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thegnomelord · 1 year ago

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CH 3: Hold Your Demons Close Maybe Then You'll Feel Something

CW:NSFW blood, gore, mutilation, killing, cannon typical violence, child abuse (it's minor but still there), drugging, military inaccuracies, Mage reader, Monster cod AU, poly141, eventual poly141 X reader, reader isn't a good person, a few masc terms used but overall gn.

Ao3; Word count: 19.1k (It's a heckin chonker) Big thanks for @rodolfoparras and @princeguri66 for betaing for me, love you guys!

Masterlist; Chapter 2 <-Chapter 3 (You are here) -> Chapter 4

Aisha remembers the day she thought she would die.

As a gift for the 10th birthday her mother had taken her to the market in the big city. It had been chaotic compared to their little village, so many people donkey carts, and mopeds moving around like crazy ants in a freshly exposed nest. Aisha had gotten lost, swept away by the time of movement, and ended up at the entrance of a shady alley where she'd stumbled on an old beggar woman.

Long as she lives she will never forget the sight of the woman. Strip her of flesh and blood and the memory will still be etched into her bones — of ghostly blue lines forming impregnable chains across sunken sunburned skin. Of dirty rags loosely hanging off skeleton thin shoulders. Of blood crusted bandages wrapped tightly around her shaved head to not scare the children running about, the cloth dipping into the eyeless sockets of her skull. Of her asking passerby for alms with the handless stumps of her arms.

The sight alone had frightened Aisha, but then the beggar had turned her head to Aisha as if she could hear the frantic beating of her heart. A sad saccharine croon left the mage woman's chapped lips as she looked right at her. "Hello, fellow daughter of Magnus."

Her mother found her then, pulling Aisha back while shouting at the woman at the top of her lungs. Aisha's mind had been too full of thoughts to notice her mother drop their shopping in favor of scurrying out of the market with Aisha in hand. She had only snapped back to reality when her mother had thrown Aisha into her father’s rusted little car, barely able to sit up straight before they were driving home to their village as fast as the car’s geriatric engine could go.

Aisha had been locked in the room she shared with her sisters, but the door did little to mute the way her parents argued all day long, accusations of infidelity and cursed bloodlines thrown around like bird feed. Most of it flew over her head, but Aisha had understood one thing: Her parents were afraid.

The strange men came to her house just as the sun had set, drawn out by the dying light like coyotes hunting for a stray lamb. The strong stench of rot heralding their arrival made her sputter to hold back the bile burning her throat. She remembers the sparks of yellow and red and blue and all the other stolen colors of the rainbow swirling in their cold eyes.

They chatted while inspecting her like a cow in the market, their language just as rough and hard as their hands. But they lost interest quickly, unable to find what they wanted to see. They turned to throw lecherous looks at her mother and older sisters before her father had stepped between them and her, protecting his daughter now that he knew Aisha wasn't a freak. He'd tensely asked them to leave after paying for their time, standing in the doorway and only going back inside when the strange men were well and truly out of sight.

Her parents let them in without complaint; Her father held her down, his steely gaze watching the men crowd her. Her mother whispered trembling words into her ear to just be a good girl as the men tore her shirt off. Aisha's questions and pleas and panic fell on deaf ears, her mother pressing a worn hand over her mouth to silence her cries as the men inspected her chest and arms. They pinched and pulled on her skin with hands scarred like gnarled tree bark, the roughness of their palms chafing her soft flesh.

Aisha remembers the days she thought she would die.

Waking up each day to wash under her mother's stalwart gaze so she could ensure Magnus hadn't sown seeds into Aisha's body while she slept. Going each week to the village elders to drink the special brew of Morgana's tears, spending agonizing hours curled up and sobbing on the floor with a stabbing pain in her chest, her heart beating like the wings of a snared bird as the poison made its way through her system. She'd lost count how many times her heart would stutter after every bout of joy or childish argument on the rare moments the children of the village would interact with her — any lick of emotion would force her to run home to check the pads of her fingers in fear that this time magic had cracked through her skin.

She had been so happy on her 15th birthday — the danger had passed. She wasn’t a mage. She could finally live a normal life, meet a boy, get married, have a family.

She’s 16 now. All those years of worry and fear feel like childhood bliss.

Aisha knows she will die.

It happened so suddenly; When her friend had jokingly rubbed a feather duster in her face, Aisha would have never expected a stupid sneeze to force liquid frost through her fingers. Pain had raced through her chest at the speed of lightning, an unknown force pulling her arms up, and the next thing she knew she had frozen over her neighbor's entire crop field. Aisha had barely heard her friend scream over the pounding in her ears, her legs moving on their own long before her brain could understand the pain in her hands or what she had done.

Her mind might still have been reeling, but her body understood she needed to run, needed to hide, before the sun fell and the coyotes came for her.

The house she's found to hide in is one of the many corpses the Russians left behind, stripped bare to rotting wood bones and crumbling bricks, moldy wall paper peeling in long thick strips and rickety boards creaking under the slightest pressure. Gravel crunches beneath heavy tires outside the decrepit house and a rumbling engine cuts through the silence. Aisha scrambles up the stairs to the second floor, hiding in a dingy closet with it's walls closing in around her like the sides of a cramped coffin. Termite made holes in the closet door act as peepholes, letting her see into the bedroom and watch the long shadows created by the car's lights stretch across the floor.

She bites her lip as the slightest twitch of her pinky finger makes pain bloom across her entire hand, though she's barely able to move her fingers with how stiff they are. Her tan skin bellow the wrists is corpse pale and cold, blood crusting the creases of her knuckles. The creaking of floorboards has Aisha hastily pressing her ice cold hands against her lips, the taste of her blood — copper and iron with a hint of something sweet like antifreeze — failing to churn her stomach when even the hint of slowly encroaching rot has her heart clogging her throat so not even a whimper can make it past her lips.

She’s sure her lungs stop working when a man crosses the threshold into the room, and immediately she’s hit with such a strong smell of decay, like death had crawled up her nose and died there. Her throat and chest spasm with the need to cough, tears freely running down her cheeks from how much effort it takes to keep quiet, but past her blurry vision she can see the man slowly walk into the room.

He’s tall and gangly like a newborn foal, bulky clothes widening his frame that’s mostly skin and bones, thinning blond hair badly swept over a sizable bald spot. He wouldn’t be so scary if his eyes didn’t glow an unnatural mixture of toxic green and burning red— the sight alone has goosebumps spreading across his skin, followed by a deep seated discomfort as if leeches are crawling inside her bones.

“Come out little girl,” Even his voice feels wrong, like glass ground on sandpaper, but he speaks with so much sweetness it’s disgusting. “We only want to talk to you, don’t worry you’re not in trouble.” She can tell he’s not from Urzikstan by the rough accent that muddles the Arabic words he speaks.

The floorboards creak softly as she shifts. His head swivels to look around the room and the man quickly walks over to the bed, dropping to his knees to look under it. “Fuck!” His facade falls as he snarls when he sees she’s not there, stumbling to his feet like a drunk. “I mean uh- don’t worry I’m not mad kid,” He chuckles lightly, trying to put on an act of a worried Samaritan, though the attempt falls short when his predatory eyes fall on the closet she’s hiding in.

“Hey, did you find her yet?” Another voice rings from the entrance of the room, this one feminine and with a slight drawl to her words as she speaks in english. It makes Aisha jump, though the squeaking boards beneath her go unnoticed when the new voice continues. “Boss is starting to get antsy and if we don’t find her soon he’ll be sticking your ass with the pigs.”

She can’t see well, but she’s certain the man shows a middle finger to the unseen person. “Fuck off,” He spits out the response like it’s a mouthful of poison, “We both know you’re the dead weight.” He says, taking a few steps around the bed, but luckily for Aisha he stops in the middle of the room. Aisha can hear how deeply he breathes in, before something catches in his throat and he coughs. “I can smell the magic, the wench is still in the house.”

“Bullshit.” The woman scoffs, “You say that every hunt and we end up wasting our time.” A moment passes before the unseen woman chuckles and adds. “You couldn’t smell shit if you shoved your head up your ass!”

The man openly seethes, quick and heavy footsteps carrying him right up to the woman and out of Aisha’s field of view. “You take that back you fucking bitch!” The snarl is more animal than man. Aisha can only assume he punches the woman from the way the floorboards groan loudly in the otherwise silent night, shoes scuffing on the floor, grunts and swears filling the air as the noises of fighting steadily recede to another room.

She’s light headed by the time she manages to pull her hands away from her mouth enough to draw in a breath of stale air, her lungs burning from how long she had gone without breathing. Her heart drums loudly in her skull, her ears pricked to listen to the two strangers exchange angry words in a language she doesn't understand, each passing second of the continuing scuffle making confidence slowly form in her mind.

This is her chance!

. . . to do what?

She doubts she could take them on, she's pretty sure she saw a gun hanging off the man's waist, and she definitely knows she won't be able to outrun them. She's stuck. Cornered.

“Whatever, you just fin-” The sound of footsteps once again nearing the room she's in forces her body to act without her input.

Fishhooks tug on her fingers and force them to splay out flat in the air despite the pain. Her mind scrambles to think of something, anything, before unseen hands pull her mouth open. A shaky breath escapes her lungs and before she knows it words are falling from her lips, so smooth and fluent like her mind is reading a script carved into her bones. “Oh harsh creatures of brutal winter, please, I need your help-” Something cold and sharp stabs behind her chest, more of her skin turning pale as magic slowly crawls down her arms.

It hurts —

Spiderweb cracks of broken glass spread across her knuckles and a fat drop of blood rolls down her chin from how tightly she bites her lip. Her blood beads through the cracks in her skin, the dark crimson turned a light pink by the freshly exposed white light that pulses beneath her skin like a living thing. Aisha sucks in a sharp breath before continuing, “- I beg you, give me a crumb of your power, a ball of silent snow to hide my life-” The more she speaks, the more the white light cracks through her skin until it cracks through the pads of her fingers and escapes as shoddily formed snowflakes.

They dance through the air like drunken fireflies before finding the right position and floating in the air. More of them spawn from each finger with every word spoken, taking their own place in an unknown pattern.

Slowly the overlapping snowflakes take on the shape of a scratchy circle, trembling lines forming a complex web of shapes inside it. The pain grows with it; it turns her fingers pale and numb as if she had stuck her hands in freezing water, the icy bite of frost spreading up her wrists. Her frozen skin cracks from even the slightest tremor in her hands, white speckles dancing in her crimson blood as it leaks down her palms. Each second taken to breathe and bite back a whimper disrupts the fragile collection of snowflakes, causing parts of the circle to break off and drop to the ground in big watery drops.

Her chest feels like it’s tightly packed with soaked wool, a type of pressure building behind her sternum, her shoulders stiff as her body is getting ready for. . . something good—

The closet door swings open with enough force to break it off its hinges. White light of the circle refracts off the gun aimed at her.

Bang!

A bullet tears through the magic circle and shatters it into pieces, all the pressure that had been building in her body rushing through the crumbling remains of the circle right back at her.

She screams and shakes, fat tears freely running down her cheek like the blood flowing from her palms. There’s not a single word in any language able to describe the pain rushing through her veins, the liquid agony infesting every cell — sharp and blunt and deep and gnawing, like her body is trying to eat itself, like she’s infested with maggots; the bullet that tears through her side feels like a soft mercy.

“Fucking moron!” She barely hears the woman snarl over the rush of blood in her ears. The gun aimed at her is roughly pushed down. “Are you trying to get the boss to take our heads?” The stench of rot only worsens it, disorientating her further and she’s barely able to make her fingers twitch. She’s got no defense from the rough hand that roughly grabs her by the hair and pulls her out of the closet.

“I’d rather not die from a first time mage!” The man yells, grabbing her by the shoulder. Aisha’s legs can’t support her weight no matter how much she tries, but the man is far stronger than she had expected and has no problem holding her up. Her lungs manage a pained sound before her arms are grabbed and painfully wrenched behind her back, handcuffs softly clicking as they’re tightened until the steel digs into her aching wrists.

“Oh so when I’m the one on the end of the damn spells it’s fine then?” The woman’s anger shows in the way her cracked nails dig into Aisha’s scalp and pull her head back like she's trying to take it off entirely. Aisha struggles to breathe, gasping and wriggling to the best of her ability but it’s useless and a second later a thick metal collar is tightened around her neck, rusted needles on the inside of it pricking her skin enough to draw blood.

It burns. The collar rapidly heats up like she's got a string of hot coals around her neck, the heat traveling down her skin to grip her heart in a vice. The collar is so tight she can’t even gasp, fresh adrenaline pouring through her veins as she tries to scramble out of the handcuffs, tries to shake out of their hold, tries to just get away. . . but she’s about as strong as a kitten.

“You’re expendable. The girl could make a better spell than you.” The man holding her shoulder laughs and pulls her away as soon as the woman lets go of her hair, all too happy to drag her like a sack of potatoes behind him. Each step down the stairs has the base of her spine awkwardly hitting the step, accosting her frazzled brain with even more pain.

“We got the girl, boss!” The man says triumphantly, pulling her up so she’s facing another man. Even with the tears blurring her vision, Aisha can tell the ‘boss’ isn’t from Urzikstan; He’s a pudgy little man with a wide flat nose and other features that don’t quite fit his face, but his eyes — they glow the same rainbow hue as the other two, with the same malice.

“Finally.” The boss huffs, not wasting a single second and pulling a knife from his pocket. A rough hand holds Aisha’s head so she can’t squirm away from the knife as it cuts across her cheek. Just that small cut feels like a gaping wound and a small whimper falls from her lips as the boss pulls the knife back, specks of white floating in the dark blood coating the metal. A black tongue slips from his lips to lick up the bloodied edge, the sight making her stomach curl with disgust.

Another hand grabs her cheek, cracked fingers like claws digging into the cut until blood flows over the man's fingers. The man holding her pulls his bloodied fingers into his mouth, humming. A second passes before he curses and spits at his feet. “There’s barely anything there,” He says, the hold he has on her tightening. “Barely worth the bullet.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem.” The boss waves him off, sharp rainbow eyes looking her up and down. “Couple of grams from ol’ daddy Magnus and we’ll have ourselves a proper sow.” He reaches out to pat the top of her head, condescending — like she's just a dumb animal. “Alright, put it in the truck.” The boss orders and the man holding her complies, starting to drag her to the truck parked in front of the house.

Somehow, behind the the loud beating of her heart, she hears rumbling. Somehow, though her mind is like tangled yarn and she can barely grasp a thought, she feels something — an emotion that doesn't belong to her: Anger

Violent anger. Burning hot in the cold night, so all consuming it leaves the world around her trembling.

"Hold on-" The boss says suddenly, quickly raising his head to sniff the air. "Do you smell that?"

Tires screech against the rocky road, orange flames sparking from thin air as a motorcycle appears out of nowhere. Aisha only manages to get a glimpse of glowing orange eyes before she's blinded by bright light. She closes her eyes, heat washing over her body before she hears the head of the man holding her explode.

Shards of bone and brain matter rain down on her, sticking to her dark curly hair. The body stands for a second, unaware it no longer has a head as the charred stump of the neck steams. The body falls to the ground and takes Aisha with it, falling on top of her.

The elbow digs into her bleeding side, her eyes flying open as she struggles to get out from under the man, managing to push him off. Her gaze flies to the steaming charred stump where the head used to be. Panic rising she breathes in and oh god the smell — it’s an automatic response; Her stomach convulses and she pukes, bile burning her throat, retching and crying as the scent of her bile only makes it worse.

She feels heat rush over her and she doesn’t need to see to know your magic makes the other man and woman’s heads pop like grapes. Their bodies drop to the ground somewhere behind her, but what makes adrenaline rush through her is the soft sound of the motorcycle stand clicking against the ground.

Her head flies up to look, heart beating like a bird in the cage of her ribs; Dirt crunches beneath your boots but to her it sounds like breaking bones, steam rises off your body, the bright glow of your arms and the intense glare of your eyes behind the tinted lenses of your mask. . . it all gives the image of a demon — of something she needs to flee from.

If the people had been coyotes, then this person— no. . . the thing that had found her was a starved lion.

She tries to scramble back but it's useless when the smallest twitch of a muscle has her whimpering, blistering cold gnawing on every inch of her nerves.

You reach her in seconds, leaning down to grab her by the front of her clothes to pick her up like she weighs nothing. Your scent floods her nose, rot and just a small hint of sweetness, like honey poured on the floors of a burning charnel house. She tries to kick you but can barely move her toes, her legs just swaying uselessly beneath her. Your fingers, warm but not burning hot, hook under the steel wrapped around her neck.

Your jaw tenses, trying to remember how to speak. "Hold still." You order.

Your voice is soft. Not the velvet softness of her mothers', more akin to the smoothness of a tar pit right before it pulls a hapless creature into its inky depths. But you don't hurt her.

Metal screeches as the rusted steel bends like clay under your fingers. It only takes a few seconds before the collar clatters to the ground. The sudden release of pressure has Aisha gasping for breath so quickly she starts coughing and almost pukes but luckily her stomach is empty.

She doesn't feel you free her hands, the world spinning a thousand miles a minute before her eyes. She's forced to close her eyes shut in an attempt to fight back the nausea, rainbow spots crackling in the darkness of her vision.

Casually stepping over the corpse of the Devourer you sit her down on the hood of the truck, keeping a hand on her shoulder to make sure she doesn't fall face first to the ground. She shivers under your touch, trembling hands slowly raising to grip your wrist. You don't need magical sight to know an aborted spell is ravaging her insides; her fingertips turning black in front of your eyes and the specks of white dancing in her pupil is enough.

Judging by the way you can barely pick up the scent of mage standard rot on her, you can only assume she's a late bloomer. With a small huff you place your other hand on the middle of her chest, casting a simple circle at your palm.

Aisha gasps, fingers scrambling to try and pull your hand off, too numb with cold to register how the cooling lava making up your skin warms up. But it's like trying to move a mountain. You don't budge an inch. She can feel something inside her move, burning frost shepherded by blistering heat slinking down her fingers back into her heart, increasing speed with every inch it travels. She barely notices the aching in her side subsiding, or the sensation returning to her fingers.

You let go of the girl when you’re satisfied she won’t die from either blood loss or mana shock, leaving her to sit on the hood of the car as she looks dumbly at you.

The bullet loudly clatters on the steel hood. She turns her head and her eyes nearly pop out of her skull at the sight of her blood literally bleaching out of her clothes like it's being drawn back into her body. Letting go of your wrist she lifts her shirt, and there's not even a mark on her tan skin.

She’s no threat to you.

No sooner that you take a step away from her does Beelzebub's cold presence rush out of your heart with enough force to make you stumble back. People say it’s madness for a spell, a tool, to have personality. But the way black candlelight flames spark at your fingers and immediately rush out like a swarm of locusts to devour the three bodies is. . . it's angry. Vengeful As it should be. You can't fool yourself into thinking the way Beelzebub's magical fires eat away the Devourers hands before spreading over the rest of the body, crackling and buzzing like thousands of flies as they devour skin, then muscle, then bone until not even dust remains, is anything but vindictive.

Like erasing mistakes, it brings you a sense of satisfaction.

Your fingers twitch but you stop yourself from reaching up to trace the faint blue magic gluing your throat together. Instead, you focus on converting the mangled chunks of mana Beelzebub deposits in your chest into something you can use. Devours are a pain in the ass, so much different mana all twisted and held together with gum and staples, all of it now bashing against your ribs like wailing ghosts. With a huff you focus, the rock chunks on your arms getting wider and bigger as you store the stolen mana for later use, steam lazily rolling off your shoulders.

Aisha watches you, eyes wide, but. . . not scared. She doesn’t notice when she opens her mouth, her voice far too loud in the silent night. “Are you a jinn?” She asks, and cringes at her words. Of all the things she could have said, she chose that?

You don't know how you manage to open your mouth enough to answer. “No.” Beelzebub, satisfied as a hog in shit, burns on the ground for a few seconds in the shape of the bodies before seeping back into the earth, settling back to slumber in your heart.

You roll your shoulders. The slight bite of pain and the spasm of your muscles reminds you of the glass sticking out of your back. A grunt forces past your lips, more from annoyance than actual pain. A simple thought is enough to activate the magic you had cast on yourself, vestigial sparks flickering across your shoulders and boring a hole into your jacket. The edges glow brightly before they birth flames that eat away the bulletproof vest and the rest of your clothing until a sizable chunk of your back is exposed.

Aisha catches the edge of a small circle scribed atop your spine in the middle of your back, but her eyes are soon drawn to the mess of glass shards sticking out of your skin. There’s not a speck of blood in sight, but somehow that makes the sight more disturbing. Her gasp falls deaf on your ears, your mind more focused in trying to remove them.

Forcing your opposite hand to cool down enough so the heat doesn’t shatter the glass, you reach back as far as you can, trying to feel as best you can with your numb fingers. But your hands are stiff and unfeeling, making you fumble about like a bull in a china shop as you try to get one shard and miss. The only time you manage to grasp the sharp edge, you break it when you attempt to pull it out. A curse slips past your lips and you crush the broken piece between your fingers.

Aisha doesn’t know what possesses her, nothing good probably, but she speaks up. “Can I-” Your head turns to her so fast she startles, mouth snapping shut with an audible clack of her teeth. She can only stare at those burning eyes for a second before her animal brain forces her to look away, focusing on the gas mask portion of your mask because looking at your eyes feels wrong. But she powers through it, forcing herself to speak. “Can I help you?”

That was not what you expected.

“No.” You say, your head swiveling to glance at the road and then back up to the sky, a pulse of formless magic slipping past your fingers on instinct to ensure you’re covering all your bases as far as relative safety goes. You don’t see nor sense any form of life besides the girl, nor any mage magic save for the tracker in your pocket.

You hate to admit it, but the wraith was good. And so was the mage that made the tracker, it took you a good while until you had sensed the small piece of enchanted rock hidden in your pocket. You’re still unsure what you want to do with it, maybe you could somehow game the situation or send the monsters after you on a wild goose chase, so for now you’ve only isolated it with your magic instead of destroying it.

Aisha persists. “Please,” She grits her teeth, resisting the urge to shrink back when your eyes once again settle on her. “I- you helped me, I don’t want to hold debts.” There is a kind of determination in her eyes you know too well, the same kind Frosty had right before you and him—

If anyone asks or puts a gun to your head, you will blame this moment on many things — the fatigue, the side effects of using too much magic, the spiraling descent into lichdom, finally losing what dredges of sense you have in your no good skull; “Fine.”

You take careful steps towards her until your knees press against the bumper before turning your back to her, forcing her to spread her legs to accompany your body. You keep your body turned in a way that still keeps her in your periphery. Not that it matters. Even if she had a knife hidden on her person nothing short of 30/06 ammo could leave any damage you couldn’t immediately heal off.

Aisha hates the part of her that regrets her decision now that she's presented with the large array of glass sticking out of your skin. She reaches out like she would try to pet a wild dog, cold fingers gripping the sides of one piece, bracing her other hand on your back. She tries to wiggle it out, and though you keep yourself from hissing, your muscles still spasm around the sharp glass. “Sorry, sorry-”

“You’re fine rookie,” You grunt automatically. “Just yank it out.”

She sucks in a sharp breath and prepares herself like she’s the one with half a ton of glass using her as a pin cushion. But she does as you say before she can shy away from it. The glass slides out easily enough, glowing orange blood staining it. Her eyes go wide when the blood suddenly drips off the shard in one continuous stream until she’s holding a perfectly clean piece of glass. The blood lands on your back and slithers up your skin into the wound, repairing muscle and flesh until there’s not even a mark to indicate where the glass had pierced your skin.

