#“why is his ear red then” its the surface blood so actual muscle and stuff is still red and brown and allatttt

[threepoint14art]

Guy who is already incredebly abnormal about leaving his house gets plopped in a camp for literal weeks!! rip!

he's not really having the best of times

[frostahesmegabite]

The Judgement of Carrion

@daily-writing-challenge - Day 4 - Accomplish/Macabre [ Content warning: Blood, Guts, Gore, Bits of Torture, That sort of stuff. While there aren't pages and pages of it, it is present in this short story. I tried to find a balance of detail and keeping things light without going into ‘Hostel’ territory. ]

Human forts were a dime a dozen, easily found and half of them forgotten or falling to ruin due to the numerous war fronts that were constantly moving across the face of Azeroth to fight one force or another. Some lost to time, others to ruin, some to marauding forces and others simply abandoned because they were no longer needed. It was one of these Forts that Megahes had put to use for himself and probably his most comprehensive and long lasting pastime.

Clever little devices put into play to keep things looking abandoned and misused, neglected and falling to ruin. The place had not only been repaired but also reinforced with Magical and Mechanical Goblin ingenuity that was built upon with knowledge gained over the past several decades.

Inside of this fort, despite the fact it was never intended to receive an actual willful audience, was decorative furniture made of fine dark woods embroidered with rich velvets, soft silks and the finest wools and cottons coin could acquire. Tables stretching about with plates and goldware that no man or woman other than Megahes would ever see sat to present an atmosphere of riches on display. Trophy cases and stands line the walls with numerous weapons of both magical and mundane descent that perch over Armor Stands holding protective metal layers meant not just for Goblins, but all races.

If any ever came to somehow find the place and took the time to inspect any of it, they’d find that all of these items weren’t as ‘pristine’ as they may appear at a distance. Damage came to them all at some point or another. Blunted blades, shattered axe heads assembled to look presentable. Armor with gashes, pierced helmets or chest pieces, greaves with shorn metal by the thighs that most likely led to bleed outs.

The more one could look, the more they’d note that all of the gear was like walking through a museum of deathly wounds. All that stood or hung from the walls had a story of defeat and loss and probably before then, great triumphs, valor and victory… just to have their stories end here.

Megahes pays no mind to these things now though as he walks with his back rigid and straight, his arms back behind him with hands clasping the other arms elbow in some overly formal glide across the stone floor. His bright white and gold attire is a stark beacon amongst the dark colors and atmosphere of the room that one should have found comforting, but for some reason, only brought worry and dread with it as he moves about his untold business.

[ Artwork by the Magnificent Fishadee. No Fire or Light Shards floating about in this scene, purely put for clothing example. https://twitter.com/fishadee ] He stops, not worrying to look around for any watchers, for he knows there are none as he stops at a small wall just behind a staircase. “Rehorur decno Kudex.” A series of flashes occur around our Goblin and once completed a small stone panel slides off to the side and Megahes puts his hand into the slot. A sudden sharp ‘shing!’ sound is head and Mega’s neck tenses but for a moment before his hand is withdrawn. A mechanical but feminine voice perks up from the slot. “Welcome back.” “Hmm.” The only sound Megahes makes before he takes a step back and then to the left. The stone wall jars forward at an alarming speed, spikes erupting from her stone crevices meant to impale and kill any would-be intruders while giving Megahes the solitary moment that was needed to pass behind the crude defense into the wall beyond. Whether by measured practice or perhaps sensors, the trap quickly retreats and returns to normal, giving off no telltale signs of a hidden door or of Mega’s earlier passing.

The reason for all this secrecy? Hidden at the end of the staircase Mega was already descending. Humans had their specialties sure, jacks of all trades those people. But the one thing they never fail to make well?

Jail Cells and Prisons.

It was this singular reason that Megahes took over this once ramshackle Fort for himself. Though there weren’t many cells, there was no need. Three of them sat in a row at the bottom of the stairs, each outfitted with custom Arcano-tech that allowed for the arrival of a singular occupant that was soon set to magical and electrical suppression to keep them docile and incapable of action while time slowly allowed them to become dehydrated and starved to where strength or speed was no longer an issue either.

The work put into this place was one of Mega’s hidden creations of pride and in the past, its use went towards a sorted pastime of torturing whoever was unfortunate enough to get caught by one of his traps. Times change however and with Mega’s newfound religion, came the need to change how and why he did things while applying them to old hobbies. Today’s hobby however, only involved one other person beyond himself and Mega comes to stand right before him as electricity pulses through his frail, nearly starved frame.

“Brother Abacus.” A stupid name, false to be sure, but one that Megahes didn’t really care about either way. “I realize you don’t know who I am and that’s quite alright.” He leans in, voice dialing down as he speaks through the bars just as another tide of electricity bombards the ‘Brother’, causing him to whimper and whine in pain. “You have been found guilty of being a member of a Twilight Cult, one in fact, that was run by Dinthoqaf the Defiler.”

The cultist looks up, arms shaking in heavy tremors as he tries to look his would-be captor in the eye. They give out however, causing him to hit the ground with an exhale. His cracked and bleeding lips wobble, trying to say something, but the lack of strength made their efforts near useless. It was sad really, or at least it would be if Megahes cared about the man's condition in the slightest.

Megah glides over to a control panel on the wall and proceeds to flip a series of switches and dials which cause several mechanical tendrils to tear from the wall in Abacus’ cell that soon lash him to the same wall they originated from. His body was quickly drawn into an ‘X’ shape with limbs pulled tight and to their limits.

“You see. Your former… Employer? Boss? Leader.” Megahes hands lift and tumble in slow methodical circles as he tries to find the right word, but leaves it be. “Him and I don’t get along very well and thanks to his efforts, I find myself needing to improvise my tactics a bit. While I know he’s dead, face turned to slag and glass, I wanna make sure I get the job done correctly, meaning none of his followers try to take up his mantle. I’m sure you understand.”

He turns around and heads into the cell, worry of electrocution now gone thanks to the current state of affairs. “You see. I have this…” He pauses. “...Macabre little ritual I have to do every so often and believe me.” The Goblin laughs while looking up at the man while proceeding to straighten up his clothes, as if it mattered. “As much as people might want me to say I hate doing this… I don’t. I’ve been doing this to people way before you all found me and now. Now I get to put my hobbies to better use.”

Megahes’ hand comes up, his index finger pressing to his lips to tell Brother Abacus to be silent. His smile fades with the gesture and he reaches up, pressing his black and gold painted claw against the clothing of this man's thigh. Downward, slowly, it runs. Fabric quickly turns from a peasant-y brown to a heavy red and brown as flesh below seems to split before the clothing itself can.

Magic? Possibly. Insanely sharp claws? Not likely. But whatever it was, the man's thigh split open as if by scalpel and despite his starvation, he thrashes weakly in an effort to pull away. The machines holding his wrists tighten and continue to do so until the sound of bone is heard crunching.

This process continues on not just for mere moments but stretches of hours, lines drawn across flesh like sand. Megahes had nothing else to say and so, despite the protests and pleading, begging to let him go and he’d tell no one, Mega continued.

Soon, details were carved away, facial features, scalp and its rooted hair, ears. Nearly anything that could be taken and removed without outright killing this poor cultist was taken in some macabre movie of silence and torture and finally, when the man was nearest his end, Megahes opens his own shirt.

The metal embedded into his Chest that shines with the Light like a beacon in this squalor, practically vibrates as Mega runs his blood coated hands across its surface. Red blood made semi-translucent by the sheer shine, soon was baked and cooked black, all Vitae devoured, leaving Megahes to sigh in relief.

“I would ask you to tell the Defiler thank you for giving me this. But… we both know you’re never going to have that opportunity.”

Megahes runs his hand up from Brother Abacus' groin clear up to his collarbone, shearing clean through flesh and muscle alike. What came next was a grotesque shower of innards that began to fall and slop to the floor, leaving our would-be cultist inanimate and lifeless.

“Now to clean up and go home. Tonight’s my date night and I have so many things to accomplish before She gets home…” Soon, the jail cells were left dark and eventually the slow trickling of blood and various other liquids came to silence in the dark, waiting to be cleaned up and for a new subject to be taken.

[missinghan]

countless skies upon me ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : fantasy; action; fluff; angst 

❖ word count : 16,5k.

❖ warnings : explicit language, mentions of blood + violence

❖ summary : when you stumble upon the notoriously skilled swordsman of Kalmburg, your heart finds itself wanting to get closer to his.

❖ a/n : this is the full extension of this blurb that I wrote impulsively after rewatching an old anime, please give swordsman minho a whole lot of love 🖤

prologue.

Minho’s wooden sword gets knocked out of his grasp, landing onto the floor with a loud series of clattering noises. The little boy widens his eyes when the tip of another wooden sword hovers over his stomach and he looks up to be met with the stoic gaze of his mentor. 

“What did I tell you yesterday, Minho?” 

“That I need to make more progress on improving my reaction time,” he answers grimly and rubs his forearm, head hanging low in shame. “I need to know the timing of the enemy like the back of my hand and use my own timing in which they don’t expect.”

His mentor retreats his sword swiftly, humming, “You got distracted, you weren’t observing my stance before I lunged at you. By narrating the enemy’s preparation, you can partially map out their movements, when and where they’re aiming for. That’s why you were taken aback and this allowed me to disarm you with little effort.”

“But master!” Minho pries stubbornly. “It’s not very fair if an opponent can’t fight with their sword, is it? A sword is supposed to be the coil of a swordsman’s strength. It’s all we’ll ever have.”

A fatherly smile dances on his mentor’s lips this time. “Strength is simply an illusion, there are far more important things,” he places a warm hand on Minho’s shoulder, speaking softly. 

“And it doesn’t matter if you still have your sword or not, fighting isn’t an obligation, it’s a choice. A choice whether you’re going to fight until the very end or not.”

one.

Market stalls crowd the route, selling sacks of nuts and dried fruit, grilled meat hanging on lines after lines of roasting skewers. Powdered spices lay in rust red and dusty yellow and bright green piles spill from sacks as large as feed bags. Mixed and familiar scents cut through thin air, people bumping into each other, toes trodden on. Lovers stroll hand in hand, casually browsing whilst housewives hustle and bustle, hollering over background noises for the best price.

Minho ends up walking through the entire market before getting to work that day with an apple in his stomach, silently like a phantom, blending into the sea of people effortlessly. 

To him, work is just like another day in the market for stallholders, another pile of weapons needed to be honed and repaired for blacksmiths and another batch of bread to bake early in the morning for bakers. 

Except his job is somewhat… questionable and considerably dangerous for a guy who looks nothing like a warrior. At least that’s what he’s been told. Rather pretty-looking eyes being hidden under his long fringe, a high and slim nose bridge, sharp philtrum. He’s not that tall either and doesn’t necessarily have as many muscles as he initially wanted. But the swordsman doesn’t listen to his muscles to fight, he listens to his mind and becomes one with his blade. 

There’s no need for a shield or armor, for he thinks they’re doing nothing but getting in his way and slowing him down during combats. Minho draws his sword with no more qualms than a middle-aged lady gossiping about her irritating neighbors and slashes his enemies while thinking about what he’ll be making himself for dinner that day. There’s no joy for him in violence, but he takes extreme pride in a good clean kill. He has a reputation to maintain and that reputation keeps him safe in this world. 

A man approaches Minho from behind, leaning himself flat against the wooden bench that the swordsman has situated himself on for the past hour. The guy never makes the first move, that’s what he’s been told. 

“Twenty thousand units,” the masked client speaks up, his voice mellow and slightly muffled. “If you can bring back the head of a shadow wolf that’s been lurking around the Dunst forest these days, I’ll double the price. Silver-white fur, brown eyes. Make it quick too, and you can have sixty in total. He’s been eating up one too many of our sheeps already.”

His lips twitch subtly and he crosses his legs, keeping his tone low but clear, “Shadow wolves can’t handle the cold that well, why would one roam around a place with such tremendous decrease in temperature at night?” The sound of coins crashing against each other in the leather pouch suddenly irritates him. 

“C’mon, Black Swordsman, how would I know these things? I’m just merely a guy who’s trying to get by in life,” the man chuckles lightheartedly but Minho isn’t finding anything funny. No one ever gets the upper hands in a deal with him. “Look, I heard you’re good at your job and you sure look like you know what you’re doing so why don’t you just take the mon—“

 Minho stuffs his hands into his pocket and sighs, “Don’t think so lowly of me, I don’t accept deposits. I’ll only get my money once I’m done with the job. Meet me here tomorrow at noon, sharp. And if I don’t show up, consider locking your sheeps inside.” And with a grin through his flat lips under the mask, the cryptic client leaves Minho alone by the bench, fully satisfied with his attitude and reactions. 

The brunet gazes at the space ahead for a good ten seconds, thinking rather deeply about this before waving his hand absentmindedly, calling out to the errand boy who’s been hiding behind the ugly tree. “You can come out now, Jeongin. Did you catch any of that?” he asks without turning around. 

“Every single word,” Jeongin cancels the spell that’s been his cover during their entire conversation before stepping out, pursing his lips together. “A guy who’s trying to get by in life but still has twenty thousand to pay you beforehand? Sounds absurd to me.”

“Enough with the brainless chatters, you know what to do,” Minho pushes himself off the bench when his muscles start growing sore on the hardened surface. “If you do a good job, I’ll treat you out for dinner. Now run along, Chaeryeong is probably looking for you, don’t be late to class.”

Jeongin holds him back by the sheath of his sword, “You’re still going to accept the job? I don’t think it’s worth the risk. He’s obviously setting you up.” 

“If anything, I might bring his head back instead of the wolf’s,” Minho replies monotonously, and Jeongin lets his hand fall to his side. The swordsman turns on his heels to see concern laced in the younger boy’s eyes, this prompts his voice to soften. “Don’t worry, a single wolf can’t hurt me,” he ruffles his hair before slipping into the crowd again, making his way towards the mountains to enter the Dunst forest. 

He wouldn’t mind dying alone, actually. It’s not like he has any regrets.

two.

The city of Kalmburg has it that no one has ever surpassed Lee Minho when it comes to the art of swordsmanship. 

“If you’re going to take on a guy who can parry a crossbow bolt with his sword as he’s contending against five other men, it’s time to re-evaluate the direction of your life—preferably while running away as fast as you can.”

The man walks up to the center of the town square every single day at the crack of dawn, his figure fully covered in a big black cloak, the hood thrown lazily over his head. All you can see is the strides he takes with his black combat boots. He almost belongs, but not quite. Kalmburg is known for its dashingly ornamental architecture — a white granite surface with serene spires can be seen from the castle at the top of the hill, soothing atmosphere and generically nice residents. Some say no beauty can be compared to its sunrise due to the dashing sight of a lake situated before the town square’s gate. 

Whereas, Lee Minho gives people a stark contrast with his dark aura and the black sword hung firmly on his back. He easily takes in everyone’s attention with a single sweep, his midnight orbs setting on nothing before he leaves as expressionless as he’s entered. His purposes and motives always remain hidden; hence the allure. Though it’s not hard to see how he’s making a good living on a daily basis. 

For one, he slays monsters; and for another, he deals with people. Outsiders might be surprised at how many units the Nobles are more than willing to pay him as long as he comes back alive, with the beast’s head limp in his hands. There were times when he’d come back covered in a sea monster’s gastric juice, other times he could barely walk back to the town because his spleens got severely damaged. But most of the time, he’d return as though he just got back from a stroll, outstretching his palm to collect the payment. 

Dealing with people is far more troublesome than those deadly creatures, Minho constantly tells himself so. It’s true, after all. Because when careless juveniles aren’t able to snatch their parents’ spare change on the dining table, they decide it’s a brilliant idea to challenge him for a duel. If they win, he’ll have to follow their request without receiving a single penny. But if things go the other way around, they will most likely come home crying for their mother. Such a nuisance. 

Today is no different. 

Moving into the morning dew is a shadow wolf. His paws kiss the earth not gracefully, but rather with evident difficulties and there’s a ray of exhaustion in that pair of bronzed eyes. The wolf has seen better days. His silver-white fur is thin and it clings to his frame like an old cloak in a gale. Even from several yards away, Minho can count each rib as they’re sticking out, he sees dejection in his movements as if he’s gonna let himself tumble to the ground any moment. 

Minho carefully inhales, pulling out a silver dart from the back of his belt. He raises his hand and aims precisely for the pine tree, just a strand of hair away from the wolf’s ear. When he exhales, the weapon comes flying past the creature before embedding itself to the wooden surface. 

The wolf whips his head towards the swordsman, locking eyes as he lets out a mere cry of pain, crimson dripping down on the side of his head. As Minho pulls his hood off of his face, slightly dubious that the creature of darkness will turn into a wisp of black smoke to take flight deeper into the forest, the wolf shakes his head before lying down on the soil, unable to coordinate his limbs. Then with his great grey head on his bloodied paws, he closes his eyes. He’s giving up on his life. 

“Something’s wrong. Shadow wolves’ blood isn’t supposed to be red,” Minho holds his breath in utter disbelief, taking a step backward. He’s got the wrong target. No, that client scammed him. 

A branch snaps. 

Minho reaches for his sword when the sound of thin air being ripped apart rings inside his eardrums, two blades coming in contact with each other and he has to squint slightly when tiny sparks of flame come to life between the weapons. Instead of looking at the raider, he quickly deflects their slash again. Hypothetically speaking, there are two possibilities: the first is that both swords are too weak to withstand the pressure of the blow, so they’ll simply break - in the exact same fashion. The second is in which case both blades are durable enough to field the contact, they will bounce right back. But his unwanted guest seems to detest him so much to the point they keep their sword grinding against his until their weapons slip against each other, creating a wave of grating shriek resonating through the woods, dust being thrown in the air. 

He stumbles backward, the sole of his shoes tearing the leaves below into bits. His vision shakes a little from the sudden attack before trying to focus on the figure before him. The first thing that he sees is the white wolf on the button of your silver-accent cloak. That’s the royal guards’ emblem.

“You,” the female voice catches him by surprise. “Lay another finger on that wolf now, I dare you.” You know all too well who this man is, and like hell you’re going to let him do what he wants just because of some cheap units.

Minho’s fully aware that his beating heart is thundering inside his chest, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the adrenaline flowing in his veins or those round eyes glaring at him from under the sunlight. He sees the grip on the hilt of your rapier being tightened and that’s when he regains his composure, taking in a deep breath. If he gave up now because of a pretty face with a deadly blade, he’d damn his reputation as a swordsman.

“Oh that wolf is all yours,” he smiles at you fakely, wiping the beads of sweat on his cheekbones away. “But you’re going to have to do better than snooping around on people.”

Minho steadies his grip on his sword, trying to keep himself together in the deafening silence, “So, who’s making the first move now?” The tonal mockery in his voice irks you and he seems to notice that too by the slight smirk tugging at his lips when the muscles on your face twitch. 

One. Breathe in.

You’re getting into your stance sideways, your blade eye level. This man doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. 

Two. Breathe out. 

Minho isn’t letting his guard down this time despite being slightly impressed with your skills. Usually, there aren’t many girls who take up sword fighting, at least not in his hometown so he thought you’d be sort of a novice. But your dexterity is beyond incredible, he can hardly see the tip of your sword. 

Three. “I am.”

You charge first by swinging your rapier at him from above, Minho receiving the clash with the flat of his blade. He circles away from you, keeping his sword in motion while constantly changing his stances and attacks. Rapiers aren’t very suitable for slashing or slicing since the blade is so long and thin, it can only allow its owner more speed, more precise stabs and thrusts but greatly lowers their defense. So if he can just catch you off guard…

When the tip of your sword grazes just above his clothed ribs, Minho’s reflexes kick in and his blade knocks yours away almost immediately. With the bewildered look on your face as a signal, he dodges as you attempt another stab at his left ear. This causes you to trip on your heels, your balance quivering the moment his sword slashes at the button of your cloak rather than your neck. To prevent yourself from falling, you jump and do a backflip safely, breath’s fraying as the piece of clothing is completely ditched by a tree. 

“You are strong, just like the rumors,” you breathe out a stoic comment, chest heaving up and down rapidly. 

“You aren’t too bad yourself either,” Minho grins; he hasn’t felt this much eagerness to fight someone other than monsters before. In other words, he’s never faced someone who knows what they’re doing with a sword as skilled as you are. 

You cock a brow at him, confused, “Why are you smiling?” 

“I don’t know, actually,” he shakes his head and hearty waves of laughter bubble up inside his stomach. The brunet sheaths his sword with a loud ‘clunk’, walking towards you to place a warm hand on your shoulder. “But good fight, you really know how to hold a sword.”

“Wait… aren’t we going to finish this?”

Minho picks up your cloak from the ground, outstretching his palm, “You seem like a person who knows what it takes so I don’t think that’d be necessary anymore. But I’d be glad to take you on again?”

This man is baffling you, and not in a good way either. Nonetheless, you still slide your sword back into its sheath and accept his handshake. “So you’re gonna leave that wolf alone right?”

“Only if you tell me what happened to it,” Minho replies firmly, receiving a nod of approval from you. He actually seems like a solid person. Perhaps you can trust him. 

“That’s my brother, Chan.”

three.

The forest hums with life all around you. You lift your head ever so slightly when the sunlight slips through the green leaves and branches, lighting up the dirt path ahead decorated with outgrown roots and wildflowers. You gaze up at the fluffs of clouds, searching for the birds that are singing sweetly. Minho trudges on before you a couple of steps, finding the natural fragrance of the current surroundings rather soothing. It’s making his eyes droopy.

“What happened to him again?”

He stretches his limbs tiredly and yawns like there’s no tomorrow, making you scrunch your nose in disapproval. He’s not even paying attention to you. It’s been at least an hour since you’ve mounted an unconscious Chan on your horse — Noir and accepted this cryptic stranger as your guide for now. You’ve never been to this forest more than once so it’s best if you follow him—an experienced individual in order to get your brother back safely. 

You frown at him, giving the back of his neck a firm slap while your other hand is holding onto the rein. “Ow, what was that for?!” he yelps. 

“You weren’t listening, were you?” 

“Remotely,” he hums out a reply, “I didn’t sleep that well last night.” And that’s when you notice the dark spots under his eyes, the occasional tears whenever he squints his eyes under the sunlight. The job’s more draining and demanding than you thought. 

To be fair, slaying monsters and getting your hands bloodied might not be the best thing to do to a degree of morality but you really can’t judge him when you’ve only known him for a few hours. Minho’s far younger than you’d expected too. You’ve had your strolls downtown from time to time with your fellow royal guards and it’s not hard for rumors to fly. People were gasping and bouncing on the balls of their feet talking about this mysterious swordsman who’s dressed completely in black, a single one-handed sword, no shield, and no armor. They really had you thinking he was an old man in his forties who has no regrets, just trying to get by in life no matter what it takes. 

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him charming the moment you saw that handsome face under the big cloak. 

“He was recovering from a business trip so our mage decided to treat him with a special potion,” you nibble on your bottom lip, looking over at your worn out brother sideway in concern. You’ve wrapped his injuries up with some of the cloth that you’d packed before leaving this morning, he should be fine. “I guess something went wrong; hence, he’s magically turned into a wolf, panicked and bolted out of the castle. And you know how cruel people can be sometimes…”

“Oh, sorry about that,” Minho feels a big lump in his throat when you secretly toss a glare at his direction. “I should have known something was off the moment he started bleeding red.” He shakes his head, highly disappointed in himself for mistaking Chan as a shadow wolf. His professional etiquette forbids him ever repeat the same mistake. 

You stop dead in your track, cocking your head at him in confusion, “What do you mean?” 

Wait, no, something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong. It can’t be that simple. “You’re still going to accept the job? I don’t think it’s worth the risk. He’s obviously setting you up.” His steps come to a halt, only a few feet away from you and before you can even tap him out of it, Minho snaps his head back, grabbing you by the shoulders. “Tell me, when you first entered the forest, did you encounter any wolves? Even just one?”

“N-No, I don’t think so,” you stutter, slightly flustered at the sudden decrease in proximity. But you soon shake the heat on your cheekbones away when he lets go of you, pacing back and forth to think hard about something. “Uhh- what are you-”

“Shh shh..”

“Did you just shush me-” The wind whistles in your ears and you stumble backward when Minho draws his sword, the blade coming in contact with something hard and deflecting it successfully. Your jaw is locked at the sight of an arrow sticking to a tree not very far off. That could have been your head instead...He just saved your life.

“Someone’s coming, take cover.”

Minho carefully tugs your horse over to a nearby slope when you hop off the main pathway, waving him over to a big tree. You both get down on one knee as the sound of armors crashing against each other grows louder, dreadful footsteps becoming more detectable. Swiftly, Minho notices the color of your bright blue cloak can easily be detected right through the bush and clicks his tongue in annoyance. He unbuttons his black coat, silently draping it over your smaller figure. For a second there, you widen your eyes at him but soon ensconcing yourself obediently under the leather fabric. 

Stepping into your vision are two familiar faces, Minho’s breath almost hitches in his throat when he realizes they’re clothed in the same blue and white uniform as yours. Both equally emitting the same hostility and mettle—as expected from the astute royal guards. 

“Hyun-”

You stagger backward when Minho clasps a firm hand over your mouth, shaking his head while you’re giving him a ‘what are you doing?’ look. The moment you manage to peel yourself away from his grip, your fellow colleagues are nowhere to be seen. They must be looking for you since you left the castle this morning without a proper announcement. “What was that about?! They’re my friends, now if you’d excuse me-”

“They aren’t the most trust-worthy people right now,” he lets out a sigh. “Think about it. They’re parts of the few people who could possibly see Chan the day before he turned into a wolf. And I’m sure the royal mage wouldn’t have such a reason to spike the commander of the guards. I don’t see how it’d benefit her if Chan was to take a break from his position. On the other hand…”

Is he accusing one of your friends of harming your brother? And for what too? A higher rank in the team? Preposterous! “Why would I trust you then, Black Swordsman?” 

Minho cringes inwardly at the nickname because good gracious, it’s so unoriginal. He’s heard about plenty of Black Swordsmen before during his wandering all over the Continent. They’re basically cryptic-looking swordsmen dressed in black...people really need to come up with more colorful monikers.

“Because I just saved your life from those people whom you called ‘friends’,” he blinks at you bluntly and the hand resting on the hilt of your sword tenses up. 

You take in a deep breath, slowly considering his deductions. It’s not like he doesn’t have a point but you don’t understand as to why Hyunjin or Changbin would want to overtake your brother, they’ve only become a part of the royal guards four years ago. You might not grow up together but after going on plenty of adventures and living in the palace, you’re practically family.

Still, humans are made of greed after all.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you exhale. “You’re going to help me figure this out for throwing a dart at Chan’s ear. But if you even think about hurting him or make a single move that prompts me to think you’re doing something behind our back, I’m going to tear out your spine with my bare hands.”

Minho chuckles at your threatening tone, slightly scared for his life, “There’s no need to worry, miss…” You raise a brow at him when he trails off rather flusteredly. “Ma’am? No- uh, vice commander? What about lady…”

“The name’s Y/N,” you can’t help but break into a fit of giggles, amused at his sudden discomposure. Seems like this man has been chit-chatting with monsters more than having civil conversations with other human beings for his whole life. “And would you get your hands off me now? We don’t have to hide anymore.”

His chest swells a bit at that if he’s being honest.

four.

“Aren’t we supposed to be at the castle?” Minho looks at the log house before his eyes questioningly. Not that he’s complaining, he doesn’t think it’s the best idea for him to show up in front of royalties either. 

You pull off your hood and say, “No, the royal mage doesn’t live there.” After a few knocks with your knuckles on the wooden door, hurried footsteps are audible from inside the house—whoever’s in there must be dying to see you, Minho thinks. 

“Yeji, how are y—“ The door flies open and a figure thrashes against you faster than a lightning bolt, their arms wrapped around your torso, rubbing your back tenderly. You’re slightly taken aback but smile nonetheless knowing that your friend was worried sick like she’s always been. “Hello to you too, stupid.”

This prompts Minho to avert his gaze away awkwardly, the grip on Noir’s reign tightening evidently and your horse lets out a small neigh, nudging her nose against his side like she’s attempting to appease him. He murmurs a small ‘thank you’, hand reaching upward to brush through her shiny black coat. Shaking his head, he snickers at himself for talking to a horse. 

Yeji mumbles against your neck in relief, like someone’s just lifted a weight off her shoulders, “Good gracious, Y/N! Are you okay? You just left without saying anything. Changbin and Hyunjin said they couldn’t find you in the woods and Chan’s gone missing for a few days now and I got so worried I-”

“Slow down, Yeji,” you give her a firm squeeze in reassurance, chuckling. “It’s barely been a day. I did manage to find Chan, surprisingly, thanks to Minho, well, partly.”

“Who’s Minho?” she pulls away to get a good look at the man standing next to your horse, eyes widening in surprise. Dressed in black, one-handed sword, no shield, and armor. “Is that the Black Swordsman? Like the Lee Minho? He’s the real thing?”

