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amiedala · 3 years

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SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 4: An Open Wound

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, canon-compliant violence, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of past abuse/trauma

SUMMARY: “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello my loves and happy Something Deeper Saturday! this chapter is truly a whirlwind, it's hard and sweet and intense and simple all at once. there are very graphic descriptions of violence and death in the one (in the form of Force visions, no one's actually dying, I PROMISE!!!), so please be aware that there is potentially triggering material in what you're about to read. it mentions past abuse and dives pretty deep into current violence, so please just read with caution! i hope you enjoy this journey—i certainly did writing it! more notes at the end!!! <3

Mandalore isn’t a ghost town.

Not how Nova originally thought, anyway. The throne room is filled with wary, armored people. Some are the guards that usually stand watch outside, through the giant palace doors. Nova recognizes Koska Reeves and Axe Woves from the brief, charged encounters she’s had with each of them. Bo-Katan is there, of course, regal and pristine, her shoulders pushed back, her red hair impeccable. There are a handful of villagers that Nova’s seen in passing, but besides the few faces she recognizes, most of the people gathered in the throne room have been hidden somewhere on Mandalore, away from this strange Capitol, away from the everyday. Half of them are without armor, without impressive beskar helmets to hide their wary expressions. Bo-Katan’s icy, measured gaze is clearly a popular currency on Mandalore, because every single person in this room looks skeptical at best and enraged at worst. Nova keeps her eyes on Din, who’s decided to stand at the helm of the dais instead of taking a seat on the beskar throne, watching his every movement to ensure he’s safe up there, and that he stays unharmed.

“I want...to be your leader,” Din says, his voice quiet but earnest. He sounds like he’s incredulous at his own words, like he’s reading off a script he’s never seen before. But there’s power hidden underneath whatever’s scaring him, an undercurrent that Nova knows is unfettered, genuine passion. “I wasn’t raised in the way of Mandalore. Not in the ways that you were—”

“Clearly,” Koska whispers, and the Mnadalorians standing closest to her proximity offer uncharacteristic smiles and snorts. Nova steps forward, but Bo-Katan raises her sharp hand at her side, and they immediately fall silent.

Din looks back at Nova, and for the first time, she can see the fear in his eyes. She nods, encouragingly, even though she has absolutely no clue what point he’s trying to make. Every time she closes her eyes, even if it’s only for a heartbeat, she sees the strange, young hologram of her face, with the word MURDER, MURDER, MURDER flashing back at her, a ceaseless and terrible pattern. Nervously, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, realizing that she’s the only person in this room who isn’t outfitted in Mandalorian regalia. Her black shirt has remnants of dust on the sleeves from the amphitheater. Her pants saw their best days weeks ago. Her shawl, the only proof that she wears any sort of allegiance to the throne, Mandalorian blue and regal, is thrown haphazardly over her rounded shoulders. The boots on her feet are older than her relationship with Din, picked up planets and planets ago, somewhere sunny and warm and an entire lifetime away. When Din’s panicked brown eyes find hers again, Nova smiles, taking a half-step forward, trying to portray anything other than her own frenzied state, the hammering heartbeat that could likely be heard outside of the palace.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Din finally continues, turning back to the crowd. Even from this angle, with most of his face obscured, Nova knows how hard it is for him to stand here, in front of dozens of people, without his helmet, how many rules he thinks he’s breaking, how this must feel like agony. He reaches for the Darksaber hanging on his belt, and when it ignites, every single face in the room is on Din, on that horrific, captivating blade of electricity and death. “I won this in battle. Twice. Both were accidents,” He inhales heavily, studying the flickering, wicked blade. “But they still happened. I wasn’t born on Mandalore. I wasn’t raised here, either. I’ve given some of you this speech before, when I first took the throne.” He exhales through his nose, and Nova wets her dry lips. Her throat feels like the middle of the day on Tatooine, parched and treacherous. “I...I am not a Mandalorian in the way that you’re Mandalorians.” Nova chances another half-step forward, letting the captive, tensioned room blur in her vision as she just focuses on Din. There’s a tremor in his voice, something alive and unsteady, something she only notices because she’s spent over a year studying every inch of him, memorizing Din right down to his bloodstream. “I follow a Creed that you don’t. I’ve spent most of my life trying...trying to be a good soldier, a true Mandalorian. I know I’m not the leader you wanted. I’m not even sure if I’m the leader I wanted. But I’m the one we’ve got, at least for right now. And—” Din exhales sharply, his breath strained, and Nova knows he’s suppressing a sigh, “I swear, I will try my best to do right by this planet. But—but I’m not only the reigning Mand’alor. I’m—”

“Right,” Axe interjects, but there's no malice in his tone. Nova stiffens, crossing her arms over her chest, staring over at him. But he doesn’t look threatening. His smile seems genuine, like he;s just attempting to get Din to lighten up. “And a bounty hunter. A damn good one, at that. He’s caught me twice.”

