#cat writes

[catbolt]

— PRETTY

[SOUNDTRACK] Pretty - The Weeknd || ▶︎

Sylus doesn't take breakups lying down. Well... maybe lying on top of you.

[TAGS] sylus x female mc, angst, smut, rough sex, ex-boyfriend!Sylus, cheating (with him) (on Zayne eek), dubcon sorta, choking, Evol, mentions of blood, glasses sylus bc it's soooo hot

[A/N] my debut fic for LADS (have not written for genuinely years so forgive any rustiness, first time doing any smut also, so i was frankly a bit light with it.) More angst than smut tbh as that is my comfort zone hehe. 100% inspired by "pretty" by the weeknd from my sylus playlist

plz reblog and share or comment if you want! Feel free to leave any thoughts or feedback as this is my first time writing in a while :)

[WC] 5.1k

songfic 1/?

Sylus’ call comes unexpectedly. As his calls always did, but especially this time, considering the last time they talked she had cursed him out and damn near trashed his house, saying she was done, telling him to delete her number. He had sat on the couch with an impassive stare, arms crossed, legs splayed leisurely, completely silent. This had just enraged her even further, and she had thrown a pillow at him, desperate for some kind of reaction. He had caught it and set it down next to him calmly, continuing to refuse to give her even a morsel of proof he cared.

Whatever the two of them had had, it was over. She thought she had made that extremely clear. So her eyebrows furrow in confusion and annoyance when his name comes up on her phone screen. Sylus wouldn’t be the type to beg for her back, so what could he possibly be calling her for? Especially when he knew she was going on an out of town mission?

Especially when he knew Zayne was on this mission with her?

Against her better judgment, she accepts the call and leans back in her chair in her hotel room, mouth drawing into an irritated grimace. “What.”

The line crackles with his dark, familiar laughter. “Hello to you too.” “Talk,” she spits.

“I’m on a flight,” he says. “To where you are. I’ll be landing in an hour. Let’s see each other.”

“I don’t think so,” she retorts immediately, seething  at his audacity-- how he could possibly be calling her right now as if what had happened last week was nothing. 

“Ah. Let me rephrase. That wasn’t a question,” he says sternly. “I will be seeing you when I land. Consider this a courtesy heads-up.”

“You don’t know where I am,” she responds. “I am not seeing you. It’s late and I have work tomorrow.” “Don’t piss me off.” He snarls. “I don’t like being underestimated. I obviously know exactly where you are.”

She grits her teeth, realizing she should have anticipated that, but quickly regains her composure. She’s used to the back and forth with him. “Don’t tell me you came all this way to see me.” “Of course not,” he says coldly. “I’m here on business. I just happen to have a free night.” His voice softens. “And I’d like to spend it with you.”

Her hands curl into fists. “Don’t act like I didn’t tell you to your face to never contact me again. What the hell are you doing?”

Sylus doesn’t respond for a moment, and then the silence is broken with his chuckle. “You didn’t block me. So it seems you weren’t as adamant about that as you acted.”

Her cheeks redden with shame. He’s obviously right, she didn’t block him-- something had stopped her, even though she knew she should have. In the back of her mind, she had maybe fantasized about him calling her desperately, apologizing, begging for her back, and her crushing his hopes coldly like he had done to her so many times before.

“It doesn’t matter. You know I’m with Zayne now,” she says matter-of-factly. “You have no right to see me. I’m with somebody else.”

“I said don’t piss me off,” he bites, the simmer of irritation beginning to seep into his voice. It gives her a shiver of satisfaction knowing that she’s able to get under his skin even just a little. She leans into the receiver. “In fact, I was just on my way to his place now. It was a long day... we definitely both need to rest up together.”

The line falls quiet, and then Sylus finally replies, voice icy and measured. “You can’t possibly think I’m buying that, are you? Please, princess. I told you I’ll be there in an hour. Doll yourself up for me. I’ll take you out.”

The line drops. She scoffs, shaking her head. She’s pissed that he saw through her lie about Zayne-- he’s still working late, and there’s no way she’ll be seeing him tonight. She wonders what gave it away. Was it that he’s got men spying on them, or was it that her voice betrayed a hint of halfheartedness when she lied?

Her heart thuds, and her mind snaps back to the situation at hand. One hour. She sits still in the seat, completely unsure of her next move. Deep down she knows whether she likes it or not, Sylus will be on her doorstep right when he said he would. It’d be fruitless to attempt to escape him when he has eyes everywhere. So her plan... should be to fend him off. 

Her resolve was always weak when it came to that, but she tries to steel herself, taking deep breaths, recounting all the times he had ignored her, pushed her aside, forgotten about her. She tries to channel that resentment into a cold hard shell around her. She won’t be weak again. Not now. Not when she’s found someone good and kind who’s shown her that she’s worth time and effort. She won’t “doll herself up” for him. It’s her turn to show she doesn’t care.

The hour ticks by in a second, and there’s a steady knock on her door. Her heart sinks-- she had hoped that somehow his plans would have been foiled by some unexpected flight delay, but he was right on time as always. She sits still on the corner of her bed, unmoving. 

“Don’t make me pick the lock,” he chides softly. His voice is muffled through the wood, but the gleam of amusement shines through. She buries her face in her palms for a moment, and then slowly walks up to open the door just a crack. 

He pushes it fully open with a strong hand, smirk playing on his lips already as he looks down at her. “Still in your uniform,” he chides. “You want to wear that?”

“You are not taking me out.” She responds coldly, turning to walk over and sit at the coffee table again, not meeting his gaze. She needs to maintain distance. 

“If you’d rather stay here, we could make that work.” Sylus shuts the door quietly behind him and then leans his back against it, posture casual in a way that sends a spike of annoyance through her. This is why they broke up in the first place-- he was always so motherfucking casual about everything, even her, face betraying not a sliver of his true feelings. 

“What do you even want from me?” She snaps, eyes glued to the coffee table. Anything to avoid looking at him. “I told you I’m with someone else. I’m not interested in restarting anything with you.”

“When did I say anything about that?” He chuckles, clearing the room in a few swift strides and sitting on the loveseat opposite her. He’s wearing a casual sweater and sweatpants-- even his glasses, which he usually doesn’t. His hair is mussed up a bit, and she notices light bags under his eyes that give her pause. Something’s definitely up. She doesn’t know what, but doesn’t want to ask. She can’t invite more conversation if her goal is to get him out of this room. 

“I just want to take you out,” he murmurs, head now resting in his hand. “Is that a crime?” “Yes, when I’m spoken for by another man, it is.” She glares at him. “What about me being with someone else do you not understand?” “Does he make you feel pretty?” Sylus drawls, red eyes flickering with a hint of contempt. Her breath catches slightly, not anticipating the question. “What--”

“Does he?” Sylus pushes, leaning forward in his seat. “Does he make you feel beautiful?” “I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“No.” he cuts her off. “He doesn’t.” 

She’s stunned into silence. He leans back again, chuckling and pushing up his glasses, a motion that unfortunately sends a familiar fire coursing down her body, through her chest to her abdomen. “You didn’t fight me when I came in. You didn’t yell, or tell me to leave. That tells me all I need to know, love.”

“Don’t call me that,” she sneers back. 

Suddenly Sylus’ hand is gripping her chin hard, forcing her head to meet his eyes. He’s closer than she had realized, his eyes staring deep into her own. “He can’t make you feel this pretty,” Sylus rumbles, his thumb tracing her jaw, expression an inscrutable mask. 

In a moment, she finds herself sprawled out on the hotel bed before she can think. His Evol-- he can throw her around how he pleases, she reminds herself, mind flashing with memories she’s tried to forget of all the compromising positions her body’s been twisted into at his whim. He’s standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed across his chest as he looks down at her. She feels the heat of his gaze like two laser pointers as they examine her, lingering on every part of her. It's as if she’s under a scientist’s microscope. His gaze is unfeeling, but still somehow red-hot, and she can’t help the way her chest heaves up and down, feeling so observed.

He takes note of her body’s involuntary reaction. “He can’t make you feel like this by just looking at you, can he doll?”

“Fuck you,” she barks, face flushed with shame as she backs up on the bed, increasing the distance between the two. He smirks. “You’d like to?”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that what you’re here for? Sex?”

“No,” he muses, sitting down at the corner of the bed, looking at her. “Though I’m not opposed. I wanted to see you. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Her breath is coming out ragged. She can’t hide her anger much longer. “How are you acting like nothing happened? We--I-- I don’t love you! I don’t want you! What about that is so hard for you to understand?”

“Liar,” he hums in a sing-song tone, brow quirking as he meets your harsh stare cooly. “I don’t understand it because it’s a lie, sweetie. If I touched you right now your body would tell me the truth. But I already know it.” His face is smug. She wants to slap him.

“Just-- just because I might still be attracted to you doesn’t mean I would ever do anything with you again, Sylus. I have morals,” she spits.

In a red flash, he’s on top of her, a finger pressed into the center of her chest, other hand braced on the headboard. Her body convulses involuntarily in shock of his sudden proximity as well as the feeling of his skin-- even just his fingertip-- pressed against her.

He grins at her reaction. “That’s my girl.” 

“Get the fuck off me,” she hisses up at him. He lowers himself so his lips touch her earlobe, so his chest is pressed against hers. “No,” he whispers simply.

At this distance, she can see even more strikingly the weariness in his features. His skin is rough. His eyes are tired. There’s a small pimple on his cheek, a hint at the fact he must have been skipping his skincare routine that he’s always been so adamant about staying on top of.

For a moment she relishes in the thought that his undone-ness is because of her. Her instincts get the better of her, and she ensnares a fist in his sweater, pulling him down even lower, tilting her head to whisper in his ear, now--

“You look like shit. Are you sad about me?”

He reels back in surprise, eyes clouding for the first time with something other than smugness, brows momentarily twitching, betraying his facade. His hand wraps around her throat, holding her into the pillow, the touch gentle but forceful. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds her steady. His mask is on before she can double back.

“Can’t a man have an off day?” he chides her. “Maybe I haven’t slept so well. I was just on a long flight. Sue me.”

“Doesn’t look like it was just a day,” she responds instantly. “Looks like an off month. Are you finally regretting being a dick?”

He sneers, hand twitching around her throat, but he remains gentle. “I’m not a dick.”

“You are a huge fucking dick,” she spits back. He leans back off her, rising into a kneeling position, smirking down at her, releasing his hand from her neck It’s then she realizes she’s been holding her breath even though he hadn’t been choking her.

“Then why are you still lying here under me? If I’m such a dick?” 

“You’re just gonna use your Evol to put me back. It’s no use fighting you,” she retorts, but inwardly she knows she could have at least tried to struggle, shame rising in her stomach. 

“I’m not buying that, sweetheart.” He absentmindedly hooks a finger in the top of her uniform and pops the top button open with one hand. Her face flushes involuntarily at the gesture. “W-what are you doing?”

“Seeing how long it’ll take you to shove me off. If you really do hate me so much as you say.” He murmurs, finger sliding down to pop open another button. 

Her body freezes, her breath stilting into uneven inhales and exhales. It’s as if Sylus’ Evol is pinning her down, restraining her movement, but he isn’t-- he’s barely restraining her, only his finger on her body now, wrapping in the cleft of her shirt and undoing yet another button. Yet she can’t find the strength to move, eyes hazing over with the familiar lust she’s always had for him, and something further-- adoration, as she watches his face concentrated on her body. Even in this disheveled state he radiates, makes her heart swell against her will, beat hard and insistently like it’s pressing up against her ribs. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, leaning down slowly to kiss at her jaw, lips warm and soft. She chokes back a sigh, clenching her teeth at his touch but still inexplicably unable to move. “You know you want this.” She doesn’t respond, grappling with herself, memories of Zayne rearing, his soft and measured touches, in contrast to Sylus’ raw aggression. Finally, hearing Zayne’s voice in her head, she snaps herself out of her paralysis, hand coming up to push Sylus back, palm flat against his chest. “W-wait.”