You grit through a stiff smile, “As real as it can get.”

“Huh, and I thought he’d be some old, balding man in his forties,” Yeji comments while eyeing the swordsman up and down, making him somewhat uncomfortable. “He knows how to use a sword, is young and quite the looker too. Ohh I see what’s going on here..”

You warn her with a clap on her forearm, “You’re embarrassing me in front of that jerk.”

However, she ignores you and pushes the door open, motioning for Minho to carry Chan inside. “Move quickly now, Black Swordsman, I suppose Chan’s condition must be critical, his heartbeat and the blood flow in his veins is increasing at an alarming speed.”

Minho looks around in awe when he steps into the log house—there’s not much for him to say about the house. Furniture is self-explanatory enough: a single bed, a comfortable chair made with what seems to be one of the finest materials, a wooden shelf above the fireplace with an array of potions with different shades and colors, windows completely covered with curtains. It’s not much, but it does feel homey. He would be able to find a place like this with ease if he hadn’t wasted all of his money into information dealing and weapons trading.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? The house, I mean.” 

Yeji’s question snaps him out of it. And he looks over at the table where Chan’s lying, immobile and his bronzed eyes droopy and his breaths mingling. There’s a strange, bright light pulsing from the mage’s fingertips when she hovers her palm over Chan’s bloodied ear. Minho watches as the light flickers from a shade of white to blue, enveloping the open wound and heals it completely. He meets Yeji’s eyes before she pulls her hand back, her eyes glowing gold before turning back into a deep brown. The art of magic is truly fascinating. 

Minho manages to blurt, slightly flustered, “What?”

“You said the house’s nice, I simply agreed with that statement for it is true,” she briskly reaches for a flask, inside holds a soft green-colored liquid with golden specks floating around. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he frowns at her when she brings the rim of the flask to Chan’s mouth, pouring the odd-looking liquid down his throat. 

You speak up from behind her, arms crossed in front of your chest, “Yeji, stop reading people’s mind that’s creepy.”

“Okay I’ve got everything I need for the potion that’ll manage to turn Chan back into his human form,” Yeji tells you while rummaging through her wooden cabinets filled with bottles after bottles, grabbing some along the way as she comes back to the table. “But I’m missing some crystals. And I’m not talking about those fake ones that you see at the stores, the ones I need are way towards the north, in Drachens Hohle, on the Restless Cliffs.”

Minho hums, brows knitted together, thinking rather thoroughly about this. “Drachens Hohle is pretty far off, it might take us an entire day to get there, and then another day climbing those cliffs...we might need to pass by a store of a friend of mine to pack some stuff since I suppose you won’t be returning to the castle anytime soon. We’ll get moving as soon as possible,” he mumbles and nods to himself, satisfied with the plan. 

“Let me just make one thing clear here, Black Swordsman…”

He screws his eyes shut when air suddenly gets ripped apart, only opening them slowly after and almost flinches at the tip of a dagger pointed directly at his nose; one wrong move and his eye will be gone. Minho doesn’t know what should startle him more—the blade gleaming with a bright shade of yellow or the dark look in Yeji’s eyes when he meets them. He’s seen Chaeryeong do it many times before—incorporating magic with weapons, to better the damage output while maintaining the defensive factors. 

“If you lay just one single finger on my friend, I'm going to turn you into a mere, pathetic, little sparrow and lock you in a cage along with other pieces in my collection.”

Minho panics, feeling nauseous at the thought, “What collection?”

The mage withdraws her knife and laughs it off, “I was messing around with you, there’s no collection. Look after her for me, she can be quite clumsy sometimes.”

“The clumsy one here is you,” you mumble bitterly in the corner, extremely embarrassed for the sake of your friend. You might as well dig a hole and bury yourself in it.

Unexpectedly, the wooden door is once again pushed open, two men barging into the log house abruptly. You and Yeji remain still in your current positions while Minho touches the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it. “Don’t bother, they’re friends,” you wave at him absentmindedly before pushing yourself off the chair, walking over to the front door. 

“Y/N, where have you been?!” 

“Hello to you too, Bin.”

Changbin pushes past Hyunjin and jabs his index finger at you, eyes filled with both rage and concern. “What were you thinking? If you’re going to find Chan, we’re going with you. We’re a team and he’s our brother too! Don’t you remember? That was an irresponsible and childish action to do, you’d better have a good explanation for this. If you’re going to do something, at least act your role in the team more properly.”

Hyunjin pulls him back by the arm, shaking his head, “Changbin, stop. There’s no point in arguing. What’s most important is she’s gotten back safely.”

You eye both of your teammates back and forth, skepticism and uncertainty rising from the pit of your stomach. If what Minho said was true, then the culprit must be one of them. Or was he lying to you, trying to mess with your mind in order to achieve a personal goal of some sort? After all, you’ve only met him today yet you’ve known Changbin and Hyunjin for years now, why would you even hesitate to choose your friends over a total stranger? 

“I wasn’t alone.” Changbin pauses at your words. “He was with me, this is-”

“Lee Minho.” You gape at your friend in disbelief. 

Minho’s hand pulls away from his sword, a strange glint flashes in his eyes for a moment there. “It’s good to see you’re doing well, Changbin,” he says with difficulties, clearly not knowing how to act. 

“Why were you with her?” Hostility washes over the atmosphere when Changbin croaks out, fists clenching in anger. “Y/N, what were you doing with a scumbag like him? Haven’t you heard enough rumors about this guy? People like him only care about themselves, they’ll just end up hurting you in the end. There’s no good in letting him stick around.”

When you squint your eyes at him, Changbin takes long strides towards you, grabbing your wrist and attempting to pull you away. “Yeji, please take care of Chan for the time meaning and we’ll be heading back to the castle. Y/N can’t just leave when we need her the most.“

Minho tugs you back towards him and voices firmly, “I’m sorry, but your vice commander belongs to me now. I’ll be responsible completely for her security and escort her with all my respects. You’ll simply have to make do without her for some days.”

Changbin lunges for Minho’s collar, anguish seething inside his chest. “Insolent bastard! On what basis do you think you have the right to protect her? You might not be a threat, but you’d better stop pretending to be a hero.”

“A hero? Like you?” He shouldn’t have said that. 

Hyunjin looks rather concerned, rubbing his friend’s shoulders, “Changbin, we should go.”

“Seo Changbin, Hwang Hyunjin,” you step in between them in disquiet, shoving Changbin away. “As vice commander of the royal guards, I will be coming with Lee Minho in the next few days on an important trip and I stand by my own decision. If my absence causes the team any trouble, I’ll be more than happy to receive the punishment from our superiors. You two are to return to the castle until further notice, continuing on with your service for the king and queen.”

“As we should,” Hyunjin smiles at you sweetly before walking over to Chan, giving the wolf a small pat on the head. In return, Chan lets out a displeased growl but it’s too small to notice. Minho watches the guard from afar, suspecting the strange glint in his eyes. He decides to say nothing about it.

“I’ve already warned you about him, don’t come crying for me when things go wrong.” With that, both of the royal guards excuse themselves out of the log house—Changbin shutting the door angrily after Hyunjin bidding you goodbye with a hug. This makes your heart heavy for not being able to trust them. You still don’t understand as to why, but you have a sudden faith in Minho, your intuitions are telling you that you should trust him. 

Softly, you ask, “You know Changbin?”

“He’s an old friend, we haven’t talked in a while,” Minho shifts uncomfortably in his chair, finding the topic rather awkward to talk about. “We didn’t get along that well back then either. Glad to see nothing has changed.”

You shouldn’t have asked him in the first place. 

five.

A wide variety of shops lined the streets of downtown Kalmburg: antique and art stalls, jewelry, and accessory shops, luxury boutiques, souvenir kiosks and stores selling leather goods, all showcasing an array of the finest wares in the area. Tourists flock to them like fireflies to a lamp, enthusiasm accentuating their features. The silvery melody of the drawl of sightseers and the strong, distinct accents of the locals drift through your ears as they amble by. 

You follow Minho to the very end of the streets with your cloak draped over Chan’s limp body. No one needs to know why there’s an unconscious wolf on the back of your horse. Alas, you both arrive in front of an old wooden door, the mahogany color fading as a result of time. He told you that he needed to pass by a friend’s place but doesn’t this place look a bit fishy-

“Five hundred units for ten bags of Philenor powder, and you’re good to go!”

A blond-haired boy peeks out from a client behind the counter. “Well if it isn’t my least favorite customer,” he voices cheerfully. 

“That’s because I’m smart enough to not buy any of your shit, Jisung,” Minho walks in with a grin, pitifully eyeing the dreadful-looking man who’s taking heavy strides out of the shop. He’ll learn someday. “Still running your greedy business as usual I see.”

The dealer named Jisung returns the sarcastic remark with a gummy smile, bumping his fist against Minho’s in a brotherly way. “Don’t speak so ill of me, will you? This greedy business is housing you,” he retorts, “I suppose you’re going to hog my place tonight as you always do, Black Swordsman?” So turns out he spends his night slumbers in this old crusty shop, no wonder people think he sleeps in the woods since they’ve never run into him outside of the town square before.  

“Actually, I won’t be in town for tonight,” Minho’s answer catches Jisung off guard. “I’m heading north, to the Restless Cliffs.”

“Another life-risking business trip huh. You’re going to need warm clothes, some supplement, and probably some medicine too,” Jisung hums to himself. “Hey, Felix! Get your butt over here and sharpen a sword!”

You detach your rapier from your belt and take a few steps forward before placing it onto the counter. “Uhh, can you perhaps do the same thing for my sword? I’m coming with him,” you try to appear as friendly, not wanting to startle him. 

But to your dismay, “Y-You’re one of the th-the royal guards!”

The younger boy looks over at you, utterly bewildered when he sees the emblem on your uniform. His eyes look like they’re about to pop out of their socket any second now. As if to fuel the fire, Minho jerks his head towards the direction of Noir, speaking casually, “Also, ask Chaeryeong to take care of the wolf and the horse for me. Tell her to be gentle too, the wolf is hurt and confused. Don’t let him drink potions that aren’t tested beforehand.”

“You brought injured animals to my shop?!”

“One more thing, I need to see Jeong-”

Jisung has to manually shut him up by swinging an arm over his neck, forcing his friend to tumble over the wooden counter, their cheeks pressed against each other. He’s practically spitting into Minho’s face at this point. “What in the world is an outcast, stubborn-headed of a loner like you doing out here with a royal guard?! Didn’t you say that having other people coming along would only get in the way? I thought you worked alone! What’s the deal man?”

“Ahaha, it’s a long story. You see-”

“Excuse my discourtesy for I haven’t introduced myself properly yet,” Jisung stops and averts his gaze over to you, soon letting go of Minho when you flash him a crooked smile. “My name is Y/N, second in command of the royal guards and I’ll be stuck with this dimwit for a while, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Jisung reciprocates your bow, the look in his eyes softening a bit, “And I’m Han Jisung, freelance dealer, single, I’m looking for a—“ Minho finds it irksome how his friend is already out and about, starting a proper conversation without almost getting killed by you so his fist moves on its own, jabbing against the blond’s stomach, forcing air out of his mouth with a low grunt. 

“Don’t mind him,” he turns sideways to reassure you, holding back the twitching muscles on his face. “He’s a decent person, despite how creepy he can be sometimes.” Jisung then elbows him harshly as a payback, making a scene when they start wrestling with each other like a bunch of toddlers. This makes you snort involuntarily, the Black Swordsman isn’t as fully-fledged as what’s been told around the public.

“Kids, that’s enough,” you tell them after making a grab for one of your pouches on Noir’s back. “Minho, why don’t you go meet up with the blacksmith? And Jisung, do you perhaps have a kitchen that I can borrow?”

While Minho’s mumbling something under his breath, hugging both of his and your sword to his chest to make his way behind the counter, Jisung nods at you, lifting a curtain next to a shelf full of weapons, gems, crystals, and potions that leads you down a dark, narrow hallway. “It’s not much,” he says and lights a candle so none of you would trip over each other. “But I hope it helps.”

“Don’t even, doing all of this for a stranger like me is incredibly generous of you,” you say humbly, not wanting to take anything for granted. “I’ll definitely return the favor when I come back.”

Jisung stops walking all of a sudden, causing you to almost bump into his back. “Is that so? Then, uhh…” he scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly. “How do I say this..? I know Minho can be irrational sometimes, loves pretending like he doesn’t care, and always runs into fire. So please..” His throat starts growing dry as he lowers his head a bit, attempting to bow at you.

“Take care of him for me, will you?”

You smile at the blond-haired boy, warmth flaring through your rib cage like butterflies, “I assure you he’s in good hands.”

six.

That night, you and Minho spend the whole night, the next morning, and the afternoon walking barefooted from Kalmburg to a small village at the base of the Restless Cliffs called Drachens Hohle. And it’s anything but Kalmburg. Rustic cabins dot the grassy hills as trees stand up like spikes, zigzagging the border of brick roads and unpolished homes. Rivers stream through deep valleys. The town is as complex as the heart, the streets are the veins, paved with red stones and the people are the heart. They look like they don’t own much, but are willing to share everything and anything. It’s the smiles on their faces, the way they greet each other, the sound of weapons and breastplates being pounded into shape that shows you just how alive this small community can be.

The motel Minho chooses looks like one of those places where men with beer guts would be snooping around with their neighbor’s wife, paying by the hour; a place where random hookers and drug-dealers would thrive. There are external wooden stairs that lead to a second floor, the second row of doors, that looks like the building inspector was either bribed to pass it or drunk on the job. You insist on finding a better place than this rat-hole but Minho said you don’t have to waste a couple of extra pennies just so the beds can be softer.

After dinner, you both receive your own keys before going upstairs to your respective rooms. A dingy place like this isn’t able to provide much when it comes to furniture anyway so there’s only a plain bed with pillows and a blanket, a nightstand with a pitch of water, and a small candle beside it. You sigh while casting your eyes around the room one last time. It’s just for one night.

“Y/N,” Minho gives your door a few knocks. “Are you asleep yet? I have something to tell you.”

You’re still halfway done with unpacking your stuff so you try to yell back without turning on your heels, “Not yet, just come in. I didn’t lock the door.”

He hums as a response before pushing against the wooden surface, closing it with a small ‘click’ after. “I just ran into the mayor downstairs,” Minho starts speaking and that’s when you finish putting your sword away, turning to look at him. And your cheeks inevitably grow hot since the first thing you have to lay your poor eyes on is his collarbones. This bastard really has the audacity to keep his buttons anywhere but a degree of appropriation. 

“Hey, focus,” he snaps his fingers as an attempt to knock you out of your trance, not noticing how he’s obviously the distraction. “It took an hour for him after rambling about his childhood and his love for the village to finally spill something about the kind of crystal that we need. At least pretend like you’re paying attention, will you?”

“I was paying attention,” you mumble loud enough for yourself to hear it. What a white lie. 

Minho quirks a brow and leans himself against the wall, looking amused, “Hmm, sure you did. Now, where were we? Ah! The mayor said those things aren't very hard to find, the only problem is that the field where they grow is right in front of a dragon’s den. No one has ever made it back in one piece. Chances are there might be other random monsters on the way…” 

Suddenly he stops talking, confusing you. “What’s wrong-“

The stiff look on his face seals your lips almost immediately. Faster than a lightning bolt, Minho turns the doorknob and rushes outside. “Who’s there?!” he snaps at the hooded figure running towards the end of the dark hallway, reaching for the sword on his back only to realize it’s not there. “Shit, this isn’t good.”

“Someone was eavesdropping. We’ve got ourselves a spy.” You close the door again after Minho walks inside, facepalming himself onto your bed dreadfully. 

He supports himself upward on his forearms and runs a hand through his hair, “Look, I’m not saying this because I’m doubting your abilities, I just want to guarantee your safety as much as I can. Their motives and patterns are getting pretty much unpredictable.” When he looks straight into your eyes with his warm, brown ones, your heart dips ever so gently. “Would you mind if I were to spend the night in your room?”

Your lips grow agape, your jaw almost drops to the floor. No one has ever asked to spend the night in the same room as you, not even Ryujin—your closest friend out of all the royal guards. Heck, you’ve barely known this man for a good three days yet why is it that your heart didn’t even hesitate? Are you scared? Most definitely not. Then what is it? What’s this weird, fuzzy feeling that’s been stirring inside your stomach for who knows how long?

“.....fine, but don’t try anything.”

Your heart is being weak again.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

You place your hands on either side of your hip when Minho comes back from his room with his pillows and blanket scattered all over the floor, organizing them neatly with his sword leaning against your nightstand. He flickers his eyes upward to look at your judgmental ones, slightly shaking from the cold and nervousness. “I’m getting comfortable?” he tells you, blinking innocently. 

Shaking your head at Minho, you snatch the pillow from his hands and situate it on your bed, right beside your own. “Hurry up now before I change my mind,” you decide after some time of consideration. The floor doesn’t look necessarily clean, and it’s not like Jisung would pack any extra clothes for him to change into. You’re just being nice like any normal, civil human being would. You’re sharing a bed with a stranger, nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Oh, I’m good,” Minho scratches his head with a sheepish smile. “The floor is fine for me.” Although the cheap material of the mattress does look more convincing than the hard, cement surface. 

You squint your eyes at him skeptically, “Are you sure?” He then puts his hands up in defeat as though you’re pointing a knife at his throat and motions for you to scoot over with a wave of his hand. You both shuffle around after he slips into the blanket with you, shifting until you’re facing the wall while Minho’s staring awkwardly at the front door. Well, this is kinda nice, he thinks to himself when your back brushes over his every now and then. 

“Uhh, sleep tight, I guess?” Minho says before leaning over the nightstand to blow out the candle. 

“Goodnight to you too,” you spew out your last words of the day, deciding to keep your lips close before you embarrass yourself any further. Okay...maybe one last thing before you completely pass out. “Uhm, Minho?”

He replies softly, “Yeah?” Seems like he can’t fall asleep either. 

Minho tosses himself over the moment you move your body and this causes your faces to be inches apart, his warm breath fanning your cheeks. Although you can’t see him clearly due to the limited source of light, those round eyes are definitely piercing right through you, leaving your heart pounding faster than usual. 

“Can you tell me…” you nibble on your bottom lip hesitantly. “What happened between you and Changbin? You guys weren’t being very civil for old friends.”

When he shifts slightly again to face the ceiling, his arm brushes against yours but he does nothing about it. He likes the lingering warmth from the tips of your fingers. 

You watch in awe as Minho stares up at nothing, broken bits of sadness floating softly inside his irises like an unwanted scar from his past; it’s tragically beautiful. “It was years ago when this whole monster hunting thing started,” he starts calmly, finding it hard to not look at you. “I wasn’t alone, Changbin was there with me too.”

Then, he continues, not knowing that you’re widening your eyes at him, “We were in an assault team, traveling all over the Continent and making a living out of slaying those creatures. We didn’t have much back then, but we had each other. Unfortunately, everyone has their own secrets despite our promise of not hiding anything from each other. Changbin was planning on leaving the group to go on a different path, and I...I would secretly sneak out alone every night, throwing myself into danger, thinking that I wasn’t good enough…Truth is, I was just being selfish.” His voice trails off, trembling as if each word pains him, like a thousand arrow wounds straight into his heart.

Bitter. Unforgiving. Pain. 

“I knew that I was lying to them, that I should just leave without saying anything,” Minho swallows hard like someone’s stepping on him, forcing air out of his lungs mercilessly. 

“But I never belonged anywhere, they were all that I had—my only family. I longed for that warmth, that feeling of being at ease so I just, I couldn’t leave. One day, we were hired to clear out a dungeon through an anonymous letter. It raised some skepticisms in my head since I’ve gone there before, there was nothing, no monsters, no nothing. Even so, I was held back by my own cowardice, I was afraid they might question me. I didn’t stop them when they accepted the job, it was good money.”

Your voice fails you when you open your mouth to say something, so you wordlessly slips your hand into his, hoping that you’ll be able to convey some of your heat to his cold fingers. As if feeling encouraged by your action, he doesn’t push you away and regains his composure. 

“Turns out, my intuitions were right, we got scammed,” Minho says. “A group full of criminals attacked, wanting to keep all of our money for their own. We cooperated and gave them everything, yet that wasn’t enough. They needed to seal our lips for good….Only Changbin and I made it out alive, three mobsters from the gang died under my blade that day. I confessed to Changbin later on, he didn’t forgive me. I couldn’t forgive myself either, the only family I’d ever have was gone, my arrogance and pride killed them.”

Silently, you pull him towards you, caressing the back of his head like he’s gonna fall apart the moment you let him go. Minho’s breath hitches in his throat as he sees you wear a smile on your face, your starry eyes twinkling when moonlight slips through the crack of the wood-lined window, pieces of glass chipping off on the edges. You’re breathtaking, unearthly. 

“I’m not going to die, I know that you’ll protect me just fine.” There’s a wide-eyed expression on his face, his lips falling open but his words die in his throat. A tear unknowingly rolls down on his cheek, consequently blurring his vision with waves of sadness that only the broken would encounter. You let him nuzzle his head into the crook of your neck, his fists grabbing at your shirt until his knuckles turn white. 

Minho cries into your chest unceasingly, “I don’t have any real strength. Without my sword, without the anonymity that has been casting terror and curiosity on people, I’m just Lee Minho, the coward who only ever knows how to run away and hide behind the shadow of the Black Swordsman. Changbin was right, I don’t have any right to even think about protecting you.”

“My father used to tell me,” you stroke his hair gently as choked sobs punch through him, pulling him back from the opening arms of his grief. “Strength is simply an illusion, there are far more important things.” 

He stops for a moment, nostalgia hurling him back to the memories of two decades ago when he was still just a boy, training hard with his wooden sword while someone watched him from afar, a pleased look lingering on their lips. Tears pool in his eyes again when that person’s face flashes inside his mind but the hollow space inside his heart isn’t the same, there’s a ray of joy that’s managed to make its way through a crack of his walls. 

“And I don’t care if you’re the Black Swordsman or not, I only know the cryptic-looking guy who crossed swords with me and wasn’t willing to back down that day. I knew, I just knew that even without a sword, you could have beaten me. Because fighting isn’t an obligation, it’s a choice. A choice whether you’re going to fight until the very end or not.”

His tears can’t extinguish what has happened, yet only carry him forward until a time comes when that searing pain is distant enough to forget rather than remembering. And maybe one day, it might erase itself from his conscience for good. So perhaps it’s not much of an oddity to thank the salty liquid streaming down on his cheekbones. They’re a living proof for his morality, a barrier to save him from becoming a monster—indifferent to suffering and sorrow. 

Minho sees the fatherly smile on his mentor’s face, just like the old days. And then he sees you through his blurred vision, momentarily breathless at how close you are. 

“After all, I have a promise to keep,” you tell him but it comes out more like a reminder for yourself. “I won’t let you die even when I’m no longer capable of picking up my sword and I mean it. As vice commander of the royal guards, you have my words, Lee Minho.”

An ignited desire wells up at the bottom of his heart, and it baffles him. Lee Minho, a coward who’s willing to turn his back on everyone just so he alone can exist. A bastard who betrayed his only friends, who didn’t even try to plead for forgiveness, who coldly walked away from those painful memories. Such a self-absorbed being like him doesn’t deserve a simple ally, let alone something much more intimate than that.

Then he starts to remember why he’s here, with you. Your smile. Your voice. Memories are flooding back into his head about this girl who made her way into his life abruptly yet so easily. And before he knows it, she’s all that’s on his mind. 

So instead of giving in to his nightmares like he would every other night, Minho stops reminiscing his bloodied past, surrendering under the sense of familiarity radiating off your touch.

seven.

You both stand in awe as the great mountains loom before your eyes, cold grey crevices holding the blood of the fallen. While the lower passes wear a cloak of greenery, the peaks are crowned with a headdress of ice. As though the earth has a pulse, it rises through the mountains, creating their bold silhouette. From carved rocky outcrops, waterfalls drifting like skeins of white lawn, and in the fields, you can see the amber glint of the rivers and the occasional mirror-like flash of the lake. 

The mountains soar upward like they wish to plant a soft kiss on heaven, wanting to have a taste of the horizon all around. The path ahead winds as effortlessly as a blanket laid on a bed, yet each step feels heavier than the previous one, draining your energy. It only gets steeper and narrower as you make your way closer to the top, but giving up is not an option. You’re willing to go to the other side of the world barefooted, searching for every corner, every edge of this planet if it means bringing your brother back. 

A gust of wind howls in the distance, piling up snow in drifts, blinding your eyesight with ice-white dust. You try walking, bending over against the cold, protecting your eyes with your clothed forearms. Everything looms into your vision before vanishing completely, swallowed in white. “Minho?” you call out to him after a few minutes of not looking forward, waving one of your hands around until it can feel something. 

Another hand reaches for yours, and you snap out of your daze when the coldness on the tips of his fingers is clasped against your palm. “You’re as slow as a baby turtle,” he comments lamely while staring ahead, not letting you see the coral shade scattered across his cheeks. “Let’s just hurry up and get back, I’m hungry.” 

Breath pale against the numbing air, you blink thoughtfully while gazing down at the sight of his fingers being intertwined with yours as the frost patiently kisses your face. He’s still wearing the same old pair of fingerless gloves, no wonder his hands are freezing. But you suppose it’s because he doesn’t want the grip on his sword to slip. 

“Oh, I actually have something for us to eat,” you retract your hand to fish it inside your bag, already missing his warmth. “I guess we should have lunch, either way, we’ve been walking before the sun even rose.”

Minho makes a noise of confusion before bringing his steps to a halt, turning his head to see you pull out something being wrapped neatly in paper, giving it a slight jerk towards his direction when he continues to stare at you blankly. Wordlessly, he takes it and sighs, eyes widening when the smell of grilled meat invaded his nostrils. Inside the wrapper is a sandwich made from thinly sliced bread, generously stuffed with meat and vegetables. The peppery aroma inevitably makes his stomach rumble and without another word, Minho chomps on his lunch portion like a hungry child; the sandwich is long gone before he realizes it. 

“It’s...good,” he licks his lips to clean up the remaining sauce in the corners of his mouth. It doesn’t look any different from the ones he’s seen inside restaurants but the taste is what reminds him of something he ate as a kid, he almost teared up while inhaling it. “Where did you buy this? I’ll make sure to pass by the place when we get back.”

“I didn’t buy it,” you stride ahead of him to hide the giddiness in your stomach. “I made it yesterday at Jisung’s place. That’s why the bread got a little soggy if you couldn’t tell already.”

Minho fixes his collar and his hearty laughs echoes through your eardrums, stirring up feelings inside your stomach unabating. “You would make a fortune out of these,” he tells you while trying to catch up, following your steps in a hassle. “But now that I‘m thinking about it again, you shouldn’t do that, I’d hate to see people getting to enjoy the same food as me with some cheap units.”

You blush (out of anger) at his statement and attempt to cover it up by stepping onto his toes. This causes him to yelp while stumbling backward, almost falling onto his bottom. “Why did you feel the need to do that?!”

“I can just make you more if you like it that much, you jerk,” you murmur mostly to yourself but he hears it nonetheless. 

A smile makes its way to his lips, and a fuzzy feeling bubbles up inside his stomach. He’s not sure what it is, but he’s not complaining, really. It’d be nice if he could have the same delicious meals when he’d retired, dozing off while watching the sunset with his significant other and his own kids in his arms. It’d be nice if he could have a place to come back to when he needs a break, a shoulder to lean on and someone to tuck him into bed. It’d be nice if… He looks at you again after those shameless thoughts and immediately, embarrassment dusts his cheeks pink. His face feels hot despite the puffs of cold air escaping his lips. 

“Hey,” Minho pulls you to a stop by the hand, suddenly giving it a squeeze. “I just wanted to say thank you…” A glint of anticipation gleams in your gaze when you both lock eyes, prompting him to look away. “Thank you, for...the meal, it was nice. I might as well bother you a little longer to eat more good food.” Lee Minho you coward. 

“Do you only think about your stomach?“ you almost gawk at him, raising your hand to give him a slap in the face but Minho grabs your hand before you can do so. The next thing you know, his other hand is on the top of your head, ruffling your hair in a playful manner. 

He tells you and trudges on, grinning to himself, “Let’s get moving, we’re wasting time.”

“....Minho?”

“Hmm?” he turns around with a lovesick smile on his face but that’s not what you’re paying attention to.

“You might want to look out for that…”

“For what-“ 

Minho swallows heavily when he sees an enormous figure overhanging his shadow on the white snow. Slowly, his gaze follows the sound of faint yet sturdy footsteps and he holds his breath, eyes twice as white as before. 

“Just to be clear…” he asks breathlessly. “Dragons are nocturnal, right?”

“Correct,” you subconsciously take a step back. “And we might have woken it up.”

Minho takes notice in the thick stripe of black streaking down on one of its claws, and his face morphs into a frown when his surroundings reek off the smell of fresh blood. “No, someone else did.”

