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80s4life · 3 years

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Little Dove*

Word Count: 3,949

Status: Not Requested!

A/N: Had a thought lol

Fandom: Karate Kid 1985

Relationship: John Kreese x Student!Female Reader

Summary: You had stayed around throughout all of his bullshit. Throughout the beginning of a forever-long battle with Daniel LaRusso, throughout losing all of his Cobra Kais, going through crippling debt, and now, more than ever, as he tries to put himself together. You’ve been there, the whole time. So why is it, that when a random man from his past appears, all of his problems are fixed without a glance your way? What does this Terry Silver have that you don’t (besides endless money and a history)? It’s unfair. It’s selfish. It’s Kreese.

Taglist: @intersellars-the-alien-of-human @snapessecretdiary

Warnings: smut, teasing, jealousy, age-gap paring, language, Terry being an overprotective cockblock, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), slight dubcon, daddy/little girl kink, degrading kink

Masterlist Karate Kid Masterlist

{not my gif, credits belong to @atmostories}

I just love how innocent he looks here lol ^

Staring into the window of his office, you make no attempt in engaging in the conversation your peers were having, the people on the other side of the glass proving to be more interesting at the moment. Besides, it’s the same conversation over and over again, “Terry’s so great,” “The money,” “The brawn,” “The elegance,” you snort. All that Terry was anyway was trouble with enough money to pay off his stupidity.

The other man, however, was different. He did not become as fortunate as his younger companion. He went through many hardships that Terry would simply never understand. The proof: you. You had been there, through thick and thin. You can still remember the fights, injuries, and brokenness of a man like a slideshow constantly playing in your head, haunting your dreams. You should’ve left a long time ago, but you didn’t. There were points in your life that made you consider dropping him and everything he was in contact with at one point. But, yet again, you never did. All you did was forgive and forget, most of the time without apologies.

But no matter how much you’ve tried, there was always one outlier that couldn’t be erased.

Holding onto your brothers shoulder, you congratulate him on how well he’d done. He lost the tournament, but it was his heart that shined through it. Johnny was the one who handed LaRusso his trophy even as they were beating each other senseless moments ago. Pulling him in tightly, you whisper, “You did good, Blondie. We’ll get ‘em next year.”

He smiles broadly at this, returning the favor, “You didn’t do too bad yourself, Tiny. Hell, maybe next year, you’ll be the one to beat his ass for me... That, or you’ll be the same height as him,” he ruffles your hair.

“Shut up!” you swat his hands playfully, shouldering his side, then making your way over to the man of the hour. “Congratulations,” you outstretch your hand, “You were tough to beat! I’ll get ya one day though!” you point to him smiling as Johnny pulls you out of the arena with him.

“Thanks...Oh, and I’ll hold you to it!” he yells back, lifting his trophy high above his head. You leave with a sly smirk and playful roll of the eyes, not bad LaRusso.

Walking outside, you smile at Kreese nervously, knowing that he wasn’t going to take the loss lightly. Ignoring you completely, he snatches your brother from your grasp within moments, pinning him the the nearest car in the parking lot. With Johnny under the weight of Kreese, you try to yank him off, no longer in fear of your actions but what could happen if you don’t act fast. Shoving you out of the way with a hard jab of his elbow to your eye, Kreese goes back to harming your brother, switching positions as he goes to tighten his arm around Johnny’s neck.

Tommy, fearing for his life, stands still, on the verge of passing out. Dutch goes to help you up, pulling you away from Kreese’s proximity, but not for long. Full of anger and disappointment, you tear you body away from Dutch’s, giving him a stern look that he acknowledges and respects, stepping back. You run towards Kreese once more, putting more force into your pushes and shoves. He catches your eyes for a moment, anger glazing over his own as he gets a good look at the utter helplessness and determination within your own. He doesn’t loosen up though, tightening his hold even more so as if to test you.

Lunging once more, he blocks you from him and counters with a hard blow to your face. You fall again at Kreese’s feet, Johnny’s purpling face looking down at yours in fear and worry. As you go to make a final attempt, your prayers are answered, a man about your height grabbing Kreese’s fist in a vice grip. In a daze, Johnny is able to slip from his hold to the ground beneath him, falling into your outstretched arms as you lunge, again, to protect his head. Kreese, now turning his fury onto the short man, goes for a punch, missing and smashing the glass beside his target.

As the fight starts to get worse, Dutch gets a hold of Johnny, taking his weight off of yours and dragging him to safety. Jimmy and Bobby, going to help Dutch, leaves Tommy to help you up. Taking his hand gratefully, you are able to see Kreese’s demise clearly, a burning crimson decorating his now busted fists, no doubt shredded and in need of medical care. You turn back just in time for him to look your way, grief washing over your figure as you feel a sense of uncertainty.

The boys get into Johnny’s car quickly, pulling out of the car lot. Tommy, silently turning his calming body to yours, questions you with his eyes. Shaking your head lightly, you signal for him to go with them, your head hazy with the brute force of numerous blows previously clashing with your face. He nods knowingly, smiling weakly, as if questioning your motives or even why you were considering the choice you’d made up. Johnny looks back at you too, but is reassured as the short man, Mr. Miyagi, places a hand on your shoulder. As they peel out of the lot, you sigh and all the strength you’d conjured dropped instantly.

“You need checkup,” the older man states, looking you over.

“Yeah, but I need to take care of him first,” you point at the man.

“Ah. Good heart always forgives. You come by dojo sometime.”

“I’ll think about it,” you answer, kindly excusing yourself as LaRusso runs over to Miyagi, leaving just you and Kreese left in the parking lot.

Slowly, you pace yourself as to not speed too closely, too quickly to the man, walking lightly and quietly. Upon entering a close proximity, he looks up, neutral expression catching you off guard. Blinking once, he looks back down at his continuously bleeding hands, acknowledging your presence but not daring to step the line of communication. He never does.

“Do you...Do you n- ...?” you start, at a loss for words as you try to rephrase the question in a way to still make him feel superior without appearing weak to himself, “Do you want my help?”

He doesn’t say anything as an answer, just simply stares at the reddening hands.

So, following his chosen behavior, you adopt it and act the same. Slowly, you take off your fleece sweater, soft and warm to the touch, and move closer to Kreese. As you move into his personal space, you don’t dare look him in the eyes, and go to rip a piece of the sweater in half. Silently, you carefully take one of his hands in your own, them swallowing yours in turn. Wrapping the now torn cloth around his fists, you slightly tighten the material around the injury to prevent further bleeding, tying off the ends to keep the sweater where you want it. Turning to do the same for the other hand, Kreese never winces, or sucks in a breath, or even grunts in anguish.

As you finish your duty, you step back, parts of your hands and some of your pants now coated in differing amounts of blood from the constant dripping mess he’d left it in for a while. Taking in a deep breath, you look at him directly for the first time of the night, “Get in the car.”

That was the first of many nightmares that litter your mind. You grew into a tough, headstrong, and independent woman not only physically, but mentally as well. You were no longer the child looked down from the tip of Kreese’s nose, and despite your height not making much of a difference, you had filled into your body, soul, and mind. You were a woman nonetheless.

You were understood by Johnny, but to an extent. As you had continued to serve Kreese, it was only right that Johnny distanced himself from him, and with that, came you as well. You accepted this, and knew that you were not at war with him, settling for calls and texts when you missed him most. Johnny still allowed you the time to talk about your problems like you did in high school, and even let you rant about the newest situation with Kreese. Everyday, he worried for you, but he knew that this was what you wanted.

He knew you fell for him before you even had.

After that night, you went through phases with Kreese: sometimes he was happy and nice to you, other times was full of anger, arguments, and nonstop screaming at one another. You were like an old married couple without the ring, matrimony, and age. You didn’t pay any mind to it, the mixture of feelings for him stronger than the will to leave as you’d wanted to in your youth.

But overall was the feeling of betrayal, or at least a form of it. For 4 years, after the night of the failed tournament, you were with Kreese, and finally, when things started to clear themselves out, another problem arose. Although shit out of luck, Kreese was ready to give up the dojo, give it to the owner, and move on in hopes of wiping the slate clean. You were ready to forgive him. And then, Terry Silver, unable to let the past be the past, convinced Kreese to give it a second try.

Now as you sit in a circle with Dennis, Mike, and Snake on the mat of the dojo, doing some stretches before training starts, you couldn’t help but look at the men excluding you from something you had tried to keep alive as long as they had. Longer than Terry at least.

Snapping sounds through your frustrated haze, knocking you back into reality by Snake’s fingers. Scrunching your nose in confusion, you look at him, anger now turned towards him instead. “You keep drooling like that and we’ll all be slipping around and breaking shit. Then how would we be at the tournament?”

“Fuck you, Snake,” you get up, stomping to the office without another word. He just turns a mock-offended expression to the boys who give confused ones in return.

Storming into the small cubicle deemed an office, you turn to the men standing side-by-side. “Aw, what’s the matter sweetheart? The boys not playing fair?” Terry teases, trying to push your buttons.

Face now reddened with anger, you spit, “We don’t pay for you to sit around in your office and play with each other’s dicks. You can do that on your own time.”

“You don’t pay period as far as I’m concerned. And last time I checked, you weren’t of much use here anyways, Shortcake,” Terry rebuttals.

“And last time I checked, you're just here to tie your hair back, paint your nails, torture a kid half your age and an man even older than you.”

“Why you-!”

“Terry!” Kreese warns, a hand placed on his comrades’ chest, “It’s not worth your time, just go get the boys readied up for practice.”

“Sure...sure Johnny, I can do that,” he says eagerly, leaving the room with a side glance your way and elbow to the shoulder as he passes by.

Getting up from the back of the desk, Kreese loops around to close the office door, going back to where he was previously. “Wow, you really have that dog under wraps huh? Ready to bark when you say ‘bark’ or growl when you say ‘growl’?”

“Y/N, not now. You better cut this shit out now or I’ll kick you out,” he warns.

“Oh, so now your protecting him?! You’re going to sit here, right now, and threaten me for what? Because he served with you? Because you saved him?! What a load of shit!”

“Watch your mouth! You have no right to raise your voice to me! What I do with this dojo is none of your damn business, and will certainly never concern you. Ever.”

“Oh yeah! For sure! What did he even do, huh? What’s so great about him that is worth protecting his ass for when he’s never had to do anything in return?! I was there John! I was! I dealt with your shit for 4 years! Not 1! Not 2! Not even fucking 3!”

“I never told you to! No one was stopping you from walking out that damn door when everyone else had! I would’ve done perfectly fine without your ‘help’ when all it did was provide extra shit to take care of!”

“Really?! That’s what it was? Nothing? I dealt with your anger issues, your screaming! The god damn punches, kicks, spits, screams, hell anything you wanted to do in order to harm someone else to make you feel better! But that wasn’t me... No... Of course it wasn’t, right?”

“I’ve got no time for this. Stay in this fucking room and don’t move. You even dare come out into that dojo and you’re out. I have a winner to make and not some little girl to argue with.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, tears pooling at the bottom of your eyelids as the door hides you from view.

For hours, you sit in boredom, listening to the repetitive “hut” or “ah” as blow after blow is thrown into the dummies and punching bags. If only they could do that to me, take me out of my misery for fuck’s sake. But, despite the utter pissed state you were in, you did not move from the desk, even deciding to take a nap. It wasn’t until Dennis’ unusually loud laugh is echoed within the whole dojo do you finally wake back up. Looking through the blinds, you see the boys getting packed up. Doing the same, you walk out of the office just in time for Terry to leave with the boys a few moments later.

Speeding across the length of the mats, you take long strides in order to storm as fast as possible out of the cage that holds the biggest chains around your neck. Going for the door, you are unable to catch yourself as Kreese grabs your hand and flips you onto your back, splaying your body on the mats beneath you.

Groaning, you move to sit up, watching as he goes to lock the door to the dojo, throwing the keys somewhere and closing the blinds of the big glass panes adorning the front wall. Getting up, the harbored anger floods your being once more, “I’m done with your bullshit Kreese. Let me the fuck out so I can leave this place once and for all. You seem to be doing ‘perfectly fine’ with your boyfriend, so let me go!”

Without answering, he grabs you by the neck firmly, but not enough to choke you. The memories of Johnny instantly flood your mind, causing you to grab his hand just as tight, eyes peering straight into his. Noticing your change in demeanor, he loosens his hold a little and pushes your back up against the closest wall to your back. As your back collides with the wall, his lips clasp yours.

Whining in surprise, you go to pull back only for him to pull you closer by the neck. Realization dawns on you after a moment, and within seconds, your leaning into his touch absentmindedly. You only break apart once your lungs beg for more air. “There. Is that what you wanted?” he asks you, voice gravelly.

Ignoring his comment, you grab him by the nape of his neck, pulling him into you once again, tongue battling his own. Your tongue dances around, observing every crevice and tasting every bit of his mouth, grazing his teeth, biting his lips, and even tangling it with his. Taking control back, he shoves your body back into the wall, separating your mouth from his, a trail of saliva the only thing connecting your bodies.

His hand, long forgotten and hanging loose on your neck, tightens the grip back up firmly once again and moves his other to pin your arms above your head. Now basking in dominance, he kisses you once more, pinning his knee between your legs in the most delicious way. Taking advantage of the placement, you attempt to grind your core against his thigh to relieve some tension.

“Ah. Ah. Ah,” he warns, pulling his knee away and moving to unbuckle his belt instead, “On your knees, Slut.”

Obeying instantly, you do as he says and place yourself on your knees. Finally undoing the tie of his gi, he pulls his pants, alongside his underwear, down just enough to let his dick spring free. Gulping in admiration, you take in the view of his girth and length, precum oozing at the tip.

“Looks like your happy to see me,” you joke, loosening your tension in your shoulders.

Stepping closer, Kreese edges closer to your mouth, and, taking the hint, you wrap one hand around the base of his shaft. Your other hand, deciding teasing is the best get-back, wraps itself closer to the tip, thumb grazing the slit. Earning a shudder of pleasure from the man, he goes to move in closer again. Pulling your head away, you squeeze the tip loosely, staring up at Kreese.

At your locked gaze, his cheeks burn bright pink, enabling you to give the man what he wants now that he’s at a loss for words and flustered for you. Taking him into your mouth little by little, you stop just before the barricade of choking. Eyes locked onto his, you place your hands on either side of his hips for support, then take him in as fully as physically possible. Instantly, you are met by struggling moans of relief.

Swirling your tongue around and lapping at his veiny member, he struggles to control himself, the undying need for more consuming him. Pulling away just enough to keep the tip in your mouth, you nod at him, giving him the okay to do as he pleases. That was all he needed to start going, pulling your mouth around his cock again, and tangling his hands in your hair for a better grip. Thrusting into your mouth now, you try your best to breathe as you feel him start twitching, knowing you will be fine in a few minutes.

The closer he gets to ecstasy, the louder he gets, hips thrusting in any possible direction as his pleasure threatens to bubble over. “Look at me,” he orders, looking you in the eyes. Slightly confused, you do as told, looking at him through your eyelashes as he continuously uses your mouth. “That’s it, Good Girl.”

Without warning, he unleashes his load into your mouth, the hot and sticky cum shooting to the back of your throat, forcing you to swallow. Licking up the remains, you make a show of swallowing the contents as well, getting back onto your feet with a help of his hand. Pulling your body into his, he kisses you deeply, tasting himself.

You whine as you are still left in uncomfortable need for him, having not gotten your share just yet, the feeling of being filled a painful reminder. “Don’t worry, Daddy’ll take care of you.” And that, he does, getting to work on untying your gi and throwing the long-sleeved shirt over you head. Doing the same to him, you match his enthusiasm, pulling his shirt off and throwing it somewhere in the room.

Playing with your clothed breasts, Kreese slips a hand under your bra to pinch your nipples, twisting them between his middle and fore fingers. Moaning, you pull him into your chest nibbling his ear. Gliding his hands down your sides and to your waist, he slowly edges his fingers slightly underneath your pants, pushing them down with your panties. As he busies himself with your clothes, you move your hands behind your back to unclasp your bra, breasts springing free and instantly hardening at the new temperature of the room.

Fingers, teasing your entrance, catches you off-guard, moaning again at the first shocks of pleasure. “Kreese,” you start breathlessly, “Enough is enough. Mgh... Stop teasing me,” you try to order, impatient and horny.

“As you wish, Princess.”

Lifting up one of your legs and wrapping it around his hipbone, he lines himself up with your entrance, entering slowly. Together, you sigh in ease simultaneously. Nodding once, you lean your forehead underneath his chin, starting to thrust slowly. Knowing this isn’t the pace he prefers, and body adjusting to his shape, you pull him in closer, whispering in his ear, “Faster, Daddy.”

Jolting at the name, he fastens the pace, grinding in rougher strokes, rubbing every part of you body in the best way possible. No one’s ever filled you the way he is now, and it leaves you stunned in a trance of utter euphoria. Tapping your other leg, you hop up to warp both legs around Kreese. At the new angle, he thrusts upwards, the overstimulation causing you to shake in a new sensation.

Squeezing his dick tightly, you try to hold your orgasm off for as long as possible, but the building want of release causes you to topple over the edge quickly, spilling all over the body still within your own. Without faltering, Kreese continues his assault on your body, causing you to scream out in the fury of pleasure being all too much for you. Shaking harder, you struggle to keep yourself around his body for long.

Seeing this, Kreese keeps himself sheathed in your cunt, laying you on your back against the mats of the flooring. Grabbing your legs, Kreese bends them until your thighs meet your chest. Then, thrusting at the same pace as before, Kreese is able to fuck you senseless without further issues. Moaning screams of ecstasy echo throughout the dojo, the combination of yourself and the slapping of skin being the only noises in the room.

As quickly as you’d built up the previous time, your orgasm and need of release forms again, your pussy throbbing in anticipation. “Kreese..” is all you manage, the older man quickly teetering towards the edge with you. Thrusting the hardest he had the whole night, he manages only a few more before you both come at the same time, screaming as you pull him down by the neck and into your chest, your name falling from his tongue in multiples.

Sucking in as much air as possible, Kreese and you stay in the same position panting before he unsheathes himself and collapses next to you. Catching your breath, you cuddle into his side in a naked heap of sweat and satisfaction. “Are you still jealous of Terry now?”

“It depends, am I still as useless as before?”

“I don’t believe so,” Kreese giggles, “but if you pull another crazy stunt like that, I will really have to give you a good beating. Huh, Babydoll?”

“I like the sound of that,” you say, going to straddle his hips as he lays on his back, “How about round two and I’ll consider not ripping his throat out?”