“Are you like me?” She asks tentatively, mentally hitting herself for such a stupid question; of course you’re a mage, what is she even thinking? Hoping to escape the embarrassment she pulls another shard out of your back.

“You and I are mages.” You say simply, occasionally glancing to the road and sky before turning your attention back on the girl. It feels… strange. You don't remember the last time you've spoken with someone who didn't want anything from you. Someone who didn't want to use you. Kill you.

“Ye- yeah, I figured.” Aisha bites her lip, squinting her eyes. “Why… why did you save me?” She finally asks the question that had been plaguing her.

“I just did.” You shrug your shoulder, a small breath slipping past your clenched teeth as the motion makes the glass dig deeper into your shoulder.

Aisha’s shoulders fall, a frown tugging on her lips. She doesn’t know what she had expected. “Thank you.”

Her words make your head turn to look at her fully, “Why?”

“Why not?” Another chunk of glass falls to the ground, “You saved me from. . . them. You killed to save me.” She says, nodding her head at the three body shaped scorch marks on the ground. She doesn’t know why talking about the death of them suddenly feels so. . . normal, like she’s walking through a dream and none of this is real. More like a nightmare.

“Killing bad men doesn't make me a good one.” You grunt, choosing not to voice how your motives for killing them had been far more selfish than she could imagine. Vengeance and anger are poor motives, but motives nonetheless.

Aisha clicks her tongue and scowls. “And saving me would make you bad? One good deed has to amount for something, right?”

A pregnant pause rings through the silent night.

“You are strange.” Is the only thing your mind can turn into words.

“So are you!” She shoots back quickly, lowering her head when her words register in her brain. Chewing on her bottom lip she pulls out the last glass shard from your skin, letting it fall from her fingers where it joins the small pile on the ground. She awkwardly pats your shoulder. “Who were they?” She finds her voice again.

“Devourers.” You fail to hide the hate in your tone. Stepping away from her you activate the spell you’ve cast on yourself. The magic burning at the edges of the hole in your clothing flares up, fire washing over your naked skin to reconstruct the fabric you had destroyed. “Humans who want magic, and will bleed you dry to get it.” The jacket feels bigger on you than it should, you don’t even doubt that you’ve lost a few pounds just in the past few hours as you’re forced to tighten your belt to keep your pants from sagging. "Kill them if you can, avoid them if you can't."

“Why did they want me?” Aisha asks, bracing herself on the car’s hood and slowly sliding down until her feet touch the ground. She feels lightheaded and sways on her feet, gripping the hood to keep upright. You glance at her but she just shakes her head — you two are even now, she hopes, she doesn’t want to have to ask for help for something as simple as standing.

“You’re a mage, they want magic.” You shrug, fixing the cuffs on your jacket so not an inch of your mage marked skin shows. “They want your blood, by drinking it they can use what they lack.”

Unwanted thoughts laugh at the back of your mind. Phantom pain blooms across your throat as you swallow, your lungs stuttering to draw breath. Memories you'd rather not revisit nibble at the back of your mind, just begging to gain your attention. Your hand reaches out to hold the tags—

Nothing.

You come up empty.

Your heart finally stops.

You hold your fist against your chest for a few seconds, the need to break something, even your own sternum, crooning soft melodies in your ears. Finally your fingers slowly uncurl so your palm rests flat over your heart. Your body is warm, but a blizzard rages inside your ribcage. You lost them, again. . . and you don’t feel fury, or sadness, or any other way. You don’t feel shit.

A low pathetic sound escapes you. Titanium wires stitch your jaw closed, pulled so taut you'd chip a tooth without your magic. For a split second you think of dispelling the magic around the tracker and letting them come to you. . . but you don’t; at least Taurus’s training remains effective. You’re sure your brain will let you feel anger as soon as you’ll be in a position to survive the consequences of anger birthed stupidity.

Aisha leans to her side just enough to see your front, confusion written on her face as to why you had suddenly gone quiet. Though your eyes still burn with an inferno, they feel empty to her. She remembers her father’s eyes had been the same when he had returned from fighting. “Did you lose someone?” She asks, voice soft.

“Yes.” You grunt, and fuck, it feels insulting to them how lost you sound. You’re one of the best mages on the planet for fuck’s sake, you’re not supposed to feel this way. “Lost a lot of people.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be.” You finally pry your hand off your chest, both hands now hanging by your sides, fingers curled into fists. “You had nothing to do with it.” You wish you could say the same to yourself.

You shake your head; feelings can come after the job is done. You know the general lay of the land enough to know there is a small city not far from where you are, one that isn’t too harsh on mages. It would take her a couple of hours on foot to reach, but it’s better than nothing. You tell as such, starting to walk towards your motorcycle. “Get to the city, don’t linger around here.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Aisha follows after you, struggling to keep up. “What am I supposed to do when I get there?” Her mind swirls with all sorts of questions, where will she go? What of her parents? What if—

“Do what you want.” You shrug and get on the motorcycle, the engine roaring to life. “Join the military or the circus or whatever else, just don’t stay here.” And with that you drive off.

. . .

"Well, would you look at that." A man sighs as he pulls the binoculars down to rest in his lap, a deep frown on his face. It only lasts for a scant few seconds before he smirks, crows feet forming around his eyes. "Our firebug's manners haven't changed one bit." The man chuckles and turns his head to regard his companion, eyes glowing the color of crystal clear quartz.

"Oh, I wonder who taught him that." The woman sitting next to him snarks, the blue chains marring her arms disappearing like a mirage when she dispels the illusion spell. The human skin melts away to coarse sand and weathered whalebone, red bone eating worms squirming and boring holes into the whalebone, small anglerfish lures softly waving through the air as if she's deep beneath the sea.

The man purses his lip, "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure, mister 'I dropped a mountain on an oil rig with my second in command still in it'." Water flows between the seams of whalebone, extending past the stumps of her wrists to form hands of seafoam and salt.

She uses her newly remade hands to tug on the man’s ear like he’s a disobedient child.

The man scoffs and bats her hand away. "Hey now, you did say you wanted to go diving." He shrugs, "Oh, and looks like I won our bet." He smirks, catching the golden coin the woman throws him. Charles's face smiles on one side of it, but the man pays it no mind and puts the coin in his pocket; they’re both far too old to care about money and the dead kings on them.

“Yes, but not like that!” She snaps, not even the bandages around her head able to hide the glare she throws at him. But instead of following up on her anger she sighs and looks down at her hands. Glowing blue plankton swim in the crystal clear waters, but it feels like yesterday her hands were dyed a burning orange.

She hates what they had to do. What they continue to do. “Ifrit is still too reckless. Your plan failed.”

“No it didn’t.” He shoots back. “We just overestimated the kid again. It wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t coddled them all so much.”

The man fully expects the slap on the shoulder he receives, cool water splashing on his greying blond hair. He doesn’t comment on it, simply runs his hand over the patch of wet hair. Small green shrubs bloom on the cracked earth texture of his palm, moss crawling up the crystalline outcrops along his elbow bone, little flowers sprouting in his hair and beard.

They sit in silence for a moment before the woman sighs and hangs her head. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” Lifting her head she angles it to look at the man. “I just… I wish we didn’t have to do this.” She confesses. “It breaks my heart to see Ifrit so lost.” As much as her still heart can be broken.

“I know, I know.” He reaches out to gently take her hands into his. Though she can’t see his face, even her magic can only go so far, she knows he’s sporting a gentle smile. “Ifrit will be fine. He has no choice.”

Two jet planes fly overhead, engines screaming, blind to their existence as they rush after their prodigal soldier like bats out of hell.

The woman grimaces, water easily sliding past his fingers as she pulls her hands away. “I know,” She tilts her head towards the abandoned house, and the girl slowly walking away from it. “I suppose I’ll find something to occupy myself with.” The woman gets up, glancing at the man once again. “I hope you know what you’re doing Taurus.”

"I always do Sierra."

. . .

The atmosphere is so thick a vampire could bite into it. They all know first hand how missions can go wrong in a moment’s notice, but none of them had expected it to go this pear shaped; some of the mages they had been given are dead, the rest are all in some kind of coma, and it’s a miracle that Captain Roberts had survived long enough to get medical evac with how burned up she was. Gaz had almost lost his lunch when he’d gone to pick up the mage captain and her arm had fallen off in brittle pieces of blackened bone, fabric and skin melted together all over her torso.

"Are you boys alive?" Is the first question out of Laswell's lips when the contact her. The shoddy connection makes her face grainy and pixelated, but her voice is clear enough, tinged with exhaustion and the light of the screen darkens the bags under her eyes.

“Yeah,” Kyle says, “Besides nearly getting turned into KFC we’re fine.” He moves his wings for emphasis, holding back a grimace at how the residual soot and ash irritates the soft skin beneath his feathers. He’ll be lucky if it’ll wash out after a week, though the grime is only secondary to the stench of death and heat clinging to him.

Soap grunts, not bothering or simply forgetting to pull the frozen piece of rubber from his mouth before speaking. “O-cgh ohnlhy ah fheph burhnrs.” Spit leaks down his swollen lip as he gurgles. It hadn't been noticeable at first, but when the adrenaline wore off the pain in his gums hit him like a truck. The medic had given him the rubber to soothe the burns all over his mouth, and he would have been pissed about how much it looked like a doggy chew toy if the relief it brought wasn’t worth it. Doesn’t mean he’s any less agitated about looking like a teething puppy.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Kyle chides, singed wingtips flicking against the back of Soap’s skull.

Johnny pulls the rubber out of his mouth enough to growl back and simultaneously tries to swallow the saliva. He chokes, hitting his chest a few times and coughing, “Yae try ta talk with a burned mouth! Feel like ah’ve been gargling devil pish.”

“Boys.” Price snaps, voice as cold and hard as his reptilian eyes. “Enough.” There’s a hardness in his gaze neither men have seen in a while or even think of challenging. It’s easy to see that something is bothering the dragon, even if he doesn’t say it, and whatever it is, it’s got Price angry.

Not the usual ‘shouting and arguing’ angry Price gets when he’s given dog shit orders, no. This is the cold and silent anger that precedes the destruction of cities.

Soap looks away, biting down on the frozen rubber. Gaz mumbles an apology.

“John,” Kate begins, sensing the storm in his head. “What did you find out?”

“Ifrit knows Ruin magic.” Price says, bits of steam rising from the corners of his lips as his anger shows. He had gone centuries believing that despicable magic had finally died out and rotted away like every mage that used it. He was wrong. Very wrong.

“Shit.” Laswell rubs the bridge of her nose, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Price’s wing flares out a bit, tail flicking side to side in a subconscious show of agitation. “I felt it.”

“Anyone care to share with the class.” Simon asks, arms crossed over his chest and claws digging into his biceps. The light pricks of pain keep him grounded enough to ensure his arms don’t turn into puffs of dark smoke; he’s had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since the fight, something about you — how you moved, how confidently you used magic — he hadn’t seen it in a while.

And it didn’t bode well. It was better when a mage was scared of their own shadow and put on a cheap mask of confidence. But with you? There wasn’t even a single second of hesitation in anything you did.

Price looks at him, then at the two sergeants, finally looking at Laswell as the two exchange nods. “It’s nothing good.” A sigh leaves him. “Ruin magic is old and dangerous,” Price starts, eyes hard like stone. “The last time it was used a plague swept across Europe.”

“What?” Kyle’s eyebrows furrow. “Do you seriously mean the black death was caused by magic?”

"Yes," Kate says, "But we can have a history lesson later. Ifrit knowing ruin magic changes things, they're now our top priority."

"Ah dhogh geh-" Soap remembers they can't understand him and pulls the rubber out of his mouth. "Ah don't get it, what's so special about ruin magic? Ain't all that magical shite the same?"

"No." Price grunts, "A ruin mage needs the body of another person to learn a spell. They see anything or anyone living as chunks of meat to be used in their spells." His eyes darken, claws digging into his palms.

He shakes his head. “Did you manage to get any information about Ifrit from the tags?” Price asks. He had sent photo copies of each dog tag to Laswell as soon as Johnny had given them to him.

Soap pulls the rubber from his mouth, swallowing the excess spit before reaching out to grab the tags laying on the table. He doesn’t know why, but something about holding them feels sacrilegious to him; like he’s holding the pelt of another werewolf instead of pieces of metal.

“No, Ifrit’s tags aren’t ones made by the military.” Laswell says, and that piques Kyle's interest. He leans over to look at the tags as Johnny inspects them. The metal chain hangs loosely off his fingers, weighed down by more than a dozen tags dangling from it. They vary in damage, some are bent, some have black heat marks on them in the shape of fingertips, and some are so blackened he needs to use his fingers to feel the text. Silicon silencers prevent the tags from making noise when he lays them down in a pile on his palm, a couple of them spilling over to hang at the sides of his hand. The first thing he notices is the stench, nothing specific like the smell mages have, but it’s not pleasant either.

Soap takes a random tag and reads off the fine text —

‘JACHAL

VENENUM, ACIDUM, L9

MAJOR

O NEG

JEWISH’

“Yer telling me.” Soap huffs, taking out his own tags from beneath his shirt to compare the two, just to make sure he’s not insane and the tags don’t make sense.

“What kind of shite even is this?” Johnny’s tags sport his full government name and security name without mentioning his rank. The tags he has in his hand look more like the ones civies would get personalized than anything else. He grimaces and hands the tags over to Gaz, “Are they even real?” He asks.

“Why would someone just carry around a bunch of fake tags?” Gaz asks, inspecting them as well.

“Could be part of a wannabe militia. Wouldn’t be the first time some punks with guns tried to play army.” Ghost shrugs. “Could also be to throw us off.” Ghost suggests, tilting his head enough to see Kyle appraise the small hunks of metal. “Or it’s all for shits n’ giggles.”

Kyle’s sharp eyes spot the tag he had been looking for; the tag is the only one without a silencer, the metal caked in soot and ash that the letters are hard to see and Kyle needs to trace the metal with the pad of his thumb to understand what they say:

‘IFRIT

IGNIS, CINIS, RUINA L10

CAPTAIN–

“Whoa,” Gaz’s eyebrows raise. “Ifrit’s a bloody captain.”

“What’s someone like that doing as a terrorist’s dog?” Soap asks.

“Ifrit’s motives remain unclear, but I did find something.” Kate shuffles some papers off screen, pulling up two thin looking file folders. “Two of the tags you sent me have actual people on them.” She says, taking a paper from each folder. Even through the camera they can see how the once crisp white paper has been yellowed with age. “Lance Corporals Hutch and Lambert, both presumed KIA nearly 11 years ago along with their entire squad. Apparently they were led by Corporal Yerrow to conduct a reconnaissance mission in Iraq to investigate a human smuggling ring, but a shoot-out caused a forest fire and no bodies were ever recovered.”

Johnny sniffs the air, crossing his arms over his chest, tail tip slowly wagging. “Anyone smell bull shite?”

“You’re not the only one.” Kate turns the files so the text side is aimed at the camera. More than half of the documents are redacted to the point it looks like a rorschach test. “I haven’t been able to access the original files, if they even exist, but the agent that oversaw the mission was a predecessor of mine, I’ll see if I can get in contact with him. ” It wouldn’t be the first time the CIA covered something up, but what could have happened back then that even Kate couldn’t get to the files?

“Great, what other shite can we pile on our plates?” Soap growls, ears twitching.

“Don’t jinx it.” Kyle says, gently setting the tags on the table.

“There’s another thing.” Kate adds, putting the files away.

“Nice going puppy.” Ghost grunts, ignoring the look Soap gives him.

“Whatever it is, it’ll need to wait.” Price says, speaking up finally. “Ifrit’s a ruin mage. We need to put it down before it melts half the country to slag.”

“That’s the problem.” Kate’s voice makes Price’s eyes sharpen, slitted pupils turning into thin black lines. “We’ve managed to identify the gas used in the terror attack. It was Sarin gas, remnants of Barkov. The same ones Makarov stole.”

“Told you they’re a damn magnet fer wankers.” Soap mutters under his breath. Price's eyes shift to him, giving him a hard look and making it very clear it’s not the time for his comments. Soap’s ears twitch and his tail curls around his leg.

“How did Al-Qatala get their hands on the gas? There’s no way Makarov would just hand over his toys.” Ghost asks.

“We don’t know yet. And we might not ever know if you don’t hurry.” Kate stresses. “The top brass figured out Khaled’s location, they think Ifrit’s going after Khaled so they’re sending troops to take them both out in one place as we speak.”

Price catches on quickly. “Kate, you’re not telling me we need Ifrit alive?” Price stresses, body stiff.

“I’m not,” Kate rebuts, just as tense. “This is an order.” Price flashes his teeth at her, but finally looks away, black smog escaping past the corner of his lips.

“If you can’t get to Khaled, Ifrit will be our only chance to get Makarov.” She ads.

“So go capture the human bomb without dying.” Gaz summarizes, claw tips nervously scratching at the fresh pin feathers growing from his forearms. “Sounds easy.”

“Walk in tae park.” Johnny snarks.

"Only the parks on fire." Ghost adds, tone dry as old bone.

Price stays still and silent for a few moments. Thunder rumbles in his chest and his tail tip lashes against the floor as indications of his anger. His claws scrape against his palms with the need to tear into the festered flesh of the ruin mage, to rip out the heart and destroy it so he can make sure that blasted magic is gone for good.

But he relents, only so he can have unrestrained access to you once they get the information they need. “Pack up. On the double.” Price growls. “We’ve got a mage to hunt.”

. . .

Why did you do it?

It had been a split second decision to divert course when you'd sensed the Devourers, and even then, the mana they gave you through Beelzebub was miniscule compared to what you were used to handling. Hell, you probably wasted more mana using the temporary invisibility spell to get close to the Devourers than what you made from them.

With Khaled's betrayal and an unknown military likely after your head, ignoring the Devourers would have been the smart move. Your ‘heroic’ act won’t earn you any brownie points with whatever made the mistake of putting you on the planet — that’s for fucking sure.

But. . . she reminded you of, well, you. The you violent flames had cremated when they first sparked across your fingers. The you you’d left behind when you took your friend’s hand and ran as fast as your legs could carry. The you you’d been forced to stuff beneath the floorboards and ignore as you lied to the recruiter. The you you sometimes wish you hadn’t forsaken for the sake of survival.

. . . eh, what does it matter? Frosty’s as dead as the rest of them and no amount of grief and tears (assuming you could even force yourself to weep) will bring him back. Maybe it’s a good thing you never found his tags, the universe’s way of keeping him from suffering the humiliation you’ve inflicted on the others.

The engine roars beneath you like a caged beast, each little rock and hole in the uneven terrain causing the motorcycle to buck, the back of the seat knocking up into your tailbone. It’s a necessary evil, driving far away from the main road with the lights off helps you evade detection slightly better, and you’ll take anything you can get. Your commander’s words are etched into your bones: “Only let your enemies know you’re coming when your knife is hilt deep in their throat.”.

The sizzle in your bones and little deep pinpricks of pain in your lower back are barely noticeable with how numb you feel. Both in body and in what’s left of your humanity. You’ve gotten good at that — turning off your emotions and doing what needs to be done; you’re sure if you got shot dead that your body would finish the mission before it figured out there was a bullet in your skull.

Sometimes you even wonder what a witch would see if she ever tried to scry into your heart. Would it still be the hellish landscape Taurus showed you all those years ago? Or would it be like Pompei? Or some other landscape of impeccably preserved tragedy?

Your fingers twitch around the handlebars in an attempt to stop yourself from reaching out for something that’s not there anymore. Some vestigial and selfish part of you whimpers and yearns for the brief respite the tags brought. Their absence feels more suffocating than all the times you’ve been hanged; more painful than when your throat had been used as an artistic butcher’s canvas.

Your magical senses pick up the life signs long before your enhanced ears hear the screech of jet engines. You nearly snap your neck with how quickly you look up, able to catch two jet planes flying overhead by the glow of their engines, trying to track both of their flight paths.

You tighten the grip on the handlebars and increase the speed. You don’t stop to see if they saw you, you know they did from the way the planes twirl in the air. . . and from the way they shoot rockets at you.

Letting go of one handle you let mana rush to your fingers, cinders burning away your sleeve and glove. Just as the rockets get close enough for you to hear their screeching you swing your arm up, a burning arch of flames following after your palm. The motion is enough to tell your brain what you want, a thick screen of roaring flames spreading out from the arc in front of you.

The missiles hit the wall of flames instead of you. You swear you nearly go deaf from the loud explosion the missiles make when they connect with your defense magic, everything around you shaking from the sudden force but the spell holds, not even a scratch in sight. The resulting smoke flares around the sides in a suffocating cloud, the thick wall of fire obscuring your vision and forcing you to blindly swerve side to side.

Your magic may protect you, but it can’t stop the rocket from hitting the ground right in front of the wheel. The whistle and screech of the missile is the only warning you get before the ground beneath you explodes and sends you flying. You hit the ground and roll, jagged rocks slamming into your bones, scraps of metal pelting your back. Magic washes over you to heal the bones you break.

It leaves you feeling every bit of pain when the motorcycle falls on top of you, pushing the breath out of your lungs. The sudden force has your jaw slamming onto the ground, your tongue caught between your teeth. Blood floods your mouth. It tastes like battery acid and burns your throat on its way down to your stomach, but it forces adrenaline to rush through your system and let you push the motorcycle off you.

Your spine cracks multiple times in the short seconds it takes for your magic to fix the bones, giving you back the sensation in your limbs so you can roll to your side and avoid another missile. You summon a few smaller flame shields to protect your head and vitals from the blast, but not from the sharp rocks that hit your back like grenade pieces.

Your vision swimming and ears ringing you scramble to your knees. You’re given no choice but to use your own blood. Even with the distraction of another missile hitting your shield, it’s easy for you to focus your mana. It flows from your heart to your fingers but you don’t let it escape like it wants. Forcing it to pool in your palms until the heat burns away your remaining glove and turns the stone of your hands into lava.

It only takes a few seconds for fat drops of brightly melted rock to drip onto the ground, and only then can you feel your blood, both the one in your veins and the rivulets of bright orange freely flowing down your back. Burning hot and brimming with so much mana it’s no problem for you to take hold of the blood you've bled. Bright crimson crawls across your back to draw a magic circle from memory alone.

Quickly hunching your back generates enough force to make your blood bust through your vessels, two arcs of blood tearing through skin and muscle like a knife. The bright glow of your blood lights up the dark, stray droplets hovering in the air like oil in water as more of it flows from your body and branches out until it resembles skeletonized wings. Fire sparks at your skin and follows the blood, forcing it to crystallize in place as ash takes up the space between the bones and cascades down in long shrouds. Obsidian sharp crystal blood digs into your skin with every little move of your new wings as they twitch erratically. Lighting races up your spine, your mind forced to create new nerves and deal with sensations it wasn’t designed for.

You summon a circle beneath your feet, ash bursting up to send you high into the air in a long continuous column like it’s the tower of Babel just as another missile hits the place you had been moments ago. The spark from the rocket ignites the ash, giving you an extra few feet in the air before you start to fall.

The leftover smoke swallows you whole, gravity forcibly tipping you back until you’re falling head first. The wind screeches in your ears and the grounds gets closer and closer with every second, the grim reaper laughing over your shoulder; you remember yelling and screaming, even passing out, many times during this type of training. Now, you are calm.

Your mind finally creates the right nerves to move your limbs. Your wings spread out with the same violence they burst out of your back, sharply pulling on your chest muscles as they swing out and down. The flap of your wings breaks off a bit of the ash covering your crystallized blood, flames burning at the tips of your wings making the ash erupt in an explosion and creating enough force for you to soar high into the air.