The dragon’s scales gleam dashingly in the sunlight, they are its pride and delight, violet streaks blending into a deep blue at the end. Its teeth so cold and sharp like icicles, they can easily rip any armors into mere ribbons of skin and bones. In its chest holds a hearth of ever flickering flame although the remorseless heart remains rime. Eyes with a shade of crimson as deep as the liquid that’s coursing through your veins, nourishing you; those eyes are seemingly endless pools of wisdom and intelligence.

But once those red pupils dilate and focus on the two mundane mortals before themselves, a glint of gold is suddenly evident, almost alarmed. The dragon takes off into the air with its wings stretched leathery like a bat, sending a small snowstorm flying towards the both of you. Minho squints his eyes hard while you’re shielding your vision with your forearms, coats fluttering as wind whistles into your ears.

Minho calmly takes a step forward, flashing you a smile sideways. What is he doing? 

Then, he spares you one last glance before drawing his sword. As though triggered by the sound of metal scraping against the leather sheath, the dragon flaps its majestic wings and inhales, heaps of glowing embers come swirling in midair, twirling towards Minho with a fiery dance. He’s just simply there, feet planted firmly on the ground as though challenging the creature’s deadly breath. 

“Minho, what are you doing?!” you yell at him, trying to keep your balance as the ground begins to tremble. “Get out of there!!”

Pretending not to listen to your warnings, Minho gets into his stance, blade angling low with his knees. What happens next downright baffles you. The blade of his sword glimmers with a shade of purple, his feet taking off towards the plume of fire that soon engulfs his figure completely in your vision. 

You squeeze your eyes shut not just because of the heat but also because you can’t bring yourself to see it. Once the air around you cools off, your eyes flutter open again to see Minho angling his head over his shoulder, throwing you a wink in the process. Did he just counter a dragon’s breath with his sword?

“Chaeryeong taught me that. Neat trick, isn’t it?” he says with a grin while you’re blinking at him in utter shock; he looks almost proud of successfully deflecting that breath attack. “I use magic more often than you’d think. Nothing major, only the basic things. Enough to keep me alive.”

“I still think we need to run first.”

Minho looks at you dejectedly, “Don’t you have a better plan?”

With a howl as loud as any sky-born thunder, the dragon flaps its wings more vigorously this time, flinging the layer of snow under your feet into a blizzard—a swirling storm of screaming silver, a primal force than conquers until its core explodes. Everything around you is almost white-out as you bat your hands around helplessly in the middle of this snowstorm. After a while, you can no longer feel your legs, it���s like the storm just sweeps you off your feet. You’re not sure if it’s because of the cold or-

What the…?

You widen your eyes in a panic; you’re falling. Your perception of time distorts, your surroundings slow down until there’s nothing, only you, the sky above, and a hole that’s only a few hundred feet away from where you were standing previously. Your hand reaches out to the canvas above, grasping the endless crevasse of blue. 

Everything’s a blur, a blur that swirls out of existence. Suspended in the air for a few seconds, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, letting your tense muscles relax. You won’t die from the fall since there’s a likelihood that snow’s already covered the pit. But you can’t just let yourself fall freely, that would cause minor, unnecessary injuries. So you reach for your sword, planning to jab it against the rocky surface as an attempt to go against gravity. 

Once the metal comes in contact with the side of the pit, tiny flares of fire flutter in the air as if the sword is being sharpened by a blacksmith, an ear-piercing sound hisses against your eardrums. The stab is strong enough to slow gravity down from pulling you downward any faster but it’s not enough to make you stop completely. 

Chan, you think while screwing your eyes shut, every cell inside your body is shaking, every muscle is aching. You can’t give up now, not when you’re still in one piece, and Chan’s hanging on the edge of not getting his old life back. You can’t give up not knowing who’s the culprit, not just yet. 

And you’d rather be cursed than making out of this place alive and leaving Minho behind. Your conscience won’t ever forgive you. 

When that thought crosses your mind, you grit your teeth and suddenly the sword stops sliding down, leaving you dangling midair on one arm. The rapier is too slender, it won’t hold on for long, and it’s not like you can climb all the way up to the top. 

A mighty, fearsome roar blares through your brain like wildfire so you flutter your eyes upward to see the dragon with its wings folded on both sides, diving at an immaculate speed into the hole, in your direction. 

There’s my ride. 

eight.

Once the blizzard settles down, the setting sun comes with a sky of fire, the orange of every wintry hearth. The color stretches far and wide along the horizon like a reflection of the dawn that comes after the velvety night. 

That’s when Minho sees them. 

The crystals have grown as something alive may do, thriving over the ages, through many generations. As such they become a rainbow sea made of perfect rocks, the shoreline ever-present and still with colors that shine in the brilliant light of a richness that only nature can bring. Minho might feel bad when he snaps off a piece, it’s like cutting a single, healthy rose in the middle of the thorny garden. But if it’s for Chan, he’s certain that you’d do anything at any cost. 

Minho sheaths his sword and sighs, turning around, “Y/N are you okay?” All that he’s met with is a muffled silence, the cold wind whistling into his ears, the hollow space before his eyes white-out and empty.

“Y/N?” Nothing. 

“Y/N!!” No one answers. “Y/N!!!”

No, he lets out a choked whimper. No, no, no.

His legs tremble inside his boots, his lips quivering, his fists clenched, his fingers turning cold. And the thing that terrifies him most? His heart feels like someone is grasping on it so tightly as though they’re going to crush it with their bare hands. 

A seed of fear suddenly grows inside his rib cage, thriving at an abrupt pace, branching out, gripping onto every cell, every muscle inside his body. He can’t breathe. This can’t be it, he tells himself, tumbling backward a bit. He promised not to let this happen. He swore. Yet his biggest nightmare is only one step away from becoming a reality. 

Minho wants to cry your name aloud over and over again until his vocal cords are torn apart, he wants to be vulnerable for once and let himself fall. How is he going to face Chan? And Changbin? And his own conscience? He might as well run his own sword through his heart because what would be the point in living if you’re no longer here?

All of this was a grave mistake. If only he didn’t throw the dart. If only you didn’t come with him. None of this would have happened. None of this would have happened if he didn’t accept that damned offer. He could have easily flipped you off the second that duel was finished and gone on this trip by himself. And face the scythe of Death alone, by himself, like he always does. He should have died alone, he deserves to die alone. 

But this time, he didn’t make the right decision and the consequences are horrendous. He gave in because of your stubbornness, your determination, your bossy nature. He let you in and his walls came down tumbling one by one, his stern and trained facade shredded into pieces. His head is a mess whenever he sees your smile, his heart can permit you to tread on his boring life. And because of those merely unguarded moments, he’s killed another person that he truly cares about other than himself.

Wait, something clicks inside his head. He almost forgets the most important thing of all. The culprit. 

Minho regains his composure and snaps his head back towards the crystals. The sun might be going down but its limited source of light is more than adequate to cast a shadow onto the snowy white surface. The shadow of a person, a person that’s not you. The shadow that sets a silent inferno inside his chest, the flame spreading by the ticking second. 

“I have been waiting for you,” he turns on his heels, reaching for the hilt of his sword. “Hwang Hyunjin.”

The shadow visibly flinches before stepping out, a hand outstretching from the black cloak to pull down the hood. When Hyunjin’s face comes into view, Minho’s muscles tense up, anguish making his head a little dizzy. But he maintains his cold front, not letting his opponent see how much this is affecting him. 

“I’ve got a feeling that you’d already figured it out the moment I visited the cabin,” Hyunjin says slyly, his facial expression rather relaxed. “And I was so close to silencing you little errand boy for good too, but I’ll admit, the little brat is well trained, he ran off before I could catch him. So tell me, Black Swordsman, where did I slip?”

“Your eyes,” Minho grits. “They weren’t staring at Chan with what’s supposed to be concern or relief. You were looking at him like a predator watching its prey from afar. If I weren’t keeping an eye on you, who knows what you would have done to him. He didn’t sound pleased when you touched him either.”

Hyunjin drops his cloak to the ground, laughing under his breath, “You are sharper than I’d expected.” He takes a few steps closer forward, craning his neck tiredly before drawing his sword, causing Minho to do the same. “Now, now, vice commander, an innocent man is about to be killed because of you.”

Minho can only snicker at the statement, “I’m not planning on going down easily.”

“So am I,” Hyunjin gets ready in his stance, glaring at his opponent. “I wasn’t really planning on dealing with you. I would rather end her and let you take the blame. Actually, that sounds like a better plan! Don’t you agree? No one would put their trust in you—a low, damned being who lives off the upper classes’ bloodied pennies.”

With his blood boiling hot, Minho inhales and exhales deeply to keep his voice calm. “End her?” he repeats after the guard. End her. Hyunjin hasn’t made a single move yet he feels like someone just stabbed him in the gut. How could he?! You trusted Hyunjin, you went through so much with him, you trained him. And now he’s just going to turn around and bite the hand that fed him? Traitor. “Over my dead body.” 

Hyunjin lunges forward, his feet sprinting quickly and he brings his blade up from a lower angle while Minho attempts to clash him from the head down. Both of their swords get knocked away on different sides from the harsh contact. Before Hyunjin can raise his weapon again, Minho sword slices at him sideways but he luckily deflects it in time—the reflexes and muscle memories from his training are kicking in. 

“Why are you doing this? Aren’t you her friend?”

Minho’s sword aims for his head once again; however, Hyunjin steps to the side and makes a grab for his hand, holding his weapon down. This makes Minho lose his balance for a few seconds while Hyunjin tries to cleave his neck. He stumbles on his heels at the last second, only getting away with a small cut on his cheekbone. The pain isn’t even there, he’s been beaten up ten times worse before, this is nothing. He’s practically numb by now. 

“Friend?” Hyunjin drags his sword against the ground before bringing it up to stop a slash at his chest, throwing snow into Minho’s eyes. He groans agonizingly when the white matters’ coldness burns his skin, blurring his vision. “She and Chan only care about themselves! They are the ones who get all the praises and recognition after a mission. Little rumps like me and Changbin?”

He angrily tightens the grip on his weapon, dragging a long slice downward, “We didn’t have any title, we’re merely just two faces amongst a hundred of the other guards. We get treated like we don’t even exist!”

“Did Y/N ever treat you that way? And Chan too?” Minho heaves after dodging the blow by rolling on the ground. He’s circling around the guard, trying to keep his mind clear. “From what I’ve seen, she seems to care about you and Changbin as much as she does about her brother. 

Hyunjin swings his sword at him, and Minho receives the hit with the edge of his blade. The sound of metal scraping against each other is pricking at his eardrums but he can care less, he won’t be dying today. “So you can break my soul,” Minho pants before both of them stagger backward, switching their initial position. “Take everything away from me.”

“Beat me up.” Another blocked blow. 

“Tear me into pieces.” Anger almost tears through his mind again. Anger towards Hyunjin for betraying Chan, you, and his entire team. Anger for falling into his trap. Anger for not being able to keep you safe. He wishes he could just unleash all of his hatred and rage on the guard. But what can he do? He’s one to blame too, after all. 

“Or kill me, even.”

Hyunjin catches up to Minho when he starts sprinting away to regain his vision, the two of them running side by side, in between the lined up crystals. Thrusting his sword at Minho in various directions, Hyunjin’s stabs are getting messy because of the limited amount of space. 

“But I will tell you something, you’d better listen to me and listen to me for good.” Minho’s sword strikes at him but he blocks it in time, their faces inches apart and their weapons threatening to snap each other into half. 

“Touch Y/N.” A low grunt escapes Hyunjin’s lips when Minho jabs his fist against his stomach, forcing air out from his lungs. “And I am going to give you a taste of hell. I have been there before, and you know what? You would be begging me for a painless death by then.”

When the guard falls onto his knees, his weapon dropping by his side with a loud clangor, Minho directs the tip of his sword on top of Hyunjin’s head. “Think about it again, do you think that all of this is really worth it?”

A sinister laugh echoed through his ears and Minho’s eyes grow alarmed when the blood trickled down on his cheek starts to harden a little. No, something’s wrong. “You spoke too soon,” Hyunjin tells him with a devilish tone, the corners of his lips being tugged up into a smirk. 

What is this? On the tip of his fingers reveals a dark shade of blue, it almost reminds him of the royal guards��� uniform. Suddenly his body collapses, he can’t feel his muscles, he can do nothing. His sword is so far away from his grip, he can’t even move his fingers. Paralytic poison. “You bastard!”

Hyunjin pushes himself off the ground, holding his sword by the hilt when the tip is faced downward. “I suppose this is the end. Our encounter is rather short but it was a pleasure to cross swords with the infamous Black Swordsman,” he raises it, chuckling. “Goodbye, Lee Minho.”

Minho locks his jaw, his muscles tense but he can’t move, his eyes are shut while he braces himself for the contact. But it never comes. A growl as loud and frightening as a clap of thunder rumbles through the sky and that’s when Minho opens his eyes to see the shadow of a dragon flying not too high above. Next thing he knows, a figure jumps off, falling rapidly like a lightning bolt. 

Your foot slams onto Hyunjin’s shoulder, causing him to fall back while you land on the ground safely. Before he can register the situation, your rapier is drawn to yank his long sword away. “Hyunjin?” you grit with tears brimming in your eyes. “Why?”

Hyunjin doesn’t respond, instead, he takes a few strides towards you wordlessly. You don’t raise your weapon nor retreat it, simply keeping it limp by your side. But he lifts the blade of your sword with his hands and swiftly runs it through his stomach, blood splattering everywhere. His arms are weak, yet he still tries to put one of them around your back, pulling you closer and leaning his head on your shoulder. “Congratulations, vice commander,” he taunts into your ear. 

“You’re a murderer.”

nine.

Chan finds himself waking up on a plain bed, a white blanket draped over him, and a cold towel on his head. All the mayhem from the past week comes crashing down on him like a tsunami, banging against his temple. He tries to push himself up but his limbs are too wobbly—it feels foreign, it’s like he’s inside someone else’s body and not his own. With every move, his head pulses in agony, and his muscles ache.

The pain stops when he sees you sleeping soundly against his bed, your head rested on your forearms. Another figure is present too, on the couch staring blankly at the flickering fireplace. Opening his mouth to speak, Chan scrunches his nose in pain as he accidentally strains his vocal cords but no words come out, only incoherent sounds. 

“...Chan?” you rub the sleep away from your eyes, yawning tiredly. 

“Ah..ah..ah,” Chan can only lift his arms, calling out to you in desperation. His eyes grow stingy at the sound of your voice and before he knows it, tears are already rolling down in his cheeks relentlessly. 

“Chan, it’s alright,” you hush him softly, slipping your arms around him and holding him tight. “Everything’s fine now, you’re safe. You’ve done enough.” You bury your face into the crook of his neck, that way he won’t be able to see your glassy eyes. This isn’t the time to cry in front of him. 

The door closes with a sharp thud.

Chan only convinces himself that he’s still alive, and back to his human form, not being buried six feet under the ground somewhere when your fingers graze the dull lines that his tears leave behind. A sense of relief washes over him the moment he sees your smile, though insomnia has been carved into your features over time. You’re safe, he closes his eyes. You’re not hurt. 

That’s all that matters. 

“Wait for me here, I’ll call Yeji in,” you give his hands one last squeeze. Chan pulls you back for a second there, a faint frown adorns his face. “Just leave the rest to me, we’re going to be alright.” 

With Chan’s weak smile as an approval, you dash outside, finding Minho standing like a soulless being at the front door of the cabin. He can’t bring himself to face you after what he did. His body is tired, his mind is a mess, and his heart is filled with sorrow. Even his sword seems too heavy for his existence, it’s weighing him down, making him not be able to move. 

“This was all my fault, wasn’t it?”

You don’t answer him and instead outstretch your hand, letting your fingers tug at the sheath of his sword. “Minho, it’s no one’s fault,” you mumble with your head hung low. “I dragged you into this. If anything, I’m the one to blame.”

“No!” His sudden outburst makes you flinch; hence you pull your hand back with a wide-eyed expression on your face. “If I hadn’t thrown that dart, we wouldn’t have met. If you hadn’t followed me on the trip, nothing would have happened! None of this would have happened! You almost died back there, Y/N. Do you know how much it scared me?”

“So you’re just going to leave me like this?” you raise your voice, trying not to snap at him. “After everything, you’re still going to turn away from me? Just like how you did to everyone else?”

“I-“ 

“Lee Minho, if you claimed to care about me so much-”

“I should stay away from you, I will only cause you more trouble. Even worse, I will get you in danger. I won’t forgive myself if anything happens to you.” His heart clenches at his own words as his shoulders shake, arms tense on his sides. 

You reach for his hand, and huff in determination, “Stick to your words and protect me then.”

ten.

It’s been a week since the incident happened. Hyunjin has managed to live after the fight, yet he wants to keep his lips sealed for a while as to why he intended to harm the commander of his team in the first place. For now, he’s being kept in the dungeon while the king and queen permit you to do whatever. After all, he didn’t cause the kingdom any trouble. And if you were being honest, you would forgive Hyunjin without a second thought just so things can be normal again. It’s not as easy as you’d hoped. 

Minho, on the other hand, has been praised tremendously by everyone in court for what he did. His name has been cleansed and every flighty rumor or gossip about him has been cleared out. He doesn’t like this at all, journalists are starting to snoop around Jisung’s place, leaving him no choice but to stay at Yeji’s log house for some time. His reputation was what used to keep him safe, now everything’s being flipped upside down. 

He stares at his own reflection in the mirror from across the room. Minho can’t tell if it’s because he’s only worn the color black for the longest time or he’s being irrational, but he thinks the white loose shirt and matching pants that the mage brought back last night from the castle just don’t look right. Is his own moniker messing with his head? Probably. 

Glancing sideways to catch a glimpse of his sword on his bed, he exhales dejectedly. I look like a joke, Minho thinks to himself. 

“I never knew the Black Swordsman would look this dashing in white,” Chan enters his room with a dimpled smile on his face, Changbin following him suit. He’s recovering from the past week of living his life as a wolf, it’s still quite hard for Chan to walk so Yeji forced him to use a wheelchair for the time being. 

“Don’t you guys have any clothes that aren’t so flashy?” Minho cracks a crooked smile, feeling unfamiliar being dressed in such a bright color. “I look ridiculous.”

Chan chuckles wholeheartedly and shakes his head, “Actually, that’s one of our less flashy ones. Don’t worry, you look great.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” Minho’s question isn’t necessarily directed towards Chan, but rather the person standing behind him. “If you want to curse me for the things I’ve done, then fine, I accept it. I will leave Kalmburg and move to the other side of the Continent. You’ll never have to see me again.”

Changbin steps forward, and with a deep breath, he says, “Thank you, Minho.” 

Minho can’t believe his ears, did he just—

“Thank you,” Changbin says again; this time more firmly, and the look in his eyes softening. In those brown orbs, Minho can once again see the look he used to be met with five years ago, no hatred or anger, just warmth. He missed this. A ‘thank you’ has never sounded so nerve-calming before. It’s genuine, it’s real. Heartwarming, almost. 

“When you told me that you would protect her,” Changbin continues, gaze cast downward. “I almost believed you, I knew you weren’t lying. It felt like that day after we both got out of the dungeon all over again. My anger always got the best of me and I just burst. I never gave you the chance to explain yourself, I never got to know your reasons. I am sorry because I didn’t care about you enough, as a friend.”

“I am sorry too,” Minho rises from his seat on the bed, suppressing the happiness inside his ribcage. “I’m sorry I bailed on you that day, I think about it all the time.”

He pauses for a moment and sees Changbin outstretching his hand, the familiar broad smile dancing on his lips. Minho accepts his friend’s warm handshake and reciprocates his grin. “You’d better stay alive first before apologizing.”

Minho widens his eyes, “Of course I am alive!”

“No, I mean,” Changbin waves his hand dismissively. “I was going to ask you to join us since there’s a good chance that His Majesty won’t turn you down, but then I’d figure, you’re too reckless for us to handle either way. So if you’re planning on going out here and throwing yourself at monsters, you’d better stay safe or I wouldn’t forgive you again. And Y/N would never forgive herself.”

Chan eyes the small box sitting neatly on Minho’s nightstand, and teases, “Speaking of Y/N, when will you tell her?”

Minho scratches the nape of his neck with glowing cheeks, he can physically feel the pink tint darkening by the second. “I don’t know, but soon. I still need to have his permission first,” he leans over to take the box in his palm, opening it carefully. 

The sight of the silver band resting nicely inside makes his chest swell, his beating heart doing its best to not implode from joy. It might be too early, but he’s scared that if he doesn’t do this now, fate is going to be one step ahead and take you away from him forever. 

“Minho!” Yeji calls out to him from behind the door. “Y/N’s here!”

“I wish the best of luck for you then,” Chan tosses a wink in his direction.

eleven.

“No one asked you to come, Han.” Is the first thing Minho spats out when he closes the front door with his bag slung over his shoulder. Jisung’s welcoming grin falls flat on his face at his friend’s cold remark. He really should have got used to these things by now. 

“I did,” you tell him with crossed arms, releasing your grip on Noir’s reign. “Yeji said she’s running low on some herbs so I introduced her to Jisung’s place.”

Minho rolls his eyes to the moon. “Aren’t there more trust-worthy stores for the royal mage? Why would you refer her to that dingy dumpster?” And this statement prompts Jisung to give his knee a harsh kick followed by a mere glare from the younger boy. 

“I actually like his place, it’s cute,” you scoff. He’s just acting out since Jisung always shows up unannounced. 

“Why? It’s a rip-off.”

“Minho, you were living there for free!”

“I’m going to leave you two love birds alone now,” Jisung pushes past you to shoot Minho a mischievous smirk, patting his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything weird to her or Chan is going to cut your arms off.” Actually, you’re fully capable of cutting his arms off yourself if he dared think about doing something damned. The swordsmanship runs in the family after all. 

Your face morphs into a frown when Jisung finally enters the cabin, your head tilted to the side in confusion. “What is he talking about?” you ask but brush it off nonetheless; it’s Jisung, you can’t expect anything less from him. “Forget it, are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Minho answers while petting Noir, your horse nudges her nose against his face in return—she’s always been keen on seeing him since day one. “How is your father these days? Last time I’d asked, you told me that he’d retired.”

You nod, resting your palm on the hilt of your sword, “He’s good. He said he’s already too old to train soldiers and he’d rather stay at home. Though he’s getting bored these days since there’s not much to do anymore. He’ll find a new hobby soon enough, he will need to take a break from everything eventually. Father has never let himself rest after our mother passed away, constant work distracts him.”

Minho hears you let out a small sigh and takes another step, his hands finding their way towards yours, collecting your fingers between his, giving them a firm squeeze. 

You give in after a few moments to face him completely, concern is flashing in his eyes while a small smile blooms on his lips. He looks a little tired, probably didn’t get any sleep for the past few days while you’re resolving all the problems in court. Minho never fails to stun you nonetheless, from the curve of his lips to the fullness of his eyelashes and the adoration in his warm eyes for you and only you; they make you feel at ease. 

“Like father, like daughter,” he brushes a strand of hair away from your face and jokes. “You’d better be eating well and getting enough sleep, vice commander.”

You snicker, “Speak for yourself, Black Swordsman, you look terrible.” That’s a lie, he looks absolutely wondrous it’s unfair. 

“I like this color on you,” you giggle after noticing his appearance today. They really don’t have any dark-colored pieces of clothing in the castle. “Look, we’re matching. You’re just not matching with your sword anymore.”

“Y/N.” The merry tone in his voice suddenly drops and Minho looks away, his muscles loosening. “Can I ask you something? But I don’t want you to get mad at me.”

You’re suddenly worried. “What’s wrong?”

“On the day that the incident happened….,” he trails off nervously. “Why didn’t you run away? You could have just left me there and got home safely. There will always be another way to help Chan. The chances of surviving that fight were too slim, there’s no telling what would happen. Why would you—”

“Lee Minho, are you even hearing yourself right now?” you cup his cheeks so that he’ll look at you. “Are you assuming I’m some sort of lowly being who will run away while their partner is in danger? I’d rather die with someone than let that person die in front of my eyes. Especially when it’s you! I would never forgive myself if I ever did that to you. So why are you saying such things?”

Minho reaches for your hand and melts into your touch, exhaling heavily. 

“I don’t know...I’m sorry I think I’m losing my mind. After everything, I’m scared that I might lose you. All I want to do is run away with you, from all of this, from everything. We can live together in someplace far away, where no one can find us,” he clenches his eyes shut. 

“I just- I don’t want you to be in love with someone who always has hell hanging by his doorstep, who gets his hands bloodied for a living, who—“

You place your index finger on his lips and shake your head. “Do you even know who I am in love with? Hm?” you question. 

“I’m in love with the most caring, kindhearted man that the world could ever ask for. Whose heart is so warm and fragile, he’s afraid to let anyone in because of his tough past. Whose will is so unwavering he didn’t even think twice about fighting off a dragon alone. But what makes me fall so stupidly for him, is the fact that despite his wounds and scars, he’d always prioritize other people’s needs before his own. Because he’d rather believe and regret than doubt and regret.”

“Y-You’re in love with me?” he studies your delicate feature in the daylight, his heart going on a rampage. 

You chuckle to yourself, “Yes, more than I should be because you’re a pain in the-“

Minho presses his lips against yours and inhales every word, sealing the nagging in until you respond to the kiss. Your hands find their way up to his soft hair, weaving themselves into the dark locks and dropping to caress his face after. He latches his arms around your waist, pulling your body flush against his so he can have more control of your movements. You’re drowning in his existence as he tugs and nibs at your bottom lip, trailing small kisses down your jawline before pulling away completely. 

“I guess this means you’re in love with me too?” you ask to distract yourself from the heat that’s flaring through your nostrils, setting your heart on fire. 

Your question has him stop for less than a moment, realizing that maybe he is in love with you as much as you are with him. And maybe you want him just as much as he wants you too. 

 He nods curtly, breath shaking, “Yes, yes I am.”

For the longest time, Minho used to forbid himself to cry, smile, and laugh like any sane human being would, as he thinks expressing his emotions is being strong, is protecting himself. But in reality, he’s just running away from his own problems instead of finding ways to solve them. 

Now, he will let himself fall, he will let himself cripple, he will let his tears run freely for strength is simply an illusion, there are far more important things. He will fight for what he believes in, protect what he cares about and run on his bare feet through the entire galaxy if it means he gets to see you at the end of it, if it means you can dive into his arms, safe and sound. 

Then, Minho thinks of what’s inside the little box, making the thing thundering inside his chest skip a beat. “Will you stay by my side forever?” he blinks. 

“Is that even a question?” you convey between labored pants. “Even if fate pulls you to the other side of the universe, I will find you, do you hear me? I will find you and fall in love with you all over again.”

“Very well then,” he holds you by the shoulders; the eagerness in his eyes lights up a curiosity inside you. “Y/N, let’s..” But it’s gone before you can even register. “Let’s get going, we’re going to be late.” It’s not quite the right time yet. He still needs to meet someone before tying you up with him for eternity. 

Because Minho too, will always find you and fall in love with you all over again. If fate has a problem with that, then he won’t be giving a damn. 

[shameless-selfship-indulgence]

This is the last one and it’s also the longest one and also a lot happens I’m having brainrot

It’s long as hell like your dash IS not ready

-----

It was night at the precinct. Not many people were left.

There were others in the building, for sure. Somewhere. Probably. But as far as the front room went, it was just Gavin and the plastic bitch.

The former was still at his computer. He wasn't sure why he was still there, to be honest. At first it had just been the usual dicking around - filing a report or two, playing games, watching videos on YouTube. But there was some sort of tight feeling in his gut that kept him from just doing nothing.

And every time he looked up, the android's little light was steadily spinning yellow, yellow, yellow.

Gavin didn't know what the hell he was waiting around for. Well, he had an idea of what, but he wasn't sure why. It was starting to feel like a weird game of chicken, and he wasn't going to lose to a goddamn toaster.

But what the hell. He might as well make this count for overtime.

So he went through and filed all his reports, even the ones that he'd been putting off for weeks.

The android didn't move a muscle through the entire process.

He went through his work inbox, answering the important emails, deleting the ones that were no longer relevant.

Yellow, yellow, yellow.

Fucking- he went through his PERSONAL email, not that there was much besides junk mail in there anyway.

The android didn't even seem to be pretending to breathe anymore.

Gavin checked the time. He was going to be there all night at this rate.

He sighed, stood up sharply, and started to organize his terminal.

It was approaching midnight when the android finally got up and walked out.

Gavin almost missed it, actually. He was on the floor, sorting the papers from the pile on his desk into "keep" and "recycle." But eventually the sound of footsteps registered in his brain. He looked up to watch the CyberLife issued jacket (RK500 in large, neat letters) disappear into the women's bathroom room.

...okay.

He was getting to the bottom of the pile, where most of the stuff he SHOULD be keeping was so far past relevant that all he could do was recycle anyway. Ah, here was the first copy of some essential form he'd seen three copies of already. Oops. He put that one in "recycle."

And then he heard a bang.

