#thread: searching the rubble

[storystartsanew]

Perry barely breathes until they make it to the hospital. She slides off her sister's back after the other Kenna does and pulls out the dog tags from her pocket. She wraps them around the horse's neck to transform her back into her sister.

Wybie is the first person she runs into, and she immediately starts triage. "Okay, let's get her on a gurney. We need something to stabilize her wings and any of the miniature equipment we can spare. And does anyone know where the emergency pixie dust is?"

Kenna Campbell froze at the sight of the rubble. Holy...

Half of the small cottage had collapsed, the other half appearing to be hanging on by a thread. Tayen had just gotten finished moving in, too, after everything that had happened. Campbell had helped get her last few boxes off the moving van.

"Please be alive in there," she whispered, rushing towards the debris.

Kenna Janeway glanced at her sister before running after the other Kenna, trying to look under a fallen rafter to see if she could see anything. "This looks really bad, Per."

@storystartsanew

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

He comes in droves, hoards of himself, brokenhearted and wanting, wrecking cities for a chance to get one last glance at you. You're different, more than all of them expected. It's saddening for some, boner inducing for others. [Invincible Variants x reader]

 Tw: Suicide, drug use

[Part one] [3] [Ao3] [Chapter Index] [View Full Piece Here - It's mine!]

2 * RX Only [6.7k]

"While my queendom crumbles around me,

I'm fucking stuck here sucking this cock,

I'll kill myself right here on stage,

And it's gonna fucking rock!"

I Win - Go Hang Music

      Blood, guts, and sulfur, but no demons rising from the ground. Just a man in the night, backlit by the burning Sydney Opera House. Watching the blinking dot on his wrist cuff disappear. He holds his breath. Horrified. She was an illusion. A trick of a grief addled brain.

        The screen automatically zooms out, showing a pixelated view of the northern hemisphere of the planet. The dot reappears in North America. Numbers flash in the left corner of his blue tinted vision. When he first saw his alternates, he thought they'd have the same upgrades. Super computers laced into the fabric of their suits. Considering how stupid they were acting and how one of them asked where Mount Rushmore was- they likely didn't.

        He rises, scanning the numbers one last time, burning them to memory before minimizing them. Your coordinates and vitals, both monitored by the cuff. Perfectly healthy, alarmed, scared shitless probably, but healthy. Alive. 

        The breath he held lets go.

        Eyes scan over Sydney one last time. Before he left, he had to ensure his end of the deal was complete. Be absolutely sure Angstrom wouldn't be displeased and send him back to where he'd came from. Sure, he hadn't expected to see (Y/n) here, so soon, he wasn't really done with Sydney. He could level the place if he wanted. Angstrom would approve, but Angstrom's approval didn't matter. All that mattered was bringing you home.          Still, he searches for loose threads. Just in case.         The machinery in his suit quietly whirs. He sees no survivors. Not with the rubble and fire. But his goggles lock onto the outline of forms in neon green, hiding behind a slab of rubble where he couldn't see.          He's there in a blink. Stood at the one and only entrance of the little hovel the family had decided to hide in. Only one of them lives long enough to scream.          There, done. Now he could-         His lenses lock onto another hidden form. Then another and another. He sighs. Head turning to the floating ball beside him. Angstrom's drone making sure he was doing what he was supposed to. Five minutes, he told himself, five minutes to kill all these fucking people and be done with this place. It wasn't like he was going to lose track of (Y/n).         He rose, up, up, up. More and more forms catching in the lens. He pushed a hidden button on the side of his lenses. A tiny segmented timer started in the left corner of his view. Five minutes, on the clock.         ***         "You're fucking kidding me." First the apartment, now CVS Pharmacy.          You stood in the parking lot, breathing in acrid smoke. Looking at the building that was your personal emergency room for the last five years. That mohawked shapeshifting asshole must have rammed right through the place at some point. Bringing the red roof down on most of the building. 

        Physically, you were fine but there was something you desperately needed from under that crumbled roof. Especially since you were now suddenly living through the end of the world.         The automatic glass doors were crushed under concrete but a massive hole, probably where he flew through, was a perfectly fine entrance into the rubble. You stepped carefully over rebar and the body of a cashier. There was no more inside, just parts where the roof didn't cave in all the way, and you were standing in the biggest one. Shelves tipped, chip bags popped open on the carpet floor.          You find yourself meandering into the two upright fractions of aisles in front of you, the store so unrecognizable you felt lost. Caligula laid across your shoulders, over the crook of your neck like a scarf. Gray nose gently twitching at the smell of corpses. There were more in the aisle that was for foot cream. One man bisected by a chunk of roof. One lady who lay stiff, hands still clutching her chest where she'd likely had a heart attack.         You exit the remains of the aisle. Not sure why you’d gone down them in the first place, pharmacy wasn't down there. You were still reeling from the last half hour. Was that all it had been- had everything fallen apart in thirty minutes?           A clatter breaks your reverie, your head shooting towards it.          Crawling out from under a piece of roof was a white coated pharmacy tech. The old-timer full-timer, Wes, you used your powers on almost every time you came in. You didn’t wait for him to stand to use your powers on him.         “I need my usual.”         When he stands, he leans dramatically to one side. The muscles in his side are split, piggy pink insides poking out of his coat. He turns for the wreck that used to be behind the counter, where he’d pass hours by counting pills. Gait short, steps dragging and too slow.         “Ignore the pain.”         With that, he goes upright. Walking confidently over to a fallen shelf, bending, ignoring the slippage of his guts. He goes from paper bag to paper bag, prescription to prescription. None of them have your name on it. Going official would’ve meant asking Machine Head to pull strings and you weren’t in a hurry for more debt. Controlling the pharmacy techs was the only way.         Wes straightens. Walking on uneven ground. Stopping two feet away and holding out a paper bag to you. Prescription for Sandra O'Connell. Probably dead now.

        You frown at the bag. Contents soaked into the brown bottom. Dripping out in clear, thick rivulets. You hadn’t been specific enough. Again with semantics, the pain in your ass. “Find me some that’s intact. As many bottles as you can.”         ***        "No." He's going to vomit. "No." He's going to cry. "No!" He's going to split this planet down the fucking middle, again.         His grip on Isotope's throat tightened. "You're lying." Spit flies off his teeth, onto Isotope's cheeks.          Together, him, Isotope, and Machine Head, hover over the rubble of what was supposed to be your apartment. A dead woman lying on its very top, head like a maraschino cherry.          Machine Head kicked at the air, gargling, "Get us the fuck out of here Isotope!"         One look from Dregs pissed off ex-boyfriend and Isotope knew. If he so much as tried to leave, they'd both be dead. "I'm not." Isotope can barely speak, throat the only thing keeping him upright. Hovering twenty feet above the busted building. "She should be on the third floor."        "What third floor!?"         "The one you fucking knocked down!" Machine Head grappled his arm. Twisting his sleeve, trying to hurt him- him with his weak human hands.         His hand tightened on Machine Head’s neck. Something inside his fleshy human body cracked. The man groaned and shuddered but still fought. “That bitch is dead!”          His head pounded, like a hammer slamming behind his eyes. His fingers are a flex away from breaking both their necks when Isotope says, “I know where else she could be.” He involuntarily shuddered when his assailant's eyes fell on him. Wild as his wind whipped mohawk.         “Spill.” The freak’s grip lightened. Isotope slipped down an inch, latching to the man’s wrist for support like he wanted to be choked.          “She’s some sorta dope fiend. Boys see ‘er at the CVS all the time, picking up the same shit.” Isotope’s words came out in heaves as he caught as much breath as he could. “If she’s alive.” At that word, if, his grip tightens, “Hurk— she’s probably at the pharmacy.” His arm came up, red suit creasing at the shoulder, “Right down the corner. Can’t miss it.”         His grip clenches tight, shutting Isotope up. “If she’s not there, I’m gonna see how high your body bounces when I drop you  ten-thousand feet.” He flew, slower than he’d like, searching for the right building. He knew what a pharmacy was, of course, but this wasn’t his New York. His New York was worse off than this one. Last time he saw it plants were taking over the concrete remains of the city. So he’s slow, only speeding when Isotope coughs and points out another chunk of destruction that looked like everything else in a thirty-mile radius. 

        ***

        T-minus eleven minutes until he arrived. He only had to hold onto Mach twelve for that much longer. Think of (Y/n). Think of holding you. Bringing you home.          The sound barrier cracked, then there was someone beside him. “What the fuck are you doing in my sky?”         Ah. That one. The one that called dibs on the king’s land because at home he was more than a king, better. Clad in his— their— old super suit. Viltrum’s sigil on his shoulders. Shoulder pads thick.         "Answer me.”         How the hell were they the same person? This version of him was so whiny. More insolent than a child. Apparently, his style was gaudy too. Minutes after they first met he went on and on about his outfit. How he was only wearing ‘this old piece of shit’ because he didn’t want to get his emperors clothes filthy. And still— he’d come wearing shoulder pads and metals of valor that were jittering in the wind, just barely holding on. He’d scoffed at the idea of human blood on his fuzzy emperor's cape.          Much as he wanted to, taking on the other version of himself was ill-advised. Sure, they were different but also the same in many ways. He’d know something was up.          His lips peeled apart. Glued by stagnant spit and silence. It felt like reopening a wound. “I’m done. Returning to the rendezvous.” His voice came out robotic. A modulator attached on the inside of his suit's throat.          The people of his world knew of Invincible but it was better no one saw any part of his face, recognized any inflection of his voice. Whatever was left of it anyways.          The other him, Shoulder Pads (there was no way he was calling him Mark), rolled his eyes. “That place better be dirt cuz if I gotta go to that shithole and finish what you couldn’t I’ll—“         “I assure you, the job is done.” Just leave. Go back to torturing people and making weird comments about slaves. Leave me be.         Shoulder Pad’s eyes narrowed to slits behind his goggles. “Don’t lie to me.”         “I don’t lie.” And that was the truth. Partially.         Shoulder Pad’s lips twisted. “Then you won’t mind if I come with you? Be nice to get to know my next commander better.”         Under his mask, his eye twitches. He'd heard this before, one too many times. Shoulder Pads saw him and the others as lesser. Good assets for his empire, sure, but lesser. He didn't plan on joining anyone's empire anytime soon.

        Putting up a fight would be suspicious. Though his throat was already raw with how much he’d spoke, more than he had in months, he said, “You’re finished?”         Shoulder Pads scoffed. “Hours ago. Whole country's ash.” He laughed, though he wasn’t lying. Looking down didn’t provide much of a view. Too much smoke in the way, billowing up from the entire United Kingdom like the thousands of acres were nothing but an overused ashtray. “I’ve been getting bored destroying those things they call islands.”         He nodded. A ‘so be it’ kind of gesture. They flew on. Shoulder Pads filling the not-quite silence— ripping through the air at mock twelve was awfully loud— while he thought over ways to get rid of his companion. Too many what-ifs. 

        What if Shoulder Pads saw you as some human to be killed on the spot, squashed like some kind of bug? What if Shoulder Pads toyed with you, if he tore you limb from limb? Made him relive the same memory in a different universe. Shoulder Pads taking the role of daddy-not-so-dearest.          Worse— what if Shoulder Pads was here for the same thing? A second chance.         ***     One bottle, two bottle, three bottle, four— there was a cute rhyme to tack to the end of that but you didn’t have the energy. Neither did the pharmacy tech, falling stone cold dead soon as he passed you the last bag.      You tear open the first bag, medicine for a Nancy Giovanni. You pull out the dark bottle, rolling it in your hand, making absolute sure the dying tech didn’t fuck up.              Prescription for: PROMETHAZINE VC/CODEINE [SYRUP] - 4 fl oz.              EACH 5ml (TEASPOON) CONTAINS:             CODEINE PHOSHPASE USP ... 10 mg             PROMETHAZINE HYDROCHLORIDE USP … 6.25 mg             PHENYLEPHRINE HYDROCHLORIDE USP … 5 mg             ALCOHOL … 7%             [RX ONLY]         Oh yeah baby, that’s the ticket. Cough syrup. The actually medicated stuff. Totally illegal to buy over the counter. You didn’t know what in it did the trick. The pain killer, the throat soother, cough suppressant, or the drinking so much you got a buzz part— either way, Codeine and Promethazine were a match made in heaven specifically to fix your powers right the fuck up. 

       You twist the cap and end up dropping the rest of the bags. Sighing, you settle to sit, organize before getting down the business. Though the only place was wasn’t covered in debris was…         “Sorry Wes.” You say as you sit on the dead man's back. Something hard pushes into your ass. Shit, right, gun safety. You pull the six-shooter from the back of your sweats and set it by your feet. Not the top of the market stuff Machine Head's guards get, but a solid piece. Got enough of the latest tech to pop a supe's brains out their ass. Small but mighty. ID numbers sanded off, bought off the black market, given to you by your shithead boss. Sometimes things went south. Your mouth covered or earplugs put in. So you took the gun everywhere, just in case.

        You finish popping off the cap, take a breath of the rank air, and throw your head back, brown rim to your lips. There's a joke to be had there, but again, too tired for that shit.

        Caligula hops off your shoulders, annoyed. Tail twitching as he pads away to explore under rubble. Looking for mice like he always had in your apartment. You let him go. The cat was loyal as a dog, he'd be back.

        The syrup comes rolling down your tongue. Bitter, mucus-thick, gag worthy. Nothing you weren't used to. There've been too many times you were run dry and had to chug the slop mid-shootout to keep your head on your shoulders. So you don't breathe and drink, drink, drink until the bottle is a quarter empty.

        You lean forward, elbows on knees. Holding your head as things right themselves. Your throat numbed, blood drying in your nose, head not throbbing, only a light pulse. 

        It was a funny thing really, finding your personal anti-kryptonite. Three years back you were sick as a dog. Of course, you were on duty. When weren't you? You talked a backstabbing rat up to the roof of his apartment building, holding onto him up all the stairs, weak in your sickness. Right before you told him to jump, a coughing fit cut you short. He escaped your hold, pulled a gun on you, almost blasted your brains on the door to the stairwell. Lucky thing Isotope was there, zapping you out of the way. Pushing the dick off himself, and zapping you to this very building. Suggested you fix the problem, whatever it took, because he wouldn't bail you out again.

        He sucked balls but at least wasn't a whole dick. 

        You got a prescription. Drank the allotted amount. The cold cleared. Powers coming back like a tsunami. So strong they demanded to be used. So you drank more than the prescribed amount. Killed the rest of the rats nest of police informants on your own. Almost got killed again. Machine Head was angry you'd gone alone, when not assigned. But you didn't care. You'd found a power-up. Except, because there's always an exception- the boost only lasted as long as you could stay conscious. You’d overdosed more than a few times. 

       You recap the bottle. Consolidating the bottles in the front pocket of your hoodie. Tempted to down the whole thing, scared shitless from earlier, but it was a stupid idea while not being in immediate danger. Unless Wes decided to get up and chew you out for sitting on his dead body- you were safe.

        But not stupid. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your contacts, trying to call contingency one through twenty-seven. Most didn't answer. Dead or unable to come to phone right now, so please leave a message! Some did, orders were given. Help, in case it was needed, was coming. Things like this had a strange way of being nowhere near over once things get quiet.

        Boots come down. Your head lolls over your shoulder. Danger is standing twenty feet back. Holding Machine Head and Isotope by the throats. Isotope pale and passed out. Machine Head weakly clawing at the ground, held down, forced to stay on his knees.

        He stares at you, the not-Mark with the dark, deep-set eyes, sat on your human throne. "That's... hm. Did you do that?"

        There goes saving the syrup. Out comes the partly drunk bottle, off goes the cap, to your lips the bottle goes.

        ***

        What the hell are they doing?

        Two dots on his wrist cuff, side by side. Darting through the projected 3D model of Earth. Heading west fast, over the Northern Atlantic. Making a b-line for another dot. The only one of the three who is where he's supposed to be. 

        "Got'chu now!" A shadow overcasts behind him.

        He presses a button, zooming into the map, not bothering to turn. Had he missed a message from Angstrom? No, not possible. He was the most reliable of all of them, no way Angstrom would cut him out. Certainly, he wasn't stupid enough to think he could.

        A mace whistled through the air, coming to split his skull. His arm slices out in an arc behind him. Barley trying. The sound of his would-be assailant so keening and pathetic he couldn't even take satisfaction in the kill. He pulls his arm free, the body falls. 

        He watches the remains splat onto the last intact chunk of sidewalk left in Seattle. The city was destroyed. The last of the gnats swatted down. He might as well investigate. Double check that he wasn't being double crossed.

        ***

        "Wow, oh wow, you like that." He laughed as the last of the syrup disappeared behind your lips. The bottle is thrown to the debris, to be forgotten. His voice is cloying and saccharine, and way too familiar, "Was that good?"

        Bitterness coats your tongue. Chemical smell stinging in your nose. Head swimming but feather light. "No." You say. The syrup leaden in your stomach. Throat numb but soon to burn with vomit. You didn't have much time to dispose of this freak. "But-"

        "Dregs! Jesus Christ, Dregs get him the fuck off me!" Machine Head kicked at the ground. Mohawk, you'd dubbed him, because no fucking way were you calling a shapeshifter the name it wanted you to call it. Name aside, he wasn’t about to let Machine Head go, or even let him touch the ground. His dignity just a few short inches away as he gagged and kicked. 

        "You seriously work for this guy?" Mohawk says. "So weak." His thumb barely flexes and all the air is cut from your boss's throat, the kicks becoming frantic. 

        You know the shapeshifter is trying to get to you but it gets deep, deep under your skin. You're on your feet, swaying. "Tell me who you really are."

        He laughs but the words are pulled out of him anyway. "Mark Grayson."

        Your teeth grind. He's not lying. Maybe not a shapeshifter. Maybe a hidden supe. Someone projecting hallucinations onto you, to make you go batshit and somehow kill yourself.

        "Tell me if you're real."

        "As you are, baby."

        "Dregs!" Machine Head screeches the second his thumb relaxes. "Dregs, if you don't get him off me, I'm docking your pay!"

        Mohawk's lip twitches, hand flexing. Shit. "Don't kill him." His hand relaxes. Though his eyes aren't as glazed as you'd like. He's still resistant but you've got the upper hand as long as your stomach holds. 

        "Yes! Yes, now get him to let go!"

        The command makes your stomach roil. Probably just the excessive drugs but still, you don't like the motherfucker. He can wait. "Why are you doing this?"

        "Made a deal. Break enough shit and I get a prize." Under control, people are emotionless, no use of unnecessary words or turn of phrase. But there he was, talking like a seventh grader.

        "Which is?"

        "You," you roll out of the way before they touch down. Feet first and much harder than necessary, sending dangerous bullets of rock spraying every which way. You're fine. Clothes dusty whereas Wes's corpse is more cut up than before. Sorry, guy.

        If one had been too much, enough to think he was a hallucination, then three was enough to make you consider committing yourself to a ward.         

        You'd seen one of the newcomers back in Sydney. The other beside him, eyeing you up and down like an antique at auction, was new. You'd forgotten about the cuff on your ankle. You were no techie, but logic and superheroes meant it was a tracker, hell, maybe hand (ankle?) cuffs if activated by something.

        "Oh what the fuck!" The mohawked one spoke for you, "I called New York. Find somewhere else to flatten."

        "Is this what you were in a such a hurry to finish for?" The newcomer with his stupid shoulder pads kicked a wall to pieces, looking to his companion. 

        The full-masked one stood still as a statue, quiet as a phantom. 

        "Course not," Shoulder Pads answered himself, "You came for that," his finger pointed accusingly toward the mohawked one, "isn't that right? He bruised your ego when you first met pretty bad, huh?"

        An insult from a version of himself who thought mohawks were peak fashion meant nothing. Sure, he'd called his mask creepy, but he didn't hold enough of a grudge to want to kill the guy over it. He did, however, not like how close he was to (Y/n). Twenty feet was nothing when one moved as fast as they did.

        "Who are you?"

        "Mark Grayson." The two newcomers answered together. One similar to the voice you knew, if a little nasaler. The other like that Guardian's dickhead, Robot.

       You dip down, swiping your gun off the ground. Careful not to move too quickly and let the bottles fall out of your pocket. "Why are there three of you?"

        "There's actually eighteen," Mohawk answers. "Dickheads all of 'em."

        "To expand my empire." Shoulder Pads says, more responsive to your control.

        "To destroy so much, it ruins the life of this dimension's Mark Grayson." The Phantom answers, voice and actually helpful honesty, sending a shiver down your back. 

        "Dregs-!"

        "Shut the fuck up." Your attention on Machine Head is nothing but murderous. As the situation unfolds, you find yourself realizing, for one, Machine Head is most definitely going to die. Villains of the week are stupid, sure, but they also take no prisoners. You’d say Machine Head had less than five minutes' life left on him. 

        For two, the world was pretty much fucked. Which means- weakness, instability and power up for grabs for Mister Liu to reclaim as his. You could be by his side, his left hand as he already had a right. No more debt, no more humiliation at Machine Head's hands. Because there was no way you were going straight, not after everything. But, you could climb the ladder in the dust of the world and climb it high- as you were right now.

        High enough to push Mister Liu off the ledge. High enough to never have to take orders from anyone ever again. Be your own boss. Maybe Machine Head had less than five minutes. 

        Even better, you could relocate out of the city (which you'd have to do anyway, I mean, look at this place). Somewhere you'd see Mark so little the lingering pain in your heart would maybe start to heal. The thought of killing him had crossed your mind. You placed heavy piles of blame on him for how your life turned out. Still, you ached and yearned for a teenage romance that'd never rekindle. You couldn't kill him, yet, not without crawling into Mister Liu's skin and wearing his shoes awhile. Surely you'd grow into them, give the order for someone to kill your ex without batting an eye- one day. 

        Your Mark wasn't on the official kill list yet, but these cheap imitations? These dimensional clones or whatever the fuck? Oh yeah baby, they've gotta die.

        ***

      He didn't bother telling his tails to leave. They were all lesser, but still, him. They were good at what they did, destroying things. 

        "Can you believe that guy tried to trap me in the- what was it- the shadow realm?" The blue and yellow clad gnat yammered beside him. The variant, slightly different from the others without his lenses, blasted up from the Guardian's HQ when he'd flown by. Asking all sorts of questions that were left unanswered and more importantly, unacknowledged. Maybe if he was ignored long enough, he'd go away. "Do'ya wanna know how I got out after I killed 'im?"

        No response.

        He went on anyway. "So like, after I ripped his heart out his chest the whole shadow realm started falling apart. I was like 'oh shit, I'm gonna die' so I gabbed the guys body and was like 'lemme out'. Shakin' him n' stuff. I dunno what happened, if there was a lil life left in him or what but I think I kickstarted something in him, cuz after eight or nine shakes I was back! Man, I almost forgot how crazy I killed those Guardian guys!"

        The other gnat, blue and black and imperceptibly different from this dimension's Mark Grayson, flew up to his other side. "You gonna show me that map or what?"

        He did not answer, for they had arrived. Three dots now five, six counting himself. All around the unimportant gray mass of some Earth dwellers' hovel. He stayed above because he was literally above touching down on Earth’s soil. His mother had been from this mud ball but she'd been elevated above the rest of this dirt-loving species by his father when he brought her back to Viltrum, swollen with pregnancy. 

        The others truly were lesser than he, for they shot down. Too impatient, too stupid to know what it is to observe from afar. They did all have enhanced hearing, did they not?

        ***

        Shoulder Pads shook his head, throwing the control off his brain like a wet dog. "The hell was that?" His head stopped, hair swept across his masked forehead. "How dare you- you-" His head kicked back a degree like he'd been sucker punched. It took him a minute, with the dirt and the outfit and the daring to wave around a gun. He recognised you now. Felt the pain searing hot in his chest. "Leave," he commanded, "All of you but," he turned back to, "you, stay."

        Nobody moved to obey. 

        "I said-"

        They came down from the sky like falling angels. 

         "The hell's this?" You watched him land. Watched him roll his shoulders. Mark, your Mark. Exactly the same. But what the fuck was he doing with this lot? "Where's Angstrom?" 

        "Not here, duh." The other newcomer says, bouncing on his heels. "Are we gonna turn on each other and fight to the death now? I really hope we turn on each other and fight to the death now." His eyes, lighter brown than you remember, slide from Mark to Mark to Wes to you. "A prize fight! Even better."

        You didn't like that word- prize. How he looked at you. Not as a person but as a street dog to collar. 

        Machine Head's toes displaced rubble. His captor's mohawk stood on end, as if electrified, "Get the fuck out of here." He says, "New York's mine. 'S not the meeting place for when we're done anyway."

        The stuck-up one, Shoulder Pads, moved toward you. Ankles breaking rubble as he went, too graceful to do something awkward like stepping over an obstacle. Why do that when you could just break it? 

        "Leave us now." He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that you raised the six-shooter, aimed straight for his throat. "And I'll consider letting the rest of you serve under me."

