panting breaths and pleasured moans, eyes half-lidded and looking at you like he had never seen anything more perfect in his life.

And then he thrust back in.

You vocalized your pleasure in disjointed staccato moans. You had forgotten anything could feel like this. Each time he buried himself within you, each spear of his length inside your eager, fluttering walls stoked the fire that gathered and burned at your core. You hooked your ankles behind his back, pulling him into every thrust as best you could. You needed more, deeper. You wanted all of him.

You heard him inhale harshly through his nose, as if he was trying to steady himself, to control his breathing and keep himself grounded. You could have died and been perfectly happy. Heaven was here, in his arms, surrounded by the knowledge that you tested his control so thoroughly. That you made him feel so good he could hardly stand it. That after so long your desperate coupling was nothing short of perfection.

His fingers dug into the flesh of your hip. You were sure that there would be bruises there tomorrow. The heat had reached such an intensity that you were certain you would combust. That blaze in your core had spread and expanded until you were filled with wildfire, and yet Harry continued to add fuel to the flames. Each time he entered you only served to galvanize the inferno. You wanted to tell him to slow down. You needed him to let you catch your breath or the fire would consume you and burn away everything except for the wonderful push and pull of him inside of you. You couldn’t find the words, so you said the only thing you could.

“I love you,” you wailed. “I love you... I love you... I love you...”

You felt him falter, pace slipping before he pushed into you harder, faster. The intensity of it all threatened to pull you under and drown you. He was your lifeline, and you held onto him with every ounce of strength you had.

Harry groaned your name, lips right beside your ear, and that was it. The world exploded into white light as the fire inside of you burst. You dragged your nails down his back, taking handfuls of the t-shirt neither of you had cared to remove. Your body jerked and your walls clenched around him. Sparks of pleasure shot through your limbs, burning through you and leaving nothing but embers of satisfaction.

You heard yourself moaning as he continued to thrust through your climax. He was close. Each breath that escaped him was harsh. Each inhale burned his lungs. He would break apart at any second and you would hold the pieces together.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you turned your head to kiss his temple, his cheek, the crown of his messy head. Your lips came away tasting like salt. He met you and captured your mouth with his own. You swallowed his stifled moan, your only warning before you felt the first jerk of his cock followed by a flood of warmth inside your slick cunt. You gasped as he panted against your lips. His release painted your walls, pulling aftershocks of your own release from your sex.

As you came down from the high of euphoria, your surroundings came into focus. Your arms and legs felt like jelly. The sheets were glued to your skin with sweat. Harry’s arms glistened in the combined light of the moon and streetlamps. You looked past him to the night stand. The alarm clock had been knocked over at some point, but you spotted his gloves that had been thrown carelessly on the little wooden table. Around them was a pool of crimson that had spilled over the edge and had begun to drip onto the floor below. A feeling began to well inside you, threatening to overshadow the warm glow that had centered in your chest.

Harry pushed himself up onto his forearms, eyes centered above your own. You felt your eyebrows draw inwards as you searched his face. Gone was any semblance of the fearsome shadow from before. For a moment, you could let yourself believe that this was the Harry you had always known. The Real Harry. The True Harry. When he leaned down to kiss you with a heartbreaking amount of gentleness, you could almost forget the blood that stained your wooden floor. He smoothed your sweaty, wild hair away from your face.

You realized with a sinking sensation that you did not know what to do next.

When he pulled out of you, he collapsed onto the bed next to you. You felt a combination of cooling fluids spilling from inside of you. You pushed yourself onto your wobbly elbows to survey the damage. Bruises had already begun to darken along your hip. The apex of your thighs was a mess of glistening slick and pearlescent cum. You would have to go to the bathroom and clean yourself up if you didn’t want it to--

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your blood froze as you heard the pounding thud of a fist making contact with your front door. Your head snapped towards Harry who had turned to stone beside you. You knew who it was. You knew that if you opened that door, Newby would be standing there. He would tell you all the things that you had been trying to avoid thinking about. He would tell you everything Harry had done that night, tell you about the carnage and bloodshed.

He would ask you if you knew where Harry was.

You felt your eyes widen as you looked at the man beside you. He had killed someone tonight, maybe multiple people. He was a murderer.

You loved him.

He needs help, logic argued. If you love him, you’ll tell Newby that he’s here so that they can take him back to the mental hospital and treat him.

You pushed yourself to stand. A hand closed harshly around your wrist.

“I need to tell them something, Harry,” you said, corrosive guilt burning your insides. “I’ll get rid of them.”

You felt him hesitate, grip remaining firm for a series of infinitely long moments. Eventually, he relented, fingers slipping away from you.

You pulled your underwear up your shaky legs, cringing as the fabric cradled the mess against your folds. You rushed to your dresser, pulling out a nightgown and shimmying it over your head. You grabbed your robe, wrapping it around your shoulders and tying the belt closed. You couldn’t look at Harry as you left the room.

“I love you,” you said quietly.

You felt nauseous as you walked to the front door. Uncertainty gnawed at you, clawing at your heart and stomach. You could hear voices on the other side of the door, there were more people than just Newby. They suspected Harry was here, they were going to take him back.

You opened the door slowly, just enough for you to peek your head out.

“(Y/N),” Newby looked at you with a stifling amount of pity. He looked exhausted. “Where is he?”

He knew. He knew Harry was there. He knew.

You stared at him silently, your mouth had gone dry.

“We just want to help him,” Newby continued. “He’s a sick man, (Y/N).”

Your heart was pounding in your ears. Steady. Thump. Thump. Thump. You realized with a jolt that the sound wasn’t your heart. It was footsteps. Boots across hardwood. You wondered if the men on your front steps could hear it.

“He killed two men tonight.”

Your heart dropped like a stone. You had known, of course, but it was hard to face the truth so directly. Your mind was screaming at you, telling you that you had to tell them. You heard your back door open deeper in the house.

“Where’s Harry, (Y/N)?” Newby was pleading with you.

You heard the back door slam shut.

“I don’t know.”

#Harry Warden #harry warden x reader #Slashers #slasher imagines #slashers x reader #x reader #bmf #smut

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biohazard-inevitable · 4 years

Text

Greedy

Coins clanked together softly in a metal cup as a woman shook it around, dressed in rags and sat on the cold, cobble streets of a small town. People walked by, paying her no mind as she begged for dcraps. Her hair ran down her face, long and mangled like a silken waterfall around her face. Deep bags hung underneath her sunken, soulless, grey eyes.

“Spare coin?” She shivered out at a passerby. The passerby simpmy began to walk faster and a cold wind blew by, chilling the woman to the bone.

After hours of begging, the homeless hag got up with a crackle of bones and began to walk to the old bridge where she had set up a small encampment. As she stumbled her way to to the encampment, she passed by the local graveyard as she usually did. This time, she stopped. Coating the graveyard was a low hanging mass of fog, urging the woman closer. The hag merely obeyed the call, walking into the cloud of fog, soon seeing a dark figure standing beneath a tree.

“Glad you could make it.” It said, not turning to face the woman.

As she grew closer, she noticed that the figure wore no clothes, nor did he seem to have any skin. The figure was blacker than night or shadow with no discernible features. On e she was close enough, the figure turned, revealing eyes covering its entire face, all opening and closing at different moments, all staring into the woman’s soul.

“What the hell are you?” The woman shook, backing up from the shadowy monstrosity before her. Across the thing’s stomach stretched a grinning maw and a soft chuckle came of it.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, mortal?” The shadow spoke, outstretching an arm to grab the woman by the neck. “Mh. Not the prettiest, but you’ll do just fine.”

The woman was barely anle to let out a scream as her neck was snapped nearly instantly, her body crumpling underneath its own weight and falling into the thing’s arms. Shadow began to creep across the homeless woman’s body, exuding from the monster’s form. Soon, the shadows sunk into the woman’s flesh and her bones crackled as she reanimated, assuming a regal posture.

“Oh it’s been too long since we’ve had a physical body.” The body spoke, its voice that of millions. “Now I can take what I want, properly.”

((This is an EXTREMELY experimental idea for The Greed and The Lost so please take it with a spoonful of salt that this may not be entirely cannon to my story.))