He stops, eyes searching her face silently. “I--I--” she stammers, eyes wide, not able to get any words out. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, tracing a thumb across her lips. “I won’t make you ssay it.” He focuses on her, and then she feels heat flood her senses, a key sign he’s using his Evol again, in the other way. Her vision darkens, and she knows here, in this quiet black place he’s taking her, she can’t hide from him. It’s a place where she can only be honest. She feels her back arch as the feelings burst out of her-- I need it, I need you, make me yours, I miss you-- she feels a pang of relief that he’s removed the burden from her of saying it, of forcing her to betray herself, betray Zayne, out loud. But the shame eats away at her, corrosive like acid, as she looks into Sylus’ eyes, watching them glimmer as they decipher her hidden thoughts. 

Sylus focuses, attuned to her mind and body, feeling the words of her consciousness rush in as if uttered directly into his ears, proving what he already knew-- that he still has her wrapped around his finger. “Let me have you,” he purrs, fingers wrapping around yet another button.

Her resolve crumbles with her deepest desires surfaced by his Evol. He makes work quickly of the rest of the buttons, tearing open her shirt, exposing her bra. He growls at the sight,  eyes narrowing. 

“You want this... don’t you?”

Her response is choked in her throat, but manages to slip out despite her better judgment. “Yes,” she moans, and that’s all he needs to hear. His mouth meets her collarbone, sucking attentively. “Good,” he murmurs between kisses. “I’m not fond of sharing, you know.”

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she mutters, her body’s reaction to him involuntary (or so she convinces herself.) “I’m still not... your girlfriend, or anything like that. I don’t even like you.”

“Who said anything about you being my girlfriend?” He mutters, mouth working over her neck now. He smiles into her skin. “Ah. Do you think I came here to get you to be my girlfriend again?”

“No.” She snaps, blushing furiously, her hands landing on his arms that are braced on top of the mattress as he leans over her. “I didn’t say that. I’m just reiterating what should already be beyond clear to you.” “I’ll tell you what’s clear to me,” he murmurs, pulling back for a second, his deep blood-red eyes boring into hers. “What’s clear is... this Zayne guy doesn’t seem to be able to handle this beautiful gift he’s been given, and it seems like this gift herself knows she isn’t being cared for properly. Enjoyed properly.” He hooks a finger into her bra strap. “Or else it wouldn’t have taken her only five minutes to crumble.”

“I’m not going back to you,” she spits out. 

“You never left,” he says softly, a half smile rising on his chapped lips. 

Suddenly she’s being flipped onto her back, her face smothered in the pillow below her, the sensation of a cold hand gripping the back of her neck, fingers encircling it with practiced ease. His weight presses her down, pins her deep into the blankets. With his other hand he deftly unlatches her bra from the back, and then tugs off her pants, leaving her exposed with just her underwear on. She whimpers, feeling the air smooth over her hot skin. 

“He doesn’t do this for you, does he?” Sylus drawls, an arm snaking under her hips to pull her upward on her knees, his other hand still pressing her head and neck into the pillow. Her cheeks burn at this new position, knowing how vulnerable and bare she is. She stays silent, a flicker of anger mixing with desire. 

He roughly yanks down her panties, and before long she feels a calloused thumb between her wet folds. She bites into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as the familiar warmth of pleasure surges over her. She curses herself internally for letting herself become so pliant, so weak in his hands.

“Seems like I’ve got my answer,” he mutters, thumb pressing against her clit. She bites back a groan, teeth impaling her bottom lip. She can hear his usually stoic voice growing thicker and deeper with his own building arousal, a sound which only makes her feel weaker.

“Now sweetheart, I don’t have much time.” He bends down by her ear, leaning over her, hot breath sending a shiver down her body. “I’d love to take care of you slowly, bit by bit, but I wasn’t joking when I said I was here on business. I have some pressing matters to take care of that need my attention, after this... matter right here.” He slaps her ass, hard. She yelps, drawing a rough chuckle from his throat.

“I only have time for one round, unfortunately, so I’m going to ask for your input.” He purrs into her ear. “Don’t say anything else-- just be good, and answer my question. I don’t have time for your backtalk.” The flat of his hand smooths over the spot he slapped, sending bolts of heat through her abdomen. 

“Fingers, my mouth... or all of me inside you. Choose.” 

She tastes the tang of blood from where she’d bitten her lip earlier as she opens her mouth to speak, voice hoarse. She whispers something unintelligible into the pillow. 

“Speak up, love,” he murmurs, gently easing up his hold on the back of her neck. 

“All of you...” she mutters, embarrassment making her cringe, face pressed into the side of her pillow. 

Suddenly Sylus spots her bleeding lip, and his brows furrow for a moment. His hands scoop her up so that she’s positioned up off the pillow, on her knees, his chest to her back and arms securely around her waist. He uses one hand to tilt her chin up and to the side. “You’re bleeding, honey. Bit your lip?”

“What does it look like,” she responds gruffly, still not wanting to give him the pleasure of agreeable answers. His thumb skates across her bottom lip, dabbling in the blood there. She winces. “Were you trying to be quiet?” he murmurs, examining his thumb that’s now flecked with her blood. 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead, leaning down to kiss her softly, the metallic acrid tang of blood mixing between both their tongues. “Don’t do that,” he whispers softly into her lips. “I don’t want you to be quiet. You know that’s not what I like.” 

The moment is more intimate than the previous ones they’ve shared tonight, and for a moment she softens a bit, her heart giving an uncomfortable fluttery lurch at his kiss, at his gently murmured words. But the moment is gone quickly, and his hand finds the back of her neck again, fingers pressing into her skin. “Remind me of your choice?” He says through clenched teeth. 

“All.. all of you...” she says through a soft gasp. His face is so close to hers that all she can see is the slope of his jaw and a burning eye that’s trained on her bottom lip. 

He nods curtly, and then lays her back into the mattress, her face finding the pillow again, her back arching as he nudges her knees further apart, his own legs coming between hers. As she hears the sound of his belt buckle unfastening and his low, deep breaths, she feels the shame and regret already churning in her stomach as she lies there, spread and prostrate, waiting.

“Don’t think about him,” Sylus says darkly, as if he’s reading her mind. She feels his large, muscular hands grip her waist, as if to steady her mind, to bring her back to earth, back to this moment. “He’s not here right now. Think about me.”

She stifles a moan as his fingers drift between her legs again, spreading her wide open. Her throat feels tight, and her entire body is covered in goosebumps. She trembles in anticipation, unable to deny the feeling. 

“He won’t make you feel this pretty,” Sylus snarls, his hand returning to her hips, digging into the flesh. His voice is angry this time, and then her eyes blow wide as he sheaths himself completely inside her in one sharp thrust. A strangled sound tears itself from her throat, a sound she hasn’t made in a long time. He stays there, back hunching over her, his arms shaking, his knuckles white as his fingers press bruises into the skin of her waist and hips. 

He starts, his pace brutal, and she can immediately detect something in the way he thrusts, in the way his hands are so rough as they move up to her breasts, gripping her from behind. Rage. His hips snap against her, sending nearly painful daggers of pleasure through her belly. She gasps each time he pistons in and out of her, unable to see him behind her, face still pressed into the pillow. “He can’t make you feel beautiful like this..” Sylus spits between grunts as he buries himself deep, again, again, again...

“Sylus,” she chokes out, eyes hazy with pleasure, the world around her vignetting, falling dramatically out of focus. “I want to see you-- let me turn over--” she babbles. 

He pulls out with a harsh grunt, and then flips her over onto her back at her request. She takes him in fully now, eyes raking over him, torso bare and sweater discarded on the nearby couch, his pants at his knees, his face contorted in a mess of lust and fury, glasses slipping lower and lower on his nose. It might be the most upset she’s ever seen him look, even more upset than when they’d broken up.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says harshly, gripping her hips again and aligning himself with her dripping entrance. 

“Like what--ah!” She hisses as he enters her, cutting the conversation short. He resumes his unrelenting pace, coming down to his elbows, inches of space between them as he ruts into her.

“Like you’re fucking examining me--” he sneers between thrusts. She protests, her hands finding his shoulders as she’s pulled deeper and deeper into pleasure. “I’m not examining-- hah... I’m just looking at y-” 

His hand clamps over her mouth. “Don’t talk,” he snarls. Her eyes widen. Something’s snapped in him, his demeanor different, whatever cold exterior he’d managed to build cracking undeniably now, revealing the twisted feelings layered underneath. His muscles ripple with unrestrained emotions, and sweat beads on his brow as he snaps his hips into her. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” he mutters. “I don’t want to hear that I look like shit. I don’t want to hear you ask me why I’m angry as if it’s some fucking surprise to you.” With each thrust it’s somehow more intense, the friction and heat between them growing exponentially. Her hands find his hips as he pistons into her, scrambling for purchase on flesh that’s now slick with sweat. “Of course I’m fucking angry,” he hisses. They’re face to face, inches apart. “I’m angry that-- you’re gone-- I can’t--” he lets out a strained noise that sounds almost like he’s in pain, his abs clenching as he holds himself back. “He can’t make you feel like this... he can’t...” 

His hand is still clamped over her mouth, and she breathes through her nose, the restriction of air making her heart speed up with adrenaline. He fucks her deep, and it takes more of a toll on him than she knows it should. The way he’s sweating, the way his face is still twisted with anger and anguish and desire, the way his free hand grips her waist possessively as he ruts into her-- it’s not the physical exertion making him act like this. He’s genuinely upset in a way that he’s never let her see before. “Sylus,” she pants, her orgasm building deep in her core, like a coil of fire. As if the noise triggers his memory that his hand is still over her mouth, he removes it suddenly, holding her waist instead. He looks away briefly, eyes finding where their bodies connect instead, eyes black with lust as he thrusts into her. She can see the way he’s starting to go quiet, the way his rhythm is staggering. She knows he’s close too. 

“Do you still love me?” He blurts out, still not meeting her eyes. 

She doesn’t expect the question, and she doesn’t know how to respond. She evaluates a thousand possible answers at once, her brain overloaded with pleasure and confusion. 

His head falls, weak, as he continues rutting into her. “P-please...” he says, his voice breaking. 

She’s stunned. Almost as a reflex, she sits up a bit, gaze lacing with a newfound concern. “Sy...?”

“Say it,” he groans, his pace becoming more erratic, the unpredictability of it driving new spikes of pleasure through her. “Say you--”

“I love you,” she whispers softly, before she can stop herself. “I love you, Sylus.”

His body hunches over as he comes, as if on command at her words, and her own orgasm follows quickly, her hands seizing the sheets for a moment in a brutal grip before latching on his waist again. She gasps, holding him close, her legs instinctively wrapping around him as she feels his warmth fill her, feels his body jerk with exertion and pleasure. Her hands find his face, cupping his jaw as he weakly thrusts himself through the aftershocks, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself upright over her. 

The moment flickers with a liminal quality, and she feels like she’s trapped in limbo, some hellish purgatory of confused emotions. She’s said those words she can’t take back now, and now the two of them are floating in the dead space, less than lovers, a lot more than friends. He’s weak in her arms now, completely undone, whatever mask he once wore in pieces, ground to dust under the weight of her confession. He lies there atop her for a minute that feels like an hour, as she strokes his hair, confused by her own tenderness but unable to hold it back. And then he tears himself away from her. He’s buttoning his pants, pulling on his sweater, wiping a wrist across his brow and readjusting his glasses. It’s as if they hadn’t done what they just did, like they’re strangers again. She lies there almost in shock still, attempting to cut through the foggy haze of afterglow and form more coherent thoughts.

“I have to go,” he mutters under his breath, his voice still betraying some of the turmoil in him. It’s softer than he usually sounds, and more uncertain. 

At his words, she snaps out of it. “Wait,” she blurts. “We-- we need to talk about this. You can’t just go after that!”

