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lundenloves · 10 months

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𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈𝐭 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐈𝐭 𝐏𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

olivia finally wrote smut, the crowd goes wild.

{✧} Summary: After relentless drunken encouragement from 141, Simon Riley decides to take a girl home whom he's caught eyes with a few too many times. What he doesn't expect however, are the unknown feelings in his chest after her simple acts of affection and pleasure he was always deprived of.

{✧} Pairings: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

{✧} Word count: 6.3k

{✧} TW: Smut! Oral both M and F receiving. Angst if you squint into his general storyline. A bit fucking devastating on that part. Blunt and true to his character with the issues he was given, although subtlety as he tends to bury everything. Sigh.

part two | masterlist | taglist

{✧} Ok. *Claps hands together* So, I wrote this in just over a week. I do not know how this happened or where the words came from but they certainly... worded. Basically, It's just a mass product of 2am writing. A stab in the dark as long as you act like Ghost has a more Northern voice. Which he fucking doesn't. This fucker grew up in Manchester and got given a Cockney accent. Anyway, I hope this alleviates at least some of the horniness in the cod fandom because fucking hell. Ignore how the pacing is fried. *Salutes* Happy reading, kids.

“Lt. You are a machine, sir.” Soap saluted his lieutenant with a half-drunken snort. “Got all them lassies eyeing you up.” He nodded toward a general direction, taking a short swig of the beer in his hand.

“That’ll be right, Sergeant.” Ghost grumbled, leaning against the bar with no interest in the women behind him whatsoever. He never was made for women. Well, aside from the obvious things he knew were attractive. Being tall, having muscular thighs, broad shoulders, the voice. Not to mention the plethora of skills he harboured once he occasionally did bed someone, and the whole military idea. People seemed to get off on it. However.

“Naw. I’m serious.” He tried again, leaning on the bar to find Ghost’s eyes. “When’s the last time you got with someone, eh?” His brows wiggled in amusement of his own question. A question that was fucking painfully Johnny. Ghost only looked to him through a sideward glance, swirling the last of his whisky in the short glass his hand dwarfed.

The thought of taking someone home was nothing but a task. One that made Ghost audibly sigh, tilting his chin up for the last mouthful of drink. “Treat yourself, Sergeant.” His eyes landed on Soap’s, slamming the glass back onto the bar and standing up straight.

“Aw, come on Lt.”

“Respectfully, I’m not–” His words were rarely broken, although the way this woman walked right between him and Johnny caused a pause. One he looked down at her for, his palm still splayed on the bartop. Long fingers tapping the surface. “Eighteen anymore.” He finished.

The look Soap gave Ghost behind her back was one easily mistaken for lust itself. His eyes pointed to her momentarily before flicking back to the lieutenant. “No. You’re not.” He nodded slowly, taking steps backward and mimicking sexual acts with his fingers. Mouthing, “Her.”

She was none the wiser of the acts behind her. Simply stepping between two men to reach the bar and leaning forward on her forearms, back naturally arched with the action. The broad man to her left shifted on his feet, and a subtle sigh left him with a flex of his square jaw. Johnny was on the other side of the bar, enticing Ghost to make a move. His smirk disappeared to take a swig of the fresh beer he had ordered, flicking his pointer and middle fingers together, gesturing Ghost talk to her.

Instead, all Soap received was a scowl and two fingers his way. Fuck. Off.

He steeled himself and took a spacing step backward, dead eyes instantly catching the dark ones next to him when she had touched his skin upon her own movement. Had they not moved at the same time, he would have walked away without second thought. But now, her warm smile of apology felt obligatory and he returned it in his own way. A slight raise of his brows.

“Sorry I’m dead in the way.” Her strong Mancunian accent almost caught Ghost off guard. London hadn’t given him many Northerners, and now, there was one standing in-front of him. Soap was leant forward on the bar opposite, watching their interactions intently. Even Price had joined in, a subtle smirk over his lips, raising his glass when Ghost had turned to them.

He cleared his throat, “Not at all.” The deep-voiced words were accompanied by a shake of his head, directed more to the men on the opposing end.

She turned to him, “Northern?” The smile that bit down on her bottom lip made the side of his own tilt upward ever so slightly with an amused nod. The strong arms that were crossed over his chest loosened, fingers outstretched momentarily in a way of agreement.

“Manchester.” He confirmed and she turned back to the bar, retrieving the multiple drinks for her group. Soap and Price had now recruited Gaz, the three of them all gawking at the scene ahead and sharing words.

“Figured.” She looked up at him, the tray of drinks held by both her hands. Simon briefly wondered if she was likely to spill it, his eyes cast down toward the shots. “I should take these back.” The words came with another smile, a polite one.

He absently nodded, eyes following her without turning his head. Soap, Gaz and Price were all grinning on their way over, Johnny failing to miss a flirtatious salute to the group of women. “Thought you were leaving, Lt.” He near-shouted, and Ghost held a finger out for the bartender, requesting the same drink as Price took the seat beside him.

“What was the chat?” Gaz stood beside Soap, the four of them forming a conversational square shape. “Anything worth sharing?” He nudged Johnny who clapped his hands together and rubbed them enthusiastically like a child.

“Nothing.” He replied bluntly, eyes lazily shifting between the three men.

Price leant an elbow on the bar, looking back to the group of women. The girl from earlier caught his eye, laughing loudly and knocking back shots like there was no tomorrow. He nodded toward her, “She’s certainly one for you, Simon.”

There was zero subtlety between Soap and Gaz who instantly turned. Much to Simon’s joy. “Can you turn around any fuckin' faster?” He berated with a wounded sigh, Johnny’s shoulders bouncing in amusement.

“Go talk to her.” Instead of replying, he shook his head turning back to the bar and Price stifled a laugh. “Might as well try, no?” The glass of whisky he had finished was pushed from hand-to-hand, looking back up to Ghost who pulled a face. “They’re interested.” His lips downturned in fairness, turning his palm upright and tilting his head in saying so.

Simon cleared his throat, taking a sharp swig of his drink. “Good for them.”

She had looked toward the bar, locking eyes with Simon who had been caught staring. Much to his own dismay. Although, her smile returned and he found himself shifting his feet once again, unsure of how to react. Lifting his glass an inch or two in recognition of her efforts. “Aw c’mon, she’s so wanting to fuck you Lt.”

“Christ, Johnny.” Price scoffed, the wrinkles by his eyes emphasised with an afterthought laugh. Gaz turned to Simon with a shrug, one that spoke louder than anything else, ‘he’s not wrong’, it said. Not that they would know anything, only projecting their own desire for scoring tonight. Being away for weeks, months, at a time with near-zero female company was sometimes gruelling. For the more sexually active soldiers anyway. Ghost never seemed to care. Permanently focused on the mission at hand or anticipating the next.

Aside from a few late nights.

“I’m leaving.” He announced, sliding his now empty glass to the barhand.

“This guy isn’t real, man.” Soap pointed with his thumb, Price shrugging an amused smirk, arms crossed over his chest. The woman from earlier had caught onto his exit via her diligent staring, grabbing her bag and approaching the four men rather sheepishly. Something about a group of huge men wasn’t exactly inviting, although it was at the same time.

“Alright?” Gaz was the only one to see her, turning the other three toward the direction.

“Alright.” She returned with a smile, eyeing up Ghost. “You leaving?”

He nodded blankly, eyes hooded over upon looking down at her. The veins on his hands visible for the low bar light, emphasising each one that created a pulsing feeling between her legs. Ghost wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going on, standing straight and rubbing a hand across his brow and down to his jaw where it stayed.

“I’m Thea.” She said to him, and him only.

“Simon.” He dropped the hand from his face, holding it out for her to shake.

Soap was practically fucking bouncing from behind her, drunkenly chuffed for his lieutenant when she had taken his hand for a little too long. “Mind if I leave with you?” Her question couldn’t have meant a whole lot more than the obvious. Simon forgot he hadn’t his mask on when the faintest smirk had tugged the corner of his lip upwards.

His eyes averted toward his unit, “Gents.” He gave them a short nod before gesturing she walked ahead of him with a leading hand, following behind her with one subtle look back. Price raising his glass high once again.

“You lot military or something?” She asked when he had held the door, dipping under his arm.

“Something like that.”

The somewhat curt responses and deliberate movements were attractive to Thea. Everything was calculated, it was obvious he had a job as such. Not to mention the build. “You live far from here?” He took a deep breath with the question, digging into his pockets for a cigarette.

“A good way away.” She nodded, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth.

Simon produced a carton from his jacket, further patting around his trousers for a lighter. “Mine then?” He mumbled for the cigarette he had stuck to his lip in the meantime, it moved with the words he spoke.

“Yours.” She nodded, watching as he lit it up.

A cloud of smoke burst from the long exhale he had taken, his eyes dark in the dimly lit street, “You cold?” In question for the three buttons that were only a third done up on her vest top, pierced nipples easily visible through the fabric. “You want my jacket or somethin’?” His lips left parted from the draw, looking down at her.

“I’m alright.” Her words were unconvincing and he nodded at the fact, holding the cigarette between his teeth while shrugging the thick shelled jacket off. It was heavy when she’d taken it from his arm, pulling it on only to drown in it. But oh, it smelled rich and exposed his arms again. Large muscles and inked forearms only now visible although not done any sense of justice by the loose t-shirt he wore. Her eyes involuntarily drifted lower to his hips, dark jeans clad over wide, seemingly muscular thighs.

“Come on then.” He nodded, killing the cigarette with a twist of his boot.

Ghost hadn’t taken someone home in months. Fucking months. He dreaded seeing her reaction to his dull flat, expensive enough but sparsely decorated for A: he was never there and B: he didn’t exactly know how to decorate well.

“You live round these parts?”

“Mm-hm.” It was a flat response.

“Expensive, no?”

“Mh-hm.”

She laughed at that, looking up at him with a gleam in her eye. One he hadn’t seen in years, his own stolen from him years ago. Even still, he watched onward, overlooking training sessions, as new recruits began to slowly lose their shine for the forces on the hardship of war. Loading and unloading guns to save and simultaneously take lives. It was a lot. To someone who perhaps wasn’t as stiffly stuck in their ways.

His flat was just as you’d imagine. Dark colours, simple decoration without much personality involved. Thea handed his jacket back once they had stepped inside, watching as he tossed it to the sofa. “Drink?”

“Please.” She followed him to the kitchen, leaning on the counter. “Just, whatever you have.”

He looked over his shoulder, “I've only got whisky.” She pulled a face, pushing her forearms further on the counter. “Or shit beer.”

“The whisky’ll do.” Thea tsked, looking up at him through her lashes when he’d turned around, sliding a glass across the counter toward her. She eyed his tattoos when both of his palms had been placed flat on the marble, standing opposite her. “Why stay in such a nice gaff if you’re never ‘round.”

“I could be here everyday for all you know.”

“Yeah,” She swirled the amber liquid around the glass, drawing her finger across the countertop to gather dust. “But you’re not.”

He didn’t respond, eyes only reading between hers in a long stare. One that ultimately rushed a feeling in her stomach, and slowly created a wetness between her thighs. In his stare came the crude thoughts. The hunger that resides deep within his chest, only freed every few months with someone new each time. “That right?”

“You tell me.” She competed his silence, taking a small sip of the whisky and Ghost rounded the counter with a grumble. Her eyes drifted to the walls, multiple certifications, photos and memorabilia framed and hung proudly. Just about the only things on show for the type of person he was.

Lieutenant Simon Riley

“Lieutenant?”

His chest lifted in a large inhale, followed by a hum of agreement. Eyes following hers to the multiple achievements on the wall. “How do you want this?”

The words came off a drawl, clearly avoiding the topic of his career.

Thea instead walked closer to the photos littered within the frames. Messily pushed behind the glass, with multiple fold lines and frayed edges. “You’re not even in these.” She pointed, turning back to him with a puzzled expression. Ghost sighed longly, reaching an arm behind his head.

“I am.” His eyes narrowed habitually and she pointed toward his masked self, turning back to him with a quirked brow to which his jaw tightened in answer.

“That almost turns me on.” She snorted and Simon involuntarily relaxed his shoulders.

There was something about her. Maybe it was her boldness, the way she wasn’t daunted by him, or her overall confidence. It wasn’t even like he didn’t know confidence. Fuck, most people in the forces had too much of it. But outside of base, it was near nonexistent around him. Until her.

“You got the whole getup huh?” She couldn’t help but tease and Ghost shook his head at her relenting smile, hiding his own behind a swig of his drink before discarding it to a side table.

“C’mere.” He said, rubbing his jaw momentarily before taking the glass from her hand, watching her eyes roam the broad expanse of his clothed chest. “I’ll ask again,” The taste of whisky was hot on Thea’s tongue, looking up at Simon with a sudden lust. “How do you want this?” He reached an arm across her hip, pulling her toward him.

She crossed her arms over her chest in his grip. Her silence forced a growl from him, his hands squeezing at her sides. “However you want.” She purred, reaching upward for his hair and running her fingers through it.

He grunted in response. An unknown emotion pooling in his chest, drifting down from the feeling of her fingers in his hair straight toward his heart, making it pump just a little faster. The gentle touch of a woman was something he was yet to experience in its full power, leaning forward to subconsciously chase her touch when her hand was taken back.

Thea looked up at him, the softness in her eyes pushed a movement from him. “Come on.” He stood forward, walking to the bedroom where she followed him. A standard room, tall windows opposite a large bed. No wall decor, or decor at all for that matter save a mirror and a standard lamp on a bedside table that housed a set of dog tags.

His hand smoothed across her arm, taking her attention back with a pointed stare.

“Kiss me then.” She caught his solemn eyes, watching them harden as his hand traced upward to her chin, pointing it upward to face him and uncharacteristically planting a soft kiss to her jaw. His thumb swiped across her bottom lip and intruded her mouth, watching expectedly as her tongue welcomed his pointer and middle fingers, swirling around them with heavy eye contact.

He pushed his impossibly long fingers even further down her throat, provoking a gag from her and a smirk teased his lip. “I know, sweetheart.” The coo was enough for her to moan, reaching a hand for his shoulder, kneading at the fabric of his shirt while surely bruising his tracks. Thea hadn’t ever been with a man this big, she too suspected his lower regions to be just as thick as the large hand he had wrapped around her torso upon taking his fingers back.

His steps came backwards toward the bed, the backs of his knees hitting the plush mattress and forcing him to sit. Thick thighs at their broadest, his tattoos dark and full under the lack of light in the room. Thea manoeuvred onto his lap, her knees either side of his hips.

Simon pulled her thighs toward him, shifting so she was flush with his lower abdomen. Her hands roamed his hair once again, caressing behind his ear and down past his jaw. “When was the last time?” She pressed a delicate kiss to his lip, pressing her forehead against his own.

“A while ago.” He admitted flatly, returning her kiss and silently admiring the smoothness of her lips against his own.

She hummed against his mouth, the inner corners of her eyebrows raising at his dark eyes. Eyes that were filled with death and fear, the same ones you could expect to find in a therapy waiting room or a likely battlefield. She watched the thoughts run through his head, dipping a glance toward her chest momentarily before averting back up to her swollen lips.

“I can tell.” She whispered in close proximity and he pulled back, an instant crease in his brow at her words. “Relax.”

Her hand reached for his, guiding it toward her chest and pushing his palm flat. The gentle thrum of her heartbeat was easily felt although Simon’s eyes remained stiff on hers, only softening when she had placed her palm over his.

He kissed her in response, a definite difference in pace as his tongue circled her own and his hands guided her against his groin. She lit up at the pressure, fixing to pull her vest-top over her head and wincing at the sharp coldness across her exposed nipples.

Simon wasn’t surprised by her lack of a bra, although his jaw did tighten at the sight of her. The sensitive beads of her nipples hardened and adorned by piercings that were near teased to him earlier. His hands travelled upward, kneading at the soft flesh and toying with the steel.

He grunted at the way her lips had connected to his neck, gentle kisses soon turning rough and leaving angry marks. “Take this off.” She rocked on his hips, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

He compiled without protest, pulling it over his head and holding back the fire within him at the way she hungrily eyed his form. The broad points of his shoulders, collarbones sharp and chest wide, his tattoos expanding upwards just as she had imagined. “You alright?”

Thea only managed a nod. His hard rippled stomach was flush with her own, a sparse amount of dark hair trailing downward from his navel. She smoothed her hands out over his shoulders, running them softly down his arms.

His mouth dipped from hers to accomodate her nipple, making lightwork of her perky tits and swirling his tongue around the steel in equal amounts. Thea squirmed at his expert touch, pushing his head back with a moan, dark eyes locking onto his without hesitation.

Simon stood up with her in his grip. Hands underneath her thighs, creating a deepening need between her legs. A need so vast that she had crashed her lips onto his to forget about it, marvelling at the feeling of his warm skin against hers as he easily placed her down onto her back.

“I’m taking these off.” His gravelly voice near-growled, kneeling wide between her legs and fidgeting with the fabric of her loose trousers. “That alright?”

“Mmhm.” She provided, leaning up on her arms and looking down at Simon. His hair was a mess from her hands, red marks on his neck deepening with every passing second and his long, thick fingers had succeeded in undressing her bottom half.

He sat back on his haunches for a brief second, a firm hand pressing himself through his jeans while his other teased at her clit, thumb gathering her slick before rubbing circles into her. The room completely silent if not for her soft whimpers and the passing traffic outside.

His middle and ring finger lapped her pooling arousal, pushing into her with ease and curling immediately. “Fuck. Simon.” He felt his cock twitch at the use of his name, looking up to catch eyes with her. Face flushed beet red, her arms dropped to fall back onto the bed after his head had tilted, the speed of his fingers picking up.

His thumb continued pressing on her clit, two fingers now three, completely stretching her out before she had been reduced to a whining mess. Hands outstretched to grip on his shoulder, moaning aloud at the sudden loss when he had pulled his hand back.

Thea sat up immediately, her scorn met with his own look of assurance. Eyes seemingly natural in their advanced expressions, giving way more than words ever could. He pulled her thighs toward him, dipping so they rested over his shoulders and with one fatal lick of his lip she knew.

Simon’s jeans felt impossibly tight, groaning to himself upon licking a line up her core. “Fuck.” He mumbled against her, and her delicate hand was already gripping on the bed-sheets, knuckles white with his warmth. He’d frankly never seen something so gorgeous in his life.

A large palm pinned her to the bed. Calloused fingertips grazing just above her navel, fingertips that belonged to a hand strong enough to choke someone to death. “I’m close.” Thea moaned at the pressure, the feeling of his tongue darting in and out of her, sucking on her clit and building a fuzzy warmth in her lower stomach. Never had a man made such light work, reducing her to an embarrassingly short time.

He nodded into her, eyes darting upward when a gush of liquid had released from her cunt in a muffled scream. His chest heaved up and down at the wetness, fingers finishing off the job to create one more cry from her. “Cut the shit,” He spoke, taking the pillow from her grip and throwing it. “I want to fucking hear you.”

Thea bit her lip, sitting up on shaky legs to push him backward so he was stood by the foot of the bed. “Only if I get to hear you.” She looked up at him with lazy eyes, tracing his v-line and pulling him forward by the belt loops. Face only inches away from his groin.

Simon ran his thumb along her bottom lip once again, looking down at her with a ragged exhale. His cock hung heavy, twitching as she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, allowing him to step out of them. “Shit.” She whined.

“I know.” He began, releasing himself from his boxers and tilting her chin upward to meet his condescendingly empathetic gaze. “I know, love.”

The words rushed a warmth between her legs all over again.

His cock stood without constriction, too heavy to stand upright but not enough to ignore the twitches that came from his thoughts. A thick vein pulsed on the underside of his length, one Thea ran her tongue along eagerly to push a throaty groan from him. “Fuh-uck.”

Her thumb ran over the slit of his tip, gathering precome for a few pumps of his girth before stretching her mouth over him. Slow at first. Deliberate. Simon’s hand pushed hair from her face, allowing her to look up at him through thick eyelashes.

It had been long. So, so long since he was allowed to make any noise. Being in confined spaces with upwards of ten men almost full time didn’t exactly allow for much, nevermind time to get worked up. His mind had somehow drifted to the barracks, only pulled back into reality when Thea had gagged against his thick length. Her spit joined them together when she had pulled away, using her hand to pump him multiple times.

“Fuck—“ He groaned loudly, hand on the back of his neck while the other held her hair up. “Fucking hell.” The lone sounds were enough for him to shut his eyes.

Thea’s jaw already ached. A heat between her bones at the lock, tongue edging around his girth as she took him the best she could. The course hair at the base of his length was addictive, her nose near touching it with every dive save a few centimetres.

“You’re doing so good, darlin’.” Simon spoke through his teeth, swallowing thickly at the vibration of her moan against himself. “So good f’me.” Almost too good. Too good to the point where he had nudged her with his thigh, nodding to the bed when she had looked up at him.

“You close or somethin’?” She teased, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shifting backward on the bed. Her mascara had smeared over her eyes, cheeks tinted deep red and eyes glossy from his size.

He ignored her, although the way his cock twitched was an agreement in itself. “I don’t have protec—“

“I’m on the pill.”

The way his eyes darkened created a pit in her stomach. One that was soon filled when he had joined her on the bed, wandering hands squeezing on her hips in company with continuous kisses that were peppered all across her collarbones.

His cock dragged against her stomach, thick arms holding himself up above her and exposing defined triceps in the mirror next to his bed. “I want you to watch.” His hand directed her gaze toward the reflection, lowering himself close. “Will you do that for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

She watched him in the mirror. The way his shoulder muscles flexed as he leaned forward, prominent veins in his arms only accentuated in the low light. “Mhhm.”

“Good girl.” His eyes dipping down to where their bodies met, sliding his length up and down her folds before pressing the tip into her. A low groan followed, his eyes cast aside to the mirror where she somehow found solace in his stare. “You alright?”

She nodded tightly, letting go of a breath she wasn’t aware was held. Simon entered her inch by inch, his cock suffocated by her tight walls. “Shit, you’re—“ She swallowed, “Fucking big.” It came out a whine, hand held to her mouth once he had pushed himself flush with her core.

“None of that.” He spoke curtly, taking her hand and pinning it to her side. Thea nodded slowly, looking between his eyes for the brief moment he had allowed.

She couldn’t remember who was supposed to be in control anymore when she felt him, thick and warm, hips slowly rocking back and forth. The sound of her arousal against his skin filled the room, head thrown back into the pillow, hands gripping the sheets.