#the forgotten plague lore dump #the forgotten plague #the forgotten plague rewritten #the greed #the lost

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diveronarpg · 4 years

Photo

Congratulations, CLAUDIA! You’ve been accepted for the role of OTHELLO with a FC change to Chadwick Boseman. Admin Minnie: Claudia. Wow, Claudia. This application won me over. I got extremely excited in a matter of seconds just from your first paragraph alone — just ask the other admins, I can even send you a screenshot of my message: “ok i've read one paragraph and im in luv”. From your clean and precise analysis of his core (”learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive” YOU DID THAT) to the incredibly story you weaved in your para sample... you completely won me over. And so did your Othello. I cannot wait to see your plot points come to life, because I’m positive that you’re going to bring a storm to Verona. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Claudia

Age | 23

Preferred Pronouns | She / Her

Activity Level | 7

Timezone | GMT+11

How did you find the rp? | I’ve known about DiVerona for a while now but it’s been some time since I was active on the rpc scene. Stumbling upon it again after all this time and seeing Othello open feels a little like serendipity.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Here and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Othello. And if I could please request a faceclaim change to Chadwick Boseman.

What drew you to this character? |

Othello is a study in dichotomies – a man torn between polar extremes. Between savagery and nobility, brutality and kindness, love and war.

His very existence was borne of a war waged between his mother’s warmth and his father’s cruelty. He grew up in a house that felt more like battlefield than home, learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive. He feels everything: deeply, intensely, like an open wound half-healed; it’s his greatest strength and it will be his ultimate downfall. Odin is a man capable of a vast and terrible rage. There’s brutality sunken deep in his marrow, something black and rotten in his birthright, an ancient violence. He feels it in his blood like a beast that’s slept dormant all these years, lying in wait, watchful, preying on his worst instincts. He hears it singing in his veins, can taste it climbing into his throat, when he sees a guilty man’s blood spilled on fresh dirt. He thinks he sees glimpses of his father in the mirror, sometimes, when his mind is adrift and steeped in shadow. His eyes, soulless and quiet, his knuckles blooming with bruises.

Suffice to say, I love this broken, conflicted, contradiction of a man. There’s nothing more compelling than a tragic hero and the thing about Othello is that he has every inkling in him of someone who could so easily be tipped over the edge into monster. I love that discrepancy, I live for that sliver of doubt, the seduction of l’appel du vide and the terrifying realisation that he has everything in him to slip beyond that edge.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

ONE MORE SUCH VICTORY WOULD UTTERLY UNDO ME | Odin has survived the maelstrom of scandal and ruin that would have meant a fall from grace and high standing, the destruction of all that he has built for himself. And in doing so, he’s lost the only thing he has every truly loved in this life: Delilah. All of the love and devotion and pleas for understanding could not deny the rage and ruthlessness that came with her infidelity. With the heartbreak of knowing the one person he’d let into the deepest parts of his soul, who’d seen him bare and unstripped of all artifice, had betrayed him. He’s burned all their bridges, performed triage to save his reputation and his pride, but what of the love that still sickens him when he thinks of her and how she’s suffering? He has set fire to all traces of her inside his heart but it isn’t so easy to burn her out of his mind or his dreams. These are the places where man has no dominion. And what of the peace he knows he will never find again without her by his side? What of the treacherous slivers of doubt beginning to eat away at him that till now, he has tried to kill and smother with green-eyed reason? He couldn’t possibly be wrong, could he? He couldn’t have abandoned his happiness and his honour with the one woman who has loved him for all his flaws and vices at the turn of a whispered deception?

AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER? | Ivan is the closest thing Odin has to family. To blood. Ivan has stood at his side through everything, his left-tenant, his confidante, his greatest source of comfort and familiarity. Call it a blind spot, a weakness, but Ivan has earned his faith and unquestioning trust. It was Ivan who came to him when he first heard of Delilah’s betrayal, and it was Ivan who gave him the strength to do what had to be done. But now he has lost his greatest love, and his brother seems more and more a stranger to him by the day. Ivan has always been smarter, sharper, hungrier, hiscunning forged out of necessity and survival. It is the flicker of doubt, the silhouette of something far more treacherous and unforgivable that stains his dreams like nightshade. He is not a man of halfway, or half-done. Odin absolutely cannot abide the grey area of hesitation. If there is more than speculation to the idea that Ivan has somehow exaggerated, or misconstrued Delilah’s transgression… There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to lose.

WHY ARE YOU FULL OF RAGE? BECAUSE YOU ARE FULL OF GRIEF | Despite his well-crafted attempts at appearing to the contrary, Odin walks a finely wired tightrope between chaos and control. His ego is bruised and battered, and his heart is worn thin with humiliation. He was once a man that wore the hearts of Verona’s people on his sleep. Now, a whisper follows him everywhere he goes. A whisper that becomes a murmur, rising and spilling into a crescendo of rumour and disgrace that hounds him day and night. Odin is quicker to anger, more belligerent and unruly, a humming drum beat of shame and dishonour ringing in his ears every time he turns away and pretends not to hear the outrageous lies they spin. And with his beloved gone, cast out of his heart and soul, there is so little left to keep his worst instincts at bay. All it would take is one bad day. One simple push is all it would take to plunge him down the path into darkness. A push, or a drip of well-timed poison in his ear.

PROMETHEUS’ GAMBIT | Before Odin swore himself to the Capulets, he was a man of the people. A hero. A saviour. Someone who fought to protect those who could not protect themselves, who strove to uphold the law and to push for reform when, at times, it failed to protect Verona’s people. Why, then, would such a noble, virtuous man like Odin Bello, choose to fall in with the mob? Odin is idealistic, but pragmatic. War and injustice have taught him that the law is not enough. Verona runs on blood and money, and if that is what it takes to wield the power and influence in this city necessary to do genuine good, then so be it. Becoming a Captain of the Capulets was an act of necessity, and political savvy. He is a man of his word, and therefore loyal to their cause. But if there ever comes a day when he must choose between the Capulets and the life of an innocent, Odin’s sense of justice may cause him to waver.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Absolutely. Preferably in some manner of tragedy and disaster befitting the very embodiment of tragic irony.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample:

It is always the same dream.

The same endless plunge into nothingness, a black chasm void of any light or air or sound. It could be sinking, or rising, and Odin wouldn’t know the difference between the sky and the ground. Suffocating. Drowning. Either way, it is a slow, and terrible way to go.

The vice around his neck, coiling tight around his throat, tighter with every breath, crushing any frenzied hope of salvation. He scrabbles wildly at the noose (not a rope but smooth, sleek to the touch, and cold), knuckles paling with desperation as his lungs scream. He fights. But the end is always the same. The hand (when did the noose become so clearly defined? Are those fingers?) clenches around his throat, grinding down against his windpipe with unrelenting pressure. It metastasizes – liquefying with the metallic consistency of blood, or perhaps smoke, as it fills his mouth and his lungs and his chest, pouring into his ribcage and filling every fissure and crevice inside of him.

It tastes like death. It tastes like inevitability.

He drowns like this, suspended in time between shadow and purgatory, for what feels like an eternity. And then either his mind snaps, or the dream does, and he’s released, hurtling into reality with the speed of a sniper bullet.

—

He wakes like a dying man drawing his last, shuddering breath.

In his dream state, his sweat-streaked brow tightens with the anticipation of a brush of warm, soft lips. Ah. But she’s gone now, isn’t she? She is gone and he has carved her out of his chest like a pound of flesh he still holds clutched in his bloodied fist. The proof of her betrayal beating in his palm, visceral and raw as a slaughter.

Odin wakes from sleep every morning like he has survived a death. He moves as if his body is exhausted to find itself alive and begrudges him the audacity of enabling the very breath in his lungs. But years of military regimen has been beaten into him like sandstone worn smooth by a millennia of moon and tide. He drags himself out of bed, dresses, makes his bed squared with perfect angles, shaves, slips his gun out from beneath his pillow and into his holster. The barely risen sun casts everything in a dull tinge of faded indigo like day old bruising. He pads through the house, the hollow echo of his footsteps winding down and down the stairs.