“I have to.” He says quickly, organizing his messy hair in the mirror. “Don’t have time.”

“Don’t have the time?!” She says incredulously. “You can’t treat this like some one night stand!”

“I never said that,” he mutters, looking at her. His eyes drift down her body, to her entrance, staring at the evidence of their encounter. She flushes, clamping her legs shut. Sylus clears his throat. “I never said it was,” he repeats. “I... I’ll call you. We can talk later.”

“When later?” she says hoarsely.

“When I can,” he replies, tone smoother now, regaining his usual  impassioned quality. She notices, and it pisses her off. “You can’t just do what you always do,” she snaps. “You can’t just run away again and act cold. Like this doesn’t matter.”

He pauses in the doorway, and exhales a small sigh. “It matters,” he says quietly. 

And then he’s gone.

[catsafarithewriter]

A/N: Many thanks goes out to the ever-wonderful @tcrmommabear for triggering the thought of the Cat King and Natori shipping Haru/Baron as hard as they'd once shipped Haru/Lune. Unfortunately for Haru, they only have one solution for romantic woes. So here's a very silly, very short ficlet.

.

Claudius Rex, the once Cat King (their most wise and magnificent ruler, the king of Cat Kingdom), and reason why Haru nearly spent the rest of her life with whiskers and a tail, sat on the windowsill and mulled over Haru's love life.

(She hadn't asked him to, hadn't even known he was coming until that fine spring morning, a decade after their first encounter, when she'd opened her curtains and nearly punted ex-royalty from a sixteenth-floor window.)

The once Cat King (Claudius, he'd insisted Haru call him) considered the dilemma of a mortal falling in love with a Creation with all its due gravitas, and finally said, "Do you think he doesn't love you because you're not a cat?"

"I – no??"

"Oh. Shame." The ex-king looked to Natori. "We could've fixed that."

"It appears not every love conundrum can be rectified with felinity," Natori said wisely.

"What other love conundrum did you fix this way?" Haru asked.

Both cats looked at her. Claudius leant over to Natori. "This is the babe we set up with my son?"

"It appears she is suffering from some kind of memory lapse," Natori stage-whispered back.

"Turning me into a cat helped with nothing!" Haru cried. "Lune married Yuki, remember?"

"Ah yes," Natori said, "but if you had been willing to marry the prince, then we simplified matters for you."

"Not being a cat was your main problem, you said."

Haru vaguely remembered saying a lot of things to get out of the unexpected marriage, and the different species had been only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. "You can't fix every problem by turning someone into a cat! And, anyway, the Creation part is the main problem."

Claudius was silent. Then, "So what I'm hearing is if we turned you into a cat Creation–"

"Nope. Stop that. Right now."

"What about the Creation?" Natori asked. "What if we changed him?"

"I... wait, you could do that?"

"We could turn him more into a cat."

"How would that help anything?!"

"If we then turned you into a cat—"

"Under no circumstances," Haru said slowly, "are you to try to help me by turning anyone into a cat." She hesitated, and then added, for good measure, "Or any species in general. Not even a cat Creation– wait, is that even possible?"

"Half of it is," Natori said cheerfully.

Haru groaned. "I don't know why I even asked."

[cafulur]

part two of my lil labru series is finally up !! in this episode kabru almost surpasses the brink of insanity, but marcille helps keep his silly lil head in check… mostly 👌

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65143627

i suggest reading part one first for some added context— i contemplated making this series just one work with multiple chapters, but each little part takes place over the course of a year, and are fairly stand alone, so i just made each their own piece. already so excited to share the next part, right now i have five planned total !!! eeee hope you guys enjoy !

[trooperlaugh]

Shifting, shifting

Happy Clone Exchange Valentines day to at @sidhebeingbrand !

Hosted by: @clone-exchange

Echo paced from one end of the hall to another. In an attempt to keep himself from worrying too much about Rex, he focused on replaying their recently concluded mission.

Gregor and Howzer had been sent to Zeltros for an information exchange with a minor official assigned to the Senate. The plan had been for Echo, Rex and a small team to pick them up before making their way to a rendezvous with one of Chuchi’s informants.

Everything had been going well, timelines were on-track and there was no sign of the Imperials. Then the hotel where Howzer and Gregor had been staying was bombed. Echo couldn’t remember Rex ever losing his composure the way he had when that piece of intel had come in.

Echo could tell from the look on Outboard’s face when he got the comm that it wasn’t good news, but he hadn’t blanched enough that Echo figured the situation was salvageable. When Outbound had relayed the information to the rest of the crew, the five of them had, per usual, turned to Rex for next moves, but Rex hadn’t been standing in his perfect parade rest, ready with a plan immediately. Instead, he’d been frozen, face frozen in horror. His jaw had been moving, but no sound had come out.

“Rex?” Echo had asked.

Nothing.

Echo, Outboard and Heron had exchanged looks.

“Okay,” Echo had said, “here’s what we’re going to do.”

The plan he’d laid out hadn’t been that dissimilar from the one the Batch had used when getting the Syndulla’s out of Imperial custody on Rytloth. They hadn’t even needed to do most of what Eco had laid out. They’d landed the shuttle outside of town and walked the few kilometres in. Rex and Outboard had stayed on the ship.

Gregor and Howzer hadn’t been hard to find. They hadn’t even been in the hotel when it had been blown up, having taken one last trip through the markets for some breakfast. When they’d heard about the hotel, they’d made their way back to help. If they’d still been apart of the GAR, Echo might’ve berated them for not immediately going to their rendezvous. A few months ago, he might’ve done that. Zeltros was a friendly planet though, and from the way that Gregor was shaking, toeing the line of being frantic. Echo could sympathise with the fear and adrenaline that came with being around an explosion, and the need to try and help afterwards.

The four of them had made it back to the shuttle without a hitch.

Rex had locked himself in his room. A routine that he had continued once they found the rooms Chuchi had set up for them on Pasher.

Which left Echo to his pacing.

And to being startled when the door slid open, revealing a very slouched Rex.

“What’re you doing, Echo?” Rex asked. His voice was scratchy, like his throat was raw.

“Checking in on you,” Echo said. He accompanied the statement with a shrug and wondered if he looked anymore like Fives when he did it.

Rex snorted derisively.

“You’re pacing.”

“I can do two things at once,” Echo said. “I’m highly trained after all.”

That almost got him a smile.

“You’re a bit of a shit, Corporal,” Rex sighed. “C’mon in.”

The room was identical to the one that Echo had been assigned. Simple, but the carpeted floor was soft, even under Echo’s boots and metal feet, and the bed was big enough for two. A small dent in the comforter at the foot of the bed was the only sign that Rex had been in the room for the last couple hours at all.    

Rex didn’t go back to the end of the bed. He just stood, swaying a little on his feet, facing the wall. Echo could see the twitching in his jaw.      

They were quiet, until Rex asked, “How’re Gregor and Howzer?”

“Both fine,” Echo assured him. “Sleeping it off down the hall.”

Taking advantage of the bed big enough for both of them to comfortably fit in.

Rex exhaled long and loud, looking around the room with a kind of fragile desperation. When he looked back at Echo, Rex stumbled forward a few steps right into Echo’s chest and planting his face in the crook of Echo’s neck. Echo gave himself five seconds to adjust to this clear departure from their previously established roles.

During the war, Rex’s behaviour might not have been so surprising. All the vod’e were tactile, prone to crawling all over each other having never really learnt what personal space was. Torrent had been no different, and Torrent had been Rex’s. Before they were the 501st or General Skywalker’s or the GAR’s, Torrent had been Rex’s and he had been theirs. They took care of each other. Closeness like this was expected. 

The Batch was even more tactile than Torrent had been, but Echo’d never joined in as much as he once might have. Spending over a year in the cryo-tube hadn’t done wonders for Echo’s desire to be restrained in any way, even if it was just a result of a cuddle.

“Okay, okay, hey,” Echo murmured, running a hand over the back of Rex’s head. It wasn’t the usual soft prickle Echo had expected. “You need a trim.”

Rex’s long groan almost made Echo laugh, but he swallowed it down. There were some things that Echo still couldn’t bring himself to do, less out of respect for Rex as his CO and more out of respect for a colleague.

“C’mon, I’ll do it for you,” Echo offered. “You’ll barely have to do anything.”

“I’ll have walk over to the bathroom,” Rex mumbled.

Echo was glad that Rex’s face was still buried in his vest so that he didn’t catch Echo’s eyeroll.

“I think you’ll make it, Captain. C’mon, no use putting it off.”

Rex huffed one more time but did peel himself off of Echo’s front and managed to slouch into the bathroom. Echo followed a step behind.

One of the perks of being put up by a Senator was that their suite was a little roomier than usual. There was at least enough space for two clones to fit between the edge of the counter and the frosted glass that enclosed the shower.

While Echo dug around in one of the drawers for the clippers, Rex peeled his shirt off, dropping it on the ground. It was such an un-Rex-like move that it convinced Echo more than anything else that afternoon of how tired Rex really was.

Echo promised, “I’ll be quick.”

“Just don’t make it uneven,” Rex grumbled.

“I’m not Jesse,” Echo said, some false offence in his tone.

He caught the ghost of Rex’s tiny smile in the mirror, and didn’t press. He remembered what had meant to be downtime on Imroosia. It had been another one failed attempt at diplomacy with the Seppies that had devolved into fighting. The fighting hadn’t been a surprise. Unfortunately, Jesse hadn’t been expecting the alarm to go off when he’d been helping Rex with his hair. He’d buzzed it so close that the only option Rex had been left with was going completely bald. Rex had not worn the look as well as Waxer.

Draping an unusually plush towel across Rex’s shoulders, Echo flicked on the clippers and got to work. A little pile of blonde curls started to pile up quickly. Echo fought back memories of Omega, her hair glowing, even under Salucami’s dull sun on her first trip off of Kamino.

To get his mind off his sister, Echo looked up at Rex’s reflection in the mirror. Rex had closed his eyes, and a new lump built up in Echo’s throat at the sign of trust. Then he had to keep himself from nicking the back of Rex’s neck when Echo noticed the tears that had started falling quickly over his cheeks. For half a second, Echo considered putting the clippers down, but decided that that would be worse. He did buy himself some time by brushing some of the hair off of Rex’s shoulders. It floated to the floor, and Echo turned the clippers back on.

Rex’s tears didn’t last long and Echo finished getting his buzz in order quickly as well. While Echo put the clippers back where he’d found them, he saw Rex roughly swiping the last of his tears from his face, leaving his face angry and flushed, tacky streaks still on his cheeks.

“Hop up,” Echo said, patting the counter top.

“What?” Rex said, eyebrows hiking up his forehead.

Echo patted the counter again. This time, Rex did as he was told.

“You’re as bad as the shinnies sometimes, you know that?” Echo told him.

Rex’s barked laugh was singular and brittle.

“Cody used to say the same thing.”

Echo winced, turning away from Rex to pull one of the small towels off the shelf by the sink. He soaked it in cold water and wrung it out. He stepped to stand in front of Rex, and started to dab the cloth at his puffy eyes. On a night that had been full of breaches of old protocol, this shouldn’t have felt as inappropriate as it did.

What, Echo wondered, was one more step across the line.

“I know you’re used to being the one in charge, keeping us all in line, making sure everything goes to plan,” Echo started, “but things have changed since the war. Hells, things have changed since you started trying to find our brothers. You aren’t going at it alone anymore.”  

Rex sniffled, said “Damn,” and pulled the towel away from his eyes as he started crying again. He started to lean forward, half aborted the movement, and then followed through, pressing his forehead to Echo’s in a keldabe kiss.

They stayed there, suspended in the comfort and tenderness and sadness of the moment until Rex again broke the silence.

“Promise?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Echo murmured, “yeah, I promise.”