Flying is hard regardless of how often you’ve done this, your back muscles cramping as you struggle to use your new wings. Not that it actually is flying in the same sense the harpies or other winged creatures would call it. More like gliding with extra steps. Either way, it serves its purpose in making you airborne and mobile.

You shoot high up into the sky like a bullet, trails of ash following after you and wrapping around you like a shroud. The quick movement of your wings and sharp turns let you avoid a set of missiles shot at you, but even at your fastest speed you’ve got no chance of hitting the quick jets flying around you like flies. So instead you use simple spells and hope your aim hasn’t gotten rusty. The muscles in your core and arms tense, a circle forming flush with your palms. Mana rushes to your arms and you use the brief stability in the air between the flaps of your wings to set off your spell.

A solid beam of concentrated flame shoots out, thin as a pencil but it tears through the clouds and metal plane like butter. You manage to cleave off a wing, the wound left behind in the metal glows brightly, before a simple thought activates the latent magic and the entire jet explodes a second later.

Rockets and bullets fly at your back like plague carrying insects, only to be burned away by your magic. Your neck hurts from how sharply you jerk your head to look behind you, mana flowing to your eyes to enhance your sight until the jet is clearly visible. At least you have comfort in the fact your hand eye coordination is still as sharp as ever, another beam of fire cleaving the jet in two.

And just like that, you’re alone in the sky.

You don’t realize how rapidly your heart is beating until you take a moment to breathe, wings spreading out to let you glide through the sky. You reach into your pocket to pull out the tracker, a small piece of rich green rock. Your magic swirls across the surface of it, cinders worming through the stone; You don’t know how they found you when your magic is still active on the tracker, there are no ‘happy accidents’ in your line of work.

Gritting your teeth you dispel your magic around the tracker and toss it as far as you can in the opposite direction, wings pressing closer to your body to increase the speed of your glide.

With your motorcycle more than likely fucked, you have no choice but to rely on your bloodmade wings longer than you’d like. Using the mana you’d stuck on Khaled as a compass you let yourself fall and gain speed before spreading out your wings. The deep muscles in your back and chest scream for a second with each flap of your wings before your magic silences them, the discomfort of using temporary limbs easy to shove into the back of your mind. Your flying speed is much faster than that of the motorcycle, the ground moving rapidly beneath you.

You’re only mildly surprised to feel Khaled’s presence in his base. It’s an old oil refinery that was abandoned when the Russians restricted the production of oil in the country. Khaled found it and turned it into a bastion, hiding up high in the mountains like he’s some kind of king.

Any old dragon can attest a kingdom of steel and concrete like that won’t survive scorching flame.

Your only problem is that it’s got magic sensing tech, which just means there’s some extremely sensitive electronics that end up sparking like shoddily made light bulbs when more than just the smallest amount of modern magic is used. Sometimes you hate how thorough you are.

Luckily for you, it’s not the first time you’ve had to sneak past such tech.

You land near the base of the mountain, just at the edge where you know the range of those sensors ends. You’d like to say you land gracefully and with barely a sound, but you’re pretty sure a tank would have an easier time than you. The exhaustion and the added weight on your back doesn’t help you in any way to keep balance, making you stumble forward and almost trip on a root. Your arms spread out to grip the trees for support, but you underestimate your strength and the wood splinters under your right hand, making you fall face first.

The few seconds you spend flat on the ground is probably the longest you’ve spent laying down in the past month.

With a sharp breath you get to your feet, carefully leaning your shoulder against a tree. Your makeshift wings press against your back and pull on your muscles, but the thought of ‘what if you’ll need them?’ keeps you from dispelling them. Embers burn away the clothing shielding your front, giving yourself just enough sight of your skin to be able to cast the spells you need.

It’s one thing to push your mana to your hands and out as magic, it’s another to force the burning heat through every little capillary in your skin and pull on it in certain spots until magical circles etch themselves into your skin. It’s not that far off from using blood magic, only it requires a little less mana and focus. You’ve done this so much you could do it with your eyes closed, filling the insides of the circles with little diamonds and magical sigils only your mind can grasp.

The body enhancing spell has an immediate effect. The pain in your back disappears suddenly like it was never there, the vestiges of weakness from mana use getting pushed back to the back of your mind. It even dispels the base painful thrum in your skull you hadn’t realized you had.

With a clearer mind you go about casting more similar spells that carve themselves into your skin; one to temporarily strengthen your body beyond what you already have, another to force your mana generator to increase in productivity, yet a third one to increase the potency of your spells; Buffs that push your body past the edge of what it can take, to the point you barely feel human.

This is the closest man will ever come to godhood. ”Don’t let it get to your little head firebug.”

Your last spell to prepare is different. A dirty trick.

“Valefar.” You huff, speaking another name for a spell that deserves respect. Nothing happens at first, but then you feel it. Like a living thing deep beneath the earth, Valefar hums a soft lullaby to the tune of crackling flames. The dirt beneath you expands and black flames break through the earth, creating a spider web of dark old magic that fills up the empty root system spanning the entire mountain. The flames don’t dare touch you yet. They’re waiting. . . hungry.

Before the problematic thing in your skull can give you grief, you let the waiting beast in and welcome it like a brother. Valefar’s black flames shudder and slowly, carefully, crawl up your legs, scampering along your abdomen and kissing the sharp transition between skin and mage marks. They paint the yellow glow of your mage marks a pitch black, the magma of your arms and your crystalized blood turning black as obsidian. Even the flames tipping the ends of your wings turn black as pitch.

For a second you’re accosted with the sensation of every bit of magic you had pushed into the earth over the months, every drop of mana obediently waiting its time in the rotten root system. But Valefar soothes your mind, dampening the glow of your eyes and shrouding your brain in water cool flames. Valefar lacks the crushing weight or the freezing cold of most ruin spells, simply almost thrilled to be used.

Ruin magic is too old to be tracked by modern means, and you take the first step into the range of the sensors without fear. You knew Khaled would betray you, you’ve almost started growing old in an industry that killed its soldiers young, you knew to listen to your stomach. Khaled had been one of those people you wouldn’t trust as far as you could throw them, though you never expected him to be so brazen about it. It’s no different than the day hellfire rained down on your hea-

You stop yourself mid thought the second you register your anger trying to boil over, the burning heat inside your chest making steam rise off your shoulders. Asmodeus, the one spell you won’t ever use, sparks beneath your skin; angry, vengeful. You stifle it before it can gain an upper hand, sparks of black flame flying past your lips as you breathe out and escaping through the filters of your mask.

Taurus always blamed your hotheadedness on your magic. What is a mage if not the fire Prometheus stole for you? The suffocating hate Vesuvius spewed? The blackened rotten blood giving birth to spells like Beelzebub and Valefar?

Loud gunfire breaks through your thoughts; Khaled would never practice shooting drills in the middle of the night.

You increase your pace, turning your jog into a run. As you near the old refinery something immediately stands out to you – there’s way too many life signatures than there should be. Even without a good line of sight you can sense them, all those beating hearts and flickers of life fluttering together like moths until you find yourself with a massive pain in your skull.

Breathing out a small breath you duck behind the tall trees just at the edge of the compound. To say you’re surprised to find Urzikstan soldiers engaged in combat with Khaled’s men would be an understatement. And the army didn’t hold anything back. There’s a fuck ton of soldiers, most of them hiding behind tanks that block the only exit from the compound and sponge up the machine gun fire Khaled’s men are unloading into them. Bullets rain down on both sides, there’s even fucking helicopters flying in the air — this is a full on assault.

You can still sense Khaled is in the refinery somewhere, you would be able to narrow down on his exact location if there weren’t so many living bodies buzzing around like ants. Your mind whirls with ideas; you could use the distraction and sneak past, or you could just destroy both sides in one quick and clean attack, you doubt anyone would be able to notice you using magic when they’re more focused about the hail of bullets.

A tree branch snaps beneath you, followed by the clicking of a gun and three rounds going off. “Mage in sight! I repeat I got mage in sight!”

Nevermind.

The bullets tear through your vest but just bounce off your magic enhanced skin. You turn on your heel, holding your arm out. “Beelzebub.” Burning cold swells in your heart and crawls through your veins, black flames shooting out from your palm at the soldier. He barely has the chance to scream before the black fire eats away his vocal cords, his gun clattering to the floor. In only a few seconds the only thing left of him is the uniform and the black flames burning in the shape of a man.

Despite how stupid it might be, you let go of the fine control you have over Beelzebub. It doesn��t waste a second, thousands of little wisps of obsidian fire breaking off from the main mass and shooting out at the nearest source of organic matter. Be they tree or human, Beelzebub will devour them all the same.

Fresh mana fills your chest and you’re quick to turn it into something useful. This time it takes significantly less time to spread your wings, summoning ash beneath your feet and launching yourself up into the air.

Tree branches whack you over the head before you make it into the open air. . . and accidentally smash your head into the belly of a helicopter. A dull 'thump' sounds and you're not sure if it's your head that's empty or the helicopter.

Your vision blurs for a second, and you shake your head to get rid of the temporary headache. The helicopter swerves to the side, the tail swinging right at you, the soldiers inside yelling. Tucking your wings close to your body you fall just in time to avoid the tail, twisting your body as you careen through the air until you’ve got a clear line of sight. One magic circle is all it takes to blast a sizable hole through the center of the flying machine, taking out the engine and the blades all at once.

Quickly flapping your wings you dart up through the hole you created, ash flooding the inside of the heli as you pass and erupting in an explosion a second later. The heli plumets down to the ground but you stay in the air, spreading your wings out to soar. This high up you’ve got a clear view of everything — the entire compound, made up of two big buildings connected with a catwalk and oil storage towers; The machine gun men shooting at tanks with no regard for how many bullets they use; Beelzebub’s black flames spreading across the terrain like a forest fire, consuming everything in sight until the only thing left is scorched earth and dust.

First things first, the machine guns. Though not as dangerous to you as the tanks, you’ve had enough of them to sate you for a lifetime, and you’d rather not be on the receiving end again. With sitting ducks for targets it’s laughably easy to cast simple homing spells to kill the gunner and melt the machine guns mounted on the rails.

A bullet hits your chest, tearing through the bullet proof vest. It bounces off your skin but the force nearly knocks you out of the sky. You go with the force, tucking your wings and flipping backwards in the air until you can spread them out to glide down. You notice the snipers, two on the roof of each building, one on the middle one of the tall oil towers just behind the buildings. You go for the straggler first, diving down with the speed of a bullet.

The sniper tries to shoot you again but you barrel roll out of the way. You shoot a ball of flames at the sniper when you're close enough, completely disintegrating him on contact. Turning to your side you soar through the gap between two oil towers, making a sharp left turn around the tower with a quick flap of your wings so you can quickly soar up.

The building to your right is closer and your next target. Gliding down close to the roof you you summon your spell, incinerating the closer of the two snipers. The other one drops his rifle to shoot at you with a pistol, but you just tuck your wings close and barrel roll to evade the bullets.

Your wings suddenly spread out with the force of a tightly coiled spring, the crystalline edge slicing straight through the sniper's neck like a guillotine. You're given no time to focus on the remaining snipers when a massive artillery shell flies at you. With a swing of your arm your flames race out to collide with the shell, an explosion going off right in front of your face. Ash and soot cake on top of your lenses but that's a small price to pay when you can safely dart through the smoke cloud; looks like the tanks have noticed you.

Pulling your wings close to your wings close to your body you divebomb to take out the final two snipers. You crash into one of them, your boots making contact with his chest and the force you’ve generated from your flight means you completely smash through his ribs the second his back hits the roof. The concrete cracks beneath your boot, but that doesn't stop you as you race across it, pulling your arm back to swing a fist at the remaining sniper. The skull cracks the second your fist connects, breaking completely under your knuckles, blood and brains splattering on the lenses of your gasmask.

The roof you're on has a helicopter on it, and you think of destroying it, but the tanks present a bigger problem. Leaping off the edge of the building you launch yourself back into the air, turning your attention to the tanks. There’s four of them, all spread out in a vague arc across the empty field of land between the buildings and the road leading out. Not a problem for you.

Slowing down to a smooth glide you stretch your arms out in front of you. Your flames rush out to hit the artillery shells shot at you, but it also forces the mana Beelzebub keeps stuffing into your chest to move to your palms. Summoning four evenly sized circles in front of you is easy for a mage of your caliber. With mana burning in your palms you squeeze your hands, forcing all that magic to shoot out through the centers of the circles as concentrated beams of flame. As if struck down by some god's smite, The tanks blow up the moment your magic hits them, leaving smoldering half melted skeletons of steel behind.

You land near one of the tanks with enough force to crack the charred ground beneath you, stumbling a few steps forward. You turn your head, using the tattered remains of your jacket near your shoulders to wipe away the lenses. It makes you see the clear destruction Beelzebub has wrought, the once lush forest surrounding the compound turned baren. Yet the spell hungers still, given the chance it would easily devour the entire world, and you can feel it gnaw on the edges of your passive control in it's attempt to stray away from you. Biting the hand that feeds. Arrogant. Just like Lambert.

You're forced to snuff it out, dispelling Beelzebub before it tries to sweep through the country like all ten plagues.

A shuddering breath leaves you for the first time in a while, your lungs stuttering as you breathe in for the first time in a while. Despite how stuffed to the gills with mana your chest is, how you can barely breathe with the pressure against your ribs, you can feel the familiar sting of your bones — the cost of mana use burrowing into your marrow. The missions, the ambush, this, it’s all starting to pile on. It’s the cost, you suppose, no mortal will ever become god, this is simply a consequence for your choices.

Shots ring out above the crackle of flames, bullets bouncing off your body and only making you aware of the soldiers. Thy are too much of a problem to be kept alive, but killing them with magic would be a waste of mana considering you’re slowly reaching the breaking point of how much even your augmented body can handle.

Fortunately, you’ve got a cheap trick up your sleeve. Quickly sensing the exact location of the Urzikstan soldiers you cast another spell, circles forming beneath their feet before chains of living flame ensnare them like rabbits. "Belial." You say, your gaze fixed on the Urzikstan soldiers.

Belial is softer on your arteries than Beelzebub, but it still passes from your heart and into your fingers like a kidney stone. Big globs of tar black lava drip from your arms, sizzling and steaming when splatter on the ground. But they don’t stay inert for long. You’ve seen the sight a thousand times; Roaches made of pure black lava crawl out of the puddles by the dozens, quickly skittering towards the hapless humans. They crawl up the bound soldiers, fiery mandibles eating away the flesh and boring holes through muscle, squirming into every orifice, infesting every inch of their insides.

The soldiers try to scream but their vocal cords are soon devoured as the roaches eat everything they deem useless. They gorge themselves on the fat, groups of them peeling off the skin in long strips until the bowels and other organs fall out to the ground with a wet 'splat' to be eaten by yet more roaches. The bodies twitch and convulse, falling to the ground when you dispel the chains. Blood and mucus froths at their mouths but the roaches drink up even that like it's the finest wine.

When they're done feasting they crawl into the body that's nothing more but muscle, ligament, and bone. A single hand motion is enough to command the bodies to rise. They do so slowly, limbs twitching and bodies shaking as the magical roaches squirm in the homes they've made between muscle fibers. The bodies stumble to their feet, eyeless slack jawed heads full of roaches staring at you.

Your control over them isn’t as fine as Jackal had over his puppets, but it’s still better than what most militaries see. Your well hidden anger bleeds into your magic, you don’t even need to speak for the charred puppets to stumble past you, seeking out to devour the stragglers you missed.

With that done you turn your attention to the large two story building where you can still sense Khaled’s presence.

. . .

"Ah still think this is bollocks." Soap growls when his head bumps against the roof of the Humvee because Price drove over yet another pot hole in the road. "Go capture tae mage that can turn yeh into a kebab, wonderful idea, no wee problem there."

"Noted sergeant." Price grunts, knuckles almost white as he grips the steering wheel. "Anything else you want to add?" He asks but receives a few grumbles in return. They've heard that one part of the army had come to lay siege on the refinery, and from the preliminary reports Laswell gave them, it didn't end well for the poor bastards.

"Do we even have a game plan sir?" Gaz asks, glancing between Ghost and Soap sitting in the backseat. "One that isn't 'let the mage shoot at us until they tucker out'?"

"Got a better idea?" Ghost asks with a small huff. "Let me n' Price do the heavy lifting." He grunts, "You two stay back and provide support."

Even with irritation nibbling on his nerves, Soap can't help himself. "Oh, you like it hot Lt?"

Gaz gives a surprised snort. Ghost side eyes Soap. "Mhm, scorching."

"We're getting close." Price warns, switching gears as the road starts going up the hill. His sharp senses already pick up the lingering hints of smoke and ash along with the tang of burnt flesh. Beneath all of that is something older: the rancid festering flesh of crumbling empires and wild animalistic grief.

Price grits his teeth. "Remember, we need Ifrit alive."

"Laswell never said we had to keep 'em in one piece." Ghost ads.

"Thank fock for that." Johnny says and bumps his shoulder against Ghost's. "Yae reckon she won't mind if ah take a few fingers off?" He asks, a mean grin pulling his lips back to bare his teeth.

"Play nice and I'll throw you a femur too." Ghost chuckles, ignoring the look Johnny gives him.

"Are we even sure this thing will work?" Gaz asks, looking down at the heavy piece of metal in his hands. It looks like a metal collar, runes and circles etched into the outside surface, tiny needles poking from the inside. Three vials filled with bright purple liquid are slotted into the back of the collar. The thing buzzes softly beneath his claws, like there’s a thunderstorm stuck inside the metal, making his fingers go numb.

"That's why we brought the arm restraints to be sure." Ghost says, absentmindedly tapping a clawed finger against the restraints he's holding. They look like big elbow length mittens made out of metal, similar runes scrawled over every inch.

Kyle purses his lips before his gaze turns to the roll of silver tape Price had haphazardly thrown on top of the dashboard. "What's the tape for? Planning to put a bow on Ifrit?"

"Got to wrap up the gift somehow." Ghost shrugs.

"Oh yeah, an I reckon the mage will just sit nice n pretty and let us play dress up." Soap snarks.

"Focus." Price orders, pulling their attention to the front windshield. The forest surrounding the main road abruptly disappears as if a god had photoshopped a different part of the world in it's place, verdant green replaced by scorched black ground and nothing else. The smell of burning metal and flesh is inescapable now, seeping through the cracks of the windows and making Gaz cough.

"Fucking hell." Gaz mumbles, tears stinging his eyes and forcing him to quickly put on the gas mask hanging off his neck. It doesn't help a single bit with the god awful smell.

"This shite is useless." Soap complains as he secures the gas mask to his own face. Soap had smelled his fair share of foul things in the demolition school, from Sulphur to gas and everything that could be used in making explosives, but the stench he's exposed to now makes everything else smell like daisies. "How the hell did the matchstick do this?" He can't help but ask.

"That's the work of ruin magic." Price says, tone hard and clipped.

They're forced to stop a little bit away from the compound as their path is blocked by the wreckage of a helicopter, the steel melted into the concrete road and the sides of the road too steep to drive around. They pile out of the Humvee, Soap and Gaz clutching their guns close; it's uncommon for them to use human made weapons when they're monsters, but Price isn't taking any chances with his mens safety.

They inch carefully past the remains of the helicopter, burnt cracked dirt crunching beneath their boots. With no trees in the way the compound is easy to see, and it looks just as bad as the surrounding area.

"Steaming Jesus." Johnny mutters as they walk around one of the four tanks, the metal melted and flames still flickering a top it. The land here looks like the hell his ma would describe in an attempt to put some godliness in him; The ground is cracked and charred black, hot under their boots. Ash and steam blanket the ground, making it hard to see where they step. Parts of the buildings have been melted, long strands of slag running down the sides of them. There's no light save the fires burning haphazardly across the ground, but their eyes can see fine in the dark.

"Should we check for survivors?" Kyle asks, finger tightly pressed against the safety switch, his wings spread out just enough to be able to quickly launch himself into the air if the need arises.

"Don't bother." Simon says, dark smoke slowly fizzling off his hands. The air in the compound feels heavy, feels like he's back in that fucking coffin. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, anticipation crackling under his skin like static. "We didn't bring a dust bin. Or Henry the Hoover."

"Fuck Lt," Soap opens his mouth to speak more, but before he can make a sound, they hear a half mangled groan ring out from their side. Immediately raising his gun Soap narrows his eyes, managing to make out a dark outline stumbling towards them. At first Johnny thinks it’s a survivor, but then the steam clears enough to see it’s clearly not. What stumbles towards them is a completely skinned human, muscle and bone charred black, jaw gnashing as if it's already got their throat between its teeth.

Without thinking Johnny unloads a couple of bullets into the body, silenced gunshots echoing in the smoke. The body just soaks up the bullets, continuing to stumble after them. "Shit!" Soap hisses as he steps back, but before he can shoot at it again, Simon's shadows lash out at it.

The whips of darkness knock the corpse to the ground, managing to tear off a desecrated arm off in the process. A disgusting sound gurgles in it's throat as it tries to crawl towards them, the cracked bone of its fingers clawing at the ground. Simon moves his hand up and a spike of darkness erupts from the walking corpse's shadow, destroying the head in an instant. Soap doesn't even have time to breathe before the body starts convulsing, large black pustules rapidly swelling on its back. They explode without warning, black flames spewing out in a few feet around it like a miniature bomb, incinerating the corpse in the process.

A second of silence passes.

"What the fock was that?" Soap stresses, staring at the black flames as they burn on the ground.

"Belial." Price mumbles under his breath, blue eyes narrowing as a small breath of smoke escapes past his lips. "Magic made undead.” Price grunts. “Ruin magic lets the mage control the body like a puppet."

"Great." Soap grunts, trying not to breathe in the scent of burning flesh. "First the bomb shaped mage, now focking zombies? Firecracker's pulling out all the stops." Soap’s tail flicks to his leg and he grips his riffle tighter. "Shit, that smell too." He doesn't know how you keep managing to make things smell worse and worse, but fuck, he's sure the stench will be stuck in his pores for the rest of his life.

"Not a fan of barbeque?" Ghost asks as they step around the burning corpse. Or rather what remains of it.

"Not quite the cook out ah have in mind LT." Johnny grumbles.

"Remind me not to join you two at the next brass dinner." Gaz ads with a humorless chuckle before his harpy eyes spot more movement. "Tangos, one o'clock." He says, and doesn't need to be prompted to fly up into the sky to be their eyes.

"Stick close and aim for the head." Price orders, all of them slowly and quietly making their way into the compound. They encounter more zombies, some of them stumbling around mindlessly, some simply standing. Knowing where to hit they're easy to take out unawares, a couple of bullets through the skull enough to get the corpses on the ground.

Kyle lands behind them when they near a two story building. Another one is opposite it, a catwalk above them connecting the buildings together. A nearby door is torn off its hinges, smoke spilling through it into the surrounding air. It's the only place they can think of where you might be.

"Simon, with me." Price says, "Gaz, Soap, secure the perimeter." Price doesn't need to say it twice. Simon steps close to him, guarding his six as they enter the building. Large holding tanks are built in the center of the building, smoke filling the room up to their knees and the occasional cinder of ash gracefully fluttering through the air. Price automatically checks his right, eyes focusing on the stairs leading to a small room on the second floor, one set of stairs on both sides of the room. Bits of thick ash cascade down the stairs, and both of them can smell the rot.

He makes a small hand motion and Simon understands easily, leaving his side to duck behind the towering oil tanks, crossing the room and reaching the other set of stairs. Quietly they make their way up, making sure not to make a single sound. The door on Price’s side is torn off too, his pointy ear flicking as he hears what he assumes to be your voice, low and muffled, simply asking: "How?"