Simon’s mouth reconnected with her soft chest, teeth dragging across the sensitive skin, groaning and cursing in response to her hand in his hair. Touch. Starved. His eyes fell in a heavy-lidded blissful expression, the mirror supplying image of his momentum. Mouth slightly agape, the ends of his hair wet in sweat from the heat between them.

Thea let go entirely, surrendering to the pace Simon had set. Pulling her bare thighs tighter to his groin and craning his neck to see how effortlessly he slid in and out of her, white-hot pleasure streaking down and onto him. “Fuck.” His deep tone had drawn out in pleasure. “Look at you— fucking, dripping.”

She pressed weak kisses to his throat, lapping up the perspiration that ran down in small beads. Words wouldn’t tumble from her mouth, thighs clenching around his hips when he had angled forward. “God, Simon—“ Her grin lazily bit into her lip, cockdrunk and exhausted from his earlier efforts.

He let go a feral snarl of a sound, brows knitted together at the feeling of her walls convulsing against him and the flush of pressure against his cock. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, certainly drawing blood and sharp breaths through his teeth. “Look at me.” He ordered, cupping her jaw and boring his eyes into her.

Thea choked a moan, her mouth agape when her climax had rushed through both of them without warning. His headboard simultaneously slammed into the wall with her moans, gasping for air as her hands blindly reached to find him by her head, grabbing onto his forearms with desperation.

Simon’s head hung low between his shoulders, sweat from his hair dripping down onto her chest. She could tell he was close, the way his jaw ticked and his chest heaved. The coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbed against her clit, sending her overstimulating pulses through his body and turning them into quiet groans by her ear.

His rhythm had faltered, shaking his head as his jaw loosened. “Fucking hell,” He breathed out, eyes dazed and heavy, feverishly catching a glimpse of her own euphoria in the mirror.

She reached for his hair, gripping at the roots tightly when his cock had twitched inside her and he stilled, eyes screwed shut at his release. A long breath left him as the muscles in his arms flexed, each one tightening before letting go and Thea whined. The ridiculous feeling of his pulsing cock deep inside her was new, pleasure breaking across his face as he painted her walls with his seed.

The mirror reflected the loosening of his body, almost going limp above her for a short second when he had pulled out. Eyes locked onto the way his release spilled out of her and back onto his cock. “What a fucking mess.” He almost laughed, looking back up at her with a hint of a smile that she stared at in stunned awe.

It had taken all of this to prod a single smile from him. Even at that, it wasn’t anything to shout about. Uneven dimples either side of his cheeks when he had stifled a laugh, his right side notably more prominent than the left.

“What time is it?”

“Almost one.” His words came breathlessly after a long sigh. Large, bright red military digits by his bedside condensed into a small alarm, the only unnatural light in the room.

She nodded, covering herself with the duvet as Simon found his discarded boxers. The low light against him created shadows of physical fitness. His rippled abdomen only accentuated much to visual delight. “D’you need anythin’?” His eyes had returned to their dead way, naturally darkened and almost offensive.

“Maybe that drink from earlier.”

He nodded, fighting the urge to sigh once out the room. Hands palm down on the kitchen counter, rolling out his shoulder muscles and cracking his neck. “I’ll get going after.” Her voice sounded quietly from behind him causing a sudden flinch.

“Go back to bed.” He barked, tilting his head to shake away the fright.

Although, he could hear her footsteps approaching, completely disregarding him and slowly padding across the cold flooring to where he was stood. Thea paused before speaking, “I’m going to touch your back, yeah?”

Simon looked over his shoulder at her, dressed in only her underwear. Small hands inspecting the damage her nails had inflicted on him, scratch marks and a sparse amount of dried blood. “I got you a good’un.” Her tone was light, smoothing over his shoulders and down to his torso. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” He provided shortly.

She nodded to herself, stepping back from him and taking the glass from earlier with her. Simon rubbed his jaw, turning to catch her shadow in the bedroom, watching as she sunk back onto his bed.

He traipsed to the bathroom, finding himself in the mirror. His inked forearm leant on the sink, turning to assess the damage to his back. He’d had worse. That was easily determined, the dry blood only made him shrug although he made an effort to wash it off for her visual comfort. His skin adorned in scars and bruises from deployments. All holding their own individual stories, not ones Simon knew though. To him they were just signs of a war. Fighting, death, pain. He ran his fingers across them, locking eyes with his reflection.

And with a sigh he left his mirror image, pacing back to the bedroom and downing his discarded glass of whisky on the way.

Thea lay on her side, the dark room only lit by outside traffic and her phone screen. Simon felt a fatigued sigh leave him, rubbing his face before rounding the bed to join her.

She smiled to herself at the way the mattress dipped significantly, an arm resting behind his head, the other hand on his stomach. Thea slid her phone underneath the pillow, turning to face him. “You alright?” She plucked courage to ask, taking in his side profile.

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet before clearing his throat. “Are you?” Brow furrowed with the question, his head briefly turning to face her, eyes looking between hers for an answer before she could give one.

“I’m good.” She replied through a simper. “Tired.”

Simon nodded, turning back to the ceiling. “I’ve an awful sleep schedule.” The dark circles under his eyes said as much, ones Thea had been trying not to make a point of all night. “Never get much sleep when I’m deployed.”

“You just got back?”

“Few days ago.” He let go of a long exhale.

Thea narrowed her eyes at him, feeling a sudden pang in her chest. “Maybe you’ll sleep tonight.” Her words weren’t intended to provoke a laugh, although that’s what they did. A genuine one too.

“Maybe.”

Morning came and sunlight beat through the room without manner. The curtains hadn’t been drawn last night, resulting in a stiff groan when Simon had woken first. The covers were a mess, his legs predictably tangled between Thea’s and it was only when he stretched that he realised she had ended up on his chest.

He froze after she had hummed in protest of his movement. Her head nestled into the crook of his neck, small hands clasped together over his chest.

It felt like his breathing had stopped so as to not interrupt her, craning his neck to check the time. 11:32am. A brief feeling of nausea surged through him at that, possibly the latest he had ever woken up since being a teenager.

It became an itch to get up.

Simon's eyes ticked between Thea and the floor beside him, figuring the best possible way to make the move. Years of stealth training would’ve come in handy if it wasn’t for her own stretch, eyes fluttering open momentarily before realising where she was. Who she was on.

“Oh shit.” She lazily cursed, pulling herself away from him and leaving a confusingly bereft feeling in Simon. “Sorry. I must’ve done that in the night.” Her back now to him, curling herself to be smaller on the opposite side of the bed and he stared at the walls blankly. Fingers smoothing across the warmth she had left on his chest before sitting up, palms flat either side of himself.

She felt his weight leave the mattress, closing her eyes in knowing. The night was done, it was time to go. Even if he wouldn’t directly say that. She turned to her back, watching as he sifted through the clothes on the floor, instinctively shoving everything of his into a corner while piling hers on a drawer unit. Thea wanted to believe he folded her stuff out of niceness, although she knew it was probably his military subconscious.

She grounded her feet to the floor, feeling conscious of her half-naked body when standing up in-front of the grandiose window. The view wasn’t too impressive, his flat adjacent to other townhouses across the road, like a mirror image. Simon left the room after haphazardly dressing himself, only shorts and a t-shirt although it made Thea feel more exposed as she slowly slipped back into her vest.

A family across the road had caught her eye. Seemingly a single mother and two boys, all laughing across their dining table. There was something poignant about it – a stoic man across the road, hosting a one night throw away against a loving home. She wondered if Simon had ever noticed them, rubbing a hand across her face at the thought.

What she didn’t know was that he was behind her, looming by the door as she stared across the buildings. He cleared his throat, “I can give you money– for an uber or somethin’."

“No, you’re alright.” She buttoned her trousers, turning to him without an ounce of hesitation in her quiet voice. Simon stared bluntly, following her movements as she collected the rest of her stuff. “Thanks for the night, Simon.” Her smile however didn’t quite reach her eyes, taking her bag from the counter where the two whisky glasses from last night sat next to each other. Only one of them a real whisky one, the other a standard small glass. Thea sucked her lips inward at his lost nod, eyes darting down to his lips and then between his eyes.

She reached for the door handle, walking out without a look back for she feared it would ache.

And Simon hung by the threshold until she was gone. His fingers absently reaching for the whisky, shutting his eyes at the lone glass after closing the door. The flat fell back to its usual silence, and he found a cigarette on his coffee table, sliding the glass to the wood and leaning back. The smoke felt futile, unfulfilling its job to satisfy.

This was why no one came home with Simon Riley.

i have no idea how to feel about this. i feel lawst *rick grimes*

huge thank you to two people, @mistydeyes for entertaining my late night rambles and encouraging me to finish this, our british class will resume tonight. do not be late. and @fwibblefwobble for letting me break my vocal chords screaming over instagram voice notes, and watching all the ghost band tiktoks that infiltrated my fyp. ur the mvp.

simon 'ghost' riley taglist: @vamppxncess @freakonfilm @crowbird @misshoneypaper @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @abbugaduu @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara

if you aren’t tagged and have asked, that’s because i wasn’t able to tag your blog!

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x oc #simon riley #simon riley smut #ghost mw2 #mw2 fanfic #ghost smut #call of duty mwii #cod mwii #cod mw smut #cod mw fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod smut

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heich0e · 7 months

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THE WITCH'S SONG - part two knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.

It’s a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own nature—the breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.

Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest you’ve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, and slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.

With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.

It’s a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.

Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.

Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasn’t for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when you’re left at your most vulnerable—nightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.

Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your grip—still cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.

The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your room—dried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchment—are all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.

You didn’t always have so many.

You didn’t always need them.

These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bed—each and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your mother’s grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleep—as you had the night prior—poring over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her life’s work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.

It’s one of the last parts of her that remains.

Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bed—pulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattress’s edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.

You’re a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadn’t caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrival—like a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the day—shaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought away—and you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.

You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a day’s labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasant—the air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.

The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though there’s a lilac brume that cloaks it—a gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.

You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.

The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater you’d worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.

You sing softly while you work.

Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witch’s song is a sacred, honoured thing—her voice a gift and a powerful tool.

You don’t sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because there’s no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of y our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as they’ve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.

Why do you sing to them, mother?

On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voice—higher, lighter, happier than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.

So they can remember us, Button.

Button.

She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than you’d set off into the woods with that morning.

You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didn’t even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.

Don’t you like when I sing to you? Doesn’t it make you happy?

Your little ribbon-haired head couldn’t have been quicker to nod if you’d tried—your answer to her question came immediate and fervent. Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.

Well, it makes the plants happy, too—and that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and they’ll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.

You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your mother’s song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.

Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.

The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.

Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the next—the legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.

Men flock to the melody of the witch’s song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.

The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. That’s how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.

You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.

But the witch’s song was never meant for man.

You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.

Miya Osamu is standing at the forest’s edge.

You know he’s there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.

He’s come armed today.

It’s noon on the day following his unceremonious arrival—the one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know it’s noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.

For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to flee—if you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your garden—the knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.

You will not run from him.

He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You don’t bother watching him draw nearer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come back.” You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant that’s showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.

Your only hope now is that any affliction hasn’t spread beneath the soil.

“I’m not here to prove my nerve,” he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. “I’m here to help Atsumu.”

You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole you’ve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.

But rot’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. “And I don’t care about your brother.”

The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but you’re not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much you’re certain of—not least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like it’s been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night prior—though perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.

At his waist, Osamu’s hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. There’s a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yer the only one who can help him.”

“No, I’m the only witch your king hasn’t culled,” you parry. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu’s lips pull into a thin line. “So you admit it.”

You blink.

You suppose this is the first time you’ve confirmed his accusation. The first time you’ve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.

“It does me little good to say anything otherwise,” you respond, unshaken by his observation. “You need me to be a witch. As you’ve made clear: your brother’s fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all that’s keeping that sword in its sheath.”

The knight’s fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.

But it’s not strictly true, what you’ve said, and you both know it.

There’s one other option Osamu has available to him—one other cure to heal what ails his beloved brother—and it very much requires the use of his sword.

Witches have been driven to near extinction now—every coven you’ve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entirety—with little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.

The only pieces of them worth saving were their hearts.

There’s a reason why witches have forever been hunted for them—a reason why the king’s knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witch’s heart while it still beats—however faintly—will bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.

Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.

You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.

“All the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?” you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. “The fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your king knew that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himself—wasted them—only to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.”

“Hold yer tongue,” Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “How dare ya speak ill of the late king.”

“Why defend a man who left his country in ruins?” you goad him further, twisting the knife you’ve managed to wedge between the plates of his composure’s already straining armour. “A man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resource—of the lives dedicated to the keeping of this land—and left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son I’m sure has grown into just as pitiful a ruler as his father.”

The knight’s sword glints in the sunlight as it’s quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.

You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.

“Don’t say another word against King Shinsuke,” the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems you’ve struck a tender nerve.

You don’t flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.

A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.

“You’re stepping on my spearmint.”

Osamu’s gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but you’re fairly certain the plant will still survive.

A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.

Osamu speaks again.

“I could just take it, y’know.”

You don’t need him to clarify what it he speaks of.

What’s strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistence—wild in their hopelessness.

His expression is grave, remorseful almost. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Ah.

The final fraying morality of a desperate man.

“Good luck,” you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. “You’ll have to find it first.”

Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.

At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincing—almost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if he’s saying it in hopes of persuading you or himself.

You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. “Would you like to check?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.

Behind the knight’s own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.

“You cut it out yourself,” he finally breathes, your finger pausing where it’s looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.

You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.

“I thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.”

The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasn’t there a moment prior. You’re not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinking—considering the vile things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding it—beating and bloody and hot to the touch—in your own hand.

Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.

“I watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the king—the one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that sword—presided over like a jubilee,” your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand. Osamu’s blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feet—but his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat. “If not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I did—the only thing I ever did—I would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.”

Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.

You meet each other, eye to eye, but there’s no doubt now who stands as victor.

“Kill me if you want to,—” you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.

From deep in the forest, you hear the raven’s caw once more—the shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knight’s head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“—What’s one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?”

He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.

He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence he’d appeared.

“I will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.”

Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.

He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.

His eyes are supplicating—no trace of the anger or the malice they’d held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.

“I’ll give ya anythin’ you ask in exchange for yer help. Anythin’.”

You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.

“There’s nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.”

Osamu’s face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignation—acceptance—to the only answer you offer him.

Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.

He doesn’t tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

246 notes · View notes

yandereunsolved · 2 months

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tw(s): yandere themes, reference to sa, murder, mention of possible suicide

yandere Tate Langdon who first saw you when you moved in with your family. He was sitting outside listening to Hayden rant about Ben for the umpteenth time. It was like that hole that had been ripped in his soul by Violet was repaired. No, you seemed so different from her. Violet's heart called out to him but your soul screams for his loving caress.

yandere Tate Langdon who is immediately blocked by Violet and her mother when he tries to see you better. Both are insistent that he stays away from you. They bother threaten him but he's only half listening. He's standing on his tiptoes looking through his your our window. He practically has hearts in his eyes.

yandere Tate Langdon who is consistently cockblocked by Violet's family and Moira. Violet immediately introduced you to the fact that ghosts are in this house. Violet warns you that Tate is crazy and not to be trusted.

yandere Tate Langdon who attacks Violet and drags her down to the basement so he can spend time with you.

yandere Tate Langdon who manipulates you into thinking Violet is lying. He says that the mass murder part is true, but not the murdering of the gay couple and the sexual assault of Viven. He cries his heart out to you. He begs and speaks of his mommy issues. He pulls out all of his manipulation tactics.

yandere Tate Langdon who infantilizes himself around you to make himself seem more innocent. He is more vulnerable and soft.

yandere Tate Langdon who asks your opinion on everything. If you like it, he likes you. You hate it, he hates it. He begs you to like his things. He begs for your validation and praise. He craves it more than anything else in the world.

yandere Tate Langdon who always goes through your stuff without your permission. He always puts it back and has a fit if you catch him. He cries and begs for you to forgive him. He then cuddles into you and peppers you with kisses telling you how much he loves you.

yandere Tate Langdon who takes your stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, for private use later.

yandere Tate Langdon who has a private journal of his murder and sexual fantasies. He writes down everything he knows about you. He writes down sappy little love poems that he slips into your pocket(s).

yandere Tate Langdon who has made a hit list of everyone you dislike. As well as people near you that he doesn't like. He's written in his private journal about the ways he is going to kill your family and get rid of their bodies— just incase. He doesn't want their spirits staying in this house and interrupting your precious time together.

yandere Tate Langdon who asks you to rent books from the library. He asks a lot of different genres. He begins to get more specific with spell books and literature about witchcraft.

yandere Tate Langdon who plans on getting rid of the rest of the spirits with spells. He adds it to his journal for later use.

yandere Tate Langdon who watches you even when you don't know. When you are sleeping, showering, studying, changing, anything.

yandere Tate Langdon who respects boundaries only when they are convenient for him. He is always pushing your boundaries gently. He frames it as 'getting you out of your comfort zone'. If you get too upset or confront him he gets violent. He throws a temper tantrum and disappears for perhaps weeks. You think he has disappeared but he is just watching from the shadows.

yandere Tate Langdon who makes you so dependent on him that you'll believe anything that comes out of his mouth.

yandere Tate Langdon who will starve you of his attention and presence if you get mad or even just look at him the wrong way. He says that he is just establishing his boundaries and cooling off. What he's really doing is making you suffer.

yandere Tate Langdon who feels bad in some way. He doesn't want to manipulate you and be toxic but he has to! You'll get in danger and could even die without his guidance! He would rather get broken up with Violet for all eternity as opposed to losing you at the hands of the world.

yandere Tate Langdon who spends all his time with you. Or waiting for you to come back from where ever. Or hiding in his invisible ghost mode when your family is around.

yandere Tate Langdon who wants nothing more than to stake his claim on you. He wants your family to hear every noise fall past your lips because of him. He wants you to make him whimper and make him squirm. He wants your family to think you have some secret boyfriend. Where did those hickeys come from? Tate gave them to you when you were sleeping... he couldn't help himself. You just looked so warm and inviting. He didn't mean it at first. He just started kissing your skin and he got a little aggressive, okay?

yandere Tate Langdon who doesn't want you to ever leave the house. He hangs off of you and loves on you until you don't leave. If you have school/friends/work/alone time... nooooooooooooooo. He pouts and sulks when you aren't there. He lays on your bed and cries sometimes. He plots murder. He draws little drawings for you. He harasses your family— harasses your family?

yandere Tate Langdon who harasses your family and mentally tortures them. He uses the other ghosts to do. He'll purposefully cause arguments in your family. Put things where they don't belong. Make it seem like someone is cheating on someone else. Maybe your family member is just having a shitty day... Tate is gonna make it the shittiest day they have ever had.

yandere Tate Langdon who gets taught about the intricacies of technology by you. He hacks into your electronic and looks at your search history. By hacks I mean learns your password. He accidentally got a virus on your computer once. Any social media you have is immediately monitored by Tate. He creates his own account and boosts every one of your comment. Wants to commit another mass murder whenever someone gives you a negative comment.

yandere Tate Langdon who crawls into your lap at night.

yandere Tate Langdon who tells you his deepest and darkest secrets. Besides the entire stalking, manipulating, and murder fantasy stuff.

yandere Tate Langdon who has very special things planned for your first Halloween with him. A romantic picnic on the beach at night. A bubble bath with rose petals afterwards. Laying in your bed and listening to Niravna. Your enemies disappearing. Violet, Vivien, and Ben suddenly disappearing. Thanks magic! Now there are fewer obstacles in the way of your eternal and ever lasting love.

yandere Tate Langdon who helps your low mental health and constantly praises you. He love bombs you so very much.

yandere Tate Langdon who plans on having you commit suicide after the rest of the ghosts are gone, and your family. He'll convince you and won't let you leave the house until you do.

yandere Tate Langdon who is wrapped around your finger so tight. All he does is for you. You could even manipulate him if you are skilled enough— be careful though. He's an unstable mass murder with mommy issues.

yandere Tate Langdon who is ready to burn down the world for you.

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jomamaofficial · 1 month

Text

An Empty Vessel pt.3 (Dabi x Fem!Reader Dark Angst)

A/N: As promised, I have come with Part 3. I can’t lie, I did not expect to have so many parts to this series (me personally, I thought it would be a oneshot), but guys, seeing all the love y’alls are giving to this series is just AHHH. It fills my heart with joy <3. I urge you all to read the TWs and CWs because this series as a whole is just dark. As always, my Ask Box is open for any requests or just a conversation. Please remember to take care of yourselves, and enjoy. As always, I would love to see your thoughts in the comments :). TW: Substance abuse (alcohol, smoking), small mention of mass murder and a reunion with abusive lover. CW: swearing. Taglist: @marlenemckinnonsleftfoot @sukunasleftkneecap @istoleyourmanho3 @witherfag @porusuniverse @iluvoaldmen @genshinsimpforlif @shadowmoonlight0604 @simpsimpson2023 @crybab7 @kaeyastittysucker @jennieyeager @an-ever-angry-bi @gyarukitti Masterlist Word Count: 2207. Summary: Saira Uchiyama. His past had caught up to him in the form of a family– Touya Todoroki had no family but Dabi could not deny the existence of his. The existence of a family that had driven him to search for a name he had never even heard of. Dabi's fragile world unravelled; every single thread forced him to confront the consequences of his actions. Was it even her? The one he had beat and shut out of his life? Dabi’s mind hurt, because it finally intertwined with the realisation of the irreparable damage he had caused.

——————————————————————————————————

Dabi has had his overcoat for a long time.

It was the first thing that was ever made for him, and only him.

He never had to share it.

The material was light; he could move quickly without the weight dragging him down.

The material was heat-resistant, so he didn’t have to worry about incinerating his clothes during a fight.

His clothes allowed him to let go. Dabi could explore the forbidden fruits of his full potential because the material allowed heat to escape– because of the fabric’s ‘enhanced breathability’ or something. He never paid attention. But it worked, so he always had it on.

Dabi made his way up to the roof, ignoring the small cries of his name from the distance. It wasn’t on purpose though– he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. His mind had to work hard to think about nothing. Because if his conscience took over, his chest would collapse.

There wasn’t anything left inside of him anymore. That’s what he had recited every waking day of his life as Dabi. But God, he needed a cigarette– to fill that hollow feeling inside of him.