        He was there in a flash. Arm outstretched in front of his boy king other self, stopping him in his tracks- the phantom. Shoulder Pads stopped, ten feet shy from your person. You don't know what to say because as soon as you really get going, a fight is going to break. You won't survive. You've seen what Mark can do on the news. You don't doubt they can punch holes in you before you say stop. They're not far away like Mohawk had been. They're instant murder close. You have to be careful.

        "Don't get in my way." Shoulder Pads sneered to no reply.

        The lensless newbie jutted his thumb toward you, "Gonna go out on a limb 'n guess she's also your guy's dead girlfriend?"

        The word girlfriend hits you like a sack of rocks. When hit, hit back. You breathe in.

        "Dregs!" His voice is nails on a chalkboard, screeching, loud, and desperate. "God damn it! Help me!" Your hold on Machine Head had waned. He was back to whining. 

        Your hold on his captor had waned as well, telling by his eyes. But he didn't break Machine Head's neck. Instead, he watched, curious, a smile tugged the edge of his lip. 

        Tension rolled off Phantom and Emperor Shoulder Pads in waves. Lenseless’s knuckles popped, expecting violence with glee. The white clad warrior watched on from above. And your stupid ex-boyfriend just watched you, sneer on his lip like you were the problem. Like he wasn't covered in blood the fucking hypocrite. "I don't kill," my ass. He acted like he was better than you. 

        "I'll promote you! Right above Isotope." Who was passed out and couldn't be bothered by the betrayal. "We can run this city together. I can get you as much lean as you want! Fuck- I'll put you through rehab if you want!" 

        A bubble rolled up your throat. Not much longer now before you puke out power. You swallow down the burp. Anger a beat in your throat. "I'm not an addict."

        "Sure!" Machine Head laughed, "Sure! Whatever you say, just help me!" Isotope's eyes peeled open. He groaned, barely there.  Machine Head noticed, reaching out to shake the man's knee. "Get me out of here!"

        Your Mark clicked his tongue. "I can't say I'm surprised you haven't changed."

        "Isotope! Hey! Wake up!"

        "I used to think you'd be better than," Mark gestures to your boss, to your clothes, to the dilation of your eyes, embarrassingly aware of your high, "this." He sighed, "But I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same or however that shitty song goes. So much potential wasted. (Y/n), Seriously, this is pathetic."

        "Dregs, get Isotope up! Get us all out of here!"

        Mark smirked, "Name suits you."

        Your earlier machinations crumbled. Fuck waiting, maturing. People were going to die here, in this destroyed pharmacy, so why not start with him? 

        "Hey Mark?" 

        "Yeah?" It's a shame the others don't reply to the name. Too smart, too aware that if they were locked in conversation and attention, they'd be dead. 

        "Kill yourself."

        One hand to the chin, the other to the shoulder for support, like the first time you tried this trick on his doppelganger. The snap is quick. So powerful it twists his whole body backward, spine ripping out his back. He drops, blood dribbling out his mouth. 

        A weight lifts off your shoulders. You thought this would be harder. It's sad, sure, first love dead, very Romeo and Juliet, but you're still alive. You wish you could've made him see more, get a more torturous revenge. Or in a perfect world, one you didn't admit but dreamed of anyway, got him to see your side of things. 

        But you're so happy to see nothing behind his eyes. Dead while you're alive. The laugh forces out of you in a bark. It brings tears to your eyes, doubles you over. 

        The mood shifts. Tension sizzles away between the Marks. There were expectations, different for each, but this? Certainly was not one. 

        "Did you just-?" Lensless was at the corpse's side in a blink, poking at his twisted neck. "Oh, he's super mega dead." 

        "If he was weak willed enough to listen to the whims of a human he should've already been." Emperor Shoulder Pads says. "Better we weed out the weak before going back to my empire."

        "Shit, I was gonna kill Seventeen," Mohawk said. "Beat me to it, babe."

      "Seventeen?" You question between laughs.

        "Uh, yeah? Mark Seventeen. Demsion three-four-five, like neighbors with this one."

        "So he's not mine?"        

        "Yours? Baby, I'm yours- but that guy? Not from here."

        Oh? OH! He wasn't yours. Another variant, just awfully close in appearance. Something like relief pools in your stomach, or it's just the promethazine-codeine solution getting ready to come spewing out. 

        The Phantom keeps his hands at his sides, though they want to go to his head, press into his temples until the pain stopped. You weren’t like this. You weren’t supposed to be like this. Nothing like him. Maybe Shoulder Pads was right. Maybe Seventeen was weak willed, loved you so much he'd do anything you said. You couldn't be a killer. It just wasn't possible- wasn't right.

        "Isotope," he was starting to really regain consciousness, head lolling in Mohawk's hand, "Isotope, let's go!"

        He was going to leave you. Words of promise meant nothing obviously, you weren't born yesterday but the insult of it was the last fucking straw. 

        Right as power started to glow weakly from his palms, you say, "Look at me, Isotope."

        He does, slackjawed, droll rolling down his lip. Hands still glowing.

        Here's the thing about word and meaning induced mind control. Sometimes actions, gestures, are good as words, and as long as you've got your claws in their brain, as long as they're looking at you and understand- a gesture is enough to control.

        You lower the gun. As if it'd do anything against Shoulder Pads. One hand slipping off its metal grip, coming to the side of your head right above your ear. Rule number one of gun safety: Never put a gun to your head. So your bare hand comes up to do the job. Pinky and ring curling into your palm. Pointer and middle pressed to your scalp, thumb hanging down like the trigger. 

        Isotope's hand goes to the holster on his belt. Freeing the pistol, pressing it to the green side of his head, clicking off the safety. Waiting for the last order.

        "Dregs! Don't you fucking dare!" Machine Head trashes but his kicks do nothing to Mohawk's balance.

        The Mark’s watch, hypnotized like snakes to a charmer. 

        Your thumb twitches, miming the pull of a trigger.

        The bullet goes from one side of Isotope's skull to the other. Stopped by the side of Mohawk's knee, who doesn't even flinch at the lead cracking uselessly against his suit. Pale pink brains splatter his boots and shin guards. Chunks stick to Machine Head's dented metal face. Gravity slowly rolled them down, leaving trails of blood and cerebral spinal fluid in their wake.

        The dead weight is so unexpected in his hand, Mohawk is slow to drop the body. Killing another version of him was fair game. They were threatening your planet after all. But an ally? Very un-hero like.

        "You murderous yuppie cunt!" Machine Head's hand flies to his own holster. 

        "Don't talk to me like that, boss." He goes still, gun in hand. Your hand goes to the center of your forehead and so does his. Another twitch of the thumb sends a bullet and shrapnel backward. 

        Machine Head slumps, gun dropping, body twitching. Not dead yet.

        "Access the control panel." You say.

        His hand shakes violently as it comes to the side of his head. Pressing a button that makes the front half of his busted forehead come forward. Revealing the computer gore inside his head. 

        "Remove the leftmost microchip." You'd seen him getting maintenance too many times not to know that the chip contained his very consciousness. He'd yelled at so many paid-off Best Buy employees not to touch it. Threatened their families over it, but here he was, pressing its back so it'd come popping out. Soon as it does, his whole body goes slack.

        Killing what you thought was Mark yielded mixed feelings. But Machine Head and his lackey? That was pure cocaine right there baby. You felt like you could climb Everest. Like you really could overtake Mister Liu. 

        "Holy shit." Lensless let his jaw hang. "Powers, babe!? 'S awesome! Do it again!" His fingerless glove pointed to Shoulder Pads, "That guy! That guy next! Oh, wait, try it on me!" He doubted it'd work. He was way stronger than that pussy bitch Seventeen.

        Mohawk pulled Machine Head's slack body high above his head, inspecting. He was dead alright. So dead his bladder released and stained his gray slacks dark. He let the body drop. "You're pret-tee different here, huh babe?"

        Another bubble rises up your throat. 

        "What-" Shoulder Pads started, "What the fuck is wrong with this one?" He was expecting something else. Docile. Sitting at his feet like a good pup. At his beck and call. Especially not powered or alien or experimented or whatever the fuck you were. Clearly, you weren't normal.

        Phantom had nothing to say, as usual. Too busy fighting back the tears burning the back of his eyes. What has this world done to you? What had made you so callous? What had made you a killer? Whatever it was needed to burn. This monster in you, it could be culled; he could have the you he knew back. He could have it later, but for now, he fought grief.

        In the sky, the white clad warrior lets contentment simmer in his chest. Different, sure, but good different. Nothing like that human he brought to Viltrum to breed. A kicking, screaming crybaby who had no idea how lucky she was. Part of the shreds of resistance left, left alive by him of all people. Nothing like the doting creature his mother was to his father. Relationships like the ones on Earth weren't a thing on Viltrum. His parents were considered strange, but a strange he liked- though he wouldn’t admit it to a living soul.  

        So disappointing and ungrateful, a waste of time, of resources, he was sour about when he had to kill you. But not here, not this you.       

        Shadows whipped through the sky hundreds of feet below him. Some came hopping and bounding through the broken street. The few defenders left, not dead due to their own cowardice. 

        Contingency Six, Twelve, Nineteen, Twenty-two, and Twenty-eight surrounded you in a defensive circle, showing up at just the right time. Machine Head promised security but he wasn't omnipotent, despite his upgrades. You didn't trust him far as you could throw him either. So you had heroes, fellow crooks, and dregs of society on speed dail. Hypnotized at some point in the past with the same little speech.

        "See this number right here? Remember it. When you see me calling, you answer, no matter what. I don't care if you're mid-fuck, you'll do as I say. After I snap my fingers, you'll forget we ever had this conversation but a part of you will. And you will never have your phone on silent."

        You'd have to reset them anytime you called them in to save your ass from one thing or another. It was always worth the time if it meant you got to live and the other guy died.

        Thank God for hindsight. Wait, no, not hindsight, was it foresight? Ah, whatever, you'll remember the right word later when you're not high on power and codeine. 

        Flesh drones wait for orders. The Mark's wait for someone to make a move. You don't speak, not yet, letting your eyes scan over them all. Thinking of killing them too, how good it'd feel to kill your (kind of) ex-boyfriend over and over. Thinking of the ones not here, the ones you'd seen, the ones you hadn't. You could find them, kill them after. Maybe then you'd be ready for the real thing. No more mixed feelings. 

        Blood slowly rolls down your nostril. Darkly covering the dried streak from minutes ago. Your stomach rages. Throat constricting as it readies to puke. It hurts so bad, but you can't help but grin. Thinking aloud, "This is going to be the best day of my fucking life."

        Orders shoot out your lip. He should prepare for battle, but he couldn't help but be still, staring at you and the malice radiating off you. Lensless tugs on the hem of his mask, swallowing thickly, "Can you hold up a sec with the battle plans? I've got a crazy boner."

[azullumi]

"to your never, to my nothings" ; phainon

premise— he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.  content tags & warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary

"jellyfish" — i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died

Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.

The three children who bear different smiles were the first to notice—subtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talking—or gossiping—it among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.

He can’t say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.

Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fast—like wildfire carried by the idle breeze—reaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?

And of course; “Lord Phainon, your ears are red.” The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldn’t see the red that dusts his cheek.

He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze. 

“The city is under attack!”

The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.

Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.

“Phainon!” His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, you’re there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, you’re pulled in a tight embrace.

“You’re alright.” He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours. 

Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesn’t relent and you have to reassure him that you’re fine—but he doesn’t believe you, not until he’s certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.

Thus, he sees it—a gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.

His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.

“Phainon,” You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. “ I’m okay, but there are others who are not.”

“But—”

“You must go.”

He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his title—it draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.

A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: “It’s alright, I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sigh—a quiet surrender—and steps closer. 

Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you. 

His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but there’s a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he can’t speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.

You don’t say a word, instead, you just nod, because it’s easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do more—but instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.

And he leaves.

But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when it’s your name on his lips.

“You’re a great friend, Phainon.” You’ve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.

But who was he to expect more? After all, he’s not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, it’s the small things that betray him—the quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.  Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.

And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.

Maybe it’s the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe it’s the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational things—and yet, here he is, drowning in them.

Maybe it’s the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse. 

But you don’t notice. And perhaps you never will.

Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if you’ll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hear—serene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[dee-writes-anime]

Heyyy, I just finished reading ur Dadzawa fic, and I fear I crave more😞 So if it's not too much trouble, can u do one where his daughter is a student at UA in his class and during that one building collapse training thing, she's completely caught under the debree and nearly (or does) die when she pushes one of her classmates out the way. Not only that, but Aizawa has no idea any of this happened until almost half an hour later, when most of his students have left the building, and one of them has to tell him about her condition. By the time he gets there, though, she's already unconscious, and the student next to her is just as packed as he is.

I hope this isn't too dark?? 😭 Because yes, I love Dadzawa, but I also love angst 😛

All I See is Dust and Lasting Memories of You

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY a training building collapses and his daughter doesn't make it out.

CONTENT WARNINGS yooo this is just straight angst, injury, near-death experience, implied PTSD, blood, grief, mention of character death

AUTHORS NOTE Ahhh yes anon, I have found my people. You see, I am also a lover of pain, I hope this is what you were looking for hehe <3

The building had come down in a roar of concrete and steel.

Dust still hung low in the air, like smoke after a battlefield. Sunlight filtered through it in pale ribbons, sharp enough to cut. Students coughed and murmured in clusters, shaken but largely unharmed. The rescue teams had done their job quickly. Too quickly.

It was quiet now.

Too quiet.

Aizawa stood near the edge of the wreckage, arms crossed, his eyes sharp beneath the fall of his hair. His capture weapon was slack over his shoulders, half-forgotten in the stillness.

He was counting.

Team Two—intact. He made eye contact with Midoriya, gave a slight nod. Team Four was limping, bruised, but walking.

Team Three…

His eyes scanned the group again. Automatically. Methodically.

Team Three had four students.

He saw Iida—bandaged arm, favoring one side. He saw Uraraka—smudged with dust, lips trembling. He saw Sero—shirt torn, muttering about how close that had been.

That was three.

Where was—

A thread of unease coiled in his stomach.

She should’ve been with them. She always was. Always at the center, keeping the group moving. Always the one asking what’s the fastest way out? Who needs help?

Where the hell was she?

A voice cracked over his shoulder—Present Mic’s, low for once. “Yo, Sho—Team Three all good?”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept the field again, slower this time. Not just scanning now—searching. He took a step forward, then another, pacing toward the gathered students.

He grabbed Iida’s shoulder, eyes narrowing. “Where is she?”

Iida stiffened, eyes widening in realization. “I—I thought she was behind me. She—she shoved me out of the way. The floor was collapsing and I didn’t see where she—”

“She pushed you?” Aizawa’s voice dropped to a rasp. Controlled. Barely.

Iida nodded, guilt blooming across his face. “I told her not to! She said someone needed to move faster than her.”

He heard the rest of the sentence even if it wasn’t spoken: She chose to fall instead.

A beat passed. One heartbeat. Then another.

Uraraka stepped forward, voice quiet. “We tried to get back to her. But there was too much rubble. We thought the support team would…” Her sentence dissolved into dust.

They thought someone else had pulled her out.

No one had.

Aizawa didn’t shout.

Didn’t flinch.

He just… went still.

Like a spring pulled so tight it couldn’t move.

And then, suddenly—

He ran.

Present Mic’s voice cracked behind him. “Shouta—wait—”

But Aizawa was already leaping over debris, his coat flaring behind him like smoke. He didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t stop to breathe.

She was under there. His daughter. Buried, hurt, alone.

And he hadn’t noticed.

He prided himself on being vigilant. On reading every situation, every movement. But this—

This had slipped through his fingers.

Again.

The wind whipped past his ears as he darted through the remains of the training zone. Part of the upper structure had caved in. The entire northwest corridor was now a tangle of twisted steel and dust-choked air. Support crew were still assembling. Still moving too slow.

“Damn it,” he hissed. “Damn it—”

His throat closed around the curse. It tasted like ash. Like blood. Like regret.

The air inside the ruin was suffocating.

Every breath pulled in dust and rust and that sickly scent of blood. The wreckage groaned above him as he weaved through the collapsed corridor, boots thudding against the slanted floor. He heard his name—someone calling for him—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. His gaze was fixed forward, sharp and wild.

Then—

“Sensei—!”

A voice from the rubble. Tokoyami’s.

Aizawa darted toward it, stepping over a shattered beam, then another—until he saw her.

Pinned beneath what had once been a ceiling support, her body limp. Her arm was stretched outward as if she’d been reaching for someone—or pushing them. Her hair was caked with dust and blood, clinging to her forehead in thick strands. Her face was turned just enough for him to see the bruising along her jaw.

For a moment, Aizawa couldn’t move.

His heart didn’t race—it stopped.

His legs locked, breath catching in his throat as a horrible, horrible déjà vu sank its teeth in.

UA STUDENT MISSION, YEARS AGO

There had been too much blood.

He’d known Shirakumo was in the building when it exploded. The blast had come like a thunderclap. Flames first. Then rubble. Then silence.

They found him under the wreckage of what had once been a rooftop access.

Still breathing—for a moment.

Then not.

Aizawa had been the one to dig through the wreckage. To uncover a hand. Then an arm. Then half a face caked in blood.

He remembered the texture of his best friend’s hair, wet with ash and crimson. Remembered how limp Shirakumo's body had been in his arms.

Remembered the look on Hizashi’s face when they couldn’t bring him back.

He blinked—and he was back in the present.

No. Not again. Not her.

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands moving on their own. One slid under her head gently, the other to her wrist.

Pulse.

He felt it.

Faint. Barely there. But there.

Tokoyami was hunched at her side, breathing hard, arms trembling from holding pressure to a wound on her ribs. “She shielded me,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Didn’t even hesitate. The beam caught her across the back. I couldn’t get her out.”

“You did enough,” Aizawa said, voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

He brushed the grit off her face with shaking fingers, jaw clenched. Her lips were parted, slack. The kind of unconscious that was too deep. The kind that threatened not to wake.

“Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, leaning over her. His hair curtained their faces, damp with sweat. “You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to survive.”

The comm crackled near his hip.

He pressed it. “She’s alive. I need extraction now—west corridor. Beam pinning torso and legs. Student’s unconscious. Hurry.”

His voice didn’t break—but only just.

Support teams were yelling somewhere behind him. He didn’t care. He stayed beside her, fingers wrapped around her wrist like he could will her heartbeat stronger with the heat of his palm.

And still—

His mind flashed again to another day. Another ruin.

Another body under rubble.

Another friend he couldn’t save.

He shut his eyes tight, forehead brushing her temple.

“Not again,” he whispered. “Please. Not again.”

UA STUDENT MISSION, YEARS AGO

It had been a mission. A villain raid. A collapsing building that never should’ve gone down.

He didn’t remember the call.

Didn’t remember running.

Only the sound—an earth-cracking blast that left ringing in his ears for hours. And the way the world turned red.

He remembered Hizashi screaming.

“Oboro was in there—he was still inside—!”

He remembered the smoke. Acrid. Dense. Coating his tongue and throat like poison. Rescue workers shouted back and forth, but their voices barely cut through the chaos.

And then—

A piece of the ceiling shifted.

Someone called for reinforcements.

Aizawa had moved before anyone else. Vaulting over fallen beams, ignoring orders. He dropped to the ground and clawed through the debris with bare hands, concrete tearing into his skin.

And then he saw it.

A hand.

Pale. Slack. Dusty knuckles curled toward the sky.

“No—”

He yanked away a slab of broken flooring, then a half-melted support rod. What emerged beneath was not Shirakumo as he knew him.

Not the loud, sunny boy who made jokes at funerals and laughed at the worst times. Not the boy who always got between Hizashi and Aizawa when they bickered too hard, smiling like he had all the time in the world.

This boy was still.

Half his face was gone under ash and blood. His body was crushed at the hip. His eyes—

His eyes were open.

Aizawa made a sound he didn’t recognize.

He dropped to his knees and touched Shirakumo’s cheek.

It was warm.

Still warm.

“I need a stretcher!” he barked, voice cracking. “He’s still breathing—HIZASHI—he’s alive—move!”

But he wasn’t.

By the time the medics reached them, the warmth had already faded.

Shirakumo’s chest didn’t rise.

His pulse didn’t return.

And Aizawa just sat there. His fingers curled in the blood-drenched collar of Shirakumo’s uniform, his jaw trembling, his throat locked around a scream he never let out.

Hizashi collapsed beside him, sobbing. Clinging to Oboro’s hand like he could anchor the boy to this world.

“We were just talking,” Hizashi rasped. “He said he was gonna cook dinner tonight. He said—he said—”

But Aizawa couldn’t speak.

He just stared down at what was left of his best friend.

The concrete beneath his knees. The sky overhead. The smoke in his lungs.

All of it pressed in.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a part of him snapped and never healed.

The sounds came back in pieces.

First the scrape of steel, then the static of radios. Voices barking orders. The mechanical whine of stabilizers and bracing lifts being wheeled in.

But Aizawa didn’t move.

He was still kneeling beside her, hand wrapped around her wrist, thumb rubbing absently against her skin like he could will her back awake.

Blood soaked through the shredded edges of her jacket. There was a deep gash just beneath her ribs, where the beam had caught her—he could see it even with Tokoyami still crouched over her, applying pressure until his hands shook from exhaustion.

“Good work,” Aizawa said quietly, without looking up. “You stayed with her.”

Tokoyami nodded once, chest heaving. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave.”

Neither could he.

The support team began to descend. Cementoss had already reinforced the surrounding rubble to prevent further collapse, and Mandalay was coordinating movement from above.

“Eraserhead,” one of the medics said, carefully. “We need space.”

“I’m not leaving.”

They didn’t argue.

They worked around him instead—lifting the beam first, inch by inch, carefully sliding boards beneath her to stabilize the weight. A dull groan came from the metal as it was finally moved away. Aizawa’s hand never left hers.

He looked down at her face—pale, slack, eyelashes barely visible under the grime and sweat and soot.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing the hair from her temple. “I never said you were allowed to be this reckless.”

His voice cracked at the end.

“You were supposed to be the one that walked away. I was supposed to yell at you later. Ground you. Take your damn phone.”

There was no answer.

Just the steady, wet-sounding rasp of her breath through bruised lungs.

“Why’d you do it?” he whispered. “You knew the risk. You knew better.”

But of course she did. She always knew better.

That’s why she did it.

Because she thought like him.

Because she’d been watching him since she was five, since she scraped her knees on pavement trying to copy his stances, since she learned to control her quirk not for show—but for survival.

Aizawa swallowed hard.

“I should’ve kept you out of this,” he said, barely audible. “I should’ve said no. Should’ve told them no when you applied.”

But she’d looked him in the eye, years ago, and said:

“If I’m gonna be in danger either way, I’d rather be trained for it. You taught me that.”

The medics began lifting her onto a gurney. A collar was fastened around her neck. One of them adjusted her breathing mask.

He kept his grip on her hand until the last possible second—until they moved her just far enough that he had to let go.

His palm hovered in the air for a breath longer.

Then dropped.

He stood, slowly. Bones creaking. His knees ached. His back burned. His hands were filthy with dust and blood.

As he turned to follow the gurney, Hizashi was there.

Silent for once. Eyes wide and hollow, mouth drawn tight behind his yellow scarf.

He didn’t say anything.

Just reached out and placed a hand on Aizawa’s shoulder.

And Shouta—who never leaned, never crumbled, never let himself—didn’t shake him off.

SHIRAKUMO'S FUNERAL

It was one of those early spring days that tricked you with a sliver of sunlight, only to cut through your jacket when you breathed too deep. The grass was still wet with frost, soft underfoot. Rows of white folding chairs had been set out beside the casket, but most of the attendees stood instead—unable to sit. Unable to stay still.

The casket was dark wood. Clean. Polished.

Too small.

Too final.

Aizawa stood a little apart from the others, his coat buttoned to the top, scarf tucked neatly. His hands were in his pockets.

He hadn’t said a word since the night they’d called it.

Hizashi was beside him. Dressed in black for once, his hair pulled back. Red-rimmed eyes. Shoulders trembling under the weight of silence.

He kept looking over. Waiting.

Waiting for Aizawa to say something. Anything.

But Shouta just stared.

Not at the casket—but at the space just above it. Like if he didn’t look directly, it wouldn’t be real.

They said a few words. Someone from the agency. Then a former classmate. The words all blended—“hero,” “bravery,” “gone too soon.”

Aizawa heard none of them.

He remembered—

How Shirakumo used to tilt his head when he laughed.

How he’d clapped a hand on Aizawa’s shoulder before every mission and said: “Don’t get all doom-and-gloom. We’re coming back, alright?”

How the last thing he’d done was raise a shield to protect civilians—because of course he had. Because Shirakumo was always the one who believed in saving people even when the odds were impossible.

The world didn’t deserve him.

And now it had taken him anyway.