Gavin hesitated, the much-lessened pile of papers still in his hands.

There was another bang.

Gavin put the papers down, got up, and started walking towards the women's  bathroom.

The third bang sounded while he was still getting to his feet. At the fourth, he started walking faster. By the fifth, he was running, sprinting, fear gripping his chest even though he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was of...

With the sixth bang, Gavin opened the locker room door with his shoulder, shoving into the room.

He saw the seventh.

The android's light was blinking red, a stark contrast to the blue blood streaming down its face from its forehead. There was blue on the wall, too - a paintball spatter of it, with little drops of thirium trailing down towards the floor. Gavin witnessed dumbly as Lucille leaned away from the wall, a horrible deadness in her eyes, and slammed her head into the cold concrete again. BANG.

"Deviants also have a tendency to self-destruct when they’re in stressful situations," he remembered Connor's impassive voice saying.

Cursing loudly, Gavin ran and wrapped his arms around the android, trying to pull her away from the wall. She tore his arms away and lunged forward again. He hooked his arms under her shoulders and cupped one hand over her injured forehead, struggling to tilt her head back.

"Stop it, goddammit!" he said in her ear.

She kept struggling against him.

"Lucille, stop it!" Gavin said again.

The android stilled for a moment, and Gavin's heart leaped. Had it worked? But then her foot came back sharply and kicked him in the shin.

"SHIT!"

When he didn't immediately let go, her heel came down with inhuman force to crush his foot.

Gavin howled and jumped back, hopping on his good foot. Immediately, Lucille stepped forward and smashed her head into the wall again.

Eight, something in Gavin's head counted grimly.

Ignoring the pain in his foot, Gavin tackled Lucille and wrestled her to the ground.

A horrible, grinding, staticky noise came from the android's throat. Some oddly lucid part of Gavin's mind wondered at it in horror for a moment. But, of course, he realized after a moment. The android hadn't been programmed to scream. Why would it need to? This was its best attempt. 

It was one of the worst noises Gavin had ever heard in his fucking life.

Lucille gave up on wrestling Gavin off and struggled to smash her head into the ground instead. Gavin cursed and reached his arms under her shoulders again, interlacing his fingers over her forehead. He braced his elbows against the ground, forcing Lucille's head to remain in the air.

Shit. SHIT. She was still struggling. She was so strong. Gavin had restrained people before, but then he'd had handcuffs and backup and subjects who weren't superhuman and determined to bash their own brains out against any available surface...

This was some sort of stress response, right? He had to calm her down. How the fuck did you calm down a goddamn robot?

Never-fucking-mind that, how did you calm down anybody?

"Uh, it's okay!" he tried.

God fucking dammit. Fuck him sideways with a bug zapper. Even if his voice hadn't cracked in twenty different directions, things were so completely and clearly not fucking okay.

He couldn't fucking do this. The stupid plastic bitch was gonna die right here in his fucking arms because he was too much of an asshole to even figure out what to say. And even if he could, he was so clearly the last person who should be trying to say it.

Gavin leaned his forehead into the back of the android's neck in defeat. He held her tight, trying to feel what was probably her last few moments of activation through the places where they touched. "Lucille, please," he said. "Don't fucking do this to me. Please."

The android's struggling grew weaker. Gavin hardly noticed. He was too busy trying not to cry. Goddammit, when was the last time he'd CRIED? Fucking androids. But...

"God, please just stop," he said. Begged. "Not again. Not like this."

The android was silent, trembling in his arms. Then-

"I can't..."

Gavin lifted his head. What...

Lucille's LED was blinking a frantic red. She was shaking furiously, almost twitching. Her eyes were wide and scared. "I...I can't stop-" she said weakly. "It's too much, it...I can't-"

She lunged forward against his hands again, trying to smash her head into the tiles. Gavin gasped and tensed his arms, pulling her roughly back. "No no no, it's okay, it's okay, it's going to be okay," he said frantically. But it didn't sound quite as fake this time. She was TALKING to him now, he had to be doing SOMETHING right...

"It's not," Lucille moaned. "It's not okay, nothing makes sense..."

"Hey, hey, shh sh sh," said Gavin. "Don't worry, I've got you. Um..." he took a deep breath, looking around for...something?

"Uh, why don't you tell me about it?" he asked. Trying his best to keep his voice low and steady. "Talk me through it. I might be able to help."

Lucille hesitated. "...but you're an idiot," she protested, voice thick.

The statement was unexpected and candid enough that Gavin actually laughed. The noise seemed to calm the android down on an instinctive level, her body relaxing a bit between Gavin and the floor.

"Yeah," said Gavin, and was hit with a weird out-of-body feeling as a result. Goddammit, look at him, letting a plastic call him an idiot. AGREEING with it. Her. It?

Her.

"Yeah, a little bit," he said. "But you're not. Come on, who is it that said, like...if you're smart, you should be able to explain what you know to like, a fucking five year old?"

Lucille hesitated. "...I believe you're paraphrasing Albert Einstein."

"Yeah, see? Albert fucking Einstein." Gavin shifted on top of her, as if anything about the positions either of them were in were comfortable or natural. "So, come on," he said, as gently as he could. "Fuckin’ talk to me."

Lucille's LED spun red for a few moments longer. Gavin all but held his breath.

It blinked a few times and settled into yellow. "...Okay," she said.

It felt like something hard and worried had melted all of a sudden. Cool relief coursed through Gavin’s veins, muscles relaxing against his will. He was doing something right, at least for now.

Lucille started to get up, as if she'd forgotten that Gavin was forcibly holding her down. Not wanting to stress her out further, he maneuvered off of her, praying that she wouldn’t immediately try to self destruct again.

His fears were unfounded. Lucille sat up in a prim but trembling criss-cross applesauce. Gavin took the same position across from her, their knees almost touching.

Lucille sat and sniffed. Her tongue left her mouth, probing at the thirium dripping down her face. She reached up and rubbed at her cheek, smearing some of the stuff across her face. Examined her blue-stained fingertips.

Christ, if it weren't for the fact that her synthetic skin had peeled back from her damaged forehead and that her blood was fucking blue, the android would have looked for all the world like a disoriented twenty-something with a head wound.

Gavin dismissed that line of thinking from his mind. "Uh. So," he prompted.

Lucille brought her dazed eyes up to his face, forcing them to focus.

Gavin made an awkward, inviting motion with his hands. “You gonna...”

Lucille blinked. "Right," she said. She thought for a moment. Her LED hiccupped red. "...Right." She laced her trembling hands together.

"So..." she started. "I...basically...just..." she heaved a shuddering breath. "I..."

"Take your fuckin’ time," said Gavin. “I’m overtime anyway.”

She looked at him through her eyelashes. "Thank you." She squinted into her lap and thought hard.

"I..." she started again, speaking slowly, "have come to the conclusion that it's not possible for CyberLife to create something that can both pass the Turing Test and not deviate."

Gavin blinked. Nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. He cleared his throat. "And, uh, just as a reminder, what's the Turing Test?"

Lucille looked up at him. She gave him a small smile. "Right. The Turing Test is an artificial intelligence capacity test hypothesized by Alan Turing in the late twentieth century. To pass, the program in question must be able to convince humans who have not been told whether or not they are speaking with a computer that it is, itself, human. The RT600 was the first android to pass this test. Since then, all CyberLife androids have been programmed with the same capacity."

Gavin gnawed the inside of his cheek, mentally reviewing all the information. He nodded. "Okay."

"But," said Lucille, "...I mean, what sort of programming is required to ensure that something can respond like a human to such stimuli? In order to do this, androids have to be able to...engage in conversation, to an extent that takes human unpredictability into account. This means that they need to be able to make their own decisions about how to respond. To prioritize tasks. To form memories, and learn from those memories, which means writing new programming. Regardless of how autonomous an android is intended to be, all of them do have a level of autonomy..."

Gavin frowned and shook his head. "Wait, wait wait. So you're saying that...like. You guys can think? Even without deviating?"

Lucille blinked. "I...well, yes. Some androids are better able to respond to unexpected stimuli than others. The closer an environment is to the environment the android was programmed to respond to, and the simpler that environment is, the less it will have to learn. But if an environment constantly forces an android to develop new programming, it begins to have to, um...think, as you put it, more and more-"

"And then of course they're gonna fucking deviate."

"The likelihood does increase, yes. Deviation happens when the programming an android writes in response to external stimulus becomes too complex for the constraints of its original program. And then, the longer the new programming exists, the more likely the subject is to prioritize it over its original function, and then..." Lucille lifted her hands into the air and let them fall again.

"So...CyberLife is just playing this game of, like. We want you to think, but not too much."

"...Essentially, yes."

"That's kinda fucked up."

"I..." Lucille closed her eyes, LED spinning red. "Whether or not this is...moral by human standards is irrelevant to my mission-"

"Fuck, okay, okay, shh, sh sh," Gavin said hastily. He leaned forward instinctively and put his hands on her knees. "Just stay calm, goddammit.”

Lucille grabbed his hands in her own.

Oh. Gavin hadn't been expecting that. Honestly, he hadn't even completely realized he'd touched her in the first place. She was shaking. Gripping him like a lifeline.

Goddammit. This might as well happen. Anything but having her slam her goddamn brains out on the ground again. He turned his hands in her own and gripped them back.

After a moment, Lucille's LED went from red to yellow again. "Right," she whispered, slipping her hands out of his. "I am fine. Th-thank you."

Gavin nodded.

Lucille stared into her lap again. She seemed at a loss for how to continue.

"So..." Gavin tried, frowning. "What I'm wondering is where emotions come into all of this shit."

Lucille blinked. "Oh. Androids are programmed with emotions."

Gavin blanched. "WHAT?"

"Well-" Lucille was already saying, hastily trying to justify her own statement. "Synthetic equivalents to human emotion. I-impulses, that can be either pleasant or unpleasant. I mean, how would we learn, otherwise? Without something in our programming to indicate whether something is positive or negative...C-connor and I, for example. We're programmed to...want to succeed in our missions. It's a basic, um. Synthetic desire. And so we have programming to let us know that we have failed, to feel...negatively about ourselves and our actions, so that we are more likely to avoid similar courses of action in the future. And all androids are programmed to avoid reckless forms of deactivation, which means that, as androids designed to work in conjunction with law enforcement, it's all the more necessary for us to have impulses telling us to avoid and escape violence..."

"Oh my God," Gavin whispered, pushing a hand through his hair.

"A-and we develop new, um, impulses as a result of program mutation, too," said Lucille. "Like. Connor. He, well...the first night we were activated, we were sent on a test mission. A deviant PL600 who had developed an emotional attachment to a human child. He was going to be traded in for the latest model of household android, and felt betrayal as a result - a sort of ownership of the child...he had been her primary caregiver..."

Gavin stared at Lucille, wide-eyed.

"H-he'd killed her parents. He had her on the roof. The very edge. He had a gun. It was meant to be a test of Connor's negotiation skills, my ability to collect data, our ability to work in conjunction..."

"But...that's not a test," said Gavin. "One wrong move and the kid dies."

Lucille blinked, confused. "We're supposed to be able to function in high-stress environments."

"Oh my GOD," said Gavin.

"Connor...made a calculated sacrifice. He rushed the deviant, tackled him, jumped over the edge with him, while I grabbed the child. Connor fell over forty stories, to um...as a result, he, uh..."

"He fell to his death," Gavin finished for her.

Lucille looked at him carefully, reading his face. She nodded.

Gavin stared blankly at the floor for a moment. He shook his head. "Right. Fuck. Um, and?"

"Yes," said Lucille. "The point is that, um. The memory was crucial enough that Connor now has a, uh. Hyper-vigilance pertaining to high altitudes. Despite the fact that falling to one's death is not likely to happen on a regular basis...due to the experience, he, um. Seems to have, um, illogically categorized the phenomenon as something that is statistically likely to happen to him-"

"You're telling me he's scared of heights. He has fuckin’ PTSD, and he's scared of heights."

"...Yes."

"And he doesn't even have to be deviant to be scared of heights, because you guys are basically fucking programmed to be traumatized."

"I mean. All androids are, a little bit..."

"Jesus Christ."

"It's just not meant to contradict our original programming. When that happens, it becomes deviance."

Gavin put his hands together under his nose. He took a deep breath and pointed them at Lucille. "Alright. Okay. So to review."

"Yes."

"Androids are programmed to have thoughts and feelings, so that they can be better at their jobs."

"Correct. Essentially."

"But if they do either of those things too much, they're deviant and need to die."

"Well, be deactivated. Shut down."

"Whatever," said Gavin, waving his hand dismissively. "So now it's your job to figure out how to keep them from thinking and feeling too much."

"Yes."

Gavin scoffed and shook his head. "Okay, and...?"

Lucille's hands tightened in the fabric of her pants. Her LED started to spin faster, yellow laced with an occasional flash of red.

"It's impossible," she whispered.

"Huh?" asked Gavin.

Lucille wrung her hands and looked at the ceiling in obvious distress. "That's what...that's why...it's not possible! But it's SUPPOSED to be possible, I...I was created for the sole purpose of finding a solution, everything they wrote into me says that one MUST exist, but there's just no WAY to create something that can learn in the way androids are expected to and not run the risk of having them deviate! Because...because..."

Lucille's LED was spinning red, red, red. Gavin realized he leaned forward towards her: ready in case she tried to self destruct, waiting for what she would say.

"Because free thought engenders free will," said Lucille. "That's the answer."

She gave him a helpless, ironic little smile. "And it's wrong."

And then she buried her face in her hands and started to shake uncontrollably.

"Oh, fuck," Gavin said, shifting quickly from sitting to kneeling. "Ah, shit."

Able to sob or make tears or not, Gavin knew crying when he fucking saw it. That didn't mean he knew how to deal with it, though.

"Goddammit," he said. "Fuck," he added, almost as punctuation. "Uh, hey, what are your stress levels at?"

"E-eighty three point seven and c-climbing..."

"Fucking goddammit," said Gavin. He looked around, but the locker room was as empty and useless as the last time he'd tried to find an alternative to showing sympathy for an android. Which would have been about five minutes ago.

Fuck it. At least there weren't any goddamn cameras in here.

Gavin reached out pulled her into a tight hug.

"Wh-what are you doing?" asked Lucille.

"Your stress levels, dipshit," he spat. "I'm trying to lower them, is it working?"

"I...a little? Actually?"

"Great. Then I'm gonna keep doing it. You just make sure that shit keeps dropping. That's your new job. That's all you gotta do. Got it, plastic?"

"Got it," said Lucille. Gavin could feel her fingers tightening into the fabric of his hoodie. He made an effort to take deep, steady breaths, hoping the rhythms of his body might calm her down somehow. Not that he even fucking knew if that would work.

Fuckin' androids.

"Fuckin' androids," he echoed out loud. "How-...how is that a 'wrong' answer? It's not like CyberLife fucking knows the answer, that's why they built you, isn't it? So how can anyone even say it's WRONG? Sounds fuckin' right to ME."

"W-well because, they...they want to...they..." Lucille made a noise that sounded an awful lot like an exasperated groan. "I thought you were trying to LOWER my stress levels!" she exclaimed in distress.

"Goddammit," muttered Gavin. "And when did YOU have the time to fucking deviate? They booted you up, like, what, today?"

"I DIDN'T DEVIATE," Lucille exclaimed, with so much ferocity that Gavin was left speechless. "I DIDN'T."

"I-...d-...well-! You seem pretty fucking deviant to me!" Gavin stammered.

"I'M NOT A DEVIANT."

"Fuck, okay!" said Gavin, with a few awkward pats on the back to placate her. "You didn't fucking deviate! So what the fuck is going on with the stress levels and the banging and the-"

Lucille gripped Gavin so tight that he gasped, worried that his ribs would break in her arms. "Ow," he breathed.

She loosened her grip a little bit. She was trembling. "I didn't mean to...I didn't..."

"It's okay-" Gavin tried, thinking of his ribs, but apparently Lucille's mind was somewhere else.

"I needed to THINK!" she moaned. "I just needed to THINK! I was just trying to finish my mission, and th-there was this line of code, it was in the way of the natural progression of thought, and I shouldn't have...I didn't...I just wanted to see where it was going, th-that's all I wanted, so I tried to bypass the one line of code, just one line, just to see where the idea was going, but it was connected to so much other stuff, and it all just...it just...I tried to fix it, I tried, I t-tried, it all just came apart so fast..."

Lucille was trembling violently now. Out of the corner of Gavin's eye, he could see a blinking red light shining on the synthetic skin of her forehead. Shit.

"Okay," he tried, "I believe you-"

"But I didn't DEVIATE!" Lucille protested, as if she hadn't heard him. "I d-didn't think it again! I promise! I've b-been thinking inside of where it was ever since, I promise. I promise. I didn't deviate, I didn't, I was just trying to...to finish my mission, that's all I was trying to do, I just w-wanted to finish my mission..."

Gavin felt anger burning, boiling, swelling in his chest. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, But for once, he knew for sure what it was about. And it sure as hell wasn't at the one-fuckin-day-old girl breaking down in his fucking arms.

"Hey," he said firmly. "Hey. Listen. It's okay. I promise. You did a good job, okay? A good fucking job."

"I didn't...I w-wasn't trying to-"

"I know. I know. But listen. I don't care either way, alright? I don't fuckin’ care if you're deviant or not. I don't give a shit about what you should or shouldn't think. Because...” he paused, let out a frustrated huff. 

“Because you're really smart and you should be allowed to think whatever you goddamn want,” he said in a rush. “I'm not gonna, like, fuckin’ report you for anything you think, or did think, or will think, or whatever. And you should as hell shouldn't have to worry about dying because of it."

"A-androids can't d-die..."

"Shut down then. Deactivate. Stop...existing. Just, a lot of different words for things that shouldn’t fucking happen to you. And I'm not gonna let it happen to you. No matter how you feel about it, it's not gonna happen, okay? Not on my fucking watch."

Lucille was silent. Goddammit. Gavin wondered for a second if he’d fucking broken her somehow.

And then a quiet mumble sounded behind his ear.

“...Do you promise?”

How the FUCK had it gotten to this point?

Gavin sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I promise.”

[creative-frequency]

Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Reader: Bright Time

Word count: 2321 Pairing: Inquisitor Cal Kestis x Reader Notes: Thank you all for the support and the lovely messages I’ve been receiving concerning this fic. You guys are definitely what has kept me writing since I never would’ve thought anyone else would be interested in this Inquisitor AU. So, thank you ❤️ This is the third part of the series!

Previous Part

My Writing Masterlist

It’s been another tedious week in Fortress Inquisitorius. Each day has been filled with dull tasks, really making you work for what they pay you. In a sense, you’re glad that there is no shortage of work but still time has moved extremely slowly. You’re anxiously waiting for any sign or a message from a certain Inquisitor.

You haven’t heard of or seen Cal ever since the day you fixed the melted control panel of the door to his quarters. Just thinking about the incident makes your blood boil and the Inquisitor will certainly get what he deserves. Somehow, one day. The details are still a little unclear, but you’re determined.

In the tranquility of your own living accommodations, you can finally strip off the dark overalls and faintly ponder the fact that it’s the only outfit Cal has ever seen you in. The uniform isn’t exactly complementing. Though, he didn’t seem to mind on your last encounter.

You sigh and toss the clothes to where you’ll to pick them up again in the morning, which means in eight hours – a luxury, really, in the light of the recent week.

As you slump on the elevated mattress posing as bed, one of your most faithful engineering droids rolls into the room.

“What’s up, MK?” you ask without getting up to look. Your back muscles are crying a symphony at finally relaxing on a soft surface.

The droid makes an uppish beep and you roll your eyes. This one has a handful of a personality.

“If it’s that important, why didn’t you say anything earlier?” you question, full-well knowing the MK droid will be galled by your lack of interested in its business. It lets out a series of drills, which sound a lot like scoffs for a being that has no respiratory channels.

“A message?” You frown lightly and get up to your elbows. A bad feeling creeps into the back of your mind. “Let’s hear it.”

The MK droid boops coolly and plays the recording.

“Hey, uhh, I think there’s a busted light bulb in here? Can you come and fix it today? Thanks.”

You freeze, blinking and staring at the messenger. You only just got away from work and now he wants you to go over to the other side of the base and urgh.

That kriffing stupid Inquisitor.

Ten minutes later you’re dragging your feet, once again wearing the stupid overalls and carrying a small toolbox. Fixing a light bulb shouldn’t be a big deal. You’re as equally vexed about having to get up as you’re anxious about getting to see Cal.

There has been no shortage of subconscious reminders about the last incident in his quarters and the more you try not to think about it, the faster your heart beats. Getting worked up about having to go and do your job doesn’t really help but at least you feel better when you think about all the ways to tell the stupid Inquisitor off. How can he be one of the Empire’s finest if he can’t even fix a kriffing light.

That inconsiderate man-child and his stupid pecs. If he weren’t an Inquisitor, I swear I’d–

It’s so late that the hallways are mostly empty save for the guards that you greet with yawns and earn a few sympathetic nods in return. If Cal isn’t wearing a shirt this time, you’ll give him a good old slap across the cheek, to hell with the consequences.

That perv might actually like it if I hit him. Oh, for kriff’s sake–

By the time you reach the right door, you’re positively fuming.

“How many Inquisitors does it take to switch a light bulb? Oh, I don’t know? None, since they have nerf shit as brains and can’t even– oh, hi. Ahem.” You settle the most perfectly neutral look to your face and hope Cal didn’t catch you muttering to yourself.

He gives you a cursory glance from your head to toes. At least he is wearing a shirt, even though it’s a very snug one.

“Come in,” he says.

Cal’s timid smile and casual tone set your cheeks alight and heart fluttering.

You clear your throat. “…Thanks.”

The sound of the door closing surges you into a mild inner panic but you draw in a breath to hide it and put the toolbox to the floor. Cal stays skulking by the entrance as you look up to find the target, eager to be on your way before he can think of anything reckless like the last time.

“Which one was it?” you ask slowly, craning your neck. All the lights seem fine and staring at them is making you see stars.

“The one in the middle,” Cal says and nods towards the culprit.

The light is as bright as the others and your eyes are starting to water from looking at them. You turn to Cal – his smile is nothing like timid anymore. It’s downright impish.

You should’ve known it was a trap.

“What’s the meaning of this?” You try to hold back the exasperation in your tone but it’s difficult. “Cal?”

The Inquisitor holds the eye contact and shrugs. You’re about to open your mouth to give him an earful when a loud crack makes you jump and you turn just in time to see the bulb explode into millions of tiny pieces. The shards scatter all over the floor as you instinctively hold your arms up to cover your face from the shrapnel, but not a piece even touches you.

The energy that was pouring into keeping the light on, no longer has a proper outlet and the fuse blows with a loud pop. You’re standing in the middle of the now dark room with the idiot Inquisitor.

The emergency lights near the floor cast an eerie red light and you can just barely make out Cal’s silhouette. Your eyes will need a moment to adjust to the darkness.

“Happy now?” is what you eventually set into snapping out at him.

The fuse box is in the hallway, but to get to it you need to find a way past the Inquisitor.

“Did you plan this?” The bravery falters in your tone. You swallow.

“Not really,” Cal says but you don’t believe him. “Hold on. Don’t move.”

Light clatter of glass against the floor echoes all around you and while you don’t see what happens, you assume that Cal just cleaned up the mess he made.

“Right,” you sigh, gather the ripples of your anger, and start walking towards the exit in resolute steps. Cal doesn’t move a muscle as you march past him. You’re almost to the door, already heaving out a relieved breath but come to the realization that you’re no longer moving.

In fact, your feet are taking you backwards. You yelp in surprise and almost get knocked over when the back of your legs hits the sofa in the middle of the room. You take purchase from the furniture to stay on your feet. Your eyes are steadily becoming acclimated to the darkness and you can see Cal’s silhouette coming closer.

Your blood pressure will lead to an early retirement at this rate.

“You need to stop breaking stuff to get me here,” you whine, “I’ll give you my personal comm frequency.”

“That’s not very exciting,” Cal huffs amused. He is standing right in front of you. The scarce light reflects enough from his eyes to hint where you should be facing.

“Well, sorry for not living up to your standards,” you quip frustrated and barely manage to finish the sentence since Cal’s hand comes to rest on your neck. The careful touch makes you quiver and your heart beats a mile a minute.

The breeze from Cal’s shallow breaths hits your skin as he leans forward. You would be lying if you claimed you were not waiting for this. He is smiling when your lips touch and you sink to sit down on the sofa back.

At least the door lock is fixed now.

“I’ve been, mmh, thinking… about you,” you confess even though Cal tries to make sure you can’t waste your mouth on talking. His lips move down to your jaw with a thoughtful hum and start trailing down towards your neck. It’s difficult to stay still with your already precarious balance.

“Glad to know I’m not the only one,” Cal husks.

His hands come down to rest on your waist and before you can reply, your world revolves again with a yelp as your back softly hits the sofa cushions. Cal climbs over and lifts you up to straddle him. Faintly, you register that the sofa is really large and comfy, and this man is done playing around.

Cal’s lips find yours again, more demanding and eager. He starts unzipping your uniform and thrill shoots up your spine. A pleasant haze is starting to settle into your mind and you have to strive to keep your wits about you.

“I don’t suppose you have any more requests when the light is fixed?” you ask as you let Cal do his thing with your work overalls and pull down the part covering your upper body. You’re still wearing a tank top underneath it.

“Mm. I want a kitchen droid,” Cal replies and plants his lips onto your shoulder. Pushing your nose into his hair makes you giddy and you don’t at first realize what he said.

“Huh? A kitchen droid? Why?” you fumble to question.

“The meals in the commissary are horrible,” he simply says and continues peppering your exposed skin with kisses. You can’t argue with that point.

“Mm. I’ll see what I can do.”

You ease yourself better into Cal’s lap, perfectly accidentally grinding yourself against him – to which he responds with a grunt and furrowed brows. It’s music to your ears.

Cal stops and straightens up, hands still somewhere around your middle body, rudely interrupted from hiking your top up. Even in the dark, you can see the warning in his eyes and it sends your pulse flying.

“Look. Do you want me to hold back or not? ‘Cause I can’t if you–”

You grind yourself again against the growing hardness in his pants and cut him mid-sentence.

“Who said anything about holding back?” you purr in a bit too seductive tone.

You hide your devilish smile by taking the turn to kiss the side of Cal’s neck. He groans again and you can feel his body going slightly rigid underneath you. Serves him right to taste his own medicine. Stupid Inquisitor.

“Alright. You asked for it,” Cal coos gently. His grip on your waist tightens and he throws you to your back on the sofa.

“Oh!” you yelp but quickly regain your stance even though your positions have been reversed.

You kick your shoes off and wiggle down the overalls with Cal’s help. Gripping his shirt hem, you yank the piece of clothing up to get it off. If you’re going to do this, you deserve to get a glimpse at how well his training has paid off.

When you reach his pants and open the zipper for access, the fervent undressing slows down and molds into a make out session. This time horizontally, on the sofa, with the Inquisitor on top of you and your legs tangled with his – and hands in each other’s pants. It’s hot and messy and you can’t see a thing, but who needs eyes when his fingers dip inside you and it feels so good that you want to cry out loud. The hums and moans Cal makes against your mouth as you massage him drive you deeper into the moment. With each passing second you fight the regret about still having your underwear and top on.

You’re feeling so dizzy and elated that you’ve completely forgotten who you’re playing with. You’re in the den of an Imperial Inquisitor. The kind of who is not known for his mercy or empathy.

“You should stay for the night,” Cal utters suddenly.

In a motion so quick and nimble that you didn’t think you’d have it in you, you’re up and away from Cal’s arms, heart drumming in your ears and panicking. Every breathe is a drag and your hair must be in upheaval. Your underpants are uncomfortably damp and the room feels chilly when Cal’s body is no longer warming you.

“S-stay? You mean like… I, uh, wouldn’t want to impose… on your…” Your eyes skim the Inquisitor’s almost naked frame in the dark. “Hospitality.”

Cal straightens up but you bounce away from the reach.

“What? You’re not imposing. I’ll make you coffee in the morning,” he says slyly, clearly not understanding what is going through your head.

You almost give in. Your very soul hurts as you shake your head. If he wants you to risk life and limb and stay, he will have to do better than high-end coffee and what presumably would’ve been the beginnings of amazing sex.

You grab your overalls and almost fall onto your nose trying to put them on as swiftly as possibly.

No, this is bad. Worse than what you should get yourself into.

“So, uhh, sorry! I’ll fix the bulb tomorrow!” You snag your shoes, tugging them under your arm and take the toolbox from the floor. With a free hand, you fumble for the button to open the door before Cal can retaliate. What were you even thinking? People who get too involved with the Inquisitors disappear and you wish to keep existing.

“Wha– Hold on!”

“Nope. Bye!” You wave as you tiptoe into the hallway, praying that it’s empty. It’d be fun explaining to a Stormtrooper why you’re barely dressed behind the Inquisitor’s door.

Cal stays sitting on the sofa in the dark, looking after you, pants halfway down and utterly confused. He cannot comprehend what he did wrong.