A few long puffs always did the trick. Although it felt best when he was on the roof, legs hanging off the ledge.

One of his favourite hobbies was to look at the city under the glistering stars.

Yokohama never slept. The little toy cars had small people that were always going somewhere. Their blinking red lights mirrored the sea of stars on the bumpy road. At such a distance, where cars disappeared from one end to the other, that journey seemed so mindless. Yet still, everything felt like… like it was still in place. As if everything about this world was truly intentional.

Dabi dragged a longer puff, throwing his head back, succumbing to the gentle breeze and his thoughts.

But in the end, you couldn’t make out any face, let alone their identity. Everything became insignificant. All that mattered was the action.

Dabi could distinguish between a walking figure and a jogging figure. Whether they were alone or with others.

But in the end, everything else was insignificant when he was above them all.

So far up, that if he fell– right now– he wouldn’t come back.

Anyone could push him off.

“There you are!”

Dabi grimaced. His soothing bubble had been forcefully broken, and he was dragged back to reality. He had his suspicions on who it was.

“I thought we could use a drink or two.”

His eyes glowered at the approaching figure. He could never be left alone. But when the bottle of scotch was handed to him, the interruption wasn’t too bad after all. Dabi jerked his head towards the empty space beside him.

He could hear careful steps approaching, then cautious shuffling beside him.

Had he stolen a glance in his peripheral vision, he could watch the gentle breeze tease her hair, sweeping it left and right.

He felt a chaste glance on his face.

There was a thin, yet strong wall between them. It was thin enough to talk through– although it left no room for subtlety. It was thin enough for them to warm each other. But if they tried to cross it, they’d have to break it down, and crush the other under the weight of the wall.

There was a lingering sense of emptiness that filled the night sky.

Empty smiles, empty vessels.

She drew in a breath, but no words followed, as though she had forgotten how to speak.

“Today was…” she started, only to falter off into silence, her hands rubbing at her arms.

Dabi had his overcoat for a very long time.

It was the first thing that was ever made for him. And only him.

He never had to share it.

But it felt way too heavy today. And despite the gale tightening its frosty clutch, Dabi could feel his body heating up.

“The plan was successful”, Dabi replied flatly, “that’s all we need to care about”.

He pushed his discarded jacket towards her. She slipped it around her shoulders.

The League’s attack on downtown Esuha was broadcasted globally, and they had finally reached the headlines of every news article.

‘Bloodshed Strikes Downtown Esuha as Villains Unleashed Devastating Attacks’

After years of failed plans, the League of Villains had finally succeeded.

No man, no woman, no child was left. But it was all worth it.

Wasn’t it?

Their plan was the highlight of every media discussion.

Dabi took a larger sip of his drink, bathing under the serene wave which washed over his inhibitions.

And the wall between them felt thinner and weaker.

“D’ya think your mom would ever sacrifice herself for you?”

The vivid images of fresh blood and visceral screams haunted their mind.

“What did that woman say again?” Dabi asked, his voice cracking, “‘take me, but please, leave my baby alone’... That’s what she said right?”

Both of their eyes lowered. The alcohol and the little food he had consumed was kicking against his stomach lining, irritating his abdominal grafts.

“‘She has a long life ahead of her. Please, please, don’t kill her please’”, Dabi heard a sniffle. “That’s what she said before we…”

He felt sick.

“That’s what we do, doll.”

He met the pain in her eyes. They were a mirror.

Dabi clenched his jaw before looking away.

She did too.

Dabi began biting his fingernails, and her hands fidgeted with the glass.

And then they looked at each other again, somehow closer than they were in the beginning.

“I don’t know if my mom would ever do that for me… But, I-hm…”

A dry chuckle followed in a feeble attempt to humour the situation.

But Dabi finished her unspoken sentence.

“But you would, right? For your child,” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows and squinted, trying to make out some of the writing on the tall buildings afar.

“Any mom would do that for her child.”

“Didn’t you just say th-”

“Any good mom would”.

No one spoke. But they shared a knowing look, before averting them back to the vastness of Yokohama.

“But to be honest…” She took another sip of her drink. “If I had a baby, I’d never live in Musutafu.”

Dabi let out a snort, thus earning a playful shove in return.

“Oh yeah? Then where would you live, fucking Minato City?”

It was her turn to snort.

“You think I’d live in a rich neighbourhood to avoid being a target of criminals and villains?” She scoffed, slurring out her words. “I know I’m the newbie but you have to give me some credit, Dabi.”

He rolled his eyes, yet they still urged her to continue.

She thought for a moment, her gaze wandering off into the distance, before she continued again.

“There’s this place, just outside of here. It’s called Yosai. It’s this remote residential area. And, um. It takes around 30 minutes minimum, to find any markets, or- or any offices or clubs, and you know, all that stuff. I think, for most people, it’s like- really boring. And that’s why it’s so isolated. No one even thinks of going there because there’s literally nothing. There’s a park, and a local school– I think, but there’s no one. Nothing. There’s these houses- a lot of them! A bunch of houses with no one to live in them”.

It was weird, to be talking, uninterrupted, for this long.

“I guess”, she shrugged a bit, blinking a few times. “Recently, people have started building roads and stuff for cars now. So they can actually do something. But yeah. Zero reported crimes and it’s been there for a few decades. So yeah, if I had a family, I’d go there”.

She looked intently at Dabi, who didn’t say anything.

But he moved closer, leaning forward, sitting upright. He scanned her jittering hands before searching in his pant pocket. He raised his eyebrows at the cigarette in his hands. She nodded. So he lit it, pressed the ends to his lips and inhaled before giving it to her.

He watched her lips touch the cigarette. Where his lips were.

“There’s actually this property under her maiden name- my mom’s. There’s still some legal stuff I need to sort out before it actually becomes mine. It’s like this, it’s so stupid, because it’s like obviously none of us use that maiden name anymore. But because of that they can’t give it to us. I don’t even know… But I guess it’s nothing too difficult”.

“Ah”. That was all he could say. But when he peered into her expectant eyes, there was a sudden need to elaborate. Anything better than ‘ah’ at least.

Dabi felt dizzy.

“Umm… What's your mom’s maiden name?”

“It’s Uchiyama.”

When his delayed voice finally caught up to him, Dabi winced.

“Fuck”, he muttered. It was a stupid question, but he wanted to make sure that she knew he was listening.

They were closer, breaths intertwining with each other under the watchful eye of the moon.

There weren’t any buses that travelled from Musutafu to Yosai. Dabi made his journey by foot.

Thus, during this four day journey, Dabi became well acquainted with people.

And he noticed that a lot of people in Japan had blue eyes. After the emergence of quirks, blue became a common colour for many. The truly rare ones were pink, or purple now.

But Dabi’s eyes… they were different.

His eyes.

They were handpicked from the colours in the cerulean depths of the stormy sea. Whispers of secrets remained untold– that’s why no one could have the eyes that he had.

Never.

They were gleaming– echoing the beauty of the lights in the North. Depending on how you looked at them, they were teal, or sapphire. One thing was indisputable– the arctic chill they’d give when he’d pierce into your soul was breathtaking.

His eyes.

They were simply breath-taking.

So when he towered over a small frame, gaze lowered, he could not explain the way his heart forgot to beat when he stared into a perfect replica of his eyes.

With each beat, lost time unfolded in front of him.

And he noticed the slight difference in the silent expanse that he had gazed into.

There was an innocent reflection of the North Star twinkling in their genuine, rolling waves. Dabi’s eyes were an abandoned lighthouse.

But, what alarmed him the most, was when those flawless replications turned frozen. Dark.

Petrified.

Dabi's heart ached as those eyes formed fog and mist, obstructing him from reaching the truth that was hidden beyond the plane of sight.

His knees surrendered under the accumulating guilt of his past. And so his tears fell, trying to escape the grief and strain his weak body had repressed for so long.

“Honey, are you okay? Who’s at the door?”

Icy tendrils spiked through him, and his breath was captured without a fight. In the wake of realisation, his body signalled all the alarms they could, telling him– no, begging him to run, but, his blood had turned to ice, and he succumbed in the paralysing grip of his inevitable fate.

“Sana, are you okay…”

He heard the voice taper away, followed by a sharp clink of a metal spoon. His laden head fixed itself downwards in shame, guilt, fear…

“Dabi…?” Those words drifted out in a hushed tone. As if they were trying to protect the young girl, who now hid behind her mother.

He braced himself for the hardest task he would ever have to face.

And in that split second, his breath had returned, and he let out a short exhale when he finally saw that face materialise from his past.

Y/N.

It was you. Saira Uchiyama.

After 6 years, 8 months, and 19 days of navigating through the circular journey of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, Dabi finally had the chance to reach the beacon of acceptance.

His shoulders slumped, as short breaths hiccuped through the dark caverns of his chest.

He had finally found you.

And he had finally found the end to his coveted quench, which yearned for a solace, only to be found in your longing embrace.

Softly, a bewildered whisper escaped his lips, barely denting the silence around them.

“Doll…?”

Dabi watched as the maturer skin scrunched together, deep lines frowned at him. As the tenderness in your heart had to be locked away inside an untouchable crevice in your body.

“Sweetie, I need you to go upstairs okay”, you ordered sternly.

You pushed your daughter behind you, blocking Dabi’s protesting hands before they touched her.

“Mommy, he’s scaring m-”

“Sana. You need to go upstairs. Lock the door and close your windows.”

Sana.

Her name was a painful reminder of the blank pages he had failed to fill as her father. How could he have written anything?

He didn’t even know what the title was.

“Never fucking come near my family again”.

Those blank pages began to rip.

“You disgusting freak”.

The blank pages had burned to ashes, and Dabi was left outside on the suburban patio of a perfect neighbourhood.

Maybe, if he found a place to wash his face, he could blend in with the garbage.

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redara · 25 days

Text

And Your Voice Was All I Heard

Pairings: Union of Light Bi-Han/Áila Havarôr Ratings: Mature Words: 6.990 TW: depiction and mention of abuse, blood, torture Summary: Post-MK1. Áila realizes the Lin Kuei is steering away from their purpose. She needs to escape the compound and return to Liu Kang in the Wu Shi Academy before the Grandmaster finds out what she's doing, for the price for treachery is death.

A/N: also posted on AO3. Áila is the OC of @tazahan and this fic is based on her work:

The bell rings.

Áila follows her peers – the group of Lin Kuei warriors – rushing to the main hall to attend the call for the urgent meeting. She is dreading the worst; it’s difficult to think of anything positive at this moment, not since the Grandmaster returned, alone and injured, and declared his two brothers as traitors. It’s the hot talk of the barracks; Scorpion and Smoke had defied order; they had attacked Sub-Zero and left him by the outer outpost of the Lin Kuei’s territory. Search parties have been assigned since then, and while it was fruitful, Scorpion and Smoke have fled Arctika.

Then, Sub-Zero suddenly announced that the Lin Kuei will not answer to Fire God Liu Kang or the Wu Shi Academy anymore.

Truth be told, Áila is confused with the whole ordeal. A part of her is telling her to trust the Grandmaster, yet deep inside she knows there is more to the story than what has been told. There must be a greater reason why Scorpion and Smoke forsook their oath and left the clan – either there is one reason, or she is still in denial, like any other Lin Kuei.

The main hall is already full of neatly lined warriors; Áila falls into formation, scanning the room. Tension is high, mixing with a variety of emotion – confusion, anger, anxiety, mixing as one. Hushed chatters being exchanged, questioning the reason for their assembly, questioning if it has something to do with the runaway brothers. Until the grand door opens, and the hall falls silent.

Walking into the room is the Grandmaster himself, dressed in his usual blue uniform. The lack of yellow and gray warriors who’d tail behind him is a new sight, one that makes Áila’s heart clench. Instead, there is a trail of ice following his footsteps, crackling, disappearing after a second. The torches of the hall sways as he comes in proximity. He takes his stand and looks down at his warriors; anger flashes in his usually stern gaze in the form of the warm fiery lights of the hall; the hardened feature of his face lets it be known how serious he is tonight, that whatever he is about to say will be of the utmost importance.

“I shall keep this brief,” he opens, his deep voice cuts the silence with such authority, echoing against the stone walls, “for as I am speaking, the two traitors have settled in Japan and built a clan to fight against ours. Carve this name in your mind: The Shirai Ryu; for mercy shall not be given to them or their allies.”

Sub-Zero paces slowly. “For centuries, the Lin Kuei have stood loyally by Earthrealm; our ancestors have kept the peace and protected the masses without recognition. We have stood, leashed to ridiculous rules set by Liu Kang, for no reason but to hold us back. You,” he waves his hand in a general direction, startling a line of warriors, “have trained and learned all your lives. Yet when the time calls, you have witnessed Liu Kang picking unworthy fighters to be tested against your might – a test of which you must fail. You have witnessed your brethren be sent off to fight by the demand of the Fire God; how little the number of those who returned, and our name remains unseen in the grand history of the world.

“Centuries of hard work, dedication, and loyalty… Would you like to know what the other Realms call us?”

His nose scrunches up in disgust as he continues.

“‘Liu Kang’s lapdogs’.”

The deafening silence is replaced by a cacophony of gasps. The tension breaks into a unified anger and hushed protest. Áila tries to remain composed – no, no, it’s not true… Liu Kang trusts the Lin Kuei, in fact, he talks of them highly. There is no way he would let anyone belittle the Lin Kuei.

But the Grandmaster carries on, collecting the newfound disappointment of his Lin Kuei warriors towards the Fire God, “No more shall our name be wiped from history. I vowed to you that we shall be known throughout the Realms. A clan – a nation – of which others will fear and respect –”

What is happening? No, no, this is not –

“Never again shall we be shackled by Liu Kang and his tyranny. We shall stand on our own, not for Liu Kang, not for Earthrealm –”

Áila internally begs the Grandmaster to stop. This is madness… He is declaring war against Liu Kang and Earthrealm – against his own brothers!

He clenches his fist and raises it high, “For the Lin Kuei!”

Áila watches helplessly as fists are raised in the air – the decision has been made, the future of the Lin Kuei has been set – and her heart begs her to scream, only capable of hearing the warriors all around her chanting out their loyal reply to their Grandmaster.

“For the Lin Kuei!”

***

With each passing day, the Lin Kuei begin to undergo plenty of changes. For one, the Engineering Department is more active than usual; the sound of metals and tools screeches out of their workshop, day and night; tons of materials being sent in, raising curiosity of what they are used for.

Áila grows wary. The lack of information from inside and outside of the compound is making her anxious. She wishes she could contact her father and ask if their clan, the Sól Eldur, is aware of what is happening, but communication with the outside world is very limited. Her guts are telling her to run away, run to the Wu Shi, and join them, but… what if Sub-Zero is right, and Liu Kang has been ruling Earthrealm under his tyranny, and Scorpion and Smoke are truly traitors?

Gods… the need to find the truth on her own is itching her mind. It doesn’t help that this afternoon, a fellow warrior dropped a hint that only makes the itch worse.

“Do not quote me on this, but I think our Grandmaster is building an army,” said the curly warrior to the masked warrior who was sitting across from Áila, “because I saw plenty of body armor in the workshop – not your usual armor, mind you, these are full metal, with cables and tubes, a very complicated design.”

The masked warrior frowned, “You mean he’s building an armored suit for us?”

“No, an army. Mechanized army. Well, granted, I only saw them briefly when I had to deliver some paperworks, but I know what I saw.”

“That is a bit of a stretch. It can be anything –”

“And I might have overheard Sektor talking to Cyrax about needing a new mathematical model for the brain. Come on, why would they need one if they’re making armors?”

So now here Áila is, sneaking into the heavily guarded workshop, internally regretting her decisions by the second. There might not be anything of importance here, and she’s risking her life for nothing, but she knows she has to do at least something; at the very least she should see what Sub-Zero and his engineers are making.

It is eerie. The smell of molten metal lingers in the air, mixing with a hint of rust, of singed materials, and dampness. Áila tiptoes through the hallway, passing a few doors, hiding from security cameras, until she finally reaches the inner workspace, and –

By the Elder Gods….

Tall, skeletal, humanoid creatures made of metal are lining up in the workspace; one is laid on the workbench with an open chest, displaying a mess of cables and tubes and gears. What should be their faces are nothing but a jumble of unfinished circuitry. Approaching warily, Áila can see some sharp blades on another workbench, they are equipped with weapons? But before she can observe them in detail, a voice startles her.

“-- more time, Bi-Han, or would you risk injuries to the Lin Kuei?”

Without missing a beat, Áila slithers towards a stack of crates. She hears footsteps – the unmistakable pace of the Grandmaster, followed by a more hurried one – and soon she can see the owners approaching. Sub-Zero appears first; his maskless face is seemingly stuck in a scowl; Sektor is following behind him as if trying to get him to stop.

“I understand you want the Cybers to be ready soon, but this – all of this – is something beyond our calibers, but, Cyrax’s team is still figuring out the math. It is paramount –”

“-- for everyone’s safety. Have you no other reason to say?” Sub-Zero finally stops, and he looks around the workspace, until he settles on the metallic body on the bench. He heaves a long sigh, tensed shoulders slumping with the motion. “With the days we are losing, we are one step behind the Shirai Ryu, and they are already on our doorstep –”

BANG.

Áila tries not to flinch when Sub-Zero punches the metal workbench with his bare fist, creating a dent and sharp icicles that spread; Sektor takes a step backwards, jaws clenching. Sub-Zero continues, “Kuai Liang keeps sending his dogs to sniff around our borders, and you are giving me nothing but scraps! Are you that incompetent, Sektor, that you cannot make one of these move?!”

Sektor stammers, “I – I – I could, I could, but you have to know –”

“What?! Safety again?!”

“-- they’re deadly. Bi-Han, the Cyber Lin Kuei will be capable of destroying a major city in one night. I need to have the additional math for the safety precaution, it is for your own safety as well –”

Sub-Zero interjects again, but Áila has stopped listening; she uses the opportunity to slip by unannounced, tiptoing deeper into the workshop; the voices of those two men are becoming further. Her mind is racing, still trying to wrap itself around this new revelation. So this is what Sub-Zero wants, freeing the Lin Kuei from ‘tyranny’ to subject others to his tyranny?

Her guts win; she has to leave the Lin Kuei.

She stops in front of a closed door of an office with Cyrax’s name etched on the nameplate. The math, she recalls, I need evidence. Liu Kang should know about this… Cautiously, she opens the door; it swings without a sound; and she is met by the sight of an empty office. Three large monitors are on the wall, displaying numbers and documents with intricate writings.

Áila steps inside and closes the door. Immediately, she rushes for the desk, eyes flicking between monitors. The tech is next level, definitely something custom-made by Cyrax, but the interface shows similarity to what Áila knows – and by the Gods, she intends to make it work.

After so many clicks and navigating the menus, she finally finds the email function. Without bothering to change the account, she types the email address of the only person in Wu Shi Academy who is constantly glued to the phone.

Sender: cy.4d4 To: jcage Subject: SOS Johnny, it’s Áila. I don’t have much time, but if you can read this, please get to Liu Kang ASAP. The Lin Kuei is preparing some kind of a robot army dubbed the Cyber Initiative. It’s not functional yet, and I hope it never will be, but they said it would be able to level a city in a day. Details in attachments. I’m leaving tonight. If I don’t make it to the Wu Shi in a week, you know what happened.

Áila drags a few recent files to the email before sending it. She makes sure to remove it from the ‘Sent’ folder as well to remove the trace.

She should take her leave now, yet she stands still, reading the open documents on the monitor, how most of them can’t be sent through the email due to the size of the files. She tears her eyes from the screen for a moment to scan the desk for some kind of a hard drive or a flash drive, something portable to bring a copy of the documents with her. Just her luck, a red flash drive is sitting by a stack of papers.

Each second that she uses to copy the data into the flash drive raises the level of her anxiety. Only when it is completely full and packed that she pulls it out, and tucks it into her uniform, into her breastband, right under the fold of her ample breasts where she knows it would be safe and hidden. The hard part is done, now it’s time to –

The blaring of alarms sends her jumping in place.

The once quiet hallway is now echoing with the incessant ringing and the footsteps of incoming reinforcements, one of them is the familiar heavy pace of the Grandmaster. Áila bolts for a makeshift exit – a window – where she throws herself against the glass and comes out tumbling onto the snowy ground of the Lin Kuei compound. Without looking back, without acknowledging the ache and the burn from the small scrapes, she takes long strides and runs.

“THERE!”

“GET HER!”

Shoutings of orders. Crunching snow under their soles. The biting wind whistling in Áila’s ears. She manages to cross the courtyard, dodging a handful of guards. The gate is just right ahead, still opened, unguarded –

A net suddenly collides with her side and envelopes her – what is – when it suddenly shocks her is what gets her to fall. Áila can’t react much when her muscles contract and spasm involuntarily, she can only lie on the snowy courtyard, body jerking against her will. The pain begins to form, then the dread takes over when she realizes this is the end; the footsteps are coming closer; the exit is still further away; Sub-Zero’s boots come to her view, colliding with her face – Áila yelps as pain blooms on the bridge of her nose.

“Well done, Cyrax.” His praise comes out under a heavy breath.

“ Hah , I knew that would come in handy.” A tall Lin Kuei appears next to Sub-Zero, wearing a mechanized vambrace. He presses a button, and the shocking stops; Áila pants aloud, feeling light-headed when her muscles are finally relaxing. “Ah? I think I’ve seen her before. The Carrot-Hair woman from the Wu Shi Academy, right?”

Sub-Zero moves the net away – Áila jerks away from his touch – and his icy hand grabs her around the neck, bringing her face closer to him. He rips her mask with another hand, baring her broken and bloody nose to view. “ Tch , Áila Hávarôr. I should have known you’re in league with Liu Kang. Planning a little mutiny on your own, hmm?”

“N-no –” Áila grits her teeth to stop them from chattering.

Cyrax scoffs, “Still has the audacity to lie. I know you sent something from my office, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The grip around her neck tightens, “Is that so?”

Áila repeats, “No…”

“Liar.” Sub-Zero lifts her off the ground, rendering her clawing at his vambrace for purchase, as she feels her lungs burning from the lack of air. She tries kicking him, only to be replied by a firmer grip that darkens her vision.

“Aren’t you going to kill her?” She hears the muffled voice of Cyrax.

Sub-Zero chuckles darkly, “A swift death is not what this harlot deserves. But by the time I’m finished with her, she will be begging for it.”