“Three times,” Nova corrects, and her eyes go wide when she realizes that everyone’s attention is now on her. “But,” she continues, rather nervously, trying to square back her shoulders in a shoddy imitation of Bo-Katan to not display that nervousness, “Din hasn’t been just a bounty hunter in a long time.”

Din sheathes the Darksaber, and instead turns his outstretched hand to Nova. Heart pounding, she slides her hand into his large, gloved one, trying not to show the massive tremble in her fingers. Quietly, he reaches for the Skywaker lightsaber hanging from her belt, and when Nova hesitates, he lets her hand close over the grip instead. Bo-Katan moves forward, so quickly Nova doesn’t even notice, and when she ignites the crisp, illuminated blue blade, half of the people gathered in the throne room draw a weapon. Nova’s expecting Bo-Katan to do the same, but she raises one impeccable eyebrow and turns back towards the room.

“Stop,” she says, and immediately, the majority of the room lowers whatever weapon of choice they’re gripping. Nova manages a tiny, stuttered breath. “She’s not going to hurt us.”

“She,” a voice says from the back of the room, “is wanted by multiple parties. Contacts all over the galaxy will pay a pretty price for Andromeda Maluev, you know. I accepted the cult member as Mand’alor. I accepted you standing down from the throne, Bo-Katan. I will not accept harboring a criminal,” he continues, voice as icy as Hoth, “and a Jedi, at that.”

Din moves forward, all tension, all rage, but Bo-Katan holds up that same, steady hand, and the man making his way across the foreground halts in the same beat that Din does. Nova pulls her own lightsaber back, pocketing it, pulling the shawl higher over her shoulders, trying to unclench her jaw before all of her teeth break off in her mouth. She’s tired. So tired. Exhausted, slogging through this conversation, her heartbeat accelerating, stars shooting out behind her eyes. And still, this time, when she closes them, all she sees is MURDER, MURDER, MURDER.

“Her name,” Bo-Katan returns, measured and cool, “is Novalise Djarin. And yes, she is wanted by both the scum that still survived after the Empire’s demise, and a middleman somewhere in between which we cannot identify yet. Yes, she is a Jedi, or at least is certainly heading in that way. Yes, I stood down from the title. But that wasn’t because I was weak, or because I wanted them on the throne.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Nova,” Bo-Katan interjects, “I’ve got this.” She steps off the lowest stair on the dias, posture perfect, right arm curled around her distinctive helmet. Everything in her screams royalty, regality. Behind her eyes is a fire so much stronger than the ice in her voice. “I didn’t want this. Neither did you. But Din won the Darksaber, fair and square. And Mandalore isn’t what it used to be. None of us are, either. We’re good at surviving, but we’re even better at fighting. And I believe,” she says, pointedly, glancing over at Din, who’s still coiled in an attack position, “that was the point our Mand’alor was getting to. So let him finish. With your mouths closed.”

The man who spoke, wizened but grizzled, exhales angrily through his nose, but his mouth stays clamped shut. Bo-Katan stands at attention, nodding back at Din.

“War is coming,” Din continues stiffly, and half of the people crowded around the room roll their eyes or mutter under their breath.

“War is always coming,” another woman enunciates, “it’s what the galaxy knows best.”

“War is coming,” Din repeats, and Nova has to force herself to unfurl her palms. Before she can even try to jump to his aid, though, he walks down the steps and presses his flat palm against the holotable. Reflected in the glittering dome above them is thousands of pixels of blue light. Nova’s juvenile mugshot is up there for the entire room to see, but so are statistics from every mission they’ve engaged in, anything even remotely related to the Order. Hundreds of faces swarm the screen, all with interwoven lines connecting them to other profiles and rotating planets. There, at the center of the screen, is the First Order’s name in menacing, large letters. Underneath are the silhouettes of Luke, Nova, and Grogu. When Din opens his mouth this time, his words are vivid and clear. “I know that Mandalore has been razed and sieged. I know that in your eyes, I’m not one of you. I know that none of you signed up for another battle. But I also know that fighting,” Din says, his voice weary, but his dark eyebrow raised, “is what’s in our blood. All of us.”