. . .

Your hand shakes from how hard you try to keep yourself from crushing Khaled's skull. You can already imagine the way bone would softly creak before finally splintering to pieces, the way blood and brains would squelch between your fingers. You grip his head hard enough to bruise instead, his skin bubbling and hair burning from the barely controlled heat of your hand.

Khaled looks exactly how other prideful men look when you come to collect your due — eyes wide, teeth clenched, legs weakly kicking you as you have him dangling in the air. You’d usually feel satisfaction, but the only thing in your heart right now is a suffocating cold.

The cold extends to your free hand, turning the lava into inert stone so not even a single thread of the patch laying in your palm is burned; A black decapitated right hand sits in a crimson backdrop. A crimson eye in the center of it cries bloody tears. ‘Mortem Opetere’ is stitched on top of it, boldly proclaiming what awaits you. Across both sides just three measly words turn your world upside down: ‘Red Right Hand’.

Your jaw feels welded shut as you try to open it, moving your tongue like your mouth's full of barbed wire before you manage to force out one word: "How?"

Khaled grunts instead of answering, coughing as the ash cascading off your wings continues to twirl in the air. Beelzebub’s flames dance at your feet, consuming the magical ash the second it touches the floor so the room feels suffocating, but it doesn’t make him pass out.

You grip him harder, claws of lava burning through the surface of his skin until you’re digging into the muscles covering his bones, his screams fall deaf on your ears. Even like this, barely able to hold yourself back from cracking his skull like an egg, your magic is controlled. You only let enough mana linger in your palm so the heat burns and stabs at his nerves, but not enough to completely destroy them. “How. Did. You. Get. This?” You ask again, each word like a sharp stab to your tongue.

Khaled bites his lip so hard it bleeds, glaring at you with utter disgust in his eyes. “Ask your- mh!- your commander lich-”

You notice the enemy presence a second too late, gunshots blasting in your ears. Having dispelled your body enhancing spells because of how taxing they were, you’re left with no choice but to blindly throw up a shield of crackling flames to destroy the bullets.

You miss one.

The bullet hits the crystalized bone of your wing and it's all it takes to create a spark. The ash making up your wings erupts, the resulting explosion unable to damage your wing but it does knock you forward. Khaled slips through your fingers as you both are tossed to the ground from the force. Your magic surges through your hand even as you scramble to stand, magic circles forming in the air to shoot uncontrolled flames at the two exits of the room.

Ropes of dark shadows shoot out from the right doorway, forcing you to throw yourself to the side to dodge them. You get to your feet just as the shadows hit the wall at the height of your head, quickly eroding a hole into the steel; The wraith has found you, and likely the rest of the misfits too.

You're careful as you stuff the patch into your pocket, but have no regard for the muscles in your back when you spread your wings out. Fresh ash cascades down the crystalline bones just as you flap your wings to send a gust of ash towards the front of the room. Mana surges to your cold arm and melts the stone into liquid lava which you fling into the cloud of ash, the heat from those drops of lava causing another explosion. Unable to sense where the wraith is, you focus on completely blocking off the exits in your flames, bright circles forming at the doorways and white hot flames shooting up, spilling over the door frame to scorch the ceiling.

You’re too distracted to notice Khaled move "Idiot boy have I taught you nothing?" the crackle of flames and the exploding ash masking his labored footsteps. His hand grabs your shoulder and pulls you back enough to jab a cold needle of a syringe into your neck.

Your wing shoots out automatically, knocking him back with enough force to have him crash into the wall. You yank the syringe out and toss it to the ground. The glass shatters, residual drops of bright purple liquid seeping into the ground.

But it’s too late.

You can feel Morgana’s tears course through your system, burning each cell in your blood vessels like battery acid, leaving your throat feeling numb and head light and heavy at the same time. You sway on your feet before your legs go weak and you fall to your knees with a gasp as if someone had punched you in the gut, your burning fingers tearing gouges into the floor as your muscles tense and relax a million times a second. Beelzebub’s black flames shoot out from between your fingers, freezing cold solidifying around your heart and in your arteries. It's a useless attempt to stave off the serum, to give you a few seconds more to escape, but you're glad for it.

You push on the ground with all the strength you can muster and get back on your feet. The weight of your wings nearly makes you fall on your ass as you’re forced to take a few shaky steps to keep your balance. From the corner of your eye you can see Khaled stumbling away from you, to the third exit to the room which leads to a catwalk connecting this building with another.

Raising your hand you try to summon a spell to take him out, a shaky circle forming at your palm. It breaks into a million pieces when a heavy body slams into you like a train, breaking your concentration and your ribs. You’re forced back until your wings hit the wall, forcing them to spread out as some of the crystal audibly breaks and cracks, accosting your brain with pain signals your mind was never created to handle.

Your hands shoot up, “Fire-” You force out in an attempt to combat the shroud Morgana’s tears weave around your mind. A circle forms, the usually crisp lines wonky and inconsistent. A few measly sputtering sparks flicker in the center of the circle before you’re able to force a bout of unwieldy flames in the face of your opponent.

You can feel how weak your fire is, you doubt you could give a man a second degree burn, let alone scratch the fireproof skin of the dragon that comes charging through your magic. Icy blue eyes dance in the periphery of your vision seconds before the dragon punches you right in the diaphragm.

You hunch over and almost vomit up an organ as all the air is forced out of your lungs. You feel your muscles tear and ribs break, your magic too focused on healing you to numb any of the pain that comes racing to your brain. You don’t know how you’re still standing but you weakly manage to slam your elbow back into the wall, quickly cooling lava scraping the metal and causing a spark.

The ash explodes for a second time, the force of it making your wings crack further yet they still hold. It creates a hole in the wall and forces the dragon to stumble back with a cough. You tip back and fall through the hole, the whole world weighing down on your body before you crash on the hot hard ground. The sudden stop knocks the breath out of you a second time, every muscle in your back screaming at you. Your chest is steadily growing colder as Morgana’s tears bypass Beelzebub, your arms feeling stiffer with every waking second as the serum forces your mana to slumber.

Your vision swims and blurs like the lines of a water drenched painting, voices somewhere close echoing in your ears. The dragon’s cold blue eyes stare down at you for a second before he jumps through the hole. You roll out of the way with great difficulty, avoiding him just in time as the dragon’s fist lands where you had just been and shatters the earth.

Stumbling to your feet you feel your blood leak down your back, pain pulsing in your chest as your mana struggles to heal each broken bone. Your mind is scrambling for the names of the spells you haven't needed to use in a long time, your thoughts further slowed by the fact you need to dodge out of the way of the dragon's fist. “Jump.” You speak. You summon a circle beneath your feet you that launches you into the air, the whirling world almost making you vomit and you barely manage to catch yourself on an oil containment tower.

Somehow through the ringing in your ears you hear the whirring of helicopter blades, turning your head to see a helicopter quickly rise from the roof of a building and start to fly away. You don’t need magic sense to know Khaled is in it. Your hand shakes as you raise it, Morgana’s tears steadily taking more of your mana hostage to the point it's getting hard to cast a single spell. “Fire bullet.” You manage to say, shooting off a shaky ball of concentrated flames.

You miss the rotor you had been aiming for, but by a lucky chance manage to hit the tail. Your fire isn't hot enough to melt the metal fully, but it still enough to make the helicopter swerve wildly. You watch it slowly loose altitude and crash somewhere beyond the tree line.

You’re not given even a second to catch your breath before the tower shakes violently, beginning to list heavily. You catch sight of a werewolf trying to scale it and that forces you to jump off the tower. You land on the one in front of you and don't stop, leaping across the three towers. Jumping off the last one you manage to flap your wings, the pitiful explosion that goes off beneath you gives just enough lift for your slowly liquifying wings to reach the roof of the second building.

You stumble as you land on the roof, the coagulated blood forming your Daedalus wings falling to the ground with a wet 'splat'. It feels like every single inch of your veins and arteries have been turned into pin cushions, the hot lava of your arms, absent of mana, quickly cools until there’s only a thin surface of cracked rock covering your muscles and bones. Your vision swims and you can barely move your arms, trying your best to just stay upright.

Asmodeus is the only thing unaffected, burning at the back of your mind like the last star of an empty universe. It tempts you with the heat of the magic it can give, with the power you could use if you just let it in. What's a few more drops of blood when you're drowning in it?

The harpy comes out of nowhere, slamming into you with enough force to knock you off the building.

You land on your back, barely able to utter a sound from how loudly your bones crack. Your leg is numb. Lingering dredges of your magic crawl across your spine, trying to fix your wounds with the same grace as cavemen with stole tools. You whimper like a child as you try to get up, barely able to dig your fingers into the scorched dirt to get some stability.

Footsteps approach you. A boot sharply kicks your side and forces you to roll on your front. "Playtime's over." A voice rings somewhere in your ears. Your scattered brain focuses on the accent — Manchester you think — instead of the clawed hands that yank your arms behind your back. Instinctively you try to scramble out of the firm hold but it's useless and the only thing you achieve is making the enemy pull on you harder.

Your arm is forced into a sickeningly familiar constraint; The mage cuff seals around your forearm and forces your hand into a fist, the binding spells making the metal feel like your arm is coated in liquid nitrogen. Your other arm follows suit, powerful magnets activating and binding the cuffs. They lock your arms together and painfully force your chest to stick out to the point you can barely move your arm without the risk of dislocating it.

More footsteps ring behind you as you weakly struggle. "Stay fucking still." The man above you growls as he yanks the helmet off your head with enough force you’re surprised he doesn’t take your head off. You gasp as the ash and smoke filled air enters your lungs, so unused to going without your helmet. A collar is quickly snapped around your throat, so tight you can barely breathe, needles on the inside digging into your skin. The binding spell on the collar is just as vicious as the one on the cuffs, forcibly pulling your brain into the bottom of the ocean.

Your vision swims with black spots and you’re barely able to see a man squat in front of you until rough clawed fingers grip your chin hard enough to make you bleed dark purple-red blood over his fingers. The enemy tugs your head up, but you’re unable to make out more than bright blue eyes and a stupid mohawk. "Huh, ah was expecting uglier."

Spite flares in your heart. A glob of spit and red blood shoots from your mouth at his face before you can think. The slap you receive nearly knocks your head off your shoulders and bashes your brain against your skull. His claws rake across your cheek, blood pouring down your skin. "Ahgk! Fockin' disgusting-" But It's worth it to hear the man curse.

"Told you not to take it off." The enemy on top of you growls.

"Charming." A lighter voice, you think it's the harpy, ads. "He's not going to turn into. . . one of them?"

"No." A new voice joins in, hard, angry, rumbling like thunder. You think it's the dragon, but your brain struggles to stay conscious let alone try to think. "Tape."

You shake your head to be difficult just out of spite, but sharp fingers bury into your scalp and pull your head up so the tape can be sealed over your mouth.

The enemy, wraith, your mind reminds, has no problem hoisting up your cold body, manhandling you like a doll.

You’re barely conscious as you’re roughly pushed into somewhere, somewhere without a lot of space. Two unyielding bodies squeeze you in on either side, your chest is barely able to move enough to ensure your lungs get a bit of air. Panic tries to get a foothold in your mind, to make your silent heart race. The walls and ceiling feel like they’re closing in, like you’re getting squished down and at any moment your organs will rupture—

But the drugs smooth out your brain like ocean waves weather down massive cliffs, your body so exhausted you can’t manage even a small twitch of a struggle. You feel the cold muzzle of a gun press against your temple, the cool sensation making you aware of the pounding headache.

"Move," The man on your left says, voice rough like sandpaper and with a distinct accent, "An’ yer dead." His threat sounds like an order, you don’t doubt he’s just itching for you to make a single move he can justify to his brass as aggression and kill you. You know you would do the same.

The vehicle you’re in rumbles to life but you can barely feel it, body and mind too exhausted to even hold your head up. Your stomach twists and turns as if trying to find a way to crawl up through your mouth, your lungs burn from the lack of air.

“Laswell we got-”

“-bout Khaled-”

“-ead, arsonist shot do-”

“-get out, the army reinforcements are co-”

You try to pay attention to what they say, but their words bang uselessly around your hollow skull, shapes and edges blurring together into abstract art. With nothing stopping it, Morgana’s tears leisurely branch through your blood vessels like brambles, making you shiver from how cold you are. You’re stuck in maddening limbo, there’s not enough of the drug in your system to turn you temporarily catatonic — your body is too used to the drug — but at the same time it’s fucking agony.

You've done this before, you know how much small victories count. You don’t know what they want from you, but you swear to yourself not to cry from the pain, both now and when the torture starts. You’re not a fucking child, not that snot nosed private you were when you first felt the sting of Morgana’s tears, you’ve been through worse.

But the problem is, you’re not out of tricks.

Your control over Valefar slips, the exhaustion and drugs slowly wearing down the rope of control you've been maintaining for months. Since the first day you started working for Khaled. You knew he’d betray you, you had that feeling in your gut. The collar beeps as mana suddenly sparks in your chest, thawed by the ancient magic you use. Without warning the needles in the collar jab into your neck as your mana builds, pumping more of the poison into your blood.

But it’s useless, with steam starting to rise off your chest not even you are able to hold it back. A rough chuckle forces its way out of your throat. You always figured you would die by your hand or not at all.

"What’s with the giggling?" The werewolf demands, gun still trained on you. "Something funny?"

You gather your strength and slowly roll your head back, every vertebra in your spine cracking from how much damage your body has received. The trembling wall of the truck gives you the support you lack. Black spots dance in your vision, but you manage to turn your gaze to one side.

On your right is the wraith. A creature of death. Violent Death.

You feel like there’s a joke about the situation somewhere. Figures you’d be sat against the personification of violent death. You’ve been living on borrowed time for too long, the reaper doesn’t like to wait.

Shadows darkening what little you can see of his face through the skull mask, making his eyes look like you’re staring into the void.

Unnerving.

You’ve been told your eyes are much the same.

The wraith stares at your face, into your eyes. You’re pretty sure this is the first time in ten years that someone has seen the eyes you were born with. The color is so painfully drab and human.

But it don’t last. Out of nowhere mana sparks in your eyes like a violent forest fire set off from the cinder of a forgotten cigarette. Oranges, reds, and yellows swirl around the pitch blackness of your pupil, bright and intense like staring into a black hole.

There’s no grand gesture to show the snapping of your control. Your heart skips a beat as it births Valefar, the soft cool magic nibbling on your veins as a pulse of cool mana rushes through to your fingers. You see the wraith stiffen, only barely able to sense how the world quivers.

The earth shatters.

The truck jerks forward and you almost fly out of the front windshield, kept in place by someone's rough hand gripping and pulling you back in place. The earth shakes violently as months of accumulated mana melts through rock and suddenly erupts from the ground as a beam of pitch black flames. You can feel Valefar laughing beneath the ground, inside your hollow heart. It takes joy in spreading your magic as far as it can, incinerating the arriving helicopters full of soldiers before they can even understand what's happening.

The car swerves to avoid the rocks falling from the sky, the air around you trembling as Valefar makes a crater out of the mountain. They’re lucky that your control finally evaporated when they were far enough to escape the impact zone.

You tilt your head, catching sight of the wraith. He stares at you.

Your eyelids flutter without your consent, all strength leaving you, but you manage to wink at him.

You pass out.

Tag list: @resident-cryptid @diejager @lovingtyrantkitten @lieutnt @lilpothoscuttings @krystiannng @crankyweasel @ashy-kit @fyolaizs @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aldis-nuts @whoislucas @birdiiiiiiiiiii @thigh-o-saur @dont-look-at-me-im-shy @reaperxxxxzz @patronizingbitch @kaoyamamegami @mauvette268 @inspector-m3 @gaynesspersonified @fluffysteampunkd @fall-myriad

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iznsfw · 1 year ago

Text

Manic Robotic Dream Girl

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 4 - Choi Yena

IZ*ONE's Choi Yena x Male Reader Smut

8,311 words

Neon lights dance like flames around you. There’s no need to touch them when you’re already burning. Burning with something that’s not a fever but a kind of pain that never goes away.

Sweat pricks the sides of your face and you’re aware of the blots of perspiration running down your jawline. Nights at the Rogue are often hot, but then they surprise you with a sudden burst of windiness, so you never bother to take your coat off. Whatever and wherever, you’ll always be here yet you’ve not once been able to predict the temperature.

That’s what happened when WAKE12 took over.

Apparently, they decide if people are under the weather by controlling it by them-fucking-selves. Kwon feeling shitty? Looks like rain then. Maybe she’s feeling happy? Alright, let the clouds find balance. Angry? Take a fucking hailstorm. What a privilege, one bigger than the lives of the rich men in the North. But everyone forgets about that fact after she sends out minimal alms—canned goods, a Bible, something. Then it’s back to President Kwon is the best! President Kwon can never fail us! President—

“Vodka.”

“Same as yesterday?” asks Yuri, smiling a little bit.

“Same as yesterday.” For a hologram, Yuri can be quite the social butterfly.

Online wallets are all the rage nowadays. The AI voice in your head offers you said option to pay, and you can hear your balance privately spoken. Somehow your brow prevents from creasing as you hear it. You lack funds but somehow have a few extra bucks to drink.

Choose that. You want to save your Wizes for other things. Lock eyes with Yuri and your balance goes down. You’ve paid.

Online and digital wallets modified with embedded signals and readers were in use before you were even born. Of course, there were already such payment options in the twenty-first century, but how WAKE12 changed everything, not just ordering options with telepathic payment, can easily be read in a sixth grade history textbook.

In October of the year 2918, Kwon Eunbi rose in the ranks as a scientist and soldier for Kang Hyewon, former president, and ended up working her way into dictatorship. The textbooks and classrooms teach that she proposed a law to the court and got herself a position for her wit and intelligence. But early first accounts challenge that, saying that she caught the eye of Kang and had a sexual relationship with her. WAKE12 branded this as propaganda that sullies the name of not only the dictator but the one of the late president, who died mysteriously before Kwon rose to power.

Massive backstory for cashless payment, but you know there’s more to it than the government would like to let on. What happened to Kang? What made Kwon so evil the moment she sat in her presidential throne?

“Thank you, sir.” Holograms all have different voices; Yuri’s sounds like she’s singing. At least the bartender slash boss hired her instead of those with monotone, emotionless ones. It’s cheaper to have hologram workers than humans anyway. Less money, less emotional labor, less of feeling like a normal person.

A beggar curled up below the counter holds his hand out. Not an uncommon sight in the Auster, but it’s a pity to see. The world has advanced with its telepathic wallets and 3D holograms yet there will always be individuals who haven’t caught up with time. While the North Rogue leads worldly lifetimes, the Auster is a home for the rejects. The poorest of the poor. The somewhere-in-the-middles. It can never be truly a perfect world if advancement doesn’t include everyone.

Give him a Wize. Back then, that would have been worth a hundred or so dollars, a currency long gone. Not that you’d know of it; WAKE12 claimed leadership way before you were born so the cheap value of the coin studded with the bust of Kwon Eunbi is all you’re accustomed to.

Take your drink and thank Yuri.

The cobblestone is rough beneath your feet. You take your seat at your usual table. Float your fingers around your shotglass. Pour the contents down your chapped mouth almost all in one go. Anything to feel something. Anything to feel anything.

You’re not an alcoholic by any means, though that’s certainly up for debate. But there’s a need for the liquid that rages more than the need for oxygen (the fucking shortage of it) or food (the fucking expense of it). How else could you be less numb? You’re welcome to every feeling at this stage, just not this empty neutrality that slumbers your senses.

Pain? Your throat seizes up when you drink and brings tears to your eyes, so there's that.

Happiness? Hm, none. You’re barely smiling. You’ve no family, little friends, and no partner for the last few years. There’s nothing to be happy about.

Anger? The displays of people fined harshly for their crimes on the big as life advertising screens stir some defiance in you. WAKE12 doesn’t take kindly to hacktivists and young coders dabbling in creating their own AIs. You have your own anti-government opinions, but what’s a human mind against an artificial one? Plus, and probably a less serious reason (tell that to the thousands who flock to the hospitals because of asthma), the air is almost always polluted here in the Rogue. It’s dirtied by car smoke and factory remains. You’d think that robots taking over the labs would improve it. Perhaps they weren’t programmed that way.

Loneliness?

You look around. See the glitching phantoms of new world technology make the drinks breezily. Watch the light-studded train filled with commuters from the Auster. Kwon Eunbi managed to build an underside track for additional trains to run and still the commuters—young students, old grandparents, not young but not old workers whose jobs belong to WAKE12—wear the same tired look you saw yesterday. All you could hear are buzzes and uncanny valley voices from holograms.

The second chair paired with your table is empty. You’re suddenly lucid to the fact that it’ll always be like this. These nights of drinking and walking in the Auster Rogue will be endless, and just the same, you’ll be endlessly alone.

Sometimes mortality could be so depressing.

So depressing that it makes it all so meaningless.

A man stumbles over to the outside bar, breaking your thoughtless reverie. His clothes are as black as the night you spend but you can see blood on the fabric. The skyscrapers provide enough light for you to see his red face from anxious internal and worrying external blood. The pleading look grips his expression like a malfunctioning robot’s limb.

He’s looking back as if afraid of what might be there. The rain-soaked road is tread on roughly by his shaking knees as he crawls his way to the bar. “Please, help me!”

“Warning,” comes the voice in your head, and you know the other visitors hear it, too, “a criminal of the state is in your proximity. Proceed with caution.”

WAKE12 always keeps an eye on those who threaten them. They have goons everywhere. The kindly grandfather down the street could be a veteran waiting for the chance of a medal. They have ears everywhere as well. Undercover cops stay in both crowded and clear spaces to identify possible threats. When it all comes down to it, you’re not safe in your own head at all. The implants can detect when you dream up something terrible. That’s how millions lose their reputation. Their jobs. Their families.

Their lives.

He staggers to the counter, crashing glass that shards his palms, and lets out this wail you’d hear from an abused pup. “Please,” he croaks. “Don’t listen to them. I just need somewhere to hide. I did nothing wrong, nothing!”

The implanted voice in your brain says otherwise. Everyone was given one when the Cyber Age came. That’s what makes a tiny difference in seeing who’s human and who’s not: the tiny, diamond scar below their hairline from the operation. Close inspection can’t always be done, however. Nowadays, too many of these robots and holograms pass the Turing test. You can never truly trust someone.

“Offenses include: playing the role of an accomplice in theft of government data, distribution of terrorist propaganda—”

“Get the fuck out!” says the bartender, having burst out from the back. As a longtime visitor, you haven’t seen him this angry, but you know it stems from fear. No one wants to associate with a criminal. No one wants the association to lead to arrest and the arrest lead to god knows what. Hundreds of people go missing after they’re taken under custody. What Kwon does to them, you don’t know. “Leave or I’ll call the cops!”

Like you said, they lurk everywhere. You’re surprised they haven’t caught up to him.

The bloodied man shakes his head, like please, please, someone believe me. “No, I’m not a criminal! Listen to me, please, I don’t have enough time! They just wanna—cut down”

Rapid footsteps. Sigh and put your glass down. There they are.

The man reaches for him, but the bartender shoves the whole table into his face. He falls back on the ground and cries out for help that never comes. Men and women wearing tight black uniforms and vests pull him up. Their lit helmets that opposingly disallow a view of their faces make them look emotionless. Like robots.

Huh.

While resting your head against the metal chair, you listen to the struggling shuffles of the police and criminal, and see the glitching robots walking down the road. No real emotion, no real living.