“Deal.”

#john kreese x reader #john kreese imagine #john kreese #martin kove #martin kove x reader #martin kove imagine #terry silver #tig #thomas ian griffith #mike barnes #sean kanan #kk3 #kk1 #kk #karate kid #karate kid imagine #karate kid 1 #karate kid 3

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biaswreckingfics · 3 years

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The Undead Masterlist: An EXO Collab

Enter, if you dare, into a world filled with the undead.

Nobody knew what had caused the mutation, or how it had spread so rapidly, but the world's governments and the World Health Organization quickly lost control.

Each author will take you on a journey that will leave you either frightened, intrigued, or relieved for your favorite EXO boys.

~ Teasers below the cut ~

I’d Rather Die by @xiumin-on-this-shit

Summary: I’ve heard rumors of what happens in the city, of what happens if they catch you. The arena. Those rumors kept us going, always telling ourselves we would rather die then end up there. I never would have thought when my time had come to make that choice, that death wouldn’t be an option. And that the arena full of zombies would be my best chance.

The Safe Place by @bangchanshehe

Summary: During the complete fall of the civilization, you and your best friend Luhan escape to find a safer place, designated for survivors. Bus attacks, twisted ankles, no food or water…. Nothing will stop the two of you from fighting for your lives. But just when you thought that the hard part was over, you now had a lot of time to think about the biggest monster of them all. Your feelings.

Extended Stay by @kpoptrashlord-007

Summary: There comes a point in every relationship where things start to get serious. For you and Kris, that point comes in the form of a weekend getaway at a paradise resort. While you have your doubts about the many secrets he holds, there's a part of you that wants the relationship to thrive, to grow into something greater.

All great things, however, must be strong enough to withstand a storm and the quickest way to learn of a person's true character is under unfathomable odds.

Luckily for you, an island gone dark promises many hardships.

White Balloons by @exo-l-atina

Summary: Junmyeon is about to head off to college and confesses his feelings to his childhood friend before he boards his flight. Waiting for her love's return, our main character's entire world falls apart in his absence. From governmental infrastructure, to the medical system, everything crumbles and only gets worse when a new strain of illness begins to wreak havoc in the absence of readily available healthcare. Will the two lovers whose romance was cut off before it began be able to reunite under this sky of doom?

To be Titled by @cosmiclatte28

Summary: The world had been destroyed. Zombies. Yes, you heard me right. Zombies took over humanities. They said it was conspiracy, others said it was planned, someone said it’s a bio weapon but you? You said this was fate and this was meant to be. In the middle of the chaos, your last proof as being a human started to disappear. And in times where you wished for safety, you did finally come to find the man who’s been embracing you in your dreams. Your online sugar daddy.

Shadowed Memories by @erotikkook

Summary: Hell is never too far off. You, a human with nothing to lose and him, a creature who wants to remember what it's like to be alive. When you have nowhere else to run, can one of the monsters you were warned away from protect you?

White Terror by @an-annyeoing-writer

Summary: She didn’t look good in white, not in this white.

If he could take one thing back, he would take back this one. He didn’t care about her, but his heart had shattered into millions of pieces when her face suddenly became a reflection of his own.

But, if it was the only bit of light that he could get for himself before death, he wouldn’t let it fade.

A Safe Place by @biaswreckingfics

Summary: You and your sister are trying your best to survive, but you can only go on for so long without food, water, and shelter. When three strangers show up, and help you battle a herd of zombies, you have to decide if you trust them enough to follow them to their camp or if you'd rather continue trying to make it on your own.

Life After Death by @kpop---scenarios

Summary: The morning you woke up, everything seemed normal, until it wasn't. The world is turned upside down the government and the World Health Organization have shut down, zombies around every corner and only the strong survive. You meet a few friends along the way, and lose even more as you continue to fight for your life. You never thought you'd meet someone under these circumstances but here you were, happy while surviving life after death. Though you should have known, there's never a happy ending in an apocalypse.

Zombies and Ice Cream by @writeformesinpie

Summary: You and Tao are in the middle of an argument when an unexpected guest arrives. Will you both survive the uninvited pest? Is this the end of your relationship? And will Tao ever get his ice cream?

Experiment Z by @ninibears-erigom-fics

Summary: You've heard of the rumours, the experiments happening at the old hospital outside of the boundary but you never thought it was true - not until Jongin went missing. On your hunt to find your boyfriend, you learn the truth about the apocalypse and how the zombies came to be.

The Outsider by @breakyeol

Summary: There are many rules inside of the wall. But the most important: don’t let outsiders in. Breaking that rule meant being thrown into the outside world— thrown into the mercy of the undead. Are you prepared to take that risk for a boy you don’t even know?

#exo collab #zombie au #zombie apocalypse #exo au #exo au scenarios #exo angst #exo scenarios #exo scenario #exo fic #exo fanfic #exo fic rec #exo fanfiction #exo fics

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unholyplumpprincess · 3 years

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Aren’t You Curious?

First part of a mini series I wanted to do for @hurtled-into-chaos-you-fight ! Introducing: Caustic horny for both the Bloodhounds!

Summary: Curious. Such a simple word and yet so immeasurable with its extent. It could mean numerous things. Curiosity is what led to many fantastic discoveries. Many invaluable experiments and documentations. And yet. What did ‘curious’ mean to Alexander as of recent? The Bloodhounds. Or: In which Caustic catches one of the Bloodhounds jerking off in the dropship and can't help but sneak a peek. Not that they mind the attention either...

!!!Minors DNI, this is adult content and it makes me v uncomfortable for you to interact. Plz respect my boundaries!!!

Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Bloodhound/Bloodhound - Caustic/Bloodhound

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Bloodhound (Rune) has a dick, Sprite’s Bloodhound headcanons and my own mentioned, voyeurism, just Caustic and his good ole right hand, Caustic is also turned on by violence and this is mentioned

Words: 3k

__________________

Curious.

Such a simple word and yet so immeasurable with its extent. It could mean numerous things. Curiosity is what led to many fantastic discoveries. Many invaluable experiments and documentations. And yet. What did ‘curious’ mean to Alexander as of recent?

The Bloodhounds.

Fascinating couple they were. They participated in this blood-sport as one, despite if they had to shed blood of their significant other in the process. Hound was the smaller of five foot or shorter and arguably deadlier of the two. Quieter and willing to snarl in your face in a low tone no matter how big you were in comparison.

Alexander had been on the other end of that hatchet numerous times, his chin tilted upwards and their red goggled gaze seeming to burn into his soul as they’d hum out. “You think yourself worthy of my ammunition, Doctor? Do not think so highly of yourself.”

Before the blade would cut in and the medical bay is where he’d awaken in cold sweat and in need of a shower with a slight adjustment to the front of his pants and a grunt in his voice.

~Rest under the cut~

Then there was the other of the Bloodhounds, Rune. Towering over even Alexander, they stood at 7’4” and gave him a chance to feel small in someone else’s presence for once. Rune was a curiosity in themself as well, always sticking near the smaller of the couple and becoming more playful around them and the other legends they liked. Alexander had seen them in battle and also had been an...active participant in their bloodshed.

They were blood thirsty, always seeking out battle and preferring close combat where they could sink their serrated teeth into you instead of a gun.

Rune was more vulgar than their quietly taunting spouse, always taking to stalking Alexander back until he hit a wall with a hand removing their respirator just so Alexander could see their full lips tug into a wide grin full of serrated teeth. “Oh, Doctor,” They’d begin with their low voice curling in his ears.

“How I can taste your heart pounding. From fear or-” They’d reach him by then, twisting fingers into his gear and yanking his clothing so he’d have to lean up to them and feel their snarling breath over his own mask. “-something more pathetic?”

He’d awake in the med bay the same way, in need of a shower, adjusting the front of his pants, and in need to slow his heart beat from the very same guessed thing of ‘something more pathetic ’.

The Bloodhounds were a curiosity, separated only in the arena visually by their heights and the differences in patches and charms on them. Hound having a wolf patch, Rune having a raven. Hound having a moon charm on their weaponry, Rune having a sun- a call back to their preferred pet names to one another.

Otherwise, their uniforms were identical, and even that clever Giant could mimic Hound’s voice to perfection to even fool teammates, enemy squads, or the audio over the feed that people watched from home and in bars.

These findings were all, of course, written within the confines of Alexander’s notes in a journal. Keeping tallies on both allies and people who could become enemies was merely part of his own protocol. It made working with people easier, and finding yourself in the grips of someone you once called ‘ally’- it made exploiting their weaknesses much easier.

Of course, this is what he tells himself at night when his mind wanders and he presses his soft thighs together and clears his throat. Glasses perched on the bridge of his freckled nose and his eyes wandering over their pages, feeling a stirring in his stomach. Seems he was not one of the lucky people who were unaffected by the duo.

Even the brief sketches and outlines filling the pages of his ‘The Bloodhounds’ sections would prove where his interests lied within them. Their hatchets drawn out, their preferred charms and patches. Even notes regarding their most spoken words in the Old Norse and Icelandic tongues that they spoke, carefully translated so he could observe their conversations more closely.

The more recent page had yet to be fully filled out, however. On to where that pesky smaller bloodhound had gone off to.

It just seemed one day Hound had just left, leaving Rune behind to carry the mantel of what Alexander was certain was an act of worship of participation and bloodshed. This had been about a month ago, and no matter how much snooping he did, there seemed to be no answer. Perhaps an injury? Duty to take care of back home?

Either way, the Syndicate didn’t care. As long as a singular Bloodhound remained to cause familiar bloodshed, then there was no need to fear. And Rune certainly performed just as terrifyingly as they had done before. Even without Hound to face nor be at their side.

But there was a new thing added to their daily mannerism now that Hound was no longer in the compound.

Phone calls.

It seemed simple, really, Alexander supposed it made sense to want to hear your long-time partner’s voice every day when you had not been separated in a long time. He couldn’t hear the conversation occurring, the drop ship’s walls being thick enough to provide that much privacy. Even if they were made of glass, most of the legends had taken to using blankets or netting to cover the glass to provide more privacy when they were on their few days of journey to the battle grounds.

The Bloodhounds had taken to putting up netting on either side, making it hard to see through, but not impossible. Alexander’s desk was pressed to their wall, and most times he would consider himself to be a good roommate by not snooping into their business.

Or at least, pretending he wasn’t.

Like now. Where he was very much not snooping and most definitely just writing in his journal. Not at all peeking over occasionally over his glasses as he pretended to reach to the side to grab a different pen or pencil.

That would just be asinine.

It’s not that he meant to direct his attention off his journal, it’s just that he kept seeing movement through the netting and it was distracting. Where dark amber hair keeps shifting in one specific spot and the flash of flesh and tattoos keeps catching his eye. Though he can’t make out what they’re saying exactly, the walls only muffing them so much. He is still able to hear the deep sound of their natural voice and the growl to each purr seeming to rattle the very walls around them.

Alexander slumps a bit in his seat, lifting his eyes and noting he can see perfectly through the hole of the net to see half of Rune’s body.

Rune’s...

Very.

Almost naked body.

With only a mesh shirt lifted up to expose what Alexander could see of their abdomen, his eyes wander down to where he can see everything from abdomen to their knees. Where they’re exposed. A strong hand wrapped around their tattooed and, frankly, large cock. Stroking it in a slow, methodical way. Their hips rolling back unsteadily on the hammock in a way he can only imagine was them fucking themself onto something.

Suddenly Alexander realizes why the hums of their voice through the wall make more sense as to why they were so well timed. Moans and words- possibly filthy words being spoken to their partner through the phone. A phone that Alexander can see if he subtly tilts his body downwards and looking up towards their body through the mesh of the net.

The phone is tucked against their shoulder and ear, and he can only imagine their blissed expression. Alexander can only just see how their sharp teeth bite into their full lower lip briefly, a light part of them in a soundless gasp and smirk of their lips before forming words he cannot hear but can imagine.

Privacy, Alexander chides himself as he sits up straight.

He tries to focus back on his journal instead, recapping the events that happened within Olympus’ grounds. He’d had the pleasure of being in a duo match with Bloodhound- or rather, Rune, who sat in the room just in front of him. He learned an interesting weakness of heights that day. However, he also had learned that in order to get the Giant down from a high location they had accidentally landed during drop- proved to be quite difficult.

It took coaxing and a promise that he stuck to for once, gripping their hand and helping them down. Alexander’s cheeks flush when he recaps the way their hand had clapped his shoulder with a low laugh in their chest of, “Thank you, Doctor. I shall spare your humiliation the next time we cross weapons. Unless, of course, you find it to be more rewarding that I do humiliate you?”

He grunts to himself, rolling his neck to try and make the thoughts vanish of just how those damned Bloodhounds had humiliated him in the ring time and time again. He always got vengeance, of course, but that didn’t stop the swelling in his pants at the images of the both of them flashing behind his eyelids.

Hound was crueler, especially if they had a score to settle. But Rune’s sheer size always made Alexander feel small, even when he was just backed into a corner by them. Either way, they both had him feeling more than a little something stirring within him.

Alexander grunts again, a hand squeezing between his legs to try and soothe the ache that had started. Normally he had a tough time getting hard, but it appears today would not be one of those days. A mild hindrance, but nothing that would provide too elephantine of an issue.

Just perhaps...mild discomfort, he thinks as he adjusts in his chair with a clear of his throat and a tug around the collar of his button up.

He rests his cheek on his fist, elbow on the desk and feeling depraved as his other gives another squeeze to his cock through his trousers. He was like any other human, he had needs, just needs he never felt the desire to act upon often. Plenty of people here ready to catch you off guard.

Alexander doesn’t mean for his thoughts to trail off, daydreaming felt so platitudinous. Overdone, undesired, and unneeded. Especially for a man of science, such as himself, who relied on realistic limitations.

But...perhaps he could indulge.

Just this once.

His mind was both his biggest help and biggest weapon. He’d seen the Bloodhounds without their helmets before on the times they’d rarely join a party and he would follow. Hound preferred sporting a lower mask, a respirator of demonic likeness he had assumed in the case of colder climates, but for the most part he could see them. And what a sight they were.

Worthy to the godly and royal pet names that their spouse referred to them as.

Rune, on the other hand, liked the attention, Alexander assumed. Judging by their more beguiling and eye-catching attire. Mesh shirts, long dark gowns with sparkling sleeves, or too tight of pants with a left open button up. They certainly liked when people would look over too often, flushed to their chests and drinking a little too heavily in the hopes of liquid courage.

Of course, that liquid courage would quickly be shot down if Hound didn’t like your approach, sometimes a snarl ricocheting off the walls of Witt’s bar and sending a pleasant shiver down Alexander’s spine. And fear through others.

Rune’s taunting voice lingers in his mind as his mind begins to swirl up arousing ideas.

He pictures them standing, taunting him and daring to lean down into his face to get close and taunt him, their breath spilling over his lips. He imagines smashing his lips to theirs, drinking in their taunting laugh as he’d spin them around in the bar’s bathroom. The hurry to yank down their pants and to see that perky, muscular ass he’s sure is covered in tattoos much like the rest of their body.

Would they growl or moan if he dragged his tongue along their cock? Would they curl their fingers in his hair or would they grip the sink behind them and allow him to taste them? So many questions for a simple fantasy, one that his mind helpfully supplies as he fishes his cock out of his trousers to start stroking in real time.

The fantasy continues, sinking his fingers into their ass and hearing them practically purr for him. Able to feel them clench around his lubricated fingers and imagining just how tight they’d be. The older dog laughing breathily down at him, taunting him and using that voice to their advantage. Asking when he became such a whore. And if they knew he had such a mouth on him, they would have used him long ago rather than making quick work of him in the ring. Other ways of humiliating the doctor.

Alexander’s breath catches, the hand on his cheek sliding to cover his mouth instead as his brows furrow and his hand jerks himself off with a harsher squeeze. His hand sliding down to squeeze at his heavy balls and gliding his fingers back up to grip himself roughly.

He imagines them gasping as he’d whip them around and fuck them from behind. Their breathy, low laughter rumbling in his chest as he’d fuck them from behind. A hand grabbing their jaw and tipping their head to the side as they’d smirk at him and croon between growls, “Enjoy your last show, Doctor? ” Only to be broken up by the sound of their low groan when he’d thrust into them to the hilt and press on their hips to drag them back with a snarl.

He’d want to bruise them, mark them as best as he could. Whether to prove a point or maybe to rile up their spouse that he knew would tear him apart if given the opportunity.

Their earthy scent would plague his nose as he’d bury himself to the hilt inside of them, biting into their shoulder when he came into them and hearing them pant and huff in his ear in turn. Just like the dog their title claimed they were. Being bred by him.

He imagines how they’d cling to his arms, digging their nails into his pale flesh and making him grunt from the pain as he tells them to take it as they howl. Releasing their own cum all over the sink.

Alexander’s eyes are blurry as he flutters them back open, his heart pounding and his hand covered in cum. His cock gives dull throbs in time with his heart beat, met with a shaky exhale as he reaches on his desk to grab a tissue to clean up the mess. Feeling a bit filthier than he had before, but feeling less pent up.

When his heart finally settles down, Alexander clears his throat, using a wet wipe to clean off his hands and remove any further evidence. He grabs his pen to go back to his journaling, even with his flushed face as he tries to not recap on what just happened. Flashes behind his eyes when he closes them briefly to try and take a breath and steady himself.

A knock on the glass in front of him makes him jump, looking upwards to see the net pulled back and Rune standing there with only pants hanging low around their hips and a smirk on their lips. Their head is tilted, their eyes calculating as if Alexander were looking at an inconsequential little experiment running a maze and unable to get out.

Locked in the eyes of a predator.

Their smirk transforms into a cockier look when they seem to take in Alexander’s flushed and disheveled look, only making him furrow his brow and try to play it off as if nothing was amiss. He gives them a questioning look, but watches as their lips spread into a predatory grin of sharp shark-like teeth and their red gaze flickering down towards his lap.

Alexander follows the gaze to where his cock is still out of his trousers. Burning red to his ears as he rushes to tuck himself away and hearing the muffled laugh of Rune from behind the glass from them being so close to it. Alexander refuses to look up from their journal, his head bowed and feeling humiliated.

He could weep at the fact his dick gives another harsh jerk at the debauched feeling.

When he finally braves himself enough to look up, Rune gives him a wink before they let the netting fall back down. Walking back to their resting area of the hammock and leaving Alexander to sit there in his aroused shame, and only feeling more aroused by the second at being caught.

When he finally decides to rest for the night, Alexander can’t help but wonder what is to become of him from the smaller of the Bloodhounds. If they even snarled at a drunken bystander trying to flirt with their spouse, what would they do when the knowledge that Rune was being watched would surely reach them?