“I won’t follow a ruler who isn’t a true Mandalorian,” the same man finally continues. He steps towards them, and his face is angry and ghastly in the flickering blue light. His rage is barely concealed, and Nova’s hand flies unconsciously to the lightsaber hanging from her belt. “And I certainly won’t protect a Jedi who doesn’t belong here.”

“Well, then,” Nova says, and she’s so bone-dead tired that she doesn’t realize she’s the one who’s speaking until the second word is out of her mouth, “good thing I can protect myself.” She chances a glance at Din, who could very easily be aggravated at her stoking the fire. The only thing written across his face, though, is pride. Nova’s eyes flicker over to Bo-Katan, who is somehow, unbelievably, wearing the same exact expression.

Din slams his fist down on the holotable, sending all of the blue light back into the atmosphere it came from. The low light of the war room is returned to its usual state, but no one speaks. “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

Still, no one moves.

“Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan snaps, icily, all of her usual vigor and venom back in her voice, and it’s like she’s given an order no one can deny. Half of the Mandalorians nod in wary agreement, and the other half keep their low mumbles close to their chests, all of them shuffling out of the throne room, presumably to disperse outside. When the heavy door closes shut, with only the three of them remaining, Bo-Katan turns back to Nova. Din is already climbing the steps back up the dais where the menacing beskar throne sits to retrieve his fallen helmet. When he pulls it back over his handsome face, it’s like closing an open wound.

Nova looks at Bo-Katan, who doesn’t look nearly as threatening in this low light. Her hair is slightly ruffled, and the hard set of her jaw is tense, electric. “Bo-Katan,” Nova whispers, and her gaze snaps impeccably back to Nova’s. “Thank you,” Nova continues, earnest, “for defending me. Defending us. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Bo-Katan counters, but there’s the ghost of a small smile on her beautiful, cold face. “They were wrong, and they needed to hear that. See? I’m not always a total bitch.”

The word—so commonplace, so foreign—sounds absolutely ludicrous coming out of her mouth that it makes Nova laugh out loud. The sound is both musical and jarring, and the tension held in Bo-Katan’s shoulders evaporates, even if it’s only momentarily.

“Noted,” Nova says, smiling. Maker and all the stars above, she’s exhausted. Bo-Katan glances back at Din, armored and impenetrable, and then back at Nova.

“You need sleep,” Bo-Katan allows, pulling her own helmet back over her head. “Both of you. I’ll stay down here and monitor any incoming correspondence. I’m too wired to go to bed anytime soon.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and her usual edge is back in her tone. “And I will. Go.” She raises that commanding arm again, and Nova’s too exhausted to resist. She wants to take a shower and wash the last few days off of her, and then sleep for three more. Her scar hurts. Her shoulders ache. Her head feels impossibly heavy. Silently, she lets Din lead her over to the heavy double doors, her ears buzzing with fatigue, but before they step into the hall, Nova hears her name chase her across the war room. In tandem, she and Din turn, watching Bo-Katan ignite the blue holotable. There’s something unreadable about her, even under the helmet. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Bo-Katan says, finally, and the heaviness of her words is louder than the doors when they close on her impenetrable face.

Steam from the shower fills the entire fresher. It’s wet and hot, the humidity seeping deep into Nova’s skin, burrowing under the residual ache from the last few days, nestling between her cold bones from the chill back on Ahch-To, the frigidity back on Hoth. Din joins her once he wrestles off the rest of the armor, and before Nova can explain she wants him, but it’s impossible right now with how exhausted she is, how she can barely keep her eyes open, Din wordlessly lathers up his hands with her favorite, clean-smelling soap, gently raking the suds through her hair.

Nova sighs in the silence, letting her shoulders hunch over, her body weight alleviated by sagging against the warm shower walls and by the soft grip Din has on her arms, making sure she stays upward. For what feels like years, they stand together under the warm running water, reveling in the steam, the heat, without either of them needing to say anything. Din wraps Nova’s long hair up in the freshly washed towel, while she dries off the residual runoff down her arms, her thighs.

