#Crop Cord (Crack)

[expvrgction]

Is disrespect towards 'flame-like' hair colors that common?

[hellothereobiwankenobi]

retribution | chapter one

⟢ summary: A group of hunters stumbles across Jackson.

⟢ tags: DDDNE, graphic descriptions of violence/torture, death/murder depicted, jackson! joel, noncanon complaint, angst, found family dynamic, no beta reader we die like men

⟢ pairing: joel miller x afab!reader (descriptions scars from surviving in a post apocalyptic world)

⟢ wc: 3.5k

⟢ authors notes: I hope you all enjoy the first installment of this horror inspired fic. I’m love to read stories with dark themes, but I’ve never written one. So, this will be a learning experience for all of us.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

A loud crack echoes off the dilapidated walls of the abandoned cabin as fist meets flesh. A middle-aged man sits bound to a metal folding chair in the center of the small den, his hands tied behind his back with a black extension cord. A large purple bruise develops on his left cheekbone as his eye swells closed. In between each strike, he futilely struggles at his restraints.

A handsome younger man stands before him, one hand gripping the older's hair, forcing his head upright. His other hand recoils back after making contact with the other man's face—a pair of reflective brass knuckles wrapped around the tanned fingers of his right hand.

The sound of a fire crackling mixes with both men's heavy breathing. A teenage girl sits on the stone hearth connecting the fireplace to the room. She holds the fireplace's metal poker in the flames, tip glowing cherry red. The firelight illuminates her deep umber skin.

The younger male releases his grasp and steps away. The bound man's head falls forward to his chest. He musters the strength to lift his gaze to his attackers before speaking.

"C’mon… We can work out a deal." Turning his head, he spits on the ground. His saliva mixes with crimson blood, "Just name it. You want a cut of the sale? It's yours."

You step forward, planting your heavy boots in the space before the man. Leaning forward, you bend at the waist until you are eye-to-eye with your current prey. "All we want is the truth. Admit what you did."

"You little cunt." He growls, staring you down. His eyes catch the long scar that travels diagonally from below your left eye, over the bridge of your nose, and across your right cheek. "My buddies are gonna find me, and you'll get what's coming to you."

"Oh, you mean this buddy?" You snap upright as a third young woman, her black hair cropped short on the sides, approaches you. She holds open an army-green canvas knapsack. You reach into the bag before jerking your arm back, revealing what's inside. Your fingers hold the decapitated head of an older caucasian male by the hair. The word "SLAVER" is carved into its forehead in jagged capital letters. The head's eyes are half-lidded, and his mouth hangs open.

You shrug nonchalantly and look down at the head in your grasp. "I don't think he is going to be much help."

A tidal wave of nausea-inducing terror overtakes the man in the chair, threatening to drown him.

"Your friend made a smart decision. He told us what we wanted to know without putting up much of a fight. So, I made it quick." You nod behind you, gesturing to the aged double-headed axe hanging from a leather sheath strapped to your back. "One clean swing, and it was all over for him."

You smile, and a sickening twinkle flashes in your eyes as your gaze flicks between the severed head and the tied up man before you.

"Catch." Your voice is sweet, like a child playing a game with a friend. You toss the head into the man's lap.

The man screams in horror and instinctively jerks away as the head makes contact with his thighs before falling to the floor. His sudden forceful movement causes the metal chair to clatter to the ground, slamming him on his side. The man continues to shriek as he tries to push himself away, still attached to the folding chair.

The room erupts in sickening laughter as his four captures find amusement at his panicked response.

Boots thud across the wooden slat floor as you approach his pathetic quivering form. His eyes are still locked on his friend's head, lying lifeless only a few feet away.

Using the toe of your boot, you turn his attention up at you. "Now, I'll ask you again.”

Without breaking eye contact, you hold out your hand for the glowing red poker. The teen girl places the handle in your open palm as you wrap your fingers around it. The man below you can feel the heat radiating off the metal as you bring the glowing end close to his face, lining it up with his right eye “Admit what you did."

· · · ────────── ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ────────── · · ·

Joel takes in a deep breath through his nose. The air is warm as it enters his nostrils. It's still early in the day, but summer has finally come to Jackson. The snow has melted away to reveal lush green foliage and wildflowers in bloom. He has grown to enjoy patrol duty. Time away from the hustle and bustle of the town he now calls home, where a man can clear his head and get some peace. He enjoys the silence, hearing the natural sounds of the Wyoming wilderness. That is until Tommy decides to break the silence.

"I swear, man." Tommy begins, holding the reins of his horse with both hands. "Benji called me 'daddy' last night."

Joel shoots a pointed look at his brother.

"Hand to God, man. He said it." Tommy defends himself.

Getting used to Tommy being a first-time parent has been an adjustment for Joel. He was happier than he could admit for his younger brother. He understands firsthand the pure joy being a father gives a man. Fatherhood was the greatest blessing Joel ever experienced with Sarah. And now he has gotten a second chance to experience it again because of Ellie. But Tommy never stops talking about his infant son.

"He's three months old. Babies can't even hold up their own heads yet." Joel informs his brother.

"That's why it's so fuckin' amazin'!" Tommy exclaims, "He's a genius. Just like his mama."

"Tommy, just watch for any damn infected." Joel sighs.

The two continue their patrol, only getting off their horse to sign the books at designated checkpoints. Once the final checkpoint has been cleared, the brothers ride back to Jackson.

The horses stroll leisurely, using the same path they came from.

Joel is dressed in a pair of fitted jeans and a worn cotton t-shirt, but he is starting to sweat from the sun's heavy rays. He guesses it must be midafternoon from the way the sun is positioned just above them in the sky.

He reaches for the stainless steel canteen attached to his saddle. Bringing it to his lips, he takes a pull of cold water. After screwing back on the lid and clipping it back in place, Joel scans the horizon lazily. He isn't expecting to see anything unusual from how quiet it is, but his eyes catch sight of a strange silhouette in the tree line. He's sure that wasn't present when they first passed by. It looked almost like something was hanging concealed high in the canopy. He tries to squint his eyes, but they are too far away to make out.

"Tommy." Joel alarms his brother, gesturing to the tree line.

Tommy nods. "Yeah, I see it too."

The brothers jerk their horses' reins toward the forest's edge. As they approach the dense trees, the silhouettes come into focus.

The bodies of two men hang lifelessly from a branch of a centuries-old pine tree. Joel's eyes search the corpses, head to toe. He sees both men share a similar message carved into the flesh of their foreheads. The words "RAIDER" and "RAPER" are crudely carved into their thin skin.

"Jesus Christ…" Tommy's voice is just above a whisper. He points down directly below the two bodies. The decapitated body of a third man lay propped up in a sitting position against the tree trunk, holding what Tommy can only assume is its own head in its lap. The third man shares the same writing across his forehead. This one reading "SLAVER"

Joel pulls the silver revolver from the holster on his hip. "Keep an eye out."

Tommy nods and pulls his own handgun from the strap on his thigh.

The two brothers hurry back to Jackson, their horses' hooves thundering against the solid ground. They make sure to keep a close lookout for whoever is responsible for the death of the three men.

As they approach Jackson's large wooden gates, the sun sits low, casting the sky in a collage of pink and orange. The gates open, welcoming the brothers homes. Once inside, they holster their side arms and slide out of the saddles. Two guards come to usher their horses back to the stables.

"We need to tell the council about whatever the fuck that was," Tommy tells Joel as they walk onto the main street.

"We don't need to scare people." Joel disagrees.

Tommy looks at his brother "There are some psychos stringin' up bodies out there. The other patrol groups need to know."

Joel runs a hand through his graying curls. Deep down, he knows Tommy is right. He only wishes they knew more before bringing this to the council.

· · · ────────── ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ────────── · · ·

You lay flat on your back, staring up at the night sky. Santiago sturs a small cast iron pot suspended over a crackling fire. He is preparing his famous "Rabbit and Whatever the Hell Else We Can Find" stew for tonight's dinner. Safiya sits on a flat rock, rubbing an oiled rag across the delicate inner workings of her rifle. Adriana sits at Saf's feet and leans against her leg for support.

"Adriana, get off me. It's too damn hot for all that." Safiya complains, trying to shake the younger girl off. With the fire burning and the summer air still warm around them, it was too hot for such close proximity. "And you smell awful."

"Sorry, I just wanna be close to you." Adriana sucks her teeth as she stands, rolling her brown eyes. She walks around to the other side of the fire and lies next to you.

"What are you thinking about, professor?" the teen asks, using the nickname she knows you can't stand.

"I was coming up with a plan to get some peace and quiet for once." You reply flatly. You aren't really upset with her. Over the decade you and Adriana have traveled together, she's become the younger sister you never had.

"What month do you think it is?" Adriana ignores your not-so-subtle jab and asks.

You raise your right hand toward the sky and trace the path of a specific constellation with your index finger, "Do you see that line of stars? It looks like an uppercase T with a long curly tail?"

Adriana nods, her eyes fixated on the twinkling sky.

"That one is called Scorpius. It's only visible in North America during the summer months." you explain as Adriana "oohs" and "aahs."

"I could have told you that," Safiya remarks under her breath.

You turn your head to the side, finally removing your gaze from the stars and to the girl lying next to you. "I would say it is probably early to mid-June."

You pause and scrunch up your nose, "You really do smell bad."

Adriana gasps offendedly and sits up with a huff. "You both are a couple of grouches tonight. Santi would never treat me like this." She pushes onto her hands and knees and crawls closer to Santiago.

He looks up from the bubbling stew before him and meets her eyes, jokingly waving his free hand in front of his nose. Adriana shoots up to her feet and stomps against the ground of the campsite. Her eyebrows are drawn together, and her hands are curled into fists, resembling a child about to throw a tantrum. You and Safiya can't help but laugh at Adriana's frustrated display. She is nineteen years old but never outgrew her bratty preteen phase.

"Fine then." She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm going for a walk since clearly none of my friends love me anymore."

She turns her back on the group, marching into the darkness. "Come get me when dinner is ready."

"Don't wander off." You call after her, sitting up with one last chuckle.

"Can't be that mad if she's still hungry." Safiya continues her ministrations, caressing her rifle's frame like it was her lover.

You raise one arm up and take a sniff, the smell making your expression twist into something sour, "We could all use a good bath in the river tomorrow. I'm sure it will be warm enough again. We definitely earned a little reward after today."

"Finally caught the bastards. About damn time." Safiya is now reassembling her rifle, clicking every tiny piece into place with just muscle memory. "We've only been tailing them since Boulder."

You pick at a loose thread on the leg pocket of your brown cargo pants. "It's probably about a day's walk to Grand Teton from here. Then from there, it's only a stone's throw to Yellowstone. We could head west after and see the battlefields at Little Bighorn."

Looking up from the lone offending string; you see Santiago and Safiya staring blankly at you.

You sigh, "It was where Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull led an army of Native American warriors in order to stop westward expansion and preserve their ancestral way of life."

The two younger group members' expressions remain unchanged.

"Does your head ever feel heavy from all that book learning weighing it down?" Safiya asks, mostly joking.

"Haha," You speak dryly, rolling your eyes. "Socrates was persecuted for the pursuit of knowledge in his time as well. Some 'book learning' might be good for you. Expand your mind a little. The only thing you care about is that damn gun."

"Until the day Socrates comes back to life to fight off infected, I'll stick to this girl right here." Safiya hugs her beloved rifle to her chest.

You shift your body to lie back down when you hear Adriana’s

voice carrying through the surrounding forest. The three of you spring to your feet, your hands immediately reaching for your respective weapons.

"You guys!" Adriana's boot crunch against fallen leaves and twigs as she sprints back to the group "You guys come look!"

The teen erupts from the darkness into the light of the campsite. "Come on!"

She waves her hand, motioning you all to follow her. She turns on her heels and speeds back to her discovery. The three of you rush to follow her into the expansive forest.

When you finally catch up with her, Adriana is standing in a clearing next to a cliff overlooking a deep valley. An unnaturally bright glow emanates from the very base of the valley.

It's a settlement. No, it's more of a city. What looks to be a couple hundred buildings illuminated by electricity burns like a beacon in the middle of the Wyoming wilderness. It's bigger than anything you've seen before during your travels. More grand than tent villages powered by portable generators and bigger than makeshift towns constructed by those lucky enough to have survived this long. It looks like the kind of cities that existed from before the outbreak.

· · · ───────── ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ───────── · · ·

The council assembles an emergency meeting a few hours after Tommy and Joel's return. The brothers stand side by side in front of the council's long, curved desk, explaining what they saw on patrol.

"They all had a different word written in their skin." Tommy squeezes his hands tight, trying to keep his fingers from fidgeting. This is an odd feeling for him. He's usually sat behind the desk in these meetings, not speaking before it.

"What did they say?" Maria asks her husband.

"Raider, raper, slaver," Joel answers, his voice coming out low.

"Maybe this was personal." An older woman with snow white hair sitting at the far end remarks. "Whoever did this could have already left the area."

“Takin' down a group of raiders ain't easy. Whoever did it had to be skilled. And well armed." Tommy continues. "This is a kind of brutality that ain't something that should be ignored."

He thinks back to the headless man propped up against the tree trunk, "One of 'em, his head was cut clean off."

"With what? A knife?" Another council member asks.

“Nah," Tommy shakes his head, "Something big, heavy."

Like an axe, the conclusion came to Joel as soon as he saw the precise cut.

Maria closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose, "We should double patrols until we know for a fact whoever did this is gone. And increase the numbers on the walls."

This time, Joel is grateful for Maria's pragmatism. While the other members want to bury their heads in the sand and pretend there isn't a threat in their backyard, Maria is willing to admit they may be in danger.

Maria calls the meeting adjourned. She and Tommy need to rearrange patrol and guard duty schedules for the next week to accompany the extra shifts.

Joel exits the city hall building and makes his way home. The summer air feels good against his skin. Jackson's winter had been bitingly cold. Even the spring was still too brisk for his liking. But the summer here reminds him of Austin in the spring, just not as humid.

He returns home and hears the soft strumming of guitar strings coming from the backyard. Joel approaches the small garage that Ellie has made into her new living space. Joel knocks on the door, and the guitar chords come to an immediate halt.

"Come in!" Ellie shouts through the closed door. Joel pulls the door open and enters the dimly lit room. Only the old Christmas lights that they found in the house's dust-filled attic illuminate the space.

"It ain't too dark in here for ya?" He asks, looking around the garage.

"Nah, I like it dark." Ellie shrugs. She's sitting at the edge of her bed, acoustic guitar resting in her lap.

Teenagers, Joel shakes his head.

"You eat dinner?" He comes to sit next to her on the bed.

Ellie nods "Me, Dina, and Jesse went to the dining hall earlier."

Joel inhales. "There is something… weird goin' on outside. It might be a while before we go out explorin' again."

Ellie furrows her eyebrows. "Weird, how?" She sets the guitar on the floor, leaning the neck against the bed.

"Don't know yet." He tells her before standing, "Just promise me you'll be careful for the next few days."

"Are you just being extra paranoid again or something?" She asks skeptically.

"Ellie." He speaks her name in a warning tone.

Ellie hears the seriousness in his voice. She notices his posture is stiffer than usual, too. "Okay, I promise."

· · · ────────── ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ────────── · · ·

"We should go!" Adriana exclaims before shoving a spoonful of stew into her mouth. The idea of going to Jackson makes her eyes shine with excitement.

Your group has returned to the makeshift campsite and are eating Santiago’s rabbit stew from aluminum camping bowls and matching spoons.

"We don't know anything about them. It's not safe." You immediately shut down her little fantasy. She should know better than this.

"But they have walls. And electricity. Maybe even running water!" The younger girl continues trying to argue her point.

"They could be a town of cannibals for all we know." You bring the spoon of stew to your lips. "Cannibals that like to eat pretty girls like you."

“Not everyone is out to get us," Adriana replies softly. She knows you're overprotective for a good reason, but sometimes it can be too much.

Safiya chimes in, "Adriana might be right. They could even be willing to trade. We could use some medical supplies, and who knows the next time we’ll see another settlement."

You can't believe your ears. There aren't many rules amongst the group, but not purposefully putting yourselves in danger is definitely one of them. "We survive by laying low. We don't know anything about these people."

“What makes you think they would even let us enter their town in the first place? You two are living in fantasy land." You look at Santiago. "Santi agrees with me."

He averts his eyes to his bowl and continues eating his meal.

"Why don't we vote on it?" Adriana volunteers, letting her gaze scan the group. "All in favor of not going?"

You're the only person to raise their hand.

"All in favor of going?" All three of your traveling companions raise their hands.

"Guess it's decided then." Safiya shrugs, "We aren't gonna stay forever. Just check it out, then we can keep heading east."

Your heartbeat is audible in your ears as you feel blood rushing to warm your face. How could they all be so trusting? All four of you have seen the worst humanity has to offer. All four of you have experienced it firsthand.

You push yourself to your feet, grabbing your axe from beside you before resheathing it on your back. "I'll take the first watch."

You leave the light of the campsite before anyone can protest. You just need some time to clear your head.

[dee-writes-anime]

Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY In a village consumed by sickness and fear, you, an accused witch, are captured by a desperate mob and dragged to face judgment before the King of Curses, Sukuna.