“You should say something,” Hizashi whispered, his voice cracking like thin ice. “You were his best friend.”

Aizawa didn’t answer.

Because the truth was: He didn’t have words.

There was no speech that could undo the way Oboro’s blood had looked on his hands. No sentence that could replace the way Hizashi had screamed his name when the medic’s heart monitor flatlined.

So he stayed silent.

Because if he started speaking, he wasn’t sure he’d stop. Wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand.

PRESENT, OUTSIDE THE SURGURY CENTER

He sat in one of the cheap hospital chairs, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.

Hizashi was beside him again.

Still here. Still breathing. Still not Shirakumo.

And if—

If the door opened and Recovery Girl walked out with the wrong expression—if he had to do this all over again, had to watch another piece of his heart vanish under six feet of earth—

He didn’t know if he’d survive it.

He clenched his fists.

Took a breath.

Didn’t speak.

Just waited.

LATER, HOURS AFTER SURGURY

The world had gone quiet again—not with the sharp, stunned silence of crisis, but the dull, heavy kind that follows it. That strange stillness hospitals always held in the dead hours of the morning, where machines hummed low in the background and fluorescent lights buzzed too softly to acknowledge. Outside, the sky was a deep, bruised purple, fading into black where the stars didn’t reach. The sun was still hours away.

She lay motionless in the bed, her chest rising and falling in shallow, mechanical rhythm. Bandages wrapped around her ribs like fragile armor. An IV line fed into the crook of her arm. The corner of her mouth was cracked and dry beneath the oxygen tube.

Aizawa hadn’t moved from the chair since they brought her in. His coat was still covered in dust, the cuffs stiff with dried blood. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded beneath his chin—not out of prayer, but the posture of a man who didn’t trust his body to stay upright if he let go of his thoughts for even a second.

The room smelled like antiseptic and old fear. Underneath it, faint but still familiar, was the scent of her shampoo—the one he never remembered the name of but could pick out of a crowd in an instant. It grounded him more than the walls, more than the weight of the chair.

At some point, Hizashi had brought him a cup of vending machine coffee and set it quietly on the nightstand. He stayed for a while, one hand resting on the back of Aizawa’s chair, the other loosely folded over his chest. They didn’t speak. They never needed to.

Eventually, Hizashi left, with the promise of returning soon. He didn’t want to crowd him. Just wanted to be there, in case.

Aizawa hadn’t touched the coffee.

Instead, slowly, like thawing from the inside out, he reached forward and took her hand in his.

It was cold. Not deathly so—just hospital cold, blood-thinner cold. But it was enough to make his stomach twist. Her fingers didn’t curl back. Didn’t twitch. She was breathing. She was stable. She was alive. But her hand didn’t move.

He held it anyway.

“You’re lucky,” he said, and his voice scraped low in his throat. “Or maybe you’re just stubborn.”

He exhaled through his nose and rested his cheek briefly on the back of her hand. “I keep thinking I’ve seen the worst of it. That after Kumo… after everything… nothing could hit harder than that.” His voice was steady, but there was something brittle underneath—like ice too thin to walk on.

“But then I saw you. I saw you under all that wreckage, and it was worse. Because you’re mine. Because I raised you. Because I thought…” He swallowed hard, forcing back the tremble in his jaw. “I thought if I taught you everything I knew, it would be enough.”

His thumb moved rhythmically over the edge of her knuckle, tracing the ridge like it was sacred.

“I should’ve said no when you applied to U.A. I should’ve told them I couldn’t be your teacher. I should’ve kept you out of all this.” He shook his head once, bitter with himself. “But you were always going to find your way here. You didn’t want to be safe. You wanted to be prepared.”

There was a long pause. The kind that ached. The kind that never meant peace.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to Kumo,” he said at last, and now his voice did break—just slightly, just enough. “One minute he was here. Joking about ramen. And then he wasn’t. I didn’t even get to tell him to stay.”

He leaned forward again, curling over her hand like a shield. His forehead pressed gently to her fingers.

“Please…” he whispered. “Don’t make me do that again. Don’t make me bury someone else I love.”

The monitor beeped steadily. The IV clicked once.

Then—

A twitch.

Tiny. Barely there. But her fingers shifted under his.

Aizawa froze. Looked up.

Her eyes fluttered once. Then again.

Slowly, painfully, they opened.

“…Dad?” Her voice was rasped and raw and hoarse, but it was hers.

His breath caught. Every defense he’d built over the last twelve hours cracked in that instant.

She was awake.

Not fully. Not for long. But awake.

Still here. Still fighting. Still his.

He let out a breath that shuddered on the way out. It wasn’t quite a laugh. Wasn’t quite a sob either. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, brushing her hair back gently. “You absolute menace.”

Her lips twitched. It could’ve been a smile. Could’ve been pain.

“Did we… win?” she breathed.

He shook his head, shoulders trembling with the force of holding it all in. “Only you would ask that.”

The door creaked open behind him. Hizashi’s voice cut through the hush like a sunrise. “She’s awake?”

Aizawa didn’t look away. Didn’t move.

He just nodded.

Still holding her hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She’s okay.”

And for the first time in what felt like years, so was he.

[kitscutie]

hush (eric, a quiet place x fem!reader)

pairing: eric!aqp x reader

warnings: injuries, blood, just general pain but comfort too!!

summary: after you obtain an injury which requires stitches, you do your best to keep absolutely silent.

a/n: requests for eric open :)

word count: 744

You and Eric emerged from a hole in the ground beneath the church, the water you had just escaped seemed stained red as you turned, pulling yourself up and onto the marble flooring.

You knew you were hurt, would be stupid not too seeing as there was a burning coming from your shin though it was diluted through shock.

You were pulled from your focus on the pain as Erics arms wrapped under your armpits, lifting you until your legs were completely out of the ground.

You turned to face him as he lifted a hand to his lips, reminding you to be quiet. As if you'd forgotten.

He lay you down gently against a pile of rubble, quickly searching through the group of others in the church for help, 'doctor?' scribbled onto the back of his hand in the ink of a pen he found at the churches alter.

Finally after minutes of staring at the ceiling, eyes drifting in and out of consciousness he returned. Stood behind him wearily was an older woman, maybe sixty five-ish? In her past life she was a nurse, before the monsters came crashing onto New York City.

She seemingly collected a dust covered first-aid kit, hung on the wall near the entrance. You prayed there was actually enough in there to save your leg, though you doubted there would be blood- of which you were losing by the litre.

'The quicker it's closed, the better." He wrote onto a note pad, handwriting scribbled in his hurry.

"Closed?" You mouthed, under the impression you would simply need bandages. Lifting your head up you watched as the woman threaded string through a needle. You knew what that meant.

You began frantically shaking your head at Eric, 'No, no, no.' being mouthed repeatedly as your pupils dilated in panic.

"I'm sorry." He mouthed back moving you to lie between his legs, head in his lap. Your efforts to escape proved helpless as your pain emerged through any shock left over though you were confident stitches would hurt more.

He wrapped his own arms around yours, effectively tying them down. Your breathing turned rapid and shallow, panic setting in as you accepted all the pain you were about to feel.

The first time the needle went in you felt nothing. And then whit, hot burning pain. Your back shot up off the ground, a silent scream leaving your mouth as tears spilled from your eyes uncontrollably.

Eric did all he could, shushing you silently, eyes dark and filled with guilt. Though it didn't ease the pain- nothing could. No amount of sweet nothing and comfort that you couldn't actually hear would help.

He watched in his own emotional pain as your fists turned white, breathing only getting quicker, and quicker as each stitch pierced your skin.

He could no longer bear it, leaning down so his forehead touched yours in an attempt to give you solace. Your cries grew heavier, soft sobs leaving you. Panicked that soon enough they would become loud he put his mouth so close to your ear you could feel every hair on his chin as he spoke.

"You're okay, it's okay." He repeated like a prayer. Were you okay? It wasn't truly clear. Hearing it from him though, Eric with his soft British twang brought you back to reality, even if it did come in the form of a shaky whisper.

This time when he shushed you with gentle care it was audible and soothing. Your breathing slowed but the tears and pain never ended, you could only hope the stitches were almost complete.

He kept his forehead against your own but brought a hand away from your arm, instead reaching up to wipe your burning tears away, thumb moving back and forth smudging ash into your skin.

As he moved away, your eyes stayed locked with his, attempting to disassociate from this moment and focus instead on him. His curly hair, brown eyes, dirty collar which looked pristine and ironed fifteen hours ago. It all brought you pain to think of now- the simple things like clean clothes which didn't smell like smoke but nothing hurt more than the look on his face as he starred at you, as though you were broken.

You never liked that term, never like being viewed as weak or vulnerable though in this moment you had never been so grateful to have someone like him by your side, protecting you and you him.

[illyrian-dreamer]

And Then There Were None – Part 1

Azriel/fem!reader

Synopsis: In the lead up to the war, Hybern releases a catastrophic spell that wipes out all humans, sparing just one.

Abandoned in the desolate human lands, you scavenge to survive long enough to find your family.

Reluctantly, you are found by the Shadowsinger as fate intervenes to guide you under his watchful eye.

Part 2>>>

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Death, blood, suggestions of miscarriage

Twigs snapped beneath your boots, your steps heavy with exhaustion as you stumbled through yet another town, as barren and deserted as the last one. 

Exhaustion and dehydration weighed heavy, wisps of dust caking your skirts, your boots the only thing to disturb the rubble in days. 

There was no concern for a carriage that might pull up behind, or a bossy merchant to yell at you to clear the path. While the ghosts of the life that once flourished echoed in closed shops and abandoned stalls, you stopped looking over your back days ago.

There were no plumes of smoke from chimneys, no distant chatter or laughter or cries. Safe from the occasional grunts or mews of abandoned cattle - there was not a single sign of life, and no human in sight for the past ten days.

A jarring cramp ripped from your abdomen, pulling you from delirium with urgency.

Water, food, bathe and sleep. That was why you were here.

You tried not to think about how quickly resources were depleting, even though you were sure you were the only one using them. Without people to treat water, the stagnant liquid became increasingly dangerous. And you couldn’t farm a vegetable to save your life, and had spent too long journeying to have tended to any crops.

You’d have to go further into the woods soon, find a fresh stream, perhaps hunt too. But you'd need strength for that, and you had just about run out.

At least it was spring, and at least the trees bloomed with fruit as you travelled from town to town, feet blistered and chapped. You cursed you parents for not teaching you formidable survival skills - fighting, hunting, even the ability to ride a gods damned horse would have been an incomparable luxury these past hellish days. 

A clang of guilt, and frustration quickly churned to longing. Gods, you hoped they were alive. You would do anything to have them here, to journey this devastating isolation together, the little ones too. You prayed to the Mother for the umpteenth time that day that they were safe and well. 

It was not a concern when you woke to an empty house almost a fortnight earlier. Your father was likely at the market, your mother hard at work at the tailor in town. Your siblings were hard to catch at this time of year, with school out of term and the warm spring air, they would spend each waking moment by the river if your parents let them. 

It wasn't until you spotted your fathers wheelbarrow through the speckled glass of your kitchen window, held by rotting wood. Empty and unmoved, his tools lay flat on the ground, untouched since the day before. You could have sworn he told you he’d be at the market by dawn. 

Scanning the room, your eyes flicked to the doorway where your mothers workbag lay untouched. Needles sat poked in balls of yarn as stray thread sprawled over leather - but an eery stillness sang to you at your parent’s tools. 

Names and calls went unanswered, and after a quick search of the home you ran outside, urgent to ask your neighbours where they had gone, your heart fastening with every step.

Too frantic to observe the lack of movement and noise from your own street, you rapped on the door, waiting only a few seconds to push the rattling screen and forcing your way in.

Names went unanswered again, and it was instinct that steered you straight for the nursery. You halted at the sight of new born's empty crib, blankets rippled as if the babe was taken straight from it’s sleep.

Your calls turned frantic as you scoured each room, an upsetting, looming sensation creeping over your skin.

Bursting from the home, you shielded your eyes from the bright sun as you scanned the street with urgency. Your only greeting was a quiet breeze and snort of a horse left abandoned by a cart - as if it had stopped it's journey halfway through.

In a panicked haze, you searched the next home, and the next, and the next. The dizziness found you then. 

Clearly there was an emergency of some kind. But you had been abandoned, left to sleep until midday amongst the quiet. The thought pained you.

More calls to anyone who might have stayed behind, yet still no answer. Your heart was a thunder in your ears. 

Had the war finally reached you? Had your family fled in the dead of the night? You shook the thought from your head – they would have woken you, would have needed your help to escape with the youngens.

And then you were running – yelling, sprinting through the dusty streets, voice breaking as you dashed from home to home, shop to shop, calling, crying, pleading.

You were utterly alone. You had been left there, alone. 

In a swarm of panic, you pressed a palm at your heart, willing yourself to calm. It was a dream, surely. You were not abandoned, only stuck in a nightmare, the kind that often found you as murmurs of Hybern’s army reaching human lands became louder. 

In that dizzying thought, you willed yourself awake, forcing your eyes open to the walls of your dark and cramped room, to the noises as your siblings shouting and playing from downstairs, to the whistle of the kettle and the creak of the wood as your father came to wake you.

But the light was blinding, the sun as true as the your abandonment.

Beads of sweat that ran down your neck, a gnawing anxiousness building in your stomach as it heaved and cramped, nausea and panic churning to one. 

Something truly terrible had happened.

And in that moment of utter disbelief, a stabbing pain ripped from your stomach, so great it forced a whimper from your throat. 

As silent trickles of blood ran from your thighs to your knees, tracing your calves beneath the fabric of your skirt, you found a numbing sort of courage. Pushing your legs forward, you mindlessly heeded the road out of your home town, and on to the next. 

People. You needed to find people.

————

Ten days, and still not a single sole in sight. Each home, each tavern, each market and farm left eerily untouched. 

The silence was enough to drive you mad, if not besides the aide you so desperately sought. This was not your cycle - although the pains were familiar. You had known what you were, what this was.

Almost a fortnight, yet the blood still came. Slower now, spotting instead of trickles. You had stolen clothing from abandoned shops, food and water too. But you were distraught, moments away from folding into utter madness. And you were weak – very, very weak.

Water, food, a bath and rest. A list you repeated to yourself, your body begging to prioritise sleep with every step as you approached a farm at the town’s edge.

With a weak hand, you pushed past the gate to the yard, large rusty barrels sat open where a cow and her calf now drank. The water was murky with a distinct smell, but it would have to do. Tomorrow, you’d find fresh water tomorrow.

The trembling hand that dipped to the cool water hardly looked like your own. Dirt lay thick under your nails, your skin littered with cuts from the countless times you had shattered windows of stores and traders homes, scouring the stock for preserved goods and weapons. 

Bringing the cool liquid to your lips, you ignored the taste of iron as you willed it to soothe your throat - hoarse from the endless calls that went unanswered.

Ears pricking at sudden growl behind you, you jerked at the site of a pack of dogs who approached on stealthy paws. Their eyes were hungry - flicking between you and the calf. Once loyal farming dogs you were sure, now abandoned by owners and left to fend for themselves. They had formed packs - clever things. While you were sure they couldn't kill you, you didn't have the strength to fight an infection if they got close enough to sink their teeth. 

From your side, you unsheathed the hunting knife you had looted from a previous town. Swinging it with unpracticed skill, you shouted at the pack, your heart thundering as you waited for them to recline on hindered paws and leap. 

They pack seemed to weigh you up, deciding the calf was an easier target. You fled inside the house before you could see it meet it’s end. 

The home was neat, and you almost cried at the sight of a loaf of bread sitting atop the kitchen counters. Mould had attacked it’s edges, but you tore at it, fisting mouthfuls of the centre, dry crumbs coating your throat it was an effort not to choke.

Your stomach lurched, unhappy with the quality of the food and water, but you didn't care. You were on step closer to rest.

Another jarring cramp from your stomach, and you faltered, gripping at the wooden table as you trembled to keep yourself upright. This ailment, how much longer would you last? Sleep begged at you, your body moments from giving out. You’d have to forgo the bath, and prayed to the mother you’d find the strength for it in the morning.

Forcing yourself to the bedroom, swaying with each stumbled step, consciousness was already slipping as you collapsed on the bed, clothes and boots in tact. 

————

It was a feverish sleep, your body doused in sweat as you stirred often, jolting awake in panics, phantom calls of your family mixed with the flap of wings, and the crunch of stone and rock under heavy boots.

Then a voice, voices – ones you were sure they were part of your slumber. 

But as those footsteps got closer, you woke in a startle, your heart fastened as you blinked furiously. 

Voices. Humans. People. Alive, well enough to talk. 

You leapt from the bed, ignoring the spin of your head as you clambered to the window, peering behind sheer drapes to the street in front.

Your stomach sank. Lurched. Then sank again. 

A large, demonic figure stalked for the home. Wings arched behind it’s head, it’s figure blackened by the leathers it bore, sword and knives strapped around. 

And, wisps of some kind. Deadly, reaping magic.

Fae.

Fae had come. 

Knees buckling, you stumbled back a few steps. 

The world around you reeled as adrenaline coursed through. You would have just moments to prepare if you wanted a chance to survive. 

Knife. Your hunting knife. Still strewn at your hip.

Grasping it’s hilt tightly with a trembling hand, you scanned the room for the best place to hide. 

The cupboard was too obvious, and there was room under the bed - but there’d be not enough to swing your knife, only enough for them to drag you by the ankle… 

The gentle click of the front door opening, and it took all you had not to whimper in panic.

Scrambling for the door as quietly as possible, you pressed your palm to your mouth, begging yourself not to cry as you pressed yourself behind the wood.

From what you could hear over the thunder of your heart, the steps of the fae were quiet despite it’s size. 

“Anything in there?” a deep voice boomed from the street. You jolted at the volume. More than one, then.

There was no reply from the creature in the home, only the creak of the wood as it made it’s way through. 

“Really, Azriel? Are we to check every home?” Female this time, impatience and ignorance laced in the somehow ancient voice.

No response again, instead a footstep, right by the door.

Something tickled your ankles then, and it was beyond you to stifle your compulsive scream. 

Black furling wisps coated your boots.

And then the door opened.

The creature made it one step inside before you had aimed your knife for it’s heart. 

A prepared, cool hand caught your wrist inches from it’s chest. Your bones crushing in it’s grasp, and you let out a yelp of pain. 

It’s face - his face - was one of shock. “S-sorry,” he stuttered, dropping his grip all together. 

You blinked back in shock, ignoring at the throb of your wrist as you snatched it back. 

For a dumb moment, you stared at each other with equally wide eyes. The male didn't seem to know what to do. 

“You’re human? How are you here, where-?"

The males sentence was clipped short as you drove the knife towards his chest again. 

Quick as an asp, he caught you by the forearm this time, more gently too. 

Hazel eyes scanned you, his features schooling as he called over his shoulder. “I’ve found someone.”

You were sure you looked mad, grunting with the effort to pull your arm from him, breaths ragged, eyes and hair wild. The male studied you as he might a rabid animal. 

Behind him appeared an even taller male, his form more terrifying than the one that gripped you. 

“Mother above,” the new one whispered, scanning you in the way the first one had. 

“L-let go of me,” you rasped, pulling your arm back, tears stinging at the pain of you surely broken wrist began to swell. 

It was a odd detail to note, the scars and ripples of the fae’s hand as he gently unfurled your fingers, prying the hunting knife from you before releasing his grip. 

“Let me see,” the female’s voice piped from behind, the males struggling to fold their wings further, cramming into the room to let her through. 

You faltered back on instinct, legs hitting the edge of the bed. 

As the female broke through the males, harsh silver eyes scanned you up and down. She was half their height, a little shorter than you actually, but the depth of her gaze kept your hands by your side.

“Seems the Mother has spared one after all,” she muttered, nose crumpling at your scent. 

Your answered with a scowl. 

“What is your name?” it demanded. 

“Amren,” the taller male warned, his eyes flicking back to you with softness. 

You refused to answer. Couldn’t if you wanted to. 

Amren sighed, casting her head sideways to the one with rippled hands. “She bleeds.”

“I know,” he answered, hazel eyes not breaking from you. You blushed, furious and humiliated. 

He stepped around her then, the movement graceful and soft despite his size. 

“You need aide.”

You gulped, unable to process his words. “L-leave me be,” you demanded, voice hoarse as you tried to create more distance between you and it. 

He crouched in front of you then, leathers stretching against ripples of muscle. You noticed them then, jewels, saphires, humming from his body as if they were alive.

He followed your eyes curiously, before answering you with a soft smile. 

“These are siphons,” he said plainly, giving one a friendly tap. 

You snapped your eyes back to him, disgust forming your features. “You are here on behalf of Hybern?”

The female snorted from behind, earning a shove from the larger male beside her, his siphons glowing red.

The one in front of you studied you. “No, absolutely not.” 

You scowled, not inclined to believe them. 

“We come one behalf of our High Lord Rhysand, and High Lady Feyre. Rulers of the Night Court. Do you know of them?”

Feyre - the human women who had freed the fae from the grasp of their enemy. You knew the story, the heroic tale of a human women who gave her life for the male she loved. Had heard of her triumphs Under the Mountain, that she had been made into fae herself in exchange for her sacrifice. 

“The-the curse breaker?”

A small smile cocked on both of the males faces. 

“That’s right,” the one crouched in front answered. “She sent us to retrieve you.”

A panic surged within you. “Me?” you spat. Oh the ignorance of the fae, as if you were some pawn to pluck and place elsewhere. 

Azriel frowned, eyes dancing as he realised the mistake in his words. “To help you, of course. There has been-"

"No-n-no. My family, they will seek for me-"

Azriel's brow pulled with softness, his tone falling flat. "We will search for them. Meanwhile, you must see a-"

“Where are the others?” Your voice was louder now, eyes dancing in panic, chest rising with fastening breaths. Had they taken them too? “The people, they've left, I don't know-"

“We are searching for others. You are… the first we have found.”

Your mind reeled. How could that be? You had searched by foot - but with those wings, and the strength and power of fae…

“WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE OTHER HUMANS?” the volume of your voice shocked even yourself, that strength, that demand from deep within your chest. 

Azriel gave you a pained look, before standing to turn to his counterparts. “Amren, can you heal-?”

“I’m spent,” she cut off the male with a flick of her fingers. “Those canines out back were hardly enough to keep me going until sundown, so forget about healing. Unless you suggest I drink her blood, though I doubt she’d survive.”

Mother above.

You were too hazed to see the glare both of the males cut her.

“Then she will need to see a healer before we can continue.”

“She might refuse,” the larger one countered. 

“If she’s smart, she won’t. She won't survive out here on her own,” Amren muttered, cleaning her nails as she leaned one on leg, checking her cat-like claws for flecks of blood. 

They continued their mutter without once turning to you.

“There is no option here. I’ll take her to Velaris, and return once she’s safe.”

A shaking, blubbering anger grew within you, the creatures in front of you as ignorant and obnoxious as you had always been told fae are – to discuss your own fate as if you weren't in the room.

A killer instinct flared in you then, and you remembered the second knife you bore, hidden within your corsette. A pocket knife, a tool from your father to help pit and peel the fruit from his farm. 

The oak handle was cool in your left hand, the right throbbing and limp. With the last remains of energy,  you pushed up from the bed, swinging with all your strength - aiming for the blue-siphoned back. 

In a graceful turn, the male caught your arm for the third time. You had to blink at the speed with which he stopped you. 

Bracing for cruel, unforgiving anger, you were instead met with sympathetic eyes. 

Loathing coiled within you. 

“Release me,” you spat.

“I’m sorry to do this,” was all he said, and then pads of those rippled fingers were grasping your jaw, pressing to the pressure points of your neck with precision. 

Grunting to fight his grasp, you didn’t struggle long before a ringing in your ear grew to defeating silence and the world tipped to black. 

Part 2 >>> AN: HELLLOOO! And welcome to ATTWN - massive shout out to @kindasleepywriter for finding the perfect name for this series! I so so hoped you liked part 1. I edited it like a million times, still not 100% happy with it, but I think I just needed to get it out. Fair warning - this fic won't be light hearted, our reader is going to go through some really heavy stuff. I'll of course put my warnings ahead of each part, but please know I plan to explore some darker themes surrounding mental health etc. If you'd like to join the tag list for this fic, let me know in the comments! Always love hearing your feedback, and thank you so much for reading! <3 Nic

[starhvney]

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐔𝐏

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: mcd garroth, gene, laurance, travis

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: fluff? literal hurt/comfort

𝐂𝐖: mentions of injuries but no in-depth descriptions

𝐀/𝐍: me when i spend more time finding the pictures for a good picture header than actually writing. i also did not proofread at all so i'm so sorry for any typos or hiccups in my writing

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇

the fight has long since been over, yet after searching every corner of the village, you still saw no sign of the head guard. as your last resort, you hurriedly rush across the ruined plaza, climbing over rubble as you descend into the village mines. 

you find him there, tucked back in the main tunnel and slumped over as he holds a cloth over a gash on his side. his gloved hand fumbles with some medic supplies, though his shaky hold renders himself useless as they tumble to the floor.