[cathriana]

I've officially given up for this uni year. That means that I will now FINNALY have time to write again and spew random bullshit about my fantasy work in progress, you know, what this blog was supposed to be about originally. So get ready for cartographic nonsense, cultural ramblings, leftist-meme-sized info dumps and me losing my mind over the slightest incoherence... As God intended.

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello, hello, I am back! This time with an au inspired by @bionicle-ramblings post here, specifically about what might have happened had Matau not been able to talk Vakama down from his Hordika side. This turned into 3K words, so heads up for that. (Apologies in advance for the angst!)

x

Too far above the ground, Matau waits for the killing blow that never comes.

His claws are weak-numb, dug into the ledge of the coliseum balcony, and in the bowels of the area below the battle still rages. From all the way up here, it's almost muted, like the backfiring of a hundred small exhaust pipes.

If he falls, he won't have to worry about the battle. Or anything else. Not for long enough to matter, anyway.

And still, Vakama doesn't come to finish him off.

Matau's grip slips further towards the edge, the ground beckons him a little bolder, and he doesn't have time to play it safe. He swings his fang blade up, and his claws lose their hold but the blade hits true. It slices into the stone, snagging him in place. He slams into the coliseum wall – but it's better than the ground. Still, he mutters a few ungainly curses and doesn't move immediately. He tries not to think about the long fall below. Tries not to think about the crazed brother above. Fails on both counts.

Only one is going to definitely kill him though.

The other... well. He's still working on that.

He hauls himself up the rest of the way. It's an ungainly process, his fang blade is attached to the stone – and he's attached to his fang blade, so...

It's also a quiet affair. There comes no bloodthirsty snarl, no flare of blazer claws going for his face. Nothing – save for his near fall and the scorch marks in the floor – to indicate Matau had been fighting for his life only seconds before.

It's nice, not dying. Matau's not going to deny that.

Odd, though.

The Vakama he had known would never have walked away before he was sure the job (the job being murdering a brother, but Matau tries not to dwell on that) was done. It's something to do with the mask-maker's perfectionism. You can't make mistakes with a mask; even a single crack will render it unusable. (Not like test-driving. If a lone dent could put a vehicle out of commission, none of the drives Matau had taken would have passed.)

He had at least expected some gloat-threat. Some rubbing it in Matau's face that he had lost and Vakama had won. Is that in Vakama's nature? Gloating?

One thing is for sure: taking it as read that a job is done without checking? That certainly isn't in Vakama's nature.

Which leaves Matau wondering...

What has been left in its stead?

x

Missing maniacal brother or not, Matau has his other brothers and sister to also worry about. And they are not winning this battle.

As he descends – no sign of Vakama – he sees the remains of Keetongu. Alive, but in no state to fight. Beside it is the ittier-bittier remains of who Matau can only assume is (or was, he supposes) Sidorak. Fragments of cracked red armour are scattered across the battle field. An arm – still with the blade attached – lies clear of the damage, whole but unmoving.

Matau skirts round that particular scene. Even the Visorak give the shattered ground a wide berth, steering clear of the corpse of their king and his killer.

The cacophony of spinners and blasts settles. There comes a ringing in Matau's ears, like the auditory equivalent of looking from from a bright light and blinking away the negative image. There's still the gnash and skitter of the Visorak, but it is nothing compared to the chaos of before.

And then he sees the cause of the quietening.

In the centre of the arena, the other Toa and Rahaga are surrounded. Their weapons are lowered, their spinners still, and the battle is over. It had been a reckless last-charge anyway. Maybe if they had been Toa, not Hordika... Maybe if they had had more time to plan... Maybe if Vakama had been with them–

Something – no, someone slams into Matau. He hadn't even realise he'd frozen until suddenly he isn't anymore. He slams into the ground, mask-first. There are claws digging into his left shoulder. An unlit blazer claw into his right.

His rhotuka spinner flares into life instinctively. It rises to attack and smacks into his attacker's face. The claws – both kinds – loosen enough for Matau to shake free and spin to face the culprit.

Vakama snarls at him.

There's something different about the once-Toa – he's hunched further, weight distributed evenly between all four limbs, the eyes dulled – but then the blazer claw is coming for Matau again and he has other things to think about. Namely, not getting barbecued. Matau skips back. The attack was clumsy. Unplanned.

"Come on, firespitter, you can do better than that," Matau goads before common sense can intervene. "You really think a swipe like that's gonna get me?"

Vakama growls and leaps at Matau – further than Matau thinks possible, like a muaka – and Matau drops down, kicking with his feet to deflect the blazer claw. Heat skims the side of his mask.

Too close.

He catches sight of his friends, still surrounded, still surrendered, and now with a newcomer – a tall (ridiculously tall, really; who needed that much height?) grey figure parading before them. A leader? Important, surely.

Dangerous, certainly.

He sees Vakama's rhotuka spinner light up, and stumbles back before the blast can hit its mark.

"We don't have time for this, Vakama," Matau stresses, and desperation edges his voice with a growl. "If we don't do something soon – if you don't snap out of this – the other Toa are gonna be history!"

Another spinner flies past. This one close enough to sear the corner of his shoulder. And still that tall figure looms before his friends, paying little heed to the fight ongoing at the far side of the arena.

Vakama takes advantage of Matau's distraction and closes the gap between them. The blazer claw swipes down. Matau only just grabs Vakama's arm in time, and the fused weapon flares, the flames close enough for Matau to feel the heat.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, "for doubting you! We all make mistakes, Vakama; that's what happens when you're brave enough to make decisions! I understand that now."

The only reply Matau receives is the fire inching steadily closer and another wordless growl. His feet scuff in the dust, and he feels himself slide back.

"You're our leader, Vakama! You're my leader! The others are depending on you – dammit, Vakama, say something!"

Vakama roars, and Matau's grip finally gives. He tries to duck out of the way as the flame bears down on him – but is too slow. The blaze brushes past his cheek and red-hot pain blossoms in its wake.

Matau staggers back and presses his hand against the burn. It's not gone deep enough to crack the mask, but he can feel the protodermis is rough, a thin melted mark across his cheek. Nausea rises through him. He blinks, and looks back to Vakama – expecting, hoping to see his horror mirrored back at him – after all, he was a mask-maker, surely he realises, surely he knows what he could have done – and the blazer claw is coming for him again.

A small, pathetic sound struggles in the back of Matau's throat, but he reels back just in time. His hand is still against his mask, while his eyes...

His eyes are trained on Vakama's.

There is something wrong with Vakama's eyes. Something more than just the rage or the adrenaline. Something, even, more than the venom-green colour. The irises are too full, too wide; they eclipse the eye entirely.

Like an ash bear's.

He realises it's been an awfully long time since he heard his brother speak.

Another blow comes slamming towards him, and Matau responds on instinct, releasing an air spinner that strikes into Vakama. The Toa Hordika is torn off his feet and smacks into the wall of the arena. He collapses to the ground. Still conscious but slow to regain his footing.

"Say something, Vakama," Matau says, softer than before. Toa don't beg, but maybe... maybe Hordika do. "Please."

A venom-green eye glares at Matau. There is blind rage and wordless aggression in those depths. But no intelligence. Matau's seen those eyes before, on rahi, on monsters.

They don't belong on a Toa.

Vakama pushes himself back to his feet – all four of them – and Matau braces himself for the fresh slew of attacks. Is this their destiny? To war like this until one brother destroys the other? Can Matau even bring himself to fight – to not only defend, but fight with the aim to win?

He flinches at the sound of a spinner firing, but Vakama's rhotuka spinner is still idle. There comes another whirr, and Matau glances back to the source.

The other Toa have fired on the tall figure. A last-ditch attempt? He hears the stranger's cackle, their form crackling with energy. Four elemental attacks, and they shrug it off with a laugh? The Toa's combined powers had taken down the Makuta; was this being really as powerful as him?

A spinner fires up, closer to home, and he ducks as the blast goes wide over his head. A reckless, probably getting-self-killed plan fits into place – but it's not as if he's swimming in options.

He starts a sprint towards his friends. Vakama is hot on his tail – too hot – and Matau drops onto all four limbs in an attempt to keep ahead. He zig-zags, hoping that's enough to keep him from being fried-burnt.

Le-Matoran are quick thinkers. They aren't necessarily forward-thinkers, but in the spur of the moment they can react in a flash. That's fine. Matau doesn't need to think that far ahead; his lifespan is probably a matter of minutes anyway. He just needs to survive at least those few minutes.

A blast flies a hand's breadth from his head.

Okay, seconds. He just needs to survive the next few seconds. Realistic goals.

He's close enough to hear the stranger's gloating now – Roodaka, that's her name – her voice crackling in a manner that might be her natural voice or the elemental energy racing across her armour. He hears Vakama's spinner powering up again, and he straightens his course.

All the better to aim at.

Le-Matoran are quick-thinkers. That's why they so often take the role of test-drivers. And Matau was one of their best.

He hears the shift in the rhotuka as it releases the spinner – and swerves at the last second. The heat burnishes his arm, but the full force slams into Roodaka. She staggers back. The crackling energy takes on a frantic pace, flooding her eyes and her heartlight, and still she does not fall.

Well, Matau's going to see if he can change that.

Distantly, he hears a shout – one of the Rahaga? – but he's already releasing an air spinner that buckles Roodaka. The light fades from her, and when she hits the ground – already lifeless – that energy bursts free from her like an earthquake. It rises up and forms a hand Matau only remembers in brief flashes of horror, a hand of darkness and shadow that engulfs Roodaka's body and leaves only a hollow heartstone in its place.

Belatedly, Matau recalls his pursuer, but he needn't have worried. Vakama has frozen, his rhotuka spinner still whirring but not firing up. He stands apart from the other Toa, and at this proximity the changes are undeniable. His eyes are lost, confused; how much of what he's just seen even makes sense to him anymore?

Nokama is the first to step forward. Her hands are raised as if trying to calm a wild rahi. Does she even realise she's doing it, Matau wonders. "Vakama," she says, and there's a shake in her voice that betrays maybe she does know. "It's alright, it's over–"

Vakama's gaze snaps to Nokama and she freezes. She sees it now too: the lack of recognition. The senselessness. A sound catches at the back of her throat. It sounds like heartbreak. It's that heartbreak that leaves her too slow to register Vakama's spinner starting up, that leaves her not wanting to comprehend what her own brother means to do, until a black blast slams into Vakama. Its energy crackles over him, paralysing him and the light dulls from those altered, rahi eyes.

"It's only temporary," Bomonga says, when eyes turn to him and his powering-down rhotuka. "Not a long-term solution. But it'll keep him from hurting anyone. For now."

The Visorak around them rumble. And then, with both king and viceroy dead, and their commander nothing more than a beast, they abandon what is left of their crumbling hierarchy.

Norik's saying something, something about the Makuta and released and danger, but Matau can only stare at the paralysed, inanimate form of Vakama. "We defeated the hordes, right?" he says suddenly, cutting off Norik. "We did what Keetongu said we needed our Hordika sides to do, so now it's time to return us to our old selves, isn't it?"

Norik falters. He looks to where Keetongu lies. Onewa and Whenua are already helping the rahi to its feet, and it emits that strange, multi-toned speech in reply.

"Keetongu says that he can turn you back, if you so wish," Norik translates.

"And... Vakama?" Nokama asks.

Even to Matau, Keetongu's reply sounds... stinted.

"Keetongu says," and Norik hesitates. The Rahaga suddenly looks tired. Spent. "He says the Hordika venom runs too deep in Vakama. There is nothing Keetongu can do for him now."

"There must be something!" Matau demands. "He wouldn't give up on us – not if he was still himself – so we can't give up on him!" The other Toa are staring at him – no, not just at him, he realises, at his mask. He claps one hand defensively to the burn streak. "I'm okay!" he snaps. "It's Vakama we should be worried about!"

Nokama reaches out. Her fingers falter, as if afraid of what she might find. "Did... Did Vakama do that to you?" she asks.

Matau recoils back. "It's nothing. I told you, I'm okay. I'm fine. What are we going to do about Vakama?"