CONTENT WARNINGS detailed depictions of a village struggling with disease, starvation, and decay, mentions of sickly children, livestock death, and human mortality, tense interactions between the narrator and villagers, including verbal accusations and implied mob violence, scenes of witchcraft involving blood and incantations, implied religious conflict, subtle criticism of faith and its intersection with fear and blame.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The village had always been a brittle thing, teetering on the edge of ruin long before I was born. It was nestled into the crook of a valley, cradled by sinking hills that slumped like jagged scars against the horizon. It wasn’t a place you’d stumble upon by chance- hidden away from trade routes, tucked between forests thick with bramble and treacherous rives prone to flooding. The isolation had once been its greatest strength, a sanctuary from the wars and chaos that riddled the lands. 

And then the sickness came.  

It began as a quiet invader, seeping through the village like a shadow, causing soil to grow stubborn. Clinging to the roots of crops like a jealous lover, dark and heavy with clay. Even in the best seasons, it gave little, forcing villagers to rely heavily on cattle and scrape by on meager harvests of bitter greens, barley, and the occasional patch of onions. 

Then those shadows curled through pens, infecting the cattle that the village had once praised. Once sturdy beasts began to collapse in fields, their bodies bloating under the summer sun, they milky eyes staring blankly into the void. The surviving livestock, fewer in number each year, were gaunt and skittish, their hides stretched thin over sharp bones. They too seemed to sense the growing death in the shadows as their milk soured and their offspring grew weaker and weaker.  

And finally, shadows of sickness- of death- slipped through the cracks of straw roofs, finally having curled into every corner. The village itself was a patchwork of survival—wooden homes leaning against each other for support, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of neglect. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, its bitter scent a constant companion, mingling with the acrid tang of unwashed bodies and the faint, coppery smell of blood from the butcher’s hut. A well sat at the heart of the village, its water once fresh and clear, now tinged with a faint, metallic aftertaste that no one dared question too closely. 

The people bore the signs of its slow, merciless grip. Their skin was sallow, stretched thin over angular bones, their hands chapped and cracked from work that never seemed to end. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told stories of sleepless nights and empty stomachs. Their clothes, once simple but serviceable, were now threadbare and patched so many times the original fabric was hardly recognizable. Loose tunics hung over narrow shoulders, cinched at the waist with frayed cords, and the occasional shawl or cloak—woven from coarse, undyed wool—offered meager protection against the cold.  

The children fared no better. Their bare feet left prints in the mud as they scurried between homes, their laughter thin and fleeting. Many of them had red-rimmed eyes from coughing fits that never quite left, their small hands gripping sticks or scraps of wood as makeshift toys. Even the strongest among them looked frail, as though the village itself drained the life from them as payment for their survival. 

Generations had lived and died here, their lives marked by toil and prayer, yet little else. The temple at the edge of the village was the tallest structure, its roof patched with mismatched tiles scavenged from who-knew-where. Its wooden beams sagged, and the faint chime of its bell at dusk carried a mournful note. It stood as a monument to the villagers’ faith—faith that had grown brittle over the years, much like the wooden beams that groaned under its weight. 

Said temple was led by the “elders,” who could be considered a different breed entirely. They were wiry and hunched, their backs bent from years of labor in the fields and the weight of authority they carried like millstones around their necks. Elder Kazu was their figurehead, his face a web of wrinkles that deepened every time he spoke. His hair, sparse and snow-white, framed a narrow face with sharp, calculating eyes. He walked with a gnarled staff, its wood polished smooth by years of use, and though his voice cracked when he spoke, it still carried the weight of command. 

Beside him were the others—Elder Masami, with her thin lips and perpetually furrowed brow, and Elder Daiki, who had long since lost his teeth but none of his sharpness. Their clothing was slightly more intact than the rest of the villagers’, a sign of their status. Masami’s long tunic was adorned with faded embroidery at the cuffs, a hint of red thread that might once have been vibrant. Daiki wore a heavy woolen cloak draped over his narrow shoulders, its edges fraying but still imposing in its bulk. 

The market square was little more than a dirt clearing where merchants used to come, though their visits had dwindled to nothing in recent years. Even the well, the village’s lifeline, bore signs of decay. Its stone walls were cracked, and the water within tasted faintly of iron, as though the sickness had poisoned even the earth. 

The sickness only worsened from there as fevers stole both the strongest and weakest, the oldest and youngest, with seemingly no pattern, leaving behind far too little with scars in the shape of coughs that lingered like unwelcome guests. They seemed to move through this dying world like ghosts, their footsteps quiet, their voices softer still. A people clinging to the remnants of a life they no longer believed in and no matter how many stories the elders told, their eyes stayed empty. At first, they blamed the river, its waters swollen and brackish after a summer storm. Then they blamed the traders who passed through, though fewer came with each year. The blame shifted like the wind, but the sickness stayed, digging its claws deeper with each passing season. The village had limped through years of disease, desperation a constant companion whispering in the ears of the villagers as they eventually turned their gaze to me.  

“Her,” they whispered. “It’s because of her.” 

They never said it to my face, of course. They feared me too much for that. When I walked through the market square, their conversations would drop into hushed tones, their gazes shifting quickly to the ground. Mothers pulled their children close as I passed, shielding them as if my shadow might curse them. The few merchants brave—or desperate—enough to trade with me kept their words clipped and their hands trembling as they handed over what I bought. I never bargained with them. I paid full price or not at all. It wasn’t charity. It was control. They’d seldom leave small offerings at my doorstep —half-eaten loaves of bread, broken beads, wilted flowers. Apologies, or perhaps bribes, to keep my wrath at bay. 

To them, I was an outsider, not because of where I came from but because of what I could do. They feared me, but they needed me, and that fragile thread had kept their hatred at bay for a while. 

But it wasn’t always this way. Once, I had been one of them, tolerated if not entirely accepted. My knowledge of herbs and remedies had been a boon when the sickness first came. I had eased their fevers, soothed their children’s aches, and kept the worst of it at bay for a time. But the lands were sick—sicker than any tincture or spell could fix—and my small successes weren’t enough. The people needed someone to blame, and it was easier to point to the witch who lived on the outskirts of the village than to face their own failures or the cruelty of the world. 

Their fear, though, was not entirely misplaced. 

I was no saint. My patience had worn thin years ago. The first time someone dared to accuse me outright, I made a spectacle of it. I hadn’t harmed them—no need to dirty my hands for a fool—but I had spoken their name during a storm, loud enough for the thunder to carry it, and left dried bones where they would find them. I let their imagination do the rest. The next morning, they left the village, and no one dared to follow. 

Now, they called me a monster behind closed doors, muttering their curses to their gods, but they still came to me when they had nowhere else to turn. When the children coughed too hard to breathe. When their crops failed, and they needed someone to tell them it wasn’t their fault. I helped them—sometimes—but not without reminding them of what I was capable of. They needed the fear as much as I needed them to feel it. 

For all their hatred, they couldn’t help themselves. It was easier to fear me than to admit their gods had abandoned them, that the sickness in the lands had no cure. 

Despite their fear, the village clung to its routines like a lifeline. The blacksmith’s hammer still rang out in the mornings, dull thuds echoing through the square. Children still played near the well, their laughter sharp and fleeting, as though they knew better than to let it linger. The temple bells still chimed at dusk, their hollow tones calling for prayers that no one truly believed would be answered. 

But beneath it all, the air was thick with tension, like the pause before a storm. The villagers had spent years shouldering their burdens, but even the strongest beams splinter under enough weight. And when they broke, they would come for me. 

The village was a place that could survive anything, but it would never thrive. It was a monument to endurance, a lesson in scarcity. It had stood against the odds for generations, but I could see the cracks spreading, could hear the creak of its foundations. These people had long since forgotten how to hope, how to dream. I’d watched it happen, year by year. All they knew now was fear. 

And fear, I had learned, could only be contained for so long. 

“Morning, Elder Kazu,” I said as I passed, my tone polite but edged with sharpness. My hands clutched the woven basket at my side, filled with bundles of herbs I had spent the morning collecting. The elder gave a stiff nod in return, but his jaw was tight, the corners of his mouth pulled downward. 

“Witch,” he said finally, his voice low, as though afraid it might carry. “The land suffers, and you—” He hesitated, his lips trembling before he found the courage to finish. “You walk as if it doesn’t touch you.” 

I stopped mid-step, turning to look at him. The others near the well froze, their eyes darting between the two of us like rabbits scenting a wolf. 

“You think I’m untouched?” I asked, keeping my voice calm, almost pleasant. I stepped closer, slow enough to watch him shift uncomfortably. “Tell me, Elder Kazu, how untouched I must be when you’ve come to me five times this year for teas to ease your cough? Or when your grandson came to me, pale as death, because nothing the temple priests did could break his fever?” 

Kazu’s jaw tightened further, and his fingers curled around the edge of his walking stick. “And I paid you for those things.” 

“Yes,” I said, my voice like silk. “You did.” 

I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. One of the other elders shuffled uncomfortably, the sound of his sandals scraping against the dirt breaking the quiet. 

“I’ve done no harm to you or this village, and yet you speak of me as though I brought the sickness upon the land myself.” I leaned in just slightly, enough to make Kazu stiffen. “Perhaps you should stop looking for devils in the shadows and instead ask why your gods have turned their backs on you.” 

The crowd around us sucked in a collective breath, their fear palpable. Kazu’s face turned red, anger mingling with something sharper, something he wouldn’t dare admit to himself: fear. 

I straightened and turned to go, my basket swaying lightly at my side. “Let me know if your grandson’s cough returns,” I said over my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want him to suffer for your pride.” 

Later that day, as I sat outside my small home on the outskirts of the village, I saw her approaching. I recognized her as one of the people in the crowd from earlier in the morning, she had been clutching the rosary at her chest as she watched the whole ordeal, shaking like a leaf. The woman’s steps were hesitant, her child clinging to her skirts. She wasn’t the first to come here, and she wouldn’t be the last. Still, I didn’t move, watching as she stopped a few feet away. 

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted around as though she feared being seen. “My son—he hasn’t been able to breathe all day. The priest said... said it’s in the hands of the gods now.” 

The boy’s face was pale, lips tinged blue, his breaths shallow and uneven. It was a cruel sight, one that tugged at the edges of my mind, though I wouldn’t show it. 

“And you think my hands will do better than theirs?” I asked, leaning back against the doorframe. My tone wasn’t kind, but neither was it cruel. It was deliberate. 

She hesitated, clutching the boy tighter. “Please,” she said again, desperation cracking her voice. “I’ll pay you.” 

I tilted my head slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her fear to blossom. Then I stood and pushed the door open with a creak. “Bring him inside.” 

She hurried past me, her steps unsteady but driven by urgency. The child let out a wet, gasping cough as she lowered him onto the cot near the hearth. I ignored her trembling, focusing on the boy. He was far gone, but not beyond my reach. Not yet. 

“Wait outside,” I said, not bothering to look at her. “You’ll only make it worse.” 

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, retreating reluctantly. The door creaked shut behind her, and I let out a slow breath. Alone at last. 

I crouched beside the boy, studying his face. His breathing was shallow, his small chest rising and falling unevenly. Reaching into my basket, I pulled out a bundle of herbs and laid them on the table, their pungent aroma filling the room. 

I worked quickly, grinding the leaves into a thick paste with a mortar and pestle. The rhythm of the grinding was steady, almost hypnotic. With a knife, I nicked my finger, letting a few drops of blood fall into the mixture. The paste hissed and darkened as my blood met the herbs, a faint shimmer rippling across the surface. 

“Breathe, child,” I murmured, my voice low and steady. “Breathe deep.” 

I smeared the paste across his chest, the dark substance soaking into his skin. His body jerked, his back arching slightly as his lungs fought against the weight pressing down on them. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand over his chest as I muttered an incantation under my breath. The words were old, their cadence sharp and commanding, filling the space with a thrumming energy that crackled in the air. 

The room grew still, the tension thick as the boy gasped suddenly, his breaths deep and ragged. The blue tint in his lips began to fade, replaced by a faint flush of color. His chest rose and fell evenly now, the rattling gone. 

I wiped my hands on a rag and sat back, watching him sleep. The paste on his chest had vanished, absorbed into his skin, leaving only the faintest trace of its presence. I felt the pull of exhaustion settle into my limbs, but it was a familiar weight, one I had learned to carry. 

The door creaked open, and the mother stepped inside. She froze when she saw him, her hands flying to her mouth. “He’s—” Her words broke into a sob as she dropped to her knees beside the cot, gathering the boy into her arms. 

She turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you.” 

I should have known they wouldn’t leave it at whispers. Fear has a way of festering, and tonight, it seemed ready to boil over.  

It had only been hours since I sent the woman back on her way that I heard a knock at my door. It was sharp, relentless, and entirely unwelcome. 

I didn’t answer at first, letting it echo through the quiet of my home. Only a fool would come to my door so late, but then again, this village was full of fools. When the knocking didn’t stop, I sighed, setting aside the herbs I’d been drying by the hearth. The hour was late, and I wasn’t in the mood for their desperation tonight. 

When I opened the door, I was met with the gnarled face of Elder Kazu. Behind him stood three men, their faces half-hidden in the dim glow of lantern light, their expressions tight with unease. 

“Elder Kazu,” I said, my voice flat. “To what do I owe this intrusion?” 

The elder’s gaze darted past me, as if searching for something—or someone—inside. His knotted hands gripped his staff tightly, and his jaw was set with a determination I hadn’t seen before. Behind him, the men shifted uncomfortably, their fingers tightening around the tools they carried: a shovel, a rusted scythe, and a length of rope. 

“The child died,” Kazu said, his voice cracking like dry wood. “Despite your... efforts.” 

I stiffened, the words sinking like stones into my chest. The child from earlier. His mother had come to me, begging for help, and I had given it. My craft was strong, stronger than their faithless gods. But sometimes, even I could not bend fate. 

“And you think that’s my fault?” I asked, my voice calm, though I could feel the simmer of heat beneath it. 

“You said you healed him!” one of the men snarled, stepping forward. I recognized him—Hajime, the father of the boy. His face was twisted with grief, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “You lied! You cursed him, just like you’ve cursed this whole village!” 

I met his glare, unflinching. “Your boy was dying when you brought him to me. I bought him time, nothing more. If you want to blame someone, blame the sickness in the land. Blame your gods for abandoning you.” 

Hajime surged forward, but Kazu caught him with a firm hand. “Enough!” the elder barked. His voice wavered but held enough authority to make Hajime fall back, trembling with fury. 

“It’s not just the boy,” Kazu said, turning back to me. His voice was quieter now, almost steady. “The crops failed again. The cattle are dying. More children are sick. And yet, here you stand, untouched. Unharmed.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “You think my survival is proof of guilt? Perhaps it’s just proof that I’m smarter than the rest of you.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. 

The men moved as one, lunging forward with clumsy but determined hands. I fought back, my nails raking across flesh as I twisted and kicked, but there were too many of them. Rope snaked around my wrists, biting into my skin as they wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone grabbed my hair, forcing my head down as they shoved me into the dirt. 

“Let go of me!” I snarled, my voice cutting through the night. “Do you think this will save you? Do you think your gods will return because you’ve tied up the only one who ever helped you?” 

“Quiet!” Kazu barked, his staff slamming into the ground with a dull thud. “We’ve had enough of your poison, witch. You’ll answer for what you’ve done.” 

They hauled me to my feet, the rope biting deeper as they dragged me into the square. My bare feet scraped against the ground, the cold seeping into my skin as the village came alive around us. Doors creaked open, faces peering out, and soon the square was full of murmurs and nameless faces. 

Shadows danced wildly across the thatched roofs of the village as torches flickered in trembling hands. They gathered around me like vultures circling a corpse, their whispers rising into a chant, fueled by fear and hatred that churned like poison in their veins. 

I stood in the center of it all, bound at the wrists, my face cloaked in shadow but my eyes unyielding. The ropes dug into my skin, rough and unrelenting, but I refused to show pain. My gaze swept over the crowd, unwavering, as if I were the one passing judgment. Their anger faltered when I looked at them—cowards, every last one of them. Some shifted uneasily, others clutched their children closer, as if I might lash out and curse them where they stood. 

“She brought this on us!” Kazu’s voice cracked like dry leaves, his bony finger trembling as it pointed in my direction. “The deaths! The sickness! It’s her witchcraft!” 

I tilted my head, letting the ghost of a smile curl my lips. “Witchcraft?” My voice was low, but it cut through the din like a blade. “Is that what you call your own failures?” 

The crowd rippled with unease, torches flickering as if the flames themselves feared me. I could almost taste their panic, a bitter tang that fed the growing ember of defiance in my chest. They wanted to blame me for everything that had gone wrong in their miserable little lives. They wanted a villain. And here I was, bound and ready to play the part. Their silence wasn’t just fear—it was a storm gathering strength, waiting to break.

“She has no shame!” a woman screeched, clutching her rosary so tightly it threatened to snap. “We must end this before her evil consumes us all!” 

The crowd closed in, their faces a blur of fear and hatred, their torches casting wild, flickering light. I felt the first tendrils of panic claw at my chest, but I shoved them down, keeping my gaze sharp and my spine straight. 

“If you think fire will save you,” I said, my voice ringing out over the square, “then you’ve already lost.” 

The words did little to calm them. If anything, it seemed to embolden them, their cries rising into a unified chant: “Burn her! Burn her!” 

Kazu raised a hand, silencing them with a single motion. “We’ll do nothing without the lord’s permission,” he said, his voice steady now. “Sukuna will decide her fate.” 