***

Crimson blooms through the tear of Áila’s blue uniform. Clutching her stomach, she hisses, hunching over as she hobbles backwards; her thighs are shaking, trying to stay balanced while standing on the icy floor. Her vision is clouded by the blood that’s streaming down her crown, that no matter how many times she wipes it until her vambrace is drenched, she can’t remove it. The sight of Sub-Zero, blue and red, approaching her again at a rapid speed –

Áila lifts an arm to block whatever attack is coming. Her defense is futile, and her torso is met by the sole of his boot, kicking her backwards until she finally falls again.

Sub-Zero coos in a cynical tone, “Is that all you’re capable of? Pathetic. You dare wearing our uniform and displaying such weakness.”

Áila rolls over, pushing herself off the floor. She can hear him approaching again, and before she knows it, pain shoots up her side from where he suddenly kicks her. He grabs her hair, pulling her off the floor – hurts… she cries out, angry tears blurring out her sight, as he forces her to look at him.

“Not killing Kuai Liang and Tomas when I had the chance was a mistake, one that I don’t intend to repeat. Another traitor shall not be unpunished! Look at me!” He growls, voice ringing aloud in her ears. A snarl replaces his scowl. “A weakling like you is only good for two things: a bed warmer or a training dummy. So tell me, which one is it?”

The coldness in Sub-Zero’s eyes makes Áila wonder if he is truly the man she used to respect. It disgusts her to think she once admired his discipline and leadership. Her stomach turns at the thought that the Lin Kuei see this inhuman cryomancer and still choose to serve him. Is this what Scorpion and Smoke saw? Is this why they left him?

Shaking with rage and fear, Áila chooses not to answer him.

Her silence is taken as disobedience, and though it gives her a sense of victory – seeing his control snaps and he growls in frustration – the moment is short-lived. He lets her go with a hard shove, and in return, he grabs the wrist of her right hand, and twists it to her back.

“AHH!” Áila screams, feeling the stretch of her muscle mixing with the burn of the cuts she earned from his ice dagger. She can feel the tension of her bones warning her of their unnatural position. She tries to move to alleviate the pain, but Sub-Zero keeps her in place.

“Filthy harlot, your Grandmaster asked you a question.” His voice joins her cries, and soon, his ice dagger joins the conversation as well; Áila yawps, hoarse and painfully, as the sharp edge is dragged slowly against her skin, following the length of her arm. Her free hand grips her uniform tightly, trying to channel the pain. Her legs are kicking, thighs spasming.

The blade presses deeper, “No – no, please –”

“Oh? Now you have manners?” Sub-Zero drags the blade higher. The cold burns and numbing, but when it melts, the pain doubles. “Tell me what you want.”

Áila hisses, shaking her head, “S-stop… Sto – Ngh !” Sub-Zero presses his thumb into a fresh cut.

“Mind your place, you lying harlot.”

“Grandmast – Grandmaster, please stop!”

A deep, devilish laugh echoes in the room. “Say you're sorry, and I might consider stopping.”

“I’m sor – I’m sorry!” This time it is not the blade that hurts her the most, it’s the tight grip around her wrist, threatening to twist it. Her whole body shakes with disgust as she cries, “Forgi – forgive me! Please! I won’t – please! AAAH!”

A crack, followed by the numbing pain shooting up her now-broken wrist up to her heavily wounded arm, and Áila knows her fate has been sealed. Sub-Zero finally releases her, and though she can’t see him, she can hear his victorious chortle as he watches her lying on the floor, too scared to move. He turns her around with a kick; now she can see him towering over her, with wisp of cold dancing behind him, freezing the air.

“ That is one. I shall break every single bone in your body, a day at a time, until you can do nothing but wriggle like the worm you are. Only then shall I reunite you with your family,” he crouches down. Áila jolts away when his fingertips meet her neck. He clicks his tongue, “Better fix your expression for the joyous occasion, for your father shall receive your head in a pretty box.”

***

Áila leans against the bar of her prison. Her hoarse breathing is loud in the otherwise empty dungeon. She cradles her hand to her chest, how swollen her broken wrist has become in mere hours. Her strength is dwindling down, and it terrifies her, for she knows when she is awake, she would have to face the same treatment again. There will be no winning against Sub-Zero, especially not in her injured state.

His voice… The threat lingers in her mind that she wants to cry aloud, for she knows he will go through with it. She can’t imagine it, her father opening a box and seeing her severed head. Her heart breaks for the potential future; if the Cyber Initiative has been completed, no one will be safe from the Lin Kuei; she fears even the Earthrealm Champions would have no chance to win against an army of destruction.

Something is poking her chest. At first, she thinks it must be one of her ribs, probably a broken one that she wasn’t aware of. But it’s small, and rectangular – the flash drive.

There is a chance.

Despite feeling ready to keel over, she forces herself to stand up; there is no way she would die in the enemy territory, dressed in the uniform that doesn’t bring her pride; her blood is not Lin Kuei, never has been, never will be. The power of the sun runs in her, the blessings of her ancestors, the Sol Eldur clan; it sings in her heart, guiding her to do what is right. Now, she needs to stay strong a little while longer.

Áila raises her hand over the lock of her cell. The cold metal won’t budge yet . She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath, so deep that her whole body trembles when her chest expands; the cuts on her torso sting from the action. Her father’s guidance comes to mind.

“Breathe in… And out… Good, do you feel that? There is a heat in your belly, and it expands to your chest. Let it spread, my dear, it’s fine, I promise. The next part is going to be tricky, are you ready? …Very good. Do you remember when we went fishing and you caught your first trophy? Lots of reeling, it was exhausting, right? You wanted to give me the rod because your arms felt like they were about to fall off, but I told you to keep going, because I know you got it. And you did!

Remember how happy you were? Yeah, you do? This is going to be like one of those moments. When you need strength, I want you to remember the good times we had. I want you to remember the things you’ve accomplished by being who you are… That’s it. Oh you feel the energy now? That’s it, my dear, let it take over, it’s going to be alright.”

There is a loud pulse accompanying the beat of her heart. It ebbs and flows like the waves her ancestors used to conquer. It’s warm and light like sitting by a campfire after a long windy day. It overwhelms her senses. At first, she can only see the dark, but it gradually becomes brighter, a glow, like the first ray of sun breaking the night. The more she breathes, the brighter her world has become. The pulse is snapping, ready to burst, ready to lash out like the solar storm against the cold, dark space.

And she lets it.

She cares not what she hears or feels – the cracks of metal, the crumbling of stone, the intense heat against her skin – she feels safe. Her heart tells her to open her eyes, and she does, seeing the bars of her cell bending outwards and the stone floor and walls are partially destroyed, still burning red. Her heart tells her to run, and she bolts, not caring for her injuries or the dungeon she is leaving. Her heart tells her to go one way, and she follows, the cold wind fails to caress her skin.

Her heart tells her not to look back, and she does not, until the ground is replaced by snow, until there is no more light, until the shadows of the trees are merging with the dark night, until it’s only her and moonlight, until the adrenaline has stopped pumping throughout her bloodstream that she begins to feel everything.

Áila inhales the cold air of freedom. The snow reaches up to her knees, seeping into her boots, making her bones ache. She persists, one step at a time, not caring if she is going the wrong way as long as she is going further away from the Lin Kuei compound. If what Sub-Zero said is true, then the Shirai Ryu might still be lingering around the borders of Arctika. She just has to find them.

She doesn’t know if her body is cold because of the snow, or because of the loss of blood and adrenaline; if she is still moving or she is kneeling on the ground; if the darkness is because of the night or because she has closed her eyes. She doesn’t know if she’s hearing the howling of the wind or the wolves or the dogs. She doesn’t know if she is still alive or stuck in a dream; if she opens her eyes, will she still find darkness or the face of Sub-Zero? But she does know the feel of the flash drive pressing against her chest, and it gives her a little bit of hope that whether she is alive or dead by the time the Shirai Ryu find her, the truth will still outlive her.

It’s going to be alright… It’s going to be…

***

The smell of agarwood incense permeating in the air rouses Áila awake. At first, it is faint, and she believes she is dreaming. Then she begins to feel the warmth, how stable it is as if she has been tucked under a blanket and the fireplace is roaring. Her eyelids are fluttering, blurry vision seeing a tall, dark red ceiling, with yellow lanterns hanging. She blinks repeatedly, where am I…?

She hears a movement to her left, and she turns to the source. Someone is moving behind a dark red partition; the sound of mortar and pestle, the clinking of glass, the pour of water, makes her realize that they are brewing something. The smell of a familiar tea assaults her senses, she knows that smell, can already taste it in her mouth – that is Madam Bo’s special brew .

Áila sits up gingerly. There is indeed a blanket covering her body – her bandaged body; someone has taken their time to clean her up and cover each and every cut she has. Her broken wrist is wrapped by a thick bandage and placed in a sling that’s hanging from the ceiling. She looks around the room; there is no mistaking it, this is the Wu Shi Academy. The smell is the same as she remembers. The interiors are what she is familiar with, all of the dark red and gold ornaments, wooden instead of stone. It seems her action had not been in vain; perhaps the Shirai Ryu had found her and taken her here – at least that’s what she hopes had happened, because she can’t feel the flash drive poking her chest anymore, and she hopes it didn’t fall out and be left in Arctika.

The person behind the partition has finished brewing the tea. Áila wants to call for them, wondering if it’s Madam Bo herself, but she chooses to wait. She watches eagerly as the person walks out carrying a tray of teacups and a teapot –

But her eagerness dwindles down upon seeing the light blue uniform. Her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach when she sees his face framed by the same shade of dark brown hair and the loose strands. His eyes meet hers, a genuine surprise, and his mouth moves to speak; the same deep, raspy voice comes out, and all that she can hear is the threat.

“I shall break every single bone in your body, a day at a time, until you can do nothing but wriggle like the worm you are.”

Áila shakes uncontrollably, no, this is not real… This is cruel, a mind game, exposing her to a sense of security only to show how wrong she is. She has to get out – she jumps out of the bed, and her legs immediately give away, causing her to fall right onto the wooden floor. Panic poisons her blood as she hears him making a move, placing the tray on the table, and his heavy footsteps come approaching. She pulls herself to move as well, but his boots are already in her peripheral vision, and she tenses, scrambling, clawing away like a defeated animal. The pain in her wrist jogs her memory, reminding her of the unbearable stretch, and her fear grows tenfold at the possibility of it happening again.

“Please no –” she curls on the floor, head bowing down, forehead kissing the wood, “-- Grandmaster, plea – please – I’m sor – sorry. I’m sorry… I’m –” She hiccups, already feeling too hard to breathe. But she persists, not wanting to take any chances of being seen as disobedient again by Sub-Zero. Her cries come out in desperate huffs of breath. “I beg – I beg of you… Grand – Grandmaster… I’m sorr –” she flinches when he takes a step forward, and already she can tell he is going to grab her by the head again, “ Mercy! Mercy! Please! Mercy!”

The door swings open – he’s bringing the guards – and a large hand makes contact with the back of her head, but the familiar voice is what gets her to look up, “Áila!”

Áila’s eyes are widening upon seeing the face of Liu Kang. This… This can’t – why is he here with Sub-Zero? She suspects foul play, but Liu Kang pulls her up from the floor with such gentleness and warmth, and there is remorse in his eyes, and she knows he is truly the Fire God, and she is safe. She clutches his shirt, her cries come out without restraint; tears can’t stop streaming down her face when he helps her get onto the bed again.

More familiar faces come into the room; Raiden, Johnny, Kung Lao, and Kenshi, the Earthrealm Champions. Following behind them are none other but the yellow and gray-clad warriors. “S-Scorpion? Smoke?” Áila rasps.

“Those are not our titles anymore. You can call us by name.” Kuai Liang scans her from top to toe. His expression hardens, sadness is evident in his eyes. “Did… Did my brother do this to you?”

Áila glances towards the light-blue-clad Sub-Zero in the room; he stands in place as if petrified, as if he is not the Sub-Zero they are talking about right now.

Thankfully, Liu Kang intercepts, “I think it is best for me to explain to you what happened. Everyone, please leave the room for now, give her some space.” One by one, the familiar faces are taking their leave, but not before giving Áila a sympathetic gaze. Sub-Zero, however, remains standing in place, until Liu Kang calls him. “Bi-Han, please, give us a moment.”

“Of course.” Sub-Zero replies without hesitation, even bowing down a bit before he begins to walk away. Áila follows his movement, still wary. He stops at the threshold, and with an expression full of remorse, his eyes meet hers, devoid of cold. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

And he closes the door.

***

“Don’t take it to heart, Bi-Han, it’s not your fault.”

Bi-Han glances at Kuai Liang – not his Kuai Liang, but he shares the same features that remind him of his brother, even the scar. This timeline still gives him whiplash where he is least expecting it. “Generally speaking, it is still my fault.”

“Bi-Han – our Bi-Han – did it, not you. It’s a pity, his obsession has driven him mad; I can’t believe he would stoop this low. Wounding me is one thing, it was a warning, but I should have realized it was only a matter of time before he lashed out on someone else.”

“At least Áila survives.” Tomas tries to sound positive.

“Barely. The scouts found her half-frozen in the tundra. If they were too late, the Sol Eldur would be building her funeral pyre.” Kuai Liang sighs heavily.

Bi-Han frowns, “The Sol Eldur, is that her family?”

“Her clan, yes. The last time I spoke to them, they were fortifying their village in case the Lin Kuei would ambush them first; I’m not sure if her father can come here when his presence is still needed there.” Kuai Liang sighs again. “But thanks to her, we now know what Bi-Han is planning. Forgive us; the Lin Kuei in this timeline must have stained the name of your Lin Kuei.”

They don’t exchange another word, as Kuai Liang walks away followed by Tomas, seemingly to lament their brother privately. Bi-Han remains standing, watching the life of the garden of the Wu Shi Academy, with a thousand conflicting thoughts running in his mind. He knows it was not him who wounded Áila to such an extent that she fears the sight of him, but the shame and the guilt still weigh on his heart; it is his name, his title, his face – it is him, but not truly him .

He recalls the night when Johnny barged into the meeting with phone in hand, “Guys! You’re gonna want to see this!” he had said, and he read the email sent by Áila. Kuai Liang took charge of the Shirai Ryu scouts to scour the tundra and the mountains. Even the blind swordsman, Kenshi, insisted on going, believing his ancestors could help as well.

At that time, Bi-Han thought what a remarkable person Áila must be, to be within the walls of the Lin Kuei, and still tried to reach out. Her action earned his respect, that at the moment, he innerly prayed to the Elder Gods to see her safety so he can meet this warrior for once.

But he was not expecting to see her being brought in on a stretcher.

She was blue and red, frozen and bloodied, that everyone believed she had been dead. The extensive injuries she sustained were a clear tell that she had been tortured, or beaten up within an inch of her life. Liu Kang had used his power to thaw her just enough to get her blood to run again, and then the monks took her to be cleaned up and patched.

And though no one is pointing fingers at him, Bi-Han knows this is his counterpart’s doing.

The door to Áila’s room is opened – Bi-Han turns to it – and Liu Kang walks out alone. He offers a small apologetic smile as he approaches Bi-Han. “Are you alright?”

Bi-Han returns the question, “Is she alright?”

“She will be. I have explained the situation, though she might need time to process everything. Please do not think you are in the wrong here. Neither of us anticipated this behavior from Sub-Zero.”

“I should have.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Liu Kang hums. “This Sub-Zero is not you, Bi-Han, you can’t expect to understand what he will do next. Our timelines may share similar people with similar lives, but that is where the similarity ends.”

Bi-Han feels his jaws tensing. There is a pull in his heart, tugging at his heartstring, when he remembers Áila’s reaction to seeing him; her expression of pure anguish is still fresh in his mind. “She begged for mercy… Three times, she did, I…” He huffs a cold puff of air, feeling rage forming in his chest at the image of Áila begging Sub-Zero to stop but he carried on nonetheless. What kind of a monster has he become? Bi-Han shakes his head. “Can I… Can I see her?”

Liu Kang shrugs. “Usually I’d tell you to give her time, but this depends on you. Are you strong enough to face her again?” He doesn’t wait for an answer when he adds, “I hope the two of you can find peace in this time of conflict.”

***

The pot of tea on the table is untouched, despite the smell beckoning Áila for a taste. She wants to, she truly does, but the fact remains that the tea was prepared by Sub-Zero – and though Liu Kang has explained extensively of what happened, of how this ‘Bi-Han’ is not the Sub-Zero who nearly maimed her wrist, she is wary nonetheless. She sits still on the bed, trying to quell her thoughts and senses, telling herself that she is safe now, that she is alright, that Sub-Zero will not go through with his threat of sending her head in a box. Her rapid heartbeat is slowing down. Her welling tears have dried.

Then the door slides open, and Áila sees him again.

Their eyes lock at each other for a moment. Her gaze is of fear, but his is of remorse, a palpable guilt. He stands unmoving by the door, which she is thankful for, because her body has begun shaking on its own.

“Bi-Han.” He breaks the silence, voice purposefully made a bit higher than the usual deep raspy tone. “Please call me ‘Bi-Han’. You do not need to call me by any titles. I am neither of those in your timeline.” He pauses, thin lips tensing and relaxing as if he is tasting the words he would utter. “Would you like some tea?”

Áila glances between him and the teapot. The idea of the Grandmaster serving her tea is wild – no, this is not the Grandmaster, this is Bi-Han . She shakes her head, “Are you really not Sub-Zero?”

“I am Sub-Zero, but ,” he hastily adds when she flinches, “I am not of your timeline. In my timeline, I am also Sub-Zero, and the Grandmaster. But I can assure you, I am not like him .”

She can see how genuine he is, how he seems borderline desperate to distance himself from the Sub-Zero she knows. But her body and mind are acting on their own, as tears begin to well up in her eyes again, and they roll down her cheeks when she blinks. “I’m sorry – I know you’re not him , but you look alike, and I – I don’t know…”

“I could change my attire if it makes you more comfortable.”

“No, you’re – you’re already dressed differently.”

“Oh? Is Sub-Zero not wearing blue in your timeline?”

“Not in the same shade as yours.” Áila forces herself to relax. She cradles her wrist tightly, hugging herself to feel more at ease. “Liu Kang said you crossed the timeline to lend him your aid.”

“Liu Kang spoke too highly of me; I’m merely doing my part to help. Sub-Zero needs to be stopped before he destroys Earthrealm – given the information you brought, he is already planning to do it.” Bi-Han takes one step forward, a tentative action, and he looks at Áila as if asking for her permission. She nods, and he approaches quietly; the footsteps are softer, quieter, calculated for her. “I’m here to thank you, Áila. If it’s not for you, we would still be in the dark of what the Lin Kuei are planning. This gives us time to be better prepared.”

“I’m only doing what I’m supposed to do in the first place.” Áila lowers her gaze to the wooden floor – calm down, calm down, calm down. He’s not Sub-Zero. He’s not going to hurt you. It’s going to be alright – “Perhaps I should have done it earlier before they assembled the Cybers, but I –” she closes her eyes when she can see his boots entering her view, “-- I was in denial. I didn’t know which side I should support. Too weak. Too late. I should have known Sub-Zero was wrong when he drove his brothers away. When he –”

The memory flashes behind her eyelids. How Sub-Zero had dragged her to the dungeon by the neck. How he had goaded her to fight him. How, with every cut he made and the punch he landed, Áila slowly lost her hope to survive. At one point, she lost consciousness, and was woken up by the cold tip of the ice blade pressing against her cheek. The flooding memory is too much, breath turning ragged as if she is back in the dungeon trying to breathe the air that Sub-Zero had knocked out of her lungs.

Áila feels a warm hand pressing against her thigh. She opens her eyes, but the tears have blurred her vision. She can see a blurry light blue crouching beside her; she blinks until she sees Bi-Han in close proximity. Yet for once, from this close, she can truly see he is not the Grandmaster. There is grief in his eyes, and pain, as if he shares her burden. There is regret and guilt, and she swears those brown eyes are a bit glossy as well.

“You are not weak.” Bi-Han’s voice comes out as a calming whisper. His fingertips meet her wet cheek, interrupting the stream. “Your bravery will be remembered across all Realms.” Áila sees his lower lips slightly tremble. “There’s no need for you to fear me, I’m not the Sub-Zero you knew. You are safe, and I will try in all my power to keep you that way, and I will never, ever, hurt you.”

“Truly?” Áila rasps, barely audibly.

Bi-Han responds, "I give you my words.”

She doesn’t know who breaks first – is it him who pulls her close or is it her who falls to his lap? – but their bodies collide and he cradles her, surrounds her in his strong arms. She is holding onto his light blue gi, grounding herself to his promise. He is holding the back of her head, and yet for once, she does not tense, does not flinch.

There is no sound in the room but their shared, quiet cries.

#bi han #bi han x oc #bi han imagine #sub zero x oc #sub zero imagine #sub zero #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #fanfic #redarader

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inthehoneymoonwithconnorrk800 · 1 year

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MY DARKEST DESIRE (joffrey baratheon x dark! reader)

Joffrey Baratheon x yandere! Reader

2 of 3

TW: mentions of death and unhealthy behaviors.

Sorry if there are wording errors, I have translated it to google because English is not my first language.

You growled in frustration in the solitude of your room. It had been nearly two months since your last talk with Loras Tyrell and the chances of a public alliance with them had disappeared. Apparently, a wily Cersei Lannister noticed your interactions thanks to a traitorous prostitute of your father's and commented on your after-meal outings to Tywin Lannister, foolishly believing it to be a point in her favor.

The idiot ended up with an engagement to marry the uninterested Loras, an anxious Margaery and the death of Ros.

You swallowed quickly when you found out how she had died.

His cold words still echo in your head.

"That happens if you despise the Baelish."

As if you hadn't seen firsthand the beautiful, tragic body of your former ally, her frozen tears and expression of eternal horror. Vaguely, you stroked one of her red locks as she was taken away to be buried in a mass grave without any ceremony or anyone to mourn her. No, that's weakness. That happens to the weak ones.

The cunning ones always win.

You walked vaguely to untie the fancy hairstyle you wore today; it was better to concentrate on something else when those useless thoughts started. Noticing the yellow blanket adorning the wall, you thought of another element of the big plan.

Joffrey Baratheon, the bastard.