The other Toa exchange glances.

"Anyone?" Matau asks.

Onewa and Whenua look away.

"Nokama?" Matau appeals to the Toa who's always preached the virtue of unity, who had been the only one to refuse to believe Vakama could have kidnapped the other Rahaga, even when all the evidence said otherwise.

She doesn't meet his gaze.

If they had seen what Matau had seen, how the conflict had raged in Vakama... but maybe that's the problem. Nokama had seen the shift in Vakama's eyes, the rahi look...

"We can't leave him to run wild," Nuju says, eventually. "Who knows the damage he'll do in this state."

"Maybe one day..." Nokama begins. "Maybe we'll find a way to reverse this."

"And until then?" Nuju asks. "You know things cannot stay as they are."

"Maybe they don't have to," Whenua says. The others look to him, and his face is wretched. "In the Archives, we have a... a way of dealing with rahi without killing them."

Nuju is the first to realise Whenua's meaning. He doesn't flinch, but – if it's somehow possible for the usually immovable Toa – he freezes. "The stasis tubes."

Whenua nods.

"Wait, wait, wait, hold on," Matau says. "Are you suggest-saying we should put him into one of your display cases?"

"It only sends them to sleep," Onewa says. "Right?"

Whenua's mouth thins, like there is a world of distinction between what the stasis tubes do and sleep. "Close enough," he concedes. "His life functions will be slowed down to the point that he won't need either food or air. He won't be conscious enough to know what's happening."

Nokama places a hand on Matau's shoulder. "This will give us time to find a solution," she says softly. Reasonably, as if trapping a fellow Toa – a brother – like a museum exhibit is a natural thing to suggest. Yet, beneath the grip, Matau can feel a tremor in Nokama's fingers.

"Fine," he spits.

No one moves. No one wants to be the one to place Vakama into a stasis chamber.

Then Onewa steps hesitantly forward and slings an arm beneath Vakama's shoulders and hoists him up. Matau knows he should help, but by the time he has found the courage to move, Nokama is already supporting Vakama's other side.

x

Stasis tubes really doesn't do the devices justice. Tubes sounds like something small, compact. Round, now Matau thinks about it. But the machines that Whenua leads them to are more like glass cages. There aren't many intact ones left, not after the cataclysm, but he finds a few unused ones in storage and connects it up to a canister of diluted stun gas. Nokama and Onewa gently deposit Vakama's unconscious form onto the tube's base.

No one says anything.

The double-shell rises up and about its captive specimen resident and there comes the hiss of the stun gas filling the tube.

And Vakama's eyes begin to flicker back to life.

"Can't you speed the process up?" Onewa asks.

"It's gas," Whenua shoots back. "I can't pour it out any quicker. What do you want me to do, change the law of physics?"

Vakama reels. He lurches to his feet, but enough of the stun gas has already entered his system to send him off-kilter. He slams into the inner shell, a growl tearing from his throat, and miniscule hairline fractures scatter across the shell. He raises his right arm, blazer claw flaring into flames, and the Toa wait for the freeing blow that never comes.

Instead, Vakama sways.

The blazer claw dips against the inner shell of the tube, extinguished, and his hand – clawed, jointed in the wrong places – rests beside it. His shoulders hunch, but in the way of one overcome with exhaustion, and his breathing slows. His hand uncurls and, if only in passing, nearly looks like it once had.

And he looks to the Toa.

Really looks.

Before the light fades from his eyes, Matau almost thinks he sees the ghost of a smile, small and sad, flicker across Vakama's face. Almost enough to make Matau believe his brother falls into oblivion with relief.

And then the light – and everything that was once Vakama – vanishes.

"Do rahi in stasis chambers..." Matau falters. He stares at the motionless form of their leader, their brother. Vakama is not like Matau; he wasn't always in motion – not physically, anyway. But his mind had always been racing. Too much, sometimes. Thoughts and visions and fears crowding round in a single head, and now...

It feels almost unnatural that he should be so still.

Matau tries again.

"Are they aware?"

"I think they sometimes dream," Whenua replies.

[acatinwinterfell]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mary Gillis Linton/Arthur Morgan, Mary Gillis Linton & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Arthur Morgan Characters: Arthur Morgan, Mary Gillis Linton (Red Dead Redemption), John Marston, Eliza (Red Dead Redemption)-mentioned, Barry Linton- mentioned Additional Tags: Angst, Past Relationship(s), Complicated Relationships, Wishful Thinking, Regret, Dreams, Pining, Not Canon Compliant Summary:

"Just my luck," Arthur whispered under his breath, taking in the view of her from below. Though it had not been long since he'd last laid eyes on her, it suddenly felt like a lifetime ago. He had missed her. No matter how much time had passed between them, he always felt that familiar pang in his heart for her: the one he never could manage to escape.

Or, Arthur Morgan sees Mary Linton on the balcony of a Saint Denis hotel and cannot seem to forget their past.

-- 

hey marthur fans! Looking for a new fic?

[sardinesandhumbugs]

Wildfarers All Update!

Chapter 3: The Wide World right here!

With the help of Toad and his motor car, the Riverbankers go off in search of an absent Rat.

I have recently been reminded of this story, and it turns out I have another chapter stowed away, completed, so here! Have a chapter! This one in particular was inspired by the Cosgrove episode, where Ratty gets significantly further afield after his encounter with the Seafaring Rat.

Enjoy!

[catknives]

day three of steddie omegaverse week: soulmates or bonding

devils and black sheep by catknives

summary:

The day they met, Eddie warned Steve that he wasn’t good at sharing.

Of course, this didn’t surprise Steve, seeing as he was (supposedly) looking at the most fearsome pirate captain on the Seven Seas.

rating: explicit (like, seriously)

[averywiseanimatedcat]

“I loved him”

Word count: 2820

Rating: G

Summary: Post S2. Aziraphale is getting worried because he hasn’t been able to locate Crowley ever since their fight. He comes back to the bookshop to pick up some reading material. He ends up having an unexpected heart to heart with Maggie.

Tags: Angst. Angst again. Maggie and Aziraphale friendship. Confessions.

Author notes: If you’re on TikTok you might have heard the audio from Einstein and Eddington being used in Aziracrow edits. YouTube clip bellow if you haven’t heard it yet. I always see I being used as if Crowley were saying it, but what I’d Aziraphale did? That’s this one shot. If I have to live with that idea then you do to.

“Mr Fell!”

A voice called out, Aziraphale startled and dropped the keys to his bookshop onto the steps. He looked around, Maggie was trotting down the sidewalk towards him.

“Maggie my dear…”

He said as she reached him.

“Mr Fell! Gosh it’s been ages. We were beginning to think you’d sold the bookshop and left?”

She said breathlessly. Aziraphale smiled politely, bending down to pick up his keys.

“Oh no, still very much the owner of this bookshop.”

Aziraphale said, his eyes darting around the street behind her. He hoped that no one else had spotted him. He didn’t really want to get dragged into to many pleasantries. He wasn’t suppose to be down here for too long, but he’d lied and said he needed a couple of books from his shop. Really he was just desperate for something to read that wasn’t a memo. He also wanted to poke around and see if he could find any sign of Crowley, and Maggie might be able to help him with that.

“Oh I’m glad, I’d be devastated if we lost you as a landlord.”

Maggie replied brightly. Aziraphale brushed past the compliment and asked

“Would you like to come in?”

“Oh…I’m not intruding am I?”

She said, blinking at him

“Not at all dear.”

The angel unlocked the door and stepped inside. He knew returning to the bookshop might be upsetting, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the heaviness that fell onto his shoulders as he crossed the threshold. The bookshop still looked exactly how it did that day, not a single thing had been moved. The smell of ancient pages and dust swept through his lungs as he inhaled, bringing with it a wave of memories that stung like alcohol down the throat. A terrible, sinking feeling pressed on his chest uncomfortably.

He looked down at his feet. The rug by the front door was still creased a little where the demons boots had wrinkled it when he’d stormed out a few weeks prior. Aziraphale always had to adjust things in the shop whenever Crowley had been around. The demon had a rather unconcerned way of moving through space that resulted in things being knocked out of place all the time. He had the compulsion to straighten the rug, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

“Where’s that girl who’s always here now?”

Maggie asked, startling the angel. He’d completely forgotten she was there.

“Oh, Muriel? She’s…well, at head office. Tea?”

Aziraphale said, pulling himself together and gesturing for Maggie to take a seat on the couch. He’d purposefully come down when he knew Muriel would be up in Heaven for her monthly debriefing. She was charming, but he really wasn’t in the mood for a creature so bright and bubbly right now.

“Oh yes…tea would be lovely.”

Maggie replied, smiling politely as she sat down. Aziraphale attempted to smile back and disappeared into the back room to miracle some tea. Maggie was eyeing the various things strewn on Azirpaphales desk when he returned with the tray and teacups. He handed her one full of piping hot tea and took a seat in his arm chair next to his desk. He avoided looking over where his dairy sat atop a stack of books he’d been organising the day before he’d left. He knew exactly what was in the last pages he’d filled out, and he didn’t want to read them.

“So, Nina and I haven’t seen you or Mr Crowley for weeks? Did you go away on holiday or something?”

Maggie asked. The mention of Crowleys name sent a solid something clanging into the angels stomach somewhere near his navel. The answer to his unasked question of if she’d seen the demon was having a similar effect.

“No…I uh….started a new job.”

He said vaguely, sipping on his tea to cover up his disappointment.

“Oh? What’s the job?”

She asked

“Um, management I guess you could call it.”

Azirphale replied, his eyes kept wandering around the desk and out the window. His enthusiasm for this interaction had left quite suddenly.

“Oh. That’s exciting. I guess it must be very important for you to leave your bookshop.

Maggie said

“Oh yes, very important.”

Aziraphale replied distractedly, now acutely aware of Crowleys wide brimmed hat from the 1940’s on the coat hanger only metres from him. He hardly noticed when Maggie fell silent for a long moment.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping….but you seem a little…distracted Mr Fell. Not yourself I mean. Is everything alright?”

Aziraphales eyes darted over to meet hers. The genuine concern in them touched the angel, bless her heart, he thought, a human worried about an angel.

“Oh yes. Just fine, I think I’m just a little tired. Not used to so much responsibility.”

He cobbled together, but even he knew he sounded unconvincing.

“Right…so how come that funny girl is looking after your bookshop and not Mr Crowley? I haven’t seen him for ages either.”

Maggie’s eyes were searching Aziraphales in a calculated, but kind way.

“Yes I was going to ask you about that….has no one seen him?”

He was trying very hard to sound casual. But the question came out in a strained, high pitch kind of way. Maggie’s eyes narrowed

“No….he hasn’t been back here, not that Nina or I have seen. Why?”

Maggies eyes darkened with confusion.

“Oh no reason.”

He replied quickly. There was a pause before Maggie asked

“Do you like your new job?”

Aziraphale had to think quite hard about how to answer this.

“I think the more appropriate question would be, do I think I’m making a difference? And yes I think I am.”

Aziraphales attempt to steer the conversation away from his feelings failed miserably, because Maggie put her cup down quite pointedly and sat forward onto the edge of her seat before saying

“Ok…I’m going to stop beating around the bush. I know somethings wrong. The last thing Nina saw was Mr Crowley storming out of your bookshop and you going off with a strange man. There’s a weird girl who thinks she’s a police officer in charge of your shop. Then after a month you turn up here alone. I come and say hello and you looked at me like I’d just murdered your mother. You’re still looking at me like that actually. What’s going on Mr Fell?”

Aziraphale hid his expression behind a sip of tea

“Nothing.”

He lied

“Mr Fell please be honest with me….I…Well Nina and I, we came over to see Mr Crowley after all that weird stuff happened and told him he should talk to you. If you had a fight or something please tell me I’ve been wondering for weeks and I couldn’t help but feel like it might be our fault.”