The name hung in the air, heavier than the smoke. Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who ruled over life and death in this land. I had heard the stories—the whispers of his cruelty, his insatiable hunger for destruction, his throne built on blood and fear. A chill ran through me at the thought of standing before him, but I didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now. 

The crowd parted as Kazu motioned for the men to drag me forward. My knees scraped against the dirt, my wrists burning against the rough rope. But I kept my head high, meeting their hateful glares with the same sharp defiance I always had. 

The forest loomed ahead, its shadows deep and foreboding, swallowing the torchlight as if even the trees feared the lord who reigned over this land. I kept my eyes forward as they pushed me forward, every step deliberate. Each one echoed my silent vow: If death awaited me at the end of this road, I would meet it standing tall. 

But deep in my chest, something stirred. Not hope—not even fear—but curiosity. A dark, creeping curiosity. If Sukuna was truly the monster they said he was, perhaps he would see what I already knew. That I didn’t belong in this crowd of cowards and fools. That my place wasn’t here, bound and powerless, but somewhere far greater. 

The flames of the torches dimmed as we disappeared into the forest’s embrace. With them went the last remnants of my old life. Whatever awaited me on the other side, I wouldn’t bow to it. Not to Sukuna, not to anyone. If the King of Curses wanted to break me, he’d need far more than rope and cowardly men. 

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE what better way to ring in the new year than posting the first chapter to a new series? Hope you enjoyed this one, my loves! More is coming very soon… hopefully 🩷🩷

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings

[quillcraftconquer]

Watchdog (Simon x K9 Part 7)

(K9 POV)

tw: graphic violence, animal death (dog), torture, captivity, ptsd, panic attack, dissociation, firearm discharge, gun violence, mental health crisis, vomiting

Part 6

The gravel bit into my knees through the fabric of my pants, sharp bits breaking the skin. My wrists were bound behind my back with something that burned, plastic cord, maybe, or metal. My arms had gone numb hours ago, but I didn’t dare move.

Panzer stood five feet away, his fur bristling and his teeth bared. He was snarling, pacing in tight little circles, his lip twitching every time one of the men got too close. His hackles were raised, his whole body straining against the leash looped through a rusted car door handle. He’d already bitten one of them. I could see the blood on the man’s arm.

They were yelling fast, angry words in a language I didn’t know. One of them pointed at Panzer, and another shook his head.

I turned my face just enough to see him. Young, maybe mid-twenties, hair cropped short and boots dirty. He was wearing some sort of tactical uniform, but I didn't recognize any of the writing on his sleeve. He spoke again, slower this time, even though I didn’t know the words.

Panzer let out a deep, throaty growl.

The man raised the pistol.

“No, No!” I screamed.

I lunged forward instinctively, gravel slicing my shins as I hit the ground chest first. The plastic cords tore into my wrists.

“Don’t you fucking touch him! Don’t-”

The muzzle flash bloomed like lightning.

Panzer dropped.

The leash slipped free from the car door and coiled on the dirt beside him. His legs twitched once, then nothing.

My scream didn’t even sound human. One of them shoved a hand into my mouth, fingers digging against my teeth and pressing my tongue down until I choked. Another hand wrapped around my throat, thumb pushing against the bruises already blooming there. The hand in my mouth forced it open, another man coiling thin metal wire around my head. 

The wire cut across my lip as they wrenched it into place.

A crude gag, twisted from fencing wire or maybe a coat hanger, whatever was lying around. It bit into the soft skin at the corners of my mouth until I tasted blood again. They wrapped it twice, once behind my head, once around my jaw, pulling until I couldn’t open my mouth even if I wanted to scream. 

My body jerked as the man holding me stepped back and let go. I crumpled forward, heaving dry sobs through my nose.

Panzer’s body lay motionless in the dirt, his eyes open, unblinking.

I woke mid-scream.

The sound tore from my throat without warning. My lungs seized, and for a split second I didn’t know where I was. I kicked out hard, legs tangling in the blanket I’d dragged into the tub hours ago. My arm smacked against the tile and my stomach lurched.

I threw myself out of the tub, knees crashing against the tile floor as I scrambled for the toilet, dry heaving before I even reached it.

My hands gripped porcelain and I pressed my forehead to the rim. I choked on bile, trying to swallow it down. 

I couldn’t tell if I was hot or freezing.

The handle to the bathroom turned, light flooding inside.

“Ava?” June’s voice called softly. “Are you-?”

The door opened, and my heart dropped in my chest.

I launched toward the sink, fingers scraping under the cabinet in a blind panic. My hand closed around the cold polymer grip of the pistol just as the door swung wider.

A single shot cracked through the room, deafening in the small space. Plaster exploded beside the door frame, splinters of wood raining down. June shrieked, stumbling back, her hands raised in panic.

“Jesus Christ! Ava, it’s me-it’s June! It’s-”

She ducked, scrambling back into the hallway with tears streaming down her cheeks.

I blinked. The recoil still buzzed through my arm. My ears rang. My chest convulsed with broken, hiccupping gasps. The shadow in the doorway was gone, but the threat wasn’t.

“Ava!” Dad’s voice rang out inside the room, and the door burst open again.

He stopped when he saw me, and his eyes went straight to the pistol in my hand.

“Put it down,” he said firmly.

I backed up on my hands and knees, the tile slick under my palms with blood. I couldn’t make sense of anything. The shape in the doorway wavered, waiting like the ones who used to come when I was weakest, half-naked, sick, and too tired to scream.

“Don’t touch me,” I rasped, the gun shaking in my grip.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said quickly, hands lifting. “You hear me? But I need you to give me the gun, baby. Please.”

I couldn’t feel my hands.

My body trembled as he took one cautious step inside. Then another.

When he reached me, he dropped to his knees.

“It’s me. It’s Dad. You're home. You’re safe,” he murmured, his hand closing around my wrist.

“Don’t-” I jerked, weakly pushing against him, but my limbs had nothing left in them. 

“I got it,” he said, and wrenched the pistol free.

It clattered to the floor, skidding under the sink.

I shoved hard against his chest, scrambling upright. My feet slipped on the tile as I bolted for the door. My shoulder slammed into the frame as I turned the corner, almost slipping on the hardwood. I could hear him calling after me, feet pounding behind mine.

I made it halfway into the yard before my knees gave out. I hit the ground hard, hands and jeans slamming into the wet grass. The taste of acid was already at the back of my throat.

I doubled over and vomited.

I curled forward with a choked sob, retching again even when there was nothing left. My palms sunk into the mud as I shook.

“Ava, baby-” Dad’s voice cracked hard. “Talk to me, please- just stop running- please.”

He crouched behind me, a hand gliding up to rest on my back. The feeling pulled another half choked scream from my throat.

“Okay, okay, I won’t touch you, I promise,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Jesus, I don’t know what to do, fuck-”

Light fingers prodded against my side, and I lurched forward. My father’s hand, fumbling with the zipper pocket on the side of my hoodie. His fingers were clumsy, and when the fabric caught, he cursed under his breath.

“Just need your phone, just your phone, sweetheart, I swear-” he whispered, voice thick with tears. “I need to call him-I need to get you help.”

He finally pulled it free, staggering back just a few paces, one eye still on me as the line rang.

“What the fuck do I do?”

I pressed my forehead into the grass, still on my knees in the yard. The blades were cold and wet. The leash was gone, and Panzer’s body still lay somewhere in the corners of my vision.

“She pulled a gun on her sister. She fired it. Blew a hole damn near through my wall. She looked right at her and, fuck-. She’s out here now pukin’ her guts out like she’s gonna die and I-I’m standing in the goddamn yard like an idiot because I don’t know whether to hug her or call someone to sedate her. She’s not even seeing me.”

He stopped. I knew he was crying.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

I could hear my dad pacing, the gravel shifting under his boots. He set the phone down gently by my head, pressing the speaker button.

“Ava.”

I flinched.

“Ava, it’s Simon. You with me?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out except a ragged gurgling sound.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quickly. “Just listen. That’s enough.”

I closed my eyes.

“Put your hand on your chest. Right now. Just one.”

I hesitated.

“Top of your sternum. Center mass. Feel it rise.”

My trembling fingers obeyed without thinking. I curled them lightly against my chest.

“That’s yours. That heartbeat’s yours. You’re not dead. You’re not theirs. You’re here.”

“Now,” he continued. “Right hand to the dirt. Do it slow. Press your palm down.”

I lowered my right hand. The grass gave way to damp soil, cool and soft beneath my fingers. My hand shook violently, but I obeyed.

“Feel that?” Simon asked. “That’s not concrete. That’s earth.”

Another sob crawled up my throat.

“You’re not underground. Not in a fucking van. You’re in your yard. In Kansas or whatever cow-fucked place this is.”

“Come on, baby,” My dad whispered from behind me. “I’m right here. You know me. I’m your dad.”

I wanted to reach for him, I did. But my body wouldn’t move.

Time twisted and my body ached. I could barely hear the mumbling voice on the phone, my lips brushing against the puddle of vomit under my face.

My knees hurt. 

I wasn’t sure if five minutes passed or twenty. I barely registered the distant sound of tires on gravel.

A shadow knelt down beside me. I heard him shift, one knee pressed into the dirt beside mine.

“I’m gonna take your hands,” Simon said slowly. “You can hit me if you need to. But I’m gonna help.”

I nodded, or maybe I didn’t, but either way, he reached out.

Gently, he took both of my hands in his and slowly pressed them down into the dirt with his own.

“Feel that?”

I nodded.

“Cold, wet. Got some give to it,” he said. “That’s not concrete. That’s not blood. It’s dew.”

His thumbs rubbed over the backs of my hands.

“This is real. You’re not there anymore. You’re on your knees in your front yard, and you’re safe. You’re not there anymore, Ava.”

“Your dad’s behind you,” Simon continued. “He’s scared because he loves you. But he’s not going to hurt you. You’re not in that room. You’re not a prisoner.”

I opened my mouth to tell him about the bathroom, about the shadow I saw, about Panzer, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

“I know,” Simon said. “I know it still feels real. But it’s not. That’s over. It happened. And you lived.”

I could hear the porch creaking behind us, the soft chirp of crickets, the breeze rustling through the tall grass at the edge of the fence line.

“Is she…” June’s voice was small, like she was afraid of the answer. “Is she gonna be like that forever?”

“No,” Simon said gently. “She won’t.”

June looked up at him, her face scrunched. “But she…she almost-”

“I know,” he said, cutting her off softly. “It’s scary. But it doesn’t mean it’s permanent.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked down at her shoes, her fingers tightening around her legs.

Simon shifted beside me, still crouched in the dirt. His voice was quieter when he spoke next, like it was just for me.

“It takes time,” he said. “Some days are good. Some days are shit. That’s how it goes.”

 I didn’t lift my head.

“She doesn’t even sleep in her bed anymore,” Dad said. “She sleeps in a goddamn bathtub. With a gun.”

“I know.”

“She can’t keep it,” He continued. “Not like this. Not when she’s-” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the yard, the dirt, to me.

His voice softened. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can’t let you keep a gun if you’re not even sure where you are.”

Simon crouched beside me again, bending his head down until his eyes were level with mine.

“You ready to get up?”

I nodded.

He slid his arm under mine and eased me upward carefully. My knees wobbled, and for a second, the world tilted, but his grip tightened. Behind us, Dad let out a breath. 

“Will you stay?” he asked suddenly, his voice aimed at Simon. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know how to help her.”

“I’ll stay,” Simon answered. “As long as she wants.”

Dad ran a hand through his hair. “She’s not gonna sleep tonight, and neither’s anyone else if she’s in that tub again.”

We moved slowly up the stairs together, Simon at my side, Dad trailing close behind. My legs still shook with every step, but I was upright and present enough to put one foot in front of the other.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, watching as Dad and Simon examined the splintered wood. 

“Could’ve been worse,” Dad muttered, kneeling to touch the edge of the splintered door jamb. “But I’ll need to sand this down and get a new hinge in.”

Dad looked at me one more time, like he wanted to say something else, but all that came out was, “I’ll be up early. Holler if you need anything.”

He stepped out and down the hall. June followed, throwing one more look over her shoulder before disappearing into her own room.

Simon stepped forward and shut the door softly, turning back to face me.

“You want the bathroom?” he asked. “You can take it if that’s where you’ll sleep better.”

I shook my head.

Simon grabbed one of the spare blankets from the end of the bed and spread it across the floor, then lowered himself onto it. Flat on his back, arms folded beneath his head, like this was just another night.

“It gets better,” he said. “Eventually. Not all at once. Not in a straight line. But it does.”

I didn’t move, still planted at the edge of the bed, the tops of my feet gently pressing into his side.

“Sometimes it gets worse first,” he added. “Sometimes it gets worse for a long time. But even then, that’s still healing. Doesn’t always look like it, but it is.”

“I didn’t get better right away,” Simon continued. “Wasn’t some epiphany. It took years. I still have bad days.”

I shifted on the bed, tucking myself under the blanket and pulling it up to my chin.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” he added. “And you don’t have to pretend to be. But you will find your way back.”

I could still feel the gun in my hand.

I could still see June’s face.

If I could do that, if I could almost kill the person I loved more than anything in the world and not even know it was her, how was I supposed to trust myself again?

My teeth scraped against the edge of my nail.

“If you don’t get better,” Simon said, “if it takes years, or if it never looks the way it used to, that’s okay too.”

“I’m not waiting for you to be okay,” he added. “I’m just here. However long you need.”

My thumb slipped from my mouth.

“Okay.”

--

Tags: @skeletonsucker, @trulovekay, @enfppuff, @cqerrz, @alex1011sdzfgh

[badguyswin]

Resistance Hero to Stormtrooper

The cell was a cold, sterile cube buried deep within the First Order’s flagship, the Finalizer. Poe Dameron, shackled to a metal chair, glared defiantly at the shadowed figure before him. His tattered orange flight suit clung to his sweat-soaked skin, the fabric chafing against bruises blooming across his ribs. His lips, cracked and tasting of copper from blood, curled into a defiant sneer as Kylo Ren loomed before him, his black cloak absorbing the light like a void. The dark side pulsed around Kylo, a suffocating pressure that made Poe’s ears ring and his skin crawl, as if invisible tendrils were slithering across his flesh.

“You will give me what I want, Dameron,” Kylo said, his gloved hand twitching. “The Resistance’s secrets. Their plans. Their hope.”

Poe spat blood onto the floor. “You’ll get nothing from me.”

Kylo’s head tilted, a faint chuckle escaping the vocoder. “Oh, I’ll take everything.”

Kylo’s gloved hand shot forward, fingers splayed, and Poe’s body arched against the restraints as the dark side tore into his mind. The Force was a searing, jagged blade, slicing through his thoughts with a pain that felt like molten metal pouring into his skull. His vision swam with fragmented images—Resistance outposts, Leia’s stern glare, hyperspace coordinates—ripped from him as he screamed, his vocal cords straining until they burned. His fingers clawed at the chair’s armrests as the agony tore through his body. He was desperate for a relief that would never come.

Kylo’s power didn’t stop at the Resistance secrets. It burrowed deeper, into the core of Poe’s very being, a violation that made his stomach churn and his heart stutter. A blistering heat erupted within him, spreading from his chest to his limbs, his skin prickling as if it were splitting apart. This power could only be wielded and weaponized by someone truly gifted in the dark side of the Force, and Kylo Ren had worked hard to master it.

“What are you doing?” Poe gasped through pained breath, his voice fracturing as his body convulsed, the restraints biting into his wrists with a dull, grinding ache. He’d been trained to resist torture, but nothing like this!

Kylo’s voice was a low purr, intimate and cruel. “The Resistance made you a hero. I will make you… more.”

The physical transformation was excruciating, a symphony of agony and unnatural sensation. Poe’s lean, wiry frame, honed by years of piloting, began to warp. His shoulders cracked and widened, bones grinding like tectonic plates, the sound echoing in his ears as his muscles swelled into a hulking, brutish mass. His chest expanded, pectorals thickening into heavy slabs that strained against his tearing flight suit, the fabric ripping with a wet, shredding sound. His ribs ached as they reshaped, his spine popping as it adjusted to support his new bulk. His arms, once agile, ballooned with dense muscle, veins pulsing visibly under skin that stretched taut, hot to the touch. His thighs and calves thickened, the sinews tightening until they felt like steel cables, his knees creaking under the added weight.

His face was the worst. His skin burned as if scalded, stretching and reshaping with a sickening elasticity. His high cheekbones flattened, the sensation like clay being molded by invisible hands. His jaw squared and coarsened, the bones grinding audibly. His nose widened, the cartilage softening and reshaping with a dull crunch, the bridge now slightly crooked. His dark, expressive eyes—once alight with defiance—stung as they dulled to a flat, lifeless brown. His eyebrows thickened, coarse hairs sprouting like weeds, and his forehead broadened, the skin tightening painfully. His lips, once quick to smile, thinned into a grim slash, chapped and raw. His scalp itched furiously as his tousled black curls fell away, replaced by a coarse, buzzed crop of dull brown hair. His skin paled to a sallow, almost sickly hue, clammy and cool despite the heat of transformation. 

The man who had been Poe Dameron was unrecognizable, his face a generic mask, devoid of charm or individuality.