There was no way they didn’t tell each other everything.

Alexander groans aloud when his cock twitches again at the thought of a knife to his throat and harsh words snarled to him from the smaller of the couple. How they’d probably step on his cock in the middle of the ring, call him filthy and disgusting for indulging in something so sinful as voyeurism-

He runs a hand over his face, reaching over and turning off his lamp and feeling just as filthy as earlier as he reaches under the sheets with new fantasies arising in his mind.

This time entailing both the Bloodhounds. Plenty of snarling, plenty of hungry hands squeezing him and depriving him of air.

Curious indeed.

#Caustichound #Bloodhound #Caustic #apex lemons #apex legends #nsft #lemon #princess writing #Puppy love

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datorchoe · 4 years

Text

TES Hero’s

Bruh I’ve never written this much in my life. This is a description of all my main TES ocs from ESO, Morrowind, Oblivion, Legends, Blades, and Skyrim. Read all under the cut :)

Vestige

Cahira Stegan - Breton, 21 years old, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes

- Cahira was born to a small family in a village called Krratch in western High Rock. Her family wasn’t able to take care of her so they married her off to the Kings son, Tan, when she was 14. She is a prodigy with a great sword, being the one of the strongest people in the village at only 16.

- She is 21 when ESO kicks off. Manimarco attacked Krratch and she gave her soul in turn that way he doesn’t decimate the village. She looses all memories when Manimarco takes her soul.

- Cahira is the strongest of all of the characters on this list. In addition to being a master great sword wielder, when she defeats Molag Bal, she keeps the Aedric powers she is given by the Amulet of Kings.

- After about a year of adventuring & training with her Aedric powers, she has fought and defeated about half of the Daedric Princes shes come across, including Molag Bal, Clavicus Vile, Vaermina & Mehrunes Dagon. After defeating so many Daedric Princes, Cahira absorbs a ton of Daedric energy, and becomes immortal.

- (One thing I did change lore-wise is that Darien doesn’t disappear for a while after Coldharbour so he travels with Cahira for quite a while.)

- Cahira is mother to 5 children. Her first child is named Garbashur. He is an orc that she adopted when she was 14 and living in Krratch. Her next child is a breton named Dynar Gautier, which she had with Darien. Sadly, he never got to meet his son, but after news of her pregnancy, she retired to Camlorn after General Gautier offered to help her raise Dynar. He is named after the Ayleid king from The Hollow City. Her next child is a half-breton half-redguard named Maya, who she bore with Merric at-Aswala who she married after 3 years in retirement. The next two children are half breton half orc half, well, Daedra. Agroh is the older child, and Motkh is the younger child of the Daedric Prince Malacath who Cahira consorts with after her and Merric divorce.

Nervarine

Montague Tesari - Altmer, 718 years old, gold skin, gold hair, green eyes.

- Montague was born in the Summerset Isles in the second era. His biological parents couldn’t take care of him, so they gave him to a family of Bretons living in the Isles, hence his name.

- Monatgue has very few responsibilities he actually cares about. His biggest priority is his son, Denken, who is a half-altmer half-dunmer. His ex wife, Neryn, divorced him 5 years after their son’s birth because he couldn’t keep a stable job. Despite his fathers absence, Denken has nothing but love for his father and vise versa. They sent letters between each other for years until Denken was old enough to go out on his own.

- Monatgue is a very powerful mage. Using mostly Daedric magic, Alteration magic, and Destruction magic. Montague trained with Divayth Fyr for three years after the events of Morrowind. But, it doesn’t last long since Divayth & Montague had a falling out. However, his strongest ability is the ability to commune with animals.

- After spending time with a Hircine cult, he developed a special connection with a lot of animals. This connection is one of the major reasons that Emperor Uriel Septim VII asked Montague to travel to Akavir. As a trusted blade of Uriel, Montague has a lot of political backing to his name. His strength is known and respected by many. This is another reason that Montague was asked to go to Akavir. However, Uriel Septim was assasinated before Montague could return to mainland Tamriel.

- He is still very much alive and kicking during the events of Skyrim. After Uriel Septim’s death, Montague returned to Cloud Ruler Temple to see what was happening. Montague teaches Risiki (HoK) blood magic to help her combat the Mythic Dawn. He also teaches Koraan (LDB) a new shout he learned on Akavir.

Hero of Kvatch

Risiki “R248″ Utherd - Nord, 30 years old, black hair, green eyes

- Risiki was part of an experiment by some scientists who operated out of a cave on the border of Skyrim & Cyrodil. One day when she was eight, she was awoken to the scientist being slaughtered. She runs from the cave and comes apon a small village in the Reach of Skyrim. The villagers turn her away, as she is covered in blood and will only repeat the phrase “R248″. She leaves to the outskirts of the village and meets a man named Urgmard Utherd. Urgmard takes her in and raises her.

- When Risiki was 25, a massive group of bandits comes and attacks the village, killing all of the patrons, including Urgmard. Risiki makes it her lifes work to hunt down and kill all of these bandits. After 5 years, she finally learns the location of the leader, who is posing as a citizen in the Imperial City. She enters the city and slays him once and for all. However, the guards catch her and throw her into prison. Thats how the events of Oblivion kick off.

- Risiki became involved with the Thieves Guild after hearing rumors of Mythic Dawn agents within. She quickly rose to the top and became the Grey Fox. However, after her retirement, she passed the Cowl on to Armand Christophe. She is also the Grand Champion of the Arena, going by the name “The Gatekeeper”

- Risiki’s main weapon is a battle axe, but she was also taught ice magic. After Montague returns from Akavir, he teaches her blood magic, which he believes will be helpful in the fight against the Mythic Dawn.

- Risiki becomes incredibly attached to Martin Septim, seeing as he becomes one of her only friends. Her and Martin had a child named Uria Martin Hassildor. After Martin’s passing, Janus Hassildor takes her under his wing, knowing the pain of loosing the one you love.

- She spent twenty years in Skingrad with Uria before being murdered in The Shivering Isles. Uria went with her mother and got trapped in the Shivering Isles till the events of Skyrim, when Koraan (LDB) rescues her from her suspended time.

Forgotten Hero (Legends)

Carwhien Balfwood - Half-breton half-bosmer, 27 years old, light brown hair, green eyes

- Carwhien comes from a very large bosmer family in Grahtwood. Having 4 half siblings and 17 cousins living under the same roof, she struglled to keep up with her family, being considered the “odd one out” since she was half breton. She never had a good relationship with her father. So when he ran off to join the Thalmor, an organization she deeply despises, her hatred grew more. Eventually, she decided to track him down and make him answer. Being caught snooping around in the Thalmor’s records, they threw her into the Arena with Tyr, the former Blade. This kickstarts the main questline.

- Being bosmer, Carwhien is very agile and light, using mostly daggers. She is also a master of shock and lightning magic. Her bubbly personality and worship of Y’ffre and The Green sometimes makes it hard for her to kill, especially animals. When Tyr and Carwhien encounter the wolves in the woods, she cannot bring herself to kill the wolves and takes one in, naming him Boomie.

- After the main questline takes place, Carwhien returns back to Grahtwood with Tyr, Swims and Laaneth to reunite with her family. They spend a few months there before spliting off. Tyr & Carwhien go to Skyrim and get married and have three kids, Uurfin and Fortar (twin boys), and a girl named Svail.

- They are still alive by the events of Skyrim, when Tyr hears of the Dragonborn’s return, his pride as a former Blade tells him to track down Koraan (LDB) to see what she’s about.

Blades Hero

Holkom at-Muraak - Redguard, 30, Black hair, brown eyes.

- Holkom is a former member of the Blades, who was friends with Tyr, as they were in the organization together. For as long as he can remember, Holkom lived in the small town of ‘Swordbreak’ training with a blade. When he turned 16, he went to Cloud Ruler Temple and joined up with the Blades. After most of the Blades were wiped out, Holkom decided to return home to Swordbreak. The events of the main quest then kicked off.

- Holkom’s main weapon is a greatsword, but being trained by the Blades, he can also use katana’s very well. Holkom has a very “heroic” personality. He enjoys being the center of attention, but would never pull the “people love me” card to flex on anyone. But his massive muscles do flex often.

- After completely rebuilding Swordbreak, Holkom became the new mayor. He then married Sabina Clovia, a breton mage living in Swordbreak. They have two children. An older male named Rhani, and a young girl named Prollie.

- Like Tyr, Holkom was very curious about the new Dragonborn. So, after Tyr met Koraan (LDB), he invited her to Swordbreak to meet Holkom, cause ya gotta look out for your bro’s.

Last Dragonborn

Koraan Buxom - Nord, 24 years old, dirty blonde hair, blue eyes.

- Koraan was born in Cyrodil, close to the border of Skyrim. Her mother is actually a desendant of Risiki’s (HoK) brother, Brarius Velldo. Akatosh thought it would be a funny coincidence. Anyway, Koraan’s parents were doctors in Anvil, and they trained Koraan in medical sciences. At age 10, Koraan’s parents were attacked by vampires. Her mother passed away, and her father became a vampire. However, they were saved by a Khajiit vampire named Raizin, who brought them back to their little vampire sancutary, where Koraan would train for the rest of her life. After many years of being with them, a rival vampire group rose up and killed most of them, including her father. Raizin was kidnapped and sealed away by the other vampires so that he couldn’t fight back. Koraan then ran and spent three years hiding in a cave, living off the bandits that would take refuge there. Afterwards, she went to Skyrim, hoping to find her father. That kicks off the main events of Skyrim.

- Koraan is mostly a restoration mage, however, she is also very adept at telekinisis, being able to hold up the entirety of the College of Winterhold in an effort to keep it steady as it broke off. However, when she first comes to Skyrim, she joins up with the Companions to make some money and begins training with swords. She prefers katana’s but is capable of wielding a greatsword of battleaxe.

- Koraan is the Harbinger of the Companions, but is also the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. She got mixed up in the Brotherhood before Alduin’s defeat and became Harbinger literally hours before going to defeat Alduin. Being the only doctor in the Companions, she has a lot of work on her back trying to keep them alive. Her passive and patient nature is definetly put to the test.

- Koraan adopts three children in her time in Skyrim. Lucia in Whiterun, Zenneth (a Nord boy based in Falkreath and his dog Paku), and Rylu (a Dunmer boy they found on Sothstiem). She also technically adopts Aventus Arentino, but he begs her to let him stay in Dawnstar with the Dark Brotherhood. A couple of years after Skyrim’s main quest, she marries Farkas and they have two twin girls, Kodlin and Parthurn, and one boy, Jergen.

#The Elder Scrolls #The Elder Scrolls Online #the elder scrolls morrowind #the elder scrolls oblivion #the elder scrolls v: skyrim #Elder Scrolls #TES OC #oc cahira stegan #oc montague tesari #oc risiki utherd #oc carwhien balfwood #oc holkom at-muraak #oc koraan buxom #oc lore

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evangeline-of-montfort · 4 years

Text

ash garden (iii)

chapters 1 & 2 read it here on ao3

The bison, freed from Atara’s control, whip around in wild fear. They charge blindly, knocking raiders aside like bowling pins. I see a blur of black as Tana evades one with lethal grace. She ducks to the left and spins around again, pulling the trigger and taking the beast in the heart. It collapses, a two thousand pound deadweight, and I can practically feel the ground shudder.

“Those are a protected species,” Davidson gripes under his breath.

Despite the circumstances, I smile. “Given that they’re trying to kill us—” Someone raises a gun, and I make a fist, squeezing his weapon into a crumpled ball—“I don’t think they give two shits about bison.”

“You have a point,” he concedes.

A raider takes advantage of our brief distraction to attack. Davidson reacts before I do, tossing a shield in front of himself like a grenade in a blinding flash of blue light. She slams into it with a sickening crunch.

He staggers back a pace from the effort, and I move to catch him. “Are you okay?”

Davidson throws out his hands. A flickering glow appears between them before blinking out again. “Ability exhaustion. I’m out.”

“I can cover us,” I say, widening my focus. Every bit of metal in the vicinity sings in my perception. My ability envelopes us like a protective bubble, sending enemy bullets flying back towards their owners.

He smiles grimly and draws a gun from his belt. “In that case, we’re about to see how good of a shot I still am.”

We wreck havoc together, covering each other as we push forward. The premier’s aim is steady and unerring. Every time he pulls the trigger, a raider goes down. I’ve never encountered a better shot, barring my Samos cousins.

“I used to be one of the best snipers in the Nortan army,” Davidson says as I wave away another round of bullets. “Not proud of it, but the skill does come in handy.”

A greeny thrusts out her arms, and a tree erupts from the ground a hair from my face. Vines snake from the branches, as fast and agile as a pit viper.

With a burst of concentration, I rip a gun out of a raider’s hand, turning it into a dual set of blades. The vines rip at my skin and hair, regrowing as soon as I cut them. It feels like I’m fighting an entire forest. Everywhere I turn, there’s another one, writhing in my vision until all I see is a blanket of verdant green.

A gunshot rings out, and the vines wilt instantly without the power of a greenwarden.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Davidson says. The raider topples over behind him, dead before she hits the ground.

“There’s plenty to go around,” I point out, sidestepping the tree. “As I recall, you seem to be the one that keeps saving my life.”

His easy manner disappears, and he looks me square in the eyes. “I consider that a duty, Evangeline. That’s why I’m here.”

Warmth blooms in my chest like a firework. Over the years, I’d worked closely enough with the premier to know that he’s fiercely protective of the people he loves. I’d just never stopped to consider that I had somehow become one of those people.

The last two raiders back into the cover of a pine tree. One is a stoneskin, pebbles and earth sloughing off her rocky flesh. The other is a blood healer, probably a member of the former House Blonos. His face is unnaturally smooth, skin stretched tightly around his skull like a morph suit. I’ve never fought a Blonos son before, and Lord Arven didn’t have much to say about them in Theory. I wonder how hard they are to kill—or if they can be killed.

Before either of us can attack, the Nortans take us by surprise, and they both lunge at Davidson—the weaker target, with his abilities exhausted. He fires reflexively, taking the stoneskin in the shoulder, but she brushes it off with a snarl.

Blonos is on him before he can do anything else, landing a kick to the gut. The premier gasps, doubling over. The gun clatters from his hand.

The feeling that erupts in the pit of my stomach is similar to my reaction at seeing Tolly in danger. Red-hot anger surges in me like a torrent, and I unleash the energy with a shout.

Guns and bullets shred under my wrath like paper. With another burst of willpower, I create a whirlwind of shrapnel, sending it swirling around the Nortans in gales of copper, gusts of steel.

The stoneskin falls under my onslaught, bleeding from countless wounds, dozens of projectiles buried like splinters in her gray skin. I swallow a bolt of nausea and look away. It’s not the worst way I’ve killed someone, but it’s pretty close.

Blonos heals just as quickly as he bleeds. A million cuts open on his too-perfect skin, here one second and gone the next. He curls his lip, utterly unaffected by the maelstrom. “Is that the worst you can do?”

I sneer in response, but I can feel my energy waning already. A metal tornado is not sustainable for long periods of time.

Blue energy flickers suddenly between Davidson’s hands. It’s weak, a shadow of his usual power, but it’s definitely there . Then it flickers one last time and disappears.

Blonos turns to him, his expression still dripping with contempt. The last cuts on his face close over as my whirlwind slows and stops, metal projectiles dropping harmlessly to the ground. “My, how the mighty have fallen. Is this what Montfort is? Runaway Silver daughters and–”

He doesn’t get any further before I spear him in the chest. The lance goes through him like a knife through butter, in and out before he can blink. It’s a clean shot to the heart—one of the only ways to kill a blood healer.

A part of me thinks of Corvium, of how my brother killed Mare’s the same exact way. Some scars never fade.

Blonos falls slowly, as if through water. His frame seems to shrivel as his skin wrinkles and his hair turns gray, decades of anti-aging reversed in a single second. When his body finally hits the earth, it is surprisingly quiet, even somber.

The silence that follows is almost deafening.

It’s over. We’re alive.

We’re alive. I take a deep breath, the first in what feels like hours.

There was a time today when I thought that I wouldn’t be going home to Elane. That perhaps my intended fate was inescapable, and I would end up tethered to a throne after all. Relief washes over me—waves and waves of it, cold and sweet.

“Thank you for showing up,” I manage to say, turning to Davidson. “And for that last distraction.”

“Least I could do.” He frowns at the back of his hands. The tiny shield flickers more violently between them before blinking out again. “I pushed myself a little hard with the bison.”

“The other option would’ve been dying, if you prefer that,” I remind him. “Now, let’s head back, before Elane and Carmadon go–”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. A sixth sense, honed over years of arena battles and courtly intrigue, tells me to stop. Something is wrong.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement—a shadow ghosting from the trees—and a glint of white as the sun flashes off her teeth, bared in a triumphant smile.

Tana Iral draws a dagger from her belt and throws, moving so fast my eyes can’t follow her movement. But I was trained in a hard school, trained to be faster than even the silks of House Iral. I barely blink as I push outwards with my ability.

I’ve done this so many times that I see it in my head without even trying. The tiny resistance as I stop the blade in midair and turn it back. The shocked look on Iral’s face as her own knife sinks into her chest and she crumples to the ground.

But that isn’t what happens.

In fact, nothing happens. My ability meets nothing, and the blade keeps coming.

Time hangs suspended—half a second stretching for an eternity—as I freeze, too surprised to react. I don’t understand. This isn’t physically possible.

Sunlight gleams through the dagger: not off, through, and I want to scream. Tana’s wolfish smile makes sense now. The dagger is glass. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.

My mind flashes to Elane, Ptolemus, Carm and Davidson, even Mare and Cal—everyone I thought I would have more time with. Everyone I thought I could make amends with. I’m so sorry.

And then the moment ends, the blip in time brushed over. Someone—Davidson —shoves me hard to the side, out of the way of impending doom. I hit the dirt and roll, springing to my feet in anticipation of a fight, but Tana has disappeared into the gathering darkness. Coward.

“Thanks for the save,” I gasp, turning to him. “I thought I was–”

My heart stutters midbeat.

Davidson staggers, clutching his stomach. Scarlet seeps through his fingers, as red and inexorable as the dawn.

He pushed me out of the way and took the knife himself. Shielding me even without his ability.

“No.” I run to him, lowering him to the ground as his knees buckle and his legs give out. “No, no, no.” This is not happening.

This cannot be happening.