Growing up at court, you were introduced to him on his fifth name day. He was a wee lad who enjoyed beating other children with lower positions to complain about, throwing pieces of cake at his sister while she cried, and killing animals like birds with broken wings and baby rabbits with twigs. You came forward and recited the words your father had taught you. Joffrey gave you a bored look as you spoke and dragged you into his playground with the other children. You knew the rules, but watching him tear out that little red-haired boy's hair was enough for you. You stood up and knocked him down with a kick, he looked at you in surprise because no one laid a hand on him until now. Obviously, that would have given serious reprisals for your father and you, however, you lied saying it was the redhead himself and that Joffrey was confused because he hit his head, you did so well that they believed you. You were relieved until your progenitor told you how the poor boy was whipped and how his family was quietly removed from the court. You felt so bad that you told him, to your surprise, he was proud and even happy, he gave you a talk to better convince people and explained what to do if something similar happened with Joffrey.

You reviewed the events of this morning. From Cersei's hurried journey with her betrothed to Highgarden, Tyrion Lannister's appointment as Hand of the King by the Lannister lion himself, and Jaime Lannister's hasty wedding to Rosemund of Lannisport, you could rarely have a peaceful time when King Joffrey was around. His mother was gone, his father also to Casterly Rock, he was often controlled by his grandfather, and his only release was to torment the maids and his uncle Tyrion who rarely let himself be seen. Margaery told you of her fear that he would do you any harm, you replied that, despite being a maid, you were thorn-proof. Your relationship with her was going quite well: Olenna asked you about Joffrey's activities in her granddaughter's absence after finally convincing her of your loyalty; both women mentioned cautiously about a possible marriage with Willas, more adult and powerful than your former betrothed, but of a boring character according to your father's words, and questioned you about the personality of the second son, Tommen.

Everything seemed to be going well, but it was not. You knew what they were plotting and that annoyed you greatly, an assassination that would shake the house of the lion and strengthen the Tyrell power over the crown. That didn't bother you because it was to your advantage, however, you didn't want to see Joffrey being finished off by the Tyrells.

You wanted to kill King Joffrey with your own hands.

You let out a groan as you found yourself almost naked on your bed. The thought of Joffrey paralyzed on the floor brought another moan and the conviction to masturbate; imagining him with an expression of fear was enough to caress your clitoris; and the thought of his tears of horror and submission was enough to touch you harder.

You closed your eyes. Your hands going to his neck with no one around to stop you, him trying to push you away with his clumsy efforts, watching his neck redden, seeing drops of blood from the pressure exerted, unspoken words dominating his lips and finally his lifeless expression.

A moan of pleasure flooded your lips. But from afar it was not enough for tonight.

After your ninth orgasm, you thought vaguely about how his presence would be wrenched from you and how it would influence Baelish destiny. No, there was nothing you could do but obey and see how he would die for the relatives of your lever. Tiredness dominated your head, tucking you in with your blankets, there was only one coherent thought: Not obeying.

You watched the Iron Throne along with the others as King Joffrey displayed his cruelty. The Tyrells were visiting some chamber of a vassal house, loathsome enough to stray away for a few hours, while you stood near your father with the nobles gathered like shivering chickens in a henhouse, and both shared the same vision, but with different goals. : he sitting comfortably as king of the seven kingdoms and you, taking Joffrey by his cloak causing him wounds by the edge of the swords and dragging him like a dog with the sole purpose of seeing him suffocate by the pressure of his own cloak.

Both thoughts were not compatible and you knew that well.

The screams of pain did not distract you, but Tommen's gaze did, the poor boy was holding back tears from the monstrosities committed by his brother. He's too innocent for Westeros, too whiny to get used to violence when he's lived with Joffrey his whole life, and not at all cunning. Too weak.

Being with the Tyrells would do him good. Even if it's just a piece of the game.

You pursed your lip. You were not a player, that place is for your beloved father, you were just a valuable piece. That was good right? He has been for years and years, for your entire life. Why change? Father can be an excellent king; he just needs the necessary push. But the order of the pushes can change, right?

"I'm done for today." The king's proud voice brought you back to reality.

“My king, please…”

Seeing how the citizens were beaten calmed you down. Everything was running its course.

"Let's go, dear daughter." Your father pushed you away with his classic paternal man role, you smiled following his ruse.

"Stop there! Your king commands you."

They turned around confused.

“Lady Baelish, I have received word that you have cured my brother, Prince Tommen, of yellow fever with your healing knowledge along with the maester.” Joffrey's annoying voice grew closer; you could feel your father's machinations in his head. "Therefore, I invite you to hang out in the king's personal dining room, if I'm feeling generous I could offer you a medicine box for your woman skills."

Feeling the perfect opportunity to make your fantasies come true, the satisfaction of knowing the answer was greater.

"My beloved daughter accepts your offer, your grace."

"Well, it's a unique opportunity, she couldn't turn it down."

The blush on your cheeks only increased as did King Joffrey's shit-eating grin.

“I will show you my gratitude for all the goodwill you have had with me all this time…, your highness.”

The sinister shine of your eyes was not noticed by anyone.

@yandere-stan @yandere-daydreams @megsironthrone @letsasoiaftogether @missglaskin @witchthewriter @a-libra-writes @agent-whiskeys-sweetheart @ladywinterwitch @anxiousnerdwritings

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ursa-tan · 11 months

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Soft

Wally Darling x Reader (Platonic or Romantic)

Requested: No

To your surprise, Wally's hair isn't a solid mass of hair spray and bobby pins! Rather, its an intricately weaved together hair style that nearly falls apart when you run your hands through it. Though Wally doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.

Word count: 609 Reading time: ~2 mins

TW: None No descriptions of the reader's gender + they/them pronouns, but the reader is briefly mentioned to be wearing a dress

You sit on the blanket Julie has laid out, legs tucked under you with your dress' skirt pushed over your knees. It's a beautifully sunny day, just like every other day this week as been. Which is why Julie had decided that it was the opportune time to put together a picnic. Wally interrupts your light day dreaming when he walks over, sitting next to you with his legs crossed.

"Hello neighbour," he says, voice soft and monotone as always.

"Heya Wally, enjoying today?" You ask, glancing at him for a second before closing your eyes and letting yourself get lost in the feeling of the sun on your face.

"I am, it's wonderful. Are you?"

You hum out a response, shifting slightly to lay your legs in front of you. Leaning back on your hands becomes more comfortable than holding yourself up.

Suddenly, an unexpected weight is placed in your lap, gently laid across your thighs. You crack an eye open, having to readjust to the bright sunlight. When you can finally see properly again, you're met with the sight of Wally. His head in placed in your lap, eyes closed and signature smile on his face. His fingers are intertwined and hands laid on his stomach while his legs are straight out, relaxed and slightly parted.

"You comfortable there?" You chuckle lightly, placing a hand on Wally's chest and toying with the end of his silk ascot.

"Very, thank you neighbour." He doesn't bother opening his eyes to look at you - which is rather strange for Wally, but you brush it off as him being relaxed.

Slowly, you remove your hand from his chest and place it behind you, leaning back again. Although, from the way Wally opens his eyes and looks at you, you can tell he he wasn't particularly fond of your choice. But your other wrist hurts and you need to give it a break, so you choose instead to play with his hair. Or at least you attempt to.

Everyone in home knows Wally takes a lot of pride in his appearance - not in a vain way, he just likes to look good. And as a result of that, you expected his hair to be solid, held together by mass amounts of hair spray. What you don't expect in the slightest is how soft it is. Your fingers disappear easily into the blue pompadour, sinking into the soft, almost fluffy mass without a problem.

You expect to find a bobby pin in there somewhere, and while you do, it does take a moment. Completely lost in how soft his hair is, you don't realise that Wally's hair has begun to unravel. Gently, it begins to untwine, falling into your lap.

"Neighbour?" Wally opens his eyes again, looking up at you, "What are you doing?"

"Oh!" It's almost as if his words bring you back to reality, make you aware of what you're doing, "I'm so sorry Wally, I didn't mean to ruin your hair," You mumble, removing your hand from his hair.

However, your movement doesn't get far as the puppet in your lap reaches up to grab your hand in both of his. He guides it back to his head, placing it back in the same position it was in before you took it away.

"I can fix it later neighbour." Wally smiles up at you, letting his eyes fall shut again.

You chuckle lightly, threading your fingers into his hair again. Once again you lose yourself in the feeling of his hair. You twirl the loose curls around your fingers, watching them coil and then fall away from around your digits.

#fanfic #fanfiction #x reader #Wally Darling #welcome home arg #welcome home #wally welcome home #welcome home wally

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feverdreamsanddelusions · 4 months

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@whumperofworlds tumblr doesn't let me edit asks so here we are

kidnapping ask game

[tw guns, kidnapping, mention of execution, multiple whumpers, dehumanisation, probably very bad writing of fake politics sorry to everyone who understands real politics, but this popped into my head and i couldn't let it go. i know i could've done it with a king or a prince but i love the title chancellor too much so semi modern it is]

A kidnapping like this should've been entirely impossible. Infiltrating the security staff of a nation's leader as a couple of rebel dogs should've been something out of a fantasy book, yet here they were, pressing guns to Whumpee's back as they finished up their speech. The crowd was huge, and there was no way Whumpee was going to create a mass panic, and subequently, cause a lot of casualties.

They should've agreed to televise the stupid speech. Fucking dammit. If there were cameras, these hyenas would've felt way less comfortable.

One of the 'guards' leaned in and whispered, "Time to go, Chancellor. Clock's ticking, and we have places to be."

Whumpee swallowed and tried not to look too terrified. They were supposed to radiate strength and calm. Hell, they'd told these people last week that the rebellion had been dealt with. Of course, they knew it wasn't true, but to have made such an egregious mistake...

There was nothing to do at this point. They said their goodbyes and listened to the applause for a few seconds longer than necessary, trying to will the enemy away as though they were just part of a particularly bad nightmare. But the guns didn't disappear. In fact, the barrel of one was pressing into their kidney so insistently that they were sure it would bruise — not that that was their biggest worry.

Eventually, they stepped away from the stand and walked out, followed by the two guards who had threatened to shoot them in front of the nation's most important people and thousands of civilians. There were more guards joining them, and for the first time, Whumpee thought they should've taken the time to get to know their staff. They had no idea whether these people were also undercover rebels. They had no idea who was safe to ask for help. They had no idea what the consequences of such an ask would be, if directed at the wrong person. Or even if directed at an ally.

When they exited the building, Whumpee realised they were surrounded beyond anything they could've imagined. Their usual car was gone, the press was nowhere to be seen, and the guys in the back of the van that was awaiting them had everything from restraints to weapons.

None of their allies were going to rush to their aid. Their political opponents were likely going to use this to secure their power. And the rebels, well... Whumpee didn't want to find out how many days they'd get to live after these people figured out that an unpopular tyrant would gain them more sympathy being executed than held hostage.

#whump #whump drabble #guns #kidnapping #mention of execution #multiple whumpers #dehumanisation #res writes

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narutosfrog · 1 year

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"𝙇𝙪𝙘𝙮" — 𝙇𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙮'𝙨 𝙏𝙬𝙞𝙣 𝙎𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙓 𝙕𝙤𝙧𝙤, 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙀𝙀

cw: oc!protagonist, unhinged protagonist, Luffy's twin sister, mentions of death, grief, mentions of imprisonment, violence, mentions of Garp beating his grandkids' asses up, Zoro being a literal caveman as always, mentions of scars and serious injuries

TW: this chapter contains graphic description of murder, injuries, imprisonment, death and sexual content. MDNI

Spoiler alert: Dressrosa Arc

— TAG LIST: @cameshitpost @herbo-logia @irenered-20 @unstable06 @toraochi @cuddleymoonbear @boggiesho @nerdyphantomlady @hppy-fandom @damnednerd @doodlingpizza @megumiiichanie @rosiepetalss @yua-himari @lynnsemptymind @beclover @desiray562 @ahseyy @chanyeolscoon @touyasfatcock @lovingyeets @mugiwaraelly @joyfullyinharmony @umiexe @audreys-works @oddlyoptimisticalex @malayka3sano

If you wanna be in the taglist, please comment 🤍

I added a playlist for Zoro and one for my OC, so that you can kinda catch her vibe and enjoy the music as you listen!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE

HELLOOOOO I AM ALIVE. I haven't posted a chapter in forever, ikik. Maybe you guys don't even remember about this lmao. Still, I got in uni and did my mass media history final (kinda hope I [aced] it), so I'll write as much as I can before I have to start breaking my back over my cognitive psychology one.

I hope you enjoy this, sorry for the wait🫶🏼

DRESSROSA

When they set foot in the square, the group was left speechless. Mesmerized, even. The colours, the arches, the little tables outside the bars and restaurants, the stores, the smiling and laughing people. It all looked straight out of a fairytale.

Franky tilted his huge head. "This doesn't look like a place that needs saving," he mumbled. Zoro shrugged at his side. He wasn't exactly surprised to be looking at a perfect façade.

Meanwhile, Lucy was looking at the beautiful dancers in long dresses — like Sanji —, wondering whether holding a rose in their mouth could have been somewhat stingy, and only looked away when something stepped over her foot, making her hiss.

"Look where the fuck you're —." She stopped in her tracks, her mouth falling open. The wooden soldier stumbled on his own feet and turned to look at her in mechanic movements. But that wasn't the weirdest part. The weirdest part was the muffled 'sorry' that came out of its mouth.

Lucy clutched Luffy's arm, incapable of reacting. "Fuck my life," she declared, in the stiffest way possible, "that toy has an accent."

Luffy laughed excitedly, basically jumping on the spot and Franky put a hand on his shoulder to keep him down. "Look!" he exclaimed, pointing at other little toys walking around and talking, "There's more!"

"Well," said Zoro, more horrified than he liked to admit, "that is so fucking normal, right?"

Kin'emon did nothing but shake his head. "Let's move along, Zoro-dono" he muttered, "This place is evil."

Sanji kept staring at the dancers. "I disagree."

Franky looked around before clutching on the twins's shoulders. "Listen, you two. Doflamingo said he has something Luffy wants — he doesn't know about you, Lucy, so you'll have to be..."

"Socially inappropriate?" she snickered.

He raised his eyebrows in an unimpressed look, even as he was trying to hold back a laugh. "The opposite, today," he kept going, "Discreet. Just discreet. He resigned but if the Marines get involved, you'll be in danger as well." Then he shook Luffy who appeared not to be listening, as always. "As for you, don't do anything stupid. Shock factor, remember? We can't be discovered until it's time."

The twins stared at him, silent.

The vein on Franky's forehead popped out. "Understood?" he stressed.

"Yeah, yeah," they said in unison.

He gritted his teeth. "Super. Super fucking babysitting."

Lucy turned around. Something wasn't right. "Where's Zoro?" she asked, "And Sanji? And Kin'emon?"

Franky frankly wanted to disappear right until he spotted Kin'emon running. "There" he exclaimed, swarmed in relief, "Let's follow him — discreetly."

"Sorry to break your bubble, Franky, but you're anything but discreet," giggled Luffy. Lucy covered her mouth to keep herself from snorting as she affectionately took the cyborg's arm. Secretly and very deep down, Franky was happy to be the goddamned babysitter.

"Toys here walk around like people" he scoffed, "No one's looking at me." Given the amount of time he spent on his new gear, it did bother him a significant bit.

They found one of the three missing pieces after five minutes. Kin'emon was waiting for them at the bottom of a dark stair, tapping his foot nervously. Lucy thought that being a samurai was probably quite the definition of a stressful job — especially with the whole thing of "samurais are never hungry" he was going on about on Punk Hazard. The whole time she was on the Sunny, she kept feeding him and Momonosuke the sweets and snacks Sanji made for her.

"Oi, Kin'emon," Luffy called, "Where are the others?"

"Zoro-dono got away and Sanji-dono followed him so he wouldn't get lost by himself and I followed them both so that we would know where they were and I —." Kin'emon took a deep breath, completely out of oxygen. "As I was saying, I wanted to warn you but the cook is really fast and I didn't want to lose his sight."

"Breathe, my guy" chuckled Lucy with a shake of her head, "So, where are Zoro and the pretty one?"

Both Luffy and Franky shot her an incredulous look. They found themselves wondering whether Lucy knew how to strike the swordsman nerves or if she just liked to be a little mean.

"In the pub, back there. Zoro-dono insisted we go in when we found him. Sanji-dono is inside with him."

Franky sighed. "It's not the time for a drink." But they all went in anyway. If Sanji had followed Zoro without at least trying to kick his head away, then there was probably a decent reason behind all of that.

As soon as they walked in, the three spotted Zoro and Sanji sat at a table, sunglasses and fake beard fixed almost religiously on their face. Weirdly enough, they weren't fighting. They sat at the table with them and Franky decided they didn't need scolding for the moment. Lucy took a seat between the swordsman and Luffy, pretending not to notice when Zoro scanned her whole body behind the sunglasses.

"So, why are we here?" Luffy asked.

"The shitty mosshead felt something, he said" Sanji explained, a critical tone in his voice, "About the blind guy."

"I didn't know you liked older men, Zoro," Lucy teased, staring straight ahead.

"Shut up, brat" he seethed, "I know what I felt — that guy has... something."

"No, he's right," said Luffy, almost casually, "I just don't understand why the sight doesn't match."

The blind man, that was now being fooled by some pirates at the roulette wheel, had sent a rush down Zoro's spine when he first saw him. Yet, he didn't seem capable of looking after himself, let alone powerful. He just couldn't understand why he was pretending to be weak.

Meanwhile, Luffy was looking over at the scene, trying to keep his cool. And the best way to do that was talking to his sister. He grabbed her hand, popping her knuckles just like he used to do when they were kids.

"Did you ever see Dadan again? After you left, I mean."

Lucy subconsciously smiled at the thought. "Yeah, I did — Garp brought me to visit her a little after you left" she murmured, "Then I visited her on my own after... you know, after everything happened."

Luffy's grip tightened. "Is she okay?" he mumbled. He missed Dadan. She wasn't always nice and patient but, to be fair, he and his siblings were always difficult kids. And, no matter what, she always took care of them. Dadan was their mother.

Lucy's cleared her throat. She didn't want to think about the way they crumbled in each other's arms, mourning Ace and a life that was long lost. She forced out a smile and hoped that the tricks of time would've prevented Luffy from noticing. "It's Dadan" she chuckled, "She's tough, you know that."

Luffy shot her a neutral look. The tricks of time couldn't possibly work with him. Not when it came to his twin sister. He got up from his chair and ruffled her hair, then stared straight ahead, at the blind man. "I'm going to do something about it."

So, Zoro watched Luffy intervene, incapable as he was of minding his own business as always, and the blind man proved himself to be way stronger than everyone thought him to be by unleashing a crushing force that sent the other pirates plummeting into a hole.

Yet, Zoro didn't quite care. While Luffy insisted to know the man's name, Zoro could only look at the curious expression on Lucy's face, as her previous words rang through his head."You're gonna get attached," she had told him. And he feared that, oh so much. He couldn't help but listening to her and Luffy's conversation about that woman, Dadan. He knew about her already but he listened anyway. He was already painfully aware of his own restlessness in knowing her.

And then he snapped back to reality once he turned to look for his sword. "What. The. Fuck."

Lucy furrowed her eyebrows. "Your sword is running away."

"It's the fairies," a customer casually said, "you better catch that sword before you never see it again."

And Zoro began to run.

"Oi, mosshead!" Sanji shouted, "I told you, you can't run around by yourself."

"Why not?" asked Lucy, an amused tone in her voice.

Franky groaned, ready to follow. "He'll get lost."

Lucy's eyes lit up maliciously. "That won't be an issue" she beamed, "I'm going with him."

Luffy tilted his head. He wasn't sure whether they were finally getting along or his sister was out for revenge. The difference was always ambiguous on her part. "Alright" he said, "Be careful."

"Yes, Mister Captain. Whatever you say is law. Will do. Yessir." Luffy rolled his eyes, yet not being able of holding back a chuckle and Lucy gave him a thumbs up. Then, she planted a big kiss on his cheek, right before slapping the back of his head and running away between snickers. "Stupid," he yelled after her, almost wholeheartedly.

Lucy caught up with Zoro quicker than she had imagined. He was on the roof, being thrown around — apparently, by nothing. "Well, isn't this interesting?"

"Fucking quit it!" he was screaming, "What the — give Shisui back or I swear." Before he could finish, he was thrown off the roof, falling helplessly to the ground. At least, that was what was going to happen if Lucy hadn't used her power. A haze had formed under Zoro's suspended body, almost like a turbine. His eye widened, looking for her only to spot her on the same roof he fell from, Shisui in one hand and the little creature in the other. She looked immaterial. Mystical. Half tempested wind, half woman.

"Your powers..." he murmured.

"Yeah," she cut short, a sly smile on her lips, "The wind-wind fruit — everything is really interesting. Are you alright?"

Zoro looked away. "Tsk. I'm fine. Put me down."

She rolled her eyes, quite literally evaporating whatever was holding him up. "Your manners are terrible."

Zoro landed on his feet and gave her a critical look with his sane eye. "Give me a break, woman."

She tilted her head, quickly disappearing into a turbine and reappearing in front of Zoro, her power still keeping the little fairy still and silent. It was almost like she was surrounded by a wind storm. "You could at least thank me, you know that?"

For some reason, in her voice, Zoro recognized a threat. "Thank you" he said, as neutrally as possible, "Happy?"

She shrugged. "No. Now let's question this little urchin."

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"He kept tabs on us the whole time" she seethed, "It was all a fucking trick."

Zoro clenched his jaw, peeking at the vast group of Tontattas that surrounded them. He was thankful they were too busy talking to Franky and Usopp about their plan to take down the factory. He needed to calm down and take matters in his own hands. "You heard what Franky said — Luffy is fighting in the pit."

Lucy's eyes grew dark. "Yes. For our brother's fruit. It's kind of ironic that he's fighting for it under my name."

Her tone was anything but ironic. Murderous, perhaps. Ironic was far from it. "I say we go and help him from outside" said Zoro, calmly enough, "If they're keeping tabs on him, then they know about his identity, no matter what the public of the pit calls him."

Lucy nodded slowly and stared straight into his eye. This time, Zoro could sense panic. "They can't hurt him."

"Luffy's strong" he muttered after a while, "He'd be offended, the way you worry about him."

She took a deep breath and did something unexpected, something so insignificant Zoro felt ridiculous noticing. Her knee touched his. It did not brush against it, no. It touched it and stayed there. She was looking for contact, again. It almost bothered him. Almost. Yet, it was a chance. The perfect opening for a deadly strike. The perfect chance to bathe a blade in blood. Just like in battle.