The mental assault was a different kind of torment. Poe’s thoughts—his courage, his loyalty, his sharp wit—were shredded, each memory dissolving with a sensation like paper burning in his mind, leaving only ash. He tried to cling to Leia’s face, Finn’s laugh, the hum of his X-wing’s engines, but they slipped away, replaced by a suffocating need to obey. His ideological core, once a blazing fire of hope, was smothered, rewritten with a cold devotion to the First Order. A shameful, electric thrill coursed through him at the thought of being commanded, his pulse quickening, his skin flushing with heat. His identity as Poe Dameron crumbled, and FN-1361 emerged, his mind a hollow vessel filled with submission.

“I… I’m… Poe?” he questioned, his voice a weak croak, tasting of bile and defeat.

“You were Poe,” Kylo said, his voice dripping with finality. “Now, you are FN-1361.”

The name struck like a physical blow, sealing his fate. “I’m… FN-1361.” Yes, that was his name - his only name. FN-1361’s new voice was flat, monotone, stripped of Poe’s warmth. His mind was empty, his body foreign, his soul bound to serve.

Kylo stepped back, his work complete. “General Hux will find you… useful.”

Hours later, FN-1361 stood in the armory, a cavernous chamber filled with the metallic tang of plastoid and the low hum of machinery. The air was cold, biting at his naked, newly sculpted body, his sallow skin prickling with goosebumps. His broad chest heaved, each breath a reminder of his thick, brutish frame, his muscles heavy and unfamiliar. A rack of Stormtrooper armor awaited, its white plates gleaming like polished bone under the sterile lights. His thick, calloused fingers reached for the undersuit, a tight black bodysuit that smelled of synthetic fibers and faint antiseptic. As he pulled it on, the material clung to his skin like a lover’s touch, hugging his heavy pectorals, his blocky abdomen, and his powerful thighs. The pressure was intimate, squeezing his flesh, and a low heat stirred in his groin. His cock twitched, beginning to harden, the sensation both unfamiliar and intoxicating as the fabric pressed against it.

He fastened the chest plate next, the plastoid cool and unyielding, its weight grounding him as it settled against his broad chest with a faint creak. The pauldrons clicked into place over his wide shoulders, the sound sharp and satisfying, followed by vambraces that encased his forearms, the snug fit sending a shiver through him. Greaves and boots followed, each piece locking together with a mechanical snap that echoed in the quiet armory. The armor was heavy, restrictive, molding his body into a tool of the First Order. As he adjusted the belt, the utility pouches brushed against his hips, grazing the growing bulge beneath the undersuit. His cock hardened fully, straining painfully against the tight fabric, the discomfort only intensifying his arousal. The pressure was exquisite, a mix of pain and pleasure that made his breath catch, his skin flushing beneath the plastoid. He relished the confinement, the way the armor erased his individuality, reducing him to a number—a servant.

Finally, he lifted the helmet. Its black visor stared back, a blank, faceless void that promised anonymity. His heart pounded, his cock throbbing painfully against the undersuit as he raised the helmet. He slid it over his head, the seals hissing sharply, the sound reverberating in his ears like a command. The interior smelled of plastoid and faint sweat, the padding pressing against his coarse buzzcut, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through him. His vision narrowed to the visor’s filtered view, the world tinged red and green by the heads-up display. The weight of the helmet, the way it encased his head, triggered an overwhelming wave of lustful desire. His cock pulsed, trapped painfully beneath the armor, the pressure making him hornier still. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, the sound amplified inside the helmet. The thought of General Hux—his cold, commanding voice, his sharp gaze—ignited a desperate, primal need to kneel, to obey, to be used. FN-1361’s gloved hands clenched, the leather creaking, as he fought to steady himself, consumed by the urge to submit, his body trembling with arousal.

The armory door hissed open, and General Hux entered, his boots clicking on the durasteel floor, each step a crisp, authoritative note that made FN-1361’s cock twitch. Hux’s pale eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction, his thin lips curling into a smug smirk as he circled the trooper, his gloved hand brushing the armored shoulder, the touch sending a shiver through FN-1361’s body. The scent of Hux’s cologne—sharp, chemical, with a faint metallic edge—mingled with the armory’s sterile air, intoxicating him.

“Designation,” Hux snapped, his voice like a whipcrack, cutting through the haze of FN-1361’s arousal.

“FN-1361, sir,” the trooper replied, his voice muffled by the helmet but thick with eager submission. Speaking his designation, acknowledging Hux’s authority, sent a surge of pleasure through him, his cock straining harder, the pain sharpening his desire.

Hux’s smirk widened, his eyes raking over the trooper’s form. “Kneel.”

FN-1361 dropped to one knee, the armor clanking loudly against the floor, the impact jolting his oversensitive body. The act of submission was electric, his pulse racing, his cock throbbing painfully beneath the plastoid. Hux stepped closer, his polished boots inches from the visor, their mirror-like surface reflecting the armory’s lights. The proximity, the power imbalance, made FN-1361’s breath hitch, his body aching with need.

“Lower,” Hux commanded, his voice low and cutting.

FN-1361 pressed his helmeted forehead to the floor, the cold durasteel kissing the visor, the sensation grounding yet humiliating. His gloved hands rested on the ground, the leather slick with sweat. Hux’s voice was a drug, each word tightening the coil of desire in FN-1361’s core. “You exist to serve me,” Hux said, his gloved hand gripping the back of the helmet, fingers digging into the plastoid with a faint creak. “Say it.”

“I exist to serve you, sir,” FN-1361 whispered, his voice trembling with lustful surrender, his cock pulsing so hard it felt like it might burst. The words were a release, a vow, his body shuddering with the intensity of his need.

Hux’s smile was cold, predatory. “Good. You’ll prove it.”

FN-1361 was assigned to the lowest ranks of the Stormtroopers, tasked with scrubbing floors, polishing equipment, and hauling supplies. Each menial order was a spark, fueling his twisted devotion, his cock twitching at every barked command. Hux, relishing the fall of one of the Resistance’s top pilots, summoned FN-1361 to his private quarters nightly for “inspections” that were exercises in sexual humiliation, each one designed to cement the trooper’s new identity as a lowly pervert.

In Hux’s dimly lit quarters, the air thick with the scent of polished leather and Hux’s sharp cologne, FN-1361 stood at attention, his armor gleaming. Hux circled him, his boots clicking on the polished floor, his smirk dripping with smug satisfaction. “Remove your helmet,” he ordered, his voice a velvet blade.

FN-1361 obeyed, the seals hissing as he lifted the helmet, revealing his coarse and unrecognizable face. The cool air hit his sallow skin, a contrast to the heat pooling in his groin. Hux stepped closer, his gloved hand gripping FN-1361’s chin, forcing his head up. “Look at you,” Hux sneered, his breath warm against the trooper’s face. “The great Poe Dameron, reduced to a pathetic grunt who gets hard from a single order. Pathetic.”

The words stung for a brief moment, but they soon gave way to a perverted thrill. FN-1361’s cock hardened painfully beneath the undersuit, the tight plastoid amplifying the arousing sensation. He relished the humiliation, his body trembling with a need to be degraded further. Hux’s hand slid down, unfastening the trooper’s chest plate with deliberate slowness, each click of the armor a tease that made FN-1361’s breath hitch. The plates fell away, leaving him in the undersuit, his erection painfully obvious, a damp spot forming where the fabric strained.

“Strip,” Hux commanded, his voice thick with amusement. FN-1361 complied, peeling off the undersuit, the material sticking to his sweat-slicked skin, the cool air raising goosebumps as his thick, muscular body was exposed. His cock stood rigid, throbbing with need, precum glistening at the tip. Hux’s eyes gleamed, his smirk widening. “On your knees, filth.”

FN-1361 dropped to his knees, the durasteel floor biting into his bare skin, the pain mingling with pleasure. Hux unbuckled his own trousers, revealing his own arousal, and grabbed FN-1361’s buzzed hair, yanking his head forward. “Serve your superior,” Hux ordered, his voice dripping with smugness. FN-1361’s mouth opened eagerly, the taste of Hux—salty, musky, overpowering—filling his senses as he took him in, his own cock twitching with every degrading thrust. Hux’s gloved hand gripped his hair tighter, controlling the pace, his other hand striking FN-1361’s cheek with a sharp slap. “You love this, don’t you?” Hux taunted, his voice thick with cruel delight. “A hero turned whore.”

FN-1361 moaned around him, the humiliation fueling his arousal, his cock leaking onto the floor. He did love it—every degrading word, every painful tug, every reminder of his fall. He couldn’t remember his history as a hero but that didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was the pleasure he could receive from the superior men of the First Order. When Hux came, hot and bitter, FN-1361 swallowed eagerly, his own release spilling untouched onto the durasteel, his body shuddering with shameful ecstasy.

Another night, Hux ordered FN-1361 to crawl across the floor, stripped completely bare. The cold metal was scraping his knees as he polished Hux’s boots with his tongue, the leather slick with polish and sweat. Hux watched, lounging back in a chair, his smirk never fading. “You were their best pilot,” he mocked, sipping a glass of amber liquor. “Now you’re my dog.” FN-1361’s cock hardened at the words, the degradation making him desperate for more, his body trembling as he pressed his lips to Hux’s boot, the taste of polish sharp on his tongue.

Each inspection deepened FN-1361’s conditioning, his senses—taste, touch, sound—consumed by servitude. The man who had been Poe Dameron was gone, replaced by a creature who lived for Hux’s commands, his cock throbbing at every humiliation, his new life a perverse paradise of submission to the First Order’s cruel general. It was a fate he would never escape from, no matter what the fate of the Galaxy was...

[eastwindmlk]

We are starting off @jilytoberfest with a little continuation of a Jilyweek drabble. Don't worry you don't need to go looking, it is right there with it.

Prompt: 🎶 “Before the dawn I hear you whisper in your sleep, ‘Don’t let the morning take him.’” 🎶 - Judas Priest - Before the Dawn.

Word count: 467

TW: Blood

“Move!” She yells, her hip slamming into his painfully as the green bolt of light flies right past him. Just a fraction to the right. If he had not staggered, if she had not pushed him, it would have connected easily. The smell of signed leather filled his nostrils and nearly made him gag.

Fuck. He thought, an arm grabbing onto Lily’s waist when she would not stop pushing. Leaning into him. There it held firm until he felt it. Slick and warm, slipping down her exposed skin. And for a moment he recalled their conversation from earlier that night.

About crop tops and distractions. Joking about wandering eyes and roaming hands on an uneventful stakeout. A night of whispered conversations and stifled laughter.

But she was slipping. From his grip and from consciousness. The weight she’d used so deliberately to save him from harm now sent him stumbling. Clutching onto her as best he could. If only he could find a moment of balance, a heel coming down hard and the sharp pain of a pinched nerve turned everything white for just long enough to find his focus.

James gripped Lily tight, find a clear picture, twist and… Pop!

Before this moment James never considered how far the apparition point was from the emergency entrance. Now, with Lily in his arms, the blood still hot and tacky on his hands he realized it. His feet were loud against the flagstone pavement, echoing through the night and ringing in his ears.

“Lily, stay with me okay? Just stay awake. Please, please, please stay,” he pleaded with her through strained vocal cords. His voice cracked and stumbled with every other word.

The lights lining the streets looked like starbursts through his tear-filled gaze, his steps staggering for a moment before he turned into the alleyway. “You’re going to be alright. We’re almost there,” he promised, no louder than a whisper.

James could almost see the light in the loading dock and he cried out for help his voice hoarse and grating. He doubted it was loud enough to reach more than a few steps in front of him. The entire earth quaked beneath his feet when a rush of green hurried his way.

Lily is pried from his arms and he catches a glimpse of her arm dangling limply off the side of the stretcher, her skin a sickly pale even under the yellow street lamps.

He didn’t know how to pray, but he’d seen Lily do it many a time. His trembling hands clumsily mimic those motions now before curling over his heart. James did not know if he should say something, or ask for someone in particular.

All he could do was beg, whoever was listening, not to let the morning take her away from him.

[ranticore]

Compilation of Cuinn POV Writing (part 1)

These bits and pieces are older than this blog but I forgot they existed until last night. First part is intended to be a direct follow up on Cuinn's initial capture by Mikalai, second part (in a different post b/c it's long) is a few years after that when he meets Ilya :) And I'm too lazy to put them in a google doc so it's going into the body of this post enjoy

-

He gazed dispassionately down at the sleeping human. What on earth was that strange one thinking? To bring him here to this madhouse flock of babytalkers and ground-bound humans who seemed hardly better. Nobody made sense when they spoke and nobody did what they meant. Why give food and bare your neck so respectfully if you were then going to tie your captor up like a piece of prey?

He tested the bindings again, an agitated ticking under his skin. Still tight, made of two leather pieces sandwiched on either side of a metal woven cord. Cuinn's beak still ached from his attempt to chew it. He'd sliced through a tiny bit of leather, triumphant, and that metal had immediately cracked a notch into the hook in his mouth. It would take weeks to grow out. Why hadn't they warned him? The baffling mix of hospitality and imprisonment made Cuinn's crop seize up and his feathers prick. Was he little more than a farm animal to these humans? Something to be cared for so nicely, right up until the moment of its slaughter?

Let that human come closer, and… and… Cuinn let out his puffed up breath, his feathers flattening again. The man had turned over on the furs he'd made into a nest, and the makeshift blanket fell off his front. Beneath there was a thinner tunic, something woven. His chest rose and fell slowly, in unhurried sleep. Killing someone in their sleep was not the action of a king, but the temptation was ever-present. Cuinn's mouth watered.

Yet the tether still held. Cuinn could not step closer. He instead hunkered down into the ragged nest as if to warm an egg and silently observed.

The human yawned and tipped his head sideways, away from Cuinn, and bore more of his pale throat. That was soft too, though Cuinn would have to step closer to confirm. He reminded Cuinn of the tiercels at the coast, the flightless ones and plump waterbirds, though he knew that assuming delicacy or weakness was a mistake. Cuinn had felt the iron strength behind the binding ropes.

He pulled one of the stripped sheep femurs closer for an early morning snack, gripping the bone with his talons while he used his beak and long, barbed tongue to scrape the marrow out.

A low grunt from the human stilled Cuinn briefly before the hunger became more important. The human said something and sat up. What an odd creature he truly was; close enough to a harpy that Cuinn could find him familiar, even attractive, but strangely proportioned, short-armed and blunt. Had he been smaller, the size of a hare, Cuinn would have not hesitated to rip him apart.

His monstrous captor opened the rear door and stepped out into the light. Other harpies craned their heads to see through the doorway before it shut again. Cuinn licked more marrow out of the sheep's long bones, waiting for the next indignity. Surely that human was preparing to drag him around again, the spoils of his hunt.

But no. The human returned with a hare and a pheasant, warmed but not fresh-killed. He set them on the floor and simply walked out again. He even left Cuinn his privacy, letting the door become a welcome barrier between himself and those chattering mudhawks ready to snatch away any food he got.

It helped Cuinn eat in peace but it didn't lessen the sensation of capture, of being kept like livestock. But he was still weak and likely couldn't have flown any great distance on his ragged wings, his heart in palpitations at the dual effort of pulling wasted muscle and digesting this new glut of food which would only weigh him down more.

The voices of men and the odd harpies pressed in from all angles. Dust shook down from the wooden roof as manicured talons settled upon it. The harpies spoke in exaggerated and strange tones, loud and dramatic no matter the subject, and oddly truncated in a way that flattened the meaning, the errors of a chick learning to speak for the first time. And at a permanently ear-splitting volume, no softer hisses or sibilant tones, only full throated screeches and peeping.

The effects of men on the harpy chicks they stole were legendary. Why would they care for anything, when their provisions were always guaranteed and their hunting little more than a swoop and catch, none of the hours-long stalking and waiting. Their flying skills, too, were roundly mocked by the harpies of Cuinn's flock. His ex-flock, he supposed.

And what hobbies did the humans deign to allow their captives? He'd seen no woven nests or bower walls, no artistic pursuits, nothing but these wooden man-made walls and straw.

The adorable human returned in the afternoon with a deep trough of some kind of liquid. Whitish and warm, the colour of an eggshell.

Although Cuinn had thought warmly about the human in his sleep, he was not so pleased to see the man in full wakefulness, wrapped in his heavy cloak, his face like iron. Cuinn saw again the figure of his captor, the source of his shame and indignity, and made a token effort to lash out at the man. He didn't expect to reach, and sure enough the tether snapped to shivering tension while his talons caught thin air, but it was the best way to send his message. He would not capitulate to this treatment. But the man shrugged it off so easily, sparking fury, and simply set down the container of liquid. He said something in his rumbling voice and gestured across at the trough.

Cuinn pointedly did not approach it. His hunger was dull for the first time in weeks, he would not debase himself for this lesser man. Cuinn was a king. A king of what? his mind said mockingly, and the resultant shame was enough to have him snapping and hissing at the man again, until he finally left.

Cuinn sniffed the liquid, but smell was not his primary sense and he didn’t learn much, only that it smelled somewhat like bone marrow. He slipped his tongue into the top layer and found it gelatinous as it cooled, a soft broth with bones at the bottom and other mysterious ingredients suspended in the tasty fluid. It was more sustaining than the dishes of water he’d been given but quenched his thirst just as well. As he lapped it up, lying on the awkward protrusion of his keel by the trough, he despaired that this was the best food he was going to be given. Lukewarm sludge, the type of food you might feed an invalid, or an elder. His talons flexed open and closed at the thought of real food, live food, something that struggled as it died. That way he could adopt its strength and will to live, not just the physical matter of its flesh. The broth, while nourishing, could not pass that vigour on to him.