She gushed

“You what?”

Aziraphale asked, blinking at her

“Oh I feel terrible….we shouldn’t have said anything it was just…we thought all you two needed was to talk and…”

She rambled

“No dear, that’s not what we fought about.”

Aziraphale interrupted, realising his admission to late

“So something did happen?

She cried

“Oh dear…”

Aziraphale said, exasperated. He lent back in his chair and sighed. Maggie shrunk back into the couch.

“I’m sorry Mr Fell, I’m being pushy. It’s not my business. We were just worried we’d done something wrong.”

Maggie explained a little more calmly. Azirpahale considered her for a bit, she was a sweet, genuine soul. She had no idea really, about the magnitude of it all.

“Well, I’ll just say that it wasn’t your or Nina’s fault.”

Aziraphale said simply.

“Ok, thank you…but that still doesn’t make me feel better because you look miserable.”

Maggie said, gesturing vaguely at him

“Thanks.”

Azirpahale replied irritably

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I can tell you’re upset. Do you want to talk about it?”

She asked. Aziraphale stared down into his tea, he hadn’t said a word to anyone about what happened. He’d kept it firmly locked away somewhere deep in his chest, never daring to let anyone see even a hint of his despair. Not that anyone in Heaven would care, they’d think he was daft for being upset that a demon had left him. Good riddance they’d say, he’ll be burnt up in hellfire after the second coming anyway they’d say. Aziraphale couldn’t in a million years say what he really wanted to.

“I can’t tell anyone.”

He whispered in his teacup, partially to himself. The quiver in his own voice startled him. He’d been holding in these…thoughts for months. They’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere. At first it was just a little soft feeling like birds fluttering in his chest. Then they grew into a yawning ache. Then a desperate desire to say something, and he had been going to. Aziraphale had to admit that he’d been selfish, the ball wasn’t entirely for Maggie and Nina. The Angel had planned it all out, they’d dance, drink and laugh. Then he’d take him out to dinner or breakfast or a midnight breakfast. And he’d tell him. But that entire plan had all come crashing down the second Aziraphale opened his mouth and told Crowley about the Metatrons offer. Ever since, the words he’d been wanting to say had been unceremoniously shoved down and ignored.

Maggie was eyeing him quite intensely now.

“Why not? Can you not talk to your new work colleagues? Friends?”

She suggested

“I can’t I’d…I’d get us both into trouble.”

He explained, placing his teacup carefully up onto his desk. His fingers were shaking a little.

“Well…you can tell me? Nothings going to happen from telling me.”

She reached out and placed a reassuring touch to the angels knee. The so very human attempt at comfort felt like using one of those silly little spray bottles full of water on a house fire. But the gentleness in her voice, the silence in the bookshop and the memories all collided together and Aziraphale could hold it in no longer. They had to come out, these terrible words that had plagued his every waking thought.

“I loved him…”

A quivering sob fell from the angels mouth as he got the last word out. He didn’t even know he could make that kind of noise.

“I know.”

Maggie cooed, placing both hands on his shoulders and squeezing them gently

“I loved him so much…”

The angels lungs heaved with the weight of it all. The locked door in his chest bursting open and releasing a torrent that crashed over him like waves onto the rocky shore. He gasped for air as tears started to pour down his cheeks. Maggie stood up and pulled him into a warm embrace. He cried into her arms, letting the ocean of everything he’d held in smash into his being over and over again until he felt raw and exhausted. Maggie sat on the arm of the chair and held him tightly. She made little noises shushing noises sometimes and rubbed his back soothingly as the flood went on. Aziraphale had never been held like this before. Somehow, he felt her arms would protect him for this time where he was so open and vulnerable. Although he did wish the arms were someone else’s.

The waves calmed after sometime and Maggie let go, returning to the couch. Aziraphale felt extremely embarrassed when he regained his composure.

“Oh dear…I invited you in for tea and now I’m here blubbering like a child.”

He sniffed, producing a napkin from his pocket to dry his eyes.

“Don’t you dare apologise! We’re friends, you forgave me months of rent the least I can do is listen when you’re upset.”

Maggie insisted

“But there’s nothing you can do.”

The angel replied darkly

“Sometimes just talking helps. It’s not healthy keeping these things bottled up.”

Aziraphale thought about this for a bit, there was no harm in confiding in Maggie he thought. And maybe she was right, he might feel better after airing it all out.

“It’s just…I did this all for him, I took this job because I thought we could be together. He was suppose to come with me, I thought it was a perfect opportunity for us. But…well he didn’t agree. Then we had this big fight…now I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.”

Aziraphale rambled, his eyes automatically wandering out to the spot on the roadside where he’d last seen the Bentley parked with Crowley waiting outside.

“Why didn’t he want to go with you?”

Maggie asked.

“It’s difficult to explain…”

Aziraphale started

“To a human?”

Maggie guessed, Aziraphale nodded

“Well, did you tell him how you felt?”

Maggie asked

“I tried to. I don’t think I did a very good job though…”

He trailed off, Maggie looked thoughtful

“Does he feel the same?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, and paused, looking down at the patterned carpet

“I don’t know if he’d call it love…he didn’t use as many words.”

Aziraphale mumbled

“But he wanted you to be together, as a couple?”

She asked, Aziraphale nodded

“Well, you still love him…and if you two have known each other as long as you said you have, then he might come back?”

She said reassuringly

“I’m not sure, he’s very angry with me”

Aziraphale said, still staring at the carpet.

“You don’t know that he is still angry. He might just be hurting, like you.”

Maggie offered

“Then why hasn’t he reached out to me? He must know I’m worried!”

Aziraphale cried, his tears threatening to make an appearance again.

“Hurt and angry people don’t usually do rational things.”

Maggie said firmly. Aziraphale was suddenly bombarded with the memory of the kiss. It all started to fall into place in his mind. Perhaps the kiss was Crowleys way of throwing all the chips onto the table in one go. It was, perhaps, an irrational act by someone who didn’t know what else to say. Crowley always was rubbish with words that had anything to do with feelings.

“Perhaps you’re right…but it’s been awful. If he hasn’t come back here then I don’t know where he would’ve gone.”

Aziraphale said

“You’re really that worried about him?”

Maggie asked, Aziraphale nodded

“He seems quite capable of looking after himself. He might he just need some time to cool off and he’ll turn up again. He seems like the hot headed type.”

Maggie suggested, but Aziraphale did not feel much better. Crowley was hot headed, and a little impulsive, any number of things could’ve happened. Crowley could’ve just gone off to Alpha Centuri without him. Or worse, something might’ve happened to him. Heaven and Hell was still no doubt displeased with their meddling. Aziraphale had rejoined the ranks but Crowley was alone down here now, a loose thread in the carefully crafted tapestry of the ineffable plan. Aziraphale shook his head to dislodge the awful thoughts that were attaching themselves to his mind. He couldn’t think like that, Crowley had kept himself alive for almost 6000 years with very little help from Aziraphale. But he’d never been completely cut off from either side alone before. He had nothing except his wiles, his Bentley and his house plants.

Maggie must’ve been reading his stricken expression, because she offered another comforting hand on his wrist this time.

“I’m sure he’s fine Mr Fell. Maybe he’s just taken a trip to clear his head.”

“I hope you’re right dear. Oh…look at that the tea is cold now.”

The angel sighed when he picked up his cup from the desk and took a sip.

“Keep the faith Mr Fell. I don’t know either of you that well, but from what I saw…it looked like you two really had something. I’m sure he wouldn’t just throw that away over one argument.”

Although her reassurances were helping less and less, Aziraphale appreciated them all the same.

“Thank you dear.”

He said, genuinely thankful as he did feel a little lighter.

“Anytime Mr Fell, if you ever need anyone to talk you, you know where I am. Now, I should let you get back to whatever it was you wanted to do before I interrupted you.”

Maggie said, draining her cold tea and standing up.

“Oh I just came back for a few books. Nothing important.”

Aziraphale brushed off, standing as well. They made their way to the door.

“Do let Muriel know if you see him? She will pass it onto me.”

Azirpahale asked. Maggie nodded with a sympathetic smile.

“Oh and Maggie…”

“Yes?”

“You arn’t going to tell anyone are you? About…”

He gestured vaguely, unsure how to describe what just happened. Maggie smiled warmly at him

“Of course not, keep it between us Mr Fell.”

Then she bid him goodbye. Aziraphale took one last look at the empty curb across the street before slowly closing the bookshop door to be alone with the ghosts inside.

[catsafarithewriter]

Do Creations Dream of Clockwork Sheep Update!

Chapter 8: Going on a Clue Hunt right here!

After recovering from his bout of cold, Humbert wakes up ready and eager to face the world. His first mission: To find out just what has been going on with the ghost.

Nearly a month later, here I am with Chapter 8! This chapter became the bane of my existence, refusing to co-operate until I had figured out character motivation, but I made it. (With a little help.)

Usually I try to post on a Sunday, but it's been so long that I'm just gonna throw it out into the world now. As a treat <3

(And sorry, @tcrmommabear this still isn't the hallucination chapter I promised. Next time, for sure! Happy belated bday anyway?)

Enjoy!

[cassifictional]

Guarded - ch. 16: tipped balance

links to chapters in masterlist on pinned post ♡

Pairing: Sevika x female reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Things have been peaceful for you, as far as one can live peacefully in Zaun. Recently, you and Sevika made it official. But she seems troubled, worried about things beyond the control of both of you. Sometimes, you feel as if all that you’ve built in recent times might come crashing down at a moment's notice. But you persist, and so does Sevika. Where will your journey take you?

Word count: 680

Notes: Hey there, it’s been a while. Remember when I promised I’d finish this fic? Yeah, I haven’t forgotten. I’m just slow.

Quick little life update. (I guess I already talked about this in my last posts, this is copy pasted from AO3) It's been treating me with ups and downs. Long story short, things when to shit at my job but after putting up with a lot of bullshit, anxiety and uncertainty I’m once again in a good place. I also got into an actual real life relationship and I couldn’t be happier with them. They've really changed my life for the better <3 as a result I did lose a lot of interest in fic writing but this series is so special to me, I’m gonna finish it one day, hopefully soon. Please enjoy this slightly shorter chapter as I work on finishing the last chapters of this series.

“Over here.”

You look around you, but don’t see anyone. You’re in a dark place. Alone, with nothing but faint lights from an invisible source and a disembodied voice to guide you.

“Come here..”

This feels familiar. You’ve been here before. Not in this room, but this place. This.. scenario. You start walking, trying to follow the direction of the voice. A familiar, warm yet commanding voice that you know all too well by now. Instinct tells you to follow it.

“There you go..”

But something doesn’t feel quite right. You’ve followed the voice and are standing right in front of where you expect someone to be. But there isn’t anyone. You’re alone.

“Wait..”

Her voice has changed, but you still can’t see her. The friendly, warm tone making way for something much less familiar, and therefore, much scarier.

“You aren’t..”

Fear.

She’s afraid. She’s never afraid. And of what? Or.. who?

“You aren’t safe here.”

You see her metal arm shoot out from the darkness, reaching out for you. But she misses, and you fall. Down into the void. Darkness surrounds you, terrified screams echoing from some place far away. The screams slowly morph into the sound of rushing water, and suddenly you’re falling down a waterfall. Sickeningly pink shimmer-stained water that tastes like cough syrup and smoke and fire fills your lungs as you gasp for air. You feel the metal of Sevika’s mechanical hand around your throat, but you can't tell whether she’s trying to push your under or pull you out. As your vision starts to darken, you’re suddenly out of the toxic water and on your back.

A large figure looms over you, their shape outlined by a brightly lit sky. They say nothing, you cannot see their face. Did they save you? Are you safe now?

“Sevika?” you whisper through labored breaths.

The looming figure stays quiet.

It’s not her.

Then darkness. Nothing.