The room is cool and dark in the blue twilight, that same fog and haze sinking over the horizon. Wherever the rest of the Mandalorians went, they’ve all but disappeared off the face of the planet. Everything is an eerie kind of quiet, no bugs, no animals, no clamor, nothing that signifies any kind of sentient life outside of the castle. Most nights, that kind of awful silence makes Nova wired, like it permeates even into her dreams, but not here, not now. She has what feels like years’ worth of sleep to catch up on, and the second that Din pulls back the fluffy, silk comforter on their giant bed, Nova steps out of the towel and into the soft cocoon. Din’s barely even settled up behind her before she drifts off somewhere peaceful, somewhere that’s not here.

She sleeps. For hours, maybe days, Nova sleeps. It’s dreamless and empty, warm and safe. Usually, nightmares flicker and flash through her mind, her legs sprinting away from whatever menace or threat is chasing her, but not tonight. Nothing wakes Nova up, not the strange quiet, not Din tossing next to her, not the immeasurable weight of saving the galaxy on her shoulders. She sleeps, uninterrupted and powerfully, swaddled up under the light blue blankets that are somehow keeping all the bad things away.

In the end, it’s not a nightmare that startles her away, nor is it Din’s unshaven face pressing into the crook of her neck. It’s the sleepy, quiet beeping of her commlink, which has somehow been removed from its usual place on her wrist and is buried under the extra pillows that stand sentinel over their bed when neither Nova or Din is there.

Din, at this very moment, is also nowhere to be found, and Nova rakes a hand through her hair, tries and fails to suppress a yawn, and digs through the array of pillows on the floor until she can see the bright, red light. “Hello?” she asks, her voice still off somewhere in dreamland, and she rubs sleep from her eyes as she collapses down on the bed, body still stuck in sleep.

“Hey,” Nova hears, and it’s halfway through another yawn before she realizes it’s Cara calling. “Listen, I’d love to actually catch up, but—”

“You have news?” Nova asks, suddenly wide awake. She smooths the comforter out under her hand, crossing one of her legs underneath the other. Outside, the sky is dark.

“I have news,” Cara confirms, grimly. “I know Wedge called you to Hoth a week or so ago because there was a prison break somewhere outside of my jurisdiction.”

Nova nods before she remembers Cara can’t see her. “Yeah,” she adds, belatedly. “Yeah, but no one seemed suspicious or in league with the Order, and it was a holding cell full of minor offenders, so it was kind of a dead end.”

“Well, it was,” Cara sighs, “until it wasn’t. We were right, kind of, because no one who escaped was linked to the First Order. But the night after that prison break happened, your photo with your old name and manufactured crimes popped up as a hit from the Guild.”

Nova’s heart sinks. Something suffocating is blocking her airway, and she tries to swallow past the feeling before she can exhale. “What does that mean?” she manages, barely, hand fluttering around her necklace, pressing into the embossed star.

“Someone’s setting you up,” Cara continues, and her voice is gentler than Nova’s ever heard it. “Someone who likely knows you or Din, knows how to get under your skin. The reason why this is so dangerous is because whoever did it knows exactly what they’re doing. I’ve tried, and Karga has tried, but we can’t even identify where the hit originated from, let alone who put it out. We’re not going to stop looking, but it’s going to be hard to figure out who did it. And because the warrant is for you alive or dead…” Cara trails off, the silence buzzing and dangerous.

Nova closes her eyes before she fills in the blanks. “I’m going to be in danger anywhere I go.”

“Listen,” Cara tries, but it’s too late. Nova’s still exhausted, she’s in pain, she has no idea where Din went, and all she wants to do is to bury her face in Grogu’s head and smell his sweet, reassuring baby smell. Her heart aches. “Novalise, I’m not going to let them get to you. You have some of the strongest forces in the galaxy who’ve got your back.”

“Yeah,” Nova whispers, “and I appreciate that, Cara, I do, so much, but—but Mandalore isn’t exactly a safe haven, either. The planet knows I can use the Force, and besides that, most of the people Din’s supposed to be ruling hate our guts. I’m not scared of being left to defend myself, because it’s kind of what I’ve learned to be best at. But with what you’re telling me, there’s not a single safe place left in the galaxy for me right now.”

Cara’s silence is deafening. Nova’s heart sinks just a little bit deeper, swimming around somewhere in her stomach. “It’s not forever,” she says, but her voice is a little too glum to be anywhere near reassuring.

“I’m so tired,” Nova admits, feeling tears bubbling up at the corners of her eyes. “And I can’t rest, because that’s when someone can get me. I mean—what would you do, if you were me, Cara?”