He scratches and screams and sobs, but that doesn’t matter to them. They pull him along the rocky cement and recite his nonexistent rights to him. There’s the right to remain silent (he’s screaming), the right to an attorney (nobody in the Auster can afford a good lawyer much less an honest one), and the right to live freely if found innocent of the crime (someone getting convicted happens more often than being released).

Besides, it can’t be called living when it’s in a place so completely devoid of any humanity.

“In more ways than one,” you say. Fuck it, you’ll drink to that.

Like always, you take more than you should. You believe by now you’ve built some kind of immunity. That’s what they all think, you remind yourself, before an inevitable death that buries them in the ground one bricked shot at a time. You swear you’re not dizzy at all or feeling the acid build to your throat, so the sight gathering just a little away from you is real.

Stare at your glass. Space out if not for what you see: behind it, a shapely form of a woman in purple. The blue and violet lights make it difficult for you to distinguish it from her clothes so she actually looks naked. That shocks you more than the arrest. You’re sure she’s got a little modesty in her because why else is she making her way to a table?

Your table?

It’s like she teleported when she’s suddenly seated before you, filling the chair that’s been empty for the last more or so years. You don’t even get the chance to look up at the right time, but the moment you do, you think keeping your eyes on your glass would’ve been better for the sake of your heart.

YENA.

Her name appears in your mind and she hasn’t even introduced herself. But it’s right there, emblazoned in lights in all capitalized four letters: YENA. This girl is Yena. And this girl—this fucking guilty pleasure of a girl—is gorgeous.

The ends of her hair are tinged with blonde, and it’s hard not to give attention to that with how her locks are gathered into twin tails. She smoothes them before looking at you quite seriously, like she’s about to propose a challenge you’d lose.

Blue shining eyes. There’s something odd about the way they twinkle below her bangs—almost like something not human.

Yena dances her fingers around her jawline, elbow resting on the table, and tilts her pretty face. Lets her fingers play with her lips that are made for things the Auster’s known for providing (she can’t be from here though; those crocheted coordinates look costly). That’s how you notice that fine feature. Naturally thick and casually jutted out in a distinctive pout, your eyes are glued to them. Can’t take your prolonged stare away if someone helped you.

“Are you waiting for me to start talking?” Yena asks. She’s not angry, just amused—her voice is smooth and clear, with a tiny pitch that makes her all the more cute.

You shake your head. “Was just trying to figure something out.”

“And that is?”

“A lot of things,” you state. Things you’d keep a secret forever, lest you spill them out to a girl all for the payment of being beautiful. “But I’m not sure pretty girls like you would want to know.”

You try to keep your curious peering at her normal, but it’s difficult when she just attracts attention. She’s a glowing lightbulb in a flutter of moths. Yena doesn’t flicker weakly; she shines, and it’s honestly why everyone else is “subtly” looking at her, this gorgeous stranger who came in and somehow chose the alcoholic who came from places more rock bottom than the Auster.

She laughs. It’s sobering—you think you’ll get drunk on her rather than the cheap alcohol. “Is that what you think of me? Too beautiful to think too much?”

Look her up and down. Yeah, you want to say, that’s about it. It’s not out of offense but rather the instinct in you that wants to tell her you don’t want to put her in a worried state. She’s too… ah, she doesn’t know what you’d do for a girl like her—someone too unreal to be human but too genuine to be the “living” dolls lonely men purchase. Someone who can keep a conversation going without fearing a low blow. Someone who’s out of your league in the Rogue’s mixed pool but chooses you anyway.

“I’m just saying you might not want to hear a stranger boring you with his hard problems.”

“Oh please,” she says, waving it off with a flick of a pointed wrist. “You know my name. I know yours. We’re not strangers anymore.”

How did you—how did she—

Her eyes twinkle again. They’re… violet? You could have bet they were blue. But then you see the suspiciously smooth and clear skin, with the perfect lines of her eyelids, which curve as if manufactured in. She’s definitely not human.

“Besides,” adds Yena sweetly, “you’re really underestimating how good I can take certain hard things.”

Swallow. You opened the door, now you’re locked in.

Yena catches the bob of your Adam’s apple and smirks. Traces her fingers over yours. She can’t be human for sure yet you feel the softness of her hand, the only thing giving you doubt being how chilled her touch is. It's humid here, so where did that come from? Goosebumps pop up in masses across your skin—note how nothing shows up on hers.

Maybe she’s just a confident woman.

“Come on, I dare you.”

“Only if you go first.”

“Yes, sir,” she says. A cutesy saluted hand positions itself before her temple. Her hands are tiny, could be dainty, while her cheeks lift to support an adorable smile.

Your knees tremble. You don’t know where that came from either. Yena just knows what to say to get to a guy. Almost like she was made for it. There’s that question again, resurfacing in your altered brain: is she human or not?

You lean back. Cross your arms. Here you go, on your way to find out. “What’s your story?”

Yena shrugs, her shoulders bare and smooth. And you’re thinking of how you’d like to see the rest of them, the rest of her body naked by pulling down the crocheted strap of the purple coordinates. How you’d like to touch those puffed up cheeks and not care if they’re real or not when you pull her close to kiss her. How those lips—

“Don’t have one.”

“Sorry?”

She laughs. Even the way she giggles is attractive. “No, seriously,” she replies, licking her lips. “There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m the most normal girl there is.”

There is nothing normal about her. Everything she says is too prepared. The largeness of her eyes gives everything away. Her hair is combed too finely that you’re not unconvinced that it isn't human hair at all, though you can see them connect at the roots. It’s like someone drew a cute animated girl on a notepad one lonely night, sent the idea to a rich bastard, and brought her to life.

So no, you’re not buying it.

“So you’re saying you’re just a blank canvas.”

“If you put it like that, I guess.” Yena rolls her eyes. You’re a bit obsessed. “Guys want that, right? A blank piece of a girl they could shoot more than a shot at? Maybe paint her white?”

You’re thankful you didn’t continue drinking. Otherwise, your surprise would be visible and audible with the lodge of your throat as you wineboard yourself.

The side of her mouth raises. A soft dimple exceeding cuteness—it’s deeper, brighter, shinier. You imagine her as a college student, charming boys into submission just with a wink and a smile that can melt hearts and bring guilt to lust-addled minds.

That’s what she’s doing: Yena is melting you because of how adorable she is, but then you take a look at her body, note the fine curves it boasts, and feel the need to go to a confessional pastor. You’re not supposed to repeats in your mind, but you’re you—if you aren’t supposed to do it, then of course you’ll do it anyway.

“Woah,” you say with a nervous laugh. “Woah.”

“Look.” She rests her forearm on the table and talks so casually one would think she weren’t just talking about getting cumshots. “I‘m not taking that back, so do with that what you will.”

Under the table, behind the scenes, her leg is curled around one of yours. Her ankle glides along your skin teasingly. Not a speck of hair on all of those flawless legs, but you’re shivering anyway from the contact. Hence, make a show of closing your coat around yourself. You can’t fool her when it’s not even chilly.

Recover, piecing together the brokenness of your confidence she tore apart.

“My story is, uh, weird.”

“Tell me.”

“This might be too personal but—” You lift your shoulders awkwardly. “I used to date a girl who looks exactly like you.”

Kim Chaewon—short auburn hair, soft cheeks, and a tiny figure. She’s a memory you didn’t think of returning to today, but then Yena came here, and now you’re back to your youth.

“She was a cop. Cutest officer I’ve ever seen, but a real bitch, for the lack of a better word. Then she left me.”

“You broke her heart, didn’t you?”

Sputter. “No!” you immediately deny, shaking your head. “I—I didn’t hurt her, she was—”

A filthy lie. You became nonchalant, undeserving of a sweet woman who’d do anything for you, even give up her well-paying job. Again and again, Chaewon expressed her concerns: why were you talking to Minju? Where have you been? Why are you so mean? You disregarded them all the same. She deserved the ignorance; she was too fucking controlling, too fucking jealous.

Yena knows you’re lying. It’s like you’re a wound she can peel back to see all the ugliness, all the damage underneath. Her smile tells you everything.

“Oh, come on. I don’t care. Except for this.” Yena intertwines her fingers. Rests her chin on top of the formed platform. “Was she a good fuck?”

Your laugh is forced, trying to make a good deal out of this situation. A girl is flirting with you right after you saw someone disappear. Now you’re wondering if she’s a robot. Now, through some way, she knows you’re lying about your ex. Coincidences meet yet you refuse to connect them—parallel lines they shall stay, forever.

“Yena, what exactly is up with you?” you ask. “You just met me. And come on now, why me?”

It’s begun to be hotter in this space. Loosen your coat. Perspiration isn’t because of the atmosphere, so you find out (and what a surprise). It’s because of the woman across you, a midnight sun. If the painful sun was actually a symbol of good in the Rogue, Yena would play its role perfectly. She’d scorch through you and you’ll enjoy every second. Yeah, you’d get all sorts of tans and burns and cancers if you bask in her without protection, but my god, are you willing to take the risk.

“I just don’t like seeing pretty boys have problems,” she replies easily. “If they want, (and I know they do), I’ll take them all away. Soon, all you'll think of is me. Like I’m the sun peeking in your room and you just can’t get enough sleep because of it.”

You tense up. Millions of questions, a void empty of answers. Once again, how was she so spot on? You’re not breathing quite well, and your clothes are tighter tonight. “Yena, look, I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Don’t be, not because you aren't, but because she said so.

She pouts. “You’re not gonna buy me a drink?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Nope. Remember what I said? I’m a blank canvas. So do whatever you want with me. Buy me a drink. Or not. Tell me to fuck off. Or not. Force me on my knees.”

Yena kneels.

There’s no mantle on the table to cover up what she’s about to do. You gasp, then try to mask it as a poor cough, but you’re distracted by how she pulls your pants down effortlessly. The button sealing your coat is busted open and gone.

So is your dignity.

Yena’s tongue sticks out at the side of her mouth as she looks up at you with excitement and mischief in her eyes.

“Or let me do the job. I’m a big girl after all.”

She seals her teeth around your zipper and tugs down. It’s embarrassing how hard you are for her. But Yena doesn’t care. Adoration is clear on her face as she stares at your shaft, the worshipful energy in her eyes so overwhelming that she has to do something about it.

“Yena—” What a way to go out: screaming a stranger’s name.

You knew those lips were up to no good the moment you saw them. She’s provided evidence, too. Her soft lips embrace your boner and suckle fervently while dragging themselves upwards. It’s a caress that tenses you up rather than comforts you. It works you up, tying you down with the little weight Yena has. You could kick her away right now and tell her to go away. File a case against her.

You don’t.

The joined duo of careful teeth and wild tongue gets you whimpering. Shivering. Begging. How is she so good at this?

Her mouth is perfectly wet. It’s not copiously soaked to have you cringing but the perfect balance of wet and ready, coating your rod again and again. She gives you too much and just right. It would be a cruel violation if you were asked to choose one and only one.

“Baby, what the fuck—” you stammer.

Her throat’s an expert in taking you because one push of her lips to your base welcomes you in its tight hole. Your knees shake; Yena places her hands on it, not to stop their trembles but for leverage during the dip of her head.

Close your eyes, look up, and stare at skies that provide no reprieving stars. Think of how she’s infinitely bett—

“Better than any pussy, huh?” Yena asks. The third time is no coincidence, so you’ve heard. “And it’s just my throat.”

At this stage, you don’t care if she’s a robot or not, because either way, that mouth is a fucking treasure.

You lift your hips and start slowly working yourself in Yena’s face. Her lips pucker and pout to allow you inside with pleasurable friction. Those eyes—there aren’t any planets in the sky because of the pollution but you think you can see their sparkle in them.

The amazing part is that Yena doesn’t choke. She endlessly takes you in, receiving every inch like a blessed gift, but you don’t hear her wheeze. No sounds of complaints escape her. You have a feeling it’s not because of your cock sliding in and out of it. She only gags on occasion, and those already sound fake. It’s like she’s doing it just so you can get worked up hearing her moans.

While others might be impressed, you’re dumbfounded. She tightens and loosens and pushes and pulls just for your pleasure.

“Yena, I– you’re doing so good,” you compliment her in gasped breaths.

Her cheeks hollow. The suction strengthens and it now feels like your soul’s being swallowed down her neck. She knows how to tease you with light pandering from her teeth, generous licking, and strengthened swallowing. Her mouth is warm but you are more so. She’s making you feel hot in all these layers, an additional one played by her perfect lips.

Perfect hair, too, you note.

Hungry impulses take over your body and now you’re pumping your core into the girl’s face with the help of her pigtails. Yena’s hair is thick and silky, and it’s another enjoyable factor: feeling how it slips between your fingers and how each pull directs her lips to press firmly to your crotch.

She doesn’t gag with that either. She must have had a lot of experience; she did say she can take hard things fine. That is, if she were human. If not, whoever built her had dirty ideas: the lack of gag reflex surely brings in the five star ratings.

Bright star-like eyes, cute ruinable face, mouth that can take the largest.

Yep, perfect.

“Good—fucking—girl.”

Your cock weeps white. Yena feels the first drop and immediately pulls away. She pumps your shaft with a strong, urgent fist. As she hinted, you blast all over her face. Your orgasm grips you and shakes you like never before, and of course, the little brat enjoys it. She’s nearly laughing.

“There,” says Yena after she drains you. Her duck-like lips are sticky with cum. “Canvas painted.”

What a pretty painting you’ve made. Here, shown to the public, is the manic pixie dream girl, semen on her chin to symbolize how each word she utters has you climaxing; hair disheveled to show your subtle but messy rule over her, because you own her although you weren’t there when her mechanical limbs were assembled and her face drawn; and a smile on her face to show that despite all this: she likes it.

You laugh, short blunt breaths wisping in the air. “There really is something wrong with you, Yena,” you say.

She’s a girl who’s extremely pretty, good at blowjobs, and likes public sex and oral. She can also read minds. Oh, and she might not be real.

“You could say that again.” She wipes her mouth. “Though I do think I could use a little fixing from you.”

You take her home. Your mother would have been disappointed in you if she knew you violated the first law you were ever taught: don’t talk to strangers. Most of all, don’t ever let them in. But Yena is no stranger—like she said, she knows your name and for some reason, you know her own. You’re not strangers. And your mother isn’t around to command you not to kneel for a pretty girl.

This home of yours isn’t fancy, but if people from 2024 saw it, they’d be mesmerized. You’re not rich enough to afford the penthouses the North offers; this one is alright for you. The stories of the building aren’t aligned with each other, separating a few yards with floating floors that defy gravity. That’s right; WAKE12 somehow found a way to disobey the rules of physics. The ends are lit up with bright lights that blind you from miles away. Wide windows encircle the areas along with al frescos and convenient malls. Back then, this would have been classified as the house of the wealthy—you can’t say you agree with the sentiment when you’re not at all rich.

“Hi,” says Yena brightly at the front desk. She’s so smiley, always grinning like she’s just told a really clever joke. “Where’s the elevator?”

“I, uh…”

The manager looks at her oddly. Your ears redden; she still hasn’t cleaned her face up. Evidence of your deed lies there on her nose and chin and cheeks, even in her perfect hair.

“Well?”

The manager lifts the phone immediately. Before he could dial a number, Yena sighs loudly.

“Look.” She silences the telephone with a slam of the device down on the keypad. The man’s hand cringes. “I’m about to fuck this guy’s brains out and I promise your little backup bosses can’t do anything about it.”

He stares at her.

“I’m gonna use his dick until it’s limp as a balloon, then ride him in bed, then bend over on the kitchen table so he could breed me like a common whore.”

You lift an index finger to apologize, but put it back down. Did she just say you can breed her?

His jaw tenses. The teeth behind those unsmiling thin lips grit, not in annoyance but in fear. Yena’s bouncy and sweet, but apparently she’s excluding people who cockblock from her cute attitude.

“So,” finishes Yena, lowering her gaze, “where is the fucking elevator?”

The elevator has no pulley or doors. It sits at the side of the uneven floors and rises with nothing but a sizable pod. You’ve had to watch your weight to be able to enjoy the freedom from staircases.

Yena steps on it with no worry. As you look at her, you realize how positively tiny she is. That’s why she isn’t doubtful about fitting in the claustrophobic space. Her violet clothes can slip off at any time at her pull of a waist and slim thighs. All the fullness goes to her cheeks, painted with fake tattooed stars and minimal doodles.

She’s the kind of girl you could just pick up and do whatever to. You’re the kind of guy who really, really likes the idea.

Holding your hand is a thing of the past. Yena clutches your cock over your jeans as the elevator lifts the two of you up.

The first thing she does the moment you enter your home is not kiss you, or slam you to the door, or whisper dirty nothings in the hollow of your ear. Yena looks around and says, simply, “Doable.”

You chuckle. You’re not offended. It’s a tidy, minimal apartment with glass that spans a viewing pleasure of the artificial forest and the hills. Glass lost its value but skyrocketed in purchases when Jo Yuri, first activist recorded in the history of WAKE12’s domination, was imprisoned. People compared her name to glass (yuri was 유리 and 유리 meant glass) and since then, it has been used everywhere. High demand, low price. Her symbol and namesake is used the way the public wants her to be used: cheap thing convenient only to the eye. They always said she was too pretty to talk too much.

“Here, doable is the best compliment,” you reply. You go to your bedroom to clean the place. If you want to fuck a rich girl, make sure the bedroom is at least up to her standards. “You have personal maids there in the North?”

Yena continues looking around. She’s mildly fascinated by everything, especially in the big window placed on the ceiling that lets stars peer down at you. For some reason, all the ejaculation on her face is gone. You don’t remember her bringing a washcloth.

“I’m not from the North, you know.”

“You’re not?”

“Nope. I don’t come from anywhere.”

You come out, having cleared your bed from clothes and the floors of trash. You fed the trash to the connected chute that all apartments have, which leads down to the Southern Auster. The word may be Latin and is already defined as south, but there’s places poorer than the part you live in. You’re lucky to be here. The Southern Auster’s where it’s much more dangerous. The people there scavenge for food and money, and their cries go unheard in the night. It’s the biggest criminal capital of the Rogue.

You come out and Yena’s sitting on the kitchen table with a knife.

Stop in your tracks.

See the blood running down her arm.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says dismissively. “It doesn’t hurt.”

You still don’t know what to say. The wound on her skin’s dissolved to a scar that looks more like a scratch on metal. Why would she do that? Why would that do that?

“In fact, I think it’s kind of cool.” Yena slides the blade on the strap of her top. It falls apart, right down to her braless chest. A pink, perky nipple is clear in the moonlight shining from above. “When people see me, they usually want to hurt me, so I might as well do it myself, right? They want to slap me, pull my hair, choke me. They say that and figure I’m totally flattered.”

You want to say that you couldn’t blame them. Yena’s got this innocent but naughty aura about her that you want to completely ruin. There’s her hair, all dolled up and her quirky makeup that brings attention that eventually switches down to the body she doesn’t bother hiding.

But it looks like she’s doing the ruining. Aren’t those the best stories? Boy corrupts girl when it’s the other way around in reality?

To use the word “reality” when you’re with Yena is laughable. She can read your mind like a Rogue Times newspaper. You get that things you thought were impossible have a chance of happening in these days, but you don’t remember wounds healing that fast. The knife slices right through the fabric, revealing swoon-worthy curves of her waist and hips, making her bleed only not for too long. Who would want a scar-ridden skinny girl anyway?

“Well,” you say after a dutiful swallow, “are you?”

Yena examines the knife. Her crimson blood dripping from its edge is a worthwhile watch while she considers this.

She finally puts down the knife, much to your relief. “I don’t know. What about you, handsome? Do you want to hurt me or fuck me?”

“I… I’m not like them. I don’t wanna hit you or make you cry or anything. I want to fuck you, that’s completely different.”

First confession of the night that didn’t need saying when it’s clear. You let her blow you in public. You took her home. The intention is staring you in the face: you want to have sex with a girl you just met.

Yena smiles. “You’d be surprised how blurred the lines are.”

Yena‘s hands fall on your shoulders and make you fall to the kitchen chair and make your pants fall on the floor. Falling, falling, falling for her—it’s all you’re able to do provided that she’s stunning. She’s tiny with her thin arms and legs but her breasts are surprisingly supple. The cleavage her top subtly shows off hinted to that and you’re still shocked.

She’s a hot desert, and the only source you can drink of is her core. Her pussy is slick, making her thighs glue together only for them to part as she sits on your lap.

The first grind has you both breathless. The second renders a duet of moans. She’s so wet that it’s excessive enough for her to drip down your cock and completely cover it with her. Yena’s pussy lips splay and clasp your shaft with slippery friction.

She curses. “You’re so hard. Big, t-too.” She aims your cockhead at her clit and sighs at the toe-curling pleasure. “You think you can fit in me?”

“I guess we’ll have to see.”

Yena smirks. She continues soaking you with her wetness. Her juices pour from your head to your balls. Then, without warning, she sheathes your rod inside her.

You gasp. It’s so easy to slip yourself in and all too difficult to cope with how tight she is. Her walls, perfectly textured and sloppy, trap you and let you out, giving you false hope of escaping, only to imprison you again. It’s the best punishment you ever had.

Her throat was already better than the other cunts you’ve spent yourself in, so what does that make her pussy?

The best. Her overflowing waterfall lets her ride you easily. It seems like there’s a million spots inside her you can target for she quivers and cries with each bounce. Her hair flows photogenically while her chest does the same erotic motion.

“So fucking good, fuck,” Yena groans. Her round butt lands on your lap and you think you’d like it to stay there forever. Curl your hands around her cheeks. Draw a healthy moan from the throat you used.

Yena’s pussy curves and opens in every best way. She makes it so easy to mold her into the shape of your cock, to rearrange her insides. Was she made for dick? She’s so wet that you’d think she’s a nymphomaniac who won’t let you go, the same way her vagina won’t let you go as its grip curls around you and threatens to milk you to your wits’ end.

You wouldn’t mind that.

Her riding accelerates to an unbearable point the moment you start to spank her. She’s right about hurting and having sex being almost the same—you want to leave red handprints all over her jiggling ass. You want to pull her hair until she screams. You want to fuck this perfect cunt of hers right up to when she’s creaming all over you, flooding your sexes with her naturla nectar.

And the crazy thing is: she’ll actually let you.

“Fucking brat,” you say, hitting her butt again. She yelps coquettishly. “Are you really this thirsty for cock?”

“God, yes…” Her head throws back. Yena’s eyes shut and although her vision is blocked she sees stars. “Wanted to know how your dick would split me open. Fuck, keep doing that!”

Her core tightens with each blow you expel on her bouncing ass. Her hole’s already so enclosed so when she squeezes more, it’s close to having your cock tortured. You’re suffocating inside her. You’re waterboarded again and again with her waterfall of wetness.

You guide Yena’s motions with your hands on her behind. She’s so light that you’re practically using her as a doll, fucking her on your erection and letting yourself enjoy how her tits recoil. Her moans turn on a part of your brain that you don’t know, but it transmits to you these thoughts: fuck her senseless.

You raise her as high as you can, her weight nothing even to your long-untrained muscles, then slam her down. She sinks deeper into your lap and takes longer inches. Yena’s screams bounce off the soundproof walls that ensure only you can hear them. Those walls were fucking expensive, so of course you gotta let them have purpose. Slap Yena’s thighs down on yours and let her pussy envelop you right up to the point of bruises appearing on your skin.

How does she not sweat? Your hands wander all over her tight body and still you don’t find a drop of sweat. Her pigtails are still secured. You guess she was just made to be eternally pretty.

She is pretty, under any circumstance—her smooth skin possesses zero blemishes and her winged eyes remain lamp-bright. She’s pretty, even when she lets out the pitchiest sounds, even when Yena’s lips rise into a devilish smile before sealing on your neck. She nibbles on your skin and rakes up your sensitivity.