“I’ll get you to Carmadon,” I hear myself saying. “We’ll find a medic. Skin healers—they can fix this. They can fix anything. Do you hear me?”

Even in this state, his composure doesn’t fail. When he speaks, his voice is calm and measured. “Yes, Evangeline… I hear you.” For a second, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that everything is alright; that I am nineteen again, and the premier is chiding me for an impulsive decision.

But I have to open them again eventually, and I come face-to-face with cold reality—Davidson slumped on the ground, crimson still seeping through his shirt. My hands curl uselessly at my sides. I was raised on a battlefield with skin healers in the wings, ready to treat anything. I don’t know what to do in this situation.

Maybe there’s nothing I can do, and that’s the worst truth of all.

The long shadows and mountain air chill me to the bone as I kneel at his side, my knees digging into the freezing earth, but I refuse to move. “They—they can fix anything,” I repeat again, robotically, but this time even I can hear the denial in my voice.

Davidson shakes his head, his gold eyes piercing me to the bone. “Not… this,” he rasps, and blood flecks his lips. I don’t want to think about the way the glass probably shattered and cut up his insides. “There’s no way back, Evangeline.”

My brain refuses to comprehend his words. Dane Davidson was—no, is —a visionary, rebel, fighter, and leader. A man who escaped from Norta’s Silver boot to crush kingdoms to dust. He couldn’t possibly be brought low by an assassin’s dagger.

He couldn’t possibly be brought low saving me.

I’m not worth that.

He grips my hand with surprising strength. His breaths come shallower, and his chest rattles as he fights for life. Despite my denials, I’ve seen enough battlefield deaths to know what will happen next.

The inevitable.

I swallow, surprised to feel tears streaking down my face. Tears I never wept after the death of my father, five years ago on that cursed bridge in Archeon.

But I cry them now. Davidson was the father of a country, an entire dream made reality. And more than that, he gave me advice, mentorship, a new life in Montfort. He was more of a father to me than the man who married my mother.

His life prevented the death of millions, and now, because of me, it’s about to end.

“Why?” I find myself asking. “Why did you just… trade your life for mine?”

“You are worth it—worth dying for. We have more important things… to talk about.” He clutches at the collar of his shirt with trembling fingers, and for a second I think he’s struggling for air. Then Davidson produces a thin chain, and my breath catches when I see what’s on the end.

The ring glints in the waning sunlight, still untarnished after decades. It is identical to the one his husband wears: silver for the color of Carm’s blood, gold for Davidson’s burning gaze.

“Give this to Carmadon,” the premier whispers, Something in my chest shatters at the way he says his husband’s name, the way he pores slowly over each syllable. Carmadon. Car-ma-don, like he doesn’t want to let it go. “Tell him I am sorry. He—he will understand.”

I can only find it in me to nod wordlessly. My vision blurs as Davidson’s fingers slacken, still holding the ring, clasping it to his chest as it rises and falls. “ I am sorry,” I manage to stutter. “I should’ve done more—should’ve—”

“Rage and guilt destroy lives brighter than yours,” he interrupts with surprising force, suddenly gripping my fingers. His hands are callused, still warm, and I take this feeling, this moment, and bury it deep in my chest. Willing myself to never forget it. “You hold your emotions too tight, Evangeline. Please, don’t let this be the case with me.”

“Still giving advice, still trying to better someone else,” I say quietly, but I know he’s right. Ice-cold anger already whispers through my veins, trying to eclipse the sorrow in my heart. Anger at Iral, anger at the Silver Secession, anger at myself most of all. “Some things never change.”

His voice is getting softer, but it is no less assured. I should’ve known a flame like Davidson’s would burn until the end. “That is who I always have been. My entire life. I’m… content with that.”

“That is good,” I whisper. Every other word that has ever existed fails me. They don’t come close to describing the gravity of this moment. There’s nothing else to say.

“But now,” Davidson breathes, “I am done. But you—” He squeezes my hand again, weakly, and with an awful finality—“carry on. Have strength, Evangeline.”

The rise and fall of his chest slows and stops.

I kneel there, my hands still gripping his, my chest hollowed of all emotion as I keep vigil in the bitter cold.

The sun dips below the mountains, gold fading to scarlet fading to deep blue.