"The last time I was told to trust a brother's strength," she murmured, "I cried on his dead body."

Zoro tilted his head. He realised: she was right after all. In her mind, Luffy was in deadly danger. She wasn't so far from the truth. Before he could stop himself, Zoro stroke her cheek. Lucy froze on the spot, her body stiffening for a moment, only to relax slowly as she gazed at his face. "You're a challenging person," she said.

The swordsman lightly scoffed. His hand made way on the back of her neck, only to sway back on her cheek and finally retreat, back down at his own side. "This is the second time you tell me."

Lucy's lips formed a strange smile. "It's true — you care and then you don't. You are rude and unpleasant and then you aren't. You are a lot of things at the same time."

Zoro blinked. He felt... seen. And it was almost a bad thing. Almost. "You speak as if you're easy to be around."

"Are you calling me difficult?" she casually asked.

Yet, Zoro knew she wasn't casual about it. "Yes" he said, "But it's not really negative, if you go beneath the surface."

This time, it was Lucy who initiated contact. She took his hand in hers, her fingertips brushing on the back of it, tracing the scars and the lines of his palm. Zoro kept himself from clenching his fist closed. The pleasure of her touch made him want to pull his hand back. Almost unbearable like holding his palm above a flame. Almost.

"And what's beneath the surface?"

"I still don't know. I guess you aren't the only one who's gon' get to know me."

Her eyes lit up again. Zoro couldn't say in what way. "It appears I'm closer to the aim of my projects."

"Don't think me easy, doll" he scoffed, his hand grabbing hers in a grip, "You're not even close."

She narrowed her eyes. Again, Zoro couldn't say. "Well," she spelled slowly, "we'll see about that." Then, she got up harshly. "Let's go, I'm sick and tired of waiting."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ

Zoro wasn't used to be deconcentrated during battle. It was not a feeling he knew. But, as he was fighting, he kept thinking, "Just once. I'll look just once". And he allowed himself to look — to look at her. He found excuses for himself, as he watched her disappear in turbines of wind and reappearing at her enemies' backs, slaying them with one swift of her swords. He told himself that looking wasn't a big deal, since the enemies weren't that strong. So, he allowed himself another glance, as she pushed back with the skill of her swords alone. He thought her style was fascinating. Alluring. Unethical. Deprived of honour yet fierce. He found himself staring at the way she would cut them behind the knee and watch them fall, helpless, right before finishing them off.

When the battle was over, and they were only left waiting, hidden in dark alley, for Luffy to find a way out after winning the fruit, Zoro approached her. Lucy was cleaning the swords on the ripped shirt of one of her victims, after taking care of her own face with the hem of it.

"A bit unfair to finish someone like that" he said in the most neutral way possible, "Is that the Red's teaching?"

Lucy tilted her head, putting her swords back on her hips. "Nobody smart plays fair" she calmly retorted, "And that's not Shanks's teaching — it's mine."

Zoro didn't have the chance to answer. A noise distracted his thoughts, distinctive enough to be terrible. In a matter of seconds, the streets were swamped by Marines, prepared to arrest whatever criminal had participated in the fighting pit. Instinctively, he grabbed Lucy and pulled her close to his chest, hiding further in the darkness. "Fuck," he whispered.

Lucy initially stiffened, pressing herself against hist chest, as her vigil eyes stared at the little part of the crowd she could see. "Yeah" she murmured, "Fuck."

"What do we do?" seethed Kin'emon. Zoro and Lucy turned to look at him. Pressed against each other, they had almost forgotten he was there. "I could go and try to grab Luffy-dono's attention."

"No" Lucy quickly said, "A samurai doesn't go unnoticed."

Zoro gritted his teeth. "I'll go."

Lucy grabbed his wrist. "Are you fucking serious? You're world-known and that fake beard was ridiculous — now you don't even have it anymore."

He remained silent for a moment, staring in her eyes. Big and dark and stubborn. "So, you propose I let you go," he concluded.

She lifted her chin. "It's the only way. They don't know how much I've changed, the last they've seen of me is a picture from two years ago and my face was covered in blood." Then, she unsheathed her swords to place them in Zoro's hands and he lost his mind.

"You are not going unarmed" he seethed, pushing her back against the wall, "I can't defend you, once you go past that corner."

"I don't need defending" she spat, "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you."

"I am warning you, brat —."

"You're warning me? Then, fuck me. Tie me down and have it your way, I dare you prove you're capable of it!"

They stared each other down, bound to declare war and ready to swell with pride after the other abandons the battlefield first. But none of them did.

"I'm the only one who can do this" she uttered, "They might have not put seastone in the walls."

Zoro tilted his head. "What if they did?"

Lucy's lips formed that same smile it was so hard to decipher. "Then, I guess I've ran out of luck." And, with that, she dissolved into wind between his arms.

Lucy hadn't run out of luck. She flew against the wall, ready to become material again and fall to her death, or worse, to a pack of Marines. Yet, she found herself in the Colosseum, sighing of relief. Luckily enough, she spotted the weird guy with green hair they had seen before.

"You!" she called, "Bert. Bort. Uh — fuck. Barto.... Bartholomew?"

She sucked with names. Something her and Luffy had in common.

The guy pointed at himself, almost looking flustered, and she nodded. He had actually yelled at her before she told him she was part of Luffy's crew. She couldn't exactly scream out she was his damned twin sister. But this Bartholomew seemed to be somewhat of a fan and that was good for her purposes.

"Miss Lucy?" he asked. He looked on the verge of happy tears. Lucy kept herself from groaning.

"Yep, right. Any idea where Luffy is?"

And, blabbering a little too many words — majority of which sprinkled with nonsense — he brought her to him. The only intelligible thing she had caught was that he would win the Flare-Flare Fruit and give it to Luffy. Lucy showed him a grateful smile. Even if Bartholomew hadn't kept his promise, she would've ripped the fruit from his stomach.

She finally got to the room where Luffy was and sighed. He was fighting with some blonde guy with a weird-looking hat — typical. "Luffy" she called him, "We need to go."

He quickly turned to look at her and gestured with his hands. If the meaning was the same to when they were children, it was definitely something along the lines of "wait until I fix this piece of shit".

"Oh, fucking hurry!" she yelled, "I swear, five minutes — anything more and I'll personally start kicking you." Lucy groaned and the blonde guy smiled excitedly at her. Just to be safe, she gave him the finger.

"Listen," Luffy kept going, already cracking his knuckles, "The Flare-Flare fruit is a keepsake from Ace. If you want it, you're my enemy. Plus, don't call me Luffy — can't you see this fucking beard? I'm Lucy. Lu. See."

The actual Lucy, right behind him, rolled her eyes and the stranger chuckled. "You think I can't tell my brother's face just because he's in disguise?" he murmured.

The twins tilted their heads. "Brother?" they repeated in unison.

Luffy wrinkled his nose. "The only people who can call me brother are this one right here, Ace and the guy who died much earlier."

And they fell silent. They told themselves their own eyes lied to them. They told themselves they were hallucinating, because it just couldn't be. The blonde curls and those big, warm eyes, they were just a coincidence. His smile, surrounded by welcoming dimples, was witchery. That realisation, just a mere illusion. Lucy clutched her twin's arm. Luffy felt like he was being punched in the stomach. "The guy who... who died..."

Their eyes filled with tears, and they stumbled back, almost ending up on the floor, babbling incoherently. "I don't believe you," croaked Lucy between sobs.

Sabo smiled softly at his two younger siblings, taking a step closer. "We stole a bottle of sake from Dadan and made a toast," he began but he couldn't finish as Luffy shot his elongated arms forward to surround him, dragging Lucy right in the middle of their embrace.

Lucy briefly broke the hug to slap him, hugging him again immediately after. "Where—," she sobbed, "Where the fuck have you been?" Sabo was warm. Warm and alive and grown and tall and breathing.

"I thought you were dead—," cried Luffy, who had basically climbed Sabo all the way to his neck. He couldn't help but think about the times they would bother him during the night as children, maybe because they were actually too restless to sleep or because he was patient enough to pay them attention at a late hour. When they thought he died, that anchor of safety and warmth had become Ace, who before that time had been tougher and sterner. But Ace was gone, and Sabo was back. The world really was cruel in its own way.

Sabo exhaled a laugh of relief, not even caring about Luffy's snot and tears falling on his face or about Lucy's purposefully-weak-slaps on his tear-stained shirt. He held them tight, finally ending up on the floor, all crouched together in an endless hug. "Thank you," he whispered, "thank you for being still here." And he fell silent, at peace. In his mind, he spoke to Ace.

You don't have to worry anymore, he thought through tears, I got them, Ace. I got them.

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HELLO, THE CHAPTER IS OVER! It's 02:18 am here in Italy and I've just cried about Sabo (again). I'm sorry again for the wait, I just really had a lot on my plate :(

Anyways, I really hope you liked this chapter lmao :'). There'll be more on the way with a particular focus on the events of Marineford in Lucy's POV and, ofc, more romance between her and Zoro. I wanted this chapter to be more about Lucy as a character with layers and how she relates to Zoro in a non-romantic context. I hope you enjoyed it! Lemme know what you think! Ily

#Spotify #one piece zoro #zoro x oc #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #one piece #one piece fanfiction #monkey d. luffy #luffy #one piece luffy #roronoa zoro smut #zoro smut #op zoro #zoro fanfic #one piece smut

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liaromancewriter · 2 years

Text

Reflections and Renewals

Premise: Cassie’s temper flares up as the first anniversary of the poison attack approaches, but she soon learns the value of second chances.

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine); Feat. Max Valentine, Sienna Trinh, Rafael Aveiro, Naveen Banerji Rating/Category: Teen. Angsty Fluff. Format: Prose + Text & Pic Fic Words: 2,495 TW: Mentions minor character deaths in the past, PTSD, dealing with grief

A/N: In Lia Land, Cassie & Max’s birthday is on October 5 and the poison attack happens in 3rd week of October. This fic is set on the first anniversary and shortly after the first part of Two Birthdays.

Submission for @choicesflashfics Prompt 2 “Even when you’re next to me, it feels like you’re miles away.” For @choicesmonthlychallenge Falltober prompts “leaves” and “candles” and @choicesficwriterscreations Naughty or Nice event "You ordered takeout from my favorite restaurant?" "You were having a bad day." (Nice prompt)

Finally, I’m using prompt number 5 from @creativepromptsforwriting Angsty Fighting prompts and tagging for reblog to @creativepromptfills. All prompts in bold.

Part 1: The Shadows

Cassie Valentine could feel her head pounding and her heart rate accelerating the closer she got to Edenbrook. It was like a monster waiting in the shadows to burst out and devour its victim.

She walked around to the staff entrance, took the elevator to her floor, and swiped the access card to enter the locker room. Her breathing was ragged, and she forced herself to even it out.

Cassie thought she’d come a long way from the survivor’s guilt she’d felt last year. Therapy helped her overcome the trauma, but if she was honest, the anger never entirely disappeared. This week had been the worst, with the anniversary of the poison attack coming up.

She’d heard her friends whispering and knew they were worried about her. Her shouting match with Jackie over dirty dishes left in the sink hadn’t been her finest moment. Neither had the spiteful words she’d exchanged with Elijah over some stupid video game.

Cassie knew she was being a bitch as it happened, but she couldn’t stop herself. Even Sienna had glanced at her with something resembling shock. Cassie couldn’t stand it anymore. She had packed up an overnight bag and went to spend the night at Ethan’s.

“Did you get a bug bite?”

Sienna’s voice and light tap on the shoulder broke through her thoughts. Cassie realized she’d been standing in front of her open locker, staring unseeing inside as she scratched at her arms. The skin on her forearm was turning red, the whiteness of the scratches from her nails standing out.

“Cassie, are you alright?” Sienna asked, concerned.

“I’m fine,” Cassie told her, rolling her sleeves down and shrugging on her white coat. “Really, Si.” She insisted when Sienna didn’t look convinced.

“I don’t know, Cassie.” Sienna began slowly, frowning slightly. “Even when you’re next to me, it feels like you’re miles away.”

Cassie tamped down her frustration. “Just leave it, please.” She slammed her locker shut and marched out the door to start her shift.

She had to remind herself that she wasn’t the only one affected last year. Sienna had lost someone who could’ve been the love of her life. Bobby would never see his children graduate college. Cassie had felt Rafael’s life practically slip through her fingers.

While she had physically recovered faster, it had taken Raf months of physical therapy just to walk without a cane. He would never be that paramedic who rushed into a collapsing tunnel to rescue others or ran into a burning building to save a pregnant woman.

If it hadn’t been for the teams from Mass Kenmore and Edenbrook working together, neither of them would be here today. She needed to remember that and be grateful for the second chance she’d been given.

But a small voice, the one that had almost convinced her to give up last year, resurfaced. And she could feel herself falling into an abyss of despair.

The Diagnostics Team didn’t have a case today, so Cassie picked up her assigned patients from Ines, responding to her cheeriness with monosyllabic answers.

She went about her work, feeling detached, unable to find her characteristic optimism. Usually, she loved talking to patients and learning about their lives. Today, she just wanted to get it over with.

It wasn’t until she stopped at the nurses’ station to check on lab results that she completely lost it. The path lab had messed up not one but two blood samples and wanted new ones. Both from patients that had given her grief about needles.

“Great. Really great, this is just perfect.”

She ranted as she pushed the chair back, slamming into patient files on the counter behind her and sending folders flying everywhere. She tossed aside the tablet in her hand, not noticing how it flew across the counter before crashing to the floor with a loud crack.

“Dr. Valentine!” Dr. Banerji’s stern voice stopped her.

Cassie looked up to see Naveen standing a few feet away, hands on his hips, scowling at her. She had never seen Naveen angry before. He looked so severe that Cassie felt herself becoming small under his harsh stare.

It wasn’t just him. The nurses, Maureen and Sarah, gawked at her. One of the orderlies nodded nervously before quickly disappearing down the hallway as if he was next on her hit list.

“My office. Now.” Naveen barked, striding toward the elevator banks, not waiting to see if she had obeyed.

Cassie hurried after him. Only a fool would ignore a direct order from the Chief of Medicine. By the time Cassie took her seat across from his desk, she had calmed down enough to realize what a colossal spectacle she’d just made of herself.

“I know this is a difficult time for you, Dr. Valentine,” Naveen said, staring at her with none of the softness she’d come to know. “However, that is no excuse for the bad behavior I just witnessed. It will not be tolerated. From anyone.”

He held up a hand when Cassie opened her mouth. “Take one hour to bring yourself under control. Finish the rest of your shift without incident, and we’ll say no more of this. But if I hear you’ve acted out again, you’ll be suspended without pay for three days. A disciplinary notation will be made on your file. Is that clear?”

Cassie nodded, too ashamed to say anything. When Naveen dismissed her, she scurried out of his office and took the elevator down to the cafeteria. She eased into an empty booth on the far side and curled up in the corner, hidden from sight.

Tears fell unheeded as the tightness in her chest choked her. Her mind was lost in a haze of memories. Bobby’s heart gave out so instantly that they never had a chance to save him. Danny slid to the floor, his hand clutching his throat as he tried to breathe. Her upturned knees hid her face, and she let grief take her.

Part 2: The Silver Lining

Half an hour later, a comforting hand fell on her shoulder. Cassie looked up to see Rafael standing above her, his eyes soft with understanding. She moved over, and he slid into the booth beside her, wrapping his arms around her. They hugged each other, both knowing what the other needed.

They slowly drifted apart. Cassie took the napkin he handed her to blot her eyes dry. “Thanks.”

“I’ve been remembering that night, too,” Rafael confessed softly. “But I’ve realized something which helped me finally feel at peace.”

“What was it?” Cassie asked when he didn’t continue.

She watched him look away, and then he sighed deeply before turning to face her.

“Life is a precious gift. You and I, we’re the lucky ones. We got a second lease on life, and now we need to make it count,” he paused to place his hand atop hers on the table.

“The past can’t be changed, Cassie, but the future can,” he continued, peering intently. “We need to keep our eyes forward and do everything Bobby and Danny will never get a chance to do. That’s what second chances are for, not for dwelling on what was.”

Cassie thought about Rafael’s words for the rest of her shift and found herself searching for peace. She didn’t find it, but she found her friends and made amends, taking heart when Jackie’s customary snark returned full force. Elijah squeezed her hand to say all was forgiven, while Sienna beamed with pleasure at the single yellow rose Cassie procured.

She apologized to Maureen and Sarah and tracked down the orderly to assure him she wasn’t a serial killer. By the time Cassie had finished her apology tour, it was two hours past her shift, and Ethan had already left. He’d texted to say he’d meet her back at his place.

Cassie took the T, wanting to lose her poor mood in the relative anonymity of public transit. When her phone signaled a text, she smiled at the name that flashed across her screen.

Cassie got off at the station near Ethan’s apartment building, huddled inside her coat as a cold breeze blew off the bay, and kept walking. She wondered why the lights were on low when she entered his apartment. Was he already asleep?

Hanging her coat in the hallway closet, she slipped off her shoes and called Ethan’s name.

“In here,” she heard him say.

She entered the living room to find Ethan standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Flickering candles lined the kitchen counter, coffee table, and mantel above the roaring fireplace.

Cassie’s nose twitched in appreciation at the scent of food, and her stomach grumbled. She detected the aroma of saffron and spices, her lips curving upward in recognition.

“You ordered takeout from my favorite restaurant?”

She stared at the selection of tapas on the kitchen island and a platter of seafood paella resting in the middle.

Ethan reached for her hand, entwining their fingers before pulling her into his embrace.

“You were having a bad day,” he said simply, brushing a hand down her hair.

Cassie breathed in his scent, a heady mix of bergamot, sandalwood, and something uniquely Ethan.

His hands locked on her lower back when she leaned back, her hands resting on his forearms. She gazed into his eyes and saw understanding and love. Stretching up on her toes, she lightly brushed her lips across his mouth.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I really needed this tonight.”

“You’re welcome.” He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose and, finally, her mouth, deepening the kiss when she parted her lips before letting go. “Now, pull up a seat and let’s dig in before the food gets cold.”

She took a sip of the Shiraz he poured and bit into a thin slice of toast with crushed tomatoes, garlic and olive oil. Cassie munched on her tapas, smiling inside at Ethan making desultory small talk, something he avoided at all costs in the typical scheme of things.

They kept the conversation light for the rest of the evening, polishing off the spicy paella and Crema Catalana that followed for dessert. Cassie was stuffed and pleasantly drowsy when he joined her on the couch after putting the kitchen to rights.

She leaned back against him, loving the solidness of his chest and the comfort of his arms around her. They watched the flames in the fireplace, and she found her eyes drifting close when he whispered in her ear.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Cassie. But I’m here in case you change your mind. You’re not alone.”

Part 3: The Renewal

A few days later, Cassie laid flowers on Danny’s grave, the cheerful dahlias adding a pop of color to an otherwise dreary day. Fall had New England in its grip, with gray clouds and leaves turning orange before falling to the ground, leaving branches bare in their wake.

Sienna crouched down, adjusting the flowers and tokens left by other mourners. She sat back on her heels, took daisies out of the bouquet and planted them one by one along the headstone, their white petals bright against the dark stone.

“Danny loved daisies and sunflowers,” she said, her voice watery as she sniffed back tears. “He always said they were happy flowers and made him smile.”

Cassie placed one hand on Sienna’s shoulder and squeezed lightly in comfort.

Sienna briefly placed her hand on Cassie’s and then returned to her task. “Did I ever tell you how we met?”

“No,” said Cassie. “I assumed it was at the nurses' station.”

Sienna glanced over her shoulder and grinned. “Nope. He rescued me on the T my first day at work.” She turned back to check her arrangement, making slight adjustments.

“He must have seen the ID badge clipped to my bag, or maybe it was the wide-eyed look of panic on my face,” she giggled. “I had forgotten which stop was Edenbrook’s. He stood up as the train approached the station and then walked over and said if I was going to Edenbrook, this was my stop. We walked over from the station together and were fast friends by the time I swiped in.”

Lost in memories, Sienna bowed her head. Cassie could see teardrops tracking down her cheeks. She joined her on the ground and hugged her friend from behind, letting her grieve for what could never be.

“You know Danny wouldn’t want you to grieve forever, right?” Cassie said, hesitant at first but finding her resolve when Sienna turned to face her.

Her eyes held traces of tears, but it wasn’t grief on her face; it was serenity. “I’m not grieving for Danny, Cassie. He believed his purpose was to help others find solace. I will always miss him, but I know he wants us to live our best lives.”

Cassie remembered Raf’s words and felt shame wash over her. “I’ve been so angry these past few weeks, Si. I kept seeing myself as a victim again. But you and Raf reminded me that I am alive and have people who love me. I can’t let this one incident define my life. I need to move forward. We both do.”

Cassie stood up and held out her hand to help Sienna up.

“It’s time to move on, Si,” she said. “You told me months ago you were ready to start dating, but you haven’t been out with anyone since Wayne. These days, you’re more sad than happy, especially when you think no one is looking.”

Sienna looked past Cassie’s shoulder, unable to share what was in her heart. Lately, she’d come to realize how wrong she’d been, pushing away the one person who’d made her feel true happiness. But she couldn’t tell Cassie any of it.

“The boards are coming up,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve just been stressed about them and everything being thrown at us this year.”

She kept her gaze steady and her expression unfazed as Cassie watched her, a considering look on her face. Sienna knew her friend was too good at reading people. It must have worked because Cassie didn’t push.

“It really is beautiful here, isn’t it?” Cassie said, craning her head to take in the peaceful resting place.

“When spring comes, and the leaves bloom, it’ll be even more so,” nodded Sienna. They started walking back to where they’d left Jackie’s car. “Renewal is as much a part of life as leaves falling. You can’t have one without the other.”

Cassie stopped as they reached the car and turned to face Sienna.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s making you sad, Sienna. But I’m here for you. You’re not alone.”

Sienna smiled and thought how lucky she was to have met not one but two people who cared so much for her. And if Cassie could find a way to move forward, so could she.

One week later...