“Holy shit, Yena…”

“Yeah, that’s right.” She licks behind your ear and you nearly lose it. Maybe you already did. “Say my name. Because I’m all yours. This pussy is yours to use and abuse, so do it.”

Rub her tiny pulsing clit. Yena’s cries deafen you. If that’s not enough, she drowns you with her cum. There’s no raft to save you. You’re all alone. You’ll drown here and never see the light of day again.

Electricity runs through her body as the pleasure ramps up. Her fingers weaken on your shoulders. Her gasps are split off by larger, more surprised evolutions. Yena’s close.

“Fuck, no, I can’t!” Yena’s riding is furious and borderline abusive. The noises between your two crotches are louder than before.

“You can,” you insist. You throb inside her while her pussy becomes smaller despite the many thrusts you perform. “Take it like a good girl, Yena.”

“Fuck me, use me, I’m just your cute little helpless girl, fuck me!”

She couldn’t be more correct. She’s just a useless doll, thin and adorable and tight—so why not use her like one?

You’re surprised your limbs have any power in them, but they impress as you lift Yena up. During your walk to the counter, you don’t stop thrusting in her. She’s wet and ready, just waiting and begging for it to happen. Her pretty face is smudged with tears. There’s sick satisfaction in you from seeing how the confident girl at the bar is now just a fuckhole to use.

“Oh, oh, ah!” Cute little whines come out from those lips. Her mouth used its power to pick you up, make you cum, make you scared. In this second, all that is gone: she’ll only ever use it to wail in pleasure.

Knock her against the kitchen counter. Her thighs press to the curve. You spread them open and continue spending yourself to death in her. Her sides that slant to make the physique you love are perfect handles to thrust.

You’re completely soaked, but she’s completely defiled. The dream girl is not just any dream but a wet dream. She’s the fantasy you never had but will constantly think of now. And you don’t care if WAKE12 knows you’re fucking her. They can read all the thoughts you have about Yena as much as they like, and you wouldn’t care.

Instead of giving a fuck, you twist her around, her smooth back in front of you, and fuck her harder while you’re at it. Admire the way your hips slap her ass and give her the spanking she deserves. One spank, that’s for being so tempting. Another for the price of her promiscuity. Three one-after-the-other’s because she’s too wild, too free for a girl with that face.

“God, please, harder!” Yena cries. “Make me your little cocksleeve cumslut!”

She does not take pain to heart, physically and mentally. In spite of your rapid pumps and the slap of your stomach to her bent and ready ass, no bruises or scratches appear on her skin. You say all these degrading words and rather than mope about it, she gets more turned on. She forces you to give all your might in railing her in this apartment where the open windows give you away rather than the sounds. And you’re nodding along, saying:

“Of course.”

Of course you’ll grab her tits and pinch their nipples as hard as you can. Yena’s skin might not be humanly warm but these boobs are real. They’re soft in your palms and plentiful. Is she a masochist? You tweak and slap and squeeze; in response, she’s… smiling?

Of course you’ll slip your touch all over her body. Appreciate every perfect curve, every fine fullness. After fondling her tits, you slide your hands over her smooth pits, then to her arms that struggle to remain stable. She’s sensitive all over; it’s evident in the way she babbles each time you caress her.

Of course you’ll take her hair and pull as hard as you can. She won’t get mad. Nothing ever gets to the cool girl.

“Oh my god!” Yena shouts.

Those pigtails are there for a reason. Thrusts become easier to do with her hair curled in between your digits. Her ass meets your crotch easily and you find yourself excavating her cavern, hitting her in all the good places. Yena hums and screeches and sobs.

“Bad girl.” Her hair plays the role of your reins. They’re convenient in spreading Yena apart with your shaft, tearing at her tightness. “You’re nothing but a filthy cocksucking slut.”

“M-mhm, yes, just for you, just for this perfect dick, ahh! I’m cumming!”

Yena’s core flexes and contracts. It holds you like it never wants you to go but you let go anyway. You can do nothing besides that especially if it’s her, someone who’s so cute but so seductive, so challenging but submissive. Each part of her—those blowjob lips, her blooming face, her cockiness—makes you wish this could never end.

The first sign of the end of this pornographic one-reeler is your semen raining inside her, setting a storm in her guts. You pant, legs weak, while Yena’s seem to go on forever although she’s smaller than you.

The second sign is the mess she made. Those aforementioned desirable legs are painted by obscenity. She squirted all over your floor and herself. Your cum coats her vulva plus spills down freely.

Yena looking back at you with a tired smile is the last one, along with her asking, through shattered breaths, “Better than your whore ex?”

Because that’s the thing about girls like Yena. They’ll do everything to please you. Perhaps she’s a good dresser, but really, this is your style, not hers. This type of fashion is what you like on women: modestly revealing. Girls like Yena will give you everything, make you discover yourself, and when all this happens, she’ll remain the thoughtless, forgiving girl. She won’t complain about things that will set you off and say coy, clever things, the kind men like to hear.

All just to be better.

She is.

“Yeah.”

Yena chuckles. For a moment, she looks like the sweetest girl in the world. The happiness overtakes her face and makes her smile reach her ears.

It disappears as fast as it arrived.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

Alarm sounds of every kind—natural disaster, fire, robbery, whistles—blare in your head. You can’t hear anything except the thin screeches of emergency. But for what?

Yena loses her brightness. Everything that made her shine shuts down. She smiles, that same one full of mischief, before she breaks, too. Her eyes turn pitch black, the ones you see in crows, the sign of bad luck. She disassembles part by part before you. The light girl is suddenly so heavy that she forces you down. Suddenly, her torso above yours feels colder than before.

What the fuck?

Escape is your first instinct. You push the remains of the girl away. Your feet kick the broken parts as if you’d break, too. You brush past the fringe of her bangs. Below it, no diamond scar rests on her forehead.

Stare down at her. Yena truly is not real. Your manic robotic dream girl is dead. She was never alive.

“You have been found guilty,” says the implant. You used to hear it when WAKE12 arrested people and now it talks to arrest you. The alarms are loud but you understand every fragment.

The implant’s emotionless voice now sounds a lot like—

“Chaewon?”

Bad luck comes just like the consequences of the law, personified by stilettos clicking on your floor, a shadow in the moonlight, and the face of the woman you swear you never wanted to see again.

And yet here she is.

Chaewon looks so much like Yena. Yena looks so much like Chaewon. Their chins, their eyes, their bangs—who is who? Their faces mingle and mix in your vision. You think you’re going crazy.

She puts away a remote control and places her hands on her hips. Her black bodysuit is all you see as she approaches. Her smiling lips don’t utter a word. You hear her voice, all in your head.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything and everything you do shall be punished by WAKE12 accordingly. This is the price you pay for your crime.”

There’s a gun in front of you. It’s aimed at your chest, determined to crush what keeps it beating. Raise your hands, but not in surrender. You’ll die before you try to be Chaewon’s toy again.

“What crime? Being your ex-boyfriend?” you spit. This has got to be a joke. “Chaewon, I said, what crime?”

She can’t abuse her authority. She couldn’t have done all that just to get back at you. And for what? Being a bad boyfriend when you were younger and dumber?

You hear her speak. That striking smile looks more terrifying than beautiful. It dissolves into darkness to pronounce your wrongdoing.

“For the crime of fucking existing,” she snarls.

You hate Chaewon. You swore you never did yet now you do wholeheartedly. You tried to love her and reciprocate her efforts. She’s a busy woman so she should have understood you had other commitments.

This is the last time you ever want to hear from her.

A bullet you don’t see coming. It soars in the wind and finds its home sweet home in your skull.

She’s the last thing you ever heard.

626 notes · View notes

lianadelune · 8 months ago

Text

pairing: alastor x reader

author's notes: sorry for the long wait 😭 college hates me and i started a new internship and i don't even have time to think about writing... but i finished another chapter, i don't know if it's good but i hope you like it, hopefully the next one is longer but i can't make any promises ;)

part 1

“what’s wrong?” charlie asked with a worried tone.

“nothing you have to concern your little head about it” alastor forced a smile, he knew none of them would believe him but he needed a couple hours alone to think about the letter “now… if there’s nothing more to be said, i will be going”

and before any of them could ask more questions alastor blended into the shadows and transported himself to his room in the hotel.

letting his smile drop a little he sat on his bed and stared at the letter in his hands.

why were they doing this to him?

sure, he’s not exactly the best person out there but he at least tried to be somewhat civil, between helping charlie with this excuse of a hotel and trying to not infringe on the terms of the deal he made long ago.

but this… this put everything he spent the last decades building in jeopardy.

if alastor could he would simply tear this letter apart and burn it, never thinking about those words again.

the demon stepped in front of his fireplace with the letter in hands ready to ignore and completely forget about it, but the tight grip on his hands didn’t let the letter fall in the flames.

he couldn’t.

after staring at the letter for what felt like hours, alastor finally set it aside. he could see the angels’ game as clear as day: they were setting him up to fail, counting on his nature to make it impossible for anyone, much less a human, to see him as anything more than a monster

and with that he was setting the hotel to fail spectacularly and that certainly wasn’t his deal with lilith all those years before.

that’s why she sent him the letter.

threatening everything he had accomplished with her help, either alastor likes to admit it or not.

but alastor was nothing if not stubborn, he wouldn’t let this stupid joke from heaven and lilith destroy everything for him, and, as much as he hates to admit, for charlie as well, and he wasn’t about to play the angels’ little game without a twist of his own.

after alastor’s initial attempts to charm you—mostly involving unsettling gifts, eerie glances, and his “radio smile” lingering far too long—he began to realize that his usual tactics weren't working. he’d appear in mirrors, whisper eerie compliments from dark corners, and once even serenaded you with a distorted, old-timey song that left you rattled. and yet, instead of getting closer, you were pulling away, more suspicious than ever.

seeing his frustration, the crew decided to intervene.

“look, al,” angel dust said one afternoon as he watched alastor pace around the lobby. “you can’t just be creepy and expect a girl to swoon. romance isn’t about lurking around like some horror movie villain.”

alastor frowned, his smile flickering. “romance isn’t exactly my expertise,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “but I was certain that she’d appreciate a little…mystique.”

“maybe tone down the ‘i’m watching you from the shadows’ vibe,” charlie suggested gently. “why don’t you just…be there for her? show up, help her out, maybe smile a little less, um…serial-killer-y?”

husk snorted, shaking his head. “yeah, or just act like a normal person for once. no haunting, no creeping.”

alastor grimaced, but, reluctantly, he took their advice. the next time he appeared, it was during the day, while you were organizing books on the shelf. he simply knocked on the door—a sharp, polite rap that startled you. when you turned, he was standing there with an unreadable expression, his hands behind his back.

“good afternoon,” he said, his voice smooth, though still holding that eerie undertone. “i thought perhaps I could assist you…if you’d allow.”

you looked at him with a puzzled expression, was he joking? after almost scaring you to death all those days and making you actually consider moving out of the very nice house you didn’t actually pay rent to now being polite as if he’s a sort of roomate of yours wanting to make peace after an argument?

you scoffed but still allowed him to help, at least he could make himself useful after everything.

“so…” you said after a while, still side-eyeing him, expecting your ghostly intruder to do something suspicious “what are you exactly?”

alastor stopped on his tracks, still with a book on his hands halfway through to be put on the shelf.

“well, me dear” you noticed the static on voice had toned down significantly after your first encounters “i am a demon”

“a demon, huh” you squinted, why the hell didn’t your grandmother tell you she had a freaking demon living in her house? “do you have a name, demon?”

alastor’s smile faltered a little, back in hell he would never let anyone talk to him like this, but here he was swallowing the harsh words he wanted to say at the cost of his life... or even better not-life.

“no name?” you insisted, making him wake up from his daydream.

“the name’s alastor” the deer-man turned towards you, the pile of books on his hand gone and the room feeling less like a mess “and what is your name?”

“you are haunting me and don't even know my name?” you crossed your arms on your chest, laughing at the idea.

alastor opened his mouth to send a snarky remark in your direction but you were faster.

“my name is (y/n)... (y/n) (y/l/n)”

after you introduced yourself, alastor’s expression flickered briefly, he had heard your name before he was sure he had but why couldn’t he place it from where? it’s not usual for alastor to forget things like this, he made a mental note to talk to charlie about it, maybe she would know.

“well, (y/n), i must say,” alastor began “it’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance properly.” he extended a hand in an oddly formal gesture, as if you were meeting at a tea party rather than dealing with an uninvited demon in your grandmother’s home.

despite yourself, you almost felt a pang of amusement at his attempt at chivalry, and with a smirk, you took his hand. his touch was cool, yet strangely grounding. but the moment you released his hand, that unnerving cheshire grin of his was back.

“now that we’re formally introduced,” he said, leaning in with an amused gleam in his eye, “perhaps you’ll stop looking at me like a poltergeist?”

“maybe if you stop acting like one,” you countered, rolling your eyes but finding yourself oddly charmed by his persistence.

taglist: @vxllys

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor

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faerouzia · 2 months ago

Text

Kingdom: At Grim’s End

Shadows of the castle: I

Pairing: prince!seonghwa x darkfae!fem!reader

Au: strangers to lovers | third age au

Genre: fantasy, horror

Warnings: +21 (MDNI), gory scenes, disturbing depictions of creatures, angst, fluff, all you can imagine SMUT, mentions of dark magic, death,suggestive themes, betrayal, slow burn, fear

Summary: The land of Aurora, split into several kingdoms, after a war that raged for over 400 years, falls weary of the dark reigns bestowed by the Evil Queen of Darconia, Morana. With half the kingdoms bound to her will, the last rivalling kingdoms join forces in hopes to end the queen’s exploitation of ancient magic and the plan of using dark arts and the blood of the most powerful king’s and creatures to solidify her power. In the midst of unforgiving circumstances, Prince seonghwa of Halazia and the last of her kind, a decent of the phoenix fae fall in love, but at a great cost.

Chapter playlist

Word count: 2361

Series master list

The moon cast its silvery glow over the majestic Halazia castle walls, illuminating the lavender stone and the figures that moved within with an ethereal light. King Park the Great stood at the window, his piercing gaze fixed on the night sky, his thoughts consumed by the weight of his kingdom and the expectations placed upon his son, Seonghwa.

The grounds grew grayer by the day, the townspeople losing faith with each passing moment, their hopes dwindling like the fading light of day. The Alms cathedral, once a beacon of hope, now held on by its last string of saints, mere weeks away from withering away into obscurity.

"My love," a subtle voice echoed through the chamber, breaking the king's reverie. Queen He-ra, once the radiant princess of Aloula, now the queen of Halazia, entered the room, dressed in her pearl-adorned garment, her movements as graceful as a summer breeze.

As she approached, the king's ears were met with the ever-sweet sound of her voice, a balm to his troubled soul. Her steps fell softly, like the gentle glide of an angel, and the fragrance of white liliac wafted from her, enveloping him in the serene beauty of a garden.

"You have been troubled of late, what weighs on your mind?" she said, brushing her hands across his shoulders with a gentle touch.

King Park sighed heavily, his gaze still focused on the town below. "Without any power stronger than yours, I'm only forced to think and worry for my people...and my family," he cooed, his voice la with concern.

“You’re growing weaker by the day because of it, it’s all-all too painful for me to bear” he confessed.

"The effect of her reigns grows by the day, trade has slowed down, the people are growing restless. I fear for our future, our children's future, and the people's future..your future” he said, his voice low and measured, aching to shed a tear.

Queen He-ra's eyes filled with understanding and empathy, her expression a testament to her compassion. "We've done everything in our power to protect them, our efforts go unnoticed by the people," she said. "Faith is never lost, it's protected; we are only equipped with sword and armor."

The queen's smile softened, her eyes shining with a deep adoration as she looked at her king. She assured him gently, "As for my power, I am willing to endure its cost if it means protecting our family and the people. I have come of age to wield it wisely, and if weakness is the price, I will pay it. For you, my love, for our children, and for the kingdom, I will persevere."

"For as long as I'm still alive, my power will continue to shield and protect this kingdom from destruction and evil," she added, culling his face in her hands with a tender touch.

The king continued to hold his gaze on his queen, his one true love, tears threatening to leave his eyes. "I know dear, what scares me most is how our son is eager to give his life for all," he said sadly.

"I can't lose him to such morals," he added, his voice cracking with emotion.

"As much as it breaks my heart, we have to understand we put him in this position as the royal family," the queen countered. "He is the youngest, of course, but his fate will only be altered should the board have a change of mind."

Just then, before Queen He-ra could continue with her words, Seonghwa, the prince of Halazia, entered the room, his movements deliberate and confident. "Father, I've come to discuss the recent developments in the realm," he said, his voice low and measured.

King Park released his wife and turned to face his son, his expression stern once more. "Seonghwa, you know what's at stake. The Evil Queen's reign of terror has already begun to affect our kingdom. Trade has slowed, and our people are growing restless. We must tread carefully to avoid drawing her attention."

“I cannot lose my son to such circumstances," the king said, his voice shaking with emotion. "I'd rather sacrifice myself to Queen Morana than let you run loose like a headless chicken."

"I'm more than prepared, father," Seonghwa countered. "I've been training all my life for days like these."

"This-this is different, danger is an understatement to declare, Seonghwa, you're nearing 26, you're of young age," the king pleaded.

Before the king could proceed with the conversation, a part of him hesitated, reluctant to precipitate another dispute akin to the one that had recently transpired. Memories of their past argument still lingered, the words spoken in haste and passion.

"Father, I implore you, grant me permission to take up arms against the Evil Queen," he had entreated.

The king's expression had turned stern, his voice firm. "No, Seonghwa! You are not yet prepared for such a perilous endeavor. The Evil Queen's power is not to be underestimated."

Seonghwa's determination had remained unwavering. "I have trained tirelessly, Father. I am ready to defend our realm and our people."

The king's concern had been evident. "You are still young, Seonghwa. You do not fully comprehend the depths of her malice. I will not lose you to her cruelty."

“But if you could just grant me the chance I would-”

“Enough!" The king's voice thundered, his words laced with anguish and desperation. "This is not a game, Seonghwa, it is a war where lives are lost without mercy. By the heavens, I abhor the fate that would blind you to the reality of your own mortality! You will die, Seonghwa, and the thought of losing you is a torment I can hardly bear. We will not have this conversation again. Do I make myself abundantly clear?"

The king's eyes blazed with a mix of fear, anger, and paternal concern, his face etched with the weight of his emotions. His words hung in the air, heavy with the gravity of his warning.

As the king hesitated to continue the conversation, he recalled the passion and conviction in his son's eyes. He feared that another argument would only serve to further solidify Seonghwa's resolve, rather than dissuade him from his chosen path. With a heavy heart, king chose his words carefully, aware that the of their kingdom and their family hung precariously in the balance.

"The board will hold a meeting in three days' time, only then will your fate be decided. Until then, I will not allow you to put yourself in danger," the king said sternly.

Seonghwa left in disbelief, his mouth agape, turning to his mother for assurance. All she could do was smile softly at him before he spoke.

"Mother-“

“ let's not rush into situations where your return is not guaranteed," Queen he-ra said, her voice laced with concern.

"As much as I want you to set a course to your destiny, I cannot imagine being a mother grieving her own, knowing l've let you out into a world of terror without adequate preparation," the queen softly said, holding onto her son's hands.

The queen's words struck a chord within Seonghwa's breast. His gaze faltered, and his heartstrings vibrated with emotion, for he knew his parents' apprehensions were well-founded.

Though his confidence had shielded his fear, he couldn't deny the truth that his parents saw him as not yet ready for the trials ahead.

The conversation between King Park, Queen He-ra, and Seonghwa would determine the course of their kingdom's future, but little did they know that their lives were about to become entangled with a mysterious presence that would change everything.

Meanwhile, in a distant village, a stranger stood atop a hill, gazing up at the nocturnal sky. He was a traveler, a collector of tales and rumors. As he watched, a pair of majestic wings flew above the castle, their shape silhouetted against the lunar glow. The stranger's eyes widened in awe. "What creature could possess such wings?" he wondered aloud. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he realized that something extraordinary was happening in the realm.

The stranger grabbed his spectacles to get a better view of the figure, which seemed to be a large eagle. However, the misty clouds hid it from full revelation. "I must inform my father!" he exclaimed, running towards the town in hopes of sharing his observations.

In the castle , the candles dimmed ever so slightly as bedtime neared. Queen He-ra visited her eldest daughter's room, Min, to wish her goodnight before proceeding to Seonghwa's chambers. However, he was nowhere to be found.

Undoubtedly, she knew he was either in the library or the training quarters, overworking himself to the core. But to her surprise, he was indeed in the library.

Letting a soft knock grace the door, she peered in, noticing her son's figure asleep on the stretcher, surrounded by books and torn pages about magic and its sources. "Seonghwa," she cooed quietly, hoping not to awaken him abruptly. But his eyes opened immediately. "Mother, what are you doing here so late? You should be in bed, asleep," he asked, his voice laced with concern.

"I couldn't rest without knowing where you were," she replied, gracing his face with her hand. "I see you're interested in magic," she observed. "I am," he said. "I just wanted to see how I'd incorporate it with my training, just in case the board decic for me to take action."

As Seonghwa spoke, he lightly touched her hair.

The shield that protected the kingdom, held by the queen's magic, drained her life force, causing her to age quicker and grow weaker. Though weak, she remained strong in front of her son, not allowing herself to show the dark side of the magic's effects.

"It's alright, grey hair suits me better, don't you think?" she joked lightly. However, Seonghwa was no fool; he knew when she was faking a facade.

"Let's head off to bed, shall we?" the queen asked, leading her son out of the library and straight to their chambers.

"Goodnight, my son. I love you dearly," she said before closing his doors. "I love you most, Mother," he whispered against his pillow. The owls' gentle hooting lulled him to sleep.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the stranger, the wings belonged to a being whose presence would soon shake the foundations of the kingdom.

Someone who would unwittingly become entangled in the complex web of power and magic that governed the realm. As the stranger descended the hill, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had caught a glimpse of something momentous. Little did he know that his life, and the lives of those in the kingdom, were about to become intertwined with the figure's in ways they could hardly imagine.

“FATHER!!FATHER!” The stranger screamed

"By the beard of Durin's ancestors, what's gotten into you, boy? You're hollering like a bunch of wild goblins at a harvest festival! Spit it out, lad, what tidings do you bring that warrants such a ruckus?" Mr. Kim asked

The boy silenced in excitement muttering to himself.

"Spit it out, Hongjoong! I've only got about a century left to live, and I'm not exactly dying to wait all day for you to get to the point." He sarcastically said

“I think I saw a fae” hongjoong finally spoke

“By the gods, lad, I've spent years wringing milk from a recalcitrant goat's udder, and yet, somehow, your contribution to this conversation has been even less fruitful!" Mr Kim exclaimed excitedly.

"We must inform the king," he muttered, tapping his fingers against his lips. "We depart at dawn's break. Make sure you're scrubbed clean and get that mud off your pants – and don't look like you just rolled down the chocolate river, for goodness' sake!" He said cocking his bushy eyebrows up.

"Yes, Father, do make sure to pluck the grey wisps from your nose, and perhaps prune the eyebrows while you're at it," Hongjoong said with a straight face.

The old man shot him a look, "I'm warning you, lad, I may be old, but these hairs have been my trusty companions through thick and thin, how’d ya think I got your mother– and I'll have you know, they've brought me nothing but good fortune... or at least, that's the story I'll be telling the grandchildren." With a flourish, he adjusted his belt, snapping his worn cotton pants confidently into place, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Blimey, Dad! Spare me the details of how you wooed Mum, I don't need to know about your dodgy nose hair or your questionable charm!" Hongjoong grimed in disgust.