I do not move again until the scarlet returns in the east.

~~~

taglist: @freaky-freiday @evangelineartemiasamos @farleydiana @fuvkingmagnus @folkoftheair @lilyharvord @scarletbarrow @gansey-just-gansey @glossy-vanilla

#red queen #red queen fandom #evangeline samos #dane davidson #red queen fanfiction #rq fanfic #rq fandom #evangeline of montfort #ash garden

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kusunogatari · 4 years

Text

[ ObiRyū October | Day Twelve | Mechanical ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Pein, Sasori, Hoshigaki Kisame ] [ Verse: Oil and Blood ] [ Vulgarity, blood ]

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Let’s see...which door was it again?

Walking along the alleyway, bag slung over his shoulder, Obito gives each entrance a glance. He can’t quite recall which number he’s supposed to be looking for...but at least he’s pretty sure he knows this is the right building. A few neon signs flicker in the grim dark space between the structures, rain slipping into the gap and forming puddles along the asphalt.

What a night for a fight.

Coming to a stop, Obito finds a door with a closed slat. 116. Is that right…? Deciding to try his luck, he knocks.

After a brief pause, the tiny window opens, a pair of eyes hidden behind a visor staring at him. “What d’you what?”

“Looking for Pein.”

There’s a noticeable silence. “...fine.” The slat closes, then the door opens, and Obito steps inside. “Be quick about it. You’re late.”

He ignores the touchy retort, taking the stairs downward as indicated by a pointing thumb over the guy’s shoulder. Already he can hear the distant murmurs of the crowds, swelling and falling in time with what they’re watching.

He can do this. Make it through a few rounds, and earn enough cash to get out of the city. Should be simple enough, so long as he doesn’t get his ass kicked too hard.

After scoping out a few of the city’s underground fighting rings, this one seemed the most promising to make a quick buck. He just needs enough for new papers, and a ticket out.

Can’t let himself get too greedy. It’s gambling, after all...and even if he’s one of the pieces in the game, there’s no real knowing the outcome.

It takes several flights of stairs to reach the proper floor, the roars barely suppressed. And as he opens a pair of double doors at the end of a corridor, the sound hits him full blast.

In the belly of the building, opening up to several floors, is the arena. Torn apart, beams and structure have been revealed as the building was stripped, people hanging out on all levels to get better views. In the center, a raised cage arena houses cybernetic fighters duking it out to near-death, mods glowing and blood spraying. Bright, cold lights illuminate the spectacle for all to see.

It’s been a while since he’s resorted to this. But legitimate work is hard to find, especially for someone with his record. So Obito lets his strength and his size earn his way.

Skirting the crowd that’s gathered on the main floor, he tries to find the man in question: the one he can talk to about getting in on the fights. The description he was given is vague: ginger, piercings, gaunt.

Sounds like a whole slew of people in here.

But he keeps looking until a man catches his eye. Something about the way he watches the contestants down below gives the aura of someone bored, wanting only for the show to end and the results to come in.

“You Pein?”

The stranger turns, and Obito finds himself a bit unnerved.

Rinnegan model eye mods. The ripple-like purple orbs, covering the entire visible eye, are some of the most advanced tech out there. They can connect to security networks and essentially “see” through anything taking video. Something tells Obito this whole place is wired, and just by standing here, this guy can see everything the cameras see.

“I’m someone who goes by Pein,” he replies a bit cryptically. “Are you here to fight?”

“Thought I’d do a few rounds.”

“You’ll have to have our tech check out your mods, make sure there’s nothing illegal.”

The idea earns a snort. Not illegal in terms of the laws, but the rules of the arena: nothing that will give him an unfair advantage against the other fighters. “All right.”

Hand to an ear, ‘Pein’ contacts someone with an internal comms mod. “Sasori, I need you to do a mods check.” He then glances to Obito. “It will be a moment. Once you are approved, you will have a locker to secure your belongings. Then you’ll be entered into the pool. How many rounds?”

“Depends on the winnings. I have a minimum to make.”

Pein eyes him, expression blank. “...very well.”

A few moments later, a redhead - short in stature - seems to materialize beside his employer. Right away, Obito can tell this guy is one deep into mods: more mechanical than biological.

“This is him. Get him approved, then we’ll get him in.”

“This way,” Sasori orders, leading Obito to an offshoot room. “Remove your outer garments.”

Well...here we go. Shrugging out of everything but his boxers, Obito reveals the majority of his mods. An entire arm has been replaced to the shoulder. On that same side, plating and wires adorn part of his neck, chest, abdomen, and part of his outer hip.

With a scanning module in his palm, Sasori starts looking over the hardware. “Most of these appear to be medical in origin.”

“Yeah. Accident,” Obito offers, refusing to elaborate.

“...some advancements in the arm, but nothing above code. The plating is also within our standards. You may proceed.”

He just nods, regathering his clothes. Knowing it will only get bloodied, he stashes his shirt in the locker Sasori unlocks for him, leaving him in his pants. He also takes off his shoes, pulling some fingerless gloves over his hands.

...nothing else to do.

He’s then led to another room, larger, where the other potential participants linger. To Obito’s honest surprise, a fair number of women fill the ranks. A few people lightly spar, punching and blocking in preparation of their fights.

“Name?”

Obito looks back to Sasori. “...Tobi.”

“When you hear your name, proceed to the arena. Once the fight is over, if you wish to continue, you will return here until the next fight.”

A nod. He’s done this before.

With that, the redhead disappears again, and Obito gives the room another studying glance. He’ll have to face at least a few of these people. Part of him hopes none of them will be women. He’ll fight one as an equal, but he’d rather not if he can help it.

“Well, you’re a new face I’ve not seen before.”

Looking to his left, Obito spots another fighter. And wow, this one has quite a few cosmetic mods. His skin is blue, hair a darker shade, and as he grins at Obito, a row of sharpened teeth glint in the light.

He even has gill mods.

Someone likes sharks just a little too much.

“Just making a pitstop,” Obito replies, beginning to stretch.

“There seem to be more and more of those nowadays. There are a few regulars like myself, but I suppose it’s not a very...agreeable lifestyle.”

Obito glances back to him. “How long have you been here?”

“Coming in now and again for years. At least once a week.”

Obito can believe it - he’s huge. Probably could crush his head if he wanted to. “Good money, or…?”

The man’s grin widens. “Somewhat. Mostly I just love beating the shit out of people.”

Oookay, hopefully they don’t end up as opponents. “Name’s Tobi.”

“Kisame. Good luck out there.”

“Thanks.”

A few other matches go by before Obito is called in. His first is nothing special, and he’s got the win within a few minutes. The arena is cleared, and he pockets his cash.

Just a few more.

Kisame too has his battles, handily winning each. After two more, Obito figures he just needs a single additional win.

“Tobi, Kisame, you’re up.”

...well shit.

“Ooh...well, nothing personal Tobi.”

“...yeah, likewise.”

The pair are let into the cage, the crowd hyping up. By now, it’s obvious they’re both top contenders. The announcer continues to egg on the audience as the gates are shut.

Obito sizes Kisame up. He’s huge, but...that might be a disadvantage when it comes to speed. While not the fastest himself, he might have better odds dodging.

Either way...he’ll admit he’s not confident in this one.

“FIGHT!”

The pair launch at each other, a blur of thrown fists and striking feet. Obito manages a few hits, but also takes his share. A split forms in a brow, blood leaking down his face. Alongside the sweat, it starts to make seeing a bit difficult.

This isn’t good.

And Kisame, despite their earlier friendly conversation, pulls no punches. Every blow that lands is like a train, aiming for the critical parts of Obito’s tech that help keep him alive.

Five minutes in, and he’s in deep shit. Damn...he just needed one more win…

Locking hands and struggling against Kisame’s strength, Obito’s jaw grits to the point of making his teeth ache. If he can just...get…

THWACK

With a crack that seems to echo, Kisame plows his forehead against Obito’s. His vision flickers, knees immediately giving out as his brain rattles. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he goes down, completely slack. Above him, he hears the countdown.

There’s no way in hell he’s getting up, now.

Damn it. Now that money’s going to have to go for other basics until he can rustle up more, and basically put him right back where he started.

Well...he tried.

Next thing he knows, Obito wakes in another room. Gone is the noise and ruckus of the crowd. He can barely hear it in the distance. And he can feel a bandage on his split brow, but everything else feels...muted. Slow. He’s obviously on some pretty hefty painkillers.

“Morning.”

Eyes struggling to move in their sockets, he finds himself visited by a woman. Without prompting, she starts going over his vitals and checking his condition. Some kind of...doctor? Employed by the pit?

“Where…?”

“You’re in the infirmary. Seems you got your cage pretty rattled,” she replies. “You’ve been out a few hours, it’s almost sunrise. Last few fights are wrapping up.”

Beside him, Obito hears a few mumbles and groans. Seems he’s not the only one in here. “...how...bad is it?”

“Not too bad. No concussion, somehow. Just a hell of a headache if I had to guess. Hence dosing you a bit to keep it at bay, as well as all the other blows you took. I’ll tell you what, though...you’ve got quite the goose egg. And that split is pretty nasty. I put in some stitches. Leave them alone or you’re gonna have a mess, all right?”

All the while, Obito watches her foggily. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. The doctor, if that’s what she is, looks to be about his age, maybe a year or two younger. But given the advancement of glamour mods, he can’t be sure. Is that why her hair is white…? But no, it’s her eyebrows, too...and her lashes. Maybe she’s one of those...what do you call them…?

“I’m going to recommend a few days of bedrest, but I’m sure that will be ignored,” she sighs, Obito tuning back into her words for a moment. “You got someone who can check on you, make sure I’m not missing a head injury?”

“...no.”

Another sigh. “...well, just be careful. If you feel any sudden dizziness or headache, you might wanna call an ambulance.” And off she goes again, his brain failing to focus.

...it doesn’t look like she has many mods. Obviously a HUD, given the chip at her temple. Likely a comms mod, too - even the most vanilla modders have those. There’s something in the palms of her hands, probably a medical mod for scanning and monitoring. One side of her head is shaved, and it reveals a few glowing wires trailing back into her skull.

...she’s really hot.

As soon as he thinks it, she pauses, looking to him questioningly.

...oh shit, he said that out loud, didn’t he? Damn pain meds…!

But rather than get offended, she just snorts. “Don’t worry, I hear that kind of thing all the time. This stuff will knock you loopy, that’s for sure.” Approaching him, she lifts a palm to his own temple. “I’m going to give you my contact info in case anything pops up later so you can have someone know what’s going on. Anything out of the ordinary, let me know.”

“...uh...okay.”

“For now, I’m gonna put you under again. You’re not quite ready to head out yet.”

She adjusts his IV, and pretty soon Obito feels his body grow heavy again. But before he conks out, he checks her info in his comms mod.

Ryū Suigin...huh. Cool name.

...guess that’s one way to get a girl’s number.

A few hours later, his body wakes on its own, the pain meds starting to fizzle out. And man...he can really feel those few hours he spent in the pit. Sitting up with a grunt, he winces at the ringing in his head and the throbbing in...pretty much everywhere else. It’ll be a while before he’s ready to try all that again.

A glance shows he’s the last remaining occupant of the infirmary. The doc’s still here, right…? He’ll be a bit lost otherwise, he has no idea where he is in relation to where he’s already been.

Then he hears a jingle of keys, turning to see Ryū come up short. “Hey! About time you woke up.”

“Er, sorry.”

A hand waves. “I’m only kidding. You clearly needed the rest. Come on, I’ll show you the way out.”

“Uh...I had a locker…?”

“Yeah, we’ll head there first, don’t worry.”

It’s then Obito realizes he’s still shirtless and barefoot, flaring pink. But she doesn’t seem fazed - surely she sees plenty of others just like him. They head through an empty hallway, making a pit stop by the lockers as Obito grabs his stuff and finishes redressing.

“So...how often is this place open?”

“Three nights a week.”

“Are you here for all of them?”

“Hoping to see me again?”

He balks. “I-I just mean -?”

She laughs. “Kidding, kidding. I am. I split it with regular work shifts in a twenty-four hour clinic. I’m pretty much nocturnal thanks to it.”

“Is it...legal for you to work here?”

“None of this is legal,” she replies dryly. “But Pein keeps the cops around here paid well enough, they look the other way. So long as they get a decent cut, they don’t care. In a way, I’m the same. I don’t blab about it, I just come for the work.”

“Huh…”

“I take it you’re not much of a regular?”

“No. Just when I’m desperate.”

“Yeah, I see a lot just like you. Looking to make a quick buck to keep their heads above water. But a lot just end up battered and bruised, empty-handed. It’s a real shame, but...that’s what the city’s coming to.”

Fully dressed, he lets her lead the way despite having regained his spatial awareness. “It’s why I was here, trying to make enough to get out. Almost had it.”

“But now having to stay means draining all that away again, right?”

“Right.”

She offers him a sympathetic glance. “That’s rough, but...hardly unique. Wish that wasn’t the case. It’s really tough being a medic in this town...seeing everyone you can’t help. I’d like to get away from it too, if I’m being honest. Just...like you say, you never quite get close enough. And part of me would feel bad, knowing all the damage I’m leaving behind.”

“It wouldn’t be your fault. And you’d surely help people elsewhere.”

“Yeah. But in a way, it still feels like giving up.”

He hums, not quite understanding. He just wants the hell out of this town so he can escape everything that’s happened here. Everything that continues to happen.

They reach the front door, the bouncer long gone. It creaks on its hinges as Ryū pushes it open. “You got a ride home?”

He blinks. “Took the metro.” Is she offering him a ride…? But he’s a total stranger!

“Okay, good. Don’t want you alone in case you collapse or something.”

...oh. Maybe not. Why does he feel disappointed?

“Remember, anything happens your body’s not familiar with, you let me know immediately. Could turn into something serious. Better safe than sorry.”

“All right. What about you? Safe to get home?”

She gives him a smile, and Obito stiffens as he feels his stomach give a wobble. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not far, and it’s light enough now I should be okay.”

“Well, uh...if not, you can always call me.”

To his embarrassment, she snorts. “Will do. Now go get some more rest - remember, take it easy a few days if you can. Your body needs some downtime.”

“I’ll try.”

“See you around then, Obito.”

It takes him a moment to realize she called him by name, but...well, that’s likely due to his comms mod. “Er, bye.”

...well, now what? Yes he needs to head home, but...he’s back at square one yet again. And he can’t just hop back into it - Ryū is right, he needs to recuperate before he even thinks about it.

And next time, if Kisame’s there...he’ll wait for another night. As nice as it was being tended to by the doc, it’s not quite worth it.

...almost, but not quite.

He sighs, rubbing at the rear of his head. For now...back to the ol’ grind. Scrounge for work, cut back to the bare minimums, try again. And next time...he’ll meet his goal and get the hell out of here.

Maybe he can even help get Ryū out, too.

...but that’s a thought for another day.

Moar cyberpunk! Not quite as shippy, but tbh I kinda struggled with today’s between a lack of time and inspo. But I tried ;w; Poor Obito got his butt whooped. A little harder to dodge without his Sharingan xD But surely he’ll get it next time, right? Anywho, I’m tired, so that’s it for today lol - thanks for reading!

#obiryū october #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #pein #sasori #hoshigaki kisame #oil and blood [ au ]#vulgarity //#blood //

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theclaravoyant · 7 years

Text

a fitzskimmons 5x06 coda

AN ~ for @sapphicdeanoru who prompted to this effect, as well as for myself, for @florchis because fitzskimmons!! to be clear this is romantic fitzskimmons, though there is a parallel version of this scene in brotp form here if that’s more your cup of tea. (or of course, both!)

enjoy!

Read on AO3 (~1700wd, part of a collection of more shippy but not smutty fsk if you’re into that). Rated T for references to canon-typical violence, injury - but it’s actually quite fluffy, I promise!

“Put me down, put me down!” Daisy demanded as they rounded another corner and approached what might, for now, be called safety. Reluctantly, FitzSimmons obliged, and Daisy cried out through clenched teeth as they eased her to the ground as best they could.

“I’m sorry, that was my bad,” Fitz fretted. “I should have nicked the remote-“

“I should have just climbed the bloody stairs instead of being a showoff,” Daisy retorted and gritted her teeth, looking up and away as Jemma prodded at her injuries. “I knew they had it. What an idiot. May’s gonna kill me.”

“If it helps, you looked amazing,” Fitz assured her. Daisy snorted, and Jemma rolled her eyes – though her fond smile suggested she agreed.

“Follow my finger,” she instructed, and began the customary dance while Daisy did her best to follow. When she was done, Jemma frowned, and hummed softly to herself. Daisy grimaced.

“What’s the damage, doc?”

“Well, you’ve got a relatively minor concussion,” she explained, in an exasperated tone, “which I’d say was impressive except that it seems to be due to your poor ankle taking the worst of it. The right one is definitely broken, possibly shattered, and the left doesn’t look too happy either. You’re extremely lucky that you didn’t dislocate something, dropping from that height onto solid concrete.”

“So what you’re saying is, May should kill me,” Daisy noted. “Good to have you onside. Thanks for the support.”

She groaned as she tried to adjust her seating position, and Jemma glared at her.

“What I am saying,” she corrected, “is that you’d better hope your face doesn’t swell up too much because that and your hands are the only things you have going for you.”

Daisy smiled a winning smile, and batted her eyelids. “Aren’t they always?”

Her attempt at humour faded, however, when Jemma pursed her lips and went back to her work. She knew that Jemma was only crabby because she was worried, but it still hurt. Fortunately, Fitz took this moment to reach for her hand, and though her knuckles were bloody and bruised, his touch was soothing. His eyes were gentle, warm and comforting.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. “Sorry for putting you in that position.”

“’s okay,” Daisy excused him. “It got us here, didn’t it?”

“Sorry about – that Inhuman,” Fitz continued.

“Ben.” Daisy sighed. “Yeah. Me too.”

Jemma paused in her ministrations. Her expression had softened, no longer as affected by her own frustration and worry after overhearing Fitz and Daisy. Trying to cut away the bottom of Daisy’s pants with only a butterknife seemed like a minor problem now. Still, it had to be done. She cleared her throat, cracking through the fragile silence and pulling them back to the task at hand.

“Ah, sorry,” she interrupted. “Does anyone have anything for – “

With his free hand – the one not holding Daisy’s - Fitz reached into his boot and pulled out a whopper of a knife; something that had apparently come straight out of Rambo. It sliced through Daisy’s pants with ease, and Jemma started working on her shoe.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Daisy scoffed. Fitz gestured to his jacket, and the gleaming Genku-larvae badge.

“Evil scary murderer, remember?”

“Right. Got anything else up your sleeve?”

“Unfortunately not. We were short on time and shockingly, when Kasius decided to surround himself with competitive warmongers he requested that no weapons be allowed.”

“Jemma?” Daisy asked hopefully. “You’ve got huge sleeves. Anything useful?”

“Just the butterknife.” Jemma held it up, its tiny serrations shimmering with some sort of blue liquid. Fitz and Daisy frowned at it, then at each other.

“Is that…” Fitz wondered.

“Blood?” Jemma filled in. “Yes, I think so. I don’t think he’s dead, or there would have been more of it, but it’ll throw him.”

“It’ll also make him want to kill you,” Fitz pointed out.

“- but you stole his prize possession, and 'it' helped,” Daisy added, “so he probably already wants to kill all of us. Which means we shouldn’t stay here.”

“Ideally, we shouldn’t move you either,” Jemma pointed out. “But you’re right. Fitz?”

“On it.” Fitz grabbed the knife and hacked one of Jemma’s sleeves away. Then he began ripping the material into strips, and Daisy focused on staying as still as possible while Jemma made quick work of a tourniquet.

“Now, Daisy, don’t you walk on this,” she warned gravely. “And once we get you back to the lower decks, keep it elevated above your heart, okay?”

“What- you’re going to dump me in medical?” Daisy objected. “What about May? What about…“

Voiceless, her lips finished the sentence: what about us?

Us against the world.

Jemma bit her lip. She glanced over at Fitz, and he looked back with the same thought in his eyes. It was risky, but neither one of them would take well to being left behind, especially with the rest of the team in danger. Besides, it was not as though Daisy herself was not hot property: they couldn’t trust that the lower decks would not be raided, and leaving a powerless, severely injured Daisy alone with a price on her head was not something that appealed to them either. In fact, they were probably even less supportive of the idea than Daisy herself.

Somewhere down the hall, a bullet pinged off metal.

“I vote we argue about this later,” Fitz suggested, already helping Daisy to her feet.

“Seconded,” Daisy agreed.

“What are we going to do?” Jemma pressed. Her hands tightened around the knives.

Wide-eyed, the three of them shared a look, each spinning calculations in their heads based on their skills, resources, and liabilities. Questions pinged around the circle.

“You know your way around here, right?”

“How far can you carry 130 pounds?”

“Is it too risky to remove the implants altogether?”

“How many rounds has this thing got left?”

“Okay, I’ve got it,” Daisy declared. “Jemma, you go on ahead. Keep the knives, we might need them later, but the fight’s behind us at the moment. You navigate. Fitz: I’m gonna need you to think buff thoughts. First stop is the nearest elevator, wherever the hell that is.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” Daisy snatched the gun off Fitz, checked its rounds, and cocked it. “I take this. Concussed or not concussed I can still hit a moving target if it’s 180 pounds, especially if it’s moving toward me.” More bullets, and shouting down the hall. Daisy ground her teeth together. “So are we ready?”

Then came a shout of Hey, you there! which the three of them took as a queue.

Jemma took off, piecing together everything she’d learnt over her time here into as comprehensive a map as she could make, and willing herself to find the lift, lift, lift. Fitz hauled Daisy into his arms and ran after her, concentrating on keeping his back to the battle so that Daisy’s aim of the ICER over his shoulder remained true. It was nervewracking, but their enemies fell, and though a few bullets shot past, none of them touched him.

Daisy whooped with glee as they left their first lot of enemies behind them.

“Nice work! How’s that elevator coming, Jemma? And – damn, Fitz, do you even lift?”

She grinned, and Fitz scoffed – insofar as one could, as his lungs started to resist the straining effort of his arms.

“There’s not much to do in prison, okay?” he retorted.

“Prison?” she frowned. “When were you in prison?”

“Long story. Carry now, talk later.”

“This way.” Jemma waved them into a side passage, and then into an elevator.

“Oh, thank God,” Fitz sighed, and for a moment he let Daisy slip to the ground so that she stood on one foot, leaning on his shoulders. She mimicked a swoon, grinning broadly as she teased;

“My hero! Oh – and speaking of which, what was that ‘marry me, Fitz’ nonsense in the arena?”

“Not nonsense! I really meant it,” Jemma objected, and when Daisy met her with a skeptical glare, raised her hands innocently. “What? He was being all dashing and I couldn’t help it. You should’ve seen him.”

“Is this true?” Daisy demanded, prodding Fitz in the shoulder.

“That depends,” he returned. “D’you call this dashing?”

He lunged in for a kiss, running his hands over her back for extra support as she swayed backward on one ankle, the other hovering like a popped cherry. She tasted like sweat and grit, which actually wasn’t unusual for her. He tasted of decadent wine he probably hated, and Jasmine flowers – Jemma’s perfume, Daisy realised. He held her up more strongly than usual, knowing she couldn’t stand on her own right now, but even so his expression was tender as she rested her forehead against his, and brushed her fingers through his stubble. He ran his teeth over his own lower lip, as if he could still feel her kiss on them, and his eyes shone with a deep and powerful sense of contentment.