“garroth,” you sigh, relieved but also annoyed by his insistence on never asking for help.

he flinches, caught off guard by the blood loss dulling his senses. even now, he stoically has every layer of his armor on except for his chest plate, even his helmet stays firmly against his skull.

“i’ll be alright, my lady,” he starts, though the pained wince he lets out a moment later immediately discounts him for his claims. 

quietly, you approach him, kneeling in front of him and pulling the first aid items out of his grasp. while you can’t see his face, you hear him inhale sharply to protest against you. you silence him with a stern glare, to which he sinks back into the uncomfortable stone without a word. 

“you are much too stubborn,” you chastise, reaching to his other hand to remove it from his wound. “your pride will get you killed.”

you cringe as he peels away the blood-soaked cloth to reveal a deep gash along his side. it's a slash and not a stab, thankfully, but it would still need stitches.

it seems he already knew that, based on the thread and needle he had yet to even tie together. while maneuvering the stitching thread into the eye of the needle, you listen to his shallow and shaky breathing underneath his helm.

“aren’t you having trouble breathing with that?”

“…no.”

your eyes dart up, narrowing at the eye slits of the metal in front of you. 

“it's just me. i understand you want to hide your identity, but when it comes to your health—“

you lift your hands up to his helm, firmly placing them on each side before pausing, waiting to hear for any protests. when you hear none, you slowly lift the metal, sliding it off of his head and revealing what was underneath.

for just a moment you freeze, eyes locking onto his. his hair was a stunning sandy blonde that brushed over his brow line in soft curls. they stuck to his forehead, that had a sheen of sweat over it. you could tell his stunning eye color was dulled over by pain, eyelids drooping and his lips pale.

“…there,” you set the helm down, focusing back on his wound. “now you can breathe better, right?”

“…yes.” he winces, leaning back on your command and revealing his wound again.

carefully, you stitch the wound closed, lifting his linen shirt up enough to allow yourself to wrap the bandaging around his stomach. when you’re done you sit back, wiping your hands against your already dirtied clothes and releasing a deep sigh.

you look up, watching as his jaw clenches and his eyes dart to your feet. he still looks pale, but he at least looks more stable than before.

“garroth.” you call, voice barely above a whisper.

his eyes trail up to yours, hesitant and full of a strange sort of guilt.

“you did a good job protecting me. protecting the whole village. but even the strongest need help,” you take his hand in yours. “at least let one person take care of you in return. i was really worried about you.”

he doesn’t say anything, but you know he understands, swallowing down his deep-set need for independence to put himself in your shoes for a moment.

“there’s a cot down here. why don’t you rest, and i’ll bring you back some food and drink to help you regain your strength.”

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄

you knew something was strange, when the beginnings of the evening cricket chirps grew silent, a heavy feeling settling around your cottage. despite the uneasiness and natural instinct that told you to run, you instead looked around the area for the source.

despite the lack of night critters, you notice a strange fluttering of butterflies dispersing from the other side of some shrubbery. you push through the leaves and twigs, noticing the further you advanced the more wilted the plants became. 

on the other side was a man in strange armor you hadn’t seen before. the metal must’ve been smoldering hot, somehow, because the grass around it wilted and burned away from its touch. despite the strange sense of uneasiness in your chest, you take a few steps towards the man, his form slumped over a large stump.

“sir? are you alright?”

he flinches, hand moving unnaturally quick towards a large sword you didn’t realize he had by his side until now. you stumble back with a startled gasp, hands raising in surrender. dark circles line deep blue eyes, black hair stuck on his face where blood poured from a wound.

“i’m not an enemy!” you quickly say. “that injury looks bad, i can help. i’ll go get some bandages for you.”

you quickly run back to your cottage, retrieving your satchel of medical supplies before he could say a word. whoever he was, he seemed dangerous. and the faster you help him the quicker he’ll be on his way and the less likely anything else dangerous is led to you. when you return, he’s still there, though he’s propped himself up in a sitting position and leaning back against the stump.

“i don’t need any help.”

“well those wounds look pretty deep. and… you’re the one who ended up near my home, so,” you carefully approach him, heart beating erratically fast in your chest. it felt like you were approaching a predator—a wild animal pretending to be a man. “the faster i help you, the less likely whatever did this to you comes near my garden.”

his gaze stayed trained on you for a moment, piercing into you as you kneel next to him. his eyes were a beautiful shade, yet so strangely unsettling and dull. as you glance at them, it almost appears as no light shines from them at all. he smirks, a strangely amused laugh leaving his lips like he found your assistance to be completely entertaining.

“ah, there’s the motive.”

you ignore him, instead using a cloth to wipe away the blood from the side of his head.

“what’s your name?”

“what’s yours?”

you restrain a sigh, biting back the sarcastic quip you wanted to return and instead reciting your name back to him.

“…gene.”

“nice to meet you… gene. how did you get this hurt? are you…” you glance down at his strange armor and sword. “a guard, our some kind of soldier…?”

he says nothing.

“alright, then,” you clear your throat. “no more questions.”

you finish cleaning his head and neck, where another wound was, and carefully place the healing ointment you made from your own magicks herbs. trying to ignore the strange sense that you needed to run away, you finish up your work by placing bandages over the gashes… that seemed to already be healing pretty quickly. 

“there. you’re set.”

a small, “thanks,” leaves his lips, and the two of you met eyes. he seems to contemplate something, before another huffing out another amused laugh.

“you’re very…naive. you should be careful.”

“…what?”

his hand is suddenly in front of your face, cold fingers touching against the skin of your forehead and dragging down, brushing your eyelids closed. somehow your eyes grow impossibly heavy, your head too much to hold up as you slump over, landing in the arms of ge…

…of…who again?

the birds chirp the next morning as you groggily wake from what felt like a coma of slumber. you feel like there was something important you needed to take care of, but you must’ve fallen asleep early last night. you must’ve been exhausted… you don’t even remember carrying yourself into bed. 

oh, that’s right! you had to help… you had to… what was it you were up to last night?

your slump from where you sit, blinking at the floor in confusion.

it must not have been too important.

𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

it’s terrifying, looking into blood red eyes where iridescent pale blue ones had been before. it had only been a split moment—you two were ambushed, a thief’s sword grazing against your cheek and knocking you backwards in surprise as a whole gang of them emerged from the tree line.

laurance suffered an arrow wound, but before you could panic it wasn’t his blood that soaked the ground… but instead the whole dozen of men who tried to attack you.

you stare horrified as dark red drips from him, unsure if it was his own or from the bodies around him. he’s breathing, so heavily, face turned away from you as he stills in the center of his carnage. a few moments pass like this, your eyes trained cautiously on the dulled shade of caramel hair that lays messily on his head. 

“…laurance?” you call out quietly, your voice barely a timid whisper.

he turns to look at you, eyes red and glazed over as he begins to trudge towards you. something about the dark circles and his paled skin splattered with blood frightened you, your uncertainty heightened by his silence and now much taller frame. he towers over you, breaths heavy and sword still tightly gripped in his hand.

“it’s me!” you shakily yelp, regretting your reaction immediately when he flinches, eyes widening.

“…and i’m me.” he frowns, his larger hand brushing against your injured cheek. “you’re scared of me.”

“…no.”

he stares at you, eyebrows pinched together. he doesn’t call you out on your bluff with words, but the look he gives you is enough.

“i felt that something was off. i should’ve done something sooner.”

“it caught me off guard, too. we’re both tired, so—“

“i’m supposed to protect you. now you’re hurt.”

“it’s only a graze, laurance.” you silence his anger towards himself, your hands reaching up to cup his cheeks. “you’re hurt more than me.”

you reach in your satchel, pulling out some healing ointment and bandages you were sure to pack for the journey. he begins to shake his head, hand engulfing yours as he stops you.

“i’ll heal on my own. you know that shadow knights—“

“this will help you heal faster. and help with the pain.”

he sighs, taking a seat on a nearby rock and complying with your insistence despite the lack of need for it.

there were only a few gashes that were deep enough to not be sealed up immediately, dark red blood oozing from the lacerations. you put your focus on cleaning each one, swiping on the ointment and wrapping the bandages carefully onto his wounds.

when you look back up at his face those calm blue eyes have returned, staring back at you as they dart over your face. he takes the ointment from your hands, and with two fingers he motions for you to come closer.

you do so without much hesitation, allowing his finger to dip into the ointment and dab it across your injured cheek. he lingers his hand there for only a few moments longer, before looking away and putting your things back into your satchel.

“thank you, laurance.”

“stay right next to me,” he looks back up, tone and eyes insistent. “for the rest of the way. okay?”

it’s more of a demand than a request, but you simply nod in agreement, unable to refuse him.

“okay.”

𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒

“take your shirt off.” you sigh, sitting next to travis as you dig through your bag.

“woah!” he laughs, a cheeky smirk stretching across his face. “way to be direct.”

you pause, glaring over at him with an unimpressed stare.

“i will add to those injuries. just do it—“

“okay! okay!” he raises his hands up, wincing at the pull of his skin against his wounds. “ow…”

he begins to peel his bloodied tunic from his skin, wincing as he attempts to lift it over his shoulders. you restrain another sigh before you take a glance down at his injuries, instead feeling pitiful at the state he was in. standing in front of him, you help him slide the fabric over his head and off his arms, leaving his whole torso exposed. 

a few previous scars litter across the skin, dipping into different divots of chiseled muscles. he was well built—he had to be for the large claymore he wielded—yet he was still lean, muscles standing out due to the low body fat he had.

“like what you see?” he smirks, catching your gaze that lingered a bit too long on his bare skin. 

“no.”

he flinches at your quick refusal, jutting out his bottom lip.

“ouch, you’re so harsh.”

“why would i like seeing all of these wounds you’re covered in? you’re lucky it wasn’t any worse or you wouldn’t even be conscious right now,” you scold. “what were you thinking?”

“so you were worried about me…” he peeks up at you through his lashes, lips once again turning up in a satisfied smirk.

you roll your eyes, not saying anything as you begin to clean up his wounds. you can never catch a break with this guy, can you? despite his annoying flirtatious jokes, though, you really couldn’t help the worry and care you felt for him. 

he hisses between clenched teeth as you accidentally press against a laceration too harshly, one of his hands reaching up to clasp against your wrist.

“a little more gentle, sweetheart.”

“sorry,” you mutter, shaking your head as you realize what you were thinking.

he doesn’t say anything, instead going quiet as you continue to patch him up. it’s not until you’re dabbing on ointment and healing potions that he speaks up again, his voice strangely soft and unsure.

“you were worried about me, right?”

you pause, glancing down at him. his eyes are strangely… pleading, cool green shining as he searches for an answer on your face. 

you gently place your hand on the back of his head, running your fingers through the soft white strands and pulling him forward and pressing a kiss against his forehead.

“yes, i was. don’t be so reckless next time.”

when you pull away, his cheeks have turned a soft shade of red and his eyes have widened, practically bulging from their sockets. slowly, his jaw opens, mouth gaping as he starts to speak.

“you–”

“shut up.”

©starhvney, 2024. please do not steal or repost my works as your own.

[comatosebunny09]

Sleeping together is normal.

You’ve shared beds before like this. Slept beneath the stars with nothing but rubble at your feet, and itchy grass at your backs. But tonight is unlike any other night you’ve spent together. It feels different. As if the air is charged with electricity and something heady in between.

In the back of your tangled mind, you knew admitting your secret desires over a harmless game of 21 Questions would pique his interest. Hells, you had prayed it would. Maybe tonight would be the night that he held you a little tighter, kissed that sensitive spot behind your ear, and acted on the subtle hints he tossed your way.

You can dream.

The silence that stretches between you is unnerving.

Your heart pounds in your ears, your fingers aching with the need to touch. Your sleepiness has faded into the background, replaced by anxiety welling in your gut. It would take nothing to lean up onto your elbows, conquer the space between your mouths, and just—

Ugh! What if you’ve misread the room? What if he only sees you as a friend?

Through the dimness blanketing the room, Astarion’s gaze searches through yours. A beautiful maelstrom of emotions swimming beneath them, looking for something. An indication of discomfort. A plea for him to stay. A silent demand for him to piss off. Anything. He doesn’t press, though his head screams for him to weasel a confession out of you.

When you do not speak, a wistful smile rounds Astarion’s lips. Your silence serves as his answer. He lifts himself from your bedside, turning away towards the entryway. Offers a somber goodnight, darling over his shoulder, but—

Your hand encircling his wrist halts his retreat. He’s wide-eyed when he looks back at you, his voice corked in his throat. You tug again, your gaze averted, and the warmth of bashfulness explodes like solar flares beneath your skin.

Look at you, acting all shy as if he hasn’t seen you bleed.

Astarion moves on autopilot, kneeling again beside you, enraptured by your touch. His mouth quivers with a question; brows furrowed with compassion.

Say the word. Say it. Just—

You beat him to the punch. Release his hand, mournful of the loss of his cool veins dancing beneath your fingertips. You peer down at the wrinkled comforter, fiddling with some frayed threads at its corner. Your saliva scorches your throat as you swallow thickly, willing your vocal cords to work.

“You know I’m afraid of the dark,” you rumble, voice rivaled by the soft wind outside.

It isn’t a complete lie. You’ve always squeezed Astarion a little tighter when the candlelight dwindled—curled up into his side with the blanket pulled over your head, succumbing to the security he provided, fearful of the things that went bump in the night. Like he didn’t once live amongst them. 

It clicks in his mind like the hammer of a revolver slamming forward. He tastes the subtle undercurrents of your timbre. Feels relief coating his rib cage at your plea for his company.

Stay.

Astarion snorts. Smiles, something boyish and genuine, the bulk of his hand swallowing up your wrist. He draws your gaze to him, his teeth shining through the muted light.

“Is that your way of asking me to stay?”

His tone is disarming. Causes your shoulders to drop from your ears and your jaws to unclench. A smirk cants the corner of your lips. Though adrenaline flows through your extremities like liquid fire, you entertain his cheekiness.

“Maybe.”

He peels back the comforter before you can react. The bed croaks beneath his weight, and you shimmy towards the wall to allow him space. Your feet brush, the sensation setting your nerves alight. In your peripheral, Astarion grins. A lithe mass of sinewy muscle and protectiveness looming on the opposite side of the bed.

He makes no move to do anything further. Always a gentleman despite your bodies crying out for each other. Despite his fingers twitching in his lap, and the longing coloring your eyes.

Just…fucking touch me already.

Time eases by like this. Astarion beside you, recounting old memories from adventures long ago. And you both laugh a little. Gradually scoot closer until the moon sits high in the sky, and exhaustion clings to the bags beneath your eyes. You use that as an excuse to snuggle up to him. Though you rarely need a reason to. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you closer, and the comforter up to your chin. He makes you feel safe. He always does. Always has.

Without thinking, you twine your fingers together. Test the waters, searching his eyes for any signs of discomfort. When he doesn’t say anything, you’re emboldened to bring his hand to your lips and you kiss his knuckles. He stiffens, breath hitches, mouth hangs slightly open. Gradually relaxes little by little. Looks at you with uncertainty in his eyes, as if he’s ready to dive off that cliff with you if you’ll allow him to. You try again, your lashes fluttering. The wine’s long settled in your system. It’s all instinct urging you forward now.

He brings your hand to his mouth to pay the same homage. And then he’s kissing up your wrist, forearm, further still…can’t help himself, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Lids shutter while his lips seal to yours in a kiss. Slow at first. Gentle because he doesn’t want to scare you off. But he’s waited so long for this. You both have. So pardon him for being a little overzealous. A little swept up in the moment.

You pull away, intoxicated by his earthy scent and the plushness of his lips. Study him, drunk off the feel of him and the soft breaths fanning across your skin.

You kiss again. A little more confident this time. A little more eager. He cups your jaw. Drags you down onto the bed beneath him, mouth slanting possessively over yours, fangs gnashing against your teeth. It’s like a dream. Your hair puddles around you on the pillow. You’re holding his palms to your cheeks, brows pinched, afraid that if he lets go, the dream will shatter. But you’re not dreaming this time. The hoarse, agonized groan he pushes between your lips is proof of it.

[mosquito-queen]

yelena is a comet. a comet that kate can’t help but make a wish on. except, it’s been nearly eight months since the last time yelena had come around, and kate had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t planning on coming back. yelena had burned up on reentry. left a mess of sparks and rubble and nonexistence.

kate hovered near the window, searching the rooftops. it had been seven years of this: yelena slipping through the window with blood and guts staining the hardwoods, rifling through kate’s pitiful first aid kit (“where is needle and thread, kate bishop?”); yelena showing up with some kind of new food to try as repayment; yelena leaving just before the dawn; yelena blitzing into kate’s life and leaving the very same day.

and then it happened enough that kate left extra blankets and pillows near the couch. and then one night, kate’s bed dipped and she found herself staring wide eyed at yelena. yelena was smoothing kate’s sweaty hair, “you were having bad dream, i will keep watch in here now.” kate wanted to ask what yelena was watching. but the warmth of her hand cradling kate’s face was enough to bring the quietness of sleep back.

but sometimes yelena was the righteous fist of god. and hurt and anger swelled like a riptide in her chest. and kate was drowning. sometimes yelena would vanish for weeks, months. and just when kate was about to lock the window, she would whisk back in. like nothing happened. and a knife of resentment would dig just a little deeper in the pit of kate’s stomach. kate knew why yelena left as easy as the setting sun, but that didn’t mean it hurt less.

and then distance began to settle in. kate stopped perking up when yelena whistled in, she stopped making enough dinner for two, she stopped eagerly waiting for the next dopamine rush. and yelena responded by staying longer, by trying to fill the gaps. but they were too wide for just one tiny assassin.

and then one day, eight months ago, kate said: “where do you go?”

and maybe if they were just two people with regular jobs and regular upbringings, yelena would say she gets her nails done or stays with her sister. but natasha was dead and yelena’s hands were stained with someone else’s blood. and every question was a threat, even now, even after six years of this dance. shouldn’t kate know she had two left feet by now?

shouldn’t yelena know that kate was destined to lead? kate continued, “what are we doing, yelena?”

kate was tired. yelena saw it now. she thought if she kept away, if she was careful, if she only let kate see the edges of her soul then that would be enough. she had just wanted someone else’s company. she had just wanted to borrow care.

but she wasn’t exactly borrowing anymore. not since the first year. not since kate kept the fridge stocked for her. not since yelena berated kate for coming back with too many open wounds. not since she trailed sticky lipstick kisses down kate’s throat. not since she developed a gnawing worry that kate would lock the window.

she never could if yelena broke the window first. and maybe it was kate’s tone, or her searching eyes, maybe it was kate’s sulking shoulders, or the way her hand skated across the grain in the table that set yelena off. maybe it was yelena’s terror of being known that drove her to the ledge.

and that memory of her fake childhood reared it’s ugly head. because even now, it told her everything good wasn’t real.

“we are nothing.”

it had been a solid year since the last time yelena had left on a whim. kate thought she would be surprised but instead it felt more like a confirmation.

but now it had been eight months without yelena. kate stared hard out into the starless night, while on the other side of the earth, yelena leapt from a skyscraper.

they could of been two less lonely people together. resentment churned in the pit of kate’s stomach. she locked the window.

[chronicbeans]

Romantic Yandere Lucifer x Reader Headcanons

I've been tossing this idea around in my brain for days lol.

TW: Yandere Behavior, Obsessive and Possessive Thoughts, Panic and Anxiety, Depression, Blood and Injuries, Denial, Overprotective Behavior

• When he first met you, it was when he visited the Hazbin Hotel upon Charlie's request. You were sitting at the table with the rest of the staff and guests, acting the most... Well, normal out of all of them, besides Husk. You smiles and waved his way once Charlie mentioned your name.

• It wasn't like those fairy tales, where it is love at first sight. No, he had to talk to you, of course. After everybody else introduced themselves to him, you walk over to him, shake his hand, and introduce yourself. "Hello, your majesty! My name's (Y/N)! It's nice to meet you!" That's when he falls for you. Throughout the small conversation you both have, you treat him like... well, a normal person. Or, at least, as normal as you can treat the King of Hell, himself.

• The moment he leaves and returns home, he feels extremely guilty for falling for you. Especially since it was so quick, and for such a simple reason. He barely knows you! Why can't he stop thinking about you? He silently vows to never go back to the hotel, not because he doesn't support Charlie, but because he's scared of falling for you even more. However... Calling Charlie and asking about the Hazbin Hotel doesn't sound too bad, yes?

• Soon, asking about the hotel turns to asking about the people there... which, in turn, means asking about you. How have you been doing? Have you shown any interest in the activities and workshops at the hotel? What interests do you have. Of course, Lucifer asks the same questions about everybody else, to not seem suspicious, but he's mostly just interested in you...

• He only falls even more as he hears about you. Lucifer hates himself for it. So, he begins to distance himself, again. He goes back to making his rubber ducks, trying to distract himself from his thoughts about you. However, over time, his ducks slowly began having features that remind him of you. You like drawing? Duckie with a pencil and paper. Singing? Duckie that plays music. His mind can't escape you.

• Once the exterminators show, and the fight with Adam commences, he sees you again. Not in the best condition, either. The dust settles, Niffty absolutely brutalizes Adam, and now everybody is looking for you and Alastor. As Lucifer wanders the area in a frantic search for you, he happens to notice a battered hand sticking out from underneath some rubble. Moving it out of the way, he's now in a panic as he realizes it's you. You're alive, thankfully, albeit heavily injured and hanging on by a thread. That, and passed out.

• The next few minutes are spent with him becoming way too protective over you, holding you in his arms and becoming extremely defensive. His obsessive crush has finally reached more twisted levels, and he's mortified by the thought of letting you out of his sight. Even Charlie is starting to catch on that something is not quite... right about her dad. He's holding you tightly and not letting anybody come near you, despite the fact that you clearly need help. Then again, his angelic powers could probably be used to help you heal, but the point still stands. The only person who's allowed to come close is Charlie, and even then, he's keeping a close eye.

• He's now by your side constantly while you're recovering. He almost lost you! It's a very sudden change in his behavior, considering how he bottled up all of his feelings for you for so long... Nobody even knew he cared about you in specific, much less this much. Whenever you wake up in your bed, staring at the hotel, he's the first person you see. Whenever you fall asleep, he's the last thing you see. He's there throughout the entirety of the day, acting much more like your caregiver than your friend's dad. Bringing you food, getting you water, getting you some blankets and pillows... He's even taking care of changing your bloodied bandages out for new ones.

• At first, you just assumed that he was worried and wanted to help you recover. It'd make sense. You almost died, after all. The behavior doesn't stop after you're fully recovered, though... in fact, it gets worse, somehow. He makes sure that you aren't in danger, be it real or perceived. Somebody who he doesn't know talking to you is just as big of a threat in his eyes as somebody pointing a gun at your face. He's immediately standing by your side, glaring the stranger down.

• He may not be that intimidating, but he's the King of Hell. Many people know how strong he is, even if they don't find him to actually be intimidating to look at. So, they back off, usually. Those who don't get a brief look at his demon form, before getting knocked out. No, no... He doesn't kill them. He can't kill anybody when you are around. He'll wait until later.

• He's a yandere that would never cross any physical boundaries with you. He's spent years isolating himself from people, so as sad as it is to say, he's pretty used to not getting any sort of affection. He doesn't need compliments, hugs, or cuddles ( at least, that's what he tells himself). However, if and when you start showing affection towards him, he's going to need it constantly. He needs reassurance, comfort, a shoulder to cry on, somebody to give affection to... And you are now the only person he feels he's able to do so, with.

• He's going to want to own your soul, so be on the lookout for any tricks he might pull. Well, it's more correct to say he doesn't want to own your soul, but feels like he must. He doesn't like the idea of being in a relationship with such an intense power dynamic, but he's so frightened by the idea that Heaven might take you away, that he feels that he simply must own your soul. He feels that, if he does, it's less likely you'd even be able to go to Heaven, since you're technically owned by him. And he knows he's never going up. Even you just mentioning Heaven throws him into a panic... Don't say that word, alright?