Nova can hear Cara moving, a soft rustle underneath the comm. When she speaks again, her voice is low and clear, like she’s telling a secret that only Nova can hear. “I would do what we both know you’re going to do. You’re the rebel girl, remember?” She pauses. “So rebel.”

Nova watches as the comm clicks off, everything in her body electric, a live wire. Before she can bolt to Kicker, or try to find where Din’s hidden in the chambers of the palace, or call Wedge and tell him she’s coming back to Hoth, the door opens, and Din walks in.

“Hi,” Nova breathes, suddenly very aware she’s not wearing any clothes, which is completely ridiculous, because Din has seen, ravaged, and worshipped every inch of it. “Where were you?”

She watches as Din crosses over the floor, the low light of the day catching on his armor. He sighs, moving closer to Nova until he’s standing in between her open legs. Halfheartedly, he hooks his fingers under the rim of the helmet, but gives up completely the second Nova’s hands reach to pull it off instead. Underneath, his mustache isn’t manicured, his hair has been weighed down by the metal, and he looks about as exhausted as she feels.

“Ruling,” Din says, tiredly, and there’s a flint to it Nova hardly hears. He lets out a small scoff in the silence, and she reaches out the smooth palm of her right hand for his cheek to nestle against. “Trying to get the people of this planet to recognize I’m not here to destroy it, or that you—we’re not the enemy.” He catches his slip almost as quickly as it comes out of his mouth, but still, Nova’s heart sinks deep down in her chest again. “I didn’t—look, Nova, I’m not blaming you—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, even though they both know it’s not. For a second, Din just stares at her, and then he presses his forehead against hers. The warmth his skin gives off is almost enough to make her forget about where they are, about the people that refuse to see her as an ally, about having to save the galaxy from forces that want her dead or for their own malicious intent. “They’ll come around,” she offers, her voice barely there, and Din shakes his head, his hair rustling against Nova’s forehead.

“What if they don’t?” Din asks, and by the weight in his voice, it’s clear he’s not just talking about Mandalore accepting her as the Mand’alor’s riduur, as an ally, as on their side, but about the infiltrated Guild that’s out to kill her, and the First Order that’s out for worse.

Nova’s quiet for a long time, just listening to him breathe, trying to map both of their heartbeats, yearning for the constellations hiding above the hazy Mandalore sky. “What if we can’t do it?” she whispers, her mouth hollow, her head aching. “Any of this? What if we can’t pull this off, Din?” She doesn’t point out the specifics, the weight of planets hanging over both of their heads. They both know what she means. The silence is horrible, but Nova keeps her eyes closed, just like she used to, predicting every move Din will make in the dark.

“Then we don’t,” Din breathes back, and Nova’s about to resist, tears springing back to life in her eyes, and then Din’s mouth is on hers and nothing else matters. She lets him sprawl her back on the bed, the smooth satin coaxing and cool under her skin. Stars are burning out behind her eyes, the same celestial imprints that flood through hyperspace, something more, something deeper, something beyond this planet, this moment, this darkness. When Din’s mouth leaves Nova’s, her eyes stay shut, and his lips trail down to her ear. “I’d give everything else up but you.”

They both know he’s lying—Din’s heart is too big, Nova’s purpose is too bright—but neither of them say it out loud. Nova keeps his words in the hollow of her mouth, something shiny and devastating, a supernova or a pearl.

Din kisses Nova like he’s never had her before, low and desperate. It’s an echo of what happened in the amphitheater just hours ago, but it’s sustained, huge, warm. His mouth is made to devour, and if he’s whispering anything to feel the silence, Nova can’t hear it. She’s focused on where his kisses are trailing, desperate and hot and everything she didn’t know she needed. It’s freezing in here, but he’s so warm, his body heat louder than the cold.

“Kiss me,” Din whispers, his voice rough, a plea. One of his hands comes up and braces against Nova’s chin, not an order, but a question. She reaches towards his neck, trying to pull him down, to anchor their bodies together. It’s dark in their room. Without the stars shining above, it’s even darker.

She’s so tired. Still, even after all that rest, it’s like the exhaustion has permeated Nova straight down to her bones. She shudders and sighs as Din moves down her naked body, his lips planting kisses that she doesn’t know she needs until he’s already there. It’s easy and devastating and wonderful and crushing all at once. When Nova tries to return the favor, Din gently pushes her down, mumbling something about taking care of her.