Daisy sighed, even though her heart was pounding in her chest.

“Fine,” she breathed, running a finger down his jacket and hoping her cheeks de-flushed sometime soon. “Marry me too, ya bastard.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied, and put a hand over hers where she played with the badge that rested over his heart. “But I wouldn’t touch that if I were you. It’s made of space bugs.”

“Ooh, what kind?” Jemma interrupted. She paid no mind to Fitz and Daisy’s amused smirk as they passed it over to her; more interested in the diamonte-like decorations. “Looks like Genku larvae. Fascinating.”

“Happy Engagement, babe,” Fitz said, leaning over to kiss her. Daisy tried to counterbalance, but the angle was wrong and she yelped when her toes hit the floor. Fitz straightened up immediately to catch her.

“Sorry!” he cried. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Daisy assured him. “But all I want for our engagement is for you to make it down the next hallway without bumping my ankle on any doorways, okay?”

“Done.”

With that, all three of them refocused with steely determination on the doors that were about to open up before them. Daisy pointed the nose of her pistol forward this time, and Jemma – knives at the ready, just in case – made sure to stay out of the way.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

#fitzskimmons #ot3: fitzskimmons #aosfic #aospositivitynet #aosficnet2 #aos spoilers #aos s5 #clara's fic tag #prompt me stuff

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tarantula-hawk-wasp · 7 years

Text

Bat Paladin Chapter 4

voltron / batfam /dc comics crossover.

Chapter 1 link Chapter 2 chapter 3 link Shiro is Bruce Wayne’s adopted son and part of the batfam AU created by me (I was the anon) and @tchailla

word count : 6.2k (its a big boi)

A/N

Well it has been a Long Ass Time folks. All i can say is that pretty much every excuse in the book applies, a busy senior year of high school, writers block, doubts, changing fandoms, busy summer, busy college, etc. But, starting in Nov. I've been going to a 4 day a week writing group and that's really helping me dedicate time to this so I really think the next chapter will be only in a month or smth. That's about as much as I can promise. I will never let it go this long again.

The hand they gave him was so intimate a weapon.

A sword, though a close-quarters weapon that made him watch the light fade from his opponents’ eyes and left him splattered with blood, was at least impersonal. It was a detachable item that had transferred only vibrations up his arm and across his shoulder. He could at least physically cast off that brutal role of warrior at the end of every fight.

The arm was personal. Cutting through flesh, even with the hand alit, had a horrible sensation. There was a microsecond of resistance, before, like crushing a grape, the flesh gave and was sheared like paper. He could smell meat charring, feel the pulse of body systems, taste the rancid breath of last exhales.

The arm felt like an extension of himself in so many ways, but it was impossible to forget it was artificial. The Galra technology was extremely advanced, it had a smoother and greater range of motion than the joints on a real hand would, but the sensations were subtly different. It had temperature and pressure and texture sensors that were more than adequate. But flesh has a give to it. Even the most taut musculature has squishy skin over it and feels organic. The arm was solid and hard metal, there was no molding slightly to a surface, it either touched or it didn’t. Texture was another jarring change. Instead of the grooves of a fingerprint and the pad of a finger feeling out a surface, it was a staccato vibration of metal finger clipping a surface.

The reality of what the Galra had done to him settled in again with each fight. And with it came the reality of the life he was living.

Sometimes he considered just letting himself die. It would be absurdly easy to let himself lose a fight. Battling to a win was strenuous and unpleasant. If he so wished, he could just pick an opponent and weapon trajectory that would kill him so swiftly after he thudded to the sandy floor that he would not even have to hear the roar of the crowd.

But each time faced with that choice he did not pursue it. Each time he clung with desperate claws to life.

During a fight, his flesh arm had been cut - a messy snag of talons shearing out a groove of bicep. The pain was a dangerous distraction and Shiro had danced backwards, staggering away to gain distance and a moment’s respite.

He needed space and time to think.

Shiro sprinted across the sand and leaned against a pillar with his back to the focus of the action. Judging by the crowd and the grunts and wet slurps combined with suddens rips, the alien was occupied goring a fallen gladiator, another red tally in Shiro’s ledger of failure.

And he was at a crossroads. This wound could kill him. The bleeding was heavy and not slowing, and this fight was far from over. It was not the worst injury he had sustained, but usually the bloodiest gashes came in the desperate close attacks that ended a match and returned him to the callous care of the medical facilities. He needed something immediate to survive the rest of this fight.

A horrid idea struck him and he stared at his foreign, bloodstained palm.

He used the hand to shoddily cauterize the injury, the pain enough that the addition of searing and the stench of charred flesh did not outweigh the benefit of stopped blood flow. Using the Galra hand to save his life left a foul taste in his mouth.

But he did it regardless.

He told himself he was living for Earth, to warn them. For Solaan, whose eyes softened the few chances they had to meet gazes and would send reassuring nods in his direction. For the weaker prisoners, the untested, untried who had never held a weapon before and were sent into the arena to be slaughtered as blood fodder to rile up the crowd before the real fights.

He was not living for himself.

****

Despite being in a family and lifestyle of vigilantes, Shiro did not have a consistent codename. He’d tried out Nightjar, and had stuck with Starling for years, but none had truly clicked. His siblings ended up calling him variations of spaceman and space themed jokes. Nothing had become a second identity the way Batman was for Bruce or Oracle was for Barbara.

Until now. The whispers of “Champion” had spread after those early fights, echoing from cells in the corridors and jeered by opponents, and now it was notorious.

He had always understood the theoreticals behind creating a separate persona for vigilantism, but never before had he truly understood the inherent power in a dual identity. It was equal parts blessing and curse.

It helped in the arena, because it was not space cadet Shiro fighting, it was not brother or son Shiro fighting, it was not pilot Shiro, it was The Champion. And as The Champion he could be brutal, he could spill blood, he could growl in pain and rage and then slink back to his cell and weep as Shiro.

However there were times when he felt the liberation of his role as The Champion could be too consuming. It made it easier to use tactics with the intent to kill.

His technique had changed as he rose in the ranks, his opponents more and more often other vicious victors and now rarely helpless blood-fodder. And so he was employing lessons taught to him less by Bruce or Diana or Dinah, but more by Solaan.

His crash-course in alien anatomy had been shallow because of the sheer variety he might face. Solaan had instead drilled into him the strategy of going for the neck. They had explained that nearly all species have some form of head or brain encasement and targeting its attachment to the body is a safe bet for conquering any unknown alien.

Shiro had received this advice early in his days as a gladiator, but had not the stomach to implement it for many weeks.

And now, with his Galra hand that split keratin plates like butter, he could attack with deadly force.

He couldn’t help but keep up a count of the outcomes of his fights. Both the deaths he did not prevent, and the ones he caused. And as the blood spilled and numbers grew he could little help but notice that he was far beyond the realm of most criminals.

There were people serving life sentences who had snuffed far fewer flames than he, - cells in Arkham filled by those who had never used their own hand to end a life, - mug-shots of faces who had never felt the spray of blood from a torn jugular. He was on par with the monsters.

************

Shiro sat up from the microscope he had been looking into. Bruce had asked him to compare the weave and wear of two pieces of cloth from crime scenes and he needed to sit back and think about it.

Shiro could hear grunts from the out-of-site training floor where Cass and Jason were sparring and the rattle of Dick’s gymnastic equipment.

Tim and Steph were monopolizing an empty table with a sprawl of homework.

It was a good day in the cave. Shiro smiled as the thought came accompanied with new inspiration for examining fiber fraying and hunched back over, adjusting a lense.

“Hey English Question. Need an example of extended allusion or metaphor in something I read this semester.” Stephanie broke the silence. Shiro felt satisfied pride that she was comfortable to ask. When she had first switched to Gotham Academy on a Wayne Scholarship, she had pushed herself, determined not to let Bruce down and certain that meant independency. Actually, Bruce encouraged teamwork and consultation in the family.

A perk of most of them going through the same school, one with tenure and established curriculum meant that the chances of someone having previously done an assignment was high.

Shiro looked up from his microscope again.

“ Old Man and the Sea . Santiago is Jesus. He gets hand injuries, he makes ‘a noise similar to that of a man having nails driven through his hands’. At the end, he collapses on his bed and he’s lying with his hands out like a cross.” Shiro remembered doing that same outline.

“Thanks Captain Kirk” Steph called. Shiro groaned, anticipating the oncoming chorus.

“Actually, since he’s a pilot isn’t he more Sulu?” Dick commented helpfully, dropping down from his set of parallel bars and walking over, wiping sweat from his brow onto his faded Gotham Knights shirt.

Tim snorted. “He strikes me as more Travis Mayweather.”

Shiro smiled around the cave fondly. His eyes catching with Stephanie’s gaze. She was grinning at him, smile shining beneath a plain domino mask. Batman was the only one in the cave in full regalia - the rest just wore dominoes. Bruce didn’t want to risk a bare-face showing up in the background of a video call.

Stephanie faltered and in her place was Haggar, a feral smirk stretching her features. She was there just long enough for Shiro to register and then it was back to Steph, rolling her eyes and shoving Tim with her shoulder.

Shiro slowly pushed his chair back from the table, the screech of the base on the floor ringing louder than the rest of the sounds of the cave. He felt something cold and heavy settle in his core. He stood up, the banter continuing with Jason and Cass entering the main area, hair equally mussed and matching towels over their necks.

Shiro walked over to Haggar-Stephanie. She was flickering more frequently now. He looked around again. No one else seemed to be noticing this.

“Is Scarecrow in Arkham?” He asked cautiously. For once he prayed this was fear toxin. He needed to know now though, before he took action.

He only had experienced the effects once, in his youth, when the Batmobile had rolled into the cave where he was waiting, after watching an intense and dramatic showdown between Scarecrow and Batman and Robin and Nightwing that had culminated unsatisfactorily in Scarecrow’s escape.

He had been overwrought and ran to the returned trio, and embraced them in turn, clinging and unknowingly inhaling residual Fear Toxin.

Everyone had been exhausted and Shiro already upset enough that the preliminary signs went unnoted and he, and everyone else, had gone to bed.

They were woken later by him screaming, eyes open but unseeing, awake in a nightmare. Bruce had administered the antidote and stayed with him for the rest of the night.

That raw, unbridled terror at things that had seemed real was not something he wanted to re-experience, nor did he want to act on unfounded and strange visions. If this was a hallucination he did not want to hurt his family.

“He is. And his rehabilitation reports are showing progress.” Bruce answered from the Batcomputer. He was still facing Oracle. Good. Shiro didn’t want him watching.

Haggar was there long enough to let out a laugh and then it was back to Stephanie, smiling up at him. She looked trusting. He lit his arm up.

Shiro put his glowing Galra appendage through his little sister’s heart and it hurt in a way no weapon could.

Stephanie burst into a puff of mist with a brightness that momentarily disoriented Shiro from his stricken state.

The others were continuing with their conversation, ignoring the absence of Stephanie.

Now Dick was the one flickering to a shorter, white haired frame and then back to himself. Shiro strode towards him on steadier legs than he thought he ought to have.

“Do you want a sweaty hug, sweat-ie?” Dick said, laughing with arms spread, showing the mottled dark patches on his shirt. It flashed to Haggar with spread robes.

“Please no. Don’t do this.” Shiro muttered, and chopped Dick in half. He too burst out of existence.

Shiro swiveled around, watching each of the rest of the family, dreading any of the options of who could be next.

Jason sputtered-his eyes glowing yellow. He had a shit-eating grin. “Actually I think you're more Wesley.”

He was still laughing when Shiro dispersed him. It was perhaps worse that they did not react, merely acting as if everything was normal until they disappeared. Shiro was the only one shaking, the only one wracked with guilty choked sobs.

Shiro was in the middle of the triangle of Tim, Cass, and Bruce. A bolt of gratitude struck him that Alfred wasn’t present in this hellscape.

Cass, with her typical understated delivery, placed a hand on his chest.

“R2-D2.” She said decisively. He smiled. Even as another sister turned to Haggar and the hand resting on his pectoral gained sharp nails and dug into his flesh painfully.

After he did away with Cass, Tim was next. Shiro went through the motions quickly and with as little thought as possible. It pained him how practiced this was already becoming.

And then Bruce. Destroying even an image of Bruce would only drive home more solidly how far he had deviated from the principles his adoptive father had instilled in him.

Bruce was smiling at him - the little curve of his closed lips that could slip past the seriousness of the batcave and the cowl.

Shiro stared at his own eyes reflected in the lenses of the mask and hated himself. The face looking back could not be his own now, because the rip across his nose was missing and those eyes did not burn with the haunted exhaustion he ached with.

Shiro searched Bruce’s visage for an apology he did not deserve and with the destruction of Batman, the Batcave melted into darkness.

****

There was a heavy anticipation of pain and gore, a speculation of whether this would be a fight uphill against a savage opponent or a fight of restraint against some helpless victim.

He often forced himself to push past his lack of desire to watch the match before his - the inability to help a weak competitor despite being only meters away was intensely disheartening - but frequently he knew he was to fight the victor of a match and that strategically he must bring himself witness whatever bloodbath played out.

He was focusing on the hissing, bipedal bird-esque alien that was had an iridescent covering that was intermediary scales and feathers that ended in wickedly sharp points. It had used a serrated beak to rip the still-twitching circulatory system from the screaming form of its last opponent. Shiro hoped it would be defeated by whatever poor creature faced it before him, getting close enough to put his hand through the feather-scales would be difficult and he was not sure how thick they were, -If he would have to hack away to create an opening to even injure. The likelihood of him ending a fight of that kind anything close to unscathed was scant.

The figure that was shoved out onto the sand next was not some defenseless waif, nor was it some brawler. It was the six limbed hulking form of Solaan.

Shiro watched, wide-eyed, his parched eyes drinking in the sight of the friend he had been treated to only infrequent glimpses of in months. They looked little changed, fur perhaps a hint duller and thinner and something in their face held a deep weariness.

They rolled both sets of shoulders, limbering up their joints and sending ripples rustling through their purplish fur.

They stepped into the central area of the arena and evaluated the bird-like opponent with a calm resignation. Shiro knew Solaan’s methodology in trying to create an initial strategy.

With a sudden burst of motion the bird-alien darted and jabbed for Solaan’s thigh, Solaan pivoted, planting their lower arms and used their body as a lever to deliver a bucking kick that sent the alien staggering feet away.

The attack and dodge continued. Solaan was the bulkier and slower of the two, and they relied on their endurance and powerful blows to retaliate against the vicious speed. The bird was in constant motion, dodging and leaping like a ricocheting shuttlecock in a volley.

The fight came to a head with a graphic collision between the beak of the bird-alien and the broad palm of Solaan’s upper right hand.

Shiro’s gasp was matched by the crowd and the wet puncturing sound of the action. Everything froze for part of a moment and then Solaan flexed and raised the injured arm, heaving their opponent up, the beak still driven completely through their flesh.

The alien thrashed as its feet left the ground, and with its spindly taloned legs flashing and goring deep gouges across Solaan’s chest and thighs.

Shiro flinched with each strike. He was pressed as close to the force field as he dared, watching desperately.

Solaan stayed stoic and clamped a hand around one leg, the other foot’s talons scored first that wrist, and then they ripped into the other arm that came to seize the free leg. Solaan gripped the legs and with their remaining unoccupied hand, reached for the neck of the bird.

The beady eye of the alien widened and then its neck oscillated with a writhing yank, it pulled free its beak and drove it pointedly into one of Solaan’s eyes.

They bellowed, this injury finally snapping their control. Solaan’s limbs jerked spasmodically and with a lurch, their arms jolted in opposite directions and tore the legs off the bird-like alien.

Solaan, brownish coat now patchy with blood, had managed to end the fight in better condition than their hemorrhaging opponent.

The wave of relief that Shiro felt at their survival was quickly followed by a tsunami of dread.

He was to fight the victor of the match he had just witnessed. He was going to have to face Solaan.

He was churning with scenarios. Would Solaan and he fake some sham of a fight that ended with a mutual loss? Or would he sacrifice himself for Solaan or the other way around? He doubted that Solaan would engage him in true combat like a bonafide opponent. Could Solaan even survive long enough to put on a show satisfactory to the merciless voyeurs?

His gate was opened and his feet felt so heavy in the sand. The matching dull thuds of his heart and his steps carried him across the floor. The stadium was roaring with the fervor his appearance always provoked, but that was all a negligible rush in Shiro’s ears. The only sound he heard was the rasp of Solaan’s labored breaths.

Solaan tried to plant their arms and heave themself up to standing, but their limbs trembled with strain and nearly gave out with the attempt. So they stayed kneeling.

Shiro stood before Solaan, feeling odd and awful being the taller one. He reached out a gentle hand and trailed his fingertips tenderly over the soaking of blood. Solaan’s blood was morbidly beautiful. It disgusted and pained Shiro for what it was - the life of his friend pulsing out over his fingers - but it was fascinatingly different from most hemoglobin-based bloods. Solaan’s blood was a teal blue and shimmered with a golden metallic sheen. And it was painted over both of them.

Solaan shifted their weight and freed a hand from holding themself up and covered Shiro’s. Somehow, through the likely-crippling pain of their bleeding eye, through the damage to their body, through their fear, they managed to soften their gaze and smile at Shiro.

It was Shiro whose breath shuddered in a sob as if he were the one nearly gutted. Solaan slid Shiro’s prosthetic hand down to cup their chin and throat, and Shiro felt the rumble of their speech resonate up it.

“It is good to see you. And to see that you have not lost yourself to let the fight become easier.”

Shiro was momentarily taken aback, he expected an immediate addressal of the matter of the fight at hand.

“I… No, of course not.” He paused. There were so many things he suddenly needed to say. They were not living a situation with allowances for regrets or ignoring opportunities. “I didn’t want to let you down.”

Solaan met his honesty with equal gravity. “You could not have let me down.”

“I’ve tried to do as you said, to save people by getting them sent off and to only kill the-” His rush of words was interrupted.

“I know. I know and you have done well.” Solaan’s smile, still battling against the tightness of a grimace of pain, grew a little. Now they were interrupted.

The crowd had not been content to sit idle as they caught up. The baying for blood grew in fervor and suddenly Shiro noticed a Galra with a handheld control panel standing at one of the arena’s entrances and staring at him. The second Shiro made eye-contact with him, the Galra’s countenance turned smug and he manipulated something.

Shiro staggered, a shout leaving him, as his body was wracked with electric pain. It was not a lengthy sensation, he was left gasping after only a moment and a cold and clear voice ordered him to “Fight!”.

He tried to muster himself, staring at Solaan, but found he could only refuse.

He was shocked again, this time leaving him crouched in the sand with a hand planted to support himself. Now it was Solaan giving orders.

“Shiro, you have to do something. They’ll do that until you pass out or die and then I’ll face whomever comes after you.”

“What would you have me do?” Shiro didn’t like either option.

“You have to kill me.”

“NO!” That got Shiro up off the sand and back to his previous position before Solaan.

“I will not survive these wounds much longer. If not you, then the next competitor will kill me. And I would rather it was you than something brutal.” Solaan was so serious. Shiro was running his options through his mind and did not like any of them. He had no desire to see Solaan torn apart by someone else, but to kill them himself was a nightmarish prospect.

He placed his prosthetic hand to their throat, and they met his gaze with a composed readiness. Shiro lit his hand and found himself frozen in incapacity.

This was the scenario he was tortured with, this was his terror, putting his hand through a loved one. He had performed this act countless times in hallucinations to dozens of people, but he knew this was real. This was not Haggar pulling the strings this was his own volition.

The glow of his hand turned off and he dropped it limply.

“I can’t. Solaan I’m sorry but I can’t.” His voice sounded breathy and whiny to his own ears.

“I understand. I should not have asked.” Solaan did not sound accusative. Shiro felt even lower with that. Solaan had trusted him to do one basic thing he had done so many times before, he had killed so many except the one person who had actually wanted him to do it.

Inspiration struck him, because he could not just abandon Solaan to the blade of another. He had a third option.

He stood tall and stared around the crowd, garnering their attention and his own voice declaring an ultimatum with his own alit hand held to his throat. Either Solaan was taken to a work colony or he, the titular Champion, would never fight again.

It took a staredown of conviction and sheer stubbornness cultivated out of the Wayne household, but it apparently worked.

Solaan was removed from the arena with breath still in their chest. And Shiro was left with nothing of them but hopes and doubts.

For all he knew, all his supposed leverage of popularity was a sham and worthless and he was merely condemning Solaan to a future death behind shut doors. There was no guarantee, he had no rights and no real say on what they did.

But he had been an incapable coward when faced with the surer solution.

Were these benevolent acts of violence against people he loved his curse? How many times must he use the sharp side of a sword to save? And was it really more merciful than death? His knowledge of the work colonies was limited and fragmentary, combinations of hopeful imaginings, Galra propaganda, and threats from guards.

They might be simply worked to death, a slow and painful dragged out process. Or they could be kept alive and tortured in worse ways in colonies far from any regulatory supervision of the mainstream Empire.

The injuries he inflicted may just be the first in an endless onslaught of suffering.

*********

Shiro had little chance to see other prisoners outside of gladiator matches or passing by others surrounded by an equal number of sentry robots in the corridors. He was kept in a solitary cell, he was fed in that cell, and after his fights he was now often the only survivor being healed in the medical facilities. Or he was being taken to Haggar’s chamber of horrors or some other lab for experimentation. There was little socialization, and with Solaan gone, there was no one to seek out if he had been allowed in a crowd.