[nevieeland]

title: thought i was dead

pairing: bourgeoisie!m.yoongi x street rat!reader

synopsis: another day, another patrol. big black trucks roll down unused roads, sharply trained eyes moving over the battered streets in search of particular fugitives of the law. fugitives that are on the other side of the city, roaming streets where they 100% don't belong.

rating/warnings: mature (16+) ; action, violence (there’s a very brief fight scene), profanity. um... there's also implications as well as explicit mentions of police brutality and abuse of power in regards to the patrolmen and the citizens of the valley, gambling at a casino very briefly, talks of death, and reader is morally grey. not proofread.

last updated: 27.01.25

word count: 5.3k

there's the usual sounds of big wheels rolling down the gravel of the streets, heads popping out of old and broken windows to catch a glimpse of the big black trucks that seem to come down the block every other day, circling neighbourhoods like vultures looking for their next meal. mothers keep their children hidden behind them, and teens run out of the door to spew obscenities that the dark suited officials in the suvs won't be able to hear. everyone ushers whoever they can grab into the nearest building, hoping to escape their line of sight, and ultimately, the crossfire of whatever rebellious street rat had caught the attention of the inner circle today.

there were numerous repeat offenders within all corners of the sunken slums, gangs and squads who'd often draw too close to the fence or vandalise one of the many statues of the governor strewn about the village. it had gotten to the point that even the most generous of individuals had given up on hiding them, finding it not worth the trouble. if the patrol wanted to find someone, they would, and there was no two ways about it.

how many times had a child, barely a teen, ben forcefully dragged from the arms of their mother, simply for committing the crime of being curious? loitering was one of the more serious crimes frowned upon by the inner circle, guards stationed at every corner of the fence, guns in hands and eyes watching for any fool who'd gotten too inquisitive and wandered too close. one of the first things any inhabitant of the valley is taught are the three big laws.

all of those within the valley sect must remain at least ten metres from the circle fence at all times, law number one.

if the patrol felt kind, then the worst punishment someone would receive was five nights in the cage, cold and alone and given only scraps for food until their release. if not, then you'd be taken to the public square and beaten and lashed for the rest of the village to gaze upon; a cautionary tale to any upcoming ruffians or seemingly invincible rebels.

you usually hear the vans before you see them. but not today. today you watch the guards open one of the big metal gates and let the trucks drive in, an expression of determined resolution making it's way across the planes of your face. you're barely obscured by the pile of rubble and bricks beside the old hospice, another member of your ragtag crew hidden within the rotting wood of one of the crates.

"sure, okay, lets say we get to the gate. the trucks roll in, we're on the outskirts of town while they look for us inside," taehyung says from beside you, flicking the ash of his cigarette down onto the worn carpet beneath your bodies. "but what then? how are we supposed to actually get into the inner sect?"

there comes hums of agreeance from a few of the others, and you thread wiry fingers through the knots in your hair. the gates would only be open until all the trucks had come in, and after that they'd shut and the guards would be back on duty. entrance would be the same as it usually was; impossible.

you pause, and a silence blankets over the makeshift basement hideout. there's the heavy weight of expectant gazes on your back, and you huff in frustration as your mind comes up blank. taehyung was right, they could only wait by the gate for so long before they were spotted, and the bruises littered across their skin like paint on a canvas had yet to fade from their last encounter with the patrol.

two weeks in the cage was starting to seem less and less worth it.

a short huff escapes your lips, hands moving over taehyung's and snatching the cigarette from his fingers with a deft quickness as you bring it to your lips and take a deep drag. then, short and curt, "you know me, tae. i'll figure it out. i have to, don't i?"

the guards open the doors and exit the suv to check the back tire—a flat. as you hoped.

the rock you placed on the road was subtle, blending in with the rest of the gravel. the roads in the valley are rough, and no one here owns a car—patrols only come bi-weekly, so there’s no point in maintaining the roads. but it worked in your favor this time. the last of the suv’s wheels had rolled over the sharp edge of the stone, and now joining the patrolmen at their side were the guards, the gate left open and now only being watched by one instead of the usual three.

they'd need a new tire, you knew that for sure. and that gate would remain open until they had one.

there comes a hushed whisper from your side, and your eyes snap suddenly to the familiar figure on your left, his lips pulled into a boxy grin. "gate open," he affirms, gesturing with his head to the breakdown. "and bad guys distracted. that's act one. have we got an act two?"

you don’t answer right away. instead you tap taehyung on the back with an apologetic smile. "don't worry about it. just follow my lead."

a furrow of brows and a pursing of lips together in annoyance. taehyung's distaste with your ominous secrecy is evident. but he trusts you. "right. go when you say go. follow your step."

your fingers graze up the worn fabric of his jacket, a more genuine smile gracing your lips as the digits tangle into the hairs at the nape of his neck. "right. just do as i do, okay? and don't get mad at me."

there's a question on the tip of his tongue, his brows kissing the more they furrow, but whatever plagues his mind never has the chance to escape his thoughts, because suddenly there's even more of a commotion where the truck has broken down.

“hey, you!” one of the guards shouts, his gun raising. the other patrolmen follow suit, weapons drawn and pointed at the female figure drawing ever closer.

the woman doesn’t notice the threat. she stumbles forward, her eyes bleary and her hair a matted mess. her head swings around as if loose on a stick, laughing crazily. “you think you’re tough, huh? all of you scum—just ‘cause you’ve got money and cars?”

the guard behind the gate steps forward after her, and there's an opportunity offered in the slight venture. he's a little way out now; if you're careful you could graze past him and into the inner sect. the immediate choice is made. if you’re going, you need to go now.

your hand raises, fingers twisting in a signalling gesture. it's time.

but taehyung’s hand shoots out, grabbing at your wrist. “hey, isn’t that—” comes the start of a question, but your biting tone quickly cuts him off.

"we don't have time for this," you hiss, trying to tug him along. "we can talk once we're past the gate. come on."

and when taehyung realises that it's either come along or get left behind—and potentially caught—he moves with a frustrated grunt, slipping into place behind you as the others emerge from their hiding places.

and it's only once you're so close to the fence you pause, feeling a shiver running down the expanse of your spine. from a distance the gate in intimidating. it looms as tall as some of the buildings and is an ever present shadow over the valley. no one had ever doubted it's sheer size.

but now, next to it? it's like the wired skeleton of a giant looming over you, going on and on up into the sky to a point where it's almost dizzying to look at. it feels like you’re about to walk straight into the mouth of a beast. but you shouldn't hesitate, you need to break out of your stupor and go—

"see?" comes a slurred voice, and a sense of dread settles into your stomach once you see the intoxicated woman's finger pointing directly at you. "those kids think you ain't tough either. that's why there's so many of 'em."

shit.

your legs are moving all on their own, shooting up from their crouching position and propelling you forward, forward, forward. you hear a shout from behind, then the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, and you don't need to look back to know that there's weapons pointing at the four of you.

shit, shit, shit, shit.

"hey you," comes the voice a guard, loud and angry. "stop right there!"

you can't stop. not now. stopping is accepting death, so you run. you don’t even look back, knowing the others are following behind you, mirroring your every step. you're almost there—just a few more meters to the gate. then you'll have done it, and this will all have been worth it.

a sharp crack rips through the air. a gunshot.

you don't look back to see if it's aimed at you or the woman. you just keep running. and you don't stop, even when you feel the overwhelming burn in your side where the bullet's barely grazed by you. you stumble but keep pushing forward. you're so close to the inner sect now.

right there—

and then, with one last push, you’re over the border.

but it’s not over yet.

the gunshots are still ringing, and the heavy footsteps behind you tell you that the chase has begun. you don’t stop running. you can’t. you allow yourself a quick moment to turn, to catch a final glimpse of home.

the last thing of the valley you see before you're bolting is the woman's crumpled body on the ground.

if there's one thing you're good for, it's athletics.

the adrenaline of crossing into the city keeps your legs moving even when your lungs begin to burn and your muscles begin to ache, long enough for you and the others to lose the group of men and stumble haphazardly into a small side alley between a restaurant and a small boutique.

venturing as far back into the shadows as you can, you collapse against the brick wall in a heap, breaths leaving your lungs in short, painful gasps. there's silence, for all but a moment, and then you're laughing. a bitter, frantic laugh that bursts from your throat, raw and desperate.

what the fuck was that? if they see us anywhere they're going to fucking kill us.

there's nothing funny about this at all. you've practically signed your death certificate and now you're fugitives in a city where you shouldn't be, law enforcement lurking at every corner, and yet you can't help your laughter.

it’s a burning feeling, tearing through your lungs and making liquid sting at the corners of your eyes, a sound almost desperate in it’s hysteria. if you don’t laugh, you know for sure you’ll start crying, head swimming with a myriad of emotions you don’t know how to even begin processing.

everything hurts really fucking bad. your muscles feel like they’re pulling each other in entirely opposite directions and there’s a migraine so sharp behind your eyes that you feel like you’re getting an astral lobotomy.

you feel almost high, everything in your body working at max.

“damn it,” taehyung growls from the corner, his anger cutting through your hysteria. “what the fuck was that?”

you purse your lips, kissing your teeth at the question. "what was what? the part where we got shot at or the part where we became possibly the most wanted people in valles?"

he’s having none of it.

“don’t act smart. what the fuck was she doing there?”

you really wish you had a cigarette. you'd need at least twenty and a pool full of alcohol to deal with taehyung and his moral compass.

at least with the rush of the chase you were granted a temporary moment’s reprieve from the fact that your actions had led to the death of a woman. a not very nice, nor a very well liked woman, but a member of the valley nonetheless. a neighbour. it had been three years since the last patrol–induced death. it was something that caused an excitement throughout the small town. a step forward is a step forward.

and now you’ve just forced a step back. you can only imagine the patrol’s fury, and the thought of picturing the result of their fury on the citizens of your sect makes you physically ill. so you don’t allow yourself to think about it.

instead, you try and think of an answer to tae’s question that doesn’t end with him absolutely blowing up on you.

“she was high,” you start, voice low and calculated. and you weren’t lying—that much was obvious to any person with a working eye. “she probably stumbled out on her own and wandered too far. it probably wouldn’t be the first time. you saw her, didn’t you?”

but the narrow of taehyung’s eyes tells it all. he doesn’t believe you.

“look, tae,” you murmur, “you’re worked up on an adrenaline rush, i get it. but don’t take it out on me, okay?”

“don’t—” an incredulous sputter cuts off his words, and you watch for a moment as he grapples to keep his temper under check. “don't take it out on you? what the fuck? she’s dead because of you—”

“—it’s not my fault she ratted us out!—”

“— yet you’re talking like it’s not your fault!”

“yeah?” you challenge with a raise of brows, “well the sect is better off without her anyway! all she ever did was get high and harass the kids and schmooze up to the patrols. she threw people into the cage for a fucking carrot from the higher-ups. yeah, maybe she’s dead. so. fucking. what.”

for a second, it looks like taehyung’s about to hit you, but then his rage boils over into a scream of frustration. before you know it, his hands are at your throat, squeezing hard. your nails dig into his skin, and you fight with all the energy you have left, kicking him in the stomach until he’s forced to step back, groaning when his head hits the wall behind him.

he's lunging at you again, but this time you're prepared and meet him with a sharp fist to the face. you can feel the warm trickle of a few stray drops of blood dripping from his nose, but it doesn't deter you from delivering another blow.

but taehyung’s not done. his eyes are wild, and you know he’s not going to stop until something breaks.

"stop!" gyuri sobs, covering her face so she doesn't have to see the two of you fighting. "just fucking stop! we can't fight like this when we're so far from home. you two are the only ones with a semblance of an idea of what the fuck we're doing, so just stop!"

the fourth of you, nobu, nods in agreement, his arms crossed and a contemplative shadow draped over his features. "she's right, you know. we've made it too far to start infighting. that's gonna get us killed. we need to figure out what we're doing next."

with a sigh, your hands fall to your side, gaze flicking to taehyung to watch as he wipes at his bleeding nose. with an apologetic smile, you extend an arm towards him, an offer of an olive branch.

it stings when he slaps it away.

"whatever," he murmurs, not once letting his eyes move to where you are. "nobu's right. we need a move."

there's a myriad of different thoughts in your head right now, body slinking further into the shadows as you finally allow yourself to collapse and focus on something other than the tense edge in all of your muscles.

like the sight of the woman's lifeless eyes. or taehyung's fury. or what the fuck you're supposed to do now. you can't go home for a while, patrol cars will be roaming the streets like guard dogs, and it's only a matter of time before the guards will start hunting every street in the inner sect in search of the four of you.

you sigh, exhaustion seeping into your bones.

"first thing's first," you murmur, closing your eyes and trying to quell your growing headache. "we need to ditch what we're wearing. that's the first thing they'll recognise."

there's different sounds of approval, and a begrudging grunt from taehyung, and the decision is unanimous.

your clothing raid had been successful, you and the others managing to grab some things from a box behind one of the more high end boutiques after you'd roamed around a few of the back allies.

it's only now you realise how different the inner sect is from the valley, after the fog's cleared and your hands are shoved into the pockets of your dress pants.

the buildings were massive, for one.

where the valley had crumbling old bungalows and a few basement houses, the inner circle was filled with skyscraper after skyscraper. looking at any building had you straining your neck, the the glassed windows were so reflective, the sun practically blaring into your eyes from every angle.

it's better if you keep your head down, anyway. your clothing was innocuous enough for you to blend in with the crowd so long as your face isn't fully visible.

that's another thing. the clothing.

you'd seen suits of course. the patrol governed your city adorned in the black textile from head to toe. but to see everyone dressed so formally, women in long dark coats and men with vests and cuffed shirts, makes your skin crawl with discomfort.

you'd wear the same pair of tatted jeans for weeks at a time, the only wardrobe rotation being the communal clothes you and your crew would share and swap.

at some point, the four of you had split up. you'd all find a place to stay for the night, and meet back up at the alley in the morning to debrief and decide what to do next. another unanimous agreement.

finding a place to sleep for one would be easier than finding a place for four.

you know that's what you should've been doing, but something about the casino's bright lights and loud music has you almost immediately gravitating towards it.

there's a bouncer at the door, and for a moment your heart drops, but as you approach he simply gives you a nod and allows you in.

for the first time since your arrival in the inner sect, you feel yourself relax.

almost instinctively, your hand drifts to the back pocket of your borrowed pants, fingers brushing the fabric in search of a cigarette. when they come up empty, you huff in quiet frustration, the realization striking a little harder than you’d like. right. those were left behind—along with just about everything else that tied you to the valley.

you’re still caught in the thought when a hand extends toward you out of nowhere. the sudden movement sends a cold surge of panic through your veins, and you whirl around with wide eyes. The crowd blurs for a moment as your gaze locks on the figure in front of you—a dark haired man standing far too close.

his expression holds no malice. if anything, there’s amusement dancing in his eyes, as though startling you was an intentional act of mischief. the corner of his mouth lifts into a casual smirk, and he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re a puzzle worth solving. his hand remains outstretched, unwavering. he gives it a slight shake, and only then do you notice what he’s holding.

it’s a silver cigarette case, polished enough that the casino’s lights shimmer across its surface.

for a brief moment, you see your own reflection in it—wide eyed and slightly on edge, a sharp contrast to the man's easy demeanour. he tilts the case open with one hand, revealing a neatly arranged row of cigarettes nestled inside. the gesture is smooth, practiced, like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

“need one?” he asks, his voice low and rich, carrying just enough charm to make you wonder if this interaction is as accidental as it seems.

no, thanks, you almost decline, but your hand moves on its own and picks up one of the cancer sticks with a familiarity all too strange considering the stranger you're taking them from.

"have you got a—"

"lighter?" the man interjects, and he retrieves the small metal tool from his breast pocket, yet again holding it out to you.

you take it with a grateful skepticism.

the man chuckles at your sidewards glances, his smile all to warm and all too charming. it's uncanny, and the weight of his gaze makes your skin almost crawl.

with the cigarette lit and placed lazily between your lips, you pass him back the lighter, and he takes it, eyes shifting from your hand to your face. "i don't think i've seen you in here before," he muses with a short hum. "you not from around here?"

you don't respond, taking a long drag of your cigarette and rushing for an answer that won't land you in deep shit.

"i uh... i'm from the other side of the city. i don't usually come out this far," you bluff with an exhale of smoke, hoping your voice doesn't sound as shaky as you feel. "it kinda of just drew me in."

another hum from the stranger, and he plucks the cigarette from your fingers to place it between his own, and a shiver runs down your spine at the intimate contact.

"could tell you're not from here. your pockets are probably emptier than your purse, hm?" he inhales a cloud of smoke, and you watch as it pours from his nose when the cigarette is passed back. "have you ever even been to a casino, miss?"

you answer honestly. "no."

the man exhales slowly, his smoke mingling with the flashing lights and hum of conversation around you. he studies you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough to make you feel uncomfortably exposed. then, without a word, he slips a hand into his coat pocket.

when it reemerges, he’s holding a neat stack of bills, bound with a thin band. your stomach tightens at the sight of it. he peels off two crisp hundred-dollar notes and presses them into your hand.

"here," he says, his tone easy, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "consider it a welcome gift."

you stare at the money, blinking in confusion. it feels heavy in your hand, heavier than it should, and for a moment, you consider handing it back. "i—why?"

you've never seen so much money in your life. in the valley, all exchanges were done with rusty coins older than the houses themselves. seeing bills for the first time is an almost out of body experience.

you try to school your shock into a more nonchalant expression.

his smirk deepens, and he nods toward the rows of slot machines lining the casino floor. "because watching you wander around clueless is almost painful," he teases, a glint of amusement in his eye. "come on. i'll show you how to use one of these."

before you can protest, he lightly grips your elbow and steers you toward one of the machines. the screen glows bright, its colors shifting in hypnotic patterns. coins and lights jingle in unison, the allure of chance pulling at your senses.

the man stops in front of a sleek black-and-gold machine and gestures for you to sit. hesitant, you lower yourself onto the cushioned stool, the leather creaking faintly under your weight. he leans against the machine beside you, his posture loose, the picture of confidence.

"alright," he begins, sliding one of the bills into the machine’s slot with practiced ease. The screen comes alive, displaying an absurd number of credits. "this one’s simple. all you have to do is press the button."

you glance at him skeptically. "that’s it?"

"that's it," he confirms with a grin. "but don’t let the simplicity fool you. these things will eat your money faster than you can blink if you’re not careful."

you hover your finger over the glowing button, hesitant. "and if I win?"

he chuckles, the sound low and rich, as though the idea itself amuses him. "then you might just owe me a drink."

you scoff at that. as fucking if.

but against your better judgment, you press the button. the machine whirs to life, its reels spinning in a blur of bright symbols. your heart skips as you watch them slow, each one ticking into place.

the man watches too, his expression unreadable, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t tell if he’s helping you—or setting you up for something you can’t quite see.

the reels slow one by one, their bright symbols clinking into place like tiny bursts of fate being decided. a lemon, a cherry, a golden bar—your breath catches as the last reel spins just a little longer, teasing you. finally, it lands on another golden bar.

lights explode from the machine in a dazzling display, and an obnoxiously cheerful chime erupts, signaling a small but thrilling win. the credits on the screen climb higher, and for a moment, you’re caught between disbelief and elation.

the man beside you laughs softly, leaning in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of smoke and cologne. "beginner’s luck," he says with a smirk, but the glint in his eye makes you wonder if luck had anything to do with it.

he pauses for a moment, and you feel his eyes rake over you in a way that hard your skin crawling. then another drag of the cigarette—your cigarette, that he never gave back—before he clears his throat.

"you said you're not from this part of town, right?"

shit, shit, shit. you're fucked.

still, you give a polite nod, keeping your face as even as you can.

he leans in closer still, and you can feel the almost burning touch of his hands keeping him held up on your shoulders, his breath coming out in hot puffs against your ear.

what. the fuck.

"those clothes..." he whispers, lips barely ghosting the skin of your earlobe as one of his hands pull at your dress shirt's collar. "they're from a boutique downtown, can't be bought anywhere else."

you scoff. "my clothes are none of your business," you snap, body tense and your eyes trained forward. don't look at him.

the man chuckles again, but instead of leaning closer he finally pulls away. "quite the opposite," he muses, tapping his cigarette against the back of your chair. "those clothes are from my business."

oh, you're mega fucked.

your legs almost push up on instinct, your body filling with an overwhelming urge to just fucking run.

but a hand on your shoulder stops you. "relax, little miss," he reassures, but his tone of voice is anything but kind. "i won't tell if you won't. call it our little secret, hm?"

your breath stutters, and you try to gauge if he's lying, your hands gripping the edge of the stool so tightly your knuckles ache. "why would you care?" you mutter, staring at the floor to avoid his gaze.

you've stolen from this man. and he knows. and now he's holding it over your head.

he doesn’t answer immediately, taking his time with the cigarette before flicking the ash to the ground like he owns the place. he probably does. when he finally speaks, his tone has shifted, smooth and cool but with an edge that feels like a warning. "because I make it my business to know everything that happens in prometheus."

his hand slides off your shoulder, and he steps back just enough to let you breathe, though the weight of his presence remains. then, extending the hand not occupied by the cigarette, he offers a slow, deliberate smile. "min yoongi," he says, as if it’s a name you’re supposed to recognize. "emissary of the prometheus region. and you are?"

the introduction is almost casual, but the title lingers in the air like a dagger above your head. you blink, trying to mask the churn of your thoughts, and push the stool back slightly, standing up. "i don’t have a name," you say flatly, though your voice wavers just enough to betray you.

yoongi arches an eyebrow, his smirk deepening as if your defiance is more entertaining than offensive. "mysterious," he murmurs. "i’ll take that as a ‘you don’t trust me yet.’ fair enough."

he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a sleek, black wallet. before you can say a word, he’s fished out another thick stack of bills, folding several into a neat pile. "here," he says, holding the money out to you. "enough to get you a room for the night. you look like you need it."

you stare at the money, blinking in confusion, and you stammer. "why?"

yoongi shrugs, already turning to leave. "let’s call it an investment," he says over his shoulder. "we’ll see if you pay it back someday."

the air feels heavier as yoongi's figure fades behind you, his casual farewell lingering like an aftertaste you can’t shake. the casino is alive with noise—coins clattering, glasses clinking, laughter rising above it all—but it’s muffled now, distant, as though you’re hearing it through water.

each step you take feels both too quick and agonizingly slow, your body moving on autopilot while your mind races.

you don’t look back. you can’t. you don’t need to confirm whether his eyes are still on you, though you can feel the weight of them, like an itch at the nape of your neck. were you too obvious? did you flinch? say too much? you replay the interaction in fragments, searching for cracks, for missteps, for anything that could have given you away.

the chill of his calm voice gnaws at you: “those clothes are from my business.”

how much did he notice? the question pounds in your head, over and over. what was he thinking?

the fluorescent lights of the restroom hit your face too suddenly, harsh and unforgiving. you stumble to the nearest sink, gripping the edge as if it might steady the turmoil inside you. you raise your eyes to the mirror but immediately regret it.

the reflection is foreign. your face looks ghostly, gaunt—like you’ve been pulled too tight and might snap at any second. you shake your head and lower your gaze. don’t think about that now. focus.

you’re fine. he didn’t do anything. if he knew, he would’ve said something.

but would he? he didn’t need to. the way he looked at you was enough to strip you bare, like he could see every secret, every stolen scrap.

you splash cold water on your face, letting the shock of it clear the static in your mind. the water drips down, leaving streaks across the stolen fabric you’re still wearing. you stare at it, swallowing hard.

you have to hold it together. you can’t afford to fall apart here.

forcing your breathing to slow, you take one last glance at the mirror. it’s not reassurance you’re looking for—it’s resolve. you’ve survived worse. you’ll survive this.

you turn, the tiled floor cold beneath your feet as you slink into a stall and lock the door. pulling down the seat, you collaps onto the closed toilet, letting out a shaky breath.

the money is still in your hand, crisp and alien, as though it belongs to another life entirely. you shove it into your pocket before leaning your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. for the first time since you entered the inner sect, the adrenaline begins to ebb, replaced by an exhaustion so deep it feels like it’s carved into your bones.

the distant hum of the casino fades as your body gives in, and before you know it, sleep pulls you under, the cold, hard memory of the day melting into a fitful, uneasy rest.

A/N: i have never been to a casino so i have no idea how the machines actually work, but i tried my best!! there's a lot of things that need to be expanded on but i just wanted to get some worldbuilding done first :)

taglist: simply send an ask or reply if you want to be part of the taglist!! @wobblewobble822

[kenjakusbraincum]

Reverence

Sukuna x Reader

Synopsis: Sukuna finds you clinging to life by a thread, trapped underneath the rubble of fallen buildings, after the final showdown. He saves you, deciding you’d make a good pet to keep him company at his lonely mansion. Word count: 8.9k Tags/warnings: Afab reader + gn language but the word ,whore’ is used, true form 2 dicks sukuna, dubcon, masturbation, fingering, penetrative sex, dacryphilia, size difference, biting, bruising, belly bulge, creampie Author’s note: First fic I’ve written in ages!! :> Feedback is very appreciated! This may be a part 1 depending on how inspired I get.

The razed city is quiet around him as he stands and scans the aftermath of his destruction. A moment of calmness after a catastrophe, similar to the rays of sun after a thunderstorm. But when he looks up into the sky, no sun shines down on him. The city is engulfed in dust, and beyond it, dark clouds gather above, weeping over the fate of the world that now lays in his four hands.