It’s sweet. So sweet, even, that she’s on the verge of tears. Nova would do anything to stay here forever, to feel her husband’s lips on her bare skin, washing away all of the horror, the trauma, the darkness. She doesn’t open her eyes, even though she wants to. Din’s spent so much time without his helmet to appear like one of the people that call themselves Mandalorians, and she wants to give him back every single second of the time that prying eyes stole away.

Before long, Nova’s already close—her orgasm bubbling up quietly, without fanfare, without dramatics, just because Din knows exactly how to make her body sing—and when she taps at his arm to let him know, his mouth unlatches from the small hickies he’s leaving on the terrain of her bare stomach, and moves in between her thighs.

Effortlessly, he hold her legs up, hooking both of them around his shoulders so that his tongue can stay anchored in place. Nova moans, a quiet, radiant thing, and Din’s tongue finds exactly where she needs it to go. It pulses there, on the sweetest of spots, over and over again until she’s finished.

Breathless, she claws at his pants again, but Din shakes his head, his mouth dropping to her forehead as he pulls her into bed. “Rest, Nova,” he whispers, his voice faraway, a deep rumble. He pulls her in against his body, warm and soothing, and both of them are out before their heads hit their pillow.

Din’s asleep next to her, his slow, even breaths barely anything even in all the silence. Nova wants to fall back to sleep, but she knows she can’t. Her heartbeat is running itself rampant, and she’s a tangle of wants and needs, everything pulled in opposite directions. As quietly as she can, she slides herself out from the protective warmth of Din’s arms and the comforter, gently placing her feet on the floor. Even in the cool darkness of the night, her wardrobe, sleek but huge, has nothing but clothes in the same shades of Mandalorian blue, of beskar silver, but right now, Novalise doesn’t want to be a Mandalorian. She doesn’t want to be royalty, doesn’t want to be a figurehead. She doesn’t exactly want to be a Rebel either, because both titles mean the ultimate fate of the Outer Rim and beyond in her hands, so she settles for somewhere in between.

When she’s all dressed—black monochrome right down to her scuffed boots, in a weak imitation of the Luke Skywalker style—she braids the top half of her hair back, sleek and functional, and chooses a shawl buried at the back of her closet, underneath all of the Mandalorian haze of clothing. It’s a stormy grey that shimmers with the silver her husband wears when the fabric catches the light. If you pay close enough attention to the shawl, small, intentional stitches of rust and orange are woven into the fabric, hidden, furious, tiny flames.

Not exactly Mandalorian, but not entirely Rebel, either. And when Nova looks at herself in the mirror, studying the way her eyes flash with all that fire she was so certain was gone a few minutes ago, she sees herself right down to the quick, the high wire in between—she looks something like a Jedi.

So she pulls the Skywalker family lightsaber out of the hook on her door and pulls it to her belt loop, watching as the metal sways and dances in the low light. The weapon seems ancient, like something from another world. Something holy, even though she knows Luke Skywalker is a man and not a myth.

When she closes the bedroom door behind her, Din doesn’t even move. Usually, Nova’s the loud and clumsy one, worlds more obnoxious than Din’s practiced quiet, but she’s grown into her stealth over the last few weeks, especially living here, in a palace that has more rooms than the planet does people. It’s strange and eerie here at night, down the sprawling marble stairs, and she takes the first corridor she can find, just trying to walk off some of the pressure, to put her head back on her shoulders.

It’s lit only by candlelight, an archaic, flickering warmth, so in contrast to the rest of the steel and metal that Mandalore is made up of. It’s like she’s stepped into something that’s been around for years, even though she knows that it’s not possible. Mandalore was sieged, usurped, sieged again, razed and brought to the ground, destroyed. The planet’s atmosphere is mostly ash and haze, all that leftover war from years ago. But this part of the palace looks older, like a tomb that somehow survived.

It’s too creepy, Nova decides, even though the curious part of her is itching to explore it. She wants to pore through every aspect of it, try to find remnants of lost Mandalore, like her father used to unearth texts, like her mother used to excavate history. Before the war, before the Alliance was necessary, before all this death and darkness. When Nova comes out the other end of the corridor, she’s right next to the intimidating double doors of the war room, the holiest place Mandalore has. She pulls her shawl a little closer to her body, trying to retain the warmth she left back upstairs, trying to hold onto a memory more than anything tangible.