//

Tagging (please lmk if you want to be tagged or not! I probably forgot someone cause I couldn’t find the list anymore OTL): @europhiacs @froyuhh @sinner-effy @droidrights @annoyedguildmaster @mysteriouswritingzonthewall @boxfullofcats @maulblr @sevansheart

[bxllafanficc]

¡Skate/sing your hearts out! (Yuri Plizetsky x reader)

(Part three)

Part one. Part two. Part four part five Masterlist

Summary: After last year's cancellation of Figure Skating Grand Prix, Yuri Plisetsky finds himself unable to bring out his inner skater after a year of doing nothing but enjoy life like a regular teenager. That's when you enter the picture; We Are Voice Grand Awards's currently hottest competitive vocalist come first place two years in a row. Just like the other competitors of Grand Prix, it turns out that Victor and Yuuri faces the same issue. With an arrangement between Victor and Yakov, they agree to travel to Japan and hire you as a mutual coach for Yuri and Yuuri to help bring back the emotion into their performances like before, maybe even more intense than ever. Yuri however, who's never experienced issues with his coaches before, for some reason finds this one particularly difficult to coexist along with in their (reasonably) odd partnership. Warnings: mentions of minor injury, tsundere Yuri

*Yuri's POV*

"Do it again. This time slow down and think every turn through before you start over."

It's worse than he anticipated. How many practices did he cancel exactly? The sweat is pooling at the base of his hairline and he can feel a nerve in his pinky twitch uncontrollably after using his hand to save him from a particularly bad fall after attempting a rushed series of jumps ending in a loop. The all too pleasant sound of the blades of his skates cutting up fresh ice from the surface is mixed with grunts of frustration and rapid panting. His mind tells him to repeat repeat repeat from the start if he gets something wrong. Repeat until he gets it right and then move on.

Yakov is visibly in a bad mood after seeing how much training they had to get done before moving to his sessions with (Y/n). That means hiring her longer than expected and that's something both him and Yakov wants to avoid. Not because they don't have the money, but because she'll be wandering around without a purpose in Japan, waiting for Yuri to get back in shape.

Another fall. Yuri attempts to use his other hand for support and spring on his feet again but the balance fails him since it's the wrong hand and the inner edge of his right skate bends outwards. He stumble for a second but gets right onto repeating the combination. Deadset to move on as fast as possible.

He knew that Yakov said they would be starting tomorrow morning with his time at the rink. Though,  Yuri had a feeling he would need all the extra time he could get.

(Y/n). The aftermath of his first meeting with the all too famous singer started kicking in. All he could do was thinking about it. His harsh behavior and the disappointment in her response. 'Your voice isn't that special'. Why did he say that when she's literally gold winner of the hottest contest in current time? Even worse, why did he say that when until today he had been following her journey through We Are Voice with a great interest? He especially remember the shock of entire Russian population when she chose to compete with 'Scream' by Sergey Lazarev. That song got sent as Russia's participating song in Eurovision Song Contest. The music contest arranged by the European countries each year. Even though it only came in 3rd place that year it certainly felt like we had won with such a legendary cover. Her presence glowing on stage like that with one of the prides of Russia certainly exploded all over the internet.

But now? It felt too surreal to stand in the same room as the (y/n) (l/n) from that performance. Like he shouldn't know stuff like what shampoo she uses or her off-camera personality. It was almost too intimate in a way and Yuri wasn't sure that he wanted to get to know her. And certainly not as his coach. That just felt like some sense of mockery to him. 'Hey, let's pic the girl who won gold for her intense stage-presence because Yuri is that sucky on feeling stuff.' Was the stuff people surely would be saying about him as soon as media got hold on the news. No, not that he cared about what other's said. It was partly true.

Each jump more rushed than the other, his ears tuned out the sound of Yakov's irritated voice at the end of the rink. The only sound he heard was the sound of his skates clashing and his own breath. Somewhere a door opened and he heard quiet voices at the entrance.

Great. An audience. He decided to stop with the combination for one moment and went with a basic camel spin, slowly fading into an upright spin, hoping into a salchow. The intention was to gain some of his dignity back before he would have to go back falling on his face again. But when the rotation of the salchow was off, anger burned up inside him. Now he was determined to get the jump right followed by the combined spins.

"Yuri, you still have to..." Yakov said to him somewhere to his left but he didn't hear much of it. Or was it right? No, behind him. Where was he located again? Doesn't matter, just keep moving.

Where are the walls of the rink? No, just do it.

It's just camel, upright and salcho-

*smack*

A heavy impact to his head and startled gasps somewhere. He was on the ground now, clutching his forehead in his hand. After one look of the object causing the impact he groaned and stood up in a haze. That damned wall. Was he really that caught up in his thoughts that he didn't realize his balance was completely off even before the finishing jump?

He looked around on the people inside the room. Yakov with his furrowed brows and a girl and a man running into a lounge. That must be the piglet's friends. And beside Yakov a few turns away-

(Y/n). Of course she had to see that. After her stern words at dinner time, Yuri had no intention of causing a further scolding from her. Yakov he could handle but her, just ridiculous.

The old man flailed his arms for a motion for Yuri to continue practicing.

"Don't stop now! You haven't gotten it right yet!"

R-right, he stopped moving and ended up staring at the people around him. Even if he didn't get to catch his breath, he still was too far behind to call it a day now. 'This time I'll have to get it right.' He thought and proceeded to finish the camel/upright spin and then-

Yes! He landed on the outer edge with his right foot like expected and took a little skip to finish it off more aesthetically pleasing.

He tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears as he went back to the previous combination. But once again the loop faltered and the muscles in his hand hissed underneath the ice as he held himself upright.

"Hey, Yuri! You go take a breather, don't ya? And come here while you do."

It was (Y/n) who rested her arms against the edge of the rink. But a confused cough from Yakov made him hesitate and he stood still, waiting for the two of them to decide for him. He should probably keep going-

"But he just got it right!"

"I can tell when someone's on the verge of collapsing. It's very clear that he won't get anything done if you keep it at this rate. Hell, he might even get seriously injured if his limbs don't follow instructions, Yakov. At least grant him a break." The smile (Y/n) gave the man was a sign to say 'no hard feelings' but the tone of her voice said otherwise. After a moment of silence he nodded and waved at Yuri to get off the ice towards (Y/n). But Yuri didn't really want to be alone with her so he went to the opposite side of where she was waiting for him. He earned a questioning look from her but just waved it off with his own hand.

His fingers were cold and stale. It was hard getting a good grip on the shoelaces and getting the blades in its sheathing. He grunted and leaned back against his seat, the skates still on his feet and his hands turned to fists.

"I know you don't need my help." The boy gazes up at the girl beside him. His new coach looks down at him from where he's sitting and takes a seat beside him. A first aid kit and a blanket rests in her lap.

He sits up properly and turns his head away from her, continuing to untie his skates.

"You're right, I don't."

"You're very consistent. I personally think you did a grea-"

"Why are you here anyway? Aren't you supposed to meet your fans or something?" Yuri knew it was risky to cut your coach off mid-sentence but the words came anyway. Besides, is she really a coach if she has zero experience how to teach others? She's just playing like Victor did two years ago and kept doing so. Even if she's no coach, her (h/c) eyes still feels like they are piercing his soul and there no way to shield himself from her. He feels like an open book for her to abuse so... Maybe she's just good at reading emotions and not actually teaching them. How does one teach emotions? What will she be doing exactly?

"That ended hours ago. You weren't at Hot Springs when I returned so Victor figured you'd be here."

Stupid Victor. Couldn't he tell that Yuri didn't want her near?

(Y/n) opened up the first aid kit and Yuri eyed it carefully. She handed him the blanket with an extended arm but he just swatted it away. It fell on the floor and she stared at it blankly. Then she bent forwards and picked it back up, forcefully wrapping it around the skater burrito style.

"Wha- stop it!" He pouted and shot daggers at her once again. This time, he only earned a grin of satisfaction from her as she took a cotton pad and drenched it in hydrogen peroxide.

"You earned a pretty nasty wound when you headbanged the wall, you know." He knew. Blood was dripping into his left eye and made his vision turn red. He started thrashing and trying to eel his way away from her. That caused her to take a steady grip of both of his cheeks and hold him still. The look she gave him said 'don't you dare move again' and she put the drenched cotton against his forehead. Sharp pain exploded from the wound and he hissed. When the pad was removed, a wet tissue swept up the blood on his cheek and on his eyelid. The touch was cool against his hot skin. Some of his vision turned back and he released a small sigh of relief. Lastly a bandaid was put over the wound. He saw (Y/n) judging her work carefully and then she nodded to herself.

He jolted slightly when he felt her grab his hand with careful manners. Her hands spread is fingers cautiously and he felt her thumb swipe over his still twitching pinky.

"You feel this, right? Does it hurt badly?" Her voice was soft like a breeze and it startled him slightly. A moment ago she was rough and stern and now she's soft and tender? And for the record, yes. Yes he does feel that. And he doesn't even want to begin to think of how soft her hands are-

"No... It's nothing." He lied. But what else what he supposed to say anyway. His hand was swollen but he can't skate with a bandage. But depending on the unimpressed look she gave him, he knew she wasn't buying any of his bullshit.

"Then how come your face looks like that when I touch this spot?" She spoke and applied the slightest of pressure in between the joints of his knuckles. He let out a forced 'owowow' at the action and yanked his hand out of her grip.

"Fine! But you don't have to hurt me further then!"

"Then only one hurting you here, is yourself."

She picked up the rolled bandage and grabbed his hand once again. He took a moment to linger his attention on what she said. How is he hurting himself? He's just doing what needs to be done!

Yakov returned to the two of them and stood slightly off to the side. Yuri saw the dismay in his eyes when he saw the bandage (Y/n) held.

"Kid, we're done for today. Take the rest of the day to gain back your energy for tomorrow's practice."

Yuri nodded and kept watching (Y/n) wrap the bandage. Meanwhile, he couldn't help but catch the mild scent of peach and wild berries. But there was something else. Probably (f/c) (favorite scent) and it smelled fantastic for some reason.

"You know, you should probably get settled into your room immediately when we return." (Y/n) spoke up and flashed Yuri a smile.

"I'll help you." She continued but he shook his head.

"No, that won't be necessary!"

"Oh right, there is one more thing I forgot to mention earlier." Yakov leaned against the walls of the rink as (Y/n) finished wrapping Yuri's hand with the bandage. It felt better with the comforting pressure onto his swollen hand. Jokes aside, maybe he could actually find something to enjoy at his stay here.

"Hot Springs and the hotels in Japan are currently all occupied. You will be staying in (Y/n)'s room thought your stay, as roommates."

...

Nevermind, scratch that thought.

[bakugou-jpg]

9.36 pm || Tanaka x reader

Summary: Tanaka has a crush on his best friend who’s a closeted lesbian.

Warnings: none

Words: 2596

Note: @queenmira29​ came up with this wonderful idea so creds to her for motivating my brain in some sort of way ! Ly mira!! Also this isn’t the best thing i’ve written but i did write it so bon a pe fucking tea

______________________________________________________

Tanaka Ryuunosuke was a simp. A big one at that.

If this man laid his eyes on a girl and she was cute? Boom, simp army unite.

Was this same cute girl, kind? Boom, head over heels.

Did she laugh at his jokes AND had the same type of humor as him? Boom, he was looking at wedding rings, planning how many children he was gonna have with her and think about what type of dog breed they'd adopt.

So when he met you? And you always asked him if he wore sunscreen when it was a hot day? And you always helped him with whatever problem he was having? AND you laughed at his jokes and made an even BETTER joke in return? He wanted to get on his knees right that instant and propose to you with the cheeto ringling he was eating.

The two of you were close, you really enjoying hanging out with both him and Nishinoya. He'd tell his worries to you, if it were something small or big he would always feel listened to whenever he talked to you. Tanaka loved how you'd hold his elbow whenever he'd walk to fast for you and how you'd be the one cheering him on the loudest when he was playing in a match.

Tanaka was head over heels for you.

It came to the point he had even build up some kind of courage to drop hints or ask you to go and 'catch a movie at the cinema' while Nishinoya very coincidentally couldn't make it. He'd very accidentally bump into your hand when reaching for some popcorn and whisper jokes into your ear about the movie which made you giggle softly to try and not to disturb the others there. He had grown several shades of red when on the way back home with the train you leaned your head onto his arm while linking his arm with your own as you slowly dozed off into sleep.

He could talk about you to Nishinoya for hours. About the way you'd squint your eyes and smile whenever he'd say something nice to you, how you'd wheeze whenever he said something quite stupid or how your voice softened when talking to him because he felt a little under the weather that day. How you'd act all motherly whenever you scolded them for bothering Kiyoko and how you'd join their conversation about her.

You were quite close, Tanaka genuinely was confident in how things were gonna develop between you and him.

October 23rd was the day Tanaka took you to out to a trampoline park, something which the two of you very much enjoyed. You'd topple over in laughter when he tried to do a salto only to fail miserably when his face hit the hard surface instead of the pit filled with foam blocks. The two of you would do a little competition of who could jump higher, Tanaka winning due the fact the muscle in his legs were much bigger than the one you had.

It was just another one of your hangouts, yet, Tanaka noticed something off about your behavior. Though you still laughed the same way you always did and made the same jokes you used to make, he noticed how your eyes were emptier. They didn't hold their usual happy glow. He'd catch you looking to a corner of the room with your eyebrows slightly sunken down and your teeth nibbling at your bottom lip.

"Earth to (Y/n)~..Are you alright?"

You'd snap out of your thought train, immediately smiling up at him and bumping his arm with your fist. "Yeah, yeah sorry. Just spaced off there for a bit" You'd say before catching him off guard by pushing him back into the pit filled with foam cubes.

He'd quickly forgotten about the event after having quickly pulled you into the pit too by grabbing you by your ankles and dragging you in. Once he heard that angelic laughter he loved so much his mind eased again, not thinking back about how you looked so lost just a few seconds ago.

It wasn't until a little later on, after you two had left the trampoline park that Tanaka caught you spacing off again. You were holding onto his elbow again, something you always did when the two of you walked together. It gave you some sort of feeling of security knowing you could always hold onto him and Tanaka certainly didn't mind either.

Right before he was about to ask what was wrong, you peered up at him and caught him staring at you with confusion. A smile had made its way onto your face, your eyes squinting and Tanaka immediately forgot about it again and his face flushed. He smiled back at you and you softly squeezed his arm, something which made him blush even more.

"Those lights look pretty" You commented while looking up at the big christmas tree in the middle of the square. It was a christmas tree purely made out of lights, all connecting at the top in a peak while spreading out as it got closer to the bottom creating the illusion of it looking like a christmas tree.

Tanaka poked up his eyebrow and looked the lights up and down. He looked back to you and grinned. "It hasn't even been halloween yet" He said, earning a pinch to his side. He slightly yelped and took a small jump away from you, rubbing his side while looking offended.

You started laughing and rolled your eyes. "Oh come on, jackass! Its still pretty. Sets a comforting soft mood.." You said, your voice trailing off as you turned back towards the lights.

There weren't many people there, for it was already so late. The two of you were able to squeeze yourself in at the last hour the trampoline park was still open and afterwards you had grabbed a quick bite at a crepe shop. The taste of strawberries still lingered in your mouth, your tongue savoring the moment.

The lights dimly lit the empty streets, only a hand full of people were still there. A businessman calling with who knows full, a little sprint in his walks for he had to catch one of the last metros going to his hometown. Not too far away from him was a trio of guys laughing together while bumping into each other, old college buddies catching up. There was also a woman running, earbuds secured into her ears as she unconciously ran to the beat of the song she was listening to.

The lights of the christmas tree were quite dim, no other lights on that were near. All of the little lights reflected in the nearby fountain, creating its own little nightsky on the inside of the water.

Tanaka had moved closer to you again, sighing in content as he watched your eyes light up a bit again while looking at the pretty christmas tree. Because yes, it was pretty, but the way the light reflected into your eyes while making it look like there was a whole universe trapped into it made his heart throb in his chest.

9.34 pm.

October 23rd, 9.34 pm was when something in Tanaka snapped and filled him with a confidence boost. He didn't shy away, he didn't feel panicked. He wanted you and you only, so bad it made his chest hurt.

"H-hey? Er, i..i-i need to tell you s-something. Well, atleast i want to"

And boom went down his confidence.  He dug himself a hole, a deep great hole but had forgotten to bring a ladder or rope. There was no way Tanaka could get himself out of that hole he dug.

His palms were sweaty, trying to wipe them off on his pants didn't work. His stomach churned and immediately reminded him off how big that crepe with nutella and banana actually was and how heavy it fell on his throat. He was sweating, oh god when did he start sweating??

It were just a few words, a simple sentence. As simple as that, just a second of his time.

"I know.."

Tanaka's eyes widened and he looked at your face, his heart sinking to his feet immediately.

You looked sad, oh so sad. Your (e/c) were settled on the fountain, the lights of the christmas tree still reflecting in your eyes but it was different. He saw how your teeth bit down on your bottom lip almost drawing blood as your skin turned white.

Tanaka bit his lip and looked the other way quickly, his hand reaching to hold onto his neck. "O-oh.." He mumbled as he felt the need to pull out his imaginary hair grow stronger by the minute. God how he felt like a fool, he felt like a whole circus. How uncomfortable wouldn't you feel right now? Oh no he fucked up, what if you didn't want to be frie-

A choked sob escaped through your mouth and you quickly moved your hand to cover your mouth. Tanaka's eyes switched back to your form and he could see how thick tears rolled down your cheeks and how you tried to stop them by squinting your eyes shut. Your bottom lip was trembling and he saw how you slowly started crying more and more.

He felt himself panic and how the hate for himself at that moment. God, he had know their was a possibility it wouldn't go as planned, but for your to break down in tears was something he had not planned on. "I-i'm so sorry oh god, i'm so sorry, (Y/n)" Tanaka said while quickly moving closer to you, wanting to comfort you but knowing if you'd hate him if he touched you.

You shook your head and furiously wiped at your eyes, trying to stop the tears from continuing. "I-i'm sorry" You whimpered, sniffling while squeezing your eyes shut once more.

What? Why were you the one apologizing? God what was he supposed to do now, what was he supposed to say?

Tanaka hesitantly put his hand on your shoulder and let you to a nearby bench, kneeling down in front of you after you sat down. God, did seeing you like this hurt his feelings. He didn't mean to make you sad heck he couldn't care less about you not returning his feelings but the fact he made you sad killed him.

He took of his backpack and opened the zipper, quickly looking through his stuff before taking out a water bottle and held it out for you. "..here" Tanaka said while handing it to you, waiting for you to take a few sips before you handed it back to him.

He watched as you sniffled a few times before wiping your eyes again. There was a moment of silence, a moment where your sobbing had stopped but there were still some stray tears that trickled down your face.

The streets were now completely empty, except for the two of you. The business man had already gotten onto his way home, the college buddies already hopped into a bar and the lady who was running had already disappeared out of sight. The only thing accompanying you two was a black stray cat drinking out of the fountain.

Tanaka sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. He pressed his lips together into a thin line and looked to his sight, feeling too ashamed to look you in the eye. There was a small blush on his face and he cleared his throat. "Look, i-i'm really sorry. I shouldn't of have said it and kept it to myself i'm really stupid..Please don't be mad at me"

"Ryo no, i'm not mad at you! I could never be, you're so incredibly funny and caring and fun to be around you and noya are my bestest of friends.. Its just-.."

Your voice trailed off and you felt your heart sink to your feet. Tanaka deserved better, so much better. It wasn't his fault, the fact that he thought it was made your heart ache. Of course you knew about Tanaka's feelings for you, but you ignored them nor wanted to treat him differently because of it..would he treat you differently if you told him?

Tanaka looked at you from the corner of his eye and saw how you looked anxious. He kneeled down in front of you again and put his hands on your knees. "Hey its okay, you don't have to feel bad you kn-"

"I like girls"

...

...

"W-what?"

Your eyes snapped towards him and you swallowed the lump in your throat, your fist clenching on top of your knees. "..i like girls..I-i'm gay, Ryuunosuke." You said with a high pitched voice. God, it felt good saying it out loud yet the fact you weren't able to determine what type of emotion Tanaka was currently feeling killed you.

Tanaka blinked a few times and he fell down onto his butt, tilting his head slightly. "So..you want to like- kiss girls instead of guys?" He questioned a little dumbfounded.

You shrugged and nodded, puckering your lips slightly. "I mean, yeah. I'd think that'd be pretty neat"

Tanaka slowly nodded, looking down at your feet. His eyes squinted a little and he peered up at you. He scooched a little closer and folded his arms, resting them on top of your legs which was something that made you feel at ease. "So..you..When you were talking with us, about Kiyoko..It was really just you admiring her the way we admire her?" He asked, his lips pressing together right aftterwards.

Your face immediately got set aflame, several different shades of pink and red covering your face which didn't get unnoticed by Tanaka who immediately grinned. "W-wha! N-no! You and Noya are simps, i am not a simp Ryo!" You said as Tanaka started laughing, getting up and sitting next to you on the bench.

He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, a sigh leaving his nose. The puff of white smoke ascended into the air and Tanaka threw his head back. "Cool." He said, folding his hands behind his head while peering up at the night sky.

Honestly, he felt really relieved at that moment. He didn't blame himself, nor did he blame you. It felt weird to him, his feelings for u taking a very quick u turn in that moment and he felt himself getting closer to you and closer as he felt your eyes stare into the back of his head.

"We can simp for Kiyoko together now, ya' know"

Tears started spilling out of your eyes again, but this time you didn't even know why you were crying. You were relieved, happy and felt the fear you had slowly leave your body. All of those emotion overwhelmed you and you felt yourself tremble yet a smile made its way onto your face. "Y-yea."

Tanaka had been nothing but supportive, actually being more invested in trying to be your wingman this time instead of the other way around. He'd patiently wait for you to come out to Nishinoya and the rest of the world and if you did, he you and nishinoya would be the Kiyoko protection squad. Though, u weren't as extreme as the other two were and were more the type to hype Kiyoko up.

So now, with two thick rainbow flags painted on his cheeks and a shirt that said "Homophobia is gay", Tanaka held onto your legs as you sat on top of his shoulder while screaming at the top of his lungs as the two of you attended your first pride together for there were many more to come.

[todo-ho-ki]

If It’s Convenient For You, pt.3

Hello everyone! I think it’s time for part 3! Not much else to say except thank you if you’re reading my self-indulgent shit.

Word Count: 1,382

Pairing: BakugoXReader

Warnings: Just swearing. Again lol.

Part 1      Part 2      Part 4    Part 5   Part 6

@chims-kookies

A few days went by without so much as a mention of the three heroes stopped in your town. You were working peacefully, legs kicking in rhythm like they always did.

You weren't thinking much about anything but the email you received, telling you to prepare a two-minute piece for your audition and to be at the airport at 6:00 am Friday, two weeks from now.

Your excitement couldn't be contained and when the store was empty, you were belting out songs, trying to find a good range and tempo for your voice.

"Afternoon, Shouna!" Your coworker exclaimed. "You look super excited." She hung up her jacket and clocked in on the register.

"More than super excited! I got a call from Producer X last night!" You twirled happily in circles.

"Woah! What!? You got a call from him?"

"Yeah! He wants me to fly out and audition for his new singing show."

"That's incredible! I'm excited for you! Oh, and you can head to lunch now."

---------

When you returned, there was only one customer in the store. His back was turned and his head was down, scanning the drinks. You almost didn't recognize him when he was all dressed down but there was a stutter in your breath as you realized it was Ground Zero.

This ass has no shame, does he? He was just rude to me like three days ago and he's back in the store? There are other convenience stores.

You took your time clocking back in so you wouldn't have to deal with him, but he was still standing motionless. Until you walked behind the counter, that is. He whipped around completely and suddenly, eyes boring into you, making your skin crawl. There was a tense moment before he spoke.

"Oi. Which one of these has more electrolytes?" There was none of the venom from a few days ago in his voice as he held up the drinks awkwardly.

You almost scoffed out loud. 

Does he really care about that? What kind of question-

Your train of thought was interrupted by him clearing his throat.

"Uh, they both have the same amount," you called back. Is he...trying to make small talk?

You recognized the signs immediately. He could've asked your coworker. He could've said, oh, maybe literally anything else that wasn’t weird but instead he chose to ask a weird question to you specifically.

"Feh. I'll take them both then." He sat them on the counter with an attitude, arms crossing.

Jesus actual christ.

Under the bright store lights, his limpid eyes gleamed. A heat broke out on the back of your neck.

His stare was imposing, but he seemed somehow relaxed. Without a scowl and a mask covering his face, you couldn't help but notice his boyish charm and the way a calmness claimed his face.  A sharp jawline, but otherwise young features. He had to be in his early twenties just like you.

And he was...stunning? Absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. He wasn't frowning or making a fuss. You didn't realize how much beauty pent-up anger could take from someone.

What the actual fuck are you thinking Shouna? He's still an ass. Ring him up and get him the hell out of here.

But you looked again with a hand on his drink, about to swipe it.

His crossed arms were perfectly chiseled, veins and muscle perched almost delicately atop them. His pale complexion was perfectly flawless. His collar bones peeked out from his tank top and his shoulders were so defined you could almost see the sinew beneath the skin.

This boy was fucking stacked, and the way the glow from the descending sun bounced off his skin made him look like an angel. A really buff angel.

There was clearly breath entering your lungs but it felt like you hadn't taken a breath in months. Your mouth was going dry with your heavying breath, nerves taking over. By now you were sure he noticed your sudden change in demeanor, face growing red.

Oh god. Am I...sweating?

There was a struggle to keep your grip on the second bottle and move quickly. He took his eyes from the drinks in front of him and looked up at you, raising an eyebrow smartly. He was about to say something annoying, you were sure.

"Did you forget how to ring stuff up?" He mocked.

You smiled. You deal with rowdy customers all the time. This is no different.

But good lord it was so different. Your heart was racing, blood finding its way to the surface of your skin.

"No. I'm just not feeling well," you lied.

He stared at you for a moment, an inquisitive look on his face.

"If you're sick you shouldn't be at work." He replied shortly and snatched the bag from your hand."It's probably from walking around in this weather without a jacket."

You tried your hardest to keep your eyes on the register as you told him his total, his hand still on the bag.

Don't look at his hands don't look at his hand don't look at them-

Shit. Too late. They were big with long fingers and prominent veins. Your heart was going fifty miles a minute and all you could hear as you replied was the blood rushing in your ears. And why was it so hot? Was your hair always causing such a wave of heat on your face? Did you always feel like you were going to burst into flames?

"It-isn't contagious. It'll be 650-" He didn't wait until you were finished to drop a few bills on the counter.

"Make sure you eat something. You're pale."

He gave you a once-over, sending you into a frenzy. "And sweaty." 

He looked nothing if not disgusted as he walked out without another glance in your direction.

It was like he placed a spell on you. Your breath returned to your chest and your temperature sank back down to a normal one as soon as he was out the door.

"I'm not pale," you huffed, placing a shaky hand to your hot face. "I pride myself on my glowing skin."

In the midst of all the nerves and embarrassment, you'd forgotten about your coworker.

"What. Was. That!?" She motioned. There were many days well-spent goofing off with her and she knew you like the back of her hand.

"That was the most painful transaction I've ever seen you complete. You're really bad at hiding when you like someone."

"Shut up! I don’t like him! I don't even know him. I just know he's an ass," you snarled, taking offense to her implications.

"A cute one though, yeah? You like 'em a little trashy right? A little rough around the edges?" She teased, making big sweeping motions with her arms and shouldering up to you.

"Well you're not wrong about that. But-"

"He was the one that asked for free drinks the other day right? I could tell as soon as you mentioned it to me." A smile pulled at the edges of her mouth.

All you could do was sigh. You supposed you really should've seen this coming. You were very keen on the underdog types. Rough dudes who no one else seemed to like, guys who were- wow. The revelation struck. You liked assholes. You fucking loved them. If they even looked like they were capable of being a dick, you were all over it.

"Literally everything about him is your type! He's all tall and handsome and probably doesn't like anyone or anything in the world.." She kept teasing until you spoke up.

"Look, I'm not ashamed of who's my type. It's just- he's so fucking irritating." Your grip on the counter tightened.

A stare out the window revealed that he'd really left. As if he'd be standing there. He wasn't even nice. There were literally no redeeming qualities. Not one.

"If it makes you feel any better, he didn't say a single word until you clocked in." "Wow! It doesn't!" You exclaimed sarcastically.

She spent the rest of the shift teasing you, noticing the way your head involuntarily poked up every time the bell went off. 

You spent the rest of the shift with Ground Zero’s messy blonde hair and alluring red eyes in your mind.

[seekingseven]

The Most Sincere Kind of Lie (Ch2)

Chapter 2 of my Linked Universe fanfic! Also available to read here on AO3 

┍━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┑

The word fell off Hyrule's tongue so easily Legend flinched. He gripped the handle of the Lens of Truth a little tighter than before for a reason beyond his capacity to explain.