But anomalies in any surety could crop up, and Shiro was being escorted after an exhausting match, bruised and stumbling and desperate for the horizontal surface in his cell that was at least mostly safe to collapse on, when the screeching blare of an alarm went filled the corridor. Shiro had pieced together an observation of the severity scale of various Galra alarms and this one was blaring with importance. He had little else to do with his downtime. When he was too exhausted to exercise he could only listen to the ambient noise - the hydraulics of doors, the ringing clip of sentry steps, the occasional scream.

His escorts this time were a mix of flesh and metal. The two Galra guards exchanged glances over his head, looking through him as a ragged prisoner, a non-entity, and both shrugged and frowned. Rapidly, they growled orders to the two robots and those sprinted down the corridor, presumably towards the commotion.

Suddenly Shiro was grabbed around the bicep and hauled bodily around a corner and stopped in front of a closed cell door. It was a larger cell, like the one he had shared with Solaan and others in those early weeks.

The guard not holding him partially off the floor slapped her hand against the door control and as soon as it opened he was rudely tossed in. He stumbled as the door shut behind him and heard a muttered “That counts as temporarily securing any in-transit prisoners right?” between the guards.

His eyes adjusted to the darkened light and he was met with five sets of eyes. Three were species he had seen or fought before, two were tall vermiform beings that swayed hypnotically and twined around each other in an embrace. It would have been almost cute but for the fear in their eyes.

In fact, all of the beings in the room were ones he would have immediately decided to try to get sent to the labor colony if he faced them on the sand.

He turned to the most calm looking person in the room, a slender but humanoid being with brightly colored segments of color, and raised his hands in a peaceful, beseeching gesture. He was desperate to assure his harmlessness to all present as swiftly as possible.

He had little chance.

There was a movement behind him - he had not attentively tracked the motion of every person in the room and let one get behind him. He fought down his combat instincts, determined to show his friendly intent, to show that he was just another helpless prisoner trapped in this situation and thus akin to them, and was wholly unprepared for the sudden punching pain to the back of his lower left rib cage.

He gasped and dropped to his knees, breathing suddenly laborious, and groped behind himself, the motion of his shoulders pulling and twisting the painful flesh. He felt a rough edged piece of hard material, plastic or bone, it was difficult to say, that was wrapped in a layered strip of frayed and greasy fabric.

He left the weapon in his flesh, it was keeping at least some of the blood on this inside and he did not feel like contorting and cauterizing himself when he knew there was at least some chance the guards would return and take him to a proper facility with a far less painful repair tactic.

The other inhabitants of the cell, even the bold one who had stabbed him, were keeping their distance now, huddled against the walls. He little blamed them. They likely thought him some wounded animal, burning to lash out at anything that dared come close.

And he felt little better than that.

It was an agonizing wait after that. Shiro lying on the ground in a twisted pose that relieved the most pain from his injury and focusing on breathing. In the back of his mind there was a countdown going, there was only so long he dared wait for guards to return before he lost too much blood. Before that threshold he would have to take matters into his own hands and close the wound. But until then he would wait.

The guards, only the female the same as before, returned before he had to take measures of self preservation and collected him off the floor with a scoff of disgust. He was healed by the apathetic infirmary and with little ceremony returned to his cell for his usual solitary rumination.

He had been shanked. In prison. The absurdity of this being the prison cliche he got to experience, despite being in deep space, was not lost on him. He tried to focus on that near-amusement, trying to think about how much Jason would laugh at that, at the face Dick would have made, at how Keith would have scoffed. His brain kept slipping down the alternative train of thought.

This was painful evidence that he was no hero. He was seen as something to be feared and put down by a makeshift weapon by a prisoner his instinct was to save. He was not viewed as a savior or a Champion of these common folk. He was seen as the enemy, - the one to be struck down, - to be feared.

It rankled and rotted in his heart. Was this how superheroes whose populace disliked them felt? Or worse, was this how villians saw themselves? A hero working against the actual wishes of the people for some grander scheme that he thought he understood?

He had been shanked and it felt like a betrayal to all of the efforts he thought he had been making on behalf of the weaker.

********

The arena was becoming a preferable destination. This was not an opinion Shiro had ever anticipated harboring, but as his escort of uncaring Galra robot drones turned more and more often to the right instead of the left at the crossroads of the main corridor and led him away from the arena and towards either a scientist or Haggar’s workroom, he found himself wishing for the crowds and sand.

At least when he was fighting he had some facsimile of control. He may not be there by choice and his opponents were never of his own selection, but he picked which moment to lunge, where to strike, how to move and feel. It was the only time he felt truly alive and present in the moment.

Time in his lilac-lit cell droned in the monotony of echoed robotic footsteps clanking past in a clockwork rhythm broken only by the delivery of food. But in the arena it was a series of heartbeats pulsing fast and roaring with his blood and the crowd.

And there he picked which blows to give and take. And the pain, for there was often pain, was natural - in that it came from injury and was localized at a source rather than from some inflicted cruelty.

When he was strapped to a table, or forced into a tank of fluid, or scanned or prodded, he had no control. When they alit every nerve in his body at once, or worked through them systematically, the pain was the kind that writhed under his skin and churned his gut. A seemingly endless discomfort made worse by the callous interest of the scientists.

Time with Haggar was foul beyond that. When she was not using her powers to wrack his body with agony, she invaded his mind with distorted visions of his loved ones that grew more disturbing and detailed with each session.

Sometimes they were memories, nights in the Batcave with his siblings, or gatherings with the Justice League, or cadets he had grown up with in the Garrison, other times they were new creations. Being pitted against Solaan, or Bruce, or Dick, or Jason, or Keith or someone, in the arena and forced to fight desperately to the death.

The fights against Bruce were the worst.

Haggar’s Batman grew more and more lifelike and now vocalized scorn and disappointment just as often as it did gruff affection.

Lingering doubts about his actions were dragged into the light in the most painful way.

It was one thing to think on the darkest of nights about the way he was betraying nearly every doctrine his adoptive father had ever instilled a belief in. - But to hear him say it. To look into Bruce’s eyes, for now Batman was just as often a maskless Bruce Wayne in training clothes, and see disapproval, to see the disappointment, to see the resignation to failure, cut Shiro to the quick.

For Shiro was not breaking the “no killing” rule in some questionable accident. Irregardless of the utter lack of pleasure he took in killing, he deliberately went for lethal blows and no circumstantial justification he offered in pleading gasps from beseeching lips could undo the intent behind each bloody victory.

*******

It was not that escape had never occurred to Shiro, but rather that it had been a pipedream of impracticality. Even if he made it out of his cell or out of his bonds, he would still have to make it through a maze of patrolled corridors, and even if he made it that far, he was in space, which created an even greater complication of transportation.

But he was a scion of Batman, so despite his misgivings he was prepared to leap at any opportunity. And Ulaz was offering a chance that accounted for many of the potential problems Shiro had been most daunted by. He had mapped every corridor he had had the privilege of being forced down, and kept a mental count of steps and shift changes. He could handle navigating the corridors and there was a spacecraft waiting at the end.

The plan as soon as he was out of Galra range was to contact the Green Lantern Corps and through them one of the Earth Lanterns and the Justice League and his father. He was mentally prepared for complications in this, without Galra translation technology he was likely going to be reduced to pointing at something green and at a ring or his finger and hoping the Corps had widespread awareness in that area.

Instead, to his shock, he was met with familiar constellations and passing by planets he was intimately familiar with. He was in the Solar System. The Galra were in the Solar System. Relief was warring with panic in him. On the one hand, he could directly land on Earth, but on the other the Galra would see one of their own hijacked ships landing there.

He would have to hope he created enough of a warning for the Watchtower and other interplanetary defenses to prepare.

Some part of him was even hopeful that he would be hailed by the Watchtower or met halfway by J’onn or Superman.

Instead, he was greeted with nothing. He had little capacity to dwell on that rather concerning fact. His descent and landing were dangerous and difficult enough that it took much of his piloting expertise to make it survivable. He had spent a lot of time in simulators learning how to crash ships in ways that kept the cabin intact, but this was an unfamiliar ship and simulations could never quite capture the desperation of how badly he wanted to live.

He was rather proud of himself for landing not only on the same continent as the Garrison, but in the same desert as the headquarters. It would be hard for either the League or military to miss the smoke and flames of a crashing spaceship, he knew he would not be left waiting long. He smiled at the sandstone filling the viewport and gave into the unconsciousness his throbbing temple begged for.

**************

A/N So that's the end of Shiro's imprisonment. Ik this is a lot of build up without actual Batfam interaction, but the way I want to tell this story is going through how Shiro's outlook on the canon story would be different with a Batfam background. SO we've got next chapter which is like Bruce and Batfam hearing about shit on earth, then a chapter of Shiro with the Voltron squad and honestly like the actual Shiro and DC characters present interactions will happen in a few chapters but the like pacing of this fic is more rushed at the start because I want the exposition to build up to the like last 5 chapters which will be slower paced.

Honestly I had about 4 different voltron fic ideas, and bc i know myself and that I would only have the dedication to do one long fic, I combined them so like Solaan was created for a different story and I really liked them and they fill in some plot holes so.

ALso! Duke Thomas! introduced next chapter!

#the bat paladin #shiro #batfam #voltron #vld #my writing #guess who's back kids #this is shiro's lowpoint #nothing good happens in this chapter

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rhnuzlocke · 7 years

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Epilogue

[Two years later, the Pokemon League stadium in Ever Grande is full once more. The last few stragglers are settling into their seats and everyone is waiting for the match to begin.]

Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, the challenger has made it through the Elite Four and will now face the reigning Champion. Should he lose this final battle, he will receive the title of Victor to acknowledge his victory over the Elite Four as well a cash prize. Should he win, he will receive the title of Champion and all the honors and responsibilities that go along with it. Now, please welcome your current League Champion, Ren Kosugi!

[The crowd erupts as Ren walks out onto the field followed by her team.]

Announcer: And her defending team, Tāraki the sceptile!

[Tāraki leaps forward and spins, performing a complicated sweep with his tail, then roars at the top of his voice.]

Announcer: Akahata the mightyena!

[Akahata raises her ruff and snarls sparks flying from her jaws.]

Announcer: Māia the taillow!

[Māia swoops off of Ren’s shoulder, twirls in the air and lets out a boomburst that shakes the stands.]

Announcer: Putenga the breloom!

[Putenga’s tail cracks like a whip as she strikes. She then leans back on it to deliver a powerful double kick.]

Announcer: Kata the grumpig!

[Kata bounces forward and waves to her fans, basking in the applause.]

Announcer: And Naihi the absol!

[Naihi slices to and fro with her horn before flashing her long foreclaws and letting out a long ghostly howl that echoes through the stadium. The cheers and chanting continue until the announcer's voice booms over the speaker once more.]

Announcer: And now, please welcome the challenger, Josh Takamoana!

[Josh and his team walk out onto the opposite side of the field. He has grown another inch or two and is a lot less scrawny than he used to be. He is also dressed a great deal better and his leather vest shows off his tattooed arms.]

Announcer: And his team, Fang the mightyena!

[Fang raises her brown hackles and barks out a challenge, dark energy massing around her jaws.]

Announcer: Shade the Crobat!

[Shade leaps up with a burst of air and glides in a tight circle, leaving vapor trails from all four of his wings.]

Announcer: Poppy the mawile!

[Poppy turns her back to the crowd and bares her huge fangs before her huge, crocodilian jaws snap shut like a bear trap.]

Announcer: Frightful the talonflame!

[Frightful rockets into the air and scatters flames like a firework.]

Announcer: Inlé the froslass!

[Inlé fades away into a lavender mist only to reemerge in a completely different location with her exaggerated jaws gaping wide and a sinister cackling echoing through the stadium.]

Announcer: And Kapu the manectric!

[The shiny manectric zips to the front, leaving a trail of electricity in his wake. He howls, fur glistening like a starry night as sparks shoot from his pelt.]

Announcer: Champion and challenger, shake hands.

[Ren and Josh walk forward, but Ren breaks into a run for the last few strides and jumps on Josh. He catches her easily but gives her a disapproving look.]

Josh: Could you behave for two minutes? This is kind of a big deal for me.

Ren: I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking proud of you! You even beat Steven!

Josh: Well he does have the type restriction. Can I put you down now?

Ren: Yes. [Josh sets her down.] So you want serious Ren, huh?

Josh: Please.

Ren: Alright then, [she wipes her hand down her face replacing her smile with an intense expression] gameface. I’m gonna stomp you flat, hotshot.

Josh: We’ll see about that.

Ren: [offering her hand] Let’s do this thing.

[They shake hands firmly, both smiling now, and walk back to their respective sides of the arena. Ren nods to Tāraki who gleefully takes the field and motions to Frightful who spreads her wings and takes to the air.]

Announcer: The Champion has chosen sceptile and the challenger has chosen talonflame. Let the battle begin!

[Ren mega evolves Tāraki right off the bat to up his fire resistance but Josh and Frightful keep up with the flame charges, building speed until they are faster than the mega sceptile. Even this is not quite enough and Tāraki snags the talonflame out of the air and slams her on the ground. Tāraki’s victory is short-lived as Inlé takes him down with a single ice beam. Naihi takes his place and the froslass does her best to stay out of reach of her old teammate. She is faster and weakens the absol considerably, but Naihi eventually lands a critical night slash and Inlé goes down. Poppy takes her place and josh mega evolves her using the keystone on his wrist. She takes Naihi down with a play rough and Putenga takes her place. Ren and her breloom play the long game, trying to bog the mega mawile down with leech seed. Putenga manages to land paralysis by closing quarters, but Josh and Poppy throw it off and finish Putenga with an iron head. Kata jumps in and finishes the mega mawile off with a series of charge beams from afar. Kapu rushes forward to face her, using his superior speed to dodge her supercharged psychic attacks and strike back with his own charge beams. A psyshock and thunderbolt meet in the air and send both parties reeling back. Next Māia and Shade duke it out for quite a while. They are both fast and almost equally maneuverable but Māia eventually wins with a perfectly timed boomburst only to have to withdraw to be treated for the crobat’s poison. Finally it is just the two mightyena’s facing off. Josh and Fang go for a sand attack/crunch combo to weaken and disorient their opponent and Ren and Akahata respond with a thunder fang that paralyzes the other mightyena. Fang intercepts Akahata’s rock smash with a sucker punch and follows it up with a take down. Akahata goes tumbling but bounces back to her feet and delivers another rock smash right to Fang’s skull. The brown mightyena can’t get away due to paralysis and collapses.]

Announcer: The challenger’s mightyena is down. Champion Ren Kosugi wins!

[The crowd erupts into cheers and Josh walks out onto the field to check on his pokemon. Fang lifts her head and he kneels down to hug her tightly. Ren walks out to check on them and two medics come to see to Fang. Ren offers Josh her hand and he takes it. She pulls him up and they wave to the crowd before taking a bow.]

Announcer: Josh Takamoana is awarded the title of Victor for his triumph over the Elite Four!

[Ren smiles and Josh hugs her as the people from his box and Ren’s file out into the stadium. The first to get to them is a young woman who looks a lot like Josh. She throws her arms around him and he hugs her back.]

Hannah: Ahhhhh! Josh! You did so well! Who would have thought my baby brother would be a Victor?

Josh: You’re only a year older than me.

Hannah: You’re the youngest and that makes you the baby forever. No exceptions.

[Josh sighs. The rest of the group, consisting of Hartmann, Brenton, Terra, Moana, Whenua, Kai, Wally, Steven and Zinnia, has arrived by this point.]

Hartman: Ugh, this is why it’s better not to have siblings. [shaking Josh’s hand and patting him on the back] Congrats, bro. That was something else.

Ren: Long time, no see, Hannah.

Hannah: Sorry! [giving Ren a kiss on each cheek] Did you really have to beat him?

Ren: It is my solemn duty.

[By this point Terra and Moana have shoved Hartmann and Brenton out of the way to offer their own congratulations. They move aside to give Whenua space and she offers Josh a wordless fistbump, which he is both shocked and honored to receive. Wally is next to shake his hand.]

Wally: That was even closer than my Victor match! [to Ren] I still say I’ll beat you one of these days.

Ren: No fair! Let me rest.

Kai: [shaking Josh’s hand] Congratulations, that was really awsome.

Josh: Thanks. [turning to Steven] Oh, Steven, is Sanmei going to be okay?

Steven: She’s fine, but I may have to take her to Puaka to be polished and sharpened. The medics here don’t have the equipment. [shaking his hand] Congratulations on beating me, Josh.

Josh: Thank you. Congratulations on your master’s.

Steven: [beaming] Thank you. I’ve been working on it so long it doesn’t feel real.

[Zinnia elbows Steven out of the way and Josh holds out his hand, but she gives him a cuff on the shoulder instead.]

Zinnia: You couldn’t wait another week until Stony was out of town so I could fight you, kid?

Josh: Are you ever going to stop calling me ‘kid’?

Zinnia: Nope.

Josh: Then I definitely had other plans and couldn’t.

Steven: What she means is she’s proud of how far you’ve come.

Zinnia: Shut up.

Steven: I’m just trying to help.

Josh: Hey Wally, are we still recording tomorrow?

Wally: If you’re up for it. I really like that improvising you were doing last week and I thought of a way to teak it to fit into the composition. I was hoping we could try a few variations.

Josh: Sure thing.

Ren: Okay, glad that going well, but Josh and I need to have a little chat if you’ll excuse us. [taking his arms and steering him away] We’ll meet you all outside.

[They leave their friends to chat among themselves in the middle of the stadium while they head for the champion side doors.]

Josh: What are we talking about.

Ren: Well, I know you may not super love me right now, but I could really use your help with something.

Josh: You’re the reason I made it here in the first place. It’s fine. Shoot.

[They go through the doors and down the hall.]

Ren: Alright then, there has never been a dark-type gym in Hoenn. In fact, there has never been a dark-type gym in most regions of the world and I don’t know about you, but that is seriously starting to piss me off.

Josh: People are superstitious. It isn’t fair, but what are you going to do about it?

Ren: I want you to start a dark type-gym in Mauville.

Josh: But—

Ren: Wattson is retiring soon and the gym has no fixed type. Wattson decoupled it from grid maintenance a while back. And sure Route 110 has a lot of electric types, but Mauville is also adjacent to the habitats of most of the region’s dark-types. It’s perfect!

Josh: You think I can be a gym leader?

Ren: Of course I do or I wouldn’t be asking. You’ve grown up a lot in the time I’ve known you. You’re even-tempered and responsible and devoted to your pokemon and the well-being of pokemon in general. You’re always trying to help others and give back to the community. Those are exactly the kind of qualities that make an excellent gym leader. Besides, Sydney and Wattson and I will totally help you every step of the way. It probably won’t re-open for a year, but whoever is running it is going to need some time to prepare, so you have to let me know soon, okay?

Josh: I’ll do it.

Ren: [thrusting her fist in the air] YES!

Josh: I’m— I’m really honored that you asked me.

Ren: You’re just the person for the job.

[Josh smiles a little to himself and puts his hands in his pockets as they turn a corner down a different hallway.]

Josh: So you’re making a dark-type gym and you already changed the League rules to have substitute Gym Leaders and Elite Four. Are you planning on turning the whole thing on its head?

Ren: My time on the throne is limited. I have to leave my mark!

Josh: Alright. I’ll do what I can to help.

Ren: You’re the best.

[Josh is to awkward to accept the compliment gracefully, so he says nothing at all, instead turning away so that she can’t see his face. They are nearing the end of the hall and door that says exit above it.]

Josh: Hey Ren.

Ren: Yeah?

Josh: Thank you for believing in me and… thank you for the family. I know I’m not good at showing it, but it really means the world to me. [He swallows thickly.] I still can’t believe they all came out to watch me, even Whenua.

Ren: [stopping] Josh…

Josh: [wiping his eyes] I know. I j-j-j— I didn’t think I’d ever have a family again. S-so thank you.

Ren: [reaching up to take his shoulder] You’re welcome. But just remember you helped build it too.

Josh: [wiping his nose] Okay.

Ren: Ready to go out and join them? I made dinner reservations.

Josh: [big sniff and then gameface] Yeah.

[Ren opens the door and everyone is waiting for them a ways off. The sun is setting behind them and the grass looks bright and golden in the light. The humans are all in a loose circle while the pokemon all mill about together. Inlé and Kata are having some kind of wrestling match while Fang is deep in conversation with Akahata and Naihi. Māia is leading Shade and Frightful through some sort of maneuver over everyone’s heads while Tāraki catches up with Jay and Kihei. The humans look up as Ren and Josh approach and make room for them. Ren makes her announcement and everyone starts clapping or patting Josh on the back and shoulders. He finally cracks a big grin and there is a chorus of “awws” from the gathering. Ren rallies them and they all head off for dinner together.]

#pokemon #Nuzlocke #Oras #running hot nuzlocke #story #epilogue #Ren #Josh #Steven #Zinnia #Wally #Kai #THE END FOR REALS

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thecrossovergames · 7 years

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Accepted: Adrian Ivashkov

ava dared me

OOC

Name: meg

Age: 20

Preferred Pronouns: queen, your highness

Activity Level: remember when we used to rate this out of 10

Timezone: time isn’t real

Limits/Triggers: megarine

Previous Roleplay Accounts: what’s roleplay

Additional Characters: i can’t say, it’s a surprise

Character Name: Adrian Ivashkov

Character Age/Birthday: 27/August 3rd

Character Species*: Wizard

Character Faceclaim: Max Irons

District of Origin: District One

Strengths:

- Charismatic: Blessed with a conventionally attractive face and raised with the need to lie to get attention, Adrian is sensitive to the personalities of others and can manipulate their weaknesses to get what he wants from them. Though he’s never felt the need to use his charm for malicious means, he knows he has this trick safely tucked in his belt for safe keeping if the need should ever arise.

- Compassionate: Though it may be hard to get through Adrian’s careless and often emotionally disinterested exterior, the man has a heart that often leads him into trouble. While he may be flirty and laid back in first encounters, once he actually cares about someone, Adrian cares with his entire being. He would go to great lengths to keep the ones he loves happy and alive, even if that meant giving up his own life.

- Wizardry: Being the only safe haven he had ever had away from his home life (excluding his aunt), Adrian had excelled at Hogwarts and mastering his magic in general. Being a pureblood had offered opportunities that perhaps some of his peers had lacked, and Adrian had taken advantage of each and every one thrown his way. His O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s hadn’t had the best of scores, as standardized testing had never been his forte, but his proficiency in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms had been promising, and he’d been allowed to advance in his studies to graduation at seventeen.