Nova isn’t intending to slip into the war room, let alone walk towards the sprawling dais that holds the beskar throne, but she does. It’s still quiet, so quiet, and the dark is coaxing her closer, pulling her up the steps, something beyond a simple want or need. She has the sneaking suspicion that she’s not supposed to be in here, not this late, not without Din, not when she has no legal or physical right to this place, but when she sits down on the throne, something deeper echoes out from within her chest.

It feels like a hymn and a battle cry. Before she has a second to adjust, to rationalize anything, everything becomes starry and disconnected. It’s been so long since she had a Force vision this immediate, this intense, and it hurls her through the proverbial hyperspace, everything dropping away.

It takes three steps forward in this strange, terrifying liminal space before Nova can even identify what’s scaring her. It’s the same kind of evil she felt way back on Takodana, before she was married to the ruler of a planet, before she even knew it was her destiny to be both Rebel and Jedi. There’s a mask she doesn’t recognize, twisted and devious. Behind its menacing, blank expression is something horrifying. Looking into the visor, it’s like her own soul is being fractured into pieces.

It’s humanoid until it’s not. The figure wearing the mask of destruction is tall, easily a foot taller than she is, horrible and menacing. But when the lightsaber they’re using ignites, it’s scarier than the vision of the person at all. It’s awful. It looks like it was forged out of lava, menacing red, the blade flickering and hissing in a way that’s somehow even more terrifying than the stark contrast of the Darksaber’s blade. Nova gasps, the light too bright, too sudden, and she can feel the residual thud on the floor, even in the vision. She knows when she comes out of it, she’ll be hurt, but the blade is getting closer. It looks like a giant rapier, a sword made only for evil things. At the hilt, spraying out in both directions, the blade extends. When the figure in the mask swings, it’s without remorse, so quick, so terrible.

But Nova’s not the target. She rolls away, out of the strike zone, and then she hears Luke Skywalker’s voice cutting through the darkness. She turns, and suddenly she’s not in the horror of the vision, anymore. She doesn’t know where she is. The ground looks icy, like Hoth, but there’s red powder spit everywhere, vomited across giant salt deposits. It’s so bright that her hand comes up in front of her eyes, and when she lowers it, Luke is gone. She’s gone, too. She turns around, hair whipping in the furious wind, trying to find where her name is being cried, and she trips over a mound on the salty ground, and when she falls to her knees, it’s a person, newly slain. The blood is so red, redder than the powder, redder than the evil lightsaber. It drowns through the lines on her hands, slips through her long fingers. She screams, trying to back up from the body, and then she realizes it’s Bo-Katan, gurgling through the slit in her throat, and when Nova tries desperately, in vain, to buffer the blood spilled, Luke Skywalker calls her name again.

But it’s not Luke. It is him—for a second, for the tiniest fraction of a moment—but then it’s not. His lightsaber floods with red, cancelling out the green light. The hallway flickers, once, twice, and then Darth Vader is charging towards her, and all Nova can hear is her blood pounding frantically in her ears and his heavy breathing through his mask, the sound that used to fill all of her nightmares. She’s slamming on the door at the other end of the hallway, and when it opens, the only person standing there isn’t a person at all, but a small alien baby all of two feet tall, green and adorable, and Nova drops her body around her son, protective and sobbing, curling every single inch of her around his tiny little frame, trying to shield him from Vader’s wrath, but when she cries, the vision changes again.

She can feel the motion sickness bubbling up in her stomach, horrible and nauseating. When Nova lands, she doesn’t open her eyes. She’s seen more than enough. Even right now, in the middle of her Force vision, all she wants to do is go back to sleep. She can feel the ache she slept away burrowing right back into her bones. Her scar is pulsing, enraged and angry. The headache she spent the last two and a half weeks fighting off is back, radiating straight down to behind her left eye. It’s all too much, and she can’t look. She doesn’t want to see anything else.

“Novalise,” she hears again, and the only reason she opens her eyes this time is because it’s her mother speaking. Her mother, who only ever called her Andromeda. Her mother, who spent half her life in the stars. Her mother, long dead. Her mother, who never got to know this version of her daughter, this Jedi-in-training, royal Rebel Girl that just desperately needs a hug from her mom.

“Mom,” she cries, and it’s so white. Everything here is antiseptic and deafening. It doesn’t even look like a planet, or even a room, or anything at all. She’s not even sure if there’s a floor, but Nova starts running like she’s never ran before in her life. Her breath is ragged and coming out in bursts. The jiggle in her chest and thighs burn under her speed, but she doesn’t care. She’s racing towards her mother, towards open arms, towards everything she’s been cheated out of for the last ten years.