A rap of knuckles upon his door splinters his reverie, his attention snaps to the entryway. Sharp. Alert.

It’s Katarina. She swirls through the door, out of uniform but armed to the teeth, gaze chilled as black ice.

“It’s the rat,” she hisses, eyes flashing like chips of steel in the dark.

The word has an affect akin to an electric shock: he’s awake.

“What did he do now?”

Katarina’s gaze narrows in disdain. “What rats are wont to do: lie and squirm and betray.”

“And what’s the word from Sloane? Rafaella?”

“Dispose and send in the cleaner.” Casual murder, discussed just like that. It’s not even seven in the morning yet, a time when normal, human citizens of Verona could be having their first cup of coffee.

“No use disposing of a rat if we can’t get something out of it first,” Odin deliberates. “Catch him for interrogation.”

Katarina snorts indelicately. “Shouldn’t be too hard, the way he’s been hitting The Dark Lady every night like the world is ending.”

The barest smirk toys at the corner of Odin’s mouth. “Maybe he’s not as stupid as we thought then.”

Those that lie to the Capulet Mob are usually exactly as slow-witted as they appear on the surface. Lying and betraying the Capulets is akin to signing one’s own death sentence in blood.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Katarina drawls, the syllables velveteen on her tongue.

“Tonight. Nine o’clock in The Orchid Room. You can handle getting him there on a work night?”

“Can I get a Veronesi police officer to slack and indulge their vices at a glorified whorehouse? Please.”

“Alright, then.” Odin gives a small nod, a subtle seal of approval.

“Well, I have to go see a gentleman about an exterminator.”

There is something to be admired in how efficiently a malvivente can get away with murder. The science and precision it takes to orchestrate a killing floor, a crime scene, a clean-up. In many ways, Cosimo Capulet is a virtuoso of his craft, if homicide could be considered an art.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate disappearing bodies from the precinct? Remind me to recommend that we accept external transfers only from now on.”

Katarina flicks him a smile sharp enough to cut through bone. “Here’s hoping third time’s a charm.”

––

The city is restless with fevered boredom. A sinister hush before a summer storm. Odin is alone on patrol this morning; Bellamy has begged off their shift with some falsified story about an elderly neighbour in crisis. In other words, a convincingly tedious tale to spin to cover the tracks of covert Montague business.

Odin doesn’t pry; there will be a time to play his cards and reveal his hand but today is not the day.

A crackling comes on over the radio, a standard 10-62 from dispatch. When he arrives on scene on the very outskirts of south Verona, it’s to an unsettling quiet. He steps out of the car, hand slipping cool over the grip of his gun. He heads round the back of the building, passing soundlessly down the winding cobblestone path that leads to the back entrance. His second cause for concern comes with his discovery that the door has been left unlocked. A push of the frame sends it swinging open. Odin’s hand flexes instinctively, curling tighter around his gun as he moves, barrel-first, into the house. With a slight exhale through his teeth, he raises his fist and hammers it into the peeling wood.

“Polizia,” he cries out. “Is anyone there?”

No answer.

No signs, even, of a breaking and entering.

He releases his fist, and heads cautiously on into the house. He clears one room after the other, swiftly and methodically, finding no signs of forced entry or illicit trespassing. The only remaining room left to scour is on the upper floor facing northward. Odin steps forward and reaches to open the door.

Of all the things Odin could have anticipated finding here, the rat they’ve have been hunting for over a week wouldn’t have made the list. But here, in the center of the room, sprawled on the floorboards like a tableau vivant, is Luca Salvatore. His nose and upper lip are smeared with quicksilver, and there’s powered gold, faintly gleaming, dusted around his collar. Ambrosia and il sangue di Faerie. An ironic harmony of Montague and Capulet – perhaps the only time the two sides have ever known true balance. How bittersweet, Odin muses as he lowers into a crouch to expect the body, he betrayed the Capulets and yet it is Montague poison that helped to seal his death. The foam gathered at the corner of Salvatore’s blue-tinged lips glimmers in the light, specks of chrome and liquid gold catching the sun seeping in from the window. Someone made damn sure they shoved enough fae blood and ambrosia down this man’s throat that he’d never live to draw another breath.

Odin sighs, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he pulls out his phone to send a message: Our rat’s been poisoned.

“Dispatch, 10-45D. I’ve got a body.”

Whatever secrets this man was harbouring, whatever danger or temptation drove him to fuck the Capulets, dying of borderline madness was a mercy.

Fool them once, they’ll kill you twice.

––

The night spirals on an endless loop at the The Dark Lady, time and space wrapped around a mobius strip of warped deception and illegality. The walls always look like freshly painted blood from the shadows of the lowlit stage. Unlike many of his fellow Capulets and officers – men are all the same, honourable or not, noble or not – Odin has never been seduced by the promise of The Dark Lady and her Sparrows. So long as his wife held his heart, he was hers in mind and body and endless soul.

Now, he is unchained. Adrift. But the thought of another woman, in her place, whispering the words she once whispered in his ear, physically sickens him. And perhaps it’s pathetic that the very idea of being unfaithful to his cheating ex-wife is anathema to him. Foolish, ignorant, blindly loyal Odin. That’s him. Besides, his purpose here tonight lies with business, not pleasure. If anyone knows who would have the most probable cause to poison their little rat, it’ll be the illustrious queen of the Sparrows. Of course, she’s kept him waiting. Her word and will is law within the dark walls of this establishment.

From his vantage point at the bar, he sees everything clearly through the haze of lust and debauchery. Men reduced to their base, animal selves, led by beautiful Sparrows with their fingers wrapped around their wallet. Gambling, prostitution, solicitation – technically, being here at all goes against the premise of his very existence as an officer of the law. The Dark Lady is one of the most profitable businesses on Capulet territory for good reason, however. Even if it weren’t for Odin’s interference, Mona has her hands in the pockets of every high-ranking officer within the police force. Or around their throats, with the numbers of untold secrets she has in her gilded arsenal.

He’s close to calling it a night and returning in the morning to reschedule when the piercing shatter of glass cuts through the music and hushed conversation.

“Jesus fuck, now look what you’ve done.”

A Sparrow, one of Mona’s girls, her long scarlet hair spilling loose down her shoulders, gives a soft yelp as she’s yanked from her position in a patron’s lap. Like the bird of her namesake with a broken wing, she’s tugged by the force of the man gripping at her wrist. Hard enough to bruise by the judgement of the man’s sheer height and build.

“Stupid little bitch,” the man hisses venomously, brushing furiously at his pants and the patch of wetness growing from spilled liquor staining the left leg. His grip on her tightens, the effect immediately visible from the lance of pain that flickers across her face, pointed and urgent.

The world goes very quiet, and very still. Odin tenses, every muscle in his body going rigid.

The walls here are red, the little Sparrow’s hair is red – vermillion, the colour of a sunset on fire, Bordeaux wine – and his vision bleeds red.

Odin moves without conscious thought: one moment he is at the bar, and the next his arm is slamming into the man’s gut, crushing the air from his lungs and forcing him to release the Sparrow out of shock. His hand, formed in a knuckled fist, fingers wrapped around thumb and the ring on his fourth finger that he keeps fucking forgetting to take off (or burn, or throw into the river, or melt down into scrap metal), swings forward in a brutal uppercut. It makes contact with a resounding snap of bone and cartilage, blood spraying forth in vivid, violent streaks of red.

“You crazy fucking bastard,” the man howls, staggering on his feet as his hands fly up to clutch at his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“There is one and only one rule in this club.” Odin widens his eyes a fraction. “Are you an idiot, or just in the mood to be skinned alive fully conscious?”

The man’s face twists into a snarling contempt. Naturally, he ignores the question entirely. “I know you,” he says, voice low and lascivious, swaying precariously on his feet. “You’re Odin Bello.”

Odin’s mouth flat lines, unimpressed by the drunken display before him.

“The man whose wife has fucked half the city.”

After, the reports will say that the man was found near dead: 6 broken ribs, dozens of broken, fractured bones, internal bleeding, contusions on his chest, arms and face, comatose.