(Between Max & Ethan)

Part 4: Moving Forward

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

All Fics & Edits: @potionsprefect @trappedinfanfiction @bex-la-get @mysticalgalaxysstuff @genevievemd @choicesaddict5 @jerzwriter @vi-writes-stuff @coffeeheartaddict2 @quixoticdreamer16 @zahrachoices @lucy-268 @a-crepusculo @jamespotterthefirst @headoverheelsforramsey @takemyopenheart @queencarb @crazy-loca-blog @peonierose @cariantha @annfg8 @openheartforeverinmyheart @bluebelle08 @rookiemartin @natureblooms24 @doriopenheart

Ethan & Cassie only: @custaroonie @lady-calypso

@openheartfanfics

#ethan ramsey #open heart #open heart choices #ethan ramsey x mc #open heart fanfics #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfics #choices fic writers creations #cfwc naughty or nice #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine #playchoices fanfiction #short story

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shadows-over-sunn · 1 year

Text

📹 *breathless* continued, 10:28-

📼 I WAS RIGHT! MURDER!

📹shut up, scream when we get to my house. My parents aren't home so you won't wake anyone!

*door slam*

📹📼: ahhhhh!

📼: oh my God. That was a flipping mass gra-

📹: I know oh my God TOBI! TOBI! CMERE BOY! *running sounds* *off sound* oh my sweet baby youre okay youre not torn to bits

📼 I'm gonna let him hug his dog in peace. Oh shit...I can hardly breathe right now. Recording end ummm shit 10:37 pm

#dog disappearances #tw dog death mention #tw mass grave mention

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daily-dose-of-writing · 2 years

Note

For your 1-year anniversary, how about a fill of this prompt:

You gain the power to travel to fictional worlds, so you immediately decide to travel into your favourite novel, only to then find out that you’re the inter-dimensional evil they’ve been foreshadowing for the past 3 books

Only if you want to ofc, no pressure, please and thank you! 💖

First of all, I’m so sorry I got really carried away with this and it’s about three times longer than I initially intended, so I’m literally going to have to post it in three bits because it’s too long for one post, and I also got a little bit carried away with the plot of the favourite novel. Secondly, I hope you like it!!

[tw: a bit of violence and blood mentioned, childhood trauma and what I guess is very mild psychological horror]

———

She never meant to end up there, that much is true, but she most definitely wanted to. Reading has and always will be a form of escapism; therefore it should not be a surprise that everyone who does it may wish to disappear into the world inside those pages. This is, of course, just a fantasy. Wishing to be in a world born from someone else’s imagination is nothing more than a fun thought experiment; something to waste time while you’re riding the bus. It has never been an achievable feat. That is, until a few months ago.

The pages of her book fluttered half-heartedly as another train rushed past. Her hair was not so well secured, so it swam irritatingly in front of her eyes, forcing her to turn her attention away from the words on the page in order to swipe it away. She scowled.

It was not as though she were at a particularly interesting point in the book yet, but the interruption was still as unwanted as they often are. She returned her gaze to where her thumb held the book open at the spine. It was still in the developing portion; none of the major action had occurred yet, but something was brewing. Something had been brewing for a while, by then.

The book was the fourth and final instalment in a series that she had practically gobbled up. It was a wonderful story. The books revolved around five people who had all been the heroes of their own stories long ago, but had long since been forgotten as all but children's bedtime stories. They were ageing and greying and fiercely protective of each other and their thankless world who did not notice their help.

Each enemy they had faced thus far had known a frankly concerning amount about each of them, yet had refused to reveal their source. The similar information and attitude had led the group to theorise that they were all from a single group or organisation hell bent on what, they weren’t quite sure. It unnerved them greatly.

Despite everything, they concluded their adventures successfully. Although, there was a refreshing sense of realism to the story; as you could easily sense how much each fight was grating on them. They were being consumed by their own narrative.

They had surpassed the horizon of their own stories many years ago and were becoming nothing but hollow shells and reanimated corpses, dragged through a story they had never meant to inhabit. The desperation of the cause, of being meaningful, was all-consuming and slowly devouring them. Their paranoia — of a greater enemy that they knew only the outline of; from shambled, half-false scraps of information and near-forgotten folk tales of shadow people in shadow worlds — was driving them insane. Weariness was a constant companion to their souls.

Another train rushed past in a flurry.

She continued to read. One of the characters was becoming aware that there was something in the dark and she was almost certain it was observing her. Yes, she thought, something is most definitely brewing.

At last, her own train arrived and she stood from her seat on one of the platform benches. A crowd was massing around each of the doors to what she could see were also rather full carriages. It was going to be a long day.

She opened her bag and began putting away the book when she overheard someone pleading to get onto the train. She looked up to see a rather ramshackle-looking man half off the platform, trying to get into the already packed carriage.

Distantly she heard one of the accusing voices within the train call the man “grimy,” and frowned. He was obviously desperate to get onto the train; they didn’t have to be cruel about it.

At last, someone gave a great shove and the man went tumbling backwards. Instinctively, she lurched forward to stop him from smashing into the concrete, catching him just before he hit the floor. The doors of the train snapped shut and a moment later it sped off into the dark, leaving her attempting to haul the man onto his feet.

“Sorry about that,” she said, still in shock of the other passengers, “I can’t believe they did that. I — I should report them, they assaulted—”

“Thank you,” the man proclaimed sincerely, breaking her rambling train of thought, “However can I repay you?”

“Oh, uh,” she scrambled for a reply. In her peripheral vision she could still see the receding tail end of the train and winced, “Give me the ability to run off into a fantasy world where I don’t have to go to work this morning,” she joked, thinking of the look she knew that her manager would be wearing when she attempted to excuse her third late arrival that week. Something inside of her twisted at the thought.

“Alright.” The man replied, a flat tone to his voice and a sincere expression to his gaunt features. “As you wish.”

“You— what?”

Another train rushed past, drawing her attention away. When she turned back, the man had disappeared into the encroaching crowd waiting for the next train. Her brow crinkled and her lips parted lightly, but more and more people were arriving and she had already lost sight of the man.

The next train was equally as crowded as the first, but miraculously, she had managed to snag a window seat. The glass was cool against the clammy skin of her forehead and it soothed the encroaching headache from the hustle and bustle in the carriage. She supposed that the headache was also, in part, to do with the strange man who had offered she the ability to run into fictional worlds. Perhaps he was mad.

Absentmindedly, she began to wonder what it would be like if she could disappear into the world of one of her books. She wondered who she would be, an antagonist or a hero or no one at all. She wondered if she would reinvent herself or be painfully truthful to her own nature — of which would make her more trustworthy. She wondered if it would be fun, or if she would wind up as the same, hollow, shell of herself that the characters did; if she would return as somebody entirely different.

A heavy exhaustion suddenly began to weigh on her chest, a pressure that squeezed her ribs like an enormous pair of hands or a snake constricting around its prey. With heavy-lidded eyes and a gently throbbing head, she let the comforting lull of sleep sweep her away.

Sunshine tickled delicately at her fluttering eyelids. It was soft and warm against her face, reminiscent of summer picnics during childhood spent lying on a hillside looking up at the vast, blue sky — the sort that were more dream than memory. Licks of grass brushed against her neck almost reverently, soft and dry but prickled just enough to make it tickle. The coolness of glass and the odd softness of the synthetic seat material of the train was entirely replaced.

She opened her eyes and sure enough the sky was very blue and she was very still atop a hill of wild grass.

Dreaming, she concluded, was what was happening at that moment. It was simply a very, very, vivid dream. A light wind brushed across her cheeks and the delicate scent of the wildflowers, mixed with the cloying smother of midday heat invaded her nostrils. She could hear a cricket somewhere in the underbrush and cars shimmying along a road somewhere down below; the whooshing rather similar to that of a violent river or cacophonous wind. A very, very vivid dream.

She got up brusquely and looked about herself. At the top of the hill was a squat, white building with a slated roof and what appeared to be gold writing embossed on its side, but which was too far away to read. Curious and with little elsewhere to explore, she made her way swiftly up the hill.

The long grass pulled and caught on her boots as she walked and she tried determinedly not to think of the disturbingly realistic quality to it. Slowly, the building grew closer and closer, and the words began to become increasingly clear. “The New Inn,” they read. Absentmindedly she remembered someone telling she that words in dreams were incomprehensible and began to wonder why those were not.

‘The New Inn’ was a pub similar to any that she had seen before: thus she decided that it was simply her subconscious taking old memories of random pubs and recreating them. The bar was the first thing that she saw when she walked in through the door; it stretched the length of the first room with an array of colourful bottles behind it and empty cups upturned on the work surface. Each of them had the signature brand label on the front but none of them were recognisable to her. Similarly, the alcohol all seemed to be completely unknown brands.

The bartender: a young man with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up at her arrival and asked if they could be of assistance.

“Where am I?” She asked dumbly, tongue thick with disbelief and utter confusion.

“This is the New Inn,” he answered quickly. He had a deep voice, rumbling but soft; it didn’t quite suit him.

“What town though? Where are we nearest to?”

He frowned curiously and recited the name of the three surrounding towns. She almost laughed in his face. The towns that he had named featured heavily in the first two books of the series that she had been reading. The author had wanted to create a world that was similar but not quite the same as her own and had thus made up the names of each of their towns and cities — as well as avoiding references to pop culture.

“Are you sure?” She asked him.

“Quite.”

She reminded herself that she was surely dreaming and left quickly the way she came. A sudden thought crossed her mind; if it was indeed the world within her books that she currently resided, then she could probably catch the protagonists hanging around somewhere. It depends on the date, she thought.

Suddenly very curious, she slipped quickly back into the pub. “Sorry, yes, and er, what’s the date?”

The bartender offered her and increasingly exasperated glance but answered anyway. “August 4th.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, “Year?”

“Ye- you don’t know what year it is?”

“Humour me.”

The bartender sighed and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “It’s 2026.”

She grinned feverishly. She was standing right at the beginning of the narrative; the first day of the story, just before everything began to come together. “Cheers,” she exclaimed and dashed out of the door once again, leaving the bartender gawking in her wake.

She knew exactly which town to go to in order to observe the unfolding story and thankfully there were road signs outside of the pub. As she walked, the strange man from the train station and the sincerity of his words returned to her, almost like a warning and they rattled around inside her head. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream. She laughed; of course it was a dream. It had to be a dream. This is just what you get from binge-reading something, she thought.

It was only a short walk, ten minutes or so — or at least what felt like ten minutes; in a dream state that could have been hours. She remembered the church being a particularly well embellished monument within the opening description of the scenery, so that was what she headed for. It was a great, towering structure that loomed over the surroundings with a watchful eye. The ancient clock settled below its domed roof counted backwards for a reason unknown to anyone at all, yet had never been fixed for that was how it had always been.

It was about half an hour before she spotted them; bespectacled, with freckles spattered across their face like constellations, hair and eyebrows just starting to go grey — the spitting image of how the book had described them. She grinned.

Behind by about a hundred and fifty metres, she followed them to the small shop where she knew would be the scene of the first skirmish of the book — as well as the reader’s first introduction to their character.

As to not be injured by the impending fight, she waited outside, watching through the window. A punch was quickly thrown, then another, then she barely had time to step aside as the offending party was thrown through the front window. The offender sputtered and staggered in the broken glass and peered up as a hand gripped hold of their shirt and wrenched them up. She winced. Despite knowing the offender deserved to be put in place for harassing the cashier, she couldn’t help but pity the for the beating they were getting.

A few others had come to watch. Beside her stood a tall man in a black suit, his hair was gelled back and he looked as though he was going somewhere important. “You know,” she murmured conspiratorially, “They were a hero once.” The man raised his eyebrows above the dark glasses that she hadn’t noticed he was wearing in a questioning manner. She took that as her cue to continue. “Yeah, years ago by now, but they’re still trying to do their hero stuff,” the offender’s back thudded against the wall and she winced again, “as you can see.”

“Pray tell, do you know much more about them?”

Excited, she began to babble. “Oh, yes! This is Sam Wallace, no one really knows them much anymore but they saved god knows how many people back when they were a kid and recruited by one of those dodgy ‘superhero’ agencies — you know, those ones that got shut down because they really mistreated their employees and recruits, by like, locking them in rooms with rats and whatnot to scare them into submission? They live just up the road from here, they’re really cool.”

The man smiled to himself and turned away, “Thank you ever so much for the information, I’m sure I will find it vital in future.”

Too caught up in watching the fight, she waved the man off with a quick, “sure, anytime,” without any deeper inspection of the odd comment.

The police arrived soon after to take the retired superhero away, but so did a suspicious-looking, black SUV with some obviously government employees inside — who told the police that it was under their jurisdiction from then on. She couldn’t stop smiling; everything was happening just as it was in the book.

Over the following two weeks, she followed the group of retirees and half-forgotten legends through their escapades, until they finally discovered the antagonists base of operations. It was a rather decrepit warehouse in a forgettable corner of a generic industrial estate. Wide and squat, with a jutting roof and signature damp, concrete floor, it was by no means conspicuous. The unassuming nature of the building made it rather perfect as a lair.

The antagonists name was Ryker, or at least that was what he called himself. She crept in after the group in order to get a good look, hidden by the shadows of the towering, metal shelves. It worked. He was a tall man, half his face was cast in shadow, accentuating the angular properties of it and his sleek, black hair was swept backwards and gelled in place. He looked oddly familiar, but she put it down to reading his description in the books.

#daily dose of writing #prompt adaption #short story #mine #6.5k

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wr1t3w1tm3 · 6 months

Text

SEAWOLF - Part 1 - Chapter 2

Tuesday - May 18th

Words: 2,771

Estimated Read Time: 12-15 min.

TW: Brief mentions of blood and brief allusion to panic caused by a traumatic experience.

It ends up taking five hours for him to reach Maverick’s hangar. For miles down the gravel back road he follows the wide swaths cut by large tire tracks earlier that night. The hangar door is closed. When he pulls up next to the hangar, his SUV is the only car. Walking through the dust to the side door, he notices a lime green post-it note, which reads:

Ring the doorbell then come in. Unlocked.

There’s a ring doorbell mounted next to the door. He presses the button, it’s lit by a blue circle for a moment, then it dings out a little song and he enters. As soon as he opens the door, he’s hit with the overwhelming stench of industrial cleaners and the harsh hangar lights.

Inside is almost immaculately clean. Maverick was never one to be messy, but he also didn’t have any specific method to his “madness” He kept his magazines, books, NATOPs and anything made of paper and bound stowed within the coffee table set up in his “living room”; and he kept his tools all over the hangar without any rhyme or reason. Roosters Ford Bronco - the same one Goose had back in the day - is parked against the hangar door.

The smell begins to dissipate as he gets closer to the fans set up in a triangle between the Mustang, the camper, and the line of tarp draped bikes. The trailer door is wide open, and a brunette in a black t-shirt and ripped up jeans steps out. There’s a paper towel roll tucked under her arm, a mop in one hand and its bucket in the other.

She puts the pedal to the metal, booking it towards a mass of towels he notices on her approach. “You Theresa?” He calls.

She nods, panting. The bucket hits the ground with a plunk and the mop clatters down with it. She stands, rubbing her back as he approaches. “And you’re Ice…man?”

He nods, sliding his aviators into the crook created by his unbuttoned top button. “Tom Kazansky. Callsign, Iceman. Everyone calls me Ice.”

Her hand shake is firm, but when their hands come together, hers are shaking. Maybe from the adrenaline, but when he tries to look her in the eyes she maintains contact for only a couple seconds before she drops it and motions to the bucket. “I was, uh, just cleaning up. They gave me to okay to clean up.”

“The cops?” Ice asks, surveying the hangar.

“Yeah,” Theresa picks up the mop and nudges the towels out of the way with her boot.

Ice smiles gently. “Are those Mav’s old boots?”

Theresa shrugs. “Probably.” He steps closer, but she refuses to look up. The mop swipes away at the floor, taking with it the remnants of red from under the towels. He glances at them himself. The bottom ones seem to be completely blood soaked.

“Where are Maverick and your father?”

Theresa rolls her shoulders, then shudders. She kicks the towels a little further, mopping that up. She starts humming something he vaguely recognizes from the radio. He steps with her, then suddenly she turns, grabbing the bucket and mop and marching towards the Mustang. There’s a similar, though smaller, mound of towels there as well. The path over is lined with muted bloody stains.

Ice stops a couple yards back and repeats his question. “Where’s your dad at, kid?”

Again, Theresa shrugs. But she speaks “Uh… I dunno. They disappeared before the cops showed up and they couldn’t find ‘em.”

She dunks the mop in the bucket again. It slaps and some slips over the side, onto the floor. It makes a wet squelch against the concrete when she sets it down and the fibers scratch a bit as they glide over the floor. “Are they looking for them?”

“Oh, uh… the cops?” she chuckles uneasily, replying with a shrug “nah. They’ll keep an eye out for ‘em but they aren’t too worried unless they don’t turn up by tomorrow.”

Ice steps forward. Theresa glances at him then takes a step back, mopping up where there definitely wasn’t blood before. He broaches the next question with a little more delicacy “Do you know where your dad and Maverick are?”

“The Hard Deck?” She suggests with a shrug and uneasy chuckle. Realization dawns immediately. The boots Theresa’s co-opted squeak as she walks.

Ice slides his hands into his pockets and clears his throat. “What, ah, what do the cops think happened here?”

“Rabid animal attack.” Theresa’s response is to fast. Too perfect.

“You said it was a wolf, right?”

She pauses, glancing at him. She cocks an eyebrow, not unlike Mav when asked a stupid question. Then she turns back to her mopping. “Yeah. Big black one.”

“What else did you see?”

“Not much,” again, too quick. Too rehearsed. “It got Mav, then it go Brad.”

“And they both disappeared after they got bit?”

Theresa stops, taking a deep breath as she rights herself. She nods curtly, “Yeah,” she drops the mop in the bucket and hoists it up, headed towards the trailer.

“So what’d you tell the cops?” Ice calls. There’s a coolness in his voice that irks Theresa.

But she plays along. “That Mav and Brad got attacked by a big black wolf and that I hid in the plane.”

“And that they disappeared after they were attacked?”

She nods, setting the bucket at the trailer steps. Ice stops a couple yards away again. His khaki’s are crisp, his shirt is ironed. He looks well rested, despite the hour. Theresa is running on a RedBull and and looks like it. She imagines that she looks cooler than she does, staring Ice down, but she can feel the grease slicking her hair back and it does not feel pretty.

He sighs, taking one step closer and asking quietly “What color where they?”

Theresa blinks, trying to wake herself up. “What color where… who?”

She takes a sudden breath. Ice sighs, pressing “What color where the wolves?”

“The… black one?” Theresa slides back a step. Her back is practically against the trailer now. Ice shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“What color fur did your father and Mav have after they shifted?”

Theresa balks like she’s about to throw up. The mop clatters against the wooden steps, then it hits the floor. It echoes through the hangar. Ice’s ears ring a bit. It fades within a moment, giving Theresa enough time for realization.

“Can you drive Mav’s Jeep?”

Theresa doesn’t respond at first. One hand slowly drifts to her chest, where it feels her heart racing. The other reaches back for the trailer, and once it makes contact she leans back against it. Ice takes another step forward, repeating himself tersely. “Can you drive Mav’s Jeep?”

She swallows hard, but she nods. Ice nods, stepping back. “Good. Go ahead and grab the keys kid, then follow me. Slider’ll get in soon and we need to have Mav and your dad wrangled by then.” He starts towards the door, but he only hears his footfalls. He turns back after a few steps, and Theresa simply stands there, unmoving. Her mouth slightly agape.

“Come on kid,” he puts on a small smile and tries to sound cheerful. “Grab the keys. It’ll be fun.”

She seems to snap out of it, shaking her head a bit violently. She steps up into the trailer. Ice listens to her search around for Mav’s keys. The search is by no means silent, but she doesn’t say a word otherwise. The shock should wear off soon. She’ll be fine then.

“Oh!” He calls back. “Make sure to grab them each a change of clothes!”

They don’t have to go far. Approximately a mile from Maverick’s hangar and equidistant from the runway is a large collection of rocks. Hiding amongst those rocks are two wolves: one black, one hazel.

Ice approaches cautiously, dimming his lights once he spots them. Theresa’s eyes aren’t nearly as well adjusted. Luckily, she’s far enough back that her lights don’t startle them.

They were resting when they arrived. Both still shifted. For a second, a pang of… anxiety strikes him. What if they attack Theresa? She’s in an open Jeep after all.

No. They won’t. They’ve had nearly five hours to come to terms now. Besides, he’s in front. They won’t attack him. He’s familiar. Wolf and friend.

Theresa shuts off the Jeep. The dying headlights catch the hazel, almost dirty blonde wolf’s attention. He’s huge. Easily ten feet from snout to tail. He probably weighs about what he did before, and Rooster was a pretty big guy by all metrics.

“Easy. Easy.” the hazel one - Rooster - growls. Theresa, halfway between the SUV and the Jeep, stops dead. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost. The black one turns his attention to her. “Whoa Mav,” Ice glances back. He reaches one hand out in front of him, and gently calls back to Theresa “get in my car.”

She doesn’t move. She can barely breath. All she can see is an eruption of black and hazel fur as bodies contort and someone screams. Mav. She thinks its Mav’s scream she hears. The desert wind whips up and the sand swipes her arms and face.

Tears start to fall. The stinging only makes them worse. Ice turns back to the wolves. Now he was gonna have to get both wolves into the SUV without any help.

Well, maybe… “She’s alright,” he assures them, turning to Maverick first. “You didn’t hurt her. She’s just… tired.” He just told them she was fine. He can’t admit that she’s scared. Not now.

Bradley takes a step forward. Ice pivots right at him. “Whoa, Rooster. No. No. She’s fine,” he glances at Mav “you’re both fine, but you’ve got to come with me. We’ve gotta get you shifted back.”

The black one - Maverick - takes several cautious steps towards Ice’s hand. Once he’s within a few feet, he takes a wiff. Ice smiles. “Yeah, that’s it Mav. Easy.”

Maverick seems to smile, and with a little yip he closes the distance between himself and Ice. He pops a squat right in front of him, slinking the last few inches. Mav nudges his outstretched hand, begging for pets.

Ice’s smile only gets bigger, and he obliges, running his hand over Mav’s head a few times, following his stroke behind the right ear and giving a nice scritch. It almost looks like Mav smiles as he snuggles up against Ice’s legs. He’s absolutely beaming. “There ya’ go, Mav. Thats better, isn’t it? Figured you didn’t wanna be stuck out here all night, huh?” He crouches down, scratching behind both of Mav’s ears “Yeah. You don’ wanna be stuck out here, do ya? Do ya?”