- Bravery: Adrian hadn’t followed the footsteps of many in his district, and his parents had never forced him down the path of the Careers. This left him less than physically capable in fights. But his physical limitations had never stopped Adrian from, maybe a little recklessly sometimes, jumping into any situation to do what he believed was right. It is still one of his defining characteristics to this day, even if the people he’s being brave for don’t necessarily want him to be.

Weaknesses:

- Mentally Ill: While he’s never been properly diagnosed, Adrian suffers from severe depression and issues of self-loathing. On good days, he can see the beauty in the world and can find it in himself to believe those that say they love him. On his worst days, it’s hard to be alive. Hallucinations, however brief, are not uncommon during these bad episodes, and sometimes he can flip from good to bad like a switch.

- Addiction: Medication and counseling for said diseases had never been considered by Adrian. Having only ever seen his mother’s method for dealing with the madness, he began self-medicating with alcohol and, specifically, clove cigarettes, at a very young age. While they often only really brought numbness to his mind and no real relief from the onslaught of pain, the break from feeling anything at all was still a worthy trade-off, no matter how often he’d get in trouble at Hogwarts or at home. Living under Paylor’s strict rules is difficult, and without his ‘medication’, Adrian finds himself relapsing and having violent episodes often.

- Physical Weakness: Adrian may be well-versed in the abilities of magic and its usefulness in battle, but it’s very easy to catch him without his wand. Having had no Career training like many of his counterparts in the Nut, and no basic combat training period, Adrian would be dead in the water in any real fight. While this may not have caused him so much trouble in his youth, having come from a wealthy family in a wealthy district, the world they live in now calls for a much different set of skills. One that Adrian, unfortunately, does not possess. Not that he’d ever admit that.

- Empathy: Maybe due to his illnesses, or the lack of said weakness he was shown in his childhood, Adrian has a sense of empathy that is hyper sensitive. He feels everything, from everyone, whether he wants to or not. His ability to relate to people goes beyond just compassion – it’s as if he’s living the exact events they are, experiencing the same emotions as those he’d try to comfort. In the end, it’s often him that’s being comforted, instead of the other way around. And, eventually, those feelings too get shoved behind a wall of numbness brought on by several drinks and, occasionally, a nice woman.

Biography:

Adrian Ivashkov had grown up in what many would consider a cushy life. Having never had to fear starvation or homelessness left Adrian with a distinct advantage over many of his peers, and he’d never taken it for granted. However, this headstart on life hadn’t meant that his had been easy. Adrian had learned the hard way that not all parents were loving, and that the people meant to care about you the most often would be happier with you gone.

Nathan and Daniella Ivashkov had gotten married too young, and had made one too many mistakes along the way. Their biggest, perhaps, had been their only son. They’d made no attempt to hide their regret over his life, and the only love that had ever come Adrian’s way as a child had been from his great-aunt. She had been the only one he’d striven to please, and subsequently, for all intents and purposes, it had been Tatiana that had raised the boy. Adrian may have lived with his mother and father for the duration of his childhood, but it had been his Aunt Tatiana that had attended extracurricular activities, birthdays, and, when his Hogwarts acceptance letter arrived, purchased his supplies and saw him off on the train. She had been the only one he’d miss away at school, and she was the only one that ever cared enough about his studies to praise him when he did well – despite their whole family being pureblood.

Adrian’s first few years at Hogwarts had been pleasant. Easy, even, for a child that picked up on new subjects relatively quickly. Gryffindor had been the house he’d been sorted into, and he’d quickly charmed his way into the hearts of most of his professors. As classes picked up after his third year, however, he began slacking. Adrian became lazy, often dozing in the middle of classes or ditching them altogether, assuming that he’d be able to ride by on physical skill alone for the rest of his academic career. This, of course, was not the case, and despite his proficiency in the actual act of casting spells, his written grades suffered. Enough teachers had taken pity on him to allow him to proceed on to graduation, but many were frustrated with his lack of commitment and refused to recommend the man for any job opportunities beyond the school. But Adrian had already known what he was going to do with his life after Hogwarts, and the impact of said professors had little effect.

Leaving the place that had given him a home away from his parents had been difficult for him. But with his family’s wealth, and a new sense of living independently, Adrian had rushed directly from his graduation to the Capitol to live closer to the only other thing that had ever made him feel remotely worthwhile – his aunt. He knew of her going-ons in the Capitol, knew what her purpose serving under Voldemort was. He knew of the tortures and of his great-aunt’s involvement. But growing up with only her love had left this deep attachment to her that Adrian couldn’t quite shake, and he lived peacefully knowing that for every life she’d taken, or had a hand in taking, she’d helped him heal his own and had stayed with him through all of the mood swings and emotional upheaval his parents had caused in him. Eventually, years later, when she passed and Voldemort had been brought down, this too would be his undoing.

Adrian had ended up in the second arena, alongside all of Coin’s ‘trusted followers’, as one of Voldemort’s supporters. While at first this had been chaotic, he’d formed a few friendships among those trapped and had earned their trust through their mutual hatred for President Coin. This allowed him safe passage out of the arena with the others during their escape, and he’d quietly stayed with them through all of their moves since, knowing that he and his family were now seen as pariahs in the world outside of this group of rebels. The only real friend he’d kept in contact with (or, pestered, as she’d put it), Rose Hathaway, was now in the Capitol and unable to reach back to their base. Knowing she’d be the only person that would vouch for him on his bad days, Adrian mostly keeps to himself to keep from being seen as a threat when he feels his moods becoming unstable.

Comments/Changes: i bumped his age from my original app bc in the books he’s 5 years older than rose annnnd if i kept his original age now he’d be younger than rose in the rp so… lel

HE’S ALSO A WIZARD NOW NOT VAMP just to keep it closer to like.. VA’s original idea

#accepted #adrian ivashkov #submission

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readbookywooks · 8 years

Text

26 Out in the hall, I find Paylor standing in exactly the same spot. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asks. I hold up the white bud in answer and then stumble past her. I must have made it back to my room, because the next thing I know, I'm filling a glass with water from the bathroom faucet and sticking the rose in it. I sink to my knees on the cold tile and squint at the flower, as the whiteness seems hard to focus on in the stark fluorescent light. My finger catches the inside of my bracelet, twisting it like a tourniquet, hurting my wrist. I'm hoping the pain will help me hang on to reality the way it did for Peeta. I must hang on. I must know the truth about what has happened. There are two possibilities, although the details associated with them may vary. First, as I've believed, that the Capitol sent in that hovercraft, dropped the parachutes, and sacrificed its children's lives, knowing the recently arrived rebels would go to their aid. There's evidence to support this. The Capitol's seal on the hovercraft, the lack of any attempt to blow the enemy out of the sky, and their long history of using children as pawns in their battle against the districts. Then there's Snow's account. That a Capitol hovercraft manned by rebels bombed the children to bring a speedy end to the war. But if this was the case, why didn't the Capitol fire on the enemy? Did the element of surprise throw them? Had they no defenses left? Children are precious to 13, or so it has always seemed. Well, not me, maybe. Once I had outlived my usefulness, I was expendable. Although I think it's been a long time since I've been considered a child in this war. And why would they do it knowing their own medics would likely respond and be taken out by the second blast? They wouldn't. They couldn't. Snow's lying. Manipulating me as he always has. Hoping to turn me against the rebels and possibly destroy them. Yes. Of course. Then what's nagging at me? Those double-exploding bombs, for one. It's not that the Capitol couldn't have the same weapon, it's just that I'm sure the rebels did. Gale and Beetee's brainchild. Then there's the fact that Snow made no escape attempt, when I know him to be the consummate survivor. It seems hard to believe he didn't have a retreat somewhere, some bunker stocked with provisions where he could live out the rest of his snaky little life. And finally, there's his assessment of Coin. What's irrefutable is that she's done exactly what he said. Let the Capitol and the districts run one another into the ground and then sauntered in to take power. Even if that was her plan, it doesn't mean she dropped those parachutes. Victory was already in her grasp. Everything was in her grasp. Except me. I recall Boggs's response when I admitted I hadn't put much thought into Snow's successor. "If your immediate answer isn't Coin, then you're a threat. You're the face of the rebellion. You may have more influence than any other single person. Outwardly, the most you've ever done is tolerated her." Suddenly, I'm thinking of Prim, who was not yet fourteen, not yet old enough to be granted the title of soldier, but somehow working on the front lines. How did such a thing happen? That my sister would have wanted to be there, I have no doubt. That she would be more capable than many older than she is a given. But for all that, someone very high up would have had to approve putting a thirteen-year-old in combat. Did Coin do it, hoping that losing Prim would push me completely over the edge? Or, at least, firmly on her side? I wouldn't even have had to witness it in person. Numerous cameras would be covering the City Circle. Capturing the moment forever. No, now I am going crazy, slipping into some state of paranoia. Too many people would know of the mission. Word would get out. Or would it? Who would have to know besides Coin, Plutarch, and a small, loyal or easily disposable crew? I badly need help working this out, only everyone I trust is dead. Cinna. Boggs. Finnick. Prim. There's Peeta, but he couldn't do any more than speculate, and who knows what state his mind's in, anyway. And that leaves only Gale. He's far away, but even if he were beside me, could I confide in him? What could I say, how could I phrase it, without implying that it was his bomb that killed Prim? The impossibility of that idea, more than any, is why Snow must be lying. Ultimately, there's only one person to turn to who might know what happened and might still be on my side. To broach the subject at all will be a risk. But while I think Haymitch might gamble with my life in the arena, I don't think he'd rat me out to Coin. Whatever problems we may have with each other, we prefer resolving our differences one-on-one. I scramble off the tiles, out the door, and across the hall to his room. When there's no response to my knock, I push inside. Ugh. It's amazing how quickly he can defile a space. Half-eaten plates of food, shattered liquor bottles, and pieces of broken furniture from a drunken rampage scatter his quarters. He lies, unkempt and unwashed, in a tangle of sheets on the bed, passed out. "Haymitch," I say, shaking his leg. Of course, that's insufficient. But I give it a few more tries before I dump the pitcher of water in his face. He comes to with a gasp, slashing blindly with his knife. Apparently, the end of Snow's reign didn't equal the end of his terror. "Oh. You," he says. I can tell by his voice that he's still loaded. "Haymitch," I begin. "Listen to that. The Mockingjay found her voice." He laughs. "Well, Plutarch's going to be happy." He takes a swig from a bottle. "Why am I soaking wet?" I lamely drop the pitcher behind me into a pile of dirty clothes. "I need your help," I say. Haymitch belches, filling the air with white liquor fumes. "What is it, sweetheart? More boy trouble?" I don't know why, but this hurts me in a way Haymitch rarely can. It must show on my face, because even in his drunken state, he tries to take it back. "Okay, not funny." I'm already at the door. "Not funny! Come back!" By the thud of his body hitting the floor, I assume he tried to follow me, but there's no point. I zigzag through the mansion and disappear into a wardrobe full of silken things. I yank them from hangers until I have a pile and then burrow into it. In the lining of my pocket, I find a stray morphling tablet and swallow it dry, heading off my rising hysteria. It's not enough to right things, though. I hear Haymitch calling me in the distance, but he won't find me in his condition. Especially not in this new spot. Swathed in silk, I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon awaiting metamorphosis. I always supposed that to be a peaceful condition. At first it is. But as I journey into night, I feel more and more trapped, suffocated by the slippery bindings, unable to emerge until I have transformed into something of beauty. I squirm, trying to shed my ruined body and unlock the secret to growing flawless wings. Despite enormous effort, I remain a hideous creature, fired into my current form by the blast from the bombs. The encounter with Snow opens the door to my old repertoire of nightmares. It's like being stung by tracker jackers again. A wave of horrifying images with a brief respite I confuse with waking - only to find another wave knocking me back. When the guards finally locate me, I'm sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, tangled in silk, screaming my head off. I fight them at first, until they convince me they're trying to help, peel away the choking garments, and escort me back to my room. On the way, we pass a window and I see a gray, snowy dawn spreading across the Capitol. A very hungover Haymitch waits with a handful of pills and a tray of food that neither of us has the stomach for. He makes a feeble attempt to get me to talk again but, seeing it's pointless, sends me to a bath someone has drawn. The tub's deep, with three steps to the bottom. I ease down into the warm water and sit, up to my neck in suds, hoping the medicines kick in soon. My eyes focus on the rose that has spread its petals overnight, filling the steamy air with its strong perfume. I rise and reach for a towel to smother it, when there's a tentative knock and the bathroom door opens, revealing three familiar faces. They try to smile at me, but even Venia can't conceal her shock at my ravaged mutt body. "Surprise!" Octavia squeaks, and then bursts into tears. I'm puzzling over their reappearance when I realize that this must be it, the day of the execution. They've come to prep me for the cameras. Remake me to Beauty Base Zero. No wonder Octavia's crying. It's an impossible task. They can barely touch my patchwork of skin for fear of hurting me, so I rinse and dry off myself. I tell them I hardly notice the pain anymore, but Flavius still winces as he drapes a robe around me. In the bedroom, I find another surprise. Sitting upright in a chair. Polished from her metallic gold wig to her patent leather high heels, gripping a clipboard. Remarkably unchanged except for the vacant look in her eyes. "Effie," I say. "Hello, Katniss." She stands and kisses me on the cheek as if nothing has occurred since our last meeting, the night before the Quarter Quell. "Well, it looks like we've got another big, big, big day ahead of us. So why don't you start your prep and I'll just pop over and check on the arrangements." "Okay," I say to her back. "They say Plutarch and Haymitch had a hard time keeping her alive," comments Venia under her breath. "She was imprisoned after your escape, so that helps." It's quite a stretch. Effie Trinket, rebel. But I don't want Coin killing her, so I make a mental note to present her that way if asked. "I guess it's good Plutarch kidnapped you three after all." "We're the only prep team still alive. And all the stylists from the Quarter Quell are dead," says Venia. She doesn't say who specifically killed them. I'm beginning to wonder if it matters. She gingerly takes one of my scarred hands and holds it out for inspection. "Now, what do you think for the nails? Red or maybe a jet black?" Flavius performs some beauty miracle on my hair, managing to even out the front while getting some of the longer locks to hide the bald spots in the back. My face, since it was spared from the flames, presents no more than the usual challenges. Once I'm in Cinna's Mockingjay suit, the only scars visible are on my neck, forearms, and hands. Octavia secures my Mockingjay pin over my heart and we step back to look in the mirror. I can't believe how normal they've made me look on the outside when inwardly I'm such a wasteland. There's a tap at the door and Gale steps in. "Can I have a minute?" he asks. In the mirror, I watch my prep team. Unsure of where to go, they bump into one another a few times and then closet themselves in the bathroom. Gale comes up behind me and we examine each other's reflection. I'm searching for something to hang on to, some sign of the girl and boy who met by chance in the woods five years ago and became inseparable. I'm wondering what would have happened to them if the Hunger Games had not reaped the girl. If she would have fallen in love with the boy, married him even. And sometime in the future, when the brothers and sisters had been raised up, escaped with him into the woods and left 12 behind forever. Would they have been happy, out in the wild, or would the dark, twisted sadness between them have grown up even without the Capitol's help? "I brought you this." Gale holds up a sheath. When I take it, I notice it holds a single, ordinary arrow. "It's supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of the war." "What if I miss?" I say. "Does Coin retrieve it and bring it back to me? Or just shoot Snow through the head herself?" "You won't miss." Gale adjusts the sheath on my shoulder. We stand there, face-to-face, not meeting each other's eyes. "You didn't come see me in the hospital." He doesn't answer, so finally I just say it. "Was it your bomb?" "I don't know. Neither does Beetee," he says. "Does it matter? You'll always be thinking about it." He waits for me to deny it; I want to deny it, but it's true. Even now I can see the flash that ignites her, feel the heat of the flames. And I will never be able to separate that moment from Gale. My silence is my answer. "That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family," he says. "Shoot straight, okay?" He touches my cheek and leaves. I want to call him back and tell him that I was wrong. That I'll figure out a way to make peace with this. To remember the circumstances under which he created the bomb. Take into account my own inexcusable crimes. Dig up the truth about who dropped the parachutes. Prove it wasn't the rebels. Forgive him. But since I can't, I'll just have to deal with the pain. Effie comes in to usher me to some kind of meeting. I collect my bow and at the last minute remember the rose, glistening in its glass of water. When I open the door to the bathroom, I find my prep team sitting in a row on the edge of the tub, hunched and defeated. I remember I'm not the only one whose world has been stripped away. "Come on," I tell them. "We've got an audience waiting." I'm expecting a production meeting in which Plutarch instructs me where to stand and gives me my cue for shooting Snow. Instead, I find myself sent into a room where six people sit around a table. Peeta, Johanna, Beetee, Haymitch, Annie, and Enobaria. They all wear the gray rebel uniforms from 13. No one looks particularly well. "What's this?" I say. "We're not sure," Haymitch answers. "It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors." "We're all that's left?" I ask. "The price of celebrity," says Beetee. "We were targeted from both sides. The Capitol killed the victors they suspected of being rebels. The rebels killed those thought to be allied with the Capitol." Johanna scowls at Enobaria. "So what's she doing here?" "She is protected under what we call the Mockingjay Deal," says Coin as she enters behind me. "Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for captured victors' immunity. Katniss has upheld her side of the bargain, and so shall we." Enobaria smiles at Johanna. "Don't look so smug," says Johanna. "We'll kill you anyway." "Sit down, please, Katniss," says Coin, closing the door. I take a seat between Annie and Beetee, carefully placing Snow's rose on the table. As usual, Coin gets right to the point. "I've asked you here to settle a debate. Today we will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this." Through the water in the glass, I see a distorted image of one of Peeta's hands. The burn marks. We are both fire mutts now. My eyes travel up to where the flames licked across his forehead, singeing away his brows but just missing his eyes. Those same blue eyes that used to meet mine and then flit away at school. Just as they do now. "So, an alternative has been placed on the table. Since my colleagues and I can come to no consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the victors decide. A majority of four will approve the plan. No one may abstain from the vote," says Coin. "What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power." All seven of us turn to her. "What?" says Johanna. "We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children," says Coin. "Are you joking?" asks Peeta. "No. I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security," Coin tells us. "Was this Plutarch's idea?" asks Haymitch. "It was mine," says Coin. "It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes." "No!" bursts out Peeta. "I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!" "Why not?" Johanna retorts. "It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes." "So do I," says Enobaria, almost indifferently. "Let them have a taste of their own medicine." "This is why we rebelled! Remember?" Peeta looks at the rest of us. "Annie?" "I vote no with Peeta," she says. "So would Finnick if he were here." "But he isn't, because Snow's mutts killed him," Johanna reminds her. "No," says Beetee. "It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No." "We're down to Katniss and Haymitch," says Coin. Was it like this then? Seventy-five years or so ago? Did a group of people sit around and cast their votes on initiating the Hunger Games? Was there dissent? Did someone make a case for mercy that was beaten down by the calls for the deaths of the districts' children? The scent of Snow's rose curls up into my nose, down into my throat, squeezing it tight with despair. All those people I loved, dead, and we are discussing the next Hunger Games in an attempt to avoid wasting life. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change now. I weigh my options carefully, think everything through. Keeping my eyes on the rose, I say, "I vote yes...for Prim." "Haymitch, it's up to you," says Coin. A furious Peeta hammers Haymitch with the atrocity he could become party to, but I can feel Haymitch watching me. This is the moment, then. When we find out exactly just how alike we are, and how much he truly understands me. "I'm with the Mockingjay," he says. "Excellent. That carries the vote," says Coin. "Now we really must take our places for the execution." As she passes me, I hold up the glass with the rose. "Can you see that Snow's wearing this? Just over his heart?" Coin smiles. "Of course. And I'll make sure he knows about the Games." "Thank you," I say. People sweep into the room, surround me. The last touch of powder, the instructions from Plutarch as I'm guided to the front doors of the mansion. The City Circle runs over, spills people down the side streets. The others take their places outside. Guards. Officials. Rebel leaders. Victors. I hear the cheers that indicate Coin has appeared on the balcony. Then Effie taps my shoulder, and I step out into the cold winter sunlight. Walk to my position, accompanied by the deafening roar of the crowd. As directed, I turn so they see me in profile, and wait. When they march Snow out the door, the audience goes insane. They secure his hands behind a post, which is unnecessary. He's not going anywhere. There's nowhere to go. This is not the roomy stage before the Training Center but the narrow terrace in front of the president's mansion. No wonder no one bothered to have me practice. He's ten yards away. I feel the bow purring in my hand. Reach back and grasp the arrow. Position it, aim at the rose, but watch his face. He coughs and a bloody dribble runs down his chin. His tongue flicks over his puffy lips. I search his eyes for the slightest sign of anything, fear, remorse, anger. But there's only the same look of amusement that ended our last conversation. It's as if he's speaking the words again. "Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other." He's right. We did. The point of my arrow shifts upward. I release the string. And President Coin collapses over the side of the balcony and plunges to the ground. Dead.

#Mockingjay

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