Over the next few days, the man came and went. Cuinn heard enough from the others beyond the doorway to associate him with the sound ‘Mika’, which was likely a name. Mika was an odd prison guard. He brought food and water and showed Cuinn the midden hole under the nest platform at the back of the little den. He slept in the den every single night, no matter what, blithely revealing defenceless flesh and pale skin to the hungry gaze of Cuinn. Aside from that he did not seem to need or care to interact much with Cuinn. It was not respectful, not at all, but it was honest. It did not make any effort to convince Cuinn that he would be happy here, in his captivity.

As Cuinn’s exhaustion began to purge itself from his bones he grew restless. He managed to jump onto the elevated nest platform, where he ripped open the pillows and discarded the human fabric cases, rejecting its presence at his bed. He arranged the spilled-out straw and sweet hay in an oval, though it was not deep enough to make a depression in the middle, and tried his best to raise some walls in a basket-weave pattern.

The next morning, as Mika rose and pulled his cloak back on, his dark eyes flickered over Cuinn’s body. It was the first night Cuinn had retired to the platform, to higher ground.

Mika said something short and gruff, then opened the door and - rather than letting himself out, he left the door open. Cuinn roused himself, waiting for that opening to slam shut again, but Mika caught the tether instead. He clipped it onto the block just beyond the door, out in the gloomy morning sunlight. Cuinn did not follow. There was no point. What was he to do, stand out on that block perch, answering the human’s beck and call? Not at all. He stayed up on his platform, watching through slitted eyes the comings and goings of the falconers outside, the harpies flitting past. Horses appeared a few times, piquing Cuinn’s hunger, though that was a meal for many harpies to take at once, and he did not trust or respect any of the harpies around him enough to share a hunt with them.

He watched the younger harpies follow their humans around, gazing up at them with sickening trust and adoration. Some received food in reward for allowing the humans to inspect their talons, their keels. the anklets and bells around their legs. Mika moved among them, fetching and carrying but never interacting with a single young harpy long enough for Cuinn to link it with him.

Only when Mika had not been sighted for several hours did Cuinn decide to emerge. It was his idea, not Mika's. And he moved out slowly, hopping down from the platform and slowly emerging into the light. It made his eyes burn; he was already susceptible to bright light and this conspired with the time he'd spent in that den to almost blind him. He walked slowly, without revealing his lack of vision, and felt the character of the lawn change around him. The other harpies which had not flown off to their hunt that day grew quiet. His vision returned in patches, enough to guide him onto the block perch. He settled himself there and pricked his feathers against the wind. Snow swirled in the air but did not settle, not yet.

The dens were spread in a half ring that faced the large castle and smaller hall. Walls enclosed everything, even the lawn, though they were only tall enough to make a barrier to humans .

A brave harpy alighted beside him. A tawny spotted cob, jingling obnoxiously with bells. He displayed no signs of appeasement or peaceful greeting, his eyes making contact far too early for politeness. He stood straight, wings half open, and his tail fluffed out and high. He chattered something, a chick asking to play, and reached up a foot to try to snag one of Cuinn's white feathers.

Cuinn stepped away. The tawny followed. Cuinn hissed softly and this only elicited a surprised look before the tawny simply tried again. Cuinn's subtlety went nowhere and fell on deaf ears. As the inquisitive talons rose again, Cuinn spun and slashed, opening the younger harpy's thigh and scaly lower leg.

That got him. The harpy exploded into flight and fled to the roof of one of the halls, peeping obnoxiously in distress.

The humans returned one by one. They rode in on their horses and some had harpies perched behind them. Mika did not. He returned alongside the others and tied to his saddle was a coiled crawling beast. The monster's head hung limp and it lazily dripped blood and venom down its forked tail. Cuinn's feathers stood on end and he hissed at it as Mika took it past; what use would anybody have for one of those horrible things? Harpies killed them without eating for a reason! Mika rode past with his eyes forward, paying Cuinn no mind.

The harpies came in to roost. Mika was back, his burden set aside somewhere (in the fire, Cuinn hoped). This time he carried a pair of hares which he set down in Cuinn's reach.

The other humans looked uneasy, eyeing Cuinn as though he were as dangerous as the huge serpentine crawler. Why now of all times was he drawing their stares? They'd seen him on the block before he'd been fed.

He ate while continuing to peer around the place, eyeing up the sheer facade of the large building looming behind the hall. That place with its spires and many windows looked to house someone important. Maybe the lord of the land. Humans had leaders like everyone else, though Cuinn's mind wandered at the thought of what a human leader might actually do all day. Humans were lawless and uncontained, without any true king pushing them into their rank lines.

No wonder the place was so raucous and disorganised. They had food aplenty but no hunters catching anything but useless evil, and all sorts of harpies reduced to idle fluttering. The air of the place suggested a ruler but Cuinn had not seen him.

Mika's huff of breath sounded by his ear. Cuinn hissed softly, little more than a formality at this point. Mika paid it no mind, as ever. He unsheathed his fleshy pale hand from the thick furs he wore over it and touched it to Cuinn's front. The fingers delved under a tract of feathers, and the edge of one of the square fingernails dug in briefly. Cuinn's hiss was low and rolling, but stretched out into pleasure at the welcome scratch.

Mika felt the edge of Cuinn's keel. He made no attempt to hide it, not that it needed confirming at this point that he was trying to heal Cuinn's starvation for reasons unknown. The keel still made an uncomfortable shape through the skin, awkward when Cuinn wanted to lie on his front, but there was a new layer softening it just a little. Mika withdrew his hand and brought it up, briefly, to scratch under Cuinn's chin.

It was too much. Cuinn pulled his head away, straightening so that on the perch and with his long neck extended, he was not within Mika's reach. He brought his talonful of hare up higher to continue eating.

The meal was thoroughly mundane but the eyes on him sharpened until he had swallowed the last of the bones. After that there came a gradual lessening of attention, eyes turned away.

And Cuinn discovered why momentarily; the other harpies were fed similar meals and the yard was embroiled in a chaotic war. They mantled over their paltry meat scraps as if they would be attacked, and not even the humans they simpered over could come close. Hissing and screeching filled the yard, humans in thicker padding than usual ducking and flinching as their horse-drawn cart of meat was mobbed. The mudhawks behaved like infants, chicks who squalled and fought to eat before their nest siblings, as if the food would be yanked away. Cuinn slunk back into his den. No use in sticking around.

Up on his perch and with daylight still lying across his feathers, he found the will to preen for the first time in many moon cycles. He would not be shown up by those squalling chicks. Mika looked in more than once as he continued on his duties, at one stage bringing a bale of new straw for nest material.

While Cuinn wove the new straw into the downy depression of his nest, Mika shut the door behind him and bedded down against the door frame.

As darkness and cold gripped the den like ice crushing the outer bark of a tree, Cuinn's fluffed up feathers trapped more warmth than before, but not enough. The winter rolled in faster than he could recover, and after an hour or so hunched and shivering he dropped down from the platform. The swivel on the tether clinked softly as it dragged across the ground, but Mika lay still and on his side, ensconced in his thick furs. Cuinn stepped onto him, ignoring the grunt as Mika roused, and lowered himself down onto his front so that he lay on top of the human. Mika said something in a meandering, sleepy tone. Cuinn ignored him, perfectly satisfied to use the human as a massive heat source without being too sentimental about it. Needs must.

When sleep came he didn't notice it, drifting into a soft continuation of his waking state almost indistinguishable from it. In his dream, Cuinn's beak slid out of its holster on the roof of his mouth, and when morning dragged him back awake he was sharp and itching all over with mingled hunger and shame.

Mika nudged at him, a small, blunt hand that touched the curve of Cuinn's neck. He twisted and bit down on the hand, his beak piercing the skin, and Mika's other hand swung from nowhere to clout Cuinn hard on the side of the head.

Hissing furiously, Cuinn sprang up and retreated to the back of the mews, to the elevated nest. He sat there for the remainder of the morning, glaring at Mika and any human who dared peer in through the door. How dare they. He would batter them if they came close, and any overfamiliarity on their part would be their undoing.

But Mika's behaviour did not change. He returned with his hands gloved, setting down the usual morning bowl of broth, his eyes steady resting on Cuinn.

Wasn't he angry? Cuinn was angry. His talons had gouged tracks in the wood of the platform from his compulsive gripping and scratching. Mika simply set down his bowl and stood up again, leaving the door open once more so that Cuinn could go out to visit the block perch.

Cuinn went out, but not very soon after Mika opened the door. Whether or not Cuinn left his den was not the human's decision. The swirl of bracing air that twisted through the doorway beckoned Cuinn. He hadn't flown in so long.

Out on the block, he drank from the bowl of steaming broth. As ever the humans were bustling around with their horses and the harpies. Any time those creatures got even a scrap of food they became so oddly aggressive that the shrieks had Cuinn desperately scanning the sky for any signs of attackers.

One, a pale grey pen with scarlet eyes, alighted with a flip of her tail on the ground by the block. Her vivideyes fixed on Cuinn's bowl.

Instead of asking or indicating that she would like to share, she instead continued to stare at the bowl. She made a piteous begging noise. Cuinn turned away. He was not a parent and this overgrown chick wouldn't sway him.

His voice rose into a shocked screech but he was too slow to yank the bowl away in time. She caught it in one foot as she shot past him and up, into the grey sky. Broth spilled out over the rim and rained down over Cuinn’s back. The disgusting mess slithered down between his feather tracts as the harpy landed on the roof of the big house.

She sat there forlornly peeping until Cuinn's attention strayed. Mika had appeared on the edge of the yard, a straw fork over his shoulder.

A blur of stony grey, and suddenly the pen grabbed Cuinn's bowl.

He was stepping from foot to foot in his fury, gouging tracks in the block, when Mika returned from one of his unimportant tasks. Cuinn would have bitten him again, only Mika stepped away in time. He glanced down, saw no bowl, and cast Cuinn an expectant look as if to say where is it? Cuinn turned to glare at the harpy on the roof. She had managed to spill more of the broth down one of the shiny clear windows.

Mika hummed quietly and patted Cuinn’s front. He almost earned another bite for that, but Cuinn found it not unwelcome, after his initial shock. Mika was not here to steal from him, but to touch his keel again. It was still prominent, but no longer so pointed that it felt like a blade about to slice through Cuinn’s skin from the inside. Mika pointed at the female harpy and the bowl and said something in his low soft tone, diffusing the prickly agitation just a little.

Then he left to bring Cuinn another bowl. This was much the same as the first, and as Cuinn snatched it off him, Mika produced a damp cloth, and stretched out towards Cuinn. Distracted and satisfied by the broth, Cuinn tolerated the damp patting of the cloth against the feathers of his back and shoulder. Mika, it seemed, was grooming him.

Immediately, Cuinn lunged at her. Stupid creature, to have fallen for obvious bait. He caught her by the wing and neck and forced her down onto the ground by the block, under his talons. She was screeching, her wings thrashing, but she was uncoordinated, accustomed only to attacks from the crawling things on the ground and her flock-mates. Her voice shifted from angry screeching to piteous mewling and subjugated peeps, her eyes on him squinting with defeat.

After another sip from the bowl, the rustling movement on the roof again caught Cuinn’s eye. He set the bowl down, a little away from himself, on the very edge of the block. Mika queried it but received no response other than Cuinn turning away as if disinterested.

Talons scraped against slate roof tiles. The pen harpy was sweeping down and low across the lawn, her feet already swinging forwards in a practised snatch, reaching for the bowl. Mika’s voice rose into a gruff warning sound, telling her no, but he was no match for her speed. She caught the bowl.

Mika shouted something. Another human was running over, the pen harpy’s makeshift parent. Cuinn had no need to press the point. He folded his wings with a satisfied huff and hopped off of her, back onto the perch.

The second human, whose name was Yuriy, helped his harpy up from the sleety lawn. She hid behind him at first, still peeping in confusion, though when she caught Cuinn’s eyes she gaped her beak as if he were a hunting sphinx and not one of her own kind. As well he might have been, to her. Cuinn turned his back. She would not bother him again.

Mika had to speak to Yuriy about the incident. Yuriy was upset at the mistreatment of his harpy - they called her Mriya - and seemed to want Mika to do something. But Mika’s voice was so level and so calm, one hand still on Cuinn’s side as Cuinn sipped from his untouched bowl.

Finally Yuriy thew up his hands and walked away, with the pen, Mriya, trailing along beside him. Mika said nothing. Then, as Cuinn set down the empty bowl and began to clean himself, Mika abruptly reached out and caught the tether clipped to Cuinn’s anklet. It came loose, Mika’s dextrous fingers making short work of the mechanism. The heavy tether fell away, only revealing what a burden it had been in its sudden absence. Cuinn lifted his foot - his tarsus was still bound with an anklet - and cast Mika a long look.

Mika pointed at the sky.

Cuinn’s eyes widened. Another trap? No, it didn’t seem that way. Cuinn could rise into the sky and never see this wretched place again. Mika’s hand drifted close again and tapped Cuinn’s keel, as if to explain his behaviour. Cuinn was no longer on death’s door, the gesture reminded him. Mika had nursed him back to health, enough so that he could toss around the likes of Mriya.

Cuinn had not flown in weeks, beyond the hops up into his nest at night. He spread his wings, still shabby despite his improved health. The first leap into the sky was laborious, his chest muscles pulling down with not quite as much strength as he was used to. Well, he would recover. After a short horizontal drift he got a good few beats in, and the lawn blurred into a wash of grey and brown as he swung upwards. His wingtips clipped the wall of the big house and then he was over it, his wings spread to their full extent to capture what little glide material might remain in the wintry air. There wasn’t much, and he sank again to land on the slate roof of the big house, to more easily plan his next venture.

Mika stood by the den, watching curiously. It occurred to Cuinn that if he left, he could not take Mika with him. And even if that were possible, he could not go back to his own flock, not without unseating Thunder Strike on the Ama, but that would be an impossibility in his current state. The forest flocks would not have him either. Like it or not, he had to stay here, among this flock, at least for the time being. Mika would care for him.

The other harpies were deeply distressed by Cuinn's new sentinel post on the roof for the remainder of the day. They would flutter up clumsily, ready to perch, spot Cuinn, and then veer away with alarmed squawks. Very different to how it had been in the forest, where other harpies avoiding him would have been an immense improvement.

But it couldn't last, not really. As the evening closed in, the harpies had plucked up enough courage to land two wing-lengths away from him with their meals to eat. He ignored them; they were nothing to him. He had already evaluated the flock for any that might have posed a threat, any that might have thought themselves future kings, and there were none. They hardly seemed to understand what he was. This place had no king but him.

[nightfall-1409]

Thank you @clonebang for running this! On ao3 here and on tumblr following the tag #cb2024

Team 16, myself @nightfall-1409, (AO3) my lovely artists @marbled-polecat (AO3) and @clownbloody , and my amazing beta, @cowbaehawyee (AO3)

Coming in starting December 3rd with ...

A Sunny Day on Kamino

rating: M pairings: polybatch, echo5, techo, crosstech warnings: canon-typical violence, canonical character death summary: having shot the cords that connected him to the gondola wires on Eriadu, Tech had known the end was coming. But then it doesn't come. There are a lot of things he'd known that are no longer true, and a lot of thing's he'd not known that he now, somehow, has the chance to learn. time travel fic

Color him surprised when he wakes up, prone, his goggles cracked, feeling as though all the air has rushed out of his chest and he can’t catch his breath.

He distantly hears shooting, screaming, and he questions to himself, oh, had the fall been that short? Did he have to worry about taking a deep breath and potential damage to his ribs when the cart above him is definitely about to crush him?

Another moment passes, he hears Wrecker calling for him, distress obvious, and he shudders as he breathes in. He does not hear Omega anymore, and something in his heart seizes at the thought of her jumping after him, or some other horrible choice.

His ribs seem to be…fine?  There’s no piercing lung pain as he breathes.  In fact, there doesn’t seem to be significant injury to his person, as he finds no signs of pain other than a bit of a bump to his head and the air knocked from his lungs. This is likely very bad.

“I imagine that ought to have killed me.” He says, the air knocked out of his chest, but not finding it hard to force the words out apart from that. The white snow underneath him is remarkably… smooth.  

He blinks, touches the floor, amazed. Upon closer inspection, it’s not snow at all, but white tile, clean and sanitized.

“If you think that should’ve killed you, we do need more training,” a harsh, sickeningly familiar voice drawls as blaster-fire whizzes over his shoulder, footsteps coming around him as the ringing in his ears starts to subside.

“Were you hit?” Hunter asks as he whips Tech around, doing a quick glance and once over, Tech blinking in completely stunned silence as he takes him in through those broken glasses.

His sergeant’s hair is too short.  Or at the very least, it’s cropped much closer to reg length than he recalls it being.  Their cadet reds are all they have on— none of their grey and beige armor with its added colors for Howzer and Rex and Cody, really, any of the signs of the regs that they had ultimately aligned themselves with.

Crosshair is standing over them with a borrowed sniper rifle, Wrecker’s face is still all bandaged over from his injury as a cadet.  They’re in the broken remains of the medical hall.  They look like cadets, baby-faced and not yet at their apex in height, and it’s most noticeable because Crosshair and Tech are both roughly the same height as Hunter, and Wrecker’s just a little bit over height of an average trooper.