Maverick yips. Suddenly, Bradley barks, once, then whines. Ice chuckles, shaking his head. “Yes, you too, Rooster, I have two hands.”

Rooster starts walking, but not towards Ice. Both Mav and Ice watch him start towards Theresa. She sees him, and slowly starts to back up. But every step she takes is matched by the wolf. He’s huge. He’s getting bigger. Getting closer.

She’s gotta hide. Something inside is screaming at her. The screams echoing in her head don’t help anything. She’s able to shake them off. For a second, her head is clear. She turns and bolts for the Jeep.

Okay, not that clear.

“No! Bradley!”

Maverick’s off in a flash. He intercepts Rooster as Theresa makes it to the Jeep. Rooster growls, looking past him at the Jeep. Maverick glances back and matches his growl. They’re locked in this stand off until Ice closes the distance. He sprints the whole way. Theresa’s in the Jeep, thank god, and she’s got it on. But she’s still got open windows. Rooster or Maverick could easily get in that way.

“Easy, easy guys.” He goads. He crouches again, trying to get on their level. It’s awkward, since they stand so high off the ground. “Come on. Let’s go.” He motions to the SUV. “Slider’ll be here any minute, and we’re gonna get this all figured out, alright?”

Rooster seems calmer. The growling stops. Theresa’s sobs replace them. Ice glances at her. She’s got her knees pulled against her chest and her forehead resting on them. Great. She’s of no help right now.

With a sigh he starts towards the SUV, but backwards, to keep his eye on Maverick and Rooster. Once he reaches it, he pops the middle door. “Come on guys. We’re gonna go back to the hangar and get this all figured out.”

They hesitate for a couple seconds. Rooster glances back at Theresa. Ice nods, “She’ll follow us back.”

Maverick sneezes, but without further protest pads over to the SUV. He climbs in easily, but he looks tired. He lays down on the seat, taking up nearly the whole back bench. Ice turns back to Rooster. He’s moved a bit closer, but he’s still got a lock on Theresa.

Ice meets him where he’s at, crouching down and petting him a few times. “Yeah, I know Roo. She’s a little upset right now,” Not scared. Not now “but she’ll be alright. We’ll get this all sorted out once we get to the hangar, alright?” Rooster sighs. “Hey. Hey. Everything’s gonna be fine. It’ll all get figured out once we get back to the hangar, okay? Come ‘on.” he stands, starting towards the SUV.

Rooster glances back at Theresa once more, and after a moment he - almost reluctantly - follows Iceman back to the SUV. Once he’s in, Ice shuts the door and gets in, pulling up next to Theresa.

She’s been having a moment. Her eyes are red, and there’s wet spots on her shirt collar from where tears escaped her hands. She sniffles on their approach, trying to seem more put together.

Ice still practically scowls at her, and everything he says sounds like an order. “Head back to the hangar. Slider should meet us there.”

She nods, pursing her lips. Ice sighs and rolls his window up, rolling back towards the dirt road they took out. Theresa… Theresa hesitates for a bit. It’s not like she’ll get lost, she can see the hangar from the pile of rocks. She… she just needs a minute.

What the fuck happened? She tries to wrap her head around it. First, some big black wolf appeared and got Mav. Then Mav… Mav turned into a big black wolf and attacked Bradley. Then… then Bradley must’ve turned into a wolf and they both must’ve run off when the EMT’s showed up.

Were… were they werewolves now? That… that… I should’ve had that on my 2021 Bingo Card. She doesn’t know what she feels, but it’s not pleasant. It’s a whirl wind of fear, yes, and anxiety. She’s gotten a major… spine tingle, for lack of a better word, as her mind replays Maverick’s… shift? Is that what he called it? She’s not sure, but it sounds right.

The fact that Tom Kazansky - who she knows is Commander of the US Pacific Fleet the same way she knows that the sky is blue and Taylor Swift sings about her exes - is one of these… werewolves. He’s a werewolf. Since when did they exist?

She combs her memory for the handful of times they’d even been in the same room with him. She did meet him briefly at some ball thing she had to attend for Roosters squad. He’d seemed normal. And… the Slider guy he mentioned. She thinks she’s met him. Something to do with an unofficial “class reunion” for Maverick sometime that summer. He might’ve been out at the hangar at one point. He’d seemed completely normal too.

How many werewolves where there? How dangerous where they? Part of her wanted to geek out but a larger part was scared and betrayed. She felt paranoid, and she hated it but… I’m not wrong. She told herself.. If… if werewolves existed… what else was out there? Vampires? Witches? Ghosts? Demons? Fuck, it was Supernatural, but real. Was that a true story then? No… their werewolves worked differently. Unless… unless that was what they wanted you to think!

She’s lost in her own fears long enough for her tears to dry and a small plane to pass overhead and land at the hangar. The dust it kicks up stings her face and drags her back to the hellscape she’s woken up in tonight. She begins to cry again, and with a sniffle, tucks her knees to her chest and watches the hangar.

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creatore-is-an-amarena-addict · 1 year

Text

MIDNIGTH OF THE 88

Tw: mention/unconsensual use of drugs, kidnapping, stalking, use and mention of alchool, emotional manipulation/exploitation, affectionate/touchy whumper slaughter of the english lenguage

Onna sipped on his morning coffee as he read throw the newspaper, there was a whole page filled with the statistic related to kidnapping: who has more changes of being abducted, who is more at risk, peoples that avoided it, peoples that spend more than 2 months under their captors... and peoples that never got found...

87.9999% of peoples kidnapped in the state of Ferine are never found even after years...

"Well" Onna said lowering the grey paper "time to make that 87 turn into an 88" and he looked straight to the boy across the street, walking to his school like every other day.

The unfortunate one, naive and unaware, was called Seji, and today, he had planned to go to a nigthclub with a couple of friends, and finaly, after months of relentless stalking, Onna had all the info he neaded and just the perfect plan in mind.

The men ran his hungry eyes on the walking figure one last time and walked to his car again.

After checking every single inch of the house to make sure everything was perfect for Seji, Onna got in his car with everything: syringes, chloroform towel, ropes, gags, roofies, gauzes, cloth, fabric, tape, handcuffs, pancuronium bromide and a taser just in case, you never know after all, even if the "target" was barely half his size.

He was finaly there, luckily for all of them, Seji's friends had choosen a pretty well adjusted and well manteined nigthclub.

As he entered and saw the masses of peoples jumping and dancing around under the neon ligths Onna tought to himself "wow, such a busy party... i don't think somebody would notice if somebody just disappeared" Just has he tought this he saw him: noisesly spouting towards a friend of his, even if the music complitely cancelled his sweet voice.

After some more seconds of clear arguing Seji walked all the way up to one of the walls, going complitely out of the grups view. "This is going to be easy" Onna thought "more than i originaly planned"

He took a deep breath, as much as the packed club allowed and prepared to have a conversation, then snatched 2 red cups filled with unknownown alchool from the nearest stranger and walked over to his target.

Onna trowed his back to the wall near Seji and started talking "What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?" Onna was fully prepared to asweare to a cooky reply of some sort, maybe a simple "get lost pervert" knowing the boy's personality, but instead, Seji didn't even look in his direction, he keept staring at the ground with his skinny arms crossed on his... flat chest...

For a second Onna had a little crak in his perfect mask, the guy he had infront of him was the only person he had ever "met" that could make his perfect poker face tremble slightly "Im getting mad at my jerk friends... at a damn party! *sob* how pathetic is that?" Seji didn't even move when he sobbed.

Onna knew that the boy's friends wherent jerks in the sligtest, witch ment that the boy was either drunk or really emotionaly unstable at the moment.

"You know what they say about toxic friends, better forget about them"

Onna said as he leanded the red cup to the boy that took it witouth looking up and took a sip with a trembling "Thanks" as the men game himself a mental uppercut for not drugging the cup, he just lost one of the easies paths to succeding, but the nigth was still long after all.

After a lot of talking, Onna was entranced into the chearfull expression of the boy that was usualy rigid and emotionless, maybe it was the alchool or the emotional instability, but the men hoped it was becouse of his own presence and remember why he was there, what he wanted to do, and why.

Onna checked his wristwatch, it was almost midnigth, Seji's friends had gone home, and it was almost time for Seji to go home.

Onna got up to excuse himself "ill go to the bathroom, get us some drinks if you want, they're on me" and walked to the club's restroom "It's nice to know that high-end nightclub's bathroom are almost worst than the slums" he tought as he took the syringe and sedative from the hidden poket in his shirt. He carefully inserted the syringe in the bottle immagining it to be Seji's pretty and vulnerable nec-

"Is that heroine?"

"It's just my insuline, i got type 2 diabetes" Onna lied pretending he hadn't hear the door open, the faint steps, and the warm breath on his neck.

"I came here to wash the makeup off, i hate not being able to touch my eyes."

Onna acknoleged the red makeup smugged by tear streacks for the first time, and was almost sorry that they would have been washed away, they looked rather cute

"Also, i didn't knew what drink you wanted, tho i don't think ill drink it with you, im getting kinda dizzy"

"Let's go ouside and take some fresh air then"

They where near Onna's car, behind the club, where nobody could hear or see them.

"Ok if i play my cards rigth i can succed without the need to scalp him too much"

Just has Onna thougths this, Seji took a break from talking about the men's tatooed eyeballs to say something very different

"You know... for a stranger met after a fight with my every day friends your a really cool guy... what do you say we hang out more a day of these?"

Onna was taken aback, without thinking, he blurted out the only thing that he had in mind

"I'd love to hang out... why don't you get in the car?"

"Sorry, i gotta go in a bit, but i'd love to stay with you just a little longer"

Rejection bitter rejection.

As Seji leaned in on the men's shoulder, Onna's mind was racing with possible scenarios.

Time was running out, Seji had gotten comfortable but was still a stranger, Onna couldent afford to lose it now and was asking himself why didn't he calculated his response better, he should have said "Why don't WE get in the car" had he came off too forward? Too agressive? Why didn't he accept... was there another way?...

Like always, Onna calculated every possible outcome to this situation, and chose the one with more probability of success.

A pity... truly... but there wherent other ways, and he had come with a goal in mind.

He stretched his arm behind Seji's neck separating him from the car.

"You know, you shoulden't wear your hair up like that, it makes it so easy for someone to grab, but will i be dammed, it gives a view to what a pretty little neck you got ther-"

Before Onna could grasp the boy's hair, he got pushed away, in a second, Seji was in a defencive stance at a safe distance from the men with eyes filled with hatred.

"I knew i shoulden't had trusted you!"

His voice lined with angry betrayal

"Your just a creep! Fuck off you damn pervert"

He said showing the middle finger as he walked away, but before he got out of sight, Onna was already following.

Soon, it had turned from a fast walk home after a "breakup" to a full hunt as the purple haired prey was trying to convince himself that the black eyed hunter wasn't following him.

In the frienzy of turns and rising adrenaline, sadness mixed with anger swirled into betrayal and fear, making the small and dirty alley's look like a labirint, but finaly, the lights of the streets where just one shady alleyway away and finaly Seji calmed down.

Such a pity that the worst "incidents" happend in dirty alleyways.

In the shadows, with a soundless sprint, the chloroform cloth was on the prey's mouth and nose and immidiatly the air was filled with soffucated hums and dying screams, the prey struggled trying to pry his respiratory ways open, but it was all useless, adrenaline strain or not, the hunter was twice his size, in weight, strenght, and height that granted him the front seat view of the boy's pleading, desperate and pouring eyes.

"Shhh, don't waste your energy, everything will be alright in a second" Onna whispered with a reassuring tone, even tho Seji couldent hear him, not anymore, becouse in a couple of seconds, the frightened eyes where starting to close, the hushed humming was getting quiter and quiter, and in a last attemp to free himself, Seji used all of his energy to do a movement that seamed more a convulsion, an adjustment to a more confortable position, than a desperate last attemp to save himself, but alass, the room had gone quiet and the boy had stopped struggling.

"Cute" Onna thougth as he viewed the sleeping face, it looked so soft and peacefull.

Onna brougth the boy back to the car princess stile in an effortless way, planning to tell "he's drunk" to every person that migth have asked, luckily tho, there haddent been no need to use it.

The men popped the car door open and placed the sleeping boy on the seats, he carefully opened his mouth and sealed it again with balls of clean cloths then wrapped him in fabric and tape.

He forced the delicate looking hands into a cross and wrapped the wrists in gauzez, then tape and handcuffed them, same with the ankles, then tied the ankles to the thighs and waist, wrists to the shoulders, fore arms to arms before laying the sleeping boy complitely on the seats.

Onna also removed the boy's shoes, that way, running away would have been more difficult, even if Onna could have cougth up easily and the boy was complitely tied and sleaping, you never know.

Onna had studied the place to the very atoms, there where no cameras, and as he assaulted the boy non of them had touched anything and nothing that could have been a possible clue had fell to the ground, he even took the boy's phone, turned off the position tracking, turned it complitely off and took the battery out, he would had made a copy of the data stored inside and then would had made sure to deal with the rest as soon as he had a moment free.

After controlling the boy's state and the sorroundings, he got in the car, started the engine and brougth his "trophy", to prove of his succeded mission, his very goal, Seji, home.

Inspiration taken by @painsandconfusion 's "trettening prases" list

#writeblr #writer things #writing #whump community #oc story #this will maybe turn into a whole series #this was supposed to be short #@butchering of the english language

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alllume · 2 years

Photo

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ ׂ💭 ◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ ꒰ ❛ THE FACES OF HIM ! ❜ ꒱

tw // death, blood, seizure, and suicide mention !

HIM is a reoccurring character in ALLUME’s universe. In all of HIM’s appearances, HIM is played by a difference actor or actress. Explained in their art film for their first mini album “LOST TAPES” HIM is genderless and can appear as male, female, or neither but will always be referred to as HIM.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ HIM’s first appearance was portrayed by SOLOIST KIM ‘SOL’ JINSOL. Jinsol was a former member of Angelico boy group, DEEPDIVE, and was in the boy group INFERNO at the time of his appearance in the film, later becoming a soloist under Flowerbank Entertainment after his contract with Angelico was dissolved in 2020.

His version of HIM took place in modern time, being the missing best friend of the girls that they’re desperately trying to find by hanging up missing person’s posters and looking for him in a forest, a common setting in the ALLUME universe. He was mainly shown via flashbacks, seen showing the girls maps and books about dimensional travel and other universes. It’s believed he is how the girls are able to travel into different dimensions and universes. When the girls finally find HIM, he is slumped against a tree, presumed to be sleeping until Misun taps his shoulder and he falls onto the forest floor dead. It is unsure how he died. It is believed that when the girls travel through dimensions, they are looking for THIS version of HIM.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ HIM’s second appearance was portrayed by SOLOIST LEE JINYOUNG. Jinyoung was not under a company during this time, it’s believed his appearance in the “OUT OF TIME” art film got him signed by Angelico just a month after the film’s release.

OUT OF TIME is believed to take place during the 60′s or 70′s due to how the girls and HIM are dressed. The film heavily focuses on Marisol with the girls making small appearances. The film follows Marisol and HIM going about their day to day lives, continuously telling one another that they miss each other and will be home soon. They spend most of the film apart until they are home together for the last five minutes. While dancing together in the living room, HIM’s nose starts bleeding, he falls to the ground, begins seizing, and dies in Marisol’s arms. Overtaken with grief, Marisol screams out, causing the screen to go black and film to end.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ HIM’s third appearance was portrayed by ACTOR JANG SEUNGHUN. Seunghun’s acting career was pretty stagnant during this time, signed under a small acting agency and barely having 100k on Instagram. After his appearance in the “MISSING” art film, he grew substantially in followers and became more well known in the industry, getting many big budget roles and a dedicated fanbase.

MISSING takes place in 2012 as displayed by the fashion and the fact it was seemingly filmed on an old video camera with time timestamp 03/17/12 in the corner, during the beginning of the film. The film is mainly focused on HIM and Misun in a found footage style format in the beginning of the film. HIM and Misun were very much in love until a dark entity known as “THE MASS” comes and takes HIM away from Misun. The film goes into a traditional filming style once HIM has disappeared. The Mass seemingly haunts Misun throughout the rest of the film, following her as she walks aimlessly through the city to find HIM, standing at the foot of her bed as she tries to sleep, and taunts her about how she’ll never find him. Unable to deal with The Mass’s abuse and the loss of HIM, the final shot is of Misun standing on the edge of a cliff, stepping off right as the film ends. She is the first ALLUME girl to presumedly die in the ALLUME universe.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ The fourth appearance of HIM is the first time HIM is seen as a woman. This version of HIM was played by MODEL JULIA DARLING. Julia had just signed to Flowerbank and was casted as HIM in order to help jump start her career, which it did. After appearing in the “UNIDENTIFIABLE” art film, she is now the second most profitable model under the label and has walked in several Fashion Weeks since and even starred in the Netflix original series, Stranger Things.

UNIDENTIFIABLE takes place in what is presumed to be the gilded age so between 1870 and the 1900′s due to the extravagant costumes both HIM and the girls are seen wearing. This film heavily focuses on Chaerin and HIM, both of them meeting at a ball and falling in love after dancing together all night. Chaerin and HIM keep their love affair secret, sharing secret glances while they are talking to their friends or meeting in the forest late at night. While everything seems to be going well, towards the end when HIM and Chaerin meet in the forest during the daylight, like the second version of HIM, HIM’s nose starts bleeding while talking to Chaerin, her words become slurred, and she drops to her knees. HIM seizes in a screaming Chaerin’s arms before stilling suddenly and presumedly dying. Overwhelmed with grief, Chaerin lets out a heart wrenching scream before the film ends.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ The fifth appearance of HIM was portrayed by ACTOR & IDOL KIM JUWON. Juwon already had an acting career prior to this but many say he really became popular after his portrayal as HIM in the “PETAL” art film. Juwon’s version of HIM is a fan favorite, many ALLUME fans becoming BROKEN LINE fans after this which helped boost the group’s sales and gave them a slight jump start in their slow moving careers.

PETAL takes place in 1692 as stated by a title card in the beginning of the film. The film is focused on Jaehwa and HIM living their lives in their Puritan village. It’s presumed the pair are married due to their closeness and the fact they share a home. The Mass is back and appears halfway through the film, appearing to loom over HIM. When Jaehwa tells HIM about The Mass, HIM tells her there’s nothing there, confirming that the ALLUME girls are the only ones who can see The Mass. Like Misun, The Mass follows HIM and causes chaos in order to make it look HIM is a witch, which works successfully. After being put through a trial, HIM is tried and found guilty of witchcraft, being sentences to hang. At the gallows, after a proclamation of love from HIM to Jaehwa, he is hung and dies as Jaehwa wails and screams. Though the film would usually end on it’s traditional “ALLUME scream” it continues, Jaehwa still in the square where HIM was hung it now being night. The Mass is there as well, looming over Jaehwa. Jaehwa then gets up, lights a torch in her and HIM’s house, then goes around the village and lights every building on fire, burning the village to the ground. It’s unsure if The Mass influenced this decision or not but The Mass is not seen with Jaehwa as she stands in front of the forest, watching her village and everyone in it burn. Slowly, she smiles then walks into the forest.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ The sixth appearance of HIM was portrayed by SINGER & TRAINEE JAYDEN MOORE. Jayden had no prior acting work to his appearance in the “THE DISAPPEARANCE” which only made his performance that much more impressive. He is also the first actor to also participate in the ballet version of the film he starred in, training extensively so he could be ready in time. His dedication to his role as HIM has made many excited for his debut.

THE DISAPPEARANCE takes place in the 90′s following newest member, Yebin, and HIM as they fall in love with one another through various interactions at a club. Every night, the pair move closer together until they finally collide on the sixth night. For every night after that, they dance together and grow closer, kissing on twelfth night. They never leave the club, every scene taking place in it, time passing by either Yebin or HIM leaving the club into the dark night only to reenter with the sun beaming behind whoever entered the club. On the seventeenth night, while HIM and Yebin are dancing together, HIM’s nose starts bleeding and just like the ones before him, he falls to his knees, seizing in her arms before stilling and passing in her arms. After a loud silence where Yebin is holding HIM’s body, her scream suddenly fills the silence and the film ends.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ The seventh appearance of HIM was portrayed by IDOL LI YUFEI. Yufei had acted before his appearance in the “ADDICT” art film. Yufei followed in the tradition set by Jayden Moore to participate in the ballet version of the film. Prior to his performance as HIM, he debuted in 2015 in the STORMEDIA boy group, NEW MOON. He was much more known for his acting career than his idol career though after the film dropped, NEW MOON has a resurgence and started performing well for the first time in years.

ADDICT presumedly takes place in the later 70′s or early 80′s due to the fashion and setting HIM and newest member, Yui, are in. Yui is the only ALLUME girl to seemingly be aware of her lover’s demise if he gets too close to her, attempting to keep her distance from HIM even though she loves HIM. The only way HIM and Yui interact is by sitting in the forest together at a considerable distance. They only touch once in the film when HIM closes the gap between him despite Yui warning him he will most likely die if he gets too close to her. HIM doesn’t die when they touch, causing Yui to let her guard down. They engage in a passionate love affair, taking place mainly in the forest. In a twist, while the pair are about to part, Yui’s nose begins to bleed, collapsing in HIM’s arms arm, seizing, and dying in his arms. She is the first ALLUME girl to die from what is now known as the “Traveler’s Curse”.

♥︎̶̶⠀ ´ ˘ ` ۫ ִ The most recent appearance of HIM was portrayed by MODEL AND ACTRESS JO SIHYO. Sihyo was a popular model and actress under Flowerbank Entertainment, many speculating she would eventually play HIM in future. Sihyo carried on the tradition of performing in the ballet as well as her film, saying it was one the hardest but most satisfying things she’s ever done.

The art film “LISTEN” followed the group for the first time in years, expanding more on the lore and explaining some of what the girls were experiencing. HIM is not actually featured that much in this film, which many fans did not enjoy. While the film explained why all the HIM’s before this one died and introduced the “Traveler’s Curse” many saw this as a prequel or a long overdue explanation film. HIM’s main purpose in the film is to lead the girls to a library, push certain books they need off shelves, and warn them about the cycle never ending before disappearing.

#★ & ☆ ALLUME --— LORE .#deluxeocnet #aes!ocnet #idol oc #fictional idol community #kpop oc #oc kpop group #fictional idol group #idol au

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