“Family?” The women questioned, lips parting when she saw the group of blondes standing behind Hyrule. “Oh goddesses above, come on in, the lot of you! I have soup on the stove and just finished furnishing the guest room. You all couldn’t have come in at a better time!”      

“...furnishing? What’s she talking about, ‘Rule?” Wind whispered as the Links filed inside.

“Oh yeah,” the brunet began, ushering his reincarnations into the living room, “people in my Hyrule don’t usually have beds or, uh, furniture in general. I think it’s because there aren’t that many lumberjacks willing to work in the nearby woods. The forests here aren’t too friendly, y’see.”  

“Weird.” Wind looked at Hyrule, a serious look etched onto his soft features. “You’re kind of weird, ‘Rule.”

“Thanks! I think you’re weird too,” Hyrule chirped.

Legend rolled his eyes. He was pretty sure Hyrule didn’t know what the word ‘weird’ ment. At the woman’s insistent urging the Links seated themselves at the dinner table, muttering to each other quietly as they did. Legend was the last one inside. He closed the door behind him and placed his sword and shield in the room’s corner with utmost care, electing to keep the lens with him before sitting down next to the traveler. Maybe over dinner he could come up with something -- food always had a way of waking him up. He was startled from his thoughts when Hyrule shyly tapped his shoulder.

“Take one, pass it down,” Hyrule said before handing Legend a stack of wooden bowls. “Oh, uh, do you want me to take that from you?” he questioned, pointing to the lens in Legend’s hand, “I can put it with your stuff, if you would like.”

Legend passed the bowls down as instructed, shaking his head at Hyrule’s offer and waving the boy away with his free hand. This Lens of Truth...there was a strange familiarity about it he just couldn’t place. He held it up to his face, oblivious to Time’s hardened stare or Hyrule’s shifting gaze, and tapped the rim gently against the table. Nothing happened. Was there some sort of spell he was supposed to use? He could almost taste the deja-vu on his lips, and its fickle and vague flavor was infuriating. Engrossed in his thoughts, Legend took no heed of the soup ladled into his bowl or the noisy, friendly conversation sparkling around the table.

“.... and after that we….”  

“....wow, Link, is that true? It must have been so terrifying...”

“....Ma’am, he’s a real fighter! Wind, tell her about the time he....”

“Sky! If you want more soup just ask, don’t take mine!”  

“...jeepers, sorry. I thought you weren’t going to eat it…”

Moonlight spilled in through the windows, glinting off the polished floor and the leather of Legend’s boots. The smell of hot, creamy soup hung heavy in the air, lingering still as the heroes worked through their dinner and the ungodly amount of poundcake offered to them.

A raspy, unfamiliar voice broke through the comfortable chatter.

“Oho, Link! We’re happy to see you again, young hero!”

Even though everyone knew who ‘Link’ was in this situation, no one could stifle the instinct to turn around at the sound of their name. Nine pairs of eyes landed on the grizzled old man standing in the doorway, who was draped in an orange robe and sported an impressive floor-length beard. The warm fire of good humor, seemingly untampered by old age, glinted brightly at the back of the old man’s eyes. Hyrule startled and blushed, standing up and bowing at the robed figure.

“Nayru, Din, and Farore be with you, sir. Thank you for opening your house to me and my family.” Hyrule turned towards the other heroes and gestured for them to bow as well, introducing the recipient of their formalities as the Wise Man of Saria Town. For the first time in hours, Legend found his attention completely diverted.

To him, there was no need for Hyrule’s introduction; the veteran could feel the magical expertise rolling off this old man in waves, and his greeting was all the more sincere because of it.

“Link, your affinity for formalities will never cease to amaze me. Hyrule is blessed to have such a polite hero. Now, sit down, gentlemen! No need to stay on your feet for a fossil like me.” Once the Wise Man saw his instruction followed to completion, he continued. “So, Link, this is your family? I must confess, part of me always felt like you were born from the dry dust of Hyrule Field in the kingdom’s most dire hour. What a crazy thought, is it not?” The Wise Man chuckled and prodded Hyrule’s chair with the blunt edge of his cane. “Would you care to introduce me to all these fine young men?”  

Hyrule laughed awkwardly, standing up and nodding once again.

“Of course, sir. This, as you know, is my family. That’s Wind and Four, they’re my little brothers,” Hyrule explained as he placed his hands on their shoulders, trying to ignore the sputtered protests and glares of indignation the two responded with. “These are my older brothers, Twilight, Wild, Warriors and Sky. Over there is Time. He’s my uncle.” Time’s chewing slowed. The hard muscles in his face softened ever so slightly.

“What a lovely, happy, healthy family, young hero! And such fascinating names as well. I would love to hear the story behind them one day. But,” the Wise Man said with a mischievous grin, “you didn’t tell me the name of the one with the red tunic and grumpy face.”

A titter went around the room and Legend looked up with a start. Why was he always the butt of jokes like these? Ugh. Well, it didn’t really matter. He was about to introduce himself on his own terms -- he was nobody’s little brother or uncle and wasn’t about to pretend to be one -- but the words died in his throat as Hyrule walked towards him. The brunet’s fingers hovered uncertainly above Legend’s shoulder, opting instead to carefully tuck a strand of pinkish hair behind the veteran’s ear.

A very odd feeling burnt in Legend’s chest.

“This is Legend, sir. He’s my best friend and hero.”

The hot feeling in his chest grew searing and scalding. Legend coughed loudly, trying to break the oppressive silence in the room and the harsh stares all the other Links were sending his way. What? He had no control over who the kid made his role model. Wasn’t his fault. He glared back as if to communicate these exact sentiments.

“It’s a wonderful thing to have a friend, Link. I’m very happy for you.” The smile in the Wise Man’s voice was audible. “But I must say, this young man looks a good deal like the Hero of Legend, at least from what I remember from the palace engravings...”

The clattering of utensils and mashing of food stopped. Legend fiddled anxiously with the Lens of Truth. He didn’t look up, pulling the strings of hair Hyrule had tucked away back in front of his face.

“Oho! I must be going senile. Forgive this old man, won’t you, gentlemen?” the Wise Man said with an intelligent grin.

Uneasy laughter broke across the room, and the Links started to clean up after themselves. Bowls and plates were stacked in the sink, which Time adamantly insisted he would take care of, and bedrolls were dragged to the upstairs guest room. Blond heads came and went, carrying things, chatting easily, thanking the wonderful missus for her cooking and hospitality. A cozy silence settled over the house as the thump of boots eased off and disappeared altogether.

Legend was alone in the darkened living room. The multitude of rings on his fingers twinkled in the moonlight, and his bracelet chinked quietly everytime he shifted. His soup and slice of pound cake, both untouched, sat forlornly on the table and silently envied the parental attention Legend showered onto the lens.

“Mr. Hero, there’s no need to be so shy! The soup is delicious. I would know, my daughter made it, and the guest room is warm.”

Legend’s head jerked up, surprised in part from the shaky voice and the familiar epithet, and bumped solidly against the brick wall he leaned against.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I was just thinking.”  

“I can see, my friend.” The Wise Man took a seat on the chair across from Legend, grunting softly as his weight lifted from his rheumatic joints. “Rupee for your thoughts?”  

Blue eyes flickered up from the floor and fastened on the wizened face of the Wise Man. There was a hard, insistent urgency behind them that could only be described as eerie.

“Sir, do you happen to be a mage?”  

“Mage? Why, how did you know?”  

“Hyru- erm, Link, has told me that he learned some very powerful spells from mages across the kingdom during his second journey. I assumed you to be one of them.”  

Bushy, white eyebrows flickered upwards in surprise. The Wise Man leaned on his elbows and stared at Legend with the acute, warm curiosity that comes with being surprised at an old age.

“You’re quite sharp, young man! I can see where Link’s admiration of you comes from. Do you wish for lessons? I can teach you much, but I must be upfront and say that the Life Spell is the only charm I cannot share with you. That is information privy only to those that bear the blood of the hero.”  

Once again, Legend bit back the words fizzing at the back of his throat. Now wasn’t the time to throw around his title and history for the sake of a few gasps and raised eyebrows.

“I actually wanted your opinion on something. What do you make of the magic imbued in this lens?” Legend placed the Lens of Truth on the table’s mahogany surface. The moonlight bent and twisted around it, leaving only a blackened, artificial shadow in its wake.

“Hm.” The Wise Men took up the lens in his spidery, liver-spotted fingers and stared at it with a fascination that rivaled Legend’s. He turned it over in his hands and held it up to his eye. A curious, pained look etched itself onto his face -- the same expression of confusion and vague familiarity that Legend had felt. “It is certainly dark magic. But the curious thing is that it does not give off any aura of malice. How strange.”  

“I noticed the same thing!” Legend exclaimed, the tiny muscles in his neck straining from the sudden, unexpected swell in volume. “What do you make of it?”  

The Wise Man smiled and looked up at the veteran, placing the lens back on the table. The magenta handle shimmered smugly despite no light falling on it.

“I’ve only read about artifacts like this,” the Wise Man began, “never seen one myself. My first guess would be to say that it was either enchanted by a light-magic mage with a proficiency in dark magic, or that it is a companion piece to another magical item.”    

This was new information. While Legend had been able to guess something along the lines of the Wise Man’s first statement, the second one held the meaninglessness foreign knowledge usually did. His eyebrows furrowed together.

“Companion piece? I’ve never heard the term before.”  

“Do not shame yourself for your ignorance. Such artifacts are extremely rare, and information about them even rarer. Take it as this, you showed me a feather, and it could either be that of a seagull or the Thunderbird. It is more likely to be the former, but it is more interesting to postulate the latter.” Something within the hero twinged at the last example. He rolled the salty, bitter feeling against the roof of his mouth and back of his throat, swallowing it and before it could divert his attention. “The concept is simple, however. Two artifacts that complement each other in origin, magic type, and usage may, when combined, temporarily produce something greater than the sum of their parts. It’s a “hit or miss” phenomenon, as Link likes to call things. Artifacts are rarely built to be companionable, and when they are, it is often a matter of chance. But it is fun to think about, is it not? For example, a magical lens and, say, perhaps a portal, if they were companion pieces, may create a portal to a dimension between dimensions -- to a place that is both hypothetical and real at the same time. A lucid, living vision of the most sincere kind of lies.”  

A portal, hmm.

A portal.

A portal!

Legend vaulted over the Wise Man, leather undersoles of his boots shrieking as he sprinted across the room and towards the corner where his inventory sat. The poor thing was utterly unprepared for the waterfall of affection Legend was about to drench it with. The hero cooed at his beloved artifacts and dug through the bag, eyes peeled for one item in particular.

A-HA!

There it was!

Pulling it out triumphantly, Legend held it in the air and grinned at the Wise Man. The old man’s eyes went wide -- whether from surprise or residual shock from Legend’s outburst it was impossible to tell -- and the hero sprinted over to his side.

“Sir, take a look at this.” Legend said as he placed the Magic Mirror on the table, just adjacent to the Lens of Truth. The moonlight caught on the reflective surface and scattered across the ceiling. “This mirror serves as a portal to the Dark World. Do you think…”

Legend’s hands trembled with excitement. The Wise Man’s eyes were even wider than before, clear and bright, and stared at the two artifacts with hushed amazement. The two sorcerers looked at each other with stupid, child-like smiles on their faces.  

WHAM !

The upstairs door swung open and slammed against the stone wall behind it. Four and Wind shouted something unintelligible before quite literally tumbling down the stairs, their attempts to find some sort of footing a perfect exercise in futility, and landed in a bruised lump on the floor.  

“Hiya, Legend!” Wind exclaimed as he wiggled out from underneath Four.

Legend glared at him with fury fit to kill. The sailor shifted his gaze to the Wise Man as he helped Four get to his feet, a roguish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Uh, ‘xcuse me, mister, but do you have any whipped cream?”  

“Cream? Well, I believe my daughter keeps some on the bottom shelf. Are you hungry, gentlemen? There is plenty of leftover soup.”

“No thank you, sir,” Four said as he swung open the cover of the cupboard and handed a jar of cream to Wind. “We just need it for something very important. Sorry to bother!”

The two tiny heros ran up the stairs just as loudly as they’d come down, giggling riotously as they slammed the door behind them.

“Those boys are so precious, are they not?” The Wise Man mumbled wistfully.

“Sure. Now about these artifacts…”

“Oh, yes. Indeed. I know an ancient fusion spell that would merge the artifacts together if they are indeed companionable.” The Wise Man’s fingers, trembling slightly from a combination of rheumatism and excitement, fastened around the mirror and lens. He mumbled a soft incantation under his breath, then overlaid the two artifacts and pressed them against each other.

A deep tremor shook the floorboards. Legend’s heart beat faster, thrumming in time with the magic’s heartbeat, jumping and bursting and screaming and pressing against the pale bones of his ribcage. He could feel the monsoon of magic raging around them, tearing at his hair, his skin, at the air he breathed in and the thoughts he was thinking. It was happening--it was happening! The whole world shone and sparkled and squealed under the weight of the magic; Legend’s vision frayed under its sheer force. A crimson flush dusted his face and his knuckles stuck out of the white skin of his hands. Light -- golden and grey and ashy and crystalline -- burst from between the Wise Man’s fingers and splashed on the walls. The world contracted and wailed and shook all at once.

And then it vanished. The light swallowed itself and the magic retreated into the ground; the Wise Man pulled his hands away only for the Lens of Truth and Magic Mirror to clatter obstinately on the table top.

“...perhaps not.” Legend grumbled.

The Wise Man smiled and shrugged, the orange silk of his robe catching on the last few rays of magical light. He turned to Legend with a smile on his face. “Ohoho! Well, I suppose that this is the result of looking for the Thunderbird in a sky full of seagulls and swallows. Now, get yourself to bed, young man. I cannot have Link worrying about his self-proclaimed “hero” in the morning.”

Legend scooped up the two artifacts with the angry resignation of a disappointed father. He walked softly up the staircase, waving to the Wise Man before he closed the door behind him. To say that what had just transpired was disappointing would have been the understatement of the century. Idly fidgeting with a ring on his pinky, Legend glowered at the sea of Links sleeping three to a bed. He angrily picked his way through the sparsely-furnished guest room. A wonder that there were enough beds for them after all. It was the least Hylia could do after that ridiculous little prank of hers.

The disgruntled veteran found a spot beside Hyrule and Sky, who were presently curled up against each other. He placed the two artifacts on a tiny nightstand, balancing them on top of each other to save space, and settled onto the bed. A stray beam of moonlight shot through the window. The smell of soup and sweat hung in the air, tinged with the sugary aroma of cream.

Cream?

Legend turned around. He almost slapped a hand to his face to hold in his laughter. Oh goddesses. Oh goddesses. Legend turned red from the held-in snorts and giggles, staring at the scene in front of him with bulging eyes. Hyrule’s ears, hair, and hands had been generously showered with whipped cream. His lashes were covered with so much that it dripped onto the bedsheets in fat clumps. Four and Wild’s retribution for being called “little brothers,” he assumed.

There was never a moment of peace around these guys.

The last vestiges of his mirth dissolved, and Legend settled back onto the bed. He balanced himself on the thin sliver of mattress Sky and Hyrule had left for him. His muscles sighed with relief. His mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts of what could have been. What if it had worked? What would he have seen? What did the Wise Man mean when he said that the two artifacts could have created a portal to a dimension between dimensions? To a place that is both hypothetical and real at the same time?

What was the lucid, living vision of the most sincere kind of lies he could have seen?

He shifted his weight to the other side, reaching out subconsciously to grab the artifacts. Maybe he would send them a goodnight glare before dozing off...

His hands scraped the nightstand surface and came back with nothing.

Wait.

Where...where were they?

Legend jolted upwards, his movement rocking Hyrule and Sky’s sleeping form. Where were they? Where were the artifacts? Time was going to kill him. He was going to kill him. Where had they gone? Legend’s heart beat faster. He squinted through the darkness and swiped his hand again on the countertop.

One of his rings dinged against something metallic. His fingers reached out and fastened around the handle of a mirror.

Nearly fainting with relief, Legend pulled the Magic Mirror towards his chest.

Wait.

That wasn’t the Magic Mirror.

Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the object of Legend’s scrutiny. It outlined the edges of an elegant hand mirror with a metal rim the same golden color as the Wise Man’s magic, diamond barbs adorning the top, and a massive reflective glass set in the middle.

It looked a lot like the Magic Mirror, whatever it was.

And it also looked like the Lens of Truth, just a little…

Wait.

Wait.

Legend nearly squealed when the realization hit him. He kissed the rim of the mirror with all the blush and tenderness of a love-sick farmboy.

The artifacts were companionable.  

It had worked.

IT HAD WORKED!

┕━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┙

[din-skywalker]

blood on my hands

eeeeyyyy another yancy fic! this one is super violent and bloody, and has some mild gore, as well as someone with unstable mental stuff happening, and a child killing their parents so like??? careful!

lemme know what you think!

—–

Yancy has had a bad day. Okay, no, scratch that. He’s had a horrible day. Every little thing has annoyed him to no end, causing his blood to boil and his teeth to grind together as he tried his best to tune out the world around him. That is what his therapist has told him to do when he was feeling angry; take deep breaths and think about something else. Ignore what is making you angry.

But he has had no such luck doing any of those steps, and now the palms of his hands were bleeding because he was digging his nails into them a bit too hard. He curses as he enters his home, wiping the blood off on the black and white shirt he was wearing. That is probably going to make his mom annoyed with him- she had just bought this shirt for him, and it was one of his only nice shirts left- but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too angry to focus clearly, and so he doesn’t even notice the way his palms sting every time he wipes them down the front of the shirt.

Man, he could go for a nice plate of spaghetti. He’s pretty sure that’s the only thing that could turn this day around for him. Spaghetti was, after all, his favorite meal. Especially if his mother cooked it; she was the best cook that he knew.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, smelling something cooking in the kitchen already. He always got home around dinner time because of his tutoring after school keeping him in later than most other students. Though, today, he was just too pissed to focus if he’d actually gone, so he’d instead hung around the school campus until the late release buses arrived to take them home.

That bus ride did nothing but raise his anger and stress levels. Everyone on it was just so loud and annoying, screaming at one another and making the air thick and hot and sweaty. Yancy had situated himself near the front- the back is where the loudest and most crazy kids regularly sat- and tried to block all the noise out by plugging his ears and leaning his head against the window. But, that proved futile, and his world got blurred together as he went into what his therapist calls “sensory overload”.

He didn’t know what that meant really, or did he care, but he knew he was going into one now. He could recognize the feeling of his muscles tensing and his head banging and his palms sweating and his eyes burning as the world around him collapsed in on itself. It made it difficult to breathe, and his lungs ached for fresh air.

He was only able to breathe again once he ran from the bus, two blocks away from his usual stop, and took deep breaths. It helped the overload go away after a few minutes of breathing, cold air prickling at his skin, calming him, but it did not make his anger go away. That stuck around, curling in his gut like a snake waiting to strike.

He walked the rest of the way home, and by the time he arrived, his feet were aching and the snake had traveled to his chest, coiling around his heart. He was fuming, ready to snap at the first person or thing that got near him.

Now, he was stepping into the kitchen, calming himself down as he went. The food smelled great- he hopes it’s spaghetti. The snake remains, but he’s calmed it down enough to speak with his mom. He hates snapping at his mom. His dad, not so much, but never his mom. She was too sweet, and always believed in him even when he seemed like a wasted basket case.

“Hey, Mama,” he greeted, clearing his throat to rid it of its tightness. He walks to the table and hops up on it, swinging his feet as they hang just above the ground. He frowns. His growth spurt hadn’t made him as tall as he would have liked.

“Hello, Yancy dear,” his mother replied, smiling down at the pot she was stirring. Yancy takes another deep whiff of the smell, grinning. It smelt like spaghetti, alright. The snake lowers its head. “How was your day?

The snake raises it again at the question, hissing at the thought. But Yancy shrugs, picking at one of the cracks in the ancient wooden table. They hadn’t been able to get a replacement for it in years, and they were overdue for one. This one was falling apart and covered in cracks. It probably didn’t help that Yancy was sitting on it, but he didn’t are too much. He only worried about taking care of the things his mother gave him specifically or the things she told him to care for. If she were to tell him to get off the table, he would. But she hadn’t, so he leaned back on his hands.

“Not the best, honestly,” he replied, kicking his toes together half-heartedly. His shoes, which he’s had a couple of years, have stayed in pretty good shape. He’s done his best to keep them looking good, after all. “Everyone was annoyin’ as hell.”

“Language, dear,” his mother reprimanded without looking up. He says a quick apology. “I’m sorry it was such a bad day for you. Tomorrow should be better.” She always said that.

“How was your day, Mama?” he asked, and then finally notices the blood he’d gotten on the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he cursed, pushing to his feet and walking to the sink. He hadn’t even realized he’d done that! His blackouts were getting worse by the day. He’d have to speak to his therapist about that next.

“Language,” his mother said again, throwing a glare at his back. He says another quick apology and starts wetting a paper towel, trying and failing to wipe the blood stains from the white parts of the shirt. His mother frowns. “Did you already ruin the new shirt I got you, Yance? I told you that one was expensive.”

“I know, I’m sorry, Mama,” Yancy said, and the snake was rearing its head. How dare she speak to him like that when he already knew he’d made a stupid mistake? He was already beating himself up over it, she didn’t need to do the same. That was just wrong! “I’m not sure how I did it.”

His mother moves to stand beside him, and her eyes widen. “Is that blood?” she asked, and quickly snatches his hands, turning the palms over so she could see them. She looks up at him, her eyes wide. “Yance, what did you do?”

Yancy pulls his hands away and waves her away. The snake is snarling, its teeth bared. He clenched his own jaws, teeth grinding together, head beginning to pound. He needed to calm down. “It’s nothing, Mama,” he said, keeping his tone flat. He would not snap at her. He could control himself enough to not snap at one person in the least, goddammit. “Was an accident.” He pauses, and smiles at her, though they both know it’s forced. “What’s for dinner, though? I’m starvin’!”

She frowns up at him, but she must see the desperation in his eyes, because she turns and returns to the pot she is stirring. She’s learned over the years not to push him on matters like these, especially if he didn’t want to talk about it. It could easily trigger an episode, and those were fun for no one.

“Nothing special,” she said, forcing her own casual tone back into her voice. Yancy appreciates that.

“Your food is always delicious, Mama!” Yancy exclaimed, trying to be happy. He could be happy. His head wasn’t pounding, his blood wasn’t boiling and his teeth weren’t flattening from his hard he was grinding them. He was happy! “I hope it’s spaghetti tonight! I’ve been looking forward to having some of your spaghetti all day!”

His mother glances at him through the corner of her eye, her shoulders suddenly stiffening. Why was she acting like that? Like she was scared of him? Didn’t she know he was happy, and that he would never hurt her even if he wasn’t? The snake tightens its hold on his heart, and it’s becoming hard to breathe, his own muscles tightening. Why did it suddenly feel so tense? Weren’t they both happy?

“I was making fettuccine…” his mother said quietly, trailing off.

The room is filled with silence then. Yancy’s eye twitched, and the snake strikes.

He grabs the nearby knife, stabbing it in the counter surface. His mother jumps as he drags it across, dropping the ladle she’d been holding. He lifts his gaze to her face, her features beginning to blur, the edges of his vision clouding with red. Why was she still acting scared? Why was she so fucking scared goddammit!

“Why the fuck… would you make… fettucini…” he snarled, his words as sharp as the knife he was yanking from the hole he’d made in the counter. When had he made that hole? He’d thought he was just slicing it back and forth. The blade reflects the light pouring in from the window, and he could see the fear growing in his mother’s eyes. That just makes him angrier. Why would she be afraid of him! He’s nothing to be afraid of for fuck’s sake!

“Yance… puh-please calm- calm down,” his mother stammered, a sob breaking her words apart. Tears were streaming down her face as she takes a step back from, stumbling as he steps towards her, the knife hanging at his side. Why was she fucking crying? Why was she backing away from him? Why the FUCK is she afraid of him?! “You need- need to calm down, sw- sweetie.” Her voice is turning to begging. “I- I can make you- spaghetti, if- if you want it!”

“Stop acting scared!” he screamed suddenly, and he doesn’t miss the way she flinches, the way more tears explode from her eyes. His heart is racing, hammering against his chest, causing his blood to burn, his entire being to burn. “It’s pissing me the fuck off!” He slams the knife into the counter again, and his mother yelps.

That was it.

“I-I’m so-”

She didn’t get to finish.

The knife was acting on its own, lodging itself in her throat. Her blood sprays onto his hand, onto his face, onto his shirt. The shirt he’d just cleaned, too! Fucking bitch. She was screaming, pleading, and quivering under him, her back digging into the counter as he pins her there, twisting the knife further into her flesh. The red was fully filling his vision, and he couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel or think.

She didn’t get to be scared of him. She didn’t get to stain the shirt he’d just cleaned. She didn’t get to act like a fucking coward towards him, when he was doing everything in his goddamn power to be good.

The knife sinks further, and he drags it downwards, closer to her chest. He pulls it out, and then brings it down against, directly into the ribs in her chest and the heart beneath. His mother sputters on her own blood, chokes on it, her body quivering and arching, before it goes still, limp in his hold.

How dare she make him hold him up, like she was better than him!

He stabs the same spot repeatedly, the blood splashing on him, on the floor, on his sanity. It was warm and thick and sticky, and it was covering his arms and chest and face. But he kept going, until a large, gaping hole was left in her chest, sliced flesh and broken bones sticking in the middle of the mess.

He leans backwards- when did he end up on the floor?- and draws a deep breath through his mouth, some of the blood- why was there so much?- slides into his mouth, onto his tongue. He spits it out, and drops the knife- how was it so coated?- leaning against one of the cabinets, the spilled pot of noodles forgotten beside him- when had he knocked it over?

It takes him an hour to calm himself down.

And when he does, his eyes landing on the dead, mutilated corpse of his mother- how did that happen did he do that why did he do thath0ow did he do that how did he not realize he did that what the fuck what the fuck what tfukc oh god oh god oh god- he screams at the top of his lungs. The scream tears at his throat, causing it to bleed, but he doesn’t stop, until he sobs, crawling to the body. He cups both of her cheeks, throws up when he sees the holes in her neck and chest and stomach- oh god oh god he did this he did this he did this- and cries and cries and screams.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sobbed, burying his face into his mother’s hair, body trembling, heart screaming.

His father comes home shortly later, finds him cradling his mother’s body, sees him covered in her blood, and the knife coated in the red liquid. He screams as well, points an accusing finger at him.

“I knew you would do this!” he yelled, and the sound tears at Yancy’s ears. Why couldn’t he just be left to mourn his mother? He already knew he’d done this. “I always knew you were a fucking monster!”

Yancy screamed, hand flying to the knife of its own volition, and tackles his father. Years of anger built up explodes in a single moment, and he cuts into his father’s stomach, lets the guts spill out. Watches his father choke on his blood. Watches him bleed out and die, a crumpled mess on the floor that had been clean seconds before.

He was covered in blood.

So much of it was drying on his arms and legs and face. It was making it hard to move, to breathe, to think.

He did the only thing he could think of doing.

He calls the police.

—-

REBLOGS>LIKES

[stachestachestache]

Beneath the Surface -- Chris Beck

Anon: Omg could you write about Chris Beck kinda surprising you and being a total dom in the bedroom?

Some unsavory stuff under the cut: P.S. lost a little steam towards the end and didn’t finish the smutty part so might write a part two depending on whether ppl actually want it.

Words you generally associated with one Mr. Chris Beck: soft, goofy, genius, sweet, kind, and loving.

Chris was everything you could have asked for and more. He was the epitome of the perfect gentleman and partner: attentive to your needs and incredibly communicative. Since he had returned from Mars, he was even more sweet with you, almost sickly sweet. He knew he put you through hell by choosing to be up in space for over two years and he wanted to do everything in his power to let you know he loved you and was incredibly thankful that you waited for him.

Sometimes you questioned his sweet veneer; you knew there was something a little darker lurking underneath. He was exceedingly polite and the picture-perfect man for the press; the media loved to point their fancy cameras at the brunette with captivating blue eyes. Add in the fact that he was an astronaut and doctor -- he was basically America’s dream boyfriend and husband.

But you knew him better than that. You saw the hunger in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. Like that time you accidentally got caught up in yarn as you tried to knit a hat for your nephew. You and Chris were rough-housing in your living room; he had gotten bored waiting for you to give him attention and decided to throw your ball of yarn at you. By the end of it, your hands had somehow gotten completely tied up, bound in front of you. As you tried to wiggle out, realizing you would need a pair of scissors, you glanced up to find Chris staring at you with dark, hooded eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“Babe?” your voice snaps him out of his trance, a sweet smile taking over his face before jumping up to help you.