"Off to bed with you, young scamp! Your mother and I have some... 'important business' to attend to. And don't worry, we'll try to keep the goats' singing to a minimum.” Mr. Kim snarked skipping towards his chambers to “celebrate” with his wife.

In a few minutes Hongjoong heard ruffles and boards banging against the wall.

"I better not get another sibling!" Hongjoong exclaimed, his face contorted in mock horror. "Shut your gob, you little scamp!" Mr. Kim bellowed, brandishing a wooden spoon with a flourish.

The boards decision: ll

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euphorix-moon · 2 years ago

Text

Only You

Ellie x Fem!Reader

Wc:1.2k

Synopsis: Ellie being a loser lesbian hopelessly in love with one of her best friends.

A/n : It has been quite a while but i'm back with a lil fluffy fic

Ellie doesn’t know how she’s going to do it. She doesn’t know when she’s going to do it. But she knows she has to do it.

Ellie's has known you for almost six years now. You guys met at school, and from there, you guys would spend countless hours with each other. Ellie has known you for six years already—six years of stolen looks at you, six years of covering up the need to be close to you as a friendly shoulder bump or hand on your thighs while laughing or telling a story. Ellie has known you for six years, and she has been in love with you for six years. "Love at first sight," as people call it, Ellie laughed at that and said, ‘Don’t fuck with me; you can’t fall in love with someone you just met’. She told that to her neighbor and friend Jesse, who told her he fell in love with some girl right at the second he laid eyes on her. Love at first sight was bullshit for Ellie. Was.

Until one day, a transfer student arrived in her class. The second you walked into the classroom, Ellie was swept off his feet, and she thanked the chair under her buttocks for holding her. You looked absolutely breathtaking, and you had a smile that could easily light up the entire room. So bright, Ellie thought looking at it for too long would burn her eyes. But it didn’t. She tried. Once she made a competition, alone, of course, trying to see how long she could look at without going blind. Maybe Ellie went blind and just didn’t know it yet.

You were that friendly girl who laughed at all the stupid jokes and tried to do everything she could to help everyone. Everybody liked you. Honestly, how could anyone even think of hating this sunshine? You sat on the free desk, which happened to be right next to Ellie's, and brightly said hi to her new seatmate. All Ellie could do was nod her head and smile, but her smile felt embarrassed before the smile on your face. Your smile brightened up her whole existence. Ellie couldn't bring herself to start speaking to you during class, so Ellie's hobby at that time during class (and to be honest, during the whole time her eyes were open) was looking at and studying you. The flower is too beautiful for this shit of a school. Ellie was scared someone might step on or cover the sun for you, but you were stronger than it seemed. Never letting anyone get to you and always knowing how to stand up for yourself, no matter the circumstances

Ellie wanted to help you. She wanted to be your pillar, the person to whom you could tell everything and never hold back. And she was. Only in front of Ellie did you let your tears fall, open up, and share your insecurities and secrets with her. You felt as if Ellie was one of the only people who would listen to you and not judge you for anything you said.

It happened two years into their friendship. It hurt more than anything Ellie ever felt. More than that one time, she got her wisdom tooth out with the medicine still not fully working. More than the time Jesse punched her in the face because Ellie was being too much of a dick, nothing new, but she touched on a topic she promised herself she wouldn’t. Seeing you holding a girl’s hand and laughing at her stupid jokes hurt Ellie more than she could take it.

****

The next month was like a black spot for Ellie. She remembered not even showing up at school, too busy curling into a ball on her bed and scratching angry words onto her innocent journal. Words that spoke more than her mouth could, her heart spilling on the pages. That one month, she didn’t see you at all. That one month was nothing but darkness, because her sun was someone else’s, too busy shining for someone else.

One night, the doorbell rang, and Ellie opened with an annoyed face and even more annoyed-looking hair. It was you. A very sad and crying you. For a second, Ellie panicked, almost closing the door in your face. The second you were in Ellie's small apartment, you fell into her arms, sobbing and mumbling curses and ‘she cheated."Ellie tried calming you down,sitting you on the couch, tugging you in soft blankets, and even though she won’t admit it, she kissed your forehead after making sure you were asleep. Ellie was angry. She was so angry that she gulped down the already-opened beer in one breath. She knew that girl wasn’t one to trust. She knew she should’ve stayed with you to protect you. She was angry at no one but herself.

Ellie never left your side again. No matter how many more girls were there,smiling annoying smiles and talking with disgusting voices, Ellie was there to catch you every time you fell. After yet another breakup, you, being drunk and emotional, ended up kissing Ellie. It's more like you passed out on Ellie's lips. Ellie knew you wouldn't remember this; she really tried to forget what ever happened that night as well. But Ellie remembers, always, forever. She has a little pocket in her heart where she keeps every little moment spent with you. Even that one time you threw up on her at one of your first parties

More time passes, faster than Ellie would like it to, and you're still here. Smiling brightly and making the world a better place—at least Ellie's world for sure. Jesse once asked Ellie how she did not break during all these years spent with the one you love and yet not be able to actually be with them. Ellie laughed sadly, her eyes speaking more than words. Jesse just nodded knowingly and patted Ellie's shoulder. Ellie was already broken long ago. She needed glue to fix her heart and her soul.

The glue that kept the pieces of Ellie together was you. It was always you. Ellie laughs at herself, shaking her head. Six years have passed since the day she met you. Since she met the missing piece that would make her whole,

She didn’t know how to do it. She didn’t know when to do it. But she knew she had to do it. Ellie knocked on your front door with flowers in her hand and a goal on her mind. She had to finally tell you how she felt. How she felt after all these years

Six more years pass, and six more wait right around the corner. Ellie smiles every time she remembers how stupid she was for not confessing to you earlier, or how stupid you were for not telling Ellie earlier. Love at first sight was something you both didn’t believe in—something you both laughed at. But here you guys are, laying in their now-shared bed, in their now-shared apartment, sharing loving looks and gentle touches. Ellie hugs you, pulling you closer and kissing your face with a smile forming on your lips. You were, are, and always will be Ellie's everything.

A/n: Hope you guys enjoyed. As always feedback is appreciated !

#ellie tlou #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie x y/n #ellie x you #tlou #tlou2 #ellie williams #ellie williams fanfic #fanfic #loser lesbian #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou2 #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader fluff

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alessiathepirate · 5 months ago

Text

Red Dead Redemption 2

OUR MOST HONEST SELVES: John Marston x fem!reader

Summary: In which John Marston falls off the train - but he isn't alone.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistakes I may have made while I wrote this short story.

Warnings: swearing, guns and violence, injuries

●●●

It felt like time slowed down as she watched John fall off the train. Seconds turned into minutes; thougths ran through her head faster than ever.

Arthur shouted John's name just as the ache she recognized as fear of death began to burn her chest. Sadie shot the damn fool who caused John's fall - and during those moments her feet somehow took the first two steps. Arthur must've known what she was about to do - even if she herself didn't completely understand her upcoming actions -, because he tried to grab her arm while shouting her name; yet it was too late - she made that jump already.

As she got closer and closer to the ground, to the tracks, she could hear Micah's laugh as the damn rat had his fun watching her stupidity. He already gave her shit for her obvious feelings for John Marston - so of course he would laugh as she fell to her very possible death.

She collided with the ground, the rifle on her back pushing into her ribs painfully. Her shin hit the traintracks and she screamed as the burning sensation took over her left leg. Still, the pain was easily ignored as she crawled toward John's body.

After she reached him, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and her hands were on him in an instant. She put pressure on his shoulder wound as she shook him, begging him to say something - anything.

"John... John!" she cried as tears ran down her face.

He had been attacked by wolves, caught by Pinkertons - and she took all of those moments badly. Horribly. Yet after all that she won't fucking let him die by being shot off a damn train!

"Marston, you fool, open your eyes!" she begged and when he began to stir she felt like she could breathe again - she leaned in even closer, her chin almost reaching his chest. "John?"

He moaned in pain, one of his hands touched hers to try and put even more pressure on his wound as he opened his eyes. His gaze met hers and she suddenly felt the urge to use her free hand and wipe away her tears - and she did that as soon as she could.

"Y/N?" he said as he tried to push himself up - she pulled her hand away from the wound, but pushed his onto the place instead, to stop the bloodloss. "Where are the others?"

She sat back down and whined quietly from the pain.

"They ain't coming for us, John." she said softly as her heart ached - Arthur would if he could. "Micah laughed at me when I jumped after you, so I think they ain't coming."

John pushed himself into a full on sitting position and his gaze darkened at her words.

"You did what?"

A bullet landed only inches away from her and that stopped her from answering. She reached for her revolver as soon as she saw the first Pinkerton appear on horseback, and she was ready to shoot, but before she even had the chance to pull the trigger John pushed her behind himself as he shot the man dead.

She was breathing heavily as she landed face first on the ground, small stones breaking the skin on her face. She looked up, peeking out from behind John's thigh, and raised her gun just in time to shoot a Pinkerton who came in from the left.

She pushed herself up - ready to fight even if John didn't want her to.

Not many of them were left; they put down three more men before the whole patrol team was dead. Her heart was beating fast; adrenaline making her feel hot.

She slowly put away her gun and John did the same - then he turned to look at her and the only emotion she could see in his eyes was anger. And she felt the tears in her own eyes appear again when she realized that he was angry at her.

"What were you thinkin' jumpin' after me like that?" he asked her as he grabbed onto her shoulders - and he groaned in pain. "You coulda died! You almost got shot!" John's eyes softened a bit and his voice became less firm as he watched her tears run down her face. "Why would you do something so stupid?"

She looked at him, then averted her gaze as she pushed his hands off her shoulders.

"What does it matter?" she asked and she hated how rough and weak her voice was. "If I'm not here those Pinkertons would've shot you dead!"

"And now they almost shot you dead!" John argued. "Why didn't you stay on the train?"

"Oh, because that would've been so much better!" she felt the muscles in her cheeks twitch as she held back her tears. "I don't know if you noticed or not, John, but Dutch and Micah sent the most expendable people to hop on the damn train! Sadie, Cleet, Arthur, you and me - we are either the least useful ones or those who ask the most questions! So it doesn't matter where the Hell I am!"

She felt all the frustration leave her as she shouted -- Hell, she didn't mean to argue with John over something so stupid, but the situation itself and Dutch's recent decisions brought out the worst in them.

She tried to stand up, ready to go after Arthur and Sadie, because they truly deserved the help, but pain stopped her from doing so. She whined and touched her knee -- her leg hurt so bad...

As soon as she groaned in pain John's eyes were on her leg - or more precisely on her bloody trousers -, but before he could touch it, he decided against it. All anger and frustration disappeared instead, and worry took their place. Pure worry - and her heart melted.

"Shit, what happened to your leg?"

"Stupid traintracks got me." she answered.

John sighed and repeated what he had said earlier - but this time more calmly. "You shoulda stayed on the train. With Arthur."

She wiped her tears away as all her wrath disappeared. There was no time for arguments - she knew that for a fact. They had a job to do, people to keep safe.

"Well I'm sorry, but I love your immature ass too much to just watch you fall off a train, Marston." she said, not even realizing that the words left her mouth. "Next time I'll just leave you, if you're this ungrateful, I promise. Now help me stand up, will you? We gotta go back to camp. Arthur will need our help."

When John didn't move she turned to look him in the eyes - and his shocked face confused her even more.

"What?" she asked.

John swallowed as he looked at her.

"You, uh-- you mean that?"

She didn't understand what he meant at first, so she looked at him in confusion with her head tilted. Then realization hit her - oh, God, no she didn't...

"Shit, I didn't-- I didn't mean to say that." she felt her whole face burn hot from embarassment. "Just-- forget it. Now help me up, will you?"

But John stayed still as he continued to look at her, watching her every move like a hawk. He looked surprised, but not at all confused or upset. He acted as if they were on one of their many robberies and he just found something very valuable.

"Damn it, Marston, if you don't want to move a muscle than just fucking say s--"

Her sentence was left unfinished - since John suddenly held onto her with both of his hands, his hold on her cheeks both firm and gentle. He hissed in pain from the shoulder wound, but regardless of the discomfort he still put his lips against hers, kissing her.

She felt her whole body tremble and it took her some time to finally close her eyes and kiss back as she grabbed onto his arms for support.

Kissing John Marston felt good -- great. Sure, he tasted like whiskey and smelled like cigars, but she finally got to do what she wanted since forever.

After it ended John put his forehead against hers as his fingers played with her hair. She leaned into his touch, appreciating all of him even if it wasn't really the best time for it.

"I, uh-- Thank you." he began after he cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "I-- appreciate it. Really. What you did; the Pinkertons, the train and all that..."

She chuckled as her whole face burned from what he said. "Woah, Marston, the girls were right! You really are bad with words."

"Oh, shut up!" he said dismissively as he stood up and reached a hand out for her.

She gladly took it, letting him help her get up - even though she groaned a lot from the pain in her leg.

"John?" she asked as he put one of her arms over his neck and held onto her side gently, getting ready to help her walk - until they can find one of the Pinkertons' horses at least. "Anytime." she continued when he looked her in the eyes and John smiled at her.

"That leg looks pretty bad."

"Feels worse." she tried to let out a laugh. "How's the shoulder?"

"Could be worse." he answered. "We need a horse."

"You read my mind."

John let her rest against a tree when they noticed one of the horses not so far away. He did his best to calm it down, even if his face seemed pale and he was barely standing. Both of them were in a bad shape with cold sweat running down their foreheads from their injuries.

Still, John helped her up onto the horse's back and then sat behind her, keeping her safe as he held onto the reins.

Despite their situation, despite the pain, despite the stress to get back to camp and help Arthur who was surrounded by back-stabbing rats; John looked out for her -- like she looked out for him.

And when he kissed the back of her neck she thought that her injury be damned, it was fucking worth it - jumping after him...

...because she finally knew that John felt the same. He might not have said it with words, but the way he held onto her waist told her everything she needed to know.

#rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x fem!reader #john marston x reader #john marston x fem!reader #alessiathepirate #rdr x reader #rdr2 x you

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blasphemousclaw · 9 months ago

Note

thank you for being so normal about the hornsent 🙏 Thank you cause jesus christ. anyways for the ask ermm The hornsent npc melina or messmer

you’re welcome I just got so attached to the hornsent while playing the dlc! after watching Belurat burn in the story trailer, going into the ruined city in the game and seeing all the graves and mourning spirits really affected me, and I’m honestly shocked that such a huge portion of the fanbase didn’t feel the same way. also they are literally so cool like look at their art and architecture. their armor sets. their divine beast dancing lion. if people can’t enjoy that because they’re “evil” well I have great news. they are not real

anyway here’s capital H Hornsent my best friend Hornsent

• favorite thing about them

how his quest ends with him attacking us no matter what we do. I know I know! it’s so frustrating that we can’t convince him we’re on his side! but the fact that he tries so hard to push us away just makes me love him more! he refuses our second offering of scorpion stew because he isn’t here to make friends, he’s here to win he’s given his life for his revenge... his line “I wish not to friendship kindle” drives me crazy because we have this moment of human connection with him, which he acknowledges, but he can’t let himself lose sight of his purpose! admit it Hornsent. you like me

also his character design and voice acting are fantastic

• least favorite thing about them

I already like how his character is handled but I think it would be even stronger if he or someone else dropped a few more details about life in Belurat before the crusade. he enacts his revenge not just in the name of his murdered family but his entire culture, and it would be nice to learn a few more hornsent cultural details through him!

• favorite line

“What’s this? Do you think me in need of alms? Ah… but this dish. Tis fare o’ the tower. I remember fondly this kin-clad scent. …Brings back memories I’d all but forgot. This, by my troth, is but a dismal copy. Indeed, I think it rather plain to see… things once broken can never be the same.”

I love the scorpion stew interaction so much! “things once broken can never be the same” hits so hard after exploring Belurat and seeing the city’s destruction, and pairing this dialogue with the scorpion stew description is even more tragic: “Traditional meal of the hornsent. Once made with love by a certain elderly woman for the family table.”

• brOTP ОТР whatever this is

Hornsent and Tarnished. what if I could fix him

• nОТР

I don’t think about this at all

• random headcanon

the marks on his face are burn scars from the fires… I think he had hair but it mostly burned off. maybe I’ll draw what I think his face looked like without the limitations of the npc character model sometime

• unpopular opinion

I don’t think he was a greater potentate! I think it’s strongly implied that he lived in Belurat before the crusade, not Bonny Village. I think he sought out the potentates’ caterpillar mask because it’s used to enhance focus and banish feelings of doubt in one’s purpose, which makes perfect sense for his revenge quest

• song i associate with them

once again please leave any suggestions in the replies/tags!!

• favorite picture of them

not to boost my own content but this was hysterical

#asks #hornsent

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luvely-stories · 7 months ago

Text

7:3 Cafe

+.｡ﾟ:;｡+ﾟ+｡::ﾟ｡:.ﾟ｡+｡+.｡ﾟ:;｡+ﾟ+｡::ﾟ｡:.ﾟ｡+ +.｡ﾟ:;｡

You’re a down on your luck office worker trying to find a quick place to eat, then you see a familiar face in a cafe window.

This was inspired by a beautiful art piece by the lovely @riritzuu

+.｡ﾟ:;｡+ﾟ+｡::ﾟ｡:.ﾟ｡+｡+.｡ﾟ:;｡+ﾟ+｡::ﾟ｡:.ﾟ｡+ +.｡ﾟ:;｡

You sighed as you rubbed your eyes, the blue light from the screen in front of you burning them from staring for too long. You were so close to finishing this project but you were too damn tired to even think of continuing.

You accidentally skipped breakfast and now you needed something to eat and fast, your head starting to fee light from lack of nutrients. You decided that you worked hard enough and that it was time for a well earned break.

Heels clicking against the city sidewalks, your eyes look over all the eateries nearby and sigh. They were filled to the brim with some people even standing outside. As you keep walking around to your usual places you found the same sight, lines flowing out and it was starting to piss you off.

All you wanted was to get ride of this headache that was starting to be unbearable. You started to massage your head as you kept looking around. Just as you felt like all hope was lost, two people walked right in front of you, loudly and cheerfully speaking.

“Wasn’t that just the cutest little cafe?”

“I know right?! I kinda wanna be a gatekeeper it but you know, they deserve the business.”

In any other situation you’d be annoyed by how loud they were but you were too busy wondering about the cafe they were just talking about. Turning around to where they came from you sprinted off, praying that the cafe wasn’t too packed.

Looking around you realized that this cafe was off the beaten path which just made you all the more hopeful. You turn a corner and see an opening on a building and thanked whatever was in the sky above that the place seemed fairly empty minus a few kids running around.

The cafe was cute, a sign flying above it that showed little graphics of bread and coffee. Next to them was the cafes name, 7:3 Cafe. Odd name but who cares? Out front they had a chalkboard listing all their breads and special drink of the day with the cutest little doodles of what you were guessing were the kids and the owner.

The window of the cafe showed a display with the cutest pastries you’d ever seen and the smell coming from them was divine. There were the cutest little bears made of bread smiling at you throughs the glass next to cupcakes with white frosting. As you stared at the food a man came in and placed fresh baguettes next to the cupcakes. Trailing your eyes on the baguettes they unintentionally run up the mans hands, you always did have a staring problem. Eventually your gaze landed on his face.

You stare at him for a moment curious till you realize, you knew this man?!

“Nanami?!”

You shout, causing the mans head to shoot up. Looking into his deep eyes you immediately knew this was Nanami though he looked…so much more relaxed.

Back when you two worked together in the finance department Nanami had this air of professionalism to him that had other people always coming to him for everything, yourself included. His hair was always perfectly parted with suits that never wrinkled and always made sure that everything was done on time. He was a model office worker, emphasis on model.

He always kept small talk to a minimum with everyone and you’re not sure he had any friends in his job. Though youd like to imagine you were on friendly terms but maybe that was just your delusions talking.

It’d be a surprise to no one if you admitted your crush on Nanami but could anyone blame you? He was as diligent and smart and even if he had eye bags as dark as could be he always did his part in projects to perfection. You were convinced he was gods favorite because he always looked so handsome no matter what he did.

But nothing compared to how he is now. His perfect blonde hair was still parted but it now flowed freely, almost grazing the glasses he now wore. He wasn’t wearing the perfectly taken care of suits but instead well loved clothes covered by an apron. And oh his face, now so full and well rested, had your heart about to burst. A complete contrast to how your heart was when you heard about him quitting.

When you heard the news your heart shattered. It was just after you felt like you two were starting to become friends. Some months beforehand it was just you and Nanami in the early morning office, both of you working to finish separate projects. As you worked diligently, the faint smell of fresh bread filled your nose. Raising you head from the computer you look over at Nanami.

“Do you smell the bread too or am I going crazy?”

Nanami glanced up from his file before smelling the air curiously, before smelling his own blazer. Realization dawned on him as he went back to work.

“That’s me, I apologize.”

“You brought some?”

“No, I bake.” He explain calmly, still deep in his work.

Well now you were curious. Pausing your work, you swirl your chair to face Nanami.

“I didn’t know you were a baker!” You say, a smile creeping on your face.

“Oh I wouldn’t consider myself a baker, it’s more so just a hobby.” Nanami shrugs as he starts to organize his files.

“I dunno, by the smell of that I think you make some pretty great treats.” You shrug before twirling back and turning your attention back to your computer. You couldn’t help but mentally high five yourself for talking to him, although it was brief

The sound of papers shuffling stopped, intriguing you for a moment before ignoring it.

“I could bring you some if you were really curious.”

Now that you couldn’t ignore. You turn in your chair back to Nanami and your heart skipped a beat. He was looking right into your soul with those gorgeous eyes of him and you immediately felt your face heat up.

“I mean sure- if it isn’t too much of a problem!”You sputter out, still shocked about the offer.

Nanami hums contently before going back to work while you tried to calm down your racing heart.

You believed him even less when he said he wasn’t a baker when you tried his bread. It was delicious, putting other bakers to shame and you made sure to tell him that. That was the start of a small friendship you had where he would bring you treats and you would rave about them, recommending new recipes to try or talking about a new pastry that you tried.

You learned that he was a foodie and knew all of the best places in town for anything and everything and you really felt like you two were starting to connect. Safe to say you were crushed when you heard he was leaving.

Which is why you were thanking your lucky stars that he was standing right in front of you. He recognized you instantly, calling out your name with a soft smile.

“I never thought I’d see you again, what brings you here?”

As if on que your stomach let out an obnoxiously loud grumble, god you could just die. Though Nanami didn’t mind as he let out a soft chuckle, god this man would be the death of you.

“Well I just heard some people talking about cute cafe and I had to check it out!” Now you wondered if the ladies meant the cafe was cute or the cafe worker.

“Well what are you out there for? Come on in.” He smiles softly at you as you quickly follow his order.

Inside the cafe really was cute, it was small but it was so cozy. Charm filled the place with every hanging plant and hung picture. You walk up to the front, glancing over at the menu. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Nanami going behind the counter and you had to fight the urge to just stare at him.

“So what would you like?” He asked staring at you like you weren’t five seconds away grabbing his face and smothering it in kisses.

“Uhh what do you recommend?”

“I’d suggest the apple turnovers, I really think they came out well this time.”

You look over to where they were and saw two kids staring at them, the young girl trying to grab said turnover.

“Nobara, put that down.” Nanami says sternly, causing the girl to whip her head around as she got caught.

The little boy next to her looked over with crossed arms and a pout. “Told you it wouldn’t work.”

Nobara stuck her tongue out at the boy before she ran off and he followed behind her. Nanami sighs before looking back at you.