This appears to be due to the fact that they are cadets.  8th Cycle, actually, when Wrecker’s eye was blinded, his hearing impacted, and his scars earned in training keeping them all safe.

Tech blinks again, his confusion sinking in as he looks down at his unmarred hands, and his own cadet reds, their synthetic texture starting to bug at him.  He’s– fairly certain he had been on Eriadu just before this moment, had been falling to his death on a doomed mission to rescue Crosshair.  That he’d been about to hit his 13th cycle, a year and a half after the fall of the Republic, a year after the fall of Kamino.

Watching the clouds before turning over so he was not seeing what would crush him, could watch the trees get closer, and then closing his eyes as he’d accepted the end and—

Now he was here.

He remembers this quote-on-quote mission well.

Droids had stormed the medical wing of Kamino looking for the Prime’s DNA.  They’d been inside because Wrecker was recovering from an incident with ordinance, the scarring that would be part of him for the rest of his life.  They’d taken blasters off of fallen soldiers.  This was the implementation of Tech’s plan to ensure Wrecker’s life was safe from harm— get themselves deployed. 

But why was he here now?  Tech’s memory is not faulty.  It is perfect, every second of it; as he was designed.  He knows it backwards, forwards, and yet, he is here, tumbled out of order.  He fell to his presumed death on Eriadu, in spite of Hunter’s order for him not to, Omega’s hurt and upset plea, and Wrecker’s desperate cry of No!  

But now he’s here.

It’s eerie.  He has no answers.  Nothing about this feels any more or less real than where he’d been before.  He’s not sure of what test to run. He never considered himself a lucid dreamer, but he’ll attempt to sort out those rules; thinks to himself, I’m dreaming, and then tries to wipe away this slate. 

Nothing changes.  Either he is bad at lucid dreaming, or this is not a dream.

Is this some sort of heaven?  Some sort of hell? He’d never put much thought into the afterlife; he’d sort of assumed that the lack of tangible evidence of it had meant such a thing did not exist. 

Now that he’s here, it’s even stranger still. It leaves him…unmoored.

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Four

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, PTSD themes, casualties of war, hostage situations, blood, gun violence, mentions of abuse, death, nightmares, mentions of scars/medical gore

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: thx for all the support so far!

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Ad Astra

Simon might’ve been handling the situation well, but you, on the other hand, have been nauseous all morning. The sight of his reddened wounds, paired with the squelch of the blood that coated you, all replayed in a loop.

He comes back during sunrise, clothes covered in patches of dirt and scrapes from the previous night. Limping to the shower to wash off, he still looks at you like an alien from another planet, yet he’s the one disposing of a body before breakfast.

You look up from the paper plate below you—some stale muffin and a coffee you snagged from the lobby. He’s wearing fresh clothes again, probably on his last pair of those, and he’s changed the dressings himself, thank God.

“Where’d you take him?” Rather than eating it, you’re smushing crumbs of the stiff baked good in between your fingertips.

“Nowhere important. We’re leaving today.” As if he’s going to tell you that. He zips up his duffel, not before stuffing in the bourbon first, naturally.

You’ve packed up next, casing the room one more time to ensure you got everything. Once you’ve reached the kitchenette, you spot your ring, still laying where you’d thrown it the previous night. You scoop it up, rinsing off the crimson caked in the crevices. The thought of slipping it on again comes as quickly as it leaves—immediately.

The diamond is placed atop the tip you left for the maid. Hopefully, they’ll appreciate it, or pawn it, either way, it’s a piece of mind. Taking that ring off was one step closer to healing, but now being on the path for vengeance has manhandled you two steps back.

The town is several miles behind you now, and it’s back to silence. Not a peep from the radio, nor his mouth. Just the sound of the idled engine when he stops, the repetition of the blinker, and his sighs of discomfort when traffic becomes heavy. It’s half-tempting to reach into the glove box and start reading the owner’s manual, or start solving calculus problems to pass the time. At least when there was a body in the back, your mind was too packed to allow boredom.

“You seem to be healing well, at least.” You have to say something, or you’ll jump out of the moving vehicle yourself.

“I’ll be fine,” he sighs again, only looking briefly at you as you’ve stopped in the next lineup, with his blinker puttering again. “You did fine.” His voice carries the usual dryness, like his vocal cords alone fought on the battlefield.

The compliment is delivered with passivity, to say the least, but coming from him it’s better than being ignored.

“Yeah, well, I was scared shitless,” a compromising chuckle nearly comes, but the memories of kneeling in the gravel push it away. “I’ve never done anything like that before...”

His eyes return to the highway ahead of him as he passes the traffic jam, going quiet again. The crop fields have instead turned to muddy grass, with somehow less civilization than before. He digs into the center console and pulls out a stray cigarette, only cracking the driver’s window slightly when he lights up. The chin of his mask is pulled up now, just slightly above his mouth. After his first deep inhale, he holds the cig out to you.

“No thanks.” You reply flatly, only watching as he exhales the smoke through the small crack of the window. His hum of amusement, or more so shock that you rejected it is next. You already have hired guns after you, what’s some lung disease to add to it?

Simon’s eyes make their way to your hands again—where you’d failed to scrub the blood from under your fingernails, a rookie mistake. Then, how you’re still fiddling with the ring finger of your left, despite still not wearing it anymore—that nervous habit he noticed the first time he saw you. The slight indent on your ring finger, where the skin has remembered the wedding band you’d kept on for so long.

The ring in itself is a scar of its own, only it’s an internal one—unlike the several that riddle his own hands. Knives, splinters, discoloration, fingers with the indents of the stitches he’d gotten years ago.

The questions had been eating at you the entire ride since he forced you to reveal his name. “What are we going to do with him?” A man so desperate for carnage, yet he’s sitting there so calmly as if he’s on this road trip for leisure.

“Nothing nice, and nothing you need to know about.”

Somehow, the thought of that isn’t as comforting as you thought. Cal was a hideous memory, but still a memory nonetheless. It’s not Stockholm syndrome or forgiveness for what he’s done, it’s the plausibility of someone you spent years with being snuffed out.

“He’s still my husband, Simon, I think I have a right to know.” You’re speaking in offense, yet the only emotion you feel is conflict.

Simon scoffs as if you’ve just insulted him personally. “Still your husband, huh? Should I turn around right now, and bring you back home, then? Hm?”

“I suppose you’ll go running into his arms, ‘n get scooped off into the sunset, then?” He tosses the cig out the window, and pulls down his mask again, still shaking his head.

You can’t stand it—the way he makes you sound like a delusional schoolgirl. It’s quite clear, you go home, and you’re in the ground somewhere before you can unpack. “I’m not an idiot. Do you think I’m expecting a warm welcome from him?”

“You’re not thinking at all, that’s your problem.” There’s that insufferable prick again, the one hiding beneath the half-assed attempts to act like a human being.

“Who are you to tell me what I’m thinking, you arrogant prick?” You turn to face him, despite being confined by the seat belt. “You have no clue what this is like for me,” you’ve twisted back again, this time facing your torso to the window now. If you look at him any longer, that idea you had about leaping out of the moving truck might come true.

His fury dissolves again, and now his cinnamon irises have flooded with the echoes of his past. He did understand. Simon understood every bit of it—the urge to kick and scream, and most of all the desire to self-protect when faced with disapproval.

You’ve practically ripped a page straight from his book, responding exactly how he would’ve if it was him in the passenger seat feeling provoked—like a wounded animal snarling because it’s been licking its own wounds for too long.

—

You’re nearly face-first into the dashboard when he punches on the brakes, not bothering to brace you, despite you dozing off in the seat next to him. This time, it’s not an apocalyptic town, it’s a bigger city surrounding you—an apartment complex somewhere on the outskirts. Nicer than yours, surely, and with tighter security.

It’s nightfall, meaning you slept through most of the day—also obvious because of the kink in your neck from the awkward scrunch your body was in for several hours.

“We’ll be hidden here.” Simon’s tone is reassuring as you’re peering up at the tall building. The place is decent inside, and more modern than your own.

Yet another place to hide, all while the law could be tailing you here. A body left behind, a duffel of weapons, and an ex-soldier doing mercenary work without authorization; how much worse could this look from the outside?

It seems the further you’re running, the closer Cal is to find you, in spite of how well Simon cleaned up the messes.

—

It’s a repeat of the first night he arrived—unable to sleep, and looking up at the stars. The roof gives a much more pleasing view, much improved compared to the window back home, which was full of chips and caked in dust.

Now, you could see the stars glimmer, how they were covered and uncovered by the passing dark clouds. If the noise from the city were to cease, the sight would be all the more peaceful. There was no interesting conversation down those stairs, where Simon had been glued to his laptop, probably digging up information on Cal—something that still contested your convictions. Up here, the breeze was freeing, and the smell of the rain overshadowed that of the bloodshed.

“Bloody cold out here.” His voice airs, fizzling out into the cloud of noise pollution.

You hadn’t noticed the bite of the wind, despite subconsciously tucking your knees up for warmth. He was only making conversation, probably because you’ve been more of a leech than a partner. Despite your lack of response, he sits beside you on the edge, roping his legs through two gaps in the railing.

The crinkle of a  paper draws your attention again, and the next thing you know it’s placed beside you, only he’s keeping his hand down to prevent it from blowing away.

“Nearest whereabouts, vehicle, and associates.” Above it all is his latest photo, smiling like a sleaze behind his executive desk—ripped from some article Simon dug up about his newest promotion.

His last line is delivered with more forethought, a stark contrast from what he said in the car. “Figured you deserved to know.”

“Put it away.” You whisper, sliding the paper back to him. Despite the wear on Cal’s face, that damn smile still remains spine-chilling.

The paper is folded again, and you only meet his eyes when the crinkling stops. You’d rather stare at Simon’s lack of face than look at another photo of him. There’s a stillness again, whilst you’re in the stars again, and he’s still eyeing you.

He’s returned to his feet now, and he’s rubbing his calloused hands together for warmth. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You can’t leave it at this, not after he’s found Cal’s whereabouts. You’re following him with your eyes, until he’s reached the door back to the inside of the complex, and you’re to your feet before you’ve rehearsed the words.

“I am thinking, Simon. That’s my problem.” His fingers stop as they’re about to turn the knob, and he’s now facing you.

“I know.” Aside from his gruffness, he speaks like someone who’s known the insides and outs of you for a century. You’re the closest thing to a picture of himself right now.

His patience is off-beat, and uncanny to him, only because it’s been buried beneath decades of his own pain. He could claw at himself, try to stop himself from giving you comfort all he wanted, but he’s been losing that fight since the supermarket.

You can’t comprehend why, or how, but you’ve embraced him—and he hasn’t resisted yet. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, giving it a tight hold, all while you’re snaking one arm around his uninjured side. You suppose it's been so long since you’ve been gratified, that’s the logical way of it.

The embrace only lingers for a few moments, his hand remands on your shoulder, peering down at your troubled expression. “We’re going to find him, and then you’ll be out of my hair, doing all the thinking you want. Understood?”

—

“7-1. Ghost, how copy?”

“Hostiles are not secured yet, Sir. Moving toward target building.” His boots thundered through the sand below him, coating all of his protective gear. He’s forced to ignore the chaos in the village around him, and only focus on the target. The woman screaming bloody murder, the crying disoriented children, and ensuing explosions in the distance.

Simon bashes the door and it comes to a crash, splinters of wood sent flying. Inside, is the target—one of the high-ranking Al-Qatala lieutenants. Inside the decaying homestead, he’s holding his family hostage, all while Simon and his Task Force are entirely focused on the intel, rather than the pleading faces of horror knelt in the cement—the true reality of war, all in a line, execution-style before him.

He’s posted behind one of the pieces of furniture, battling every urge to unload on the devil. Their pleads have overshadowed every comm, every bullet, every explosion, all in a language he can’t comprehend.

“Do not intervene. Secure the target and only the target. We need him alive.” Finally, he catches a piece of the radio transmission, quite literally ripping his finger from the trigger of his rifle. Simon knows himself; when a negotiation has become too personal, familiar enough that he may disobey direct orders.

He’s the lone soldier in there with the rest of him doing recon on the operation. Every bit of his being is telling him to take the risk, to make up some story of self-defense—but the hostages are too close to the danger zone. He wouldn’t forgive himself if his own stray bullet compromised their lives.

“Give yourself up,” Simon shouts, mounting himself on the cover, yet his finger still remains off the trigger. “Now!” He bellows, wincing as his crosshairs fall on the wailing woman, covered in scrapes and bruises, while her husband, the captor, his knuckles bleed.

The captor goes on a speech, something about how kind the SAS will be to him when he’s in custody—he’ll be sleeping like a king as long as he’s giving them actionable intel.

All whilst his wife and children will be left behind in this war torn country, picking up the wreckage his squad left behind as a morbid parting gift—rubble, remains, chunks of their heirlooms. He was right. So right about that aspect Simon wanted to choke the life out of him, or beat him bloody with his bare hands—give the fucker a taste of his own medicine, only without any teeth left.

The lieutenant raises his gun, and yet Simon is powerless. Unless he fires on a foreign soldier, he can kill any one of his hostages, and be snoozing in that cozy cell by the end of the day.

Another gargle in a language Simon can’t understand, and she’s down. The distraught woman, wife, mother, now nothing more than a martyr of warfare.

Lifeless, more bloody than before, and slumped at her spouse’s feet, all while that morbid grin is still written on his face. All while Simon could do nothing to stop it.

That flashback visits him often, always resulting in hands overtaken by tremors, and wide eyes, as if he was back there again. This time, he’s not in bed, he’s still in front of his laptop at the table, having passed out after hours of research.

Cal’s expression; the deadened eyes, familiar devilish smile, the entirety of it staring back at him, causing him to slam the screen shut. After that dream, the feeling of wrath has returned. Not only for the Al Qatala lieutenant, but Cal as well. Too personal, too painful, and awfully familiar, especially with you here.

He finishes off his glass, letting the bitter burn coat his throat slowly as the tremor subsides. He now knows he’s not there anymore, not in cover behind the furniture watching a hostage situation.

He has to move, or he’ll risk smashing the electronic to pieces. The echoes of that woman’s tear-stained cheeks contrasted with yours in the supermarket, and then flashes of her bloodied corpse distorting into yours, with Cal standing over it.

His silent steps carry him to the living room. He has to check, or he won’t get back to work anytime soon. When he reaches the couch, you’re curled up, slumbering peacefully—a stark difference to what his flashbacks tried to convince him off.

Simon lets out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly as he convinces himself this is the real reality, this is the spot he’s standing in, not that awful place.

He locates the small quilt kept inside the ottoman, gently draping it on your sleeping frame. He studies the scene for a few minutes, eyeing the rise and fall of your chest pushing through the blanket. Once he’s satisfied, and sure with his consciousness, he returns to his spot at the kitchen table.

He’s greeted with the intel on Cal again, flicking his eyes over to your peaceful sleep, and the sight of the devil before him, in comparison to you, is only unearthing that rage he felt in the hostage room. He couldn’t save that woman, but he’ll be damned if he makes that mistake again. No superiors, no comms, no bureaucracy to follow like a sheep again—his own two hands, that’s what he’ll use this time. No mistakes.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @bi-witch-bxtch

[expvrgction]

Nobody insults villain getup. A certain king deserves better than that shade the Slayer gave him.

Davoth already got called a stars-damned lobster because of his mech armor. It looks NOTHING like one-- It's more a beetle than a lousy sea creature!

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 44

Kid x FemReader x Killer

This chap featuring Heat x FemReader. Skip to the break if you want to skip Heat smut (but why would you?)

Warnings: Sex (bit of cumplay ( involves licking the floor), reader dominant, degradation of Heat, role play)

Turning Up The Heat

Tight, white fabric hung to your figure as you waited, flicking the toothpick in your mouth with your tongue. Your coat covered the little costume you had on, the one Kid had assisted you with finding. It was the loosest interpretation of a marine uniform you had ever seen. Loose meaning several different things. There was a great deal of pleasure to be had teasing Heat, who had been told to come to the infirmary. There was a knock at the door and Heat walked in. You were turned so that he couldn't see your costume right away.

"Strip."

"Huh?" Heat had no idea why you wanted to see him and he was a bit flustered at your request.

You turned around. "Don't make me repeat myself, pirate."

Heat's eyes went wide. "Oh." The corners of his mouth twitched up. "Oh!" It finally clicked with him what was going on here. He didn't know why, but he wasn't complaining. This was one of his fantasies. Not only a marine, but the Sea Snake in the flesh. He started to burn under your gaze, fumbling with the cords on his corset.

You leaned back against the countertop, watching as Heat removed his clothing. He was taller than Killer and a little wider, just as muscular. His skin was tan in a way that was closer to gray than to orange. It suited him and complimented his blue-gray hair, which, you were now noticing, peeked out from his waistband and drew a line to his belly button. He paused for a moment before shimmying out of his pants and all that was underneath. He stepped out of the puddled clothes on the floor and looked at you, already half-hard. You motioned for him to spin and watched the counters of his body, making a noise of appreciation.

You walked over to him and made a slow circle around him, running a nail down his spine, watching goosebumps form on his skin. Your hand traveled to squeeze his ass, feeling how firm it was. Moving to his front, you pulled a riding crop from your boot, touching it to the base of his throat and moving it under his chin. You ran it over his cheek, applying light pressure to turn his head from side to side. Then you grabbed a handful of his hair and let it slip out of your fingers.