Everyone unfortunate enough to be close in the moments the battle went down is gone. Everyone who fought him has either died or escaped. He wasn’t a foolish man. He knew he would win, and once again on top of the world… what awaited him was loneliness and boredom. He let them escape. One day when they think they’ve grown strong enough to face him again, they will entertain him. But for now, they’re gone, and he’s bored.

Then there’s a rustle. Little rocks topple over each other in the ruins. You push them out of your way, crawling out from under blocks of concrete. Bloody, dusted, dirty… and still, he finds you beautiful. He follows you with sharp eyes. Under any other circumstance, you would’ve noticed you were being stared at. But now it’s different. Your vision is blurred by blood dripping from your forehead into your eyes, and every movement of your body hurts. You are dying, you know that. You just don’t want to die under a rock. If you’re going to die, let it at least be in the open. Let it be under the bright blue sky, under the sun, so you’re at peace. But when you turn around to lay a final look at what you wish for, you are met with a heavy gaze of four red eyes.

You’ve sparked his curiosity. A human who survived his divine chaos. A human he’s seen before, in passing, while possessing Yuji. His eyes always did linger on you, but he’s always had something more important to focus on. Now, you’ve fully got his attention.

-

The warmth of sunshine that you so badly wished for in your last moments welcomes you when you wake up. Reborn. You shuffle around in bed, letting out a strained noise. You look around to find you’re alone in the room. Your memories slowly come back to you as you sit up. Fighting alongside your friends. The falling building. Crawling out of it’s remains. The pain, god the pain. It’s all gone now. You look down on yourself, dressed in sleeping robes. Clean. Not a scar on your body. The light soreness you feel is probably from too much sleep. But despite the fact you’re healed, you feel uneasy. You search through your head for your last memory. The realization comes to you grounds you with it’s heaviness, and you feel like you’re sinking into the depths of the earth.

Your friends didn’t come back for you. They either died, or left you to die. But you ended up here instead. This was Sukuna’s home, unmistakably. Where else could you have ended up, after the last thing you saw was him? Who could’ve possibly rescued you from him? Who could rescue you now? Your fate was sealed the moment you were crushed under debris, but you were supposed to be dead. This was a change in plans. This was an impulsive decision, that someone is yet to see prove it’s worth. Or disappoint.

You understand immediately what position you were in. The situation is very clear. The entrance to the garden from your room is closed, undoubtedly to prevent you from running away. But truly, even if it was open, how far would you get before getting caught and inevitably punished? And where would you run? Where in this world, that now belongs to him, is it safe to hide, and how far away is that place? No, running away is impossible. In a way, the safest place from Sukuna was his home. Surely if he let you reside in it, that meant something. Fighting was another foolish option. You discarded it as soon as it crossed your mind. You don’t even have to instigate to know you’d lose. Everyone lost. You were no different, despite of your strength and potential. Besides, your gut told you that running and fighting wouldn’t end in simple terms such as being killed immediately. No, if he brought you here, there was no way he would just kill you. He likes to watch people suffer after all.

Your only option is to stay. You are grateful he gave you this time alone to come to terms with your fate. You understand that staying here, and staying unharmed, would mean compliance. Obedience. Something that went against your very essence as a person, and as a sorcerer. You laugh with unease. Just as you begin to imagine what your life will entail from now on, the door opens, and you’re met with a short white haired person. Sukuna’s minion. You recognize them from before.

‘’You’re awake.’’, they exclaim with no emotion. They look at you, but it feels like they’re looking straight through you.

,,I am.’’, you say after a moment. An attempt to break the discomfort.

,,I didn’t ask.’’, they shoot you with a stare, a warning.

,,S-sorry…’’, you correct yourself immediately, trying to cause as little problems as possible. It’s merely your first interaction in this estate, and you already find yourself backtracking. Giving in.

They let out a tiny tsk sound. ‘’What do you remember?’’, they ask. They sound completely uninterested, and their eyes are empty.

‘’Everything.’’, you reply sadly. It comes across as a smile.

‘’You don’t need catching up then.’’, they sigh, not considering that maybe you would like to be caught up as to where exactly you are right now, and how long have you been sleeping. ‘’My name is Uraume. I’m assigned to help you transition into this new environment.’’, a moment of silence, and they scan your face for a reaction. ‘’Master will see you. The ladies will come to prepare you and dress you up promptly.’’, another pause. Uraume lets you process the information. ‘’When you are around Master, you should act properly. Do not look up at him without permission. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do everything he says with as little delay as possible. He’s your Master now. Obey him and address him as such.’’

Silence drowns the room. The instructions strike a wave of fear and anxiety in you. What bothers you now is not whether or not you’ll be forced to do things you don’t want to, it’s will you be able to do everything right? Will you slip up, or forget an instruction? Will you embarrass yourself, or more importantly disappoint your master?

‘’Understood?’’, Uraume asks, clearly annoyed judging by their tone. You wonder if they’ve asked this twice but you haven’t heard the first time. You simply nod, and your head droops down. Uraume watches you. ‘’When you’re ready knock on the doors, the ladies will come in. Don’t take too long.’’, they say and turn back to the open door. ‘’I’ll see you later.’’

You sit with yourself and think about your future. Every passing second makes it more imminent and clear.  Seeing as there’s no other option, you make peace with your future of servitude. You can only imagine what it entails. You’d be lucky if you were assigned with mopping floors or chopping human meat in the kitchen. Deep down you know that the job you’ll be assigned with is a much less dignifying one. You rationalize things in your head. Since there’s nothing else you can do, you might as well try your best to avoid problems by being good at what you’re tasked with. You sense that it will rid you of all your pride and personhood. Your innocence, that you’ve been saving your whole life for a moment that’s supposed to be special. It will be special, but not in the way you’ve always imagined. It will be ceremonial, a symbol of entering a new chapter in your life. You dread this. But, the alternative is death, or possibly worse. Between those two, you’ve already made your choice. You’re not going to die twice.

You will yourself to stand up and knock on the door. Get it over with as soon as possible, you think. Once the deed is done it will be easier. Two women open the doors and greet you with a deep bow. You’re confused as to what about your presence warrants an extraordinary show of respect. You guess that in the hierarchy of this estate you are above the measly servants. But just by a little bit.

The women guide you down a long hallway, into a bathhouse. They begin to undress you, and there’s not much you can do to protest. Not that you’d say no to a warm bath, but the discomfort is still there. You feel watched, violated, even when their touch is light, even gentle. The women sense this, and they incorporate asking questions into their routine, checking if you’re okay with this, that. It helps you relax, at least a little bit. Over the course of the next few hours you’re thoroughly bathed, shaved, and dried. By the end of it, you don’t mind the little spa treatment you got. It makes the situation seem a little less bad, if you pretend you don’t know why you were taken care of with such precise detail. They dress you up, wrapping you in expensive silk and comment on how beautiful you look.

It’s true, you look mesmerizing. Your skin glows under the dim lights. If it wasn’t for the sadness in your eyes… no one could tell that a day ago you were on the verge of death. Time came to thank your Master for gracefully giving you a second chance.

Uraume waits outside of the bathhouse. They eye you up and down, as if they’re checking if the women did a good job at making you look presentable. They nod and the women are discharged. ‘’Did you enjoy yourself?’’, Uraume makes small talk as they lead you back down the hallway. Nothing in their voice suggests they’re interested in your answer. Everything they do feels like they’re filling out a form.

You don’t know how to answer. ‘’Yes.’’, you answer. It’s not completely truthful, but your emotions are too complicated to explain. Especially since no one here cares about them anyways.

Uraume doesn’t look at you. ‘’Master knows when people lie to him.’’

You’re caught off guard. Are you that bad of a liar? Once again, your impulse to come clean wins over you, and you spew words. ‘’I didn’t mean to come off as ungrateful..’’, you say.

‘’You need to work on it more.’’, they say. You wonder if they could spare you at least one word of encouragement for trying. You wonder if something like that even crosses their mind. If they think about this at all. Or is this a routine they’re used to from before. ,,Master has been busy today. Try not to get on his nerves.’’, they add after a moment.

You stop in front of a huge, monumental door. Uraume faces you. They give you a long stare, fix your collar and tuck your hair behind your ears. Anxiety never left you, but now it’s drumming in your ear, overwhelming you. It feels like static in your whole body, rendering you weak. Your palms sweat and tears begin to pool in your eyes.

Uraume notices. You are their responsibility after all. Master won’t be happy with them if you come in crying and disheveled. They try to come up with something that would console you quickly. ‘’Don’t worry too much. Master wouldn’t go out of his way to heal you from imminent death just to kill you immediately after.’’, even they sound like they’re not sure what they said is completely true. Was Sukuna really above doing such a thing? Somehow the statement has an opposite of the intended effect, and you feel even worse now.

Uraume grabs your shoulders and looks you intently in the eye. What they say sounds like the most sincere thing that’s left their mouth so far during your conversations. ‘’You will be fine.’’. With that, they open the door and enter before you. You try your hardest to stop yourself from crying.

‘’Master, I’ve brought them.’’, they say, bowing deeply. There’s no answer from the inside, but he must’ve approved, since Uraume opens the door fully and lets you in.

You exchange one last stare with them and step into the room. You do as you’ve been told and keep your gaze fixed to your feet. The atmosphere engulfs you instantly. The air is thick and heavy, the room smells like death. You pass by a couple of pools of blood, fresh and dry ones, and you feel your hands start to shake. There are bones piled around his throne. The weight of the air, his four eyes watching your every move, and the aura of evil, pure evil. You feel as though you’re pushed onto your knees. You weren’t instructed to do so, but it comes to you as an impulse. You do it out of reverence, out of instinct. Out of paralyzing fear. You plant your hands in front of you and kiss your forehead against the cold ground.

‘’Master..’’, you say. It comes out shaky and desperate. You get no approval from him either. You feel his stare in your bones.

When he finally speaks, it’s not directed at you. ‘’Leave us.’’, he says, and you hear the doors close a moment after. You feel his stare lift from you for a second, before you’re granted his full attention. He observes you for another moment, that feels like an eternity.

‘’Stand up.’’

You stand up immediately, straightening out your robe with your hands. You stare at the bones before his throne. Some of them human, some animal. Some old and dusted, some fresh with hints of pink flesh and blood on them.

‘’Come to me.’’

You raise your gaze enough to scan where exactly you should come to. You’re disheartened to find that there’s no such thing as stairs to take you to where he’s sitting. You don’t hesitate for too long, suspecting it may anger him. You place your foot on the pile of bones and climb towards him, quite unceremoniously. You come to a stop a couple of steps away from his feet. You needn’t look directly at him to see how huge he is, sprawled in his seat. His head is leaned against his palm. One of his hands taps the armrest impatiently, the other two sit still at his sides.

Your eyes are fixated on the bones, trying your best to maintain balance on the uneven surface. You hear him tap his thigh twice, signaling for you to come closer. You choose your steps carefully as you enter his personal space. There’s nothing but him to hold onto if you fall. You sit on his knee clumsily, keeping your hands in your lap so as not to touch him without permission. One of his hands comes down on your back immediately, and you shiver.

,,Obedient.’’, he notes. ,,But that’s not what I meant.’’

In a moment, his hands are on you, pushing you back up and guiding you into a different position. He grips your hips, and heavy hands settle you in his lap, making you straddle him. Your legs struggle to stretch far apart to accommodate you in this pose. Your heart pounds in your chest, so loud you’re afraid he may hear it.

Once again you fail to control your words. ‘’Master, I’m sorry, I misunderstood...’’, you cut yourself off before you go into babbling. He must have accepted your apology, because his hands pull you closer by the hip, grinding you against his bulge. Your insides throb at the contact, and you don’t know what to do with your hands.

He finds your flustered reactions amusing. ‘’You may look.’’, he says, and meets your eyes with a smile.

You do as you’re told, returning the stare. Your eyes explore his face for a second before settling on his eyes. Everything you do is unsure, even looking at him. You don’t want him to find it offensive. You don’t have any ideas what exactly you’re dealing with. He stares back only for a moment, before he moves on to your body. He feels your cheek, hair, the fabric of your kimono, your hands and nails. You shudder against the gentle touch. You didn’t expect to be handled with such care, even for this short moment. You don’t think for a second that he will stay this gentle. But you want to cherish it while it lasts. You relax into his touch and observe him. Four eyes judge every detail of your presence. Strawberry blond hair slicked back, strands tucked behind his pierced ears. Strong jawline, accentuated by his tattoos. Wide shoulders, bearing four arms. You feel small and weak in his lap, more aware than ever before of just how powerless you are. Just how much your life hangs by a thread that is his good will and mercy.

‘’Beautiful.’’, he observes you, not quite meeting your eyes yet. His gaze lingers on your lips, nose, cheeks. ‘’Well behaved too, it seems.’’. You shudder under his praise, and the hand that trails gently down your back, teasing you. Two hands sit snugly on your hips, holding you in place. The last one travels from your shoulder, to your neck, lingering for a moment as he drags his finger against your throat. It crawls up to your cheek, cupping it, brushing the soft, flushed skin.

‘’Yes.’’, you say, catching yourself spilling words again. Your mind doesn’t quite work in this moment. You’re completely dazed by his energy, his touch, his gaze. You’re helpless as you feel yourself clench around nothing, slick pooling in your most sensitive parts in response to his advances.

‘’Yes what?’’, he asks, thumb hooking under your chin and tipping your face up.

‘’Yes Master.’’, you correct yourself quickly, catching immediately what it is he wanted you to say. In this moment, you think of Maki. You think of how she would have done anything to get herself killed before ever uttering the words of compliance that just escaped your mouth. You have no spine at all. You’re not, and never were nearly as brave as her. You’d always crumble in the face of danger. You imagine the look she’d give you, if she knew what you were doing in this moment.

‘’Good.’’, Sukuna’s low voice snaps you back to the present moment. His thumb finds your lips, swiping over them for a moment before stopping against them. You part your lips in response, and he inserts his thumb into your mouth, pressing against your tongue. You let out a tiny noise in response. You don’t need to be told. You seal your lips around him and start to suck. You close your eyes in focus, feeling the taste of his skin in your mouth. In a moment, there’s a hand on your throat, pressing just lightly enough to warn you. You open your eyes and blink at him, compensating for another mistake by sucking harder. Underneath yourself, you feel his bulge awaken, twitching in response to your efforts. So snugly pressed against him, you wonder if he feels you throb too. Your body works against you. You’re enjoying this.

‘’So willing to please..’’, he says. ‘’As you should be. You have quite a favor to return.’’

You lower your head, his words reminding you why you’re here. He must’ve sensed that you forgot, even for a moment. You pick your words carefully. ‘’It’s true, Master.. you saved my life, and for that I don’t know how to thank you enough...’’, you sound pathetic to yourself. Maki’s eyes loom over you again. She is the devil on your shoulder, whispering to run, kick, scream obscenities. Anything, just not to give in to his command. But you already have.

‘’You needn’t concern yourself with that.’’, he says. The hands on your hips guide you slowly into a grinding motion against his crotch. You sigh at the contact. ‘’You’re here to serve me.’’

‘’Master...’’, your words come out in form of a whine. Your hips move slowly in sync with his hands, your body assumed in complete submission. Pleasure builds inside your core, making you almost forget you stopped mid-sentence. ‘’Whatever you need.’’, you stare into his eyes intently. You’ve truly sunk so low.

Sukuna huffs in amusement, watching you move against him desperately. He’s satisfied that you catch on quickly. But his stare is focused on where your body meets his. He’s leaned against his palm again, pondering what to do, how to test you next.

That’s when the doors open. You freeze in panic, and look back to see Uraume, bowing deeply once again. Next you start to feel shame. You’re straddled snug against the man who razed a city, killed people, innocents, maybe even your friends. And now there’s someone watching you while you’re at it. Uraume pays you no mind, or they pretend not to. They look straight through you, into their master.

‘’Master, I apologize profusely for interrupting. It’s an urgent matter.’’, Uraume says, and looks at the ground.

Sukuna’s finger taps on the armrest in frustration. His demeanor changes, pleased expression exchanged with a frown. You feel the switch in energy in the core of your being, and fear grows in your chest again. He stares at Uraume for a while, then he reverts back to you.

‘’Come back to me tonight.’’, and with that, his hands push you off his lap and you stagger back to your feet. Your body mourns the lack of contact.

‘’Yes master..’’, you mumble and bow, then make your way down the pile of bones again. Sukuna doesn’t react, at least not that you can see or feel, so you guess he doesn’t have a complaint on how you said your goodbyes to him. You walk back to Uraume, swallowing your shame. They wait for you at the doors and lead you outside.

A couple of turns later you’re back in the room you woke up in. Your bed was made in the meantime and a new set of sleeping clothes waited for you nicely folded on top of it. Your eyes linger on the door to the terrace.

‘’Can I see the garden?’’, you ask, and turn back to Uraume.

‘’Master doesn’t allow it yet.’’, they say.

‘’Yet?’’, you narrow your eyes. Uraume starts to get visibly annoyed by your questions. Their voice however remains unchanged.

‘’Good behavior earns privileges.’’

,What a privilege, to go outside.’, you think to yourself, and look back through the window.

‘’You seem to be in Master’s good graces already. I’m sure you’ll be allowed outside in no time.’’, Uraume speaks what sounds like words of comfort for the first time.

Of course you are in his good graces. Because you left all dignity at the doors of his throne room. He stripped you of it, without any effort. His energy alone forced you to your knees, his words struck directly to your core. You wonder how much more you’ll have to endure before being granted the simple mercy of feeling the sun on your skin. ‘’Thank you.’’, you say to Uraume. You appreciate their sentiment.

‘’Are you hungry?’’, they ask. You wonder if anyone in these premises knows, or cares about your name. Or are you that worthless to them.

‘’Yes.’’

Uraume nods and leaves the room to bring you some food. You sit by the terrace door and look outside.

-

You can’t see the sunset from where your chambers are located. All you’re left with is the little piece of sky, uncovered by the surrounding trees, and the limits that windows impose on your view. The outside of the estate looks weirdly peaceful, like it’s not a home to a monster. All sorts of animals appear in the garden, from bugs to birds. As the night falls, you hear the faint sounds of frogs, and even catch sight of a little hedgehog, trotting from one bush to another. The garden truly seems like a little piece of heaven inside what effectively is your prison. Your heart longs to see it, to spend time in it. To smell the grass and feel the earth, your mother, against your skin.

You’re called to him again when the sun has already set, and the last bits of light leave the night sky. Uraume holds the door open to you without a word. You’re forced to part your eyes from the outside, and look to them instead. Their head is low, their stare adorned with what you recognize as pity. You haven’t felt fear about the imminent encounter until you’ve seen them look at you like this. Now it’s starting to creep up on you all over again. Static. Tingling and restlessness. Maybe they know something you don’t, perhaps about what kind of mood your master is in now. You stand up and follow them out. It’s easier to just get it over with, you think again.

Uraume knocks on the door and opens just a crack. ‘’Master, as per your request.’’, they bow. Once again there is no verbal confirmation. You know he’s reacted when Uraume moves to make space for you to come in. You start to see patterns in their interactions.

His chambers are dimly lit, the interior hard to see. He sits on the edge of his bed and stares your way. You feel it again. A lump in your throat. A force of understanding that has you picking up your robes and falling to your knees. If he wasn’t in the mood before, your willingness to serve now puts a smile on his face. You don’t get to see it though. Your face is touching the ground.

‘’Leave, Uraume.’’, he says. You hear the doors close shut, and note that he sounds a bit more impatient than before.

You feel a bit easier when Uraume isn’t there. Something about another pair of eyes observing your ordeal made it all the more difficult.

‘’Come.’’, he says, and you hear the familiar tap. You look up to see his hand on the spot next to him on the bed. You struggle back to your feet and walk over to him hesitantly. Your hands sweat, and you try to wipe them off of each other. You overthink every little detail. How close to him should you sit? Is it better to sit further away and be lulled closer, or sit closer and be pushed away?

‘’Well?’’, he asks, eagerly watching you debate with yourself. ‘’Or do you prefer my lap?’’

You’re not quite sure what’s the right answer. ‘’Wherever you wish, Master…’’, you reply, reminding yourself to stare at the ground.

He sees every doubtful thought reflect on your face. He knows you’re being diplomatic, neither wanting to refuse him, nor make requests. ,,Pick.’’, he challenges you.

Your mind races as you think through the positives and negatives of either choice.

,,I’m waiting.’’, he follows up with a warning. It sounds sinister. Giving up any further mental efforts, you pick up the fabric of your clothes and climb onto his lap again, dipping your knees into the bed besides him. He hums in response, seemingly satisfied with your choice. A pair of hands quickly finds your hips again, drawing you closer, he seems to like to hold you in place. Once again you’re seated snugly against him, layers of fabric being the only thing parting you from his bulge. ‘’Look at me.’’, he says, tilting your chin up. ‘’Let’s continue where we left off.’’

You do as he says, meeting his eyes. You try to gauge his mood. For now, he seems content with you. You let yourself relax. So far, there’s nothing unenjoyable about your encounter. Other than the nature of being made into a servant, of course.

‘’Do you know why you’re here?’’, he asks, rocking you slowly against him. Your hands sit at his hips, clinging to the scrunched up fabric of his kimono. You’re not quite sure you’re allowed to touch him deliberately. You wish to, though. You yearn for a connection, after all you’ve never been in this position before.

‘’To serve you, Master.’’, you reply, blinking at him with doe eyes. Nothing about this situation should be arousing, yet you find your insides clenching at your own words. Effectively you’re trapped, with no chance of another untimely interruption. You’re going to be made to do things even if you’re unsure of yourself. Even if you don’t want to. But you’re still pushing against him, searching for more of him, on your own accord. He has a power over you.

‘’True.’’, he tucks your hair behind your ear, leaning closer into you. You can feel his breath on your face, hot, dangerous. ,,But you’re not my servant.’’, he thinks out loud. ,,Or a slave, for that matter. Let’s crown you as my pet.’’

Another throb.

,,A source of entertainment. A subject of training. My little human jester.’’

You imagine looking at yourself in the mirror, at what you’ve become within a day of being under threat. A piece of you wants to mourn, a piece of you wants to spit on your reflection. What comforts you is that, even if your friends are alive, they will never know the extent of your compliance. They will never know the words that leave your mouth as you sit upon a monster’s lap, wanting more. ‘’How can I entertain you, Master?’’, you ask.

A reserved, but wicked smile graces his face. ‘’Undress.’’

Your heart sinks. But you move, standing up from his lap and taking a step back. So he has a better view. You hesitate, but eventually undo your obi and unwrap your kimono and undergarments, discarding the clothes on the ground. The cool air touches your skin, making you shiver. Your hands sit at your sides, feeling your goosebumps. He observes you carefully from his seat, his eyes exploring your naked form. When he’s satisfied, he motions for you to come closer with his finger. You follow, drawn in by desire.

He doesn’t let you sit back yet. You stand between his legs, as his cold hands start to feel you up. Plush soft skin, reactive to his every advance. His touch is gentle, but hungry. Impatient. He grasps at your waist and behind, fondles your chest between his fingers. One of his hands teases your thighs, your stomach, before finally dipping between your folds. You whine out loud as his finger brushes against your sensitive bud, and feels up your wet entrance. Pleased with your reaction, he draws his finger back to your bud, spreading your essence to ease friction. Your knees buckle and you gasp again.

‘’So responsive.’’, he comments, as he starts to rub circles around your sensitive spot. ,,Has anyone touched you like this before?’’

‘’N-no, Master, just me..’’, you say, hiding your face in shame.

He likes your response. He likes your shame. He will make you feel so much more of it than just this. You’re all his for the taking. ‘’Lay down.’’, he commands, and withdraws his hand from between your thighs. He stands up, and just for a moment before you climb into the bed, you get to see how tall he is in comparison to you.

‘’Not that far away.’’, he says. You wiggle back so you’re closer to the edge of the bed. You lay on your back, propped up on your elbows, legs spread wide for his viewing. You try to do your best. He looms over you now, fingers finding your private parts again. He rubs you carefully with one hand, the other feels your entrance again, and one finger dips in. You sigh, head leaning back at the foreign feeling. Two fingers and the pain of the stretch already pricks at you. A whimper escapes you, but you lull yourself to be quiet. It’s only his fingers, after all. They’re thick and long, and practiced, as they explore your insides. He’s doing you a favor.

‘’You’ve been such an obedient little human. You deserve a reward.’’, he says, his words making you squeeze his fingers. You moan as sparks of pleasure rattle your body, his fingers effortlessly finding the spot inside you that makes your leg shake. You forget about your manners. He stops, and you look back to him in desperation. ‘’What do you say when I reward you?’’

‘’Thank you Master!’’, you look at him through hazy eyes. Standing above you like this, he looks like a god. In complete ownership of your smaller, sprawled out body. You feel filthy, but his fingers inside you make you see stars, make you completely forget how you got here in the first place. You’re overtaken by a perverted, primal instinct, as you near your orgasm and force your legs open wider. The squelching noises of his fingers working out your hole fill the room.