After, they’ll say that Odin Bello lost his mind.

(Have you seen him? He doesn’t look like someone stable.

His wife was cheating on him for months with every member of his precinct, the poor fool. Who could blame him?

Bello’s insane. He’s completely lost it.

Did you hear the man he attacked is in a coma? Who knows, maybe he deserves it. Maybe he was asking for it.

I feel bad for the wife. Good thing she got out while she still could.)

––

After, Mona finds him in the alleyway with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, his hands and arms soaked in blood to the elbow. He smells like the inside of a slaughterhouse, and ash. She stalks over on stiletto heels sharpened to a knife point and slaps a black dossier against his chest. The Dark Lady’s insignia is debossed, an imprint, a shadow of an elegant swirling sigil.

“This isn’t a favour, Bello. I expect repayment in full, and then some.”

Her hand shoots out to grip him by the chin, manicured fingernails digging into his jawline as she drags his face down towards her eye line.

“You pull that shit in my club again and I’m blacklisting you for life.”

Odin shakes her hand free like her touch is nothing but air and straightens, presses the cigarette back to his lips and lets the smoke coil and spiral from his fingertips. Even the smoke tastes of something raw. Like fresh blood, metallic and veined with rust. There are flecks of it clinging to his cheekbones, splattered across his shirt like an abstract impressionist rendering of violence. The afterimage of it seared into the black and white negative of his silhouette. He looks like an old god, covered in the grime and filth of modernity. A bloodied relic of an ancient religion built on the altar of human sacrifice. He inhales, black smoke swirling in his lungs, the faint glow of eyes like ritual fire as he turns to face her.

“Do you think she knows?”

Bewilderment, then disgust as understanding dawns on Mona’s face. “How the fuck would I know, Bello?”

Odin watches her, unblinking, utterly motionless, his gaze deadened and hollowed like the heart of a black hole. A yawning abyss of unending nothingness with no horizon.

Am I only a monster if she knows what I’ve done?

Extras:

ORIGIN: Standing at 6’5” since he was 18 years old, Odin cuts a striking figure. His presence commands gravitas without him ever having to speak a word: a simple nod, a tilt of the chin. Soldiers fall silent when he speaks, higher-ranking officers defer to his cool judgement and lateral insight. He is a man born for leadership, marked for authority and the steady ascent to power. They say that those who deserve power do not want it, and in Odin’s case, at least to begin with, this is true. He enlisted at 18 to find an escape, a lifeline. A pathway to an existence free of his father and the brutal legacy he’d built for him — the only thing his father had ever given him other than his name. It was of little surprise that being primed and honed for war came easily to him. Odin rose swiftly through the ranks, impressing his superiors with his discipline, resolve and relentless potential. If anything, he was a little too disciplined, a little too resolute. Too intense and dead-eyed even when his fellow recruits were pushed to the brink of physical and mental collapse. Odin never seemed to tire, never seemed to even approach a tangible breaking point. He was utterly in his element: consistently ranking first in all his classes and dominating thr basic training activities with his physical advantages. But he was also charismatic, distinctly likeable, and always willing to help and shoulder someone else’s burden if he saw them struggling. As much as the other recruits would have preferred it, he was impossible to hate. At 24, he was promoted early to Lieutenant and led a squad of nine men who were willing to fight and die at his word. Out there, in the desert, they would have walked open-eyed into a minefield if he had given the order. Five years later, he was honourably discharged with the end of his tour. At least, that’s what his official military transcript says. What the transcript doesn’t say is that Odin Bello was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, chronic insomnia and major depressive disorder following his return. This will do you good, the Lieutenant Colonel had said. You’ve fought this war for long enough but now it’s time for you to go home, to find a little peace for yourself. He returned to the country, battle still burning in his blood and his head full of quiet demons, and immediately left in search of a place that did not feel like a graveyard. So he found, Verona, wartorn, streets red with blood, a monster lurking behind the face of every man, and felt for the first time in a very long time, at home.

HEART: Odin has a great love for animals and small children. When he was young, he would feed what little food he had to the local dogs and strays. They followed him around the streets like a loyal pack of guard dogs and one time even chased off a gang of older children harassing him for non-existent money. Odin was a single child but he often played with the other children in his town and helped to look after the youngest ones when needed. His heart is most visibly softest when he’s around children. To this day, he ensures that a significant portion of his pay – as a law enforcer and Capulet – goes to the local orphanage of Verona. He spends at least one day a week in his time off-duty feeding the stray creatures of Verona – be they beggars, street ruffians or stray dogs.

SOUL: It’s a hypocrisy of the highest order to be an officer of the law, and yet a Capulet. The Capulets are the source of half the rife and warfare in the city, the beating heart of the black market that funnels contraband and weaponry through the illicit networks of the underground. The Capulets liken their legacy to that of Robin Hood, a legendary tale of David defeating Goliath. Now, however, the Capulets are fat and glutted on their gold and wealth. Just as filthy rich and corrupted as the aristocrats they overthrew in the name of liberty and equality. Joining the Capulets was a means to an end for Odin, an opportunity to oversee the inner workings of the Capulet crime family, and to use it for his own quiet purposes. A thief that slipped away with the life savings of a dozen families he swindled could be dealt with in shadow and silence. A rapist plaguing the city with no proof to his accusations but the blood and tears of his victims could be found dead in the morning, his throat slit in retribution. A murderer could be caught, and punishment dealt in a manner befitting his crime, not by the corrupt, unjust systems of the court. It does not sit entirely well with the balance of Odin Bello’s soul, that he works for the Capulets and paints his hands in blood for them. But as long as the good he can do outweighs the evil, then he is willing to stretch his soul a little thinner in the name of what must be done.

HAMARTIA: Odin does not do anything in halves. It’s all or nothing with him. He loved his mother with all his heart, and he hates his father with the very same heart. He has never known a middle ground. The love he knows is a double-edged sword – all-consuming, and therefore, destructive. For Odin, there is no other way to love than to give everything of himself until here is nothing left. Even if it means his ruin. He gave everything to Delilah when he swore himself to her – his heart, his name, his soul, his life. He would have ridden into hell for her and beyond, if she had asked. He would have plucked the moon from the sky and given her the stars to light her smile, if she had asked. At the time of her betrayal, he had believe his rage equal to his love. Burning like wildfire from inside of him until it consumed all the good and warmth he had associated with loving her. Grief, he has since realised, outlasts rage. He placed Delilah on a pedestal and made her his god. Casting her out of Eden meant leaving behind a hollowness nothing else could fill. So he clings to the only other person who has ever worn the shape of love in his life – his comrade-in-arms, his brother, Ivan. Ivan, who has never abandoned him or given him cause for pain or doubt. Ivan, who has always understood his rage and darkness, and stands by him in the light nevertheless.

#accepted #accepted: othello #WHEW WELCOME CLAUDIA YOU DESTROYED ME!!!

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the-metal-reaper · 5 years

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An Eye for an Eye - Chapter 5

Well, here’s the final chapter of An Eye for an Eye! I loved experimenting with a different setup for this tale, placing it outside of one of the games. It’s been a lot of fun!

did i cry while writing this? yes. a lot. i love my kiddos, sue me.

---

Those eyes. She had seen them far more times than any person should. She had seen them on Michael, while he stood paralyzed in front of those nightmare-fueled steel monstrosities. Charlie had seen them on herself in the reflection of the rain-soaked glass of the window looking into Fazbear’s Family Diner, with the silhouette of her killer behind her. She had even seen them on her own father, as he stared into the emotionless eyes of Charlie’s former suit. And yesterday, she saw them on William as he stared at her through the mask of the Spring Bonnie suit just before the springlocks thrust themselves into his skin, shoving jagged mechanical parts right into his ribcage. Even when she shuts her eyelids as tight as she can, and feels her tears dripping down her face, those eyes still haunt her. They’re burned into her retinas.

Charlie hates this, hates that she’s crying, and hates herself most of all. Why was she so easily convinced to kill? Charlie was supposed to be the protector of lost souls, and yet she had created more. She was no better than William.