"You'll do." You took the toothpick out of your mouth and stuck it between his lips. "Hold onto that for me." You put the crop under his chin again. "And don't let it fall."

You spit into your hand and curled your fingers around Heat's still hardening shaft. Moving your hand slowly up and down Heat, you flicked your eyes up to his, which were avoiding your gaze. "That's right, pirate. Keep your filthy eyes off me." Heat's dick grew harder under your grasp. He liked that, did he? "Turn around, hands on the gurney."

Heat did as you said. He gulped in anticipation as he heard you walk away to get something. Heat almost lost the toothpick when he felt the crop crack against his ass, biting back a gasp. He could feel his tip leak with every swat you applied. Then, he felt you press up against him, the fabric of your miniskirt rubbing against his ass and your bare stomach touching the warm skin of his back. He felt your hand around his cock again, this time with lubricant. His lips were pressed together, only letting whimpers and moans pass through, though he almost dropped the toothpick again when he felt cool fingers slide between his cheeks, pausing to see if there were any complaints from his end, of which there were none. He groaned from his nose when he felt you press two fingers inside the tight ring of muscle. He couldn't resist moving his hips to slide himself further back onto your fingers and simultaneously move his cock within your hand.

"You're lucky my hands are tied up or that would earn you another smack. Stay still." You pumped your fingers in and out of him, trying to keep time with your other hand. "I bet you let anyone have their way with you. I bet you act as a whore for your captain, don't you? Your ass is eating me up." You curled your fingers inside him. "Well, you're my whore now, understand?" He nodded. "That's a good pet," you purred.

You worked a third finger in, increasing the pace. Heat's cock twitched in your hold and his ass tightened around your fingers as you rubbed against his sweet spot. He was close. "If you cum well for me, maybe I'll let you fuck my little marine pussy. Would you like that?" He nodded again. "I need you to give me all the cum in those big heavy balls of yours. I want it all over my hand, all over the floor. Prove that you can fill me up like the dirty pirate you are. Show me that you're not a worthless pirate, you can be a worthy pet."

Heat let out a primal grunt, sending a hot load into your hand, much of it spilling onto the floor.

"Uh oh." You put the cum covered fingers into his mouth, pulling his cheek so that he would face you. "Looks like you didn't do everything I asked of you. And I was being so kind." You held the toothpick up to him, which must have fallen out when he was panting after his release. "On your hands and knees. Make it quick."

Heat did as you commanded, very much enjoying this role play.

"I'm going to wash my hands of your disgusting fluids. I expect that mess to be cleaned by the time I'm done." You curled your tongue in a licking motion, giving Heat the hint. You washed slowly, observing as Heat cleaned the floor with his tongue. You guessed right when you thought he took pleasure in degradation and some power play.

When you were done, you sat on the gurney above, chiding him for not being finished. "Tsk. Disappointing. I don't think you know how to use your tongue properly." You motioned him closer, grabbing his face. "Which is really such a shame because this face was made to sit on." You smirked as Heat's cheeks turned red. You moved close to the edge, spreading your knees enough that Heat could see there was nothing underneath the very tiny skirt.

Heat felt his cock twitch back to life. He couldn't see details in the shadow of your clothes, but he could tell your cunt was dripping from the pheromonal scent that made his mouth water.

"You're aching for a taste aren't you?" You grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Your pathetic pirate cock can't stay down. What would your crew say if they knew you were fiending for the pristine, succulent, hot cunt of another captain?" He looked at you with pleading eyes. "Oh~ you do want it badly." You ran your fingers up your slit, gathering some of the slick, and offered it to Heat, who took your fingers in his mouth and sucked all of your essence off. You pulled the skirt up until it was bunched at your hips, looking from Heat's face to your center.

He didn't need any more of an invitation than that to brace his shoulders under your thighs and pull your cunt into his face with his hands digging into your ass. You were so wet and tasted so good. Heat's tongue bullied its way into your hole, lapping at every inch he could reach, groaning into you.

Truly, you were already pretty worked up from the previous activity, not realizing you would be into it as much as it turned out you were. Your legs threatened to snap shut as you felt Heat's teeth graze your clit. His tongue moved to swirl around it next. You didn't know how he did it or that he could have such fine control over his power, but you swear his tongue was much hotter than it should have been, not to the point of being uncomfortable. Actually, it was driving you crazy. His hot breath panting against you was tightening the coil within as well. You felt him pause and let out a strangled moan, muttering a curse. Glancing down, he had cum again just from eating you out. Fuck that's hot. Heat swiped some of the cum with his fingers and shoved them into you as he sucked on your clit. Nasty. He expertly found the spot you favored and repeatedly curled his fingers into it, watching his cum mix with your fluids until a rush of your juices flooded against his hand and your thighs.

The coil had snapped and your head was thrown back in a cry of pleasure. "Shit!" You moaned. "Fuck, Heat." Your legs quivered and closed around his head. Your chest heaved with your panting.

"How's that for a filthy pirate?"

______________________________________________________________

Kid's amber eyes were fixated on you, high up in the rigging making adjustments before the ship left for the next island. You had your leg wrapped into the rope in such a way that you were being held upside down to get a better angle at something. You looked very different from the first time he had seen you, scrawny, a bit feral. Now, your muscle had filled back out and he could no longer make out the shape of your hip bones. He was proud of how far you had come, even if the first half of your time with them had been... rocky. Although he was certain you could have pulled yourself back together on your own, he would like to think that he and his crew helped speed it along, more in that second half...

"Enjoying the view?"

Kid snapped out of his thoughts. "No! I mean... well, yeah... I guess." He watched Killer's shoulders move up and down slightly. "Shut up, Killer." 

The blonde loved how easy it was to fluster Kid. It was becoming more and more obvious that he had feelings for you and Killer was going to exploit every second of it. "I'm gonna tell her you said no."

"Don't." Kid narrowed his eyes at his best friend.

"But if I make her mad at you, she'll come to me," Killer teased.

"Not if I make her mad at ya first."  Kid took off climbing the mast, swatting at Killer, who was following him. 

You were greasing up some of the pulleys when without warning, Kid and Killer appeared several feet away from you on the mast. Killer was attached to Kid's back monkey-style so they were at the same level, otherwise Kid would have been higher than him. "Can I... help you?" 

"Kid had something to tell you."

Kid shot a look at the blonde, knowing damn well he had no ammo with which to make you mad at Killer. "Killer... told me yer bad at chopping vegetables." 

"Kid's been using your toothbrush."

"Nuh uh! The purple one is mine. I thought we decided." 

Not this again. What are they doing? 

"Ok, well, Killer, uh, Killer's been telling everyone that ya snore." 

"Kid farted yesterday and blamed it on you after you left the room."

"He jerks off with yer dirty panties."

That escalated quickly. 

"He eats off your plate when you're not looking."

"Killer leaves the toilet seat up."

"That's you!"

This was confusing. "Are you guys done?" They looked at each other and nodded. You started counting off on your fingers, still upside down, "Everyone knows I'm bad in the kitchen. Kid, your toothbrush is the fucking red one. I don't snore. I don't think you fooled anyone, Kid. Who do you think gives him the panties? I fucking knew it. And lastly, again, that's you, Kid." Your arms were crossed. "What the fuck is this? Couldn't it wait until I was done?"

"Killer was gonna make ya mad at me so that ya would spend time with him and not me."

You were trying not to smile at Kid's cute pouting face. "So you made up shit to make Killer look equally bad?" You shook your head. "You're both ridiculous." 

Kid started swatting at Killer on his back again. "Ya made me look like an idiot." 

"You don't need help on that front," Killer retorted.

"Hey. Guys." It was sort of charming that Kid got so huffy over the threat of you spending time with someone else. It wasn't jealousy. It was more akin to a dog forgetting about his bone until another dog started to chew it. As precious as it was, the two were arguing very closely to some of the ropes you were working with. "Can we do this on the ground please?" You were hurriedly trying to free your leg and get off the ropes before you fell. Turns out, you didn't have to worry about falling. 

Kid and Killer, in their scuffle, tangled themselves in the ropes and fell off the mast. They were fine. They had extra padding compared to you. Unfortunately, you were on the other end of that rope. Maybe you should have stayed upside down. You were jerked up, hitting your head on the crossbar of the mast so hard that your vision went black. It hurt so badly you thought you would lose your grip, and maybe you did for a second, but ultimately you were able to climb down on your own, already healed by the time that your feet were back on deck. 

Now, you really were mad, at both of them. Even if you could heal yourself, that was very painful. And if you were knocked out completely, you wouldn't have been able to heal yourself. You could have bled into your brain. Your power was useful and strong but you were, by no means, immortal.

You stalked off to your bunk, not even looking in the boys' direction. You were mad at them, though you didn't want to be. Instead of saying something you would regret, you chose to cool off alone. Truthfully, you had been enjoying their banter and their company. It was just an accident. You didn't need to yell at them anyway. You were pretty sure they felt bad about it. Not to toot your own horn, but you were kind of proud of yourself for not flying off the handle. That's called ~growth~.

Later, you found Wire at the helm. His presence had shifted from being unnerving to being calming. You were giving yourself space from Kid and Killer. Casually, you glanced over the maps. The next island wasn't that far away. 

"Leaving in the morning." Wire commented.

You hummed an affirmative. 

A minute passed before Wire spoke again. "What did you say?"

"Huh?"

"Kid didn't ask you yet?"

"Ask what?"

"Oops. Forget it."

"Wire." You pressed him. "You can't just say shit like that and not elaborate." It was kind of funny for a giant man to say 'oops' in the most monotone voice you'd ever heard.

He moved his hood to scratch behind his head. You hadn't noticed that the sides of his dark hair were silver. "Ah I fucked up." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Any chance you would leave me alone if I don't tell you?" 

"None." You thought for a moment. "One. Tell me what happened in the crow's nest with Killer."

Wire begrudgingly groaned. "I, uh, would actually prefer to tell you what Kid said." Wire muttered under his breath, "Ugh. He's gonna kick my ass." 

"Go on."

"It's already kind of an unspoken thing, but..." Wire folded his arms and pretended to be interested in the maps. "He was gonna ask officially if," Wire cleared his throat, "you would stay and be a part of the crew." 

What a change from several months ago when you had first met.

"Yeah the next island is a pleasure island so we were gonna celebrate. Or he was gonna drown his sorrows in drink and flesh. Depending on what you said." Wire ran a hand over his sideburn. "Ah maybe I said too much again." He shrugged. "Whatever. Now you know." He waved you off, hoping to be left alone again.

"And what do you all think?" Kid was the captain, however, you wouldn't be comfortable unless everyone was in agreement.

"Hm?"

"You, Heat, and Killer?"

"Who do you think encouraged Kid ask you officially?" There was the faintest hint of a smile on Wire's face, which was hidden by shadow when he put his hood up again.

Next Chapter

[sirhenrys-blog]

Whispers of willows bend Part 1

Part 1

Willow Bend drowsed beneath a late August sky, a small town cradled by rolling hills and a sluggish river that glinted like molten glass in the fading light. It wasn’t so tiny that every breath was tracked, but with a population hovering around a thousand, secrets didn’t stay buried long—gossip flowed through the diner’s screen door, crackled over the gas station’s gravel lot, and hummed in the barbershop’s steady clip. Clapboard houses lined the streets, porches sagging under rocking chairs and geraniums, while the main drag offered a hardware store, a thrift shop, and Rusty’s dive bar, its neon sign flickering on Friday nights like a beacon for the restless.

Chloe, 22, was a petite blonde dynamo who’d grown up on Willow Bend’s fringes, where cul-de-sacs melted into overgrown lots. At 5’2”, her tousled waves shimmered gold, messy like she’d just rolled out of bed, framing hazel eyes that sparkled with mischief. Her body was a compact hourglass—perky boobs strained her crop tops, nipples teasing the fabric in a breeze; a tiny waist flared into hips that swayed, and a juicy bum, round and plush, filled her denim cut-offs like a tease. The only daughter of a high school teacher and a mechanic, she’d honed her charm early—flirting for free ice cream at the mall, dodging chores with a smile. Post-high school, she skipped college for a gig at the thrift shop, peddling vintage tees and batting lashes for tips, her restless spirit chafing against the town’s sleepy pulse.

Angel, 23, was the tall, blond rebel who’d washed up where lawns gave way to scrappy fields. At 6’2”, his slim, muscular frame was all lean definition—broad shoulders, corded arms from hauling kegs at Rusty’s, abs rippling under sun-bronzed skin. His blond hair flopped into piercing blue eyes, a tousled mop over a sharp, defined jaw dusted with stubble, his lazy smile a quiet danger. His 7-inch dick—thick, veined—bulged in his jeans when roused. Born to a single mom who worked doubles at the county hospital, he’d grown up fixing cars with street kids, sneaking into pool halls with a fake ID. After high school, he drifted—lifeguarding, bartending—chasing thrills with a cool confidence that turned heads.

Chloe had James, her boyfriend of a year—stocky, dark-haired, a mechanic with oil-stained hands and a steady grin, the kind of guy who’d fix your flat tire and call it a date. Angel had Damond, his boyfriend of eight months—lean, tattooed, a line cook at the diner with a quick laugh and a jealous edge. To Willow Bend, they were settled pairs, orbiting the town’s predictable rhythm. But beneath it all, Chloe and Angel had sparked a secret that burned hotter than the summer sun.

Chloe’s days unfolded in a haze of thrift shop dust and James’ steady presence. She’d clock in at 10, sorting faded flannel and cracked vinyl, her red crop top riding up as she stretched to hang dresses, her cut-offs hugging her bum. James would swing by on his lunch break, his garage jumpsuit unzipped to the waist, dark hair damp with sweat. “Hey, babe,” he’d say, leaning over the counter, kissing her cheek with lips that tasted of engine grease and coffee. She’d smile, playful, “You stink,” pushing him off, but let him linger, his solidity a comfort she’d grown used to. At home, they’d sprawl on his couch—her in his lap, his thick hands on her hips—watching reruns, his laughter rumbling as she teased him about his snore. Sex was routine—him on top, her beneath, steady thrusts in his twin bed, her moans soft, his groans quick. It was safe, predictable, but lately, her mind wandered, hazel eyes glazing over as James slept beside her, his arm heavy across her waist.

Angel’s life spun around Rusty’s sticky floors and Damond’s sharp edges. He’d start his shift at dusk, pouring beers with a practiced tilt, his tight tee clinging to his defined torso, jeans low enough to hint at the V of his pelvis. Damond would drop by after the diner, ink peeking from his sleeves, leaning on the bar with a grin, “Miss me, blondie?” Angel would smirk, sliding him a whiskey, their fingers brushing—a spark, once thrilling, now dim. Nights ended at Damond’s trailer, a tangle of sheets and tattoos—Damond’s lean frame pinning Angel’s, his mouth rough on Angel’s neck, their sex fast, urgent, Damond’s groans loud as Angel thrust back, his blue eyes distant. They’d smoke afterward, Damond’s arm slung over Angel’s chest, but Angel’s thoughts drifted—to a petite blonde he couldn’t shake.

Their affair ignited one June night at Rusty’s, humidity thick with beer and jukebox twang. Chloe, in her red crop top and cut-offs, leaned over the bar, teasing Angel for a free shot. He grinned, pouring tequila slow, blue eyes locking on hers as she licked salt off her wrist, tongue flicking, his jeans tightening at the sight. James was out back with buddies; Damond was off. Three shots later, they stumbled into the alley—her petite frame pressed to the brick, his tall body caging her. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her, her legs wrapping his waist as their mouths crashed—hot, sloppy, tasting liquor and sin. She tugged his shirt off, nails raking his abs, his 7-inch cock freed as she shoved his jeans down, guiding him inside her tight heat. He thrust hard, her juicy bum slapping the wall, her perky boobs bouncing under her top, nipples stiff as she moaned, loud and shameless, the risk fueling their frenzy. His defined muscles flexed, sweat beading down his spine, her small body arching as he filled her, cum spilling on her thigh as they panted—a quick, dirty hookup, nothing more.

Chloe’s mornings after were a dance of normalcy. She’d brew coffee in James’ cramped kitchen, her sundress slipping off one shoulder, humming as he shuffled in, boxers low, kissing her neck. “Late night?” he’d ask, voice gruff, and she’d shrug, “Shop stuff,” her smile tight. At work, she’d rearrange racks, her fingers lingering on a plaid shirt Angel had worn, her mind replaying his hands on her bum, his cock stretching her. James would text—“Dinner at mine?”—and she’d reply, “Sure,” guilt gnawing as she pictured Angel’s blue eyes, not James’ brown.

Angel’s days were a blur of bar prep and Damond’s shadow. He’d sleep late, sprawled in Damond’s trailer, waking to stale smoke and Damond’s note—“See ya tonight.” He’d hit the gym, lifting weights shirtless, his abs rippling, mind flashing to Chloe’s moans, not Damond’s laugh. At Rusty’s, he’d mix drinks, his lean arms flexing, Damond watching from a stool, possessive— “You’re mine, right?” Angel’s “Yeah” was hollow, his pulse quickening when Chloe walked in, her hips swaying, James nowhere near.