Sukuna responds to your movements with a devilish grin. ‘’’Close, little pet?’’, he asks you, almost mockingly. His fingers massage your spongy walls, the sensitive spot in the depths of your fragile body.

‘’S-so close… Ahh!’’, you mewl through the moans, squeezing your fingers in a fist.

‘’Don’t hold back.’’, he says, eyes fixated on you, his own erection starting to strain unbearably against the fabric of his clothes. ‘’I may be generous, but that doesn’t mean I’m patient.’’

His words are truly your command. His energy, his presence, it strips you of any agency you have over yourself. Your body shakes to his words and pleasure washes over you, blacking your vision out as your eyes roll back. It rocks you, your hole throbbing, squeezing hard around his fingers. He rubs you through it gently but persistently, until you’re so sensitive you’re closing your legs to make him stop. You don’t have time to be embarrassed, coming down from your orgasm. He is entertained, but his hands are on your knees in no time, spreading them back apart, reminding you you’re far from done. When you look back up at him, his stare spells a warning. You quickly react by symbolically spreading a little wider, and tilting your hips to give him access.

‘’Would you rob me of my turn, pet?’’, he asks, undoing his obi.

‘’No! Never, Master..’’, your eyes travel down his figure as he discards his clothes. Even from this angle, his sculpted body looked massive in comparison to you. You wonder if it would engulf you if he lied over you right then and there, leaving only your clinging arms and legs as evidence that there is someone underneath him at all. Adorned by tattoos and muscles, he looks monstrous, imposing. You look at him with admiration, as your gaze drops to his hips, and the essence of his manhood. The two of them that hang from his crotch, rock hard and throbbing at the sight of you. At first you are taken aback, but after a moment you realize the math is right and it’s weird this hasn’t crossed your mind earlier. He does have a pair of everything else, so it makes sense he’s double gifted down there too. The base of his cocks is crowned with a low hanging set of balls, plump and ready to be drained. Nervousness that paints your face and changes your demeanor. You’re suddenly very aware of just how small your frame is compared to him, and the size of his cocks.

He likes watching people’s reactions. He is a cruel man after all. He likes his subjects nervous, fearful. A little resistance even excites him. But your pale face and tense body almost make him feel sorry for ruining your relaxed composure. Almost. It also happens to make him throb with desire. Underneath him, your face is contorted in fear. You think he might just kill you. What a painful and degrading death it would be, to die split on his cock like at the stake.

‘’Don’t like what you see?’’, he smirks at you, teasing, his demeanor seeming to change in an instant.

‘’Master, it’s not that... it’s just that...’’, you stutter over your words. Embarrassment and horror cojoin in your excuses. ‘’I’ve never done this before. I don’t think I can…’’, your eyes meet his and you trail off, leaving your thoughts unfinished. Sukuna doesn’t consider his subjects. He is a man who takes and takes, without a second thought, or a look at the person he’s taking from. His stare does linger on your fearful eyes though. He notices that in himself, feels himself slipping up from his usual behavior. An impulse comes to him to assert dominance aggressively, but he doesn’t react. He remembers how easily you submitted to him in the first place. He doesn’t need feats of aggression to scare you into compliance. You’re very compliant anyways. It’s just that you make him feel the closest emotion he’s felt to guilt in a very long time.

‘’Scoot back, pet. Hands and knees. Just one will do for tonight.’’, he says. You doubt he tried to comfort you, but thinking of it like that makes it easier to bear.

You obey him and turn around, crawling further onto the bed on all fours. He follows you, knees dipping into the mattress. His words are of little comfort as he crawls over you like a predator over his prey. Fear rises in your chest and you feel your heart start to pound again. He settles over you, heavy hands landing on your hips and pushing your thighs further apart to accommodate him between them. Another hand lands flat on your back, the plane between your shoulder blades, so small against his massive palm. So fragile against his brute strength. He could break you if he wanted to. Yet, he barely even pushes you.  

‘’Down.’’, he says, urging you to bend, allow him better access. You follow instructions, letting his hand guide your torso lower until your chest is pressed into the mattress. You feel uncomfortable, bent into this position that is completely new to you. Your slick folds are exposed for his viewing, your opening gaping with a shameless noise. He’s going to take you from behind, like an animal. You won’t even see, or feel your suitor, the man who will claim your innocence.

‘’Master..’’, your voice trembles and you turn your head to the side, searching for his gaze. He looks from your body back to you, listening. ‘’I’m scared..’’

He huffs, his expression not changing to signal he’s unhappy. Rather, he seems amused. Noticing that doesn’t help you feel any less scared. His first reaction is ,you should be.’. But he doesn’t want to send you into hysterics. He likes the peace and quiet. ‘’Relax pet.’’, he says, more of a command than a suggestion. ‘’It’ll hurt less.’’

You will yourself to relax, trying instead to focus on something else. However there’s little else to think of in a position like this, just him, his hands on your hips and back, keeping you snugly in place for him to use and enjoy. Your mind wails in anticipation.

You feel his wet tip grind against you, feeling the familiar need slowly come back to you as it rubs at your clit. His grip is unfaltering on your hips, holding you in place as he starts to enter you. You cry out loud, and your body instinctively tries to wriggle out of his grasp, escape the intrusion.

Sukuna growls, his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, and he pushes you back onto him.

‘’Where do you think you’re going?’’, he says, audibly displeased. His rock hard member protrudes deeper into you, and you shut your eyes tight and grip the sheets so hard your knuckles go white. You wanted to be brave and quiet, wanted even to babble an apology, but as he advances, stretching you open painfully, you cannot help but cry out loud. Tears drop from your eyes and you bury your face into the bed.

He grunts as you envelop him, coating him in a mixture of your blood and wetness. He pushes through your resistance, the feeling overwhelming, even for him. Your walls cling to him so tightly he has to put mental effort into not releasing right then and there. He moves slowly, caring just enough to not break you. In no time he’s fully sheathed in, his balls pressed against your clit. You’re so incredibly full, you think you may just pop. Sukuna bends over you, and you feel his hot breath on your back. You turn around to see him through a blur of tears. You’re a sobbing, mewling mess. Filled to the brim with his want for you. It brings a smile to his face.

‘’How does it feel, pet?’’, he asks. He truly doesn’t care for your answer, he’s just entertained by your measly crying voice.

‘’H-hurts..hurts so much, Master!’’, you sob.

‘’Shame.’’, his head leans in closer to yours, and you can see nothing but his glowing red eyes. ,,Because it feels heavenly to me.’’

With that, he starts moving. You gasp, holding onto the sheets as he rocks your body with his thursts. Slow and deep, mercifully you think, his cock heavy inside of you, spreading you thin. His hips meet the soft flesh of your ass with a slap at every stroke. The stretch burns, but the discomfort dissipates slowly, as his fat tip stroking your sensitive walls, sending hints of pleasure through you. You feel him whole, every vein and ridge and curve of his cock.

Slowly your tears begin to dry, and your painful sobs are replaced by lustful gasps and moans. His eyes keep coming back to you from time to time, observing your reactions to his every move. Your head is turned to the side, and at first you avoid his gaze, ashamed of crying like a weakling. You know there’s nothing he despises more than that. Now that you’ve began to accept him, welcome him inside of you, you look back. Eyes blinking back at him idly, innocently, as your mouth drops open. He grunts as he fucks you, the sound low and masculine. He picks up the pace and the room echoes the sounds of your squelching wet cunt and the skin of his hips, thighs and balls meeting yours with every push. His cock rummages through your depths with abandon. Your moans follow his frequency, as you feel pleasure build in your core slowly, each of his movement coaxing you closer to another orgasm.

Your hands ache with the need to touch his body, to feel him close, feel his muscles tense and relax as he breaks you. The pleasure sparks inside you and you’re restless, craving another release so bad. Your legs tremble, toes curl, you start to push back, meeting his hips mid stroke.

‘’Enjoying yourself, pet?’’, Sukuna asks, dipping his head closer to you again, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. Straight to your core. You tighten around him, nearing your release and he growls.

‘’M-m, yes Master! So big... Feels so good!’’, you stutter, reduced to a trembling mess, clinging desperately onto anything you can get a hold of, in hopes of delaying your orgasm. He hasn’t moved a finger to please you this time around and you’re already fluttering around him. ‘’M-master..please.. Wanna touch you, feel you..’’, you open and close your hand in tune with your words.

His hand digs into your hair and tugs, picking the upper half of your body up from the bed. ,,What was that, pet? A demand?’’

‘’No! No Master.. I wouldn’t.. I-I was begging!’’, you backtrack immediately, your neck straining from the force he’s pulling you with.

He relaxes the hold and you fall back into the previous position. He is satisfied with your answer, but he won’t grant your wish. ‘’You may not.’’, he says, and exhales shakily as you tighten at his words again. ‘’But you’re cute when you beg.’’, you do it again, and he knows you’re close. ‘’Such a horny little human. How quickly you’ve changed your mind.’’

‘’A-ah, Master.. Gonna, gonna cum..’’, you whine, his cock hitting your insides perfectly, his pace steady, unfaltering.

‘’I’ll allow it. Whore.’’

With his last word, you’re tipped over the edge and your orgasm drowns you. Your breath hitches, hands grip the sheets, and the whole world stops as pleasure shakes through your body like electricity. You trash against him helplessly, your body not fully under your control. His hands finally release your hips, and your quivering body slumps against the mattress, your cunt fluttering around nothing as you lose contact with your master. You’re left a moaning, sensitive mess, sticking to the sheets in your sweat and juices. Your shaking legs still, and you feel numbness envelop your body

Sukuna gives you a moment to ride out the aftershocks. Then he straddles you and leans his weight against you. His hand crawls under your body, stopping to grip your breast and continues to pick up your cheeks between his fingers, turning your face towards him. His eyes are threatening, and he doesn’t need to tell you anything. You know what he wants.

‘’T-Thank you, Master. S-so good... Thank you! ’’, you say, your hand itching to feel his face. He chuckles, takes both of your hands and traps them underneath his on either of your sides. Tonight, he is adamant on not allowing you to touch him.

Satisfied with your answer, he guides his cock back into you and continues where he left off, chasing his own end. With your legs closed like this, you feel even tighter around him. You’re trapped between his heavy body and the mattress, unable to move a muscle as he picks up the pace, withdrawing and snapping back in with each powerful thurst.

‘’Good pet. You know where you belong.’’, his grip tightens on your wrists as he nears his release, growing weary and relentless. ‘’Under me. Always.’’, he growls into your ear.

You meet his eyes and hold his gaze, enticing his pleasure with your words. ‘’Yes Master! When-whenever you need me!’’, you moan, and let your mouth hang open in an ,o’ shape.

His pace slows, strokes getting sloppy as his orgasm draws close. He breathes hard, face close to yours. You feel him waver, feel him slowly lose his composure. Feel him come apart slowly nestled in the warmth of your insides. His brows are furrowed, eyes tight shut, mouth hanging loose. One of his hands crawls under your belly, propping your ass up just a bit, for a better angle. He feels himself inside you, a bulge protruding in your lower belly as he holds you in place. This is the final push that makes the coil of pleasure inside of him snap. He comes with a guttural, animalistic groan, and comes down biting your shoulder. His cock twitches violently, kissing your womb as he empties his load inside you. He groans through every spurt, hot and sticky as he paints your inner walls. His thighs shake against yours, his whole body rocked by the powerful orgasm. One he hasn’t experienced in what could be hundreds of years.

You feel so completely full of him. As he comes down from his high, he licks up the blood off your shoulder, tongue hot over the place where his teeth punctured your soft skin. He finally lets go of your wrists and sits up, slowly withdrawing his cock. Beads of his cum follow his cock, leaking out of your empty cunt. So much of it, you feel dirty letting it drip out of you like this.

He takes a moment to observe you, laying there fucked out, marked and utterly claimed by him. You let out a helpless noise, feeling your hurting wrists. The bite on your shoulder will leave a bruise, same as the place his finger dug into your hips. Your cunt aches from the assault of his cock inside it. Weakness takes over you, and you feel like you can barely move. He doesn’t consider healing you. He wants you to be reminded of him, constantly. When you stand up on wobbly legs, when you take off your clothes to go the bathroom. When you turn in bed. When you look into the mirror. He won’t let you forget, even for a moment, where you are, and who you belong to.

He stands up from the bed, and you turn your head to search for him. ‘’Master? Have I..’’, you stutter when you meet his eyes. His gaze is attentive as he fixes his ruffled hair, slicking it back. He gives you a moment to finish your sentence, but you don’t. You just sit up in his bed, pulling your knees to your chest. Hiding from him, as if in shame. Your hand searches for covers to pull over yourself. You’d most like to disappear under them. How pathetic you are, you think. Searching for approval, for praise, from a man who took you with no regards to your wishes or feelings. Why would he compliment you? You’ve hardly been anything but a fucktoy for him, not even worthy enough for him to fuck you looking at your face. Tears begin to pool in your eyes, emotions from your first experience overwhelming you. You crave touch, affection, anything to contrast the treatment you’ve received until now. If he would let you, you would cling to him like a newborn would to it’s mother. Like your existence depends solely on him, and he is your entire world. But he is not a man who likes to be touched. Not a man who likes intimacy. You could only dream of a kiss, of tenderness of any kind.

When you look back, Sukuna is standing above you, a piece of clothing already wrapped around his waist. His hand feels your cheek, the expression on his face almost soft, but still dominating. Seeing you cry in doubt you haven’t done a good job truly somehow makes him more satisfied with you. You show a great concern for your master. He likes to be the center of people’s worlds.

‘’Weep not, my pet. Your efforts will not go unnoticed.’’, he says, voice still as stern as ever. ,,I’m happy with your servitude.’’

Your eyes lighten up as you look up to him. His stare is docile, but threatening, as you remember that after all you are supposed to keep your head low. You duck down in apology. ‘’T-Thank you, Master.’’, your voice falters, but Sukuna is still satisfied with how quickly you pick up on your mistakes. He finds you’re quite easy to work with. He turns and leaves you, for only a moment, to sit and reminisce about this whole encounter on his bed.

‘’Uraume.’’, he then says, in a relaxed, almost quiet voice. You don’t think you’ve even heard the doors open, but the white haired monk stands in the corner of the room. Have they been there the whole time? You spiral in shame as they nod and approach you, their hands finding yours. They pull lightly, urging you off the bed. You didn’t think about where you’ll spend the night, but it makes sense it won’t be here. Sukuna wouldn’t let you touch him, see him, he wouldn’t kiss you, much less let you share his bed while he sleeps. You feel used, dehumanized. It hurts, but you stand up. Uraume picks up your clothes from the floor and wraps them around you lazily, doing enough just to cover you up until you’re back in your room.

‘’Rest up, pet. I’ll keep you quite busy during our times together.’’, Sukuna tells you, and gives you one last look, before he disappears in the shadows of his chambers. You bow to him and follow Uraume out.

What follows is a walk of shame. There is no one in the hallway, and Uraume walks in front of you, but you feel the weight of a thousand eyes. You watch each wobbly step with care, so as not to make further cause for embarrassment. Uraume lets you in your room. It is lit by a single candle. You stare at it’s faltering flame as Uraume disappears, leaving you alone for a moment. So this is what your life will look like from now on.

Uraume returns with a warm, wet towel. ,,Clean yourself up. You have a fresh set of clothes on the bed.’’ Their stare, empty as ever, finds your eyes and lingers for one last moment. ‘’Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast.’’

You stare at the towel in your hand, not returning their gaze. They eventually move, closing the door behind them and leaving you alone in the room. You do what you can to clean yourself, wrap yourself in sleeping clothes and lay on the bed. Squeezing your knees to your chest, you long for comfort, for warmth. For any reminiscence of humanity that you’re yet to find in this mansion.

[its-ironic-right]

Now how about the reverse?

Gideon dying before (maybe while protecting) Kremy.

Sometimes I get prompts that blow way past 500 words…

Where is the line drawn? Mathematically it’s between two points, but who determines those points? What gives them the right to define a beginning and an end?

Let’s simplify.

Life has a determined beginning and end. You’re born, you live, you die. (Well, if you’re lucky you die. Sometimes you just live and that’s so much worse.) The thread of your life held taut between two fingertips. That was a line drawn.

Death comes for us all. As a friend, an enemy, it comes without hesitation. In the smoldering ashes of a burnt out planet, death is the only constant. But death is known to play games. It loves a gamble.

Blasts of white hot magic fly through the air. It hits its mark with a sickening thud, knocking its victim to their knees.

“Shit.” A hissed curse, flesh hitting a wooden dock. Water laps under foot, breaks in the planks reveal white peaks. A heavy current, falling into the drink would mean certain death. Another bolt of magic, missing its target by a hair.

A roaring beast shoots out from thick woods, rending the magic users flesh from bone. Enemy neutralized for now, time to inspect the damage. The party wasn’t completely stupid. An attacker this strong wouldn’t come alone. Nothing to do but run.

“Sound off, who’s unconscious?” Kremy croaked. His ribs were broken, it took twice the effort to breathe or speak. He still needed to know who was left. A groan.

“I’m… okay. Very injured but alive.” Morning Frost was battered and broken, blood caked his fur and everything smelled awful. But conscious. Torbek looked up from his prey.

“Torbek is here. Torbek could definitely be doing better.” slashes oozed deep magenta from his side. That left Gricko and Gideon.

“Oh fuck, where’s our healer?” Kremy searched what was left of the dock. A green arm shot up from under some rubble.

“Here… I’ve got… banañas… one spell slot left.” Not ideal. Goodberries would get them through the night at least. One member left. Kremy’s heart dropped.

“Anyone see Gid?”

There was a peace that came with unconsciousness. A twilight state where nothing hurt, sinking into the bliss of oblivion. Gideon was no stranger to death. They crossed paths countless times, either by his hand or another. He wouldn’t say they were on friendly terms, more like work associates. For all his fire and bravado Gideon had a workman’s attention to detail when it came to destruction. Death was another detail.

He’s in an empty field. Rows of black dirt stretch in either direction. It looks familiar. He picks up a rock and chucks it. It flies in an arch, landing with a ‘thud’ yards away.

“Good arm.” Gideon whips around to see a towering figure of a man. He has a hand Up over his eyes like a visor, peering out to wherever the rock landed. The man looks down and smiles. Gideon is ten years old, his Pa ruffles his hair.

“…Pa?” Pa Coal winks.

“Who else?” He whistles. “Damn Gid, you really did a number on yourself. I thought it’d be another few years before I saw you again.” Gideon looks down. No longer a child but a man. A man with a hole burnt into his chest.

“Oh no, am I dead?”

“Almost dead. You’ve got a few hours before your organs shut down completely.” Pa leans down and picks up a rock. He throws it. It soars through a blue sky and lands farther than Gideons. The prairie didn’t have many ponds for skipping stones, but if you flicked your wrist in just the right way you could watch it skid across dirt. He remembers being a kid, throwing rocks into empty fields and challenging Pa to see how far they could throw them. Pa always had the better pitching arm.

“Almost dead, huh.” He threw another rock. Pa nodded.

“You took a bolt of lightning to the ticker Gid, you should be thankful it’s an ‘almost’ and not a ‘definitely’.” Uncomfortable silence passes between them. Funny how much “almost dead” didn’t bother him. Maybe it was the “almost” part. That meant hope.

“Kremy will figure it out, he always does.”

“You found a good husband, I’m glad.” Gideon blushes and stammers.

“Well, ironically my husband. More like a partner in crime, you know?” Pa slaps a hand on his back and he’s five years old.

A broken plate lays shattered on the floor of their shotgun shack. It was the prettiest thing they owned. Deep purple with scalloped edges trimmed in gold. The gold was flaking and you could barely see the vine motif in the center, but it was the only thing in the shack not meant for work. Gideon had wanted to look at it up close, to trace the lines and curves of snaking green vines. He’d attempted to climb up the shelf, it toppled under his weight. His face falls, what would Pa say when he found out? He can’t find out. Gideon pushes all the pieces into a pile. He’s placing them together like a puzzle, lining the image the best he can, trying like hell to make jagged edges match seamlessly. Tears stream down his face, he can’t let Pa see the plate is broken beyond repair. Tiny fingers coated in porcelain dust and microscopic cuts can’t put it together again. He’ll have to lie.

“The gods did not gift you a silver tongue, son.”

Gideon looks away from the broken plate. Shame crashing into his heart.

“I tried to fix it…”

“You tried to hide it. That’s not the same.”

He remembers being frustrated with the shards, making more and more mistakes until he gives up. He gathers the pieces into a bucket and sneaks out the front door. The plate is missing less than a day before Pa finds it in the tool shed.

Suddenly, pain. Deep, burning into his chest. He gasps and collapses, clutching the hole in his heart.

Its hot. So fucking hot. Is he in an oven? A forge? He opens his eyes again. The train. Of course. Metal stained black with soot, coals smoldering in the boiler, waiting for him to set them alight. He doesn’t have to look down to know what he looks like. The image is seared in his brain forever. A tear rolls down Pa Coal’s weathered cheek.

“The worst part about being dead: you can’t protect the living.” He feels the cuts and burns etched into his skin. This wasn’t right. He’d left the train, killed every mother fucker in the thing and jumped to freedom. This was a vision, it had to be. Gideon wouldn’t stay in hell unless he was dead. “Tell me the truth, son.”

“What the fuck is going on?!” He’s gasping, smoke filling every capillary in his lungs. Choking on every breath.

“You’re dying. Ever heard the phrase ‘life flashing before your eyes’?” Pa’s voice is low and sad. Steam escapes from a smoke stack, a shrill whistle piercing the air. And he can’t fucking breath. “Told you, your organs are failing.”

“Kremy will fix it. I know he will.”

“How do you know?”

“He always does.”

Everything goes dark. His stomach turns, he can breathe. Barely. Everything hurts. He’s discombobulated, soaked to the bone in rain and piss. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is. An alleyway in Agwé, somewhere in the Crawdad Corner. The turning point in his life that made it worth living. He was bruised from some fight, passed out drunk in the rain. He didn’t remember how he got there, fate has a funny way of taking you places you never expect. Eyes still shut, he doesn’t want to see the look on Pa’s face. This is him at his lowest. But he knows what comes next. A whisper in the dark. Pattering rain against pavement nearly drowns it out, little words that create big waves. Eyes open to meet golden eyes. A smile, a handshake, a new life. So quick it almost didn’t happen.

“So that’s him? The man who will save you?” Gideon nods.

“Always does.” Pa Coal chuckles.

The alleyway fades into a tavern. Nondescript people bustle around, ordering drinks between lively conversation. A barmaid whistles a soft tune. Swatting wandering hands and passing mugs of ale. Gideon sips at a whiskey. Warmth fills his belly. Pa leans against the bar facing towards the door, opposite his son. Countless taverns litter his memory, but this one stuck out. A night that lived in his core. Kremy plays cards across the room. He’s winning, he always wins. Even when he loses he somehow comes out on top. It’s easy settling into this moment, nothing hurt. Yet.

“I’ve come close to death loads of times, why am I getting the full treatment this go around?”

“Never this close.” Gideon scoffed. He shot back the whiskey and turned around.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve died before. Or came close.”

“Gideon, you’re dead. Almost. I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t your brain firing its last synapses.” Grief pangs at his heart. Of course.

“So you’re not really here. Just my brain trying to make sense of everything.” He lights a cigar with his finger. The tavern moves around them. Kremy wins another hand, Gideon can see the losers fist clench under the table. His cue. He crosses the room, The cigar leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. The loser rears his fist, Gideon catches it in his hand. A headbutt and two punches later they’re running out the door. Kremy laughs. /Gid I could kiss you!/ In the fleeting light of passing windows, Kremy shines. For a second, Gideon wishes he would. They duck into an alley, footsteps run past them. Gideon is intimately aware of how close they were. He could do it. Lean in and kiss Kremy, he could blame it on the adrenaline. He could lie.

“Do you love him?” Gideon almost jumps out of his skin. Pa smokes a cigar across the alley.

“Of course. I love him like a brother.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Something rams itself down his spine, searing every nerve. The scene dissipates. Oblivion engulfs him.

Three.

Two.

One.

His time is up. He can feel it. He wonders what happened. Did everyone die? Or just him?

It’s warm here. He always thought death would be cold. He could fall asleep like this. Although it wouldn’t be sleep. Sleep had an end.

Guess that’s why it was called eternal slumber.

One.

Two.

Three.

Gideon gasps awake. He was alive. The throbbing pain in his chest told him that. Golden eyes rimmed in red stare down at him.

“Gid!” Kremy pulled him close, forehead to snout. Gideons body sprawled out from under the alligator’s grasp. Tears spilled out in streams against scales. “Oh my gods I thought I lost you! Your heart stopped-“ Gideon’s lips met his. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, more weak and desperate than anything. When they broke, Gideon winked.

“I knew you could do it.”

Point A to Point B, but the interesting part was all the twists in between. Who knows who draws the line. So long as they had a sense of humor.