She looks up at Michael, who’s sitting next to her, facing the television. Neither of them had gotten much sleep. A rerun of an old soap opera, one that Michael had watched religiously in his youth, plays on the set, but neither of them are really watching it.

Michael wraps an arm around Charlie’s shoulder and pulls her closer. He runs his gloved fingers through her short brown locks and smiles a little to himself. He had almost forgotten what satisfaction and contentment felt like, but now it flowed through him like blood. His mission was complete.

On his side, he feels something cool. He looks down at Charlie, eyebrows quirking up with worry, and sees her tears. All at once, his peace drains to gnawing anxiety.

“Hey,” Michael smiles down at Charlie, who wipes her tears with a damp sleeve before meeting his gaze. “What do you say we… go stop by Fazbears? Say hi to your dad?”

Blood rushes to Charlie’s ears. She can barely hear Michael over the sound of her racing heartbeat, and she struggles to keep her face calm. The simple thought of that place is barely tolerable without her consciousness getting hijacked by images of the horrific monstrosities Charlie had committed the night before. But she needed to stay positive. She had to.

If she didn’t have her cheer, what did she have?

“Sure,” Charlie smiles for the first time that day. Michael smiles back, relieved.

They hop into the car, and Michael skids down the street, almost jumping the curb. Charlie hangs onto the seat behind her for dear life.

She laughs, “Why the heck are you driving so fast?!”

“Because,” Michael blows past the ‘Speed Limit: 20 mph’ street sign at 60, “it’s fun.”

Leaving dark tracks behind it, the purple Oldsmobile screeches to a halt in front of Fazbear’s glistening glass doors. The sun has just barely passed the horizon, so Michael’s face is cast in shadow as he lightly taps on the front door to the Pizzaria. No response. The main room, which is visible through the slightly frosted glass, is silent and dark. It may have been early, but Henry should’ve been there. He managed the place.

Charlie sees Michael’s confusion and concern. “Hey, I can unlock the door if we need.”

“That sounds good.”

With a nod, Charlie pushes herself through the glass and clicks the lock open. She goes deeper into the restaurant, reaching for the light switch to turn on the lights, when she sees them.

Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, Foxy. Staring down at her from the stage with lifeless eyes. Eyes that had been filled with life by the Marionette, and emptied of it by the same hand.

Charlie hadn’t realized she was crying until she felt Michael’s hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s find your dad and get out of here,” he murmurs. The spirit wraps her arms around Michael in response. Together, they walk through the restaurant, while Charlie tilts her head away from the stage.

Michael sees a dim light from a doorway down the hall. He leads Charlie there, only to see a man slumped over at the manager’s desk, beer bottle in hand and tiny television screen illuminating his face.

Sighing, Michael reaches over the desk and shakes him awake. “Henry.”

Henry’s eyebrows quirk up in confusion, then he smiles with recognition. “Hey, guys.”

“Were you here all night?

“Uh, yeah,” He blinks, rubbing his eyes, “I was watching William.”

Gesturing towards the TV screen, Henry shows Michael and Charlie the camera footage of the door to the safe room, which has remained the same since they locked the door.

“So, how are you?” Henry smiles.

“Well…” Staring at the floor, Michael says, “We’re thinking about moving. Leaving Hurricane.”

“What? Why?”

“Too many memories. Ones that I’d rather not remember. And besides--” Michael turns to Charlie, then falls silent. She’s so dim that she’s barely visible, her face buried in Michael’s coat. He puts an arm around her shoulders.

“But you just got here!” To Michael’s surprise, Henry sounds almost angry. He rises to his feet and walks around the desk to stare Michael down. “You can’t leave Hurricane.”

“Henry. The only reason we were here was to deal with William.”

“‘Deal with him?!’ Let’s not tiptoe around this, Michael. You convinced literal children to murder him for you because you just didn’t want to do it.”

Michael practically spits, “I did what I had to. I saved your life, for God’s sake. You’re just a coward.”

“A coward? No, I just have a moral compass. On the other hand, you are exactly as your father described. Soulless.”

A blur of movement brushes past Henry and smashes into the desk behind him. Oak splinters under Michael’s curled fist, and he glares red-hot lasers through Henry’s eyes. “I’m done taking your shit, Miller. We’re leaving. That’s final.” Michael stuffs his shaking hands into his pocket to avoid attacking Henry.

“We? If you think you’re taking my daughter from me, you’re sadly mistaken.” Henry jabs his finger into Michael’s sunken chest, not even sparing a glance at Charlie, who has long since moved away from the argument in favor of hiding in the corner.

“I—” Turning away to look for Charlie, Michael slows. His red-hot anger is cooled by the pitiful sight of his best friend curled up on the floor, her normally fluorescent features faded with fear. “Listen, I’m not trying to make Charlie’s choices for her. She can choose whether or not to move with me.”

“You’re not pulling that, Michael. Let her choose, so that way you can pull your little voodoo magic and put her back under your spell like always. Lottie’s going to stay with me, her father.”

“‘Voodoo magic?’ You mean being her friend? That’s the thing, Henry, you don’t really care about Charlie. Not like she is now. You just want your Little Lottie back.”

“Of course I do! Your father may have taken her away from me, but you’re the one who’s corrupted her, who’s turned her into something she’s not. You’re the one who made her kill someone!”

Henry gasps in a few breaths of air, his finger wavering in the air in front of Michael’s eyes. He closes his hand into a fist, and rises to put his face in the empty air where his fist was.

“So tell me, who really killed Lottie?” Henry spits, “William, or you?”

The linoleum tiles crack under Michael’s heel as he shoves Henry back into the desk, sending the older man flying over the desk and into the wheeled chair behind him. Michael wheels around, pausing when he sees Charlie’s apparent absence from the room.

Facing the floor, he whispers, “I’m sorry I fucked everything up.”

Just as quickly as he ended the argument, Michael storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Asshole.” Henry growls at the closed door. Slowly, he pulls himself back to his feet, muttering yet more profanities as he does so.

He looks up at his daughter with an apologetic smile. Charlie stares back with a combination of anger and fear on her face as her cheeks sparkle with tears.

Pointing at the door, Charlie stammers out, “Listen, I-I’m gonna—”

“I meant what I said.” Henry busies himself by fiddling with his desk chair, trying to get the wheels to spin again. “I know he’s your friend, Lottie, but I just don’t think Michael is trustworthy.”

Charlie’s hands curl into fists, but the only words she can muster are, “Michael’s always there when I need him. An-and I can’t say the same for you.”

She flies through the door, barely even noting the unpleasant wave of nausea that hits her as she does. Before she can even so much as take a breath, Charlie’s in the dining room, staring up at the stage. A muffled sob escapes her lips as she stares into Fritz—Foxy’s— lifeless eyes. Charlie turns away, wanting desperately to look at anything else. As she finally regains a slice of her sense, Charlie briskly walks through the booth seats and out the front doors.

The evening sun cast long shadows across the road, obscuring most of Michael’s face. He sits on the curb, looking at some distant point in the horizon while his cigarette smoke swirls around him in a cloud, concealing his face further. Through the smoke Michael sees a familiar figure join him on the curb. They sit in silence for a moment.

“You’re not coming with me, are you,” Michael says quietly. The smoke disperses, and Charlie can see the resigned frown on Michael’s face.

Charlie’s eyebrows quirk up in horror. She bites her lip, choosing her words carefully. “I’m not sure if I ever talked about it much, but… my years as the Marionette were hell.”

Michael looks up quickly, confusion dancing across his face.

“I was so alone, Mike. My d—Henry stopped coming to the restaurant, you never went back, even William left. I was so… cold.” Tears begin to well in Charlie’s eyes once again, but she grits her teeth and blinks rapidly. She shouldn’t cry again. She can’t. “Gabe, Jeremy, Suzy, even Fritz were always angry. Not just at William, at the world too. And I let myself get angry too.” Charlie pulls Michael’s arm into her lap and rests her head on his shoulder. “But then you came along.” A smile dawns on her face. “You helped me remember who I was, Mike. Who I am now. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. So, thank you.”