Two weeks later, Chloe texted Angel from the diner’s bathroom, Damond flipping burgers outside. He locked the door, his tall frame looming as she hopped onto the sink, cut-offs yanked down, soaked panties clinging. She freed his thick cock, guiding him in—her legs dangled, toes brushing tiles, his hands lifting her petite body, pinning her to the mirror. He thrust slow, savoring her tightness, her bum smacking porcelain, then faster—her boobs jiggling, nipples pink under her lifted top, her nails digging into his muscled back. The mirror rattled, her gasps loud, his grunts primal—he pulled out, cum streaking her thigh as they panted, Damond yards away, oblivious.

Chloe’s routine frayed—James noticed her distracted glances, “You okay, babe?” over burgers at the diner, her “Yeah” too quick. She’d dodge his hands at night, feigning sleep, her body tingling with Angel’s memory. Angel’s nights grew tense—Damond’s “Where you been?” sharper, his kisses rougher, Angel’s responses curt as he showered off Chloe’s scent, blue eyes distant in the steam.

August brought more—behind the hardware store, Angel bent Chloe over a crate, her cut-offs at her ankles, his jeans down, thrusting deep, her juicy bum rippling, boobs swaying as she gripped wood, moaning his name. In his truck bed under a tarp, she rode him—her petite frame bouncing, his 7-inch cock stretching her, his hands squeezing her bum, abs flexing as she soaked his lap. Their bodies were a visual clash—her tiny curves against his lean muscle, blond hair tangling, blue eyes piercing hazel, sweat and cum a sticky bond.

Then came the shift. One sticky night in Angel’s truck by the river, Chloe straddled him, cut-offs tossed aside, his jeans at his knees. His thick cock slid in, her tight heat gripping as she rocked—boobs bouncing free, nipples stiff, his hands kneading her plush bum. She kissed him deep—slow, tasting beer and him—his groan, “Fuck, Chloe,” soft, her “Angel” a whisper, their eyes locked, a spark beyond lust. They came—her shuddering, soaking him, him spilling inside, hot and pulsing—their foreheads pressed, breaths shared, a quiet too tender to ignore.

Chloe’s days grew heavy—James planned a camping trip, “Just us,” his grin hopeful, her nod forced, heart racing at Angel’s texts. Angel’s shifts at Rusty’s strained—Damond’s “You’re off lately,” met with shrugs, his mind on Chloe’s lips, not Damond’s hands. At the thrift shop after hours, Chloe bent over a table, Angel behind—her cut-offs down, his jeans off, thrusting deep, her bum rippling, boobs swaying, her moans a prayer. He kissed her neck, sucking a hickey, “You feel so good,” raw—not just lust. She kissed back, lingering, and they sat afterward—her in his lap, his arms around her, talking till dawn, love creeping in.

Whispers spread—James saw Chloe’s hickey, “Who?” his voice tight, her “No one” weak. Damond caught Angel staring at Chloe, his “What’s up?” sharp, Angel’s silence damning. Mrs. Larson saw them at the jukebox, Pete heard moans by the river. September snapped it open.

At Miller’s old barn, Chloe in a sundress—no bra, panties damp—met Angel, shirtless, jeans low, sweat gleaming on his abs. They crashed—her leaping into his arms, legs wrapping him, his hands cupping her bum, pressing her to a beam. He yanked her dress up, ripped panties aside, his 7-inch cock thrusting in—her tightness sucking him deep, her boobs bouncing free, nipples grazing his chest. He fucked her hard—beam creaking, bum slapping his thighs, abs clenching, sweat dripping. She clawed his back, tongue in his mouth, “I love you,” gasping mid-thrust. He froze, then thrust deeper, “Love you too,” breaking. She rode him—legs wide, bum bouncing, his cock stretching her, slick and hot—her screaming, soaking him, his cum pulsing inside, tears mixing with sweat.

The door creaked—James and Damond, James’ wrench dropping, Damond’s jaw tight. “You liar!” James roared, punching Angel—blood sprayed. Damond grabbed Chloe, “What the hell?!” shaking her, dress hiked. She broke free, “I love him!” sobbing. Townsfolk gathered—phones out, gossip blazing. James and Damond stormed off, cursing, the affair a wildfire.

In the barn, locked, clothes torn—her dress ripped, his jeans shredded—they stood naked, bruised—Angel’s lip bleeding, Chloe’s wrist red. He pulled her close, his tall frame engulfing her, hands tracing her curves, boobs pressing his chest. “No more hiding,” he whispered, kissing her slow, tasting blood. She nodded, “Just us,” tears falling, lips tender. They sank to the hay—his arms around her, her head on his chest, legs tangled—her bum nestled against him, his abs under her palm. “Love you,” he murmured, lips in her hair, “Love you,” she echoed, raw. Darkness cloaked them, heartbeats syncing, naked and free.

[subject-2-change]

I just went on some hot mess bullshit to the liquor store for a redbull. It is a few minute walk through some alleys. I go there all the time at all hours. The guys know me.

I've been on a major concert withdrawal since the show Tuesday. I need caffeine.

Threw on jeans over my Doctor Who briefs, which say "EXTERMINATE!" in bright red around the waistband, which rode up over my jeans. White band merch cropped tank with a tits-out woman on it. Bright blue hair that I haven't washed since the concert. Over the ear headphones with a cord that is held together with electrical tape.

Go into the store, straight to the back fridge, jamming to my blaring music, crack open the can with one hand before I get to the counter, slap down a $5 and look up.... it's a new guy.

I smile, he smiles, I take a sip, I know he can hear the bassline of this song. He hands me my change and I just raise my can in acknowledgement and slip out the back door.

Either I can't go back or he'll think I'm crazy. Or I have to go back more often so he knows I'm just like this and pose no threat to him.

[tvintedspvrkmoving]

closed // semi plotted // @bloodsalted

⸺  𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗗𝗘𝗠𝗢𝗡  𝗛𝗔𝗗  𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘  𝗢𝗨𝗧  𝗢𝗙  𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚  𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘  ,  getting  the  jump  on  dean  before  even  she  could  see  or  hear  it  coming  .  it  is  with  a  single  choked  out  cry  and  a  sinking  stomach  that  she  watches  him  fly  across  the  room  ;  that  she  hears  the  crack  of  his  spine  as  it  hits  the  wall  at  just  the  wrong  angle  .  ❝  DEAN  !  ❞ 

the  demon  cackles  ,  disappearing  from  the  corpse  of  its  vessel  in  a  cloud  of  black  smoke  as  she  screams  her  vocal  cords  raw  . she's  crossed  the  room  in  less  than  a  second  ,  by  his  side  immediately  as  tears  begin  to  carve trails  downward over  a  visage  which  fights  to  retain  a  stoic  composure  .  ❝  okay  ,  no  it  -  it's  gonna  be  okay  ,  ❞  elena  breathes  ,  shaking  hands  cupping  the  older  hunter's  cheek  as  she  struggles  against  the  panic  which  threatens  to  take  hold  .  ❝  everything's  okay  ,  it's  fine  .  .  .  ❞  but  she  can  see  the  spark  begin  to  fade  from  emerald  irises  ,  knows  there's  only  one  option  to  get  him  out  of  here  walking  and  talking  .  an  option  she'd  hoped  to  never  have  to  use  .

fangs  unsheathe  atop  her  canines  ,  the  flesh  of  her  wrist  torn  unceremoniously  to  allow  for  her  blood  to  drip  easily  between  unmoving  lips  .  in  only  seconds  he's  begun  to  heal  ,  relief  flooding  the  vampiress  as  an  exasperated  exhale  creates  a  small  cloud  in  the  air  before  her  .  ❝  you're  gonna  be  okay  ,  ❞  she  whispers  ,  stroking  his  hair  and  sliding  her  jacket  beneath  his  head  so that he can take a moment to rest .  ❝  i'll  be  right  back  ;  let  me  make  sure  there's  no  more  of  these  black  eyed  freaks  on  their  way  .  ❞

no  sooner  has  she  stepped  away  than  the  huntress  can  hear  the  laughter  which  peals  from  behind  her  .  a  quick  spin  reveals  the  same  demon  ,  back  in  the  body  of  its  victim  with  a  weakened  dean  in  a  headlock  .  ❝  he  has  your  blood  in  his  system  now  ,  doesn't  he  ?  ❞  the  demon  sing  songs  ,  long  ,  pointed  nails  pricking  spots  of  crimson  from  the  winchester's  neck  .  elena  refuses  to  say  ,  refuses  to  dignify  the  bastard  with  an  answer  .  ❝  let  him  go  ,  ❞  she  hisses  ,  nostrils  flaring  .  the  demon's  head  cocks  to  the  side  ,  a  sly  smirk  threading  across  flattened  lips  as  she  begins  to  nod  .

❝  as  you  wish  ,  ❞  she  grins  ,  toying  with  the  brunette  just  a  little  longer  .  ❝  let  me  know  how  he  reacts  . . .  when  he  wakes  up  a  monster  ,  just  like  you  .  ❞  she  disappears  once  more  in  the  familiar  haze  of  darkness  -  . . .  but  not  before  making  a  show  of  snapping  dean's  neck  . the scream which pierces the air is gutteral , the wind knocked from elena's lungs as she zips back to his side . seconds . it had taken seconds for her worst nightmare to come true . for the reason she's never risked healing him before , to come to fruition . all there is left to do is wait , continuing soothing strokes through cropped tresses matted with sweat and blood as she counts the passing minutes which lead to his new life .

[knightofnightmoo]

Welcome to Glance.

His Death.

The walls shudder ever so slightly as the wind outside blows in  a harsh tantrum. Pattering from the rain permeates the dark, silent house. Animals hidden in the barn and crops flapping around from the storm. Doors and windows locked and sealed. The boards over the windows creak. The day’s work and repairs run through his mind as he sits in the rocking chair with his shotgun on his lap. The chair groans and whines as he rocks and waits patiently. Not even a glint of light, besides the lightning outside, touched a corner of the inside. None was needed. Too much light may allow it to find him.

Time always seemed to slow on nights like this. Always agonizing. But he can’t risk it. Not after what happened to Pa. His mind jolts to attention as heavy steps hit the porch. Seems it has decided to come to the front this time. Screechy laughter hisses from the creature. He stands up slowly. His grip on the gun tightening as he lifts it to the door and follows it to one of the windows. Flashes from outside allow him to see those all too familiar eyes. Each gleamed dark and pupiless. Its mouth filled with an unimaginable amount of teeth. Sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone like it were chewing gum. The grey, almost human skin dripping from the pour. Devland doesn’t move any further. His focus completely on the creature. Claws fall slowly down the window. The sound rivaling the thunder. Devland’s shoulders stiffen.

Don’t move. Don’t give yourself away. It didn’t get you last time. It won’t succeed. Ever. Again.

This stalemate continues until light hits the window and seeps through the cracks between the boards. 

It’s gone. Did the rain stop?

He lowers his gun and lets out a shaky breath. His steps swift and as light as he can manage. Checking outside his eye graze over the wet grass and soaked porch and blood. Blood? Against all instincts and common sense he fumbles to unlock the door and swing it open. The slam of his heart falling into his stomach makes him freeze in the doorway. Damp morning air and a strong supplement of blood fills his nose and the home. 

Tears blur his vision. Blurs the scene. If only it could blur the pain. The tearing of his heart. The tearing of his vocal cords. His arms wrap around his cold lifeless body. His once perfectly warm and comforting body. Blood tainting his clothes. His hair. His face. That’s why it had gone quiet. That’s why it did so little. He should’ve listened. He should’ve. 

Ash circles about in the air as the fire crackles.

“You did warn him dear.” Her voice shakes with age, “Make sure you bury all his bones please. We don’t need the dogs getting ahold of them.”

His silence is all she needed to start her way back to the house. Once the hole was deep enough Devland climbed out and watched the flames cook and burn. 

The sun starts to say its goodbyes as Devland passes the stone marked with a knife the engravings read, “Here Lies Harvey Yavall. Blessing from the Gods and keeper of my heart.” 

Within the week word spread like a virus through their small town. 

“Heard it ripped ‘im limb from limb. ‘Course I know what I’m talkin’ about!” 

“Did you hear the tourist got eaten? I know. Should’ve read the warnings.”

“I saw Dev sitting on his porch all week after 6pm! It’s like he’s asking for it to come back!”

Can never escape their eyes and questions for very long. Information about an attack always seems to make its way from friends to the bars and storekeepers. Tourists are known to disregard the posters and concerned warnings. Normally costing precious, sentimental belongings, eyes, legs, lives. Depends on what they run into. They all knew the newest tourist was going to meet one of the supernatural residents at some point or another. It's always the reporters and journalists who stick their noses too far and find the consequences they were told to avoid. It doesn’t make it hurt any less for Devland though.

His drinking habits and risky nightly behaviors made the residents conclude he may have finally snapped. Finally started following in his father’s footsteps.

[spacedustandpirates]

See you on the soil..

I can’t feel my toes.

… oh, there they are. But.. what if I think I feel my toes but they are just phantom toes and my legs are really gone.

Am I dead?

Slowly her eyes opened, at least, she thought they were opening. There was nothing to see, no color, no pod, just black.

Great. No legs and blind. Now she’d never get a date. She exhaled and let herself sink back into nothingness.

Rust, the coppery metallic scent drew her from a dreamless sleep. Not rust! Rust on metal was a devastating thing, it spread and separated ship walls into layers before flaking apart with devastating results. How did rust get on her Jellyfish?

“C’mon me, get your shit together..” She stretched one arm out into the darkness before moving her hand to her head, dirty fingers sliding over an equally dirty face. “So we are blind - “ …fingers found eyeballs and white sparks exploded within her vision causing her to clap her hands over her eyes and howl. “FUCK ME. FUCK ALL OF ME. Right down to my legless body –”

Her eyes squinched shut, tears running over her brows and into her hairline.

At least she still had hair, that was a plus. And a good taste in music - can’t over look that. She was still a good catch without legs. She sniffled loudly, already thinking up nicknames Corso would call her. Oh hotstars- he’d call her stumpy. One hand gripped the release buckle and held, listening intently to what may be outside. Nothing? As she waited, liquid plunked onto her chin before sliding to the crevice of her lips. Rust.

No. Blood. It was blood. She needed to get out of this pod. She yanked the release cord and tumbled to the headrest, legs cracking against the wall to prove in yet another explosion of white hot pain that she still had legs.

Well. That was nice.

“E-enie, lights.”

When the pod’s computer didn’t respond she leaned forward and squished her cheek against the seat, it was still warm from her back, and for a moment she rested, reveling in the fact she had legs and she wouldn’t get the nickname stumpy.

“Eenie.” She tried again. When the computer didn’t respond she slid her palm against the leather her cheek sat on, fingers seeking the manual eject lever and she gave a quick yank. After a few moments of nothing, the hatch shot free and water hurried to fill the interior. The grimy liquid along with the disturbance of the door’s trajectory stole her vision and she kicked off in a panic-laden attempt to find aid.

When her head broke the surface she bellowed. “I CANT SWIM.”

“Then stand up, human.”

“I AM SINKING..”

“How is that possible, Medlic? The water is maybe three torlac deep..”

She felt a hand grip the back of her sweater and the water rush from her as she hoisted into the air and .. oh - aliens.

“Hi…” She sputtered, limbs hanging limp at her side.

“You landed in our crops, human.” One of the two savage-looking aliens scowled at her. Luckily, it wasn’t the one that held her above the water.

“Sorry about that..” She squinted down at the shallow water and the upside-down pod. Huh. “You are Talon?”

"Yes."

"You got cookies?"

Leafcutters chitterd in the darkness, low toned threats to those close enough to hear. Warnings that were not good enough that the leaf lookalikes were actually creatures of foul disposition that would tear a target to pieces. They moved in small packs, which meant if you saw one there was at least four more you didn’t see.

The urge to peer out the window and search for the creatures was suppressed since they sounded so close and the village windows didn’t have glass. Just a hole. Just stone. Just jungle heat.

“Terran –” A voice came from the doorway of the borrowed hut and she lulled her head to peer at the tall, green seaweed looking alien that filled the frame. There was a hint of kindness in the tone and she’d take it!

“You can all me Aylin, if you like?” She rolled to a sit, her suit had been replaced by some wraps about her chest and hips, when she complained it was too close to a diaper the alien helping her offered to keep it. Since she didn’t want her female bits chewed off by leafcutters, she kept the diaper-shorts.

“Terran is easier. I am going to check on your wound, come.”

“Sure..” She carefully moved to a stand, her pace slow and easy. The pod had landed without much damage and she did count herself lucky that it was only a few scrapes and bruises that saw her safely to land - well- Talon crops, same thing. It wasn’t until she had explained what happened to the Talon Chief, gained permission to wait for her captain and then was digging for her beacon that she tangled with one of their ‘pets.’

The beast had almost taken off her leg!

The same beast walked near her now, over long tongue hanging out of the its mouth.

“Turnada - it likes you.” The Alien commented, earning the narrow vine-like back a scowl and a sniff from the lost pilot.

“It likes my blood, yeah?” She huffed, eyeing the creature near her with it’s odd legs and hunched shoulders. It was just as wild as the rest of this place, kept in check by the villagers that raised it and used it to hunt and guard. “No more.. No more Aylin for you.”

Once they reached the medical building she exhaled loudly as she limped inside the cool stone interior. Outside the air threatened to drown her and her hair stuck to her back in damp, clingy braids - inside? The shimmer of something tattled that they used some sort of… something… that was older than she was to create comfort and healing.

“Have your hunters seen any other Terran?” She sank onto a cool stone table, the length covered by a thin blanket that further regulated her body’s reaction to the planet as soon as she settled.

“No..”

Great.