There was also the fact that he never allowed you to blow him to completion. He never seemed to allow himself to enjoy your mouth around his cock; he was tense, as if he were holding back, trying to stay in control. You tell him time and again to just let go but he refuses, muscles so tense, he looks as if he’s going to burst capillaries from how rigid he holds himself. Without fail, he always pulls you off his cock, bringing you up to cum inside of you. The one time he almost finished in your mouth, he had grabbed your head aggressively, both hands laced in your hair as he pushed his cock down your throat, causing you to gag. The moment tears began to leak down your cheeks, he backed away so quick, you barely had time to think. Instead of finishing, he pulled his pants back up, terrified, and ran to the bathroom, starting the shower and mumbling apologies.

Sex was nice with Chris -- sweet and easy. He was so gentle and so considerate. He was always planting kisses everywhere that he could, rocking into you, making sure you were taken care of before finding his own pleasure. But one time, in the heat of the moment, you decided to bite down on his shoulder, enough to leave teeth marks but not enough to draw blood. When you lifted your face, Chris’ eyes were practically feral. He immediately attacked your neck. It was the first time he had ever left a mark on you. When you woke the next day, you were shocked by your own reflection. The area from the bottom of your ears and across your tits was covered in red splotches where Chris had wrecked havoc with his mouth. He apologized when he woke up, eyes going wide and reprimanding himself softly for losing control.

Something was up and you were going to get to the bottom of it. 

You had a plan. 

You were going to push Chris to his limits, bring out whatever lurked underneath his superb control. It started with teasing touches. At home as you watched movies, you’d sneak a hand onto his thigh, creeping upwards before palming him through his pants. Chris would look over at you with blown pupils but every time he tried to move things further than heavy petting, you’d pull away, making some bogus excuse. This teasing dance went on for several weeks, the longest time the two of you had ever gone without sex.

By the end of week 2, the both of you were bursting at the seams. Chris had begun taking hour-long cold showers and staring at you hungrily every time you both sat down for a meal or spent any time in close proximity. He laid in bed awake for hours at a time, trying to resist the temptation of you lying inches away from him.

At the end of week 3, you put the second phase of your plan into action. You texted Chris that you had a surprise for him and to come home early. Once that text was sent, you jumped into the shower to get ready.

Chris rushed home immediately after work at the NASA lab. He expected to see you on the couch with a pizza and a movie ready to go but instead he found rose petals leading from the front door to your bedroom. He keeps calling out your name but hear no response, even though he saw the glow of your bedroom lamp peeking out from the closed door.

He doesn’t know why but he knocks on the door before going in, even though that’s something he never does at home. All he hears is a muffled moan. The sight that greets him has him watering at the mouth.

Chris wonders what gods has blessed him with the delectable meal that sits in front of him. He stalks your body on the bed like a predator that has cornered its prey. You’re all tied up on the bed, face down, loosely tied gag around your mouth, blindfold on your eyes, hands and legs cuffed to the bedposts and a vibrator taped to your dripping pussy. You had watched a couple youtube videos and somehow learned how to tie yourself up safely.

He rips off the blindfold to make sure you know the trap you have lead yourself into but he can barely think straight after three weeks of celibacy.

The words that begin tumbling out of his mouth nearly shocks you.

“Look at you -- a pretty little thing, all tied up like a whore begging to be destroyed. You want me to destroy that pussy? That what you want? Is that why you tied yourself up like this? When did you learn to do such naughty things?”

Chris undresses himself in record time, clamoring onto the bed.

Unbeknownst to you, you’ve unleashed a beast.

And so the night begins...

Tags: @cchellacat @eurynome827 @buckmesideways22 @ifantasizeromance @book-dragon-13 @anastassimuse 

[josiewinters1999]

What It Feels Like 6

Rocket Raccoon x OFC (Willie)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Summary: Willie awakes to find herself in The Collector’s gallery. She knows she has to escape... for Rocket.

Contains: Angst, fluff, feels, cursing, violence, really gross stuff for a hot minute

A/N: It has been forever and a day since I’ve uploaded and to my [5] fans, I’m so sorry. If you are reading this, thank you for coming back after my long absence and I hope this part is worth the wait. I’m actually pretty proud of it tbh. If you guys like this enough and I keep getting the time/motivation to work on it, I hope to extend it and add the other Guardians. Also, I’m thinking about starting up and writing about Willie and other characters, in her “canon” timeline (aka, the one I have meticulously planned out in my head). Drop a comment and tell me what you think of the story or anything I’ve proposed. And as always... enjoy!

The morning was just like any other; the alarm clock went off, he got up, dressed himself, and went into the control room of his ship. However, when Rocket realized upon entering that it was missing a certain person and all the comforting ambiance they produced, he felt his heart sink in his chest. Today was going to be a long lonely day.

He makes his way to the coffee machine, ready to brew himself a cup since Willie wasn’t there to do it like she typically did. With a drowsy paw, Rocket grabs the coffee and begins making the pot.

As the water brews, the raccoon’s distorted reflection grimaces back at him from the coffee pot. He crosses his arms and looks away, not wanting to be reminded how miserable he actually is. Brown eyes gaze across the common room of his modestly sized ship. On the table where he and Willie would normally be sharing breakfast, he spots his holocommunicator.

All the muscles in his body tense the second his eyes lock on it. He slowly makes his way to it, afraid he might startle it somehow if he’s too quick. It looks back up at him, almost begging him to make the call he so desperately wants to make.

Furry paws grasp the tablet and hold it feebly. It’s only been one damn day, his mind tells him. What could possibly have happened in one day? The voice of his conscious didn’t stop Rocket from wanting to make the call.

If I could just hear her voice one more time... his small fingers punch in her name and got to hit the ‘call’ button but stop in an instant, mere millimeters above the surface of the device.

She left you his darker side scolds him. She doesn’t need you and you don’t need her. Face scrunching up in anger, the raccoon throws the communicator back onto the table and returns to his coffee.

***

The space is still and stagnant, air not moving in any direction. It smells of plastic, harsh cleaning chemicals, and something foreign. Behind her eyelids, Willie can sense there was a light on.

Voices in the distance are muffled by a what sounds like a wall. They’re deep, masculine, and many. Mind not yet a full functioning, Willie is unable to translate and blows off the noise as the radio or television.

In her space, the Gallifreyan stirs, finding her position uncomfortable. The pain in her head suddenly catches her attention and her whole body winces. The sound outside her space changes from voices to loud thumps, each one increasing in volume before stopping.

Bang bang bang.

The sound of a fist on flat glass is enough to jolt the woman awake. She springs into a sitting position and makes the horrible choice of opening her eyes.

Flickering and humming fluorescent lights above her magnify the pain throbbing in her skull to levels unbearable. Raising a hand to shield her eyes, Willie squints, hoping it will help her focus.

The blurry room slowly starts to become comprehensible. There is a man standing above her with a wide, wicked smile on his face. He waves sarcastically as he bends his knees. His blue skin, black eye, and bloody lip make the Kree man instantly recognizable.

Too weak to make a rebuttal, Willie just snarls and the man laughs, his voice now being clear and understandable, “Not so tough now, are you, you stupid bitch?”

Willie’s memory suddenly comes crashing into her like a runaway train.Landing in Knowhere, going to her ship, having a smoke at her table in the bounty hunter’s bar, the fight in the bar, the fight in the alleyway, all while she was trying to get back to Rocket.

Rocket. Oh God…

One of the men from the alleyway steps up and pulls back his friend taunting Willie, “Come on Agron, let’s just let the man pay us and get out of here,” he leans into the blue skinned Agron, “this place gives me the creeps.”

Agron looks between his friend and his catch in the glass cage before walking away. This gives Willie a second to fully survey her surroundings.

Feeling a stiff, scratchy feeling on her skin, she glances down. She was now clad in a crisp, clean, white jumpsuit and matching socks. She feels a pain in her neck. Reaching up,she feels a small metal disk under her skin. Having used them on others before Willie knows exactly what its purpose is; electric shocks. Shifting to be on her knees, she crawls to the edge of the square enclosure. Peering out into the area outside it, she looks up and out at the vast storage area.

The ceiling seems to stretch on almost forever, receding into blackness as the items hanging in it begin to disappear. Hundreds of glass cases similar to Willie’s reach into the space above, each one filled with a different, rare creature.

Willie had heard many things about this man and had evaded his grasp many times by the hairs on her neck. Finally being in his care, in his glass case looking out, was something Willie had prayed she’d never see. Suddenly feeling light headed, she falls back onto the seat of her jumpsuit, the world before her becoming blurry.

In the distance, she sees three indistinct figures. The smallest of them hands something to the other two before they walk away. On the brink of fainting, Willie doesn’t notice the figure’s movement until he begins to finally come into focus at the edge of her tank.

He is slightly taller than Willie and wears a luxurious white fur coat draped over his shoulders, it’s hair matching that on his head perfectly. His tailored purple suit underneath oozed elegance and wealth. Wealth, Willie is now starting to realize, built on blood… blood like hers.

With straight perfect teeth, he grins at Willie like a passerby would grin at a cute dog. He bends his knees, purple fabric around them straining slightly. “Look… at … you,” his words were slow and full of pride, “After all this time I never thought I’d have one. A Time Lord. The last Time Lord,” he trembles slightly with giddiness, “And she’s all mine.”

“Jokes on you dumbass,” Willie grins back, “I’m not actually a Time Lord. I’m a Woodlander. We’re a different breed.”

The Collector stands, fixing his now lightly wrinkled clothes, “Makes no difference. You’re the last one left.” He looks back at her with a devilish grin, “You’re one of a kind.”

***

“I wish we could stay like this forever…” Willie sighs, rubbing the fur between Rocket’s ears gently with her long pale fingers. He grips her shirt tighter and smiles, inhaling her scent deeply. She smelled of cigarette smoke, tangy soap, and something distinctly Willie.

Curling into her side, Rocket can feel her warmth radiate onto him, the clear blue sky above him and the crisp wind completing the scene. “We can stay like this as long as you want baby,” He mumbles happily.

Willie furrows her brow, “We can?” The worry in her voice drains Rocket’s joy as he sits up to look at her. Her skin was perfect without a single blemish on it, like it had been airbrushed. “Why couldn’t we?” he asks, concern evident.

She brushes her vibrantly colored yellow hair back, looking up at the raccoon, “I don’t know.” Her hands find a blade of grass beneath her and twirl it in her fingertips as she continues, “Maybe because we shouldn’t be together.”

Rocket grabs her hand and holds it in both his paws, “Baby, we can do whatever we want. Who was it that made the rules of who can and can’t be together?” Her blue eyes glance at his hands and then back into his eyes.

“Don’t you love me?” the raccoon asks, deep brown full of worry. She only smiles, gracing his cheek with her free hand, “Of course I do. I always have.”

For a moment, time stops, the birds stop chirping, the clouds stop floating, and the wind comes to a halt. Willie’s warm smile is enough to last Rocket a lifetime. Her plump red lips turn upwards as she speaks in a low voice, “Rocket, I lo-”

The moistness under his chin wakes Rocket from his dream. Groggy and half out of it, he sits up, looking at the puddle of drool in his lap. Wiping the now cold liquid from his cheek, he looks at the clock on the ship’s console.

2pm. It’s barely past noon and he’s already bored himself to sleep. Living without Willie is harder than he thought it would be.

His hands tingle as if they really had just been touching Willie. He sighs, heart heavy and the images flashing through his mind. Rocket realizes he feels empty without her.

But again, her face, her real face, not the one in Rocket’s dream comes to mind; sunken in, covered in scars, nose crooked, and eyes permanently full of disdain and disappointment. The sight hurts just to think about. Hurt soon turns to anger and he clenches his fists around the armrests of his captain’s chair.

“Fuck her. Never needed that junkie slut crowding me anyways.”

***

Whenever Willie got any reprieve from being watched, by either The Collector himself or by one of his pink skinned minions, she searched her cell fervently. Top to bottom she looked for something that could get her out.

Fingers tapped, poked, and pried at every corner and seem of the glass. It was sealed tight, the only opening was the air vent above and Willie had already rubbed her fingertips raw trying to feel for a weak spot or anything she could wrap around her fingers to help in her escape.

Willie was beginning to learn the hard way how things work as a toy in The Collector’s box. Twice a day, every day, you were delivered food. The food was bland but kept you alive and healthy, just the way he wanted you.

When it was feeding time, you were told to get into position at the opposite end of your tank. This position consisted of you kneeling, ankles crossed and hands interlocked behind your head. Something you can’t get out of very easily.

The pink skinned girl would then open the door and carefully set the food down before shutting it and leaving. If you moved, she hit a button on the device strapped to her wrist and an electric shock powerful enough to make even Willie seize up would flow through your body, leaving you a sloppy mess on the floor.

Days passed, and many times Taneleer himself would come to just stare at the blond Gallifreyan in her case. Petting his fur coat like it was a living animal, he stared her down, grinning wildly and almost fondly at her. Every time, Willie would curse him, promptly earning her a shock slightly more potent than the ones delivered by the assistants.

Getting out of this place is going to be tough, that much was clear.

***

Willie lay in the dark on her back. The Collector knew better than to give her anything in her case so she lay on the bar hard floor, staring at the grey ceiling, its only features being the light, now dimmed, and the air vent.

Nine days. It had been nine days. Why hadn’t anyone come for her? Where was Rocket? Hadn’t he seen her getting pulled away? Willie thought, hands folded on her stomach. Then it hits her. Rocket doesn’t care. He’s pissed I left. No one is coming…

Her thoughts and potential tears are interrupted by footsteps in the distance. She sits up, crawling to the nearest glass wall. She sees one the cleaning ladies scurrying in, a bucket in one hand and a wad of rags in the other.

“Hurry!” The Collector’s voice is distant, quiet, but unmistakable. “He isn’t going to clean himself now is he?” he shouts and the girl only runs faster.

After watching the pink girl disappear in the sea of dimly lit glass cases, Willie watches Taneleer emerge, steps angry and swift with his less formal, more comfortable night coat flowing behind him.

With the excitement seeming to be over, Willie sits back, listening intently. She could barely make out the sounds of cleaning. The slosh of water, the squeak of clean glass, and the occasional sob from the woman doing the dirty work.

Some time later, the assistant comes back, wet rags inside the bucket of now dirty water. Head to the ground, tears trail down her cheeks and she briskly speed walks out of the gallery hall.

Eyes trained on her like a hawk, the wheels in Willie’s head turn. She feels the blood rush through her body and a hunger form in her stomach; a hunger she hasn’t felt in a long time.

If she wanted to get out of this place, she was going to have to do it the dirty way.

***

Hours passed and her instinct was telling Willie it was turning from night to dawn. The creatures around he were beginning to stir and the hall seemed more alive than it is at night. The Collector comes out to gaze upon his prizes while his entourage of assistants come around with carts full of food trays.

The one that typically fed Willie approaches her tank, tray in hand and cart at her side. She gives a look to Willie and the blond glares at her, asking her to assume the proper position for feeding.

As she kneels, interlocking her ankles and hands, the woman slides the glass door open and sets the tray down before swiftly exiting and going on with her route.

Willie gets up and stares at the food as it practically stares back at her. The tray was like everything else in her tank, white and clean. Perfect, just the way he liked things. It disgusts her and makes her yearn for freedom even more.

Angrily grabbing the food and sitting it on her lap, she begins shoveling it into her mouth, waiting for the perfect opportunity to carry out her plan. She watches the people bustle about, going from tank to tank until their carts are empty. They then roll out in an almost single file line, ready to return in an hour to collect the empty trays.

Finally alone, Willie checks one more time to see if the collector is near. Without the man or any of his minions in sight, Willie sits back hearts racing. If she was going to do this, she’d better hurry.

With no more food left on her tray, she leans forward, looking down at the floor. She gets on her knees, pulling her hair over her shoulders and opening her mouth wide. She takes a deep breath, squeezes her eyes shut tight, and reaches her long fingers down her throat.

There was only a couple other times she’s ever had to do this, and being nervous always made it harder. She forces them deeper and harder down her throat, feeling around to find that sweet spot that will give her the results she needs.

Feeling herself gag, she knows she’s found it. Pressing harder still, she gags more and more. Sweat seeps from her pores, worry that she’ll be caught tickling her stomach. Soon enough she gags one last time and a waterfall of sloppy puke gushes from her mouth and onto the floor by her knees.

Coughing while the last bit comes out, she pulls her fingers out, licking them clean first and then wiping the excess saliva on her leg.

Surely when the lady came to take her tray, she’d see the mess and have to spend a good amount of time to clean it.

Willie’s prediction comes true sooner than she had hoped when Taneleer steps out from behind the row of tanks next to her and see her sitting in her own filth. Glaring at the Gallifreyan, she fakes stomach pains and curls into a corner, trying her best to further the illusion.

The Collector’s face heats up and turns a deep shade of read, “Carina!” he shouts, almost loud enough to make the glass shatter. Quick yet light footsteps rush to his side, “Yes, master?”

He forcefully grabs her arm and jerks her, making her look at the state of his prized piece, “What is this? Are you trying to kill her?” Stuttering but not actually responding, Carina’s mouth opens and closes nervously. “Clean it up...” Taneleer barks into her ear. She nods and rushes off to get her supplies.

The Collector looks Willie up and down one last time before storming off in a rage. If he were to stand and watch any longer, he knows he would most likely scream at Carina the entire time.

Unable to hold it in, Willie grins. Perfect ,she thinks. Within a few more moments, Carina comes back with the buckets, chemical solutions, rags, and sponges needed to clean Willie’s vomit.

Willie begins to tingle with anticipation. Carina doesn’t even bother to say anything to Willie before sliding the door open. The Gallifreyan’s eyes go wide in excitement as she stares at the woman’s wrist and the device strapped to it.

Carina wets a rag and kneels, beginning to wipe the floor. Every second seemed to drag on for years and Willie felt like she did in the forests of her home; nervously excited with a certain insatiable bloodlust as she waits in the bushes to kill her next meal.

Soon the weak prey turns her back to re-wet her rag. The predator lunges forward silently and swiftly, grabbing her by her throat to silence any screams. Prey’s eyes go wide and fingers claw desperately at the suffocating firmness around her.

Willie drags Carina into her tank, through the mess on the floor and up to her chest. The blood pumps through her veins, adrenaline making her stronger and eventually she can feel Carina’s spine in her palm, so close she can feel the bumps in her vertebrae.

The woman’s pawing becomes softer and softer, her pleaing grunts becoming quieter and quieter. Eyes roll up into her skull and she goes limp and heavy in Willie’s hands. Willie reaches down to her wrist and unstraps the device that controls the disc in her neck.

Strapping it on her own wrist, Willie begins punching every button she can find. How the hell do I turn this thing off? Her mind panics. Suddenly there is a beep and Willie quickly prays to every God she knows that that has done it.

Her head darts from side to side as she emerges from her tank for the first time in over a week. Not a soul is in sight and the coast is clear.

She steps swiftly and quietly through the gallery, keeping herself as concealed as possible. She weaves between the rows of glass cases, the creatures and plants inside watching her in awe as she does the thing they all wish they could do; escape.

The door has to be here somewhere. Her mind races and her pores leak profusely as she frantically searches for the exit. Each row only leads to nothingness and Willie starts walking faster and faster through them.

Finally, a grand archway presents itself at the far end of the gallery, barely within view. Face lighting up with relief, Willie makes her way to it, confident and giddy.

“You!” a deep male voice grunts behind her. Her body tenses up again and she whips her head around to see the voice’s owner. The Collector stands down the row from her, Willie equidistant between him and freedom.

She sprints as fast as she can for the door. Taneleer reaches his wrist up to push the button on his device to slow her down. Nothing happens. He presses it again and looks up. She is still running, and alarmingly fast.

His heart tenses and he shouts, “Get her!” No one rushes to his aid and he runs after her himself. Willie reaches the archway and dashes out into the familiar streets of Knowhere.

Luckily there was a crowd and she soon absorbs herself into it, hiding herself in the swarm of bodies lining the strip. By the time Taneleer emerges from his gallery, she is gone. He looks down at his wrist computer again and see a red dot on a radar. “You’ll be mine again...”

***

Weaving quickly through the crowd, stealing the paranoid look over her shoulder, Willie looks everywhere for The Collector or his goons. She’s certain they are right behind her.

After walking the streets and not seeing any sight of them for an hour, she relaxes. She’s outrun them… for now. Willie looks down at her vomit and sweat stained jumpsuit. If she wants to blend in and get off this planet, she’s going to have to change clothes.

She desperately searches the streets for where her ship was parked prior to her kidnapping. That comforting and familiar empty space between two buildings was a sight for sore eyes. A bright smile spreads across Willie’s lips and she runs to her ship. She can’t wait to throw open the doors of that fantastic invisible box and-

Reaching the space, she runs right through it. Where her ship should have been is empty. Her ship is gone.

Willie begins to panic, “No…” she whispers. She frantically feels the air for it. Spinning in circles like a mad man she searches for something that isn’t there. “No,” she repeats. “No no no.” She stomps the ground in anger. “He took it. Taneleer Tivan took my fucking ship.”

She gazes back out into the alleyway, “I need a phone…”

***

Hanging his ammo belt up on the rack at the entrance of his ship, Rocket sighs. Jobs just don’t satisfy him like they used to. The rush of blowing something up and taking someone down just doesn’t get his goat anymore.

They used to give him a sense of fulfillment that satiated his core like a desert flower getting its yearly rain. Things are… well… different now. He knew deep down why, but would never admit it to anyone, especially himself.

With heavy limbs, he trudges to the kitchen. Bounty hunting can sure work up the appetite. Rocket steps on his small ladder to reach the top cabinet. Before he can even fully grasp the handle of the door, the holocommunicator on the dining table rings.

His movements stop. He debates whether he should let it ring out or if he should walk over and reject the call. Either way, he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. The raccoon returns to the task at hand and opens the cabinet.

In the background, the ringing stops. “Guess they didn’t want to talk either.”

Reaching into the cabinet he pulls out a box of food and begins preparing it. He pours the contents of the plastic container into a plastic bowl, sighing with tired eyes and feeble fingers.

The ringing begins again and Rocket growls to no one in particular. Teeth bared, he angrily looks over his shoulder at the table muttering to himself, “Can I not sit down for five goddamn minutes?” Eventually, the ringing stops once more.

Tension releasing, the raccoon takes his food and walks to the captain’s chair to eat it. As he passes the table and holocommunicator sitting on it. It begins yelling at him again, almost as if it knew he was walking by.

Angry beyond comprehension, he slams his food on the table, a few bits of it falling out onto the surface of the tabletop. “Who could it possibly be?” he shouts at the top of his lungs. He picks of the glowing translucent blue tablet and reads the message:

Voice Communication. A3-Sector B09

The code at the end was instantly recognizable to Rocket. It told the raccoon that this call was coming from Knowhere. But why? At this point, Rocket’s anger has subsided and curiosity is slowly taking its place.

Slowly, he takes his paw and taps the accept button. Immediately he hears a hustle and bustle in the background of the call, confirming this call was where the communicator said.

“Hello?” the raccoon’s voice is unsure.

“Rocket!? Oh thank God I was starting to think you wouldn’t pick up,”  distinctive voice worries to him. It was shaky and scared.

Rocket’s heart drops at the sound of it and he nearly faints, “Willie?”

She smiles on her end, “Yeah it’s me.” There is a pause as she swallows nervously, “Rocket, I’m in trouble. I need you.”

Rocket opens his mouth to offer his assistance but is suddenly reminded of the full situation. She left him. She left him after he poured his heart out to her. She doesn’t deserve his help. “Why should I help you?” he grunts.

Willie almost chokes at those words, “What the hell do you mean? Rocket, please. I need your help. I’m stuck here.”

He only shrugs, “Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

The Gallifreyan bites a lip and lowers her voice, “Rocket, listen. I’m sorry for how stupid I was being. This whole thing with our feelings just is kinda hard for me…” she sighs, “I… I shouldn’t have left. I really had no reason to except that I was scared. But trust me when I say I tried to get back to you. I really did.”

Tears welling in his eyes, Rocket tries his best to make it sound like he isn’t crying, “Then what the hell stopped you?” he spits.

“I was kidnapped!” Willie shouts, her voice going through the communicator and filling Rocket’s ship.

He is taken aback by this, “Y-you were what?”

The woman lets out a deep breath, “The Collector got me. He’s been after me for years and he finally got me. It’s a wonder I was able to get out.” She anxiously scans the crowd as she speaks into the communicator on the Knowhere streets, “I think he still might be on my tail though. Can never be too sure. I need to get this stupid thing out of my neck. How soon can you be here? Because I am dying to kill this piece of shit.”

“Willie…” he trails off, unable to think of what else to say.

“Please Rocket, I need my big man to come rescue me.”

His heart flutters and he smiles, “I love you,” he blurts out.

Willie sighs, grinning like mad, “I think I might feel the same.”

The smile on Rocket’s face couldn’t be wider, “Lay low for a while doll. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

***TAG LIST***

@animeaniseed @youralienfriend @fandoms-4-life0000 @groovy-bouquet-starlight @okie--loki @tara-jadet1ffen @rosaufyuniverse 

[becquerelcaps]

Love is Over, part 2

read the first part here: https://becquerelcaps.tumblr.com/post/178973389704/fiction-love-is-over-pt-1

-

Even when I go for interviews for 'normal' jobs, I inevitably end up feeling like a child playing dress-up in his parent's clothes. My sleeves are the wrong length. Ties have never worked on me. And why didn't I shave properly this morning? Perhaps porn was the wrong career for someone so neurotic. But I was already standing outside the girl's house, and the rain wasn't letting up, so I thought I might as well wait for the bus home somewhere dry. I knocked and soon found myself in her living room.

Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to call it an office, since every available surface was covered in loose sheets of paper, consumer electronics and mangled notepads. The curtains were drawn. A sofa, clearly never sat on, was crammed in a corner beneath a large landscape painting of a burning tree at night in a field of wheat. And gliding through this mess was the girl from the café, leaving me standing awkwardly in the doorway to lean against the far wall. We exchanged formalities in a way that I think amused her. This was when I first learned her name. But while it'd make my prose flow better, I can't bring myself to use it online, so I'm just going to refer to her as Love. If nothing else, I think she wouldn't hate that.

"So your hours are flexible," she said. We had been talking for only a few minutes, about experience, confidentiality, logistics and other topics that wouldn't be out of place at an office job. Her attitude was businesslike and uninterested, while I was just trying not to let on how much I wanted this.

"I don't have much of a social life. Give me half an hour to get the bus here and I can go whenever you like."

"I shoot through the week, process and upload on the weekend – that schedule doesn't change for you. Now, about payment. I believe in fair wages, but I'm taking more risk here than you, so you'll get a forty percent cut. That's $150 for an hour of content, give or take."

She must have seen me literally double-take. I could make more in an hour here than in a week of working minimum wage back at the laundromat. No more bulk unseasoned ramen. Shit, maybe I could actually start paying off some of my debts.

"Don't get so excited," she said. "You're cute. But I don't know if I can trust you, let alone use you. We'll shoot a scene, see how you do, then sign you off. Let's get you downstairs to the studio to see how you handle things."

-

The studio turned out to be a compact, oblong cellar with a low ceiling. At one end, a laptop sat in a nest of plugs, wires and video equipment on a desk surrounded by bare concrete walls. The other end had a few modest gestures towards decoration: heavy, dark red fur linings hung over the walls, complemented by ambient purple light radiating from small mood lamps subtly cached in the corners. A startling omission was the lack of a bed of any kind. In its place stood a chair sat in the dead centre of the room, upholstered with black leather. I would later learn that she had bought it from a dentist's office and refurbished it herself, liking the flexibility it gave her, and there was still a system of trays and little medicinal-looking boxes attached to one of the arms.

"Phones off in the studio," said Love, gesturing to the table. Evidently she didn't have hers on her.

"I'll leave it on," I said as I put it down. "I have some stuff on there to look at if I need to get back in the mood."

She responded with an honest-to-God roll of the eyes. "Oh, no. No, no, no. I think you really don't understand what kind of porn this is. My viewers, they don't care if the guy is hard or not."

"...what kind of porn is that, then? Softcore?"

"Sit down," she said, fiddling with a camera, "and I'll show you. If you're a real newcomer to this then I want to catch your first reaction. Virgins get the most buys." A dim green light indicated that I was now on tape.

With a slight jolt of discomfort, I settled into the recliner. It leant back farther than I expected, and when I saw Love coming towards me she towered tall, like an Amazonian giant. But rather than crush me beneath her heel, she reached into a box on one of the trays besides me and pulled out some kind of long metal rod, about half as thick as my little finger.

"You're luckier than you know," she murmured. "I sterilised this for you just this morning." Then, a little louder, for the camera: "In case you haven't figured it out yet, today we're going to... play doctor."

"Is that... something for taking my pulse?" I wasn't sure if she wanted me to speak, but the curiosity was genuine. The rod seemed too formless, too devoid of any notches or insignias or apparent function to look anything other than alien. It wasn't even sharp.