Michael pulls Charlie into a tight embrace, pushing her cheek up against his razor-like collarbone. His arms are shaking.

“That’s a no to staying, by the way.” Charlie laughs. Michael smiles gratefully as a response.

They sit in each other’s arms for a while, watching the golden sun light the horizon on fire as it sinks below.

Michael glances down at his companion. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she frowns. “I guess I just thought he’d be different.”

“I’m sorry.”

Charlie looks up at him, catching his gaze. “Don’t be. I have you, Mike. You’re all I need.”

---

Thank you so much for reading!! I’ll be posting art again starting next week.

Previous | Where it all started

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zblue-nightingale · 5 years

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Full-moon

A night under the dark sky sounds like the kind of life I'd like to have: Quiet, soothing with God knows what kind of animals or stars might come sprinkling like snowflakes. Tonight there is full-moon and I am naked. I am standing braless as if trying to invoke a sort of curse or divine sorcery.

Crickets here look like jumping spiders with harmonious antennas.

This night reminds me of a time where my body experienced shame. During those days I was three centimeters tall. I was made small so that I couldn't be the size of trees. I was to have a quiet mouth and a condescending body. That's when I became a witch.

At first, I wanted to kill him, and if it weren't for the law I would have shown no mercy. Love ceased to be of importance because they all resembled lifeless shadows with soulless eyes; monsters sunken in despair pushed away by a number of short-lived romances and a failed attachment.

What a fucked-up cupid.

Now I gaze towards the moon, and I am asking her to grant me the ability to give and receive love. I am under her because she is not always present in her splendor. Perhaps now she can guide me into my destiny, or even better: into the mind of an insect who is so oblivious of its existence, and yet so willingly dedicated to its very own creation.

Maybe I could even be a cricket, one who is so harmlessly repulsive, and yet does not seem to mind its given purpose. Let me be like them, genderless and harmonious. Free of guilt and so willing to surrender to its fate.

- Zblue-nightingale

#fullmoon #witchblr #writers of wattpad #poetblog #writerscreed #artists on tumblr #nighttime #a girl is tired #new poets society #wordsnquotes #stars

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briilliance1 · 5 years

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So thanks to knight @cyberends I yet again another Sho au. For context see this.

In which Ryo does defeat Camula during their duel, sacrificing Sho’s soul for the rest of humanity and the world. Grieve stricken and guilty Ryo takes Sho’s body to the abandoned dorm and leaves it there hoping to keep it safe and that possibly after they defeat the rest of the Hunters his brother would return.

After Ryo leaves Sho’s body, the dark forces that were re-awaken during Judai’s fake Shadow Duel (which later actually opened a gateway into the realm) took over Sho’s soulless form. Since he no longer had a soul but left with such a negative impact about feeling useless and unimportant, the shadows quickly decided his negative energy would be a source of power and strength.

The very next day Sho’s awake again, making his way back to the dorms completely unaware that he’s soulless. All he remembers is his brother dueling Camula.

Everyone’s obviously happy he’s alive but quickly start noticing some bizarre and completely out of character changes in Sho.

He’s cold

Cocky

Arrogant

Suddenly a better duelist then he was before (LIKE REALLY GOOD)

Snarky

Cruel in his comments and observations

Students that duel him and lose begin to fall Ill and need to be taken out of the island for extreme medical care

He moves out of The Slifer Red dorms and is almost never seen around campus anymore. He's taller, his eyes are sunken and his voice is simply laced with evil.

His real soul (the one Ryo sacrificed) is still alive, trapped in the Cyber End Dragon card.

#cyberends #✺-- SHO MARUFUJI: JUST KEEP MOVING FORWARD #I BLAME KNIGHT

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daydreamingdust-blog · 6 years

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Shadows

[Act I]

All that could be heard now was the timeless roar of the river cascading over a tall cliff of white stone, illuminated to a blinding extent by the harsh sun, even filtered through the trees above. It was a warm sunlight today, mixing well with the summer air on skin, warming the water, bleeding into the lush plant life that thrived here. The insects, the birds, the sirens wailing in the distance, were all silenced here by the waterfall. I could stay there forever, conceptually. In reality, I would have to leave this place and never return.

Being hunted has never felt so freeing, so absolutely exhilarating quite like it does right now. I finally pushed back on them, I finally ended the passive aggressive dance we’ve been performing on the world stage for the past 20 years. I finally showed them all that I’m an individual, I won’t be joining their huddled masses to become another shifting-shambling shadow of a man, stepped on by a thousand hungry souls drifting from point to point in a world designed to breed them a million, billion times over until they sink back into the blackness and the dust that they were born of.

I finally, finally pushed back. I remember my victim so clearly. There was little provocation above the norm; one of them stared at me with their sunken pit-stain eyes and featureless, smooth meat sockets that pockmarked their faces. I was on the bus on the way to center city, just trying to make peace with this world, just trying to show them that I can move freely in the Outside despite their oppression. But this one had stared at me too long. As its tiny mouth hung slightly open to release that droning, buzzing, horrible sound they always seem to emit, I lost my composure. I snapped. My fists came pounding down on those sockets as if I were trying to punch through the creature, and I was. I kept pummeling and pummeling, all the other black figures shifting backwards as if to give me space as I continued my assault. My fists were stained with a fluid that I would come to find impossible to wash off; it ran onto my white T-shirt, a dark, muddled collection of streaks that would mark me forever. The poor creature gurgled in a pool of this liquid on the ground, its limbs convulsing as it struggled to make that horrible gasp.

Before more of them could react I threw myself from the now-stopped bus and hit the sidewalk running. Running past the ones already outside, I heard them hissing and shrieking their unintelligible language, shifting back and forth and out of my way as I barreled away from the bus. There were only a few blocks until the edge town so I kept sprinting, determined to get out of this world. As I came around a corner my knee caught the chin of a shorter one, sending it flying backwards until its skull made contact with the pavement and that same dark fluid poured from the point of impact. Some taller ones had been walking beside it, and rushed to the injured one’s aide while I kept running. A dark, chilling wail escaped the now gaped mouth of the first to reach the wounded creature, and another started to chase me.

Within minutes I was approaching the edge of the city, where man made constructions met the forest. With a few creatures in hot pursuit, I entered the forest’s edge to make my escape. One of them, mere breaths behind me, seemed to have a personal vendetta as it screamed with a voice that sounded as if it were melting out of his throat and shambled after me, tripping over tree and limb and rock. I nimbly leapt over my obstacles, the sounds of a nearby waterfall crescendoed more and more deafening. I knew I would need to change my path, but this screaming mass of flesh and hatred would make it difficult.

When I could hear it falling behind I dared glance back for a moment. We were alone, and decently far in the woods now. It was leaking from a few places, that horrible, staining fluid pouring all over the forest floor from the injuries it sustained in my pursuit. Despite these wounds, it appeared to be just as determined to bring forth my end in a soulless, terrible killing. I pressed on to the edge of the waterfall, barely stopping myself from careening over the cliff to my death. The water ran past my knees and felt cool, refreshing; invigorating. Standing in the riverbed now I stopped to give the beast a taste of it’s own medicine; I met its empty eyes with a cold stare of my own. Its mouth opened to release a lower, rage-filled roar. Its hands were fists now, its stance offensive, arms raised. With everything it could muster it charged directly at me. I barely avoided the shifting mass as its fists blew past my head, and with so much power behind the blow it couldn’t keep balance. The beast fell past me and screamed the whole way down. This river fell on rocks; this creature wouldn’t be coming back for me.

The sirens from the city were slowly fading as their semblance of a police presence scattered and scrambled through the city, unaware of the direction I had fled in. I knew it was all a farce, a mouthful of spit in the grave of humanity. These things were a gross caricature of a functioning society - they might appear civil from afar, with schools and grocery stores and bars and sports teams and vacations. But at night they tore each other apart, all over the world. They made kings of their false idols and put the darkest and most corrupt shadows on the world throne to govern and to rule, ensuring this cycle could never be broken. I saw them in the frenzy of violence more than once myself, and that’s when I accepted there were no humans anymore. They could never be reclaimed from the shadowy forms they’ve embodied. This horrible, worldwide dance of ritualistic chaos had consumed humanity, and I was the last one left to witness what the damned had become.