…

You gasped loudly as you awakened, your hair stuck to your forehead and the sheets damp from your cold sweat. A dream. It had all been a dream. No, a nightmare. And a horrible one at that. You instinctively reached over beside you, expecting the warm, safe presence of Sevika beside you that you had gotten so used to over the past few weeks. But she wasn’t there. In her place was a note, neatly left on top of her pillow.

You let yourself fall down onto the bed again. Just a nightmare. Just. A nightmare. You tried to comfort yourself in lieu of your girlfriend, your rock, who never seemed too bothered by your nightmares but never hesitated to hold you in order to tell you that you were safe. She’d keep you safe.

Things between you hadn’t changed after you’d made it official. But things around you did. Zaun was restless, crime was spiking and Piltover officials kept putting their noses where they didn’t belong. Sevika and you both knew something was wrong, but you didn’t know what. Or maybe she knew more than she was letting on and was keeping the truth from you in a feeble attempt at keeping you safe.

You sighed, the panic from the nightmare slowly subsiding until you felt calm enough to start your day. Even though it was still early, Sevika had seemingly gotten up before you and left without ever waking you. What was she doing up so early? Would she be staying out late again? She’d been doing that a lot lately, waking up way early and staying out late. Sometimes she wouldn’t come home at all. Your mind filled with worries and doubt, you wished she was just here to hold you right now. To tell you everything would be alright. You reached over and grabbed her note from the pillow beside you, checking if there was any residual heat from her body left as a quiet reminder of her in the sheets, but there was none.

“Had to leave early again. Won’t be back on time for dinner.

 I promise we’ll sleep in again one of these days. Looking forward to it.”

 - S

Notes: well, that was kinda depressing.

[mangacat201]

Seven(ish) Sentence Sunday(ish)

Cause what is even this day, it just seems to go on and on...

Tagged by @cal-daisies-and-briars and so many times before by @thewolvesof1998, thank you guys, for not giving up on me, even though I rarely have something of my own to contribute.

But to celebrate that the punkrock!band AU has been through the final beta (I'm only waiting on some music stuff to be sorted out) and the final chapter + epilogue will hopefully post VERY soon, I'm sharing a little snippet, enjoy!

§

The energy of the crowd hasn’t wavered since they got them with ‘Savior Baby’ in the very beginning. If anything, their audience has grown, the cheers going up whenever they wrap up a song seeming to get louder with every single track. Ravi can’t quite believe it when he leads them into the closing riff of the last song on their set list, everyone on stage sweaty, elated and glowing. 

He catches Chim out of the corner of his eye, turning around to Bobby with a long look that seems to communicate something profound and wonders what that is about. Hen claps him on the shoulder and yells a compliment of some sort into his ear, he can’t really make it out completely. Eddie is leaning against the drums, panting and grinning like a loon, while Buck… Buck is looking towards the side stage where Christopher is waving and yelling on top of his lungs: “BUCK! Buck, DO IT!!”

Buck mouths something in response that isn’t picked up by the microphone, but Chris seems to know what he said anyway, because he nods enthusiastically with a big thumbs up. And before they can all move center stage to pile on one another and take their bows, Buck turns back towards the audience, unclipping the mic so he can step up right to the edge of the stage.

§

@monsterrae1, @911onabc, @rewritetheending, @giddyupbuck, @honestlyeddie, @loserdiaz, @the-marathon-continues-nip, @comfortbuddie,

@sam-t-a, @stormkitty97, @foxweddinq, @ligiapereira

[forge-octarian-jacket]

Runaway Glamrocks AU explaintion!

yay..

This is pretty long so it’s under the cut

This only covers the Security Breach and post-SB part of Runaway Glamrocks, I’ll write a separate post for the Ruin section.

Also, Vanessa and Vanny aren’t the same person but are both in the Glitchtrap Cult.

[also @froggos-chaos-corner, you did ask for an explanation lol]

It all starts with Glamrock Bonnie. After 5 years of the same thing everyday at the PizzaPlex, 5 straight years of preforming, meet and greets, photo ops, etc, he finally decided to make a plan, a plan to leave.

So, he started to become more rebellious, more loud. And made it seem like he was bugging out. Finally, after many, many, system upgrades, he sets his plan in motion. He spends his final day at the Plex like normal, then, the Plex closes at 11:30, and he returns to his greenroom.

In his greenroom, he begins to back a bag he took from one of the gift shops, and packs. He packs things to charge his battery, a couple of replacement batteries, extra parts, some cash and lots of extras, plus his guitar, and he slips out the warehouse doors. He ends up meeting a band made up of a group of college besties and joins them.

Come morning and no one can find him. Freddy and Roxy are a mess and barely consoleable, Chica is trying to keep everything under control and keeps Freddy & Roxy grounded. And Monty? Well, he’s just been given a replacement for Bonnie’s guitar and told he’s preforming that afternoon.

And everyone has to act normal, like Bonnie didn’t just disappear, like nothing happened.

The Glamrocks have their theories as to what happened to Bon. Freddy & Roxy think he was decommissioned, Chica thinks he’s in long-term maintenance and he’ll come back, and Monty choses not to dwell on it.

2 years later, Gregory, with Cassie’s help, sneaks into the PizzaPlex, and the opening events of Security Breach happen.

Greg & Cassie are both wandering around the Plex together, Vanessa isn’t aware of Cassie, just Greg.

Greg & Cas end up at the Daycare, of which Greg gets kicked out and hides with Freddy. Sun immediately recognizes Cassie and allows her to retrieve the item they need.

Shortly after, Greg and Cassie are separated. Cassie ends up finding the V.A.N.N.I mask and a Faz wrench.

Then she finds Glamrock Foxy. Whose been rotting in the PizzaPlex’s basement for at least 2 years.

Cassie pleads with him to let her help him, but he won’t let her, because Foxy knows he won’t make it much longer. So, Cassie stays by his side while he powers down for the final time.

Cassie eventually meets back up with Greg, whose planning to decommission the Glamrocks to get their upgrades. Gregory doesn’t believe her about Glamrock Foxy.

Cassie manages to use the Faz Wrench and frees Roxy of the virus, who recongizes her number 1 and gives her the upgrade Freddy needs. Cassie does for the others as well.

Gregory manages to free Vanessa from the Glitchtrap cult, but not Vanny.

Vanessa helps the Glamrocks into a van and they escape the PizzaPlex.

Cassie wants to return. They left so many animatronics behind. But Freddy says it’s to dangerous, and Fazbear Ent wants their Glamrocks back.

So, what happens now? Well, The Runaway Crew go into a bar on night, and guess whose preforming? The Blue Bunnies, AKA the band Bonnie’s in. It’s real emotional after the bands finished playing between Bonnie and the Glamrocks.

Now, their group has added an entire band and animatronic. Thank god Vanessa’s got a big place.

But, what about Foxy, and JJ and Balloon Boy and Dee Dee and Sun and Moon and Eclispe?

Will The Runaway Crew return to the PizzaPlex? Will the others all be freed from the Ruins of the PizzaPlex and repaired? Or will they rot forever and be forgotten?

[cathriana]

Urgh I hate drawing but here we are

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello again, and with this I think (?) I may have succeeded in writing enough bionicle fic to get it out of my system (unless another plot bunny hits me like a cannonball, but... eh, we'll see) and thus, here is the companion piece to the Vakama & Roodaka oneshot.

This time, exploring the scene where Vakama entered the Great Temple, from his side of things! This was also partially inspired by the scene in Challenge of the Hordika where Nokama is almost physically repulsed in trying to enter the Great Temple :)

x

In the tunnels beneath the temple, Vakama must stoop.

At first he shuffles, mutated arm tucked against him and his sole hand brushing only briefly along the floor to steady himself, but the passages are dark and deep and lined with creatures which seek out the weak. The eyes that watch him are not hungry. They keep their bellies too full for that.

In the end, it is easier quicker to drop to all fours, to share the weight between claw and tool that feet alone cannot. His altered form folds into the new stance with frightening familiarity. It's comfortable.

Natural.

The crown of his mask grazes the tunnel's ceiling, but only in passing. His gait is sure. Well. Surer than the ungainly slouch it had been before.

It was said – back when Matoran were awake to say such things – that even the strongest swimmers of Ga-Metru would hesitate before plunging into the depths of the protodermis sea. Not because the creatures there had any fondness for the taste of Matoran. In truth, it was thought that the rahi actively disliked the flavour. No, it was because the way Matoran swam was indistinguishable from the rahi's usual prey. Only when they had sunk tooth and jaw into their meal would they realise their mistake.

It was an annoying, if harmless mistake for the rahi.

Matoran couldn't say the same.

Vakama's early crawl through the passage had been like that of a Matoran swimmer: functional, but slow and indiscernible from wounded prey. Creatures drag themselves down into these depths to die, in hopes that they will be devoured only when they are too far gone to feel it. The eyes are patient. They will wait to see if this newcomer is similarly inclined.

And so when Vakama drops to his haunches, the eyes blink. Reassess. He moves less like the hunted and more like the hunter now, more predator than prey, and the eyes – and teeth – keep their distance after that.

The path Vakama stalks through was once a protodermis pipe, made obsolete even before the cataclysm. Newer conduits had been built, more efficient, more resilient, and this one had been disconnected but never dismantled. When he reaches its origin, it takes some effort – and his blazer claw – to break the seal across the hatchway, but when he does, one of the temple's protodermis purification chambers looms above him.

The room beyond is quiet.

Unmarked.

He doesn't realise he's stopped until the chittering of his audience draws closer. The snarl he throws back echoes off the pipe's walls, and the eyes retreat, but do not leave.

Vakama curls his hand around the lip of the hatch, and then falters.

Something is wrong.

It's not a pain, because the feeling does not hurt as it ought, but something is undeniably, fundamentally wrong. It causes his breath to catch, his hand to flinch, and it would be so easy, so easy, to turn and walk away, only...

Only he came here for a reason.

The wrongness flares, amplified for a moment, and then he pulls himself up. The eyes watch, but do not follow. Do they feel it too? Can even such base creatures sense the innate malice the temple exudes?

He clambers out of the purification chamber – empty and abandoned now – and stumbles upon his landing. He catches himself, but does not rise back to his feet.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

And at the edge of the wrongness there is a strange sort of terror. It dreads the same way the fire fears the sea, the same way the prey fears the predator; it is the meeting of two primally antithetical forces where only one can survive. It whispers turn back through his mind.

He moves into the next room.

It's one he knows well. Light filters down from the rot-stained windows, centering – as it had the day he'd first seen it – on the suva, and casting long sentinel shadows of the columns standing to attention around it. A crack mars the suva, its stone dome now split cleanly in two from the quakes, and – drawn by some desire he cannot identify (instinct, curiosity... nostalgia?) – he approaches.

It seems so small now. Even bowed and altered in his Hordika form, he looms over the Ta-Metru symbol he'd once had to stretch to reach.

Unbidden, his hand moves to the niche where once he'd placed a Toa Stone – where once he had though himself chosen, duty-bound, destiny-gifted – and falters a breath from the stone.

The wrongness spikes.

Screams.

And with a twist of something he will not call horror, he understands it is not originating from himself.

But from the temple.

It is repulsion. It's alienation. It's recognising him, but as other, as rahi.

It's disgust that a monster would dare enter its sanctuary.

In the Ta-Metru carving, stone once polished to the point of fragmented reflection, he sees a glimmer of his own face. Neither Toa nor Matoran. Nothing blessed by Mata Nui.

Vakama recoils.

And then a wave of his own disgust, propelled by that fury that runs so close to the surface now, rolls through him. If you didn't want us as the Toa, you should've stopped Makuta from choosing us, he thinks, and digs his claws into the stonework.

The wrongness sings.

But he knows it for what it is now, and his morphed, clawed hand gorges scars through the carving. The stone is soft. Its makers had never imagined someone would take a blade to it.

There comes a tapping from across the room, echoing brazenly off the ancient stone walls, and Vakama retreats instinctively into the shadows. A Rahaga enters.