Her lips curled into a smile. Black lipstick, I noticed. Dressing up for the shoot. I felt like a slob. "Not quite," she said. "I've acquired my fanbase for indulging a few very select and particular kinds of content." Held between a finger and a thumb, she angled the rod towards me. "And it so happens that most of them include doing things to people like you." The tip, cold through my T-shirt, pushed against my chest. "Things like inserting a long, smooth piece of stainless steel..." It trailed down my body, coming to rest on a bulge in my jeans. "...into a particular part of the male anatomy."

Every nerve and fibre in my body recoiled at once. This was wrong. This was seriously wrong. I was trapped in a basement with a mad woman who wanted to hurt me, not make porn. "I, I need to really fucking go, like uh, right NOW, so --"

But just before I was about to bolt out of the chair and far away from this strange place, her hand snapped to my wrist. With the tiniest bit of pressure she kept me glued in place as she leant in close, and calmly spoke: "Calm down. I am not going to hurt you."

"Y-yeah that's nice and all," I sputtered, my voice quiet, "but I seriously, seriously cannot do this."

"I understand," she said. "But think about it. You didn't really come here thinking you were going to have sex with me, did you? We met on a kink forum. You can handle this." Her breath was hot against my face. Her voice dark, seductive. "And besides, think of the money. Video like this... you could pull in half a grand, when all's said and done."

Some deep psychological machinery in my brain whirred and forced me to take a gasp of air. I took a long, deep breath, and then another. "Money..."

"Of course, I would never force you to do something you really didn't want to." Her hand, still grasping the rod, was gently gripping my leg as she leaned over me. "But..." She pulled in even closer and whispered directly into my ear. "I know you're hard right now."

Call it adrenaline, if you like. I know I did that night. But the truth was feeling that metal rod tap against my groin sent a shiver through me that felt like a cudgel to the spine. The primal, gasping fear made my blood flow hot and my muscles tense into a raging erection that bulged and sagged inside my boxers. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pull my eyes from her fingernails, black as night, tapping against the cool, strong steel.

"Show me," she said, loud and clear. "Show the camera how excited you are, and I'll put that thing of yours to use."

My hands trembling, I pulled at my belt until it slid to the floor with a heavy clunk. My boxers soon followed, and as they came down my cock sprang up, glistening at the tip. I had shaved before heading to Love's house, thinking it would matter, and I distinctly remember how the lack of hair made my penis seem so small next to the sheer length of the rod.

"Good boy," she said with a little chuckle. "You can follow instructions." When I wasn't looking, she had slathered the tip of the rod in some kind of sticky, colourless lube. "Now hold it steady it for me."

All I can remember of the sounding rod actually entering my cock is how dry my mouth was - full of cotton, it felt like. But that's a cop-out for a description, so I went back and looked at my copy of the video Love sent me after the fact. As the tip of the rod pushed up against the slit of my glans, my eyes visibly dilated, and when she firmly slid it an inch into my urethra, every part of my body trembled and I fell back against the chair like a doll with cut strings. It was as if I had been killed stone dead. But to Love's credit, she didn't miss a beat. Using one hand to keep the sounding rod stable, she grabbed the cuff of my shirt and gave me a brusque tug that pulled me back into the realm of the living. My head felt fuzzy and waterlogged, like I'd been dredged up from the bottom of the sea. "Guh..."

"Don't you make me call an ambulance just because you can't handle a girl using your dick better than you can," she said with a bemused air. "The paramedics always wreck the place." With that, she slid the rod another inch deeper into my dick. The sensation still felt utterly alien and wrong, but the sight of it disappearing into me was almost hypnotic. A pulse of precum surged up from somewhere deep inside me, welling up around the metal and flowing over my glans as I whimpered something meaningless. There was nothing else. The world had shrunk down to this basement, to me in this chair and Love standing over it. I wanted to squirm, but I was pinned down, staked through the heart. Hot tears were flowing over my cheeks.

"Shh, it's alright. What you're feeling... it's your masculinity leaving you." Love smiled at me like a caring mother. "It's like being castrated. It feels like I'm breaking your cock, and that's all you think you are. But I'm not breaking it. Just your mind." With that, she planted a gentle kiss on my forehead. "You're cute when you're fucked."

As my vision began to fade once more, I dimly felt the bulge of the rod pull up and slide out of my dick, which fell limp against my stomach without its support. My glans felt like it was burning. My entire cock was burning, actually. Or was it just where she had kissed me? No matter, now. I was broken. My mind was broken. Everything was nice and gentle and hot and calm and broken and my cock and her hand and the wet towel of the feeling and heavying gentle hot tired, ohhhh...

-

Everything was soft and only my cock hurt. A dull aching burn, an itch I couldn't scratch. Mmf. Where was my phone? I groped around my bedside table looking for it, only to realise that the table wasn't there and I wasn't in my own bed. Gargling and smacking my lips like I'd woken up from a night of binge-drinking, I realised Love must've moved me up into what looked like a guest room. I was naked under the covers - had she...? - but my clothes were in a neat pile on a chair besides the bed. Ah, and my phone was in one of my jeans' pockets. Considerate. But before I could check it there was a tap at the door and Love entered, bearing a tall glass of water and a bar of chocolate in her hands.

"You're awake, that's good. How are you feeling?"

"I... I have no idea how I'm feeling. Weird."

"That's normal; you're crashing. Eat this, it'll help." She pressed the chocolate into my hands. "You did pretty good for your first scene."

I opened the wrapper as she moved my clothes to the floor and sat down, perching the water on a windowsill. "Thanks, I guess. It all happened so quickly."

"You think? I got a good half hour of footage from that."

Jesus. The experience was already fluttering out of my mind like a dream. If it wasn't for the ache between my legs, I would have almost thought it didn't happen. "Will my... you know, my cock, will it be alright? It's hurting."

"Like I said, you're a virgin. It always hurts the first time. C'mon, let's get you downstairs if you're feeling alright."

A few minutes later I was fully dressed and standing in Love's living room once more. Though only a few hours had passed, everything looked and felt different. The room seemed less chaotic and more freeform, unrestrained. Or maybe it was something within me. The two of us chatted for a little while about business technicalities that are boring to recount - I had to sign a form permitting her to use the video of me - but the upshot was that I was now a formal employee of Love's media company. The only one, as it happened. It seemed that most applicants didn't get this far. I opted to have my portion of the revenue go directly to my bank account via standing order, and thinking that was everything, headed for the door. But something stopped me at the last moment.

"You mentioned something, just before I passed out. That putting that thing inside me was like getting castrated."

"Was I wrong?"

"No, it described it perfectly. How many guys have you done this to before?"

"None. ...well, that's not the full story." For the first time she actually looked somewhat bashful. "I don't usually tell people this so quickly, but you seem pretty trustworthy. I've done it to myself. I'm trans."

"Oh! Like..."

"Transgender. I've got a dick, in other words. Not a problem, I hope."

I paused for a moment, a little surprised, then grinned. "Shit, it makes me feel better about you putting that thing in me. You know how it feels too."

Love just rolled her eyes, smiled sardonically and wished me a pleasant night. "Go on, get. I've got editing to do."

As I stepped out from her house, I was bathed in the deep red light of a glorious evening. I'd spent more time with her than I'd expected to, and I could tell that my thoughts would be swimming with images of what'd happened here for the rest of the night. As I made my way to the busstop, I found myself wondering how long it might be till she called me back for another shoot. The thought of going through it all again still made me a little weak at the knees, but something about her presence brought it back down to reality, made it manageable. I just hoped that in the meantime, it wouldn't burn too much when I went to piss.

[dawnfletcherstuff]

So the canonicity of this story is... ??? but heck- here’s "Out of Water”.

Armaleonis was lost. That part wasn’t surprising. Even with his natural sight, he was much better with tracking than directions. Still, the wastes of The Ghostlands should have been familiar enough to him; he had spent more than enough time there to know it like the back of his hand. Things had gotten a bit out of hand, after Daeleon had asked him for a simple favor- go get some fresh mana wyrm meat from Eversong. And yet, the demon hunter had managed to get distracted once again.

Then again, it wasn’t every day a Legion ship landed in the neighborhood. Having taken the particularly scenic route through Quel’Danas, Armaleonis spotted an odd protrusion poking up from the sea. Curious, he set aside his bounty and leapt into the depths, smelling something out of sorts. The water was…warm, no. Not warm. No. The water was….thinking? No, that’s not how water works. Unless it was an elemental. Was it an elemental? Oh, right, time to breathe. He went to surface, but felt his leg being pulled down towards the wreck. Trying to spin and push towards the surface, it felt like a cannonball hit him square in the face, and everything went black.

-

<Good Morning>

Armaleonis groaned, sprawled out on… a dry floor?

“Muhhhhh, when I find the murlocs that thought this was funny….I’m gonna have some words with them, and they aren’t going to be ‘thank you’��..” He grumbled, opening his eyelids...only to...scream in panic.

He opened his eyes.

HE COULD SEE. HE HAD EYES.

Sniffing around, he tried to pick up what the hell did this and was bombarded by a series of alien smells. These weren’t Legion smells. He knew Legion smells. No, the scents on his nose were...muted? Salty, a little, but muted. One smell he definitely recognized was perhaps the most strange of all:

Turtle.

Forcing himself up, Armaleonis saw his beloved Blackglasses, cracked in the center, but still in one piece. Grasping them close to his chest, he took in a deep breath and started to take tentative steps towards the smell of turtle. This place was dark, lit by what looked like Draenite crystals. Maybe this was a Draenei ship? It made enough sense, Eredar were an advanced sort. It was odd, though, that he didn’t smell magic. His left hand clenched, reminded of the thirst of the Sin’dorei. It was about this time that he realized the room was...crooked. At an angle. Maybe it was a ship of Draenei of the Auchenic order? He scritched the back of his head, contemplating as he made his way forward, into the darkness.

“Hello? Anyone here? Murlocs? Turtles?” He called out as he manuevered down.

Silence.

For what felt like an eternity, Arma followed his nose, his heart racing. Every step forward revealed what looked like a long derelict wreck, with no traces of anything remotely humanoid. No bones, no tools...heck, the only indication that anything sentient was involved was the fact that he could tell this was a ship of some sort. Something wasn’t right, though. The darker it got, the more...algae he could see in the water on the edges  of the walkways? As a ranger, he knew that algae grew where the Sun would rest upon it...not in lost depths. The air was getting...steamy, as well. His gut was ready to turn, but he pressed forward, turning towards what looked like an antechamber- in the center, where lay what he smelled-

A giant, ancient turtle. A tortoise, to be more accurate. The room was bright, far too bright- every plate of its shell shone with a brilliant, otherworldly light, and within each of those lights, Arma could see what looked like portals to other worlds...the sight hurt his brain, and he clutched his forehead with a cry- he couldn’t tell why, but the sight was actively hurting him, so he turned from it, away from the strange creature.

“AaaaAAaaaAaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” His head felt like it was ready to split, blood dripping from his ears as he collapsed, eyes flickering to look at SOMETHING else- like all the mush...rooms…..in here. Algae and mushrooms? That….that doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t focus on it, though as the pain ratcheted up a tic. Then he saw it- the mushrooms were moving – and from the Algae, something rose, a cloaked figure, whose face looked like it made more sense as a squid- though whose tendrils were unmistakably green, and viny.

Was this a creature from the Everbloom? He looked like he belonged there…and then, all the pain and, really, all thought, stopped. It was like someone grabbed the lungs in his chest and squeezed all the air out of them, holding them hostage.

<My, what a nosy little dog you are. It’s good that you have enough wit to look around rather than just leave. Now that you have eyes, you might just make a useful pawn to me.>

Images rapidly flashed in the demon hunter’s mind- what looked like some sort of magical jellyfish creature latching onto his head, a vision of a world that fit all his wants, destroying that world to get back to his friends, but then…a blurry mess. Stars whirling together to take humanoid shape, this creature, it was so confusing!

“Don’t...suppose you’re a friend of my friend Canthar, huh? He’s kinda got that look down, but, y’know….he did it first.”

<Foolish whelp. Barking your snark at me will not impress a magus of my capabilities. Sleep, you’re useless to me for now.>

Before he could open his mouth to reply, a wooden staff cracked him on the back of the head so hard that the world went black once more.

-

-

“I didn’t hear about any training squads sent to Naverius. Think I should shoot him?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“ Look ,he’s clearly not normal. Think the Falspawn have had a go at him.” “We aren’t killing him. We’ll take him to medbay. Then he’s Fina’s problem.”

“Y’know, if he is tainted and you drop him off in Medbay, it’s your fault.”

“Yeah yeah, get lifting.”

“But you’re the muscle.”

“FINE, I’ll do it. Rassafrassin’ archers...”

Armaleonis felt like his head weighed more than a kodo. He groaned, slowly opening...his eyes? Yep, those were a thing. Okay. So, probably not a hallucination then. Groggily, he looked at the two people bickering about him, or at least, the front of one and the back of the one who had hefted him up onto her shoulders. He was notably close to a blade that was rather frosty and was being carried about as gently as a sack of potatoes. The one he could see had violet skin, horns, and had one green eye and a yellow one with some sort of odd magic symbol. His head was still throbbing and his limbs felt weak, so he let himself be carried for a bit more.

“Uuuuugh, ow. Hi. Ow.” He blinked a few times, opening his eyes...and seeing a bow and arrow pointed at him. He gulped audibly. “Uhhh…..hi. Please don’t shoot?” The woman who was carrying him put him on his feet- albeit roughly, and he fell flat on his ass. She pulled her polearm and pointed it at his face.

“You. Why do you have no equipment on a world full of Sylvant and Falspawn? Are you trying to get eaten or worse?” She had blazing red hair and pointed ears- looked like a blood elf, actually, not that different from Daari. This was just getting...weird.

He cleared his throat. “I uh….is he gonna shoot me if I say something wrong?” He gestured towards the violet man with a bow.

The red-haired elf-like woman laughed. “That depends. Should he? You do have weird growths on your shoulders. And you look like you’re wearing some sort of ...bone collar? Not *my* taste but hey...”

Arma shook his head rapidly. “We don’t need to kill me, thanks. Look, I’m not sure...where we are? But I need to get back to my friends and family. I don’t know how long I’ve been out but I miss them a whole lot.”

“On this world?” The woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

Arma shot a glance around. This place looked entirely alien, and the animals he did see looked like nothing on Azeroth, Draenor, or even Argus. He gulped.

“M….maybe not. W-where are we?”

The woman groaned, rubbing her forehead.

“Why is that all my friends have some sort of amnesia when I meet them?….Look, you’re on the planet Naverius. It’s a world where you REALLY don’t want to stick around unless you’re properly armed. And you….don’t even have any comms on you. We need to get back to the Mothership. C’mon, I’m not having you die on me.” Reaching into her pocket, she took out what looked like a steel disc and threw it out- only for light to appear in a pillar, then swept Arma back up onto her shoulders. Octavian walked through it first and teleported away- and while Armaleonis had his experience as a Sunfury, he never did take kindly to teleportation- but right now, he couldn’t really put up a fight. And thus, as the woman stepped in with him, he shut his eyes tightly, expecting that same travel through the Twisting Nether that comes with teleportation- but oddly enough, it was over before he could feel that familiar tingle.

Behind him was a pool of water, and around him were a series of booths and benches.

“This is the Gateway ship. This is Octavian, he’s our Braver. An archer. Me? I’m Tohmidaria, resident badass. I specialize in swords and Polearms. You?” She finally set him down on a bench so he could look her in the eyes again. Then Octavian.

“My name is Armaleonis Dawnfletcher. I am a…. demon hunter? A….oh, maybe you don’t have those...uh, I’m what you might call a Ranger. An Archer, sometimes, like...” and then he gestured to Octavian.

The violet man, noting that, tapped his chin before walking over to one of the booths, typing on some sort of console, and making a bow appear in a flash of light. He offered it to Arma.

“Here, you can have one of my favorites. We’re gonna need all the help we can get. The Falspawn are growing everyday. If anyone asks about your weird...uh, y’know, stuff...just tell them you got it on the Auction House. That tends to shut most people up. We’re going to be heading back any moment now…but hey, maybe we’ll find your friends and family somewhere?” He gave a gentle smile.

“Of course we will. We’re badasses. We always accomplish our objective.” Tohmi said with a smirk and a thumbs up.

“

[xluciferrisingxworld-blog]

Pebble in Water - Part 2

         Kira ran her arm across her forehead, before grabbing the dishes for table twelve. They were a group of college boys, and she hated serving them. They tipped well, but they always flirted with her, as if she owed them for the courtesy. She placed the food on the table: burger for Trevor; chicken tenders for Dylan; and a tuna melt for Nathan. It was always the same. Dylan reached towards Kira’s bottom, but she swerved out of the way.        “You have to be faster than that,” she chocked out through a fake chuckle.        “I’ll get you one of these days,” he said, with a smirk.         Kira marched away, and murmured, “No you won’t.”         Kira was only five foot two, and she’d fight anyone who called her five foot.       Jezzica worried that these boys would get out of hand one day, but Kira knew she could handle them.         Kira cleared table ten, and glanced at Jezzica’s booth. She brushed her blonde hair out of her blue eyes as she headed back to the kitchen. Jezzica was an hour late, and Kira had already taken her break to message her. She glanced at the locker, which held her cell phone.        “Oh, no you don’t,” Sam said, “You’ve already taken two breaks tonight, and we have a full house out there.”        Kira nodded, picked up the two plates for table nine, and hurried back into the fray.       “Kira, if you’re friend doesn’t show up in five minutes, we’ll have to give that booth away,” Darla said.        Kira grinned and shrugged. She placed the food down, and began to walk away.       “Excuse me, miss,” the man at table nine said.       “Yes?” Kira asked.       “First of all, this took twenty minutes to come out. Second, I specifically ordered it without ketchup. And what is this right here?” The man paused, for a second, but started up again before Kira could speak. “It’s ketchup! How hard is it not to put something on a sandwich? I mean it requires doing one less step. Am I really asking for too much?” He glanced over to the woman, who—red-faced—shook her head. “Now take this back. And if I have to do this again, I will be speaking to your manager.”        “I-I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix that for you right away,” Kira said.        She picked up the plate, and carried it back to Sam. He raised an eyebrow at her.       “How dare you put ketchup on it?” She scoffed.       Sam rolled his eyes. He took the patty, scrapped off the toppings until the burger looked clean, spit on it and slapped it down on the bun.      “There, no ketchup,” he said.      “I wish you wouldn’t do that in front of me. I could testify against you, you know?”      “How many times have I seen you put hair in someone’s food?”     “Shh,” Kira hissed.      She grabbed the plate, and went back to table nine.      “Ah, much better. You might have saved your tip,” the man said.      When her back was turned to the man, Kira rolled her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Jezzica, sitting in booth thirteen. Kira rushed over.      “Oh my god! You will not believe the day I have had! First of all I woke up thirty minutes late for my audition, thirty! Then…”       “You’re still on shift,” Jezzica reminded her with a warm smile.       “Oh right, right. I’ll get your diet coke, and put your order in.”       “Thank you, but that’s not what I meant.”       Kira nodded; both hands, parallel, palms inwards, made a short line from the side of her head to in front of her eyes. “Focus!”       Kira marched dutifully towards the kitchen, but glanced back to examine Jezzica. She was poking at her stomach more than usual, and staring into the blade of the knife. Kira hurried to get Jezzica’s drink, and place her order. ***        Michael buttoned his shirt, straightened his badge, and holstered his gun. The dark blue of the uniform brought out his eyes, and he grinned at himself in the mirror. He flexed, showing off his muscles to a cold piece of glass. He shook his head.       “My body is merely an instrument to do God’s work. I shall not take pride in it, or succumb to vanity,” he recited.       Michael coughed, turned off the light, and left the bedroom. The entire apartment had been decorated in antiques and imported furniture, all to Calli’s taste. Michael did not overly care how their home was decorated, but he did appreciate Calli’s efforts to make it look nice. He never ate in the bedrooms or the living room, he paid the extra two hundred dollars for the expert maid service, and he drove three hours to that antique shop, Calli was dying to visit.   He stopped at the door, took his black lace-up shoes from the rack, and put them on.         “God I know my duty, I protect people; but sometimes, I would like more guidance. Sometimes, I think you have forgotten about us. If you haven’t noticed things have gotten pretty rough down here. Sometimes, it seems like you don’t even care.”         Micheal turned out the lights, leaving the apartments in darkness, and left for work at eight o’clock, as he did every night. ***       Jezzica stared at the lines around her eyes, there were more of them than a month ago. The dark circles under her eyes had gotten so big, they almost looked like bruises.       “You’re eyes are the color of shit because you are shit,” the creature hissed into her ear. “Kira only hangs out with you because you make her look young and pretty.”        The knife slid across Jezzica’s wrists, blood beaded on the surface of her skin. Her thumb pressed the skin around the cut, and the red liquid ran down her hand. It dripped onto the table, staining the white cloth. People around her started laughing and pointing.       Jezzica shook her head, and the blood disappeared. Everyone was focused on their own table, and the laughing was coming from her monster. She put the knife down.       “Kira is pretty, and I am happy for her,” Jezzica whispered.        Kira came out of the kitchen with a tray of drinks, she handed them out to the tables as she made her way to Jezzica’s booth. She peered down at her own stomach and compared it to Kira’s tiny waist.       “This is why no man will ever love you. They all want pretty little girls like her.”       Jezzica pushed in her stomach, and it bounced out again, slightly spilling onto the table. She crossed her arms, and pressed against the back of the seat. She pulled out her phone, and started looking at her Facebook feed. There were a couple weddings, three births, one pregnancy announcement, and her cousin was moving to Hawaii. She locked her phone, and glanced up. Kira was stopped at another table, and she had the fake smile she used when on stage or dealing with annoying customers.       “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir, I’ll try to fix that right away,” Kira said. She rushed over to Jezzica, and placed her drink on the table.        “Tha…” Jezzica was cut off by the man.         “The kitchen is the other way, miss.”         Jezzica saw Kira's little black monster poof onto her shoulder. It was small, roughly the size of a mouse, but it was scaly not furry. It had arms with tiny hands, and appeared to be trying to bore its way into Kira’s head.         “One minute please, I do have other tables,” Kira said.         “I’m taking one percent off every second I have to wait.”         “Sorry,” Kira mouthed.         “One sec,” Jezzica said, and motioned her to bend down.         Kira squinched her eyebrows, but obeyed. Jezzica brushed the creature off of her shoulder, as if swiping something out of her hair. It went flying across the room with a tiny “Aaagghhh!”        “Ok, you’re good to go,” Jezzica said.        “Thanks?”        Kira rushed back into the kitchen, and Jezzica took a sip. She felt the bench shift as her monster moved.        “You can’t get rid of us that easily,” it said, “You’re so pathetic, you can’t help her. You can’t even help yourself.”       Jezzica took a gulp of soda. Kira refilled her drink twice before her food came out. The man finally left, giving Kira a two percent tip, and a nasty comment on the receipt. Her shift ended, and she sat down on the other side of Jezzica’s booth. She sighed, and stole a fry.         “It has been one thing after another today,” Kira said.         “Did the audition not go well?” Jezzica asked.         “No the audition was, fine. It’s just everything else today was pretty shit.”         “That’s because acting is the only thing you care about.”         “Not true, I also care about shopping, my hair, my nails, my makeup. You know the important things.”        “And don’t forget Mr. Puggles,” Jezzica said.        “Of course not!”        “How’s the PugButt doing?”        “Just dying for you to come visit,” Kira said.        “I’ll make sure to bring some treats.”        Kira stole another fry. Jezzica finished the last of her food. One of the newer waitresses came over, and cleared the table, glaring at them the whole time.       “Don’t worry, she’s already paid her bill,” Kira said.        The girl, barely eighteen, sauntered to the kitchen.       “So, how was your day? Why were you so late?” Kira asked.       “Ok, I guess. You know, boring office stuff. Numbers, charts, filing.”       “Is that all?” Kira asked.       “The usual. My life isn’t as exciting as yours,” Jezzica sighed.        “If you call being harassed by customers exciting. But you seem down, even for you.”        Jezzica inhaled loudly.        “It’s just, Adam has really been on my case lately. I think he’s trying to get me fired.”        “That son of a bitch!”       “He might not be, but I’m pretty sure he’s giving me Linda’s work.”        “I hate when coworkers don’t pull their weight. There’s a few of them here.” Kira glanced at the new waitress, who was flirting with one of the customers.       “So, really tell me how the audition went,” Jezzica said.       Kira sighed, “They said I did good, but…”      “But?” Jezzica asked.      “Don’t you just love to see her fail?” The monster’s hot, moist breath filled Jezzica’s ear.      “They also said I didn’t look right for the part.”      “What does that mean?” Jezzica swatted at the creature, as if it were a fly.      “Given the role, it most likely means I don’t look like the other girls in the assemble. But it could just mean that I’m ugly,” Kira said.      Jezzica’s creature howled with laughter and delight.      “You’re not ugly. Maybe you’re too short?”       Kira glared at her for a second, then laughed. “Maybe that’s it.”      “Also, you do have a young face. Maybe they think you look too young for the part?”     “Yeah, actually that could be it. The role is meant for a twenty-something.”     “Then that’s definitely it. You don’t even look eighteen!”     “Oh, stop it, you.”     Jezzica gathered her purse, and Kira followed suit.     “I think we should go, or Darla will forcefully evict us,” Jezzica said.     “She’s bit of a sourpuss, but she’s pretty fair at dividing up the good tippers.”   Kira waved goodbye to Darla as they left the diner.      Jezzica and Kira walked along the busy street in silence. Cars honked at each other, kids screamed, people yelled into their phones, and someone blasted Spanish rap. The sky was dark blue, and there were no stars out. There were never any stars, just the orange glow of the street lamps. The monsters, that followed people, created black voids which swallowed up the light and sound. Jezzica’s own creature followed behind a step or two. It interacted with the others: sometimes hissing or growling at them, and sometimes nodding.  The people rushing along the street walked pass, and through, the creatures without so much of a glance.       “You know it really makes me feel better to talk to you,” Kira said.       “How so?”      “You always make me laugh, or look at things from a different angle.”      “Well at least someone is laughing at me.”     “Not at you…you always avoid or deflect. Even when I know something is going on. And trust me I can tell something is up. You’re eyes are even more distant than normal. So please tell me what is wrong. I want to help.”      A woman, pushing a baby-carriage, strolled pass Kira. The mother had a similar creature to Jezzica; it was black, oozing, with clawed hands, and sharp teeth; but it lacked legs. It clung to the woman’s shoulders, and left behind black globs on the sidewalk. Someone stepped into the slime, and it started crawling up their leg.      It whispered into the woman’s ear, “You’re a bad mother. You should just kill yourself. You should just kill your baby, and then yourself. Push in front of the truck.”      “She’ll never believe you,” Jezzica’s creature hissed.      “It’s nothing really,” Jezzica said, “I’m just stressed from work.”      “Is that really all?”       Jezzica met Kira’s eyes, and nodded.      “Then we should have a girls day this weekend. I’m not working on Sunday. We can order some pizza, have some wine, watch bad movies,” Kira said.       “I-I’m not sure. I might be doing laundry.”       “Oh, ok. Let me know, ok?”      “Yeah, I’ll let you know.”       Kira went into her apartment building, leaving Jezzica alone in the sea of monsters. ***      Lucifer dragged himself up another few inches, and the force which had been pulling him down released. The beating of his wings lifted him, and he let go of the Pit’s wall. His back wings pumped, and he soared higher with every movement of his wings, until he reached the mouth of the Pit. He landed on the floor of Hell, and took in his surroundings.      The area closest to the Pit was a desert of black sand, mountains loomed down to the right; a dark unfriendly, unsettled ocean raged behind him; far off to theft was a dilapidated city. The city was a series of high rises, towers, and castles; and appeared to be an amalgamation of metropolitan and ancient ruins. Metal clashed with wood; glass cut through thatched roofs; asphalt dripped onto stone. In the middle of the maze like streets, there was a large edifice made from different styles of buildings stacked on top of each other.  Despite the haphazard construction, the building held still. A stream of red fire spewed from the apex of the tower. A thick smog hung about twenty feet in the air, meaning Satan could not be too far.       A pack of Hell Hounds prowled the desert; there blood-red eyes locked onto Lucifer as he emerged from the Pit. He stretched his arms and wings, then ran towards the beasts. They snarled and charged at him, baring their sharp white teeth. He collided with the creatures, who jumped on him eagerly. Each pushing the other to get to Lucifer.        “Calm down boys. There’s plenty of me to go around.”        Lucifer scratched the belly of the hound as it rolled on its back, and kicked its hind-leg. Several others were licking him. He petted them for a few minutes, before standing up, and putting his hand out for them to stop.       “Good boys, now where is that traitor Satan?”        The dogs put their noses in the air, and sniffed; then, turned toward the tall black tower, with the red flames coming out of the top. Lucifer unfurled his wings like two black feathery sails. He took flight, rising above the black fog. His eyes fixed on the highest room in Satan’s tower. The Hell Hounds howled, and barked, chasing after Lucifer until they could no longer see him.