[wishcamper]

Cassian Appreciation Week Day Two: Hair

Happy @cassianappreciationweek! Here is my first offering for Day Two: Hair. You can read it here or on ao3.

Enjoy!

My Sweetest Downfall

A Nessian re-telling of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah, set during the first war for human liberation.

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to sex trafficking

Art by Terry Strickland

Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one And the history books forgot about us And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once "Samson”, Regina Spektor

She was the most beautiful female Cassian had ever seen.

Woman, rather - the rounded edge of her ear had been what caught his eye, entranced by the freshness of her face, the self-possession of this human woman weaving through the sea of fae in the lower markets of Adriata. All visions of using his shore leave to drown himself in wine, blow all his wages at the tables, and bed as many females as possible vacated his mind the moment her blue-gray eyes met his over the heads of the crowd, the exact color of an Illyrian sunrise.

She belonged to one of the pleasure houses, as evidenced by the copper bands at her wrists and throat, likely one of the more expensive ones gives the fine silk of her gown, the glint of her golden brown hair braided about her head like a crown. He searched for days until he found the right one, coming across her at last at the Golden Thread. He wasn’t even really sure what he wanted, just to be near her, to feel the heat of her body, the thrum of mortality under her skin.

More than anything, he wanted to understand that tug in his chest, the pull that urged him to crash himself to the ground for her, even if it reduced him to rubble.

—

He was a force of nature, wild as a winter wind yet gentle as the crush of petals under bare feet, a mountain of a male whose waters ran deep and smooth.

And in spite of it all, she still had to break him.

She pushed down her guilt, her disgust at the task before her. They’d been all over each other for a week, stealing moments in hidden coves, remote beaches, even once behind a corner stall in the market when the vendor was away. Despite having paid for her, and handsomely, he seemed to want only what she gave freely of her time, her body. What he wanted lay beneath, he said, a chance to listen to the symphony of her human heart for however long she’d allow.

That same human heart condemned her, left her helpless to the forces of power and control that bound her tighter than any ropes ever could.

The stories of him in battle had spread across Prythian long before his arrival in the great Summer city, of the Illyrian foot soldier who razed armies with his deadly dance, blessed by the Mother herself. Enalius reborn, they called him, and the Lord of Spring wanted him eliminated in neutral territory if they were to have a chance at winning the war. Ten thousand gold marks they'd promised to her if she could find the source of his power.

She knew she condemned herself with this cursed bargain, much less her people, but there was no way around it. She’d never make enough with her body to free her family, to protect them from the ravages of the fae without the riches they dangled in front of her.

And so when he slipped through the lavender curtains of the Golden Thread, she hoped to hate him. Prayed he’d be despicable, possessive and brutish like the other males, head swollen large enough so just a single pinprick could deflate it. Instead, that first night he came to her plush, dark chambers she found a tenderness that stunned her and knew this would be so much more damning than she’d ever imagined.

He was willing to sacrifice everything for human freedom, he told her in the wake of their joining, dark curls clinging to his brow. The shame consumed her knowing he’d fulfill that promise, even if his martyrdom would come not on the daybright battlefield as he imagined, but rather with the breathless gasp of a knife in the night.

For the next week he worshiped her body in their beachside bungalow, ran his fingers over and under the copper cuffs as if he’d rip them off with his bare hands.

“And how would one shackle you, Lord of Bloodshed?”

“No bonds can hold me, sweetheart, save for those given by the Mother.”

He promised to smuggle her out between presses of his lips against her skin, or else to buy her freedom, to win the whole damn war by himself if that’s what it took. She only smiled and called them beautiful words, nothing less, nothing more. At night when he slept, she lay awake tracing the fresh scar cleaving his eyebrow, the lines of tattoos swirling over his chest and arms.

Make a bargain with me, he said, hazel eyes sparkling with something too painful to look at for more than a moment, like staring into the sun. Tell me what makes you so strong, she said, tell me what gives you the power of ten males, a hundred. She watched her warrior spar with his own heart, and though he denied her in the end she felt a relief in it, that they could have one more day, one more night with none to witness what bloomed save for the stars, the moonlit sea.

She’d ask him twice more, she told him, and he grinned in a way that broke something in her, something she could never repair.

In the cradle of seclusion, long-buried hurts began to emerge, the throes of pleasure giving way to tears that flowed like wine. He held her pain like a bird in his hand, stroking her jagged edges gently. Unafraid of what lay within her, the blink of her mortal life.

Why do you touch me so?, she asked, and he ran a hand up her thigh to the crook of her waist, following the path his mouth had blazed before they’d collapsed in satiety. 

She asked him the second time in the cove off the beach, the one he’d flown her to on those resplendent wings. The white sand floor glowed under turquoise water, casting his body in an unearthly light, their echoing moans giving way to laughter that ricocheted off the rock, through her chest. He told her of his days training, the foolish arrogance of his youth before it was shattered by the war. She shared a memory of stealing sweets from a shop when she was a child, the rush of her first taste of sugar, of the successful con.

“And is victory always sweet for you, siren?”

Mostly not, she told him, and a challenge sparkled in his eyes, one that made her blood go hot. She forgot for a moment why she was there, the trap at the center of the maze, and let him fly the long way home, skimming the waves with her fingertips as they chased a pod of dolphins playing in the surf.

When they returned, he disappeared for a short time while she bathed, stepping back through the leaning door frame as she was toweling off, arms laden with gifts from the market. That night she claimed her victory in all the ways she wanted to, the Lord of Bloodshed under command of his interim queen.

“Please,” she begged the Spring lord through the mirror he’d given her, the forget-me-nots in his golden hair either a cruel jest or devastating providence. “Please spare him. Take his power but do not take his life.”

The High Lord laughed in answer, and the guilt stretched her to the point of breaking, her skin a dull hide drying in the sun. “It seems the hearts of human sluts are as open as their legs.”

She knew he felt her sadness, her fear when he returned from a swim in the ocean, salt glittering on his wings like diamonds in the sunset glow. He lifted her into his arms and retreated to the bathing chamber, showed her where to touch them to bring him to his knees, to make him fall apart with her name on his lips.

Ask me, he said, ask me once more.

“No.”

“Why not? Have you given up on me, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t want everything that came with her, she told him, wouldn’t desire her if he knew the wickedness of her heart, the crumbling ruins of her soul.

“How can I prove it to you?”

Her fingers clutched at his shirtfront, begging him to stay, to run, to see the deception at her core.

“Tell me the source of your strength. Tell me what gives you the power of ten males, of a hundred. Show me your weakness and I shall show you mine.”

Her faithful lover brought his forehead down to hers, resting it lightly, drew her hand up to bury it in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“If my hair is cut, I lose my strength. I am as weak as any other until it grows long again.”

She grabbed a handful of it in her fist, pulling his head back sharply. But he only looked at her with that sun-bright devotion, the passages of his heart open to her to walk through as she pleased. She decided to leave a footprint there, the barest trace. Hoped it was enough for him to remember.

“I have a daughter to the south. She does not know what I am. All I do is for her.”

Something like understanding passed through him then, but she didn’t get the chance to question it for he captured her mouth with his own, sinking her down into the deep waters where only they lived, borne along by the current.

Moonlight glinted off the shears where she hovered over him hours later, praying for him to wake. To grab her wrists and throw her against the wall, or else to kiss her desperately and fly her as far as those wings could take them, past the edge of the world.

But he did not wake, and instead she cut each lock from his head, the thread in her chest ripping violently with each traitorous snip.

—

They paraded him through the temple in chains, the jeers and taunts hitting his back like a volley of arrows. The warrior god shackled like the slaves he so foolishly defended, reduced to the bastard-born nobody he feared lived at his core.

He found her at once among the crowd assembled, her beautiful face broken with agony, and even though he knew he should hate her the space where his anger lived felt hollow. The absence of her was more devastating than any of the whips that lashed at his back, the blunt blows to his chest, his legs.

His power gone, the feeble call of it sluggish in his veins, he could only watch as they brought the ropes forth. They lashed him to the great column at the center that held up the ceiling, painted with scenes of resplendent High Fae, their faces cold and cruel. He tried to tell her to go, to run, but he was too weak to speak, knew from the way she clutched the collar at her throat she’d never leave while he was still alive. He only hoped she’d be far enough away to miss the worst of it.

I’m sorry, he said as best he could, feeling the imprint of her body on his skin, in his bones. I’m sorry I couldn’t save us from this. I’m sorry I didn’t know until it was too late.

Hazel eyes lifted skyward, a prayer to the Mother on his dry, cracked lips. With a great heave he twisted, rammed his bound fists into the pillar he leaned against, ripping apart the world.

Stone rained down and there was screaming everywhere, thick dust pouring into his lungs and he waited for the crush, the flash of pain before it all went quiet and still. In the long tunnel of time he hoped to return as a tree somewhere in a quiet wood, to feel her sit in his shade, or else to be a clear pool she drank from, the splash of him over her face washing her clean.

And all at once he was shoved aside, a great boom echoing somewhere overhead, soft hair tickling his face, soothing his heated cheeks.

He opened his eyes to find her body splayed over him, taking the blow of the stone that would’ve been his death. A shimmer of gold disappeared into the dust engulfing the ruined temple, and he felt the pull in his chest begin to break, ever-reaching and grasping at the building darkness.

“Don’t go, sweetheart. I didn’t get enough. I want more. We should’ve had more.”

This brave human woman, his mate, her body broken and bleeding, reached a hand up and touched his face lightly, pain and love in her dawn-colored eyes.

“I’ll find you in the next world, the next life. I promise. And we will have time.”

A fierce, burning pain seared along his scalp. He heard someone shouting, felt a wave of night-dark power sweep over him before oblivion dragged him under, stealing the only thing he wanted, one last memory of her face.

But all he was left with were the spikes of an eight-pointed star on the crown of his head, the only remnant of her final words, his failures. Their future snatched away by the greed of death, the indifference of fate.

Five hundred years passed, and Cassian searched every face for hers, heart leaping at every flash of golden brown hair, every knowing grin in a crowded market. He’d almost given up the day he stepped into the Archeron manor when he saw her glaring across the room at him, when that thread in his chest yanked so violently he thought he’d been shot by an arrow, straight through. She didn’t remember him, of course, but he could’ve sworn a flicker of recognition passed through her, the past lingering in the core of their bones, woven into their skin.

And he knew in that moment, more than he’d ever known anything, that he’d rip every hair from his head for her. That no matter what war he had to win or building he had to shatter, he’d free her from the shackles of the world, from those in her heart, her mind. 

That they would have time.

---

Thank you if you got this far! I'm pretty proud of this one so I hope you enjoyed aka it didn't hurt too much. Shoutout to all the other awesome creators putting out amazing work this week. There is so much more to come!

[mariacallous]

On the morning of March 14th, while Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth and Vice-President J. D. Vance debated a possible U.S. attack on Houthi targets in a now infamous Signal chat, it was afternoon in Yemen, and a five-year-old boy named Hamad was still alive. Hamad had spent the day running around the city with his father, and when night fell he was back home, playing in the yard with his cousins, likely slipping one too many sweets into his mouth.

In a thread called “Houthi PC Small Group,” which included other top national-security officials, Vance seemed concerned about getting dragged into another conflict that was peripheral to American interests. The operation was meant to disrupt the Houthis’ ability to attack commercial ships and American military vessels in the Red Sea, which they had been doing for about a year and a half, in response to Israel’s bombing campaign in Gaza. Vance floated the possibility of delaying the strikes so that the Administration could work on the public “messaging.” “I understand your concerns,” Hegseth told him, but messaging would be “tough” no matter the timing. “Nobody knows who the Houthis are,” he explained.

The debate didn’t last long. Within half an hour, Vance was persuaded. The next day, as sunset prayers ended and families broke their Ramadan fast in north Yemen, Hegseth announced to the group in Washington, “Weather is FAVORABLE. Just CONFIRMED w/ CENTCOM we are a GO for mission launch.” Shortly after, a “package” of F-18s was launched, the first of many strikes.

Just before one in the morning, a man whom I’ll call Hassan—he asked that we not use his real name, owing to concerns about his safety—bolted awake to a thunderous sound. His house, in the Qahza area in Saada, was shaking. The windows shattered as he heard another boom, and then another. “The noise of the air strikes were very unlike the Saudi ones, because they were too loud, too big,” he recently told me, referring to regular bombing campaigns that a Saudi Arabia-led coalition has conducted against Houthi strongholds since 2015.

Smoke and dust filled the rooms, and Hassan scrambled to rush his frightened children outside. He split his family into small groups among relatives’ homes and returned to the site of the strike. His neighbor’s two-story house, about a hundred metres from his own, was levelled. The house belonged to Mosfer Roga’ah, Hassan told me—a Bedouin from the country’s northern Kitaf district who had arrived in the neighborhood around six years earlier. Roga’ah had several sons who were married, so the house was often full of women and children, as it had been that night.

Hassan’s brothers were already there, digging through the rubble, searching for the remains of a family. “They were scattered and torn into pieces,” he said. Rescuers recovered mangled bodies. Among them were two faces Hassan recognized well: the five-year-old boy, Hamad, and a three-year-old girl, Dareen, who was rushed to a hospital in Sanaa, Yemen’s capital. Hamad was dead.

He “was roasted,” Hassan recalled, adding quietly that it was a “horrifying” sight. He later sent me photos of Dareen that were circulating on social media; she was attached to a breathing tube, her body covered in gauze and her face marbled with burn marks. In the debris, locals found remnants of Tomahawk missiles, which Airwars, a British nonprofit organization that tracks civilian harm in conflict zones, confirmed were the munitions used in the strike.

The controversy that has now been dubbed Signalgate has garnered considerable shock, amusement, and anger, illustrating the ineptitude of the Trump Administration for knowingly discussing war plans over a commercial phone app and for unknowingly inviting a journalist into the discussion. (The White House has insisted that it did not reveal any “war plans.”) Less has been made of the strikes themselves, which raise their own set of questions, including what the U.S.’s aims are in Yemen, and under what legal authority it is pursuing those aims.

American Presidents have struck Yemen before, often pointing to the Authorization for the Use of Military Force, a joint resolution passed after 9/11, which gave the President the power to attack terrorist targets in foreign countries without a formal “declaration of war.” But Trump hasn’t invoked the A.U.M.F.; instead, he echoed aides who say that it is within the President’s constitutional power to launch attacks for defensive purposes. His predecessors, too, seemed to operate with that license: most recently, the Biden Administration continued to strike Houthi targets, without Congressional approval, even after taking the Houthis off the list of foreign terrorist organizations. “For years, Presidents have been asserting expansive power to use military force, under questionable legal authorities, with relatively little pushback from Congress,” Matt Duss, the executive vice-president at the Center for International Policy, a foreign-policy think tank in Washington, D.C., told me. “That’s extremely dangerous no matter who’s in the White House, but particularly with someone like Trump.”

The Trump Administration’s hostilities in Yemen appear more expansive than past campaigns, directed not just at Houthi weapons sites but also at Houthi leaders in residential areas. Perhaps more alarmingly, Trump hints at long-term engagement. “We will use overwhelming lethal force until we have achieved our objective,” Trump vowed. There remains little clarity on what right the President has to repeatedly strike a foreign country without the approval of Congress.

In addition to this legal debate, Signalgate raises questions about the reliability of American intelligence. According to Yemen’s health ministry, more than fifty people were killed in the strikes, and more than a hundred were wounded. One of the attacks hit a cancer-treatment center that was under construction, according to Houthi authorities. Another, the Roga’ah house.

Mosfer Roga’ah and his four sons were not home when the missiles dropped, Hassan told me. They were at the mosque for taraweeh, special prayers performed late into the night during the holy month of Ramadan. A video shared on Facebook shows them returning to where the house once stood. A few men can be seen helping someone stagger through the glare of headlights toward the wreckage. Seconds later, a loud scream pierces through a din of panicked voices. According to Hassan, that was one of Roga’ah’s sons, Abdullah—the father of Dareen and Hamad.

Eventually, Hassan told me, rescuers who dug through the rubble counted fifteen dead, all women and children. Among them were Risala, age thirteen; Saleh, age nine; Abdullah, age six; Nazam, age six; Abdulkader, age five; Hadi, age three; and Motlak, a newborn baby. The baby’s mother was also killed.

The New Yorker was not able to fully corroborate Hassan’s account, and Saada is nearly impossible for foreign journalists to access at the moment, but news reports and public social-media posts about that night counted civilians among the dead. (Many of the posts were made by people with Houthi affiliations.) Shortly after the strikes began, Trump declared on Truth Social that he had ordered the military “to launch decisive and powerful Military action,” adding that the Houthis “have waged an unrelenting campaign of piracy, violence, and terrorism against American, and other, ships, aircraft, and drones.”

Officials in the Trump Administration seemed unfazed by the prospect that civilians might die in the bombardment. “The first target—their top missile guy—we had positive ID of him walking into his girlfriend’s building and it’s now collapsed,” Michael Waltz, the national-security adviser, wrote on Signal, in an update to the team. “Excellent,” Vance replied. The C.I.A. director, John Ratcliffe: “A good start.” Waltz responded with emojis of a fist bump, an American flag, and fire. (Later, the U.S. Department of Defense said that it “takes allegations of civilian harm seriously and has a process in place to review them.”)

Trump’s White House, like its predecessors, continues to emphasize that the Houthis are supported by Iran. But the group also emerged from local political dynamics. The founders of the Houthi movement belonged to Zaydism, a Shia branch of Islam that ruled northern Yemen for a thousand years before being overthrown in the nineteen-sixties. A couple of decades later, Zaydism was revived as a cultural and political movement by Hussein al-Houthi, in part as a way to challenge Yemen’s central government, which disfavored Zaydis and neglected northern areas, like Saada. After 9/11, the U.S. poured military aid into Yemen as part of its global war on terror, expanding the Yemeni President’s ability to quell Houthi dissent—in turn drawing more support for the movement.

Yemen underwent a significant transformation. The Houthis grew in power and popularity, then launched an insurgency that spiralled into a series of wars with the central government. During the Arab Spring, in 2012, the Yemeni President stepped down; in the years that followed, Houthis stormed the capital. Regional and world powers, concerned that the group would expand, began to bombard and raid the country. The United States backed Saudi-led bombing campaigns, supported a naval and air blockade, and instituted a sanctions regime; together, these measures have further entrenched the Houthis’ hold on power, killed hundreds of thousands of people, and helped to push more than seventeen million into conditions of severe hunger. Today, Yemen remains one of the worst humanitarian crises in the world.

The U.S. continues to pummel Yemen. Recently, Trump shared a black-and-white video, from an aerial viewpoint, of a bomb landing on a group of about seventy people in a circle, which a Houthi-led news agency later described as a social gathering for Eid. Smoke fills the screen and, within seconds, a crater emerges. “These Houthis gathered for instructions on an attack. Oops, there will be no attack by these Houthis!” the President wrote.

Meanwhile, Roga’ah and his sons are surveying their own catastrophic damage. The fresh graves of their dead wives and children are lined neatly in a row, the result of a strike hastily agreed to over text message thousands of miles away. “They have hearts broken into pieces,” Hassan told me, of Roga’ah and Abdullah. “Every day they are crying, remembering this family that disappeared without any reason.”

[getossluttywaist]

String of fate - Geto Suguru

"According to legend, this thread emanating from the heart doesn’t end at the tip of the finger. It continues in the form of an invisible red string, which ’’flows’’ out of your pinkie and goes on to intertwine with the red strings of other people — connecting your heart with theirs. People who are connected are destined to meet"

A Geto Suguru fanfiction - AU where Geto never started the cult and the main character has the power to control the string of fate.

Hi everyone! i essentially was thinking of a power for an OC and come up this the string of fate idea and one thing lead to another and i wrote this :') this is my first time writing like this so if you have any feed back please let me know!! I will probably turn this into a fanfic ~k

The world stopped moving; she felt the little red string that had always been tied to her pinky loosen. She stopped focusing on the enemy she was currently battling, frantically searching for him. She looked down at the string, grabbing it desperately, she pulled other strings to her body to travel to him, her instincts to go to him taking over her. 

 The ringing in her ears drowned out the yelling, the screams for help, the sound of death. She knew the enemy would follow; she knew they would catch up to her. If she lost him, there would be no point in fighting anymore. The string she gripped in her hand, lead to her lover. She hoped that the tighter she held onto him, onto his string, his fate would stay the same. She saw his figure from afar, he was fighting one of the sorcerers. She could feel his string becoming shorter, she could feel his fate changing. 

She hurried her speed, pulling at different strings to try and decrease the distance between them.  “It’s not fast enough,” she cried in desperation to make the strings move her faster, causing her voice to become weak. Her vision was becoming distorted as tears began to fill her eyes. She held onto her tears, she refused to let them fall, refusing to accept what was happening.

She let out a desperate scream, a plea to him, to the gods above, to anyone as she watched the sorcerer deliver her lover's new fate to him. She watched as he stumbled, holding his side. The world started to move slowly as she watched the events unfold before her.  Dread began washing over her body, her eyes were locked onto him out of fear that if she looked away for a single moment he would disappear. 

As she rushed to him, her focus on him caused her to crash into rubble causing her to stumble, she let out a curse under her breath as she tried to increase the speed of the strings attached to her. He looked up at her, watching her rush to him. He smiled softly at her; he was speaking to her but she was still too far to hear. 

She pulled on his fate, trying to change it, trying to save him. She could feel the string loosening around its previous place on her pinky, she was loosing her grip on the string, no matter what she did the string became weaker, it became shorter. The proof of the love they shared, her hopes, her dreams, the reason she was fighting, was slipping from her grasp. 

She detached herself from the strings and rushed to guide him as he fell to the ground, his clothing was saturated in blood, the air carried an overpowering metallic scent to her nose. She was running out of time. She couldn’t think straight; the fear of losing him was consuming her thoughts.

 “I need to heal him; I can heal him,” her voice trembled and broke. She was clinging onto any bit of hope, any delusion where he could be saved, unable to accept the sight before her. She placed her hands on his wound to hold pressure, trying to stop the bleeding. She began looking around, using whatever strength she had left, trying to summon another fate string for him; she frantically searched for a string that didn’t end. she touched every possible fate string, flashes of the inevitable destroyed any hope that remained, they all ended the same.  

 “No, no, no, no, no, there has to be one that doesn’t end!“ she yelled, panic was consuming her. She searched other strings to add to the shortening one, looking for anyone or anything that could heal him.

She could see all of the possible deaths of a person; she could protect a persons fate string; she could have prevented this; she could have saved him. Why didn’t she stay with him? Why did she let her guard down? Why didn’t she see this fate? Every thought of how she failed him was ripping her apart. The guilt was added to the regret and despair that filled her, beginning to overflow.  

As she looked at his wound she noticed the blood was starting to slow; false hope started to fill in her heart. “The bleeding, it’s slowing down!“ she had some foolish hope that if she could convince herself he was okay, that he would be. But the amount of blood that had poured from his body gave her the harsh reality she desperately wished was just a trick. 

He placed his hands on hers, giving then a gentle tap; her focus was back on the man below her. His face was pale, his eyes were dull and sunken in, a stark contrast to the face that she had seen just hours ago. She longed to see his eyes sparkle as he laughed; she longed to see his smile one last time. 

“I’m happy you’re the last person I got to see,“  His voice was weak, his breathing was shallow, he could barely bring his hand to her cheek as he rubbed his thumb over her lips gently. He smiled at her lovingly, his eyes scanned her face taking in every freckle, every blemish every curve, making sure to engrave it into his memory. 

She let out a desperate laugh, at his words. “If I hide my face will that make you stay?” As she spoke, her voice broke; a sob escaped her; her question made him let out a soft breath of amusement. 

“Please don’t leave me, I need you.” She pleaded, the sadness she felt was filling her lungs, She couldn’t breathe; She was drowning. He was all she had left; he was supposed to be there forever. The string that connected the two started to unravel and fade, flashing images of what would have been, in her mind; breaking her heart even more.

“Promise me you will find me in our next life?” His voice had grown softer, the pain of speaking evident in his face. 

“Only if you promise to wait for me,” her bottom lip trembled as his eyes filled with tears, he was scared but he would never admit it; she knew him well enough to know that. She watched through tear filled eyes as he lifted his arm holding out his pinky. 

She placed the finger that once had their future wrapped around it, in his, sealing their new fate. They both watched as a new red string appeared on her finger, neatly tied in a Knot. 

His wound had stopped bleeding. 

She brought her hand to hold his up as she felt his hand become limp. She leaned into his touch letting the pain consume her; she felt as if her chest was being torn open, like her head was being held underwater. He had taken her heart with him, she didn’t stop it. Her heart, her soul belonged with him. 

She looked at the little red string that was tied to her pinky, in the place where the string that once connected the two lovers had been; a reminder of their promise. Her heart sank as she watched another string shortened; she felt a mixture of despair and relief as her fate changed.