“Kids.” He sighs, shaking his head and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“They’re cute! Are there yours?” You asked, a little part of you praying that there wasn’t another woman in the picture.

“I mean I’m their foster parent. I started fostering after I started this place started up.” He says, motioning around the cafe.

“Wait, you own this place?!” Nanami nods proudly as he looks around the place.

“I realized while working that I just couldn’t anymore, I couldn’t stand the draining office environment.” Nanami explained, leaning on the register with a somber expression.

“So I spent a lot of time thinking “well what could I do?”. I started to look in at any other skills I had and honestly it took a lot longer then I’d like to admit.” Nanami muttered, a bit of pink in his ears.

“Though after thinking I realized that I could bake. Thanks to you I knew my baking wasn’t terrible so I tried it out. And here I am. Though I was a bit worried you were just being nice.”

Nanami chuckles before gives you a smile that you swear makes the entire room glow. You look at him and smile bashfully.

“If you want me to be honest I think you should’ve tried this sooner. I wasn’t being nice or anything you’re great at this stuff!”

You exclaim as you remember all the amazing treats that you had tried made by him. You always had to hold back from asking for more because you didn’t want to be rude. Nanami looks at you with eyes slightly wide and smiled as he stood up.

“I’m so happy you’re just the same as I remember.” Fondness filled his eyes as he looked at you.

Well damn was he trying to kill you?! You sigh as you look back at the menu.

“I’ll have an apple turnover and a latte, no foam please.” You sputter out as you try to keep your heart in your chest.

Nanami nods, placing your order in. As you start paying, a little pink haired boy comes out from the curtain behind Nanami. You had to hold in the awe you almost said because he was the cutest thing you ever saw.

“Papamin! We’re hungry!” The little boy says, grabbing onto Nanamis apron. Nanami gently placed a hand on his head as he finishes putting in your order.

“Let me finish with this customer ok Yuji?” Nanami says as the boy groans but runs back behind the curtain.

You finish paying but you end up staying at the register, still wanting to talk to Nanami and catch up on all the lost time. Even as he handed some treats to the kids you two still talked. You were so curious about this man who had been an enigma for so long so who could blame you for asking every question you could.

You learned that he loved reading and ever since quitting had finally started to work through the endless books on his to read list, he even gave you some recommendations. Sure you weren’t much of a reader but hey for him? You could learn how to be.

Despite finishing the coffee absolutely delicious turnover that you made sure to gush to Nanami about, you still wanted to stay. You had finally felt like you were back to making progress with maybe starting a friendship but life has a twisted sense of humor and an alarm went off, signaling you were nearing the end of your break.

Nanami glanced over at the phone then back at you, a slight frown on his face. “Do you have to leave?”

If it were up to you you’d stay till the sun set and rose again but it wasn’t. You sigh as you nod, thanking Nanami for the good food and telling him that you’d come back soon. Just as you got up from the table, Nanami stood up and grabbed your wrist which seemed to be a shock to both you and him.

Quickly letting go, Nanami pulls his arms back. He seemed just as shocked about his action as you were.

“Oh god I’m sorry, I was just wondering if you’d like to stay in contact? You were one of the few things I missed from that job.”

Nanami muttered as he starts to pull out his phone. Well there went your dreams of quickly getting over this crush. You agreed pathetically quick, putting in your number and smile as you left, waving goodbye to Nanami and his foster kids peaking out from the curtain.

Maybe you could come after work too.

+.｡ﾟ:;｡+ﾟ+｡::ﾟ｡:.ﾟ｡+｡+.｡ﾟ:;｡+ﾟ+｡::ﾟ｡:.ﾟ｡+ +.｡ﾟ:;｡

Nanami couldn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest and a smile from creeping onto his face. Here he was, thinking he’d lost his chance to talk to your forever because he was too much of a coward to as you out before he left.

This time he knew he wasn’t gonna mess up, god you couldn’t come back soon enough. As more customers started to come in, Megumi peeked his head out and looked at Nanami.

“Who was that lady?” He asks curiously as Nanami starts ringing up orders.

“An old friend of mine.” Had he acted sooner maybe he could be calling you his girlfriend.

“Will she come back soon?”

“I hope.”

#holy shit I speedran writing this #thanks again to the gracious Riritzu for letting me write something based off their art 🫶#jjk yuuji #jjk nanami #jjk megumi #jjk nobara #nanami x you #nanami fluff #jujutsu nanami #kento nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n #jjk x you

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sol-consort · 10 months ago

Note

Hello commander, I return with the ask for some crumbs of Thane in citadel dlc ideas/headcannons if he'd been there (he would've been perfect. Wouldn't he have just been perfect to join in the citadel dlc mission? I think he would've been perfect) Admiral anon out 🫡

Thane deserved to see that party and deserved the spotlights when it came to saving Shepard's ass. Who is better than a literal assassin to track you down from the shadows and swoop in all badass to make sure his siha is safe and sound. He would've been adorable at the casino, all shy and unsure under the spotlights. I love you Anon. I will name my firstborn after you.

[Fluff, romance, established relationships, Citidal DLC mission/party]

[Reader is Shepard, Gender neutral - NB!reader]

Citadel Wards: Ambush

"Siha, I came as soon as I could. Are you alright?"

Breaking out of his hospital stay mid checkup wasn't hard at all, especially after he caught hint of the fact you might be in danger. All alone with only a pistol against hundreds of enemies.

Thane was on a mission as he headed your way, heart racing, praying for the gods to protect you.

He knows you're more than capable, but he really wishes you didn't have to suffer through failed assassination attempts.

And a rather clumsy one at that too. Thane almost feels insulted.

But you're safe and he's not leaving your side anytime soon. He already left a message for Kolyat not to worry him while driving the shuttle he hijacked to your location.

It almost feels good to have a chance to pull all of his tricks again after such a long stay in the hospital with nothing to do.

In the scene where you meet him, his features visibly soften up when he looks at you. For a second, you could see the worry in his eyes. Contempt at his condition for not allowing him to be more of help to you.

"I've only a few loves left, and you are my last. Let me do what I can for you."

His hands lift up for a second before he reluctantly lets them down, clearly going for a hug hesitating and changing his mind.

You get a paragon interrupt to hug him, feel him melt against you. How long has it been since your last visit to him? Busy with preparing for the war and all, he was very understandable and content with the little time you offered him.

But now, oh you're finally here in his arms.

"I've missed you more, more than words could convey."

The hug is bittersweet, full of longing and untold fears.

You lost yourself in the war and the preparation for it, you almost forgot who you were fighting for in the first place.

The person who lost himself in you.

Thane always imagined his end to come first, for his story to end while your legend is still being written.

And he accepted it long ago, bitterly like any other pill he had to swallow.

It was just a fact of life.

All he could do was make sure he didn't leave any regrets behind.

But the idea of your life ending before him? Of the angel who guided him through a suicide mission and ensured everyone's survival to simply fall prey to some no-name assassins?

It filled him with burning rage for your enemies. Emotions he thought had died down since he gave up his previous job.

The same fire which consumed him back when he saw Kai Leng pointing a gun at you—overwhelmed his senses, twice as intense.

It's one thing for you to face soldiers nearly your equal on the battlefield.

It's another for some assassin to come and think they can best you while your guard is down during shore leave.

You were always fair in war. Assassins never are, he should know.

Gaining leverage no matter the cost.

Using every trick in the book to avoid a fight and get the upper hand before you realise they were there.

He memorised all the steps; a lifetime to perfect this song and dance of death.

Thane swore to himself not to let a single one of them reach you as long as he could still lift a gun.

Or simply weild a knife. Both were just as deadly in his grasp.

And now, standing with his arms wrapped around you so tightly, he almost feels ashamed for failing you. For not protecting you like you've always watched over him.

He doesn't voice those feelings; he never wants to worry you.

The mere soothing touch of your fingers against his face is enough to put all of the voices in his head to rest.

But you can see it in his sad eyes. You can sense the guilt in the desperate hold against your waist.

You get a renegade interrupt to kiss him, hush all of his worries away.

Everything else can wait. You'd damn the whole world if it meant you got to comfort your beloved just a moment more no matter what dangers lurked close by.

Ever since the time you kissed him during your initial hospital visit, you've been dying for the chance to do it again.

Eventually, it has to come to an end as Brooks voice sounds from your omni-tool, asking if you're still there. Warning you about the enemies heading your way.

Thane clears his throat with a smile curling in the corners of his lips. Apologising for getting distracted.

He follows after you as you investigate the car shop, a newfound determination to his steps. Knowing he will follow your lead to the end of the galaxy if you asked.

Reaching the closed gates, your attention turns to the closed shut office where they trigger to unlock them must be.

Telling Thane to step back, you raise your gun without hesitation as you aim the glass windows.

"Siha, there is another way."

His hand covers your own, gently coaxing you into lowering the gun.

Kneeling down to be on the same level as the volus hiding behind the desk, Thane asks them if they could open the gates.

He's patient as the shaking volus considers his request before clicking the button to lift the gates.

When you meet his eyes, he doesn't look smug at all, instead he seems very thankful to you for granting him this mercy of not carrying the guilt of endangering an innocent life.

Especially after all the time he has spent repenting for his past mistakes. All the innocents he has ever put in danger.

You realise how much the man in front of you has changed in the past months. The times he spent praying for forgiveness for each life he has taken, turning his own life around to be a good model for his son.

You can't help but voice your thoughts, not so subtly praising him for following his wishes for a stable, honest life with action.

The determination it must have taken, all the effort and hard work.

He brightens at your words.

"I even started paying taxes for my investments."

Now those words, he does look smug about.

☆

Citadel: Identity Theft I

Back at the safety of your apartment, Thane can be found next to the piano. One hand behind his back, another resting atop the piano cover.

Staring out the wall windows, the ones adjacent to the main entrance.

He's doing a breathing exercise when you approach him, slowly inhaling, then exhaling, in and out, in, out.

If you express worry, he reassures you that he's fairing well.

"It's you who just escaped danger. I should be asking you that instead."

He mentions how beautiful the view outside is, how it's nothing compared to his own apartment in the citadel that's more on the modest side.

Maybe he can take you there to show you after this is done, over a dinner? Kolyat is a surprisingly excellent cook, and sharing a meal with the two of you would make Thane very happy.

When it's time to discuss the next step with Liara and the group, Thane can't be picked for the vents' mission because it's hard to breathe in such a tight space.

You remember how the first time you met him was when he crawled down out of a vent.

The grim realisation of how much his health has deteriorated since sinks on you like cold water.

He makes a remark on how this mission almost takes him back down memory lane.

Infiltrating casinos to look for a target is his bread and butter–well the drell equivalent to that.

☆

Silver Coast Casino: Infiltration

"I never thought I'd actually get the chance to dress up and walk you down an aisle during this lifetime...it's always been a wishful fantasy. You look wonderful, siha."

He's wearing a very stylish suit, light breathable material.

It has a deep-ocean like shimmer when the light hits the black fabric just at the correct angle.

A thin shirt underneath, pearly white and unbuttoned down his chest.

He said it's necessary to compensate for the lack of cutouts in the suit so his skin may breath better.

Yet your eyes can't help but wander to his cleavage, even more noticeable now than his usual clothes ever showed.

If Thane had noticed your gaze, he never made a comment about it.

But he straightened his posture more, chin lifted a tad bit higher as he walked by your side ever soelegantly

Maybe he did reveal in your attention to his body.

His arm was around your waist, holding you protectively as he brought you closer to him.

You tired to tell him to just leave his hand in his pocket and let you "cling" onto it instead.

That's how humans usually do it to show statues, appear dominate, all the necessary facade to fit in with the usually casino crowd.

But he was greatly displeased with the idea of having you holding him without him returning the gesture.

He doesn't want to wear you like an accessory.

He never understood the human concept of playing things cool or acting hard to get.

Why deny his feelings and pretend he isn't over the moon at the idea of being with you in here? Why pretend you're not the most beautiful angel he has ever seen?

You could do anything to him on that red carpet, and he wouldn't protest nor shy away.

Lifting his chin between your fingers.

Be it cupping his cheek tenderly.

Giving him a sensual kiss.

He would've even kissed your hand if you wordlessly extended it to him.

The cheering crowd made him feel a bit uneasy, he isn't used to being in the spotlights or under so much attention.

Sure he infiltrated casinos, but by blending in with the background or disguising himself as one of the staff.

You'd be surprised by how easily drell are dismissed by the other species, assuming he must be the gaurd of some prideful hanar nearby.

Yet the way you held yourself so confidently, smiling and waving like it was your birthright to be under so many sparkling lights. It made Thane admire your strength even more.

Finally getting inside the casino, Brooks made a comment on how it's a good thing you brought Thane since drell-human couples are practically unheard of.

This means people will focus on the two of you rather than any suspicious activities on her end.

All of his uneasiness and hesitation fizzled out the second the mission began. Taking his role seriously and doing the job that must be done.

As you went around mingling with the crowd, he seamlessly blended in the shadows and background.

Always keeping an eye on you and staying within earshot. He made it look so easy how much he evaded attention and acted natural in such a new environment.

That's professional assassins for you.

It did amuse him a lot when you ordered the weeping heart cocktail from the bartender.

Whenever you needed him to distract a gaurd, he'd approach them and say one of the followings

"Excuse me, but would it be possible to find a quiet room for me to pray in?"

"I accidentally dipped my fingers in someone's drink, and now they're stripping to swim in the fountain."

"I'm here on behalf of the Hanar entertainment association, and I need to file a complaint on the lack of proper hydrating nourishments for my employers."

"Someone bumped into me and dropped this wallet. Can you help me return it to them?" *after searching for a while. "Oh, my mistake, I just remembered it's my own wallet, I must have had too much to drink"

"I hope you don't find this weird, human, but how can you possibly manage with just two eyelids? Don't your eyes get very dry?"

"Are you from earth? I've been there recently. It's a very beautiful planet, I'm very sorry about the recent news. Did you have any family on earth? I see..would you like to tell me about them?"

"Do you have any children? Ah good. I have a son but he doesn't have any significant other yet, I was wondering if you have any advice regarding this subject and how i may subtly push him towards finding someone?"

He thought about faking a coughing attack to try and distract the gaurd, but he decided against it for the low chance you might get worried or panic.

Also he had terrible luck in every machine he tried.

He'd just end up losing time after time so he decided against it not to drain your money.

Part of him died inside when you kept insisting on touching the fountain.

He just stood by and didn't have the heart to tell you what's it actually used for.

If you inquire about his past missions that took place in a casino, he tells you that he usually blended in with the servants and not the guests.

Find a secluded spot then quietly take security down one after one and ensure they get swept up in the chaos not to notice him slip by them.

Finally reach his target and go for the neck. The quicker the better. He wasn't looking for a fight or a confrontation, swifly making them meet their end was ideal.

It was contractual work, he always put his emotions aside during these times.

alongside his morals.

That's why this mission feels so...different in comparison to the past.

He is here because he wants to he here, rather than out of any obligation.

And dare he say, he is enjoying being your pretend date while playing dress up a bit too much.

Is it even pretend when the two of you are already together? You argue.

he can't deny that, but he'd rather take you to a proper date one day.

The two of you had never been on one, after all. despite everything you went through together, even risking death by each other's side.

Life happened too much, and too fast.

There simply wasn't time to catch up with Thane in a cafe.

Mundane things were akin to a luxury in your respective lives.

Thane found himself genuinely enjoying the art hanged around the place, the lights and decorations.

But his absolute favourite was the dancing.

Seeing you let loose and freely move even for a little while made him focus on the moment, on the few lighthearted memories he got to make today.

No matter how awful you were at it.

Memories he will surly treasure, replay whenever his mind got too muddy and clouded by the inevitable.

He was thankful for the gods to allow him this small extension on his life.

This small kindness of having just a little more time with you.

The opportunity to witness this, experience it by your side.

To get and walk you down the aisle while you looked the most beautiful he has ever seen you.

Even if it was just play-pretend on a mission.

...and a red carpet rather than an actual wedding chapel.

For the way he held you and felt about you couldn't be more true.

After the two of you enter the office only to find your target already dead, Thane can't help but have this gut feeling that something feels off here.

When you check the computer for whatever files the assassin must have forgotten to erease, he realises how clumsy this assassination attempt is.

An amateur work at best... too rushed.

How unusual. The office was guarded the whole time, what possibly could've made them leave in a hurry?

Thane looked around, there weren't any escape routes. No nearby vents, no possible second exists.

He almost voices his thoughts to you, but Brooks steps in first and talks about how this is a dead end.

Something about her feels familiar.

Yet even with a perfect memory, Thane is sure he never heard of this name or seen her face before.

Which just puzzles him even more.

The bullet wound in the corpse's chest is still fresh.

This wasn't the work of an experienced assassin who wanted to leave no trace behind, but the work of soldier in a hurry.

☆

Citadel: Identity Theft II

Back at your apartment, Thane can be found in the same spot.

Talking to him lets you know that he informed Kolyat not to wait for him during dinner tonight, wishing him a goodnight and reassuring him that he's managing fine.

Clear endearment in his voice at how much the relationship between him and his son developed, how it feels nice to have someone waiting for you home at the end of the day.

The information revealed by EDI only makes Thane feel more uneasy.

He keeps searching his memory for anything he might have missed, any small detail that could've slipped him by.

Your comment about bringing everyone along with you on the mission makes him smile.

Your determination never fails to impress him as equally as it amuses him.

☆

Citadel Archives: Escape

If you didn't pick him up for your team, then he ends up joining team Mako instead of Hammerhead.

Mostly to balance things since a sniper is already in the other team.

He enjoys listening to the bickering but doesn't participate much.

Until Tali brings Thane up to dig at Garrus for being the inferior sniper.

This really gets under Garrus's skin...plates?

He tries to get Thane into a sniper competition to see who takes out the most targets the quickest.

Thane, of course, politely declines and immediately conceads, handing him the win on a silver plate.

This just pisses off Garrus even more.

The turian starts talking about how assassins aren't even that cool, and Thane clearly doesn't have a cool face scar like him. Therefore, Garrus is the better sniper.

It keeps escalating with Tali adding fuel to the fire.

Eventually, Thane is pressured into accepting the sniper competition as both teams have already started betting credits on it.

You can affect the outcome if you take out the targets before the other person can get to them.

Garrus targets have a blue sniper dot show up on them while Thane's is green.

It is clearly cheating, and the losing team calls you out for helping, but you pull rank and remind them this is a mission; you're just doing your job.

You can either help Thane win, Garrus or leave them be.

If you leave them be, they end in a tie.

If you help Garrus win, Thane takes it in stride and admist he might be getting a bit rusty.

Garrus is full on boosting however.

If you help Thane win, he's actually surprised and very amused. He tries to remain polite and downplay his delight when Garrus loses.

"Thank you, Siha, for watching over me."

If you take Thane on your team, the competition only happens if you bring Tali or Javik with you who challenge Garrus on behalf of Thane.

Otherwise there is no one to pressure Thane into joining after he conceads.

If you bring Garrus and Thane with you, then Garrus is the one boosting about Thane to the other teams.

Saying how with two snipers, this team is overpowered and the other two teams have no chance.

If you use a sniper rifle, Garrus changes it to three.

His enthusiasm slowly infects Thane.

For a single mission, they suddenly lifelong bestfriends.

The two of them complimenting each other skills and equipment, Garrus impressed with Thane's zero hesitation methods and immense stealth. Precise and quick.

Thane in awe of Garrus endurance and how the sniper rifle feels like an extension of him rather than a seperate weapon.

The competition doesn't happen, or a very low stakes version of it happens where team mako and hammerhead suddenly unite for a second and Tali challenges Garrus.

Thane and Garrus easily sweep the competition, you can't lose or help the other team cheat because any kill you steal is counted towards your team.

Citadel: Party Aftermath

In the morning, as you stretch out in bed expecting to feel the body of your beloved next to you, you're greeted by the empty spot on the bed.

In fact, there is no sign of Thane around the house amidst all the scattered groups of your crew going about their mourning routine, nursing their hangovere, or a mix of both.

The front door to your apartment is ajar.

You step outside and see two figures standing at the far end of the hallway.

Thane and Kolyat staring out the hallway windows, enjoying the relative peacefulness of the early morning atmosphere.

A clear contrast to the chaotic mess of hangover and headaches inside your apartment.

Or, more precisely, it was just Thane enjoying the peacefulness while Kolyat scolded his father for leaving the hospital so suddenly and causing the asari doctor to freak out when she saw him break out of a window and land on top of a moving car.

Clear worry was barely masked underneath Kolyat's angry speech.

Maybe that's why Thane was in such a good mood, a rare smile gracing his lips as he gave his son his full attention, listening to his words and apologising for making him worry.

You're reminded of the first time you've seen Kolyat.

Of the first meeting between him and his father during your time at Cerberus.

They've really grown closer.

Somehow, they managed to overcome all the obstacles and difficult past they had.

Kolyat forgave his father, and Thane was grateful for being offered a second chance after everything he put his family through.

And yet, he risked it for you, his life.

A second time.

The life he just rebuilt, remade from the ground up.

You notice a plastic bag in Kolyat's hold, several pill sheets could be seen inside.

The open water bottle in Thane's hand.

His son must have came here first thing in the morning, just to deliver his father's medicine.

You give them their space, not wanting to interrupt Kolyat's lecture.

The last thing you see before going back inside is Thane pulling his son into a hug. Reassuring him that everything will be alright, his dad is right here.

Going to check with the rest of your crew and passing the hangover medd around. You gather them for breakfast.

Thane enters shortly after, you stand up from the table and go to meet him at the door.

Offering him to bring Kolyat inside, to join you and the rest for breakfast.

You've saved them a seat next to your own.

Much to the complaints and objections of other crew members who the seat next to the commander.

"Siha...I wouldn't want to impose."

"Nonsense Thane, you're a part of this team as much everyone else here."

You step closer to the man whose extended lifespan feels nothing short of a miracle, the man you've come to love with all of your soul. If it wasn't for the war, you would spend every second you could spare with him until his last breath.

His hands feel cold against yours, his touch so familiar and full of longing.

Your eyes are full of promises when you meet his deep green ones, surrounded by abyssal darkness like the deep ocean. Promises to fight this war, to make the world a better place.

For Kolyat. You'll make sure his son gets to grow up in a safe world. That even when Thane is gone, he can entrust you to be a guardian to his son and look out for him after the fight is won.

But for now, you ask nothing more of this life than this one chance to share a meal with the two of them. Sit around a breakfast table, have a glimpse of what a normal life with Thane must have looked like in a different world.

A world where you took this for granted, calling him your husband, eating at the same table with his son everyday.

With a nod, Thane accepts.

At first Kolyat is shy and unsure at sitting next to so many people, most of them legends...and hungover.

It's endearing how much this scene reminds you of how Thane first acted at the start of the casino mission, like father like son.

But after some time, Kolyat starts opening up to others and answering their curious questions. Surprisingly, it's Grunt who is the most interested in him, continuesly asking him about sharks, and if he has seen any.

Kolyat answers that he has swam with many.

Just like that, with one simple sentence, Grunt is hooked.

The young krogan eagrly pushes James out of the seat next to Kolyat so he may claim it for his own.

The two of them clicking immediately. By the end of it, they have exchanged contact information with Grunt promising to share his secret stash of shark videos with Kolyat who turned out to be very knowledgeable about marine biology.

Thane whispers to you that his son used to have a marine life encyclopedia as a kid. It was laminated and waterproof, much like all the books produced by the hanar usually are. His son cried so much after accidentally losing during a beach visit once, so much so that a passing hanar offered to go swim down and retrieve it.

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