Norik?

No, this Rahaga's armour is more akin to a Po-Matoran than a Ta-Matoran's, the colour of dust and stone. Vakama tries to recall the Rahaga's name – and then dismisses the attempt.

It won't matter, in the end.

The Rahaga walks as he always has, stooped and slow, but clearly unhindered by the temple. He passes by the suva and runs one gnarled hand across the stonework, his movements marred by curiosity rather than reverence.

The rage arrives a fully-formed creation. It drowns out the wrongness, floods the apprehension, and he is moving before he's decided that this is the path he wants.

It is not pain, for it does not hurt as it ought.

But it does still hurt.

x

Whatever the Rahaga might once have been, they are old and weak now. Four are captured before Vakama's rage has a chance to cool, but the ire is no less dangerous when it does.

(That's the thing about Ta-Metru; it's not a place of fire so much as it is of magma. And magma doesn't extinguish with the cold; it sets. It moors itself into place, an unmovable, burning force.)

The rage settles, solidifies around his heart and lungs and carves a home between his breaths.

(Magma is not fire. It does not leap blindly from one source to the next. Instead it advances. Slowly. Steadily. It finds a channel, a destination, and it engulfs all in its path until it reaches it.)

He finds the last two remaining Rahaga, pathetically ignorant to their brothers' fates and still scavenging the temple for answers. He hears the way Norik appraises his sister's translation, relief clear in his voice that they are one step further on this wild rahi chase. Relief, surely, that the Rahaga are one step closer to regaining their Toa form.

(And Vakama's anger has found its destination.)

He does not descend on the Rahaga's leader the way he has the others. No. Norik will know what's coming for him first. He gets to fear. Vakama waits until Gaaki has gone, until Norik is alone, and then he circles. The wrongness thrums in his veins, weighing him down and labouring his breaths. It doesn't matter. Let Norik hear his approach.

Norik doesn't try to run. Vakama will give him that much. (A wise choice. Vakama intends for this encounter to last, but if Norik runs, Vakama cannot be sure he won't chase.) Instead, the malformed once-Toa calls out and actually tries to approach him. Stupid. Doesn't he know that he won't win any fight, transformed as he is? As both of them are? No, instead, he tries to talk. As if they are equals, as if Norik has done anything to deserve his respect rather than his scorn. As if he has earned the temple's forgiveness for his trespassing.

Even when Vakama raises the fate of Norik's fellow Rahaga, Norik attempts to sway him with the illusion of reason, talking of duty and unity, as if he's not using the other Toa Hordika to chase after a rahi myth for his own desires. As if their roles are in any way comparable, both Toa of Fire once, both leaders, it's true, but Vakama hasn't forgone his duty to chase after selfish needs.

And it stops now.

Vakama circles closer, and Norik is still talking, unease in his voice, but not fear. Still searching for the right words to turn Vakama to his bidding as he has the other Toa Hordika. Ever the voice of two-faced logic.

Why won't he just shut up?

Does Norik think him to be as gullible as the others? As quick to desert his duty as them?

And Vakama knows he wants – needs – to shake that assurance, that arrogance out of Norik. Needs to see that facade of self-righteous wisdom crumble into the terror of his situation.

The growl begins deep in his chest and, unleashed, it becomes a roar. He rears out of the darkness, into the weak sphere of light surrounding Norik – and there, there he finally sees true fear fill the old fool's eyes.

Something slams into Vakama and he reels, his roar cut short. His hand reaches automatically, defensively, to his mask. He finds only water there. It clings to him, imbued with some sort of power – he can feel something other in it – but otherwise impotent.

"Leave my brother alone," Gaaki snarls. She stands in the doorway, small and hopelessly overpowered, but her shoulders are tensed with a stubborness Vakama recognises. Already, her spinner is powering up for another shot.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Vakama's rhotuka fires into motion, but the water has seeped into the mechanism, and dowses the fire before it has a chance to catch. He gives it a withering look, before turning the expression onto Gaaki. "Very clever."

Another water spinner hits him, but this time he is braced for it and all it does is wash harmlessly off him.

"Is that all you have?" he asks. His blazer claw splutters, but the claws on his hand flex. After all, there's more than one way to defang a muaka...

Gaaki steps back. Good. She knows she's outmatched. "It's a devastating attack underwater," she offers, and her words are strong but there is a cracked edge to them.

"Then you'd better start finding a puddle," Vakama growls, "before my claws find you," and he drops into a run, feet pounding and fangs bared and that ever-present wrongness humming about him.

She doesn't flee. Just like Norik, she stands her ground, gnarled fingers wrapped tight around her staff. Her eyes are hard, but he sees the way her hands shake.

How long will her resolve last, Vakama wonders. Before or after the claws find their mark?

He never finds out.

He's knocked off his feet before he reaches her, and when he hits the ground, ropes of energy pin him to the earth, like a water-bound rahi caught in a net.

What–

Norik.

He'd forgotten Norik.

He thrashes against the restraints, but they hold strong – for now. His blazer claw splutters again, but it does nothing to the energy that binds him.

He stills as he hears footsteps approach.

The two Rahaga hobble into his line of sight. Gaaki is breathing hard, as if only now is she allowing herself to feel the fear. "You left that late, Norik," she says, and even the breath that follows sounds more like a shaken wheeze than a nervous laugh. "Almost too late."

"I only had the one shot. I couldn't afford to miss," Norik replies. "He's got our brothers. Gaaki, go find–"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she retorts. "I only went for a moment before, and look what would have happened if I hadn't returned."

Vakama tilts his head as well as the energy net will allow. He grins at the Rahaga, anger curdling it into a sneer. "Yes, Gaaki, you're very good bait, congratulations." He shifts his gaze to Norik. "But you've always been so good at getting others to do your dirty work, haven't you, Norik?"

Norik doesn't even have the decency of guilt. Instead, he simply looks tired. "Whatever you think you know–"

"I know the truth! You don't care about the Matoran, you only care about yourselves!" He strains against the ropes, and although they do not break, there's a little more give in them than before. He slumps back to the ground, breathing hard. "You might have the other Toa fooled. You might even have the temple fooled, but not me," he growls, and the temple's hatred presses down on him, straining his last words.

Gaaki places a frail hand on her brother's arm. "Norik," she says, and there is such unbearable sorrow in her voice. "He looks in pain."

"It's not my doing," Norik assures her softly. "My snare spinner only binds."

Vakama snarls. "I don't need pity from the likes of you. I know what you are."

"We're allies, Vakama," Norik says, in that insufferably reasonable way of his. "Friends."

"You're frauds," Vakama snaps. He twists against his restraints. They slacken, just a touch. "Liars. You don't deserve to walk these floors."

And the Rahaga stand there, unburdened by the temple's hate, strangers to this land, to Metru Nui, and yet it is Vakama the temple repulses? After everything he has forgone, the life he's abandoned, the friendships he's lost, Mata Nui punishes him?

His rhotuka fires off a fire spinner, and it goes wide, cracks a wall. Norik and Gaaki stumble back, Norik preparing another snare shot, but the energy net holding Vakama snaps. Vakama lurches forward, suddenly free, and slams into Norik.

The snare spinner wraps itself around a column. It lights up the room with crackling energy.

A blast of water grazes past his shoulder, too shy of hitting Norik to commit to taking the easy shot, and Vakama reels towards Gaaki. He fires with a snarl, but hears the snare spinner coming again and ducks at the last moment.

Again his own attack misses and the shot cleaves clean through a wall. Something on the other side begins to smoulder.

Then it begins to rumble.

It's a low sound at first, as deep as the earth and just as vast. Almost like a distant growl. But then the cracks begin to spiral out across the roof, along the columns, and the room buckles.

The light flickers. The frames of the high windows above collapse.

The world becomes fragmented, filled with flickering images. Falling masonry and toppling pillars and dust – but the sounds never relent. Even in the depths of the passing darkness, the thunder continues.

And when the dust settles, so does an awful silence.

Vakama straightens, or does his best approximation of it. Fragments of cracked protodermis fall from his shoulders, his head, his back. He withdraws the hand which has somehow found itself raised above Gaaki, knocking aside the stone slab caught against his arm.

Where's Norik?

Both Hordika and Rahaga stand side by side, that quietness disturbed only by the skittering of stone shards settling. There is wrongness in his breath, his head, and it's impossible to separate where the temple's ends and his begins. But any moment now, Norik will reappear from the wreckage, bearing that ever-same holier-than-thou look, and the anger will rise anew in Vakama.

Any.

Moment.

Now.

"You've killed him," Gaaki says, and her voice breaks that terrible stillness. She draws in a half-breath that cracks into a sob. "You've... oh, Norik..."

No.

No, it was an accident. He hadn't meant to– Norik had simply been in the wrong place. It wasn't as if he'd taken a blazer claw to Norik, or hit him directly with a fire spinner. He'd only meant to... what? What had he only meant to do?

Something swings towards him and he grabs the staff before he even registers what it is.

"He's not dead," Vakama says, and maybe if he says it, he might even believe it. He snaps his gaze to Gaaki, as if her grief is bringing it to pass. "He's not. He's not as easy to kill as that. When the others– when the Toa find him, he'll be fine. Fools like him always find a way to survive."

Gaaki attempts to pull her staff free, but her strength is no match for Vakama's. He wretches it out of her grasp and tosses it aside.

"Stop that."

She doesn't listen to him, only steps back and charges up her rhotuka. The grief in her eyes fogs into hatred.

The water spinner hits him but does little more than rock him.

"Stop."

Gaaki screams, a sound of rage and anguish, and releases a volley of spinners as ineffectual as the first.

Vakama's patience – or whatever had held him in place until now – snaps. He lunges forward. His claws close around the joints of Gaaki's rhotuka and pins the mechanisms harmlessly into place, in the same manner one might pick up a baby ussal crab by the widest edge of its shell. She thrashes, but Vakama's grip holds.

"I said, stop," he snarls.

She's breathing hard, her gasps sharp-edged with agony. "You killed him," she says, voice hoarse and hateful.

His insides twist, and – Gaaki hauled by his side – he starts the ascent to where the rest of the Rahaga are trapped. He doesn't look back to the rubble. Doesn't glance for one last glimpse of Norik's resting place.

He's not dead. He's not dead he's not dead he's not

The wrongness, the hatred, has woven so deep into him, it's almost a part of him now.

Toa don't kill. Vakama can't remember who taught him that (he recalls, briefly, the flash of a gold mask, but it comes with pain – grief – and he pushes it aside before it can take root) but it gnaws at him like a trapped stone rat. Toa don't kill.

But he was never meant to be one.

And if the Great Temple – if Mata Nui – thinks a mistake was made in Vakama's destiny....

Well. That's somebody else's problem.

x

The Hordika that returns to Roodaka is different from the one she sent out. There's something new in his eyes... or perhaps something lost.

"How was the temple, Vakama?" she asks when it's just the two of them.

He looks to her. Beneath the anger, beneath the rahi, there's almost a haunted look to those eyes. It vanishes a moment later, but Roodaka never doubts her own eyes.

"Unwelcoming," he replies, and Roodaka smiles. She could have suggested Vakama pick the Rahaga off one by one in the chaos of Metru Nui, outside where her Visorak could have been an aid... but the temple had been too good an opportunity to miss.

"Good." She sets a hand on his shoulder. "You owe no loyalty to Mata Nui, Vakama. Not anymore."

He rolls his shoulder, but not sharp enough to dislodge Roodaka's hand.

"One thing I do not understand," she says. "What happened to the sixth Rahaga?"

The Toa growls. It is a gutteral sound, rooted deep in the chest and at home in a way it wasn't before. "You wanted a message left for the other Toa. I needed a messenger."

"Alive?"

Vakama shrugs his shoulder again, and this time she lets him roll her hand loose. "Does it matter, so long as they understand?" he growls.

No, Roodaka concedes as she surveys the remains of the Toa before her. She supposes not.