And now I’m going to be hunted to the ends of the earth for lashing out. No matter the violence, the horrendous sins they performed on themselves, my single transgression had not been in private and for that I would be damned to them as they are Damned in the eyes of God.

[Act II]

I saw faces in them... real, human, breathing faces.

These visions came in small shocks whenever they stabbed me. I was restrained in a small room with a low hanging fluorescent light that was always on, strapped to a metal table with a firm cushion underneath my head. Thick rubber bands were used to keep my head, arms, and legs in place while they came in and out every so often to prod and probe. I was completely naked, but the climate of this room was controlled extraordinarily; I never felt so much as a draft, even when the heavy metal door opened and shut.

These things were all tall, thin, and breathed heavily. They all looked the same - sort of fuzzy, with nondescript facial features that seemed to run together smoothly, as if a river had run over them for a few centuries, eroding the nose and the brow and the lips to a parallel. They wore lab coats and harnesses with tools wrapped around their waists, and whenever their sparse lips creaked open they all emitted the same horrible, horrible hiss. A shambling drone of sound, as if instead of vibrating inside their throats their vocals cords were rubbing against each other; a field of browned sawgrass, blades rubbing against each other as if to start a fire.

But the flashes of humanity I saw in them... I knew they were trying to change me.

This must be how they see each other, and these experiments, these needles, these drugs are all meant to make me see like they do. And they’re convincing. One of the faces was even pretty; she had freckles and pale, rosy cheeks holding up soft green eyes, and sometimes I would see her brushing locks of amber hair out of the way as she examined me; puncture wounds from the needles still fresh. But that was all I had; a few seconds of these faces which felt more like a memory than real life events.

It was all a lie, a lie that made me angry. These creatures were intruders breaking into my mind, ravaging the fabric of my reality. My mind and my body were separating in this room with every hour, day, and week that passed. The flashes of humanity I saw in them grew longer and more hyper realistic, and I was sure it was part of their process to convert me. They were going to get longer and longer until i saw them like that all the time, and then they’d offer me back my place in society.

I didn’t want that place back. The apartment, the bicycle I rode through my city streets when I was feeling athletic, the bus routes, the dead end job; all permeated by these shadow creatures and their pervasive auras. It wasn’t safe out there for me, out there, in here, anywhere. Now that I’ve committed a crime of passion in the eyes of the world they would pursue me to no end.

The next time the needle tasted my flesh I saw something different entirely. I was no longer in the operating room, and I no longer felt bound. The sky above me was blood red, and below me my feet were sunken on a white sand beach. My pale skin nearly created a camouflage effect, and I imagined if I were to lie down my naked body would be difficult to spot out here. I didn’t feel the need to hide, however. I felt safe and calm looking up at the cloudless sky, however ominous the hue might have felt. And when I looked down, I felt something that brought me only sheer delight and euphoria.

There were creatures everywhere on this beach, strewn about lazily like some impatient god had left them here, uncaring enough to stack them neatly or organize them by height or whatever else a god does. They were all facedown, some in the waves, others in the sand, others on top of others. And they were dead, all dead from exsanguination. They oozed their dark vital life juice all over this beautiful white sand beach, and the stuff soaked the ground and the rocks and the shells and mixed with the waves and amassed in pools where the sand grooved to prevent it from joining the ocean. So many, too many to count, and they could never cause me problems again.

I knew this couldn’t really be a god’s doing. After never making an appearance for all of my life this wouldn’t be their first. But I did see my own hands in this work, and the sense of fulfillment this scene gave me made more sense. This was the flesh of my creation. My Sistine Chapel. My hands were stained dark from my first victim on the bus, but now they were as dark as any of those bodies on this stained beach. Corpses. Bodies was too light, as if one of them could still rise up from their final resting place and taunt me again. I’ve made sure they couldn’t. I put an end to everything that caused me to suffer at last.

It was just a vision. When the vision ended I was out of my restraints, surgical knife in my hand pressed against the writhing, gasping, shadowy throat of a creature dressed in medical garbs. Its screeching was getting louder, more desperate. Oil dripped from the point of contact the knife made with its skin. I was free again. This one was at my mercy. This world would be at my mercy.

As I pushed the blade slowly into this foul creature’s neck, I heard another sound from the end of the room. The door handle was beginning to turn. More of them would be in here very soon. I have work to do.

I’m going back to that beach.

[Act III]

It was as if some deranged and jaded spirit had flipped a switch in my mind. I knew what they wanted, what they’ve been trying to force my hand to. The vision, this beach, everything came together perfectly. The world changed for a reason and I was a part of it. I had never been cast out. I wasn’t truly pressured to join. I was unchanged so I could fulfill my purpose. I would fulfill humanity’s purpose.

I had the bodies aligned as they had been in my vision. It seemed almost random, but every time I dragged another back I saw exactly in my mind where it needed to go. Arms and legs were twisted around, on top and underneath each other, some bodies twisted until something broke, others contorted in circles around others in a massive macabre orgy of broken flesh and spilled oil. The larger pattern was circular by nature, with a diameter of about 30 or so of the bodies, and grew more twisted and dense as the corpses were laid closer to the center. The center was the pièce de résistance; two women-like figures intertwined by their brutally snapped torsos, petrified forever in a violent embrace while their legs stood firmly on the skulls of frail old men.

I’d been working on this for months, gathering victims and discretely hiding them until I had enough. Tonight I had enough.

I sat back on my hands, partially ashamed of their saturation, but mostly proud of the blood that now dripped from them. In the distance I saw the skyline of the city I had come to know so many times now, glowing red and blue and every other color in great quantity. Somehow, the world carried on without humans. Somehow, the facade was that deeply rooted.

I was exhausted. Moving around in the shadows of shadows for so long had taken a serious toll on my body, and there were many nights I was unable to sleep lest I be discovered and ruin the mission. It was over now. All that was left was to be caught, to show my work on the world stage. Once my dark mural made its way into the minds of these husks they would finally open their eyes, they would finally see the world they’ve built is actually a horrible, hideous place where no one is safe, not even around the quiet spinsters they cast out...

I took a moment there on the beach to contemplate the horrific nature of my killings. Sure, they weren’t human. But what if they were? Would I not have reached the same conclusion with the society I used to understand so poorly? Would I be here on this beach, soaking my hands and the sands in crimson, twisting human flesh and limb to make this horrible sculpture? I tried to tell myself no, I could never hurt another person. Humanity was sacred to me; that’s what this beach, these killings, the oil I will never wash out, has all been for. Humanity.

But then again, humans can be inhuman too.

I must have sat there pondering these thoughts all night, for the next thing to grace my lucid eyes was the sunrise. It was rising over the ocean, on the horizon. It was... brilliant, the way the first beams of the morning stretched across the ocean’s ripples, touching the sand playfully, and finally illuminating the twisted mass on the shore. I finally felt what I had sought to feel, viewing my work through the lens of a sunny morning for the first time, everything in sight being exactly how it was meant to be. As the orange-pink light illuminated a sea of broken smiles and putrid flesh, I felt a dull homesickness. I’d wanted to return home for so long. Not my apartment, not the city. A place where my neighbor would invite me over for dinner or ask what I was cooking tonight. A community, a population. A livable world with other people is what I missed more than anything, but it was too late to even dream of that. Even if I gave in and attempted to conform, to become one of the shadows and see things through their drug-induced haze, they would never reintegrate me. Not after... this.

It took more time than I expected for them to find me on that beach. I think it was one of the children who discovered me, although I’ll admit it’s hard to distinguish the children from the adults; they have no faces, and some children are very tall and some adults are very short. Although it was never my intention, this quality of in-distinctiveness is what lead to several children being used in my masterpiece. It made no difference to me, but I’m sure to the world it made my message a little clearer.

I offered no struggle, resistance, or words from that point on. How would they understand me, anyways, when all they speak in is screeches and groans? I was faced with some dressed in police clothes and others in lab coats and others in judicial wear and others still in suits and suspenders and every other fashion archetype. There was no use, for them or for me. I tried my best to make it clear they were beneath me; sneering and snarling at them at every pass, the corners of my mouth constantly contorting to the point of exhaustion and sweat into a look of disgust.

They put me in a room and restrained me. Sometimes they give me the same medicine they gave me so long ago, the stuff that deceived my eyes and made them seem human. During those hallucinogenic periods, I saw faces pleading and begging to the point of frustrated tears with me to just speak, to tell them why, why would I commit such a horrific crime against humanity?

I laughed at their every mention of humanity. I wouldn’t explain myself further.

It’s been awhile since their last visit. I think they’re going to let me rot in here, until my body or my mind shuts down. They stopped trying to feed me, stopped trying to communicate. Once in awhile somebody will come in and force feed my body by nutritional injections, but whatever shadowy figure they send stays for less than 2 minutes before leaving me to my isolation. All I can hope for is that they saw my message, that these creatures understood my violence. If they understand that they are not and will never be real humans, my rot will have bee worth it.

In the end, though, I really do wish they would just kill me.

#short story #literature #poetry #horror #body horror #crime #shadows #young writer #unpublished #publish me

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greatghuleh · 6 years

Text

Consequences Aren’t All Bad

Title: Consequences Aren’t All Bad

Chapters: 1/?

Rating: General

Word Count: 1472

Warnings: Many spoilers will happen for the “Strange: The Doctor is Out” mini in this story.

Summary: A couple years after sacrificing herself to the being Baroshtok; a keeper of another dimension, in order to save Doctor Strange, Casey Kinmont is found again. Soulless and adrift in an entirely different dimension than she was lost to, is it too late to save her this time?

ao3: here

The sky was a deep endless red only broken by floating islands of rock that housed carved out areas filled with towering buildings of brown stone with jagged edges and few windows. A haven for the desperate and lost. As well as for those who were all too happy to take advantage of such a place and such circumstances.

Stephen was jostled roughly as he made his way through the commerce section of this island. He rubbed his shoulder where a bruise was most likely forming. The hovering islands had no names and there were no directional signs. One had to find their own way or face the consequences. Deadly consequences. As if to showcase this, a large fanged creature snapped at Stephen, inches from his face, as he walked past. The creature's eyes followed Stephen curiously which prompted the sorcerer to pull the collar of his cloak up and quickly detour to a side alley that cut through one of the towers that loomed ominous and angry. This path was dark, covered in shadow and debris, and by no means empty of foot traffic Busy with denizens of this dimensions dealing and trading in all manner of product livestock. Stephen dared not provide himself with light to see better.

He watched over his shoulder for a few moments as he walked but saw neither hide nor hair of the strange beast that had paid him a little bit too much attention and none of the other residents seemed concerned by his presence. Although, he had to sidestep another bulky body and stepped directly into a puddle of sickly green liquid.

“Ah,” Stephen lifted his boot out of the foul substance as a couple nearby Delgre'is laughed at his misfortune. Skin a pale blue, they had large ears that reminded Stephen of a bat, eyes dark and too large for their frames with fangs that stuck out from the bottoms of their mouths.

They spoke in a language he couldn't understand and he didn't need magic to translate the meaning for him. He gave them a miserable shrug, just a stranger who knew no better, and continued quickly on his way. His foot squished wetly in his boot with each step and his mouth turned down in distaste. It was never a pleasant experience to come here and he'd be glad if he never had to step foot in this dimension ever again. Yet, it was his job to watch over this place. To keep tabs on the comings and goings of its most prominent abominations.

This was precisely why he was here now. Just a routine visit to make sure everything was still moving along without threat to this dimension or his own. No monstrosities using this place as a jumping stone to Earth's dimension.

He glanced up as he stepped out from the cover of the tower on the other side of the alley and the unpleasant red hue to the sky left him feeling ill at ease. He squinted as a forming headache pulsed inside his skull.

Stephen gasped as he felt a quick surge of mystical energy near him. He turned toward the direction of the source and was suddenly shoved quite abruptly by somebody bipedal. He stumbled briefly before catching his footing and cursing under his breath.

“How about you watch where you're going!” shouted the stranger, in English. A feminine voice. His memory piqued at it and he looked at the figure. A dark cloak with a large hood that covered all of their features besides long tufts of dark hair. Their head was downcast, only for a brief split second did they look up, not at his face but to take in their surroundings, before they turned and quickly headed back into the dark alley way.

Stephen was rooted to the spot. His muscles frozen as horrible recognition washed over him. He stared after the woman, for a human woman it had to be. He had recognized her.

“Casey?” he blurted,eyes wide and standing in the middle of a busy through way. It may have been loud enough for the woman to hear because she hesitated, moved as if to look over her shoulder, before turning her quick pace into a run. “Casey!” Stephen's entire body suddenly burst to life in an instant, broken from its stupor. His heart jumped into his throat and his legs began pushing him forward. He collided with bodies as he went, paying them little mind. His eyes tracked the form through the crowd into the alley.

When the shadow of the tower fell over him again and he could no longer see her dark cloak he conjured orbs of light, two flew in front of him, tracking where his eyes wanted to see best and two more followed beyond his shoulders. The many pedestrians and traders in the alley cried out in frustration and some in pain as the light washed over them. A few cowered from it, covering their eyes and hissing at him angrily. None approached him though, possibly noticing the wild look in his eyes or realizing he was more than he appeared. He had no time to wonder on it.

There, to the right, up ahead was quick movement of a body darting quickly into an entrance. Stephen ran, the orbs of light crackling as they moved to follow. His boots skidded across pebbles and other debris as he turned sharply to continue his chase into the building. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest and his breath coming out in frantic pants as he followed. He climbed over fallen rocks in the hallway that led forward, forgetting in his urgency that he could have floated over them or simply pushed them out of his way.

“Casey Kinmont!” he called, voice echoing dully off the walls. He continued down the hallway, relieved to find the passage lit with its own source but he was dismayed to find that he had lost all sight of her. “Casey. It's Stephen Strange. There's no need to run. No need to be frightened.” She would remember him, right? He feared the idea that she may not.

The memories of Casey flooded him, of how weak she had looked before she was swept away by Baroshtok, and those memories threatened to distract him. He shook his head, eyes darting along the walls, looking for a path. Stephen put his hand to the warm stone wall and then he felt it. The magic. It surrounded this area, it spoke to how little he was paying attention that he hadn't noticed it before.

Stepping away from the wall, he closed his eyes and focused. He held his hands in front of him then brought the backs of them together before separating them. There. A concealed doorway. The magic barring it dissipated as he stepped near and he felt no other traps. Stephen slowly pushed the door open and there, in the center of the room, was the woman he had been chasing. She still had her hood up, her face concealed in shadow, her shoulders hunched, clutching a small book tightly in her dirty hands.

Stephen glanced quickly at the book then down to his belt where the empty pouch was. His personal book of transcribed spells. Stephen palmed at the empty space on his belt and cursed himself for paying so little attention. Was he being fooled now? Was this really Casey Kinmont or was this dimension playing tricks on his mind.

“Casey?” his feet shuffled forward, inching closer. She looked up and he could finally see her eyes, and they went wide at that name. “Casey Kinmont, it's Stephen. Stephen Strange.” His breath caught in his throat as she pulled her hood down and revealed herself. Casey. It was her.

Her hair was down past her shoulders and no longer highlighted. She didn't have glasses and she squinted tired eyes at him but he would recognize her anywhere still. Her skin was pale, very pale, and there were deep sunken dark circles under her eyes. She was even skinnier than he remembered her being. The cloak did little to hide the small frame. He breathed a soft whine at the state of her.

“Stephen?” Casey gasped. She stepped forward. He reached out his hand. Joyous relief washed over him and he began to smile, began to tell her it was going to be alright when she suddenly lunged forward, not at him but toward something behind him. Shit. “No! Wait!” It was too late. Something hit Stephen in the back of the skull with a harsh thud and he fell to his knees. Sparks burst behind his eyes before he slumped the rest of the way to the floor then everything went black.

#doctor strange #casey kinmont #stephen strange #dumb magician #my fic #i've started it and now i have to finish it

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