It lasts for a second. Just a second. The figure is Piper Maluev, her skin dark and radiant, her hair down to her waist. Her lips are wide open and welcoming, her eyes crinkled at the seams. She’s tall and radiant and strong, and she’s everything Nova’s missed for nearly half her life.

And then it isn’t Piper. It’s not Luke, either, or Darth Vader, or whoever the dark, terrible, masked figure was. It’s not her usual nightmare transformation of Jacterr Calican. It’s not Bo-Katan, convulsing and dying. It’s Din. Just for a moment, a tiny fraction of relief, and then it’s not Din, either.

It’s a woman Nova’s never seen before, and her hand is clamped firmly around Nova’s windpipe. Like it’s nothing, she pulls her right off the disappearing floor and choking the life out of her. Her eyes are light but so terrifyingly menacing, her hair is a mess of a dark blonde. She’s pale and awful and her face is gleeful as she pulls the life out of Nova, a sucking, open wound.

She can’t talk. She doesn’t even want to plead for her life. If she’s this close to death anyway, and she just saw her mother, Nova figures there’s a pretty damn good chance that both of her parents are just over the other side. The woman is so happy to be killing Nova off, she doesn’t want to fight it. When her grip recedes, just for a half a second, Nova chokes out a confession that makes everything else grind to a halt.

It’s four words. Barely anything. Tears are streaming down her cheeks when her lips finally open. “I want my mom.”

Then she’s being dropped onto the floor, which very much exists now, and the light room filled with nothingness curls away, receding like it’s being burned. It’s dark in here, the tiled floor slippery and treacherous. In the background, there’s a makeshift trophy made from what looks like bones. Nova’s gasping for air, fighting back with a newfound vigor, kicking her legs helplessly to try and get some leverage on this woman who wants her dead, when, suddenly, she’s at eye level with her.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she seethes, a terrifying smile still spread across her horrible, beautiful face. “When I find you, you’re going to be begging for your life instead of your death.”

“Who—who are you?” Nova manages, through agony. Her shoulders hurt. Her headache feels like it’s trying to split her jaw in half. Her scar feels like it’s being reopened. Everything is torture, and she can’t even breathe.

“You’ll see,” the woman whispers, and her voice is so deadly that Nova internally corrects every time she’s ever called Bo-Katan venomous. Bo-Katan Kryze is a flower. One of the iridescent, gorgeous ones, that lined all the brush on Yavin, the ones Nova’s spent years pressing into the pages of every journal she’s ever owned. She’s kind and lovely and Nova’s very best friend, and when she gets out of this alive, Nova’s going to tell Bo-Katan that. “I’m going to enjoy killing you, Andromeda.”

Nova heaves one giant breath into her lungs, trying to muster up anything that she can, even if it’s just more air. “I—” she starts, and the woman smiles again, loaded and dangerous. “I—I already did that, you miserable bitch,” Nova manages, and when she’s slammed into the awful floor, it’s worth it. There’s some kind of desperation behind the woman’s eyes, now and when her hand finds Nova’s throat again, she spits in her face.

And then she’s out of it. Hurtled out of it, actually, like a dying starfighter in the middle of space. She gasps and heaves on the floor, and as her sight comes back, her breathing does, too. Her head is still killing her. Her shoulders feel like they’re trying to carry the entire weight of Mandalore. Her scar is awful, white-hot and painful to the touch. Somewhere, distantly, her knees hurt like she’s fallen to them, and when she gains back her sense of sight and the feeling of her life being choked out of her body subsides, Nova realizes she has fallen to them. She’s fallen a lot, actually, down multiple steps leading to the floor from the raised platform where she was once sitting in the beskar throne. Nova shudders, inhaling through a terrible wheeze, curling her legs up close to her chest, trying to shake off the absolute shitshow that just hurtled her through the most traumatic Force vision she’s ever had.

“You,” comes a booming, rueful voice, and when Nova’s eyes flutter open, she’s expecting it to be the malicious, purple-haired woman from her vision. Her eyes take a second to adjust, her left one throbbing from the horrid ache pulsing behind it, and when she finally locates the source, it’s the miserable man from the gathering earlier.

“Can I help you?” Nova asks, her voice shooting up at the end, on the verge of tears.

“You aren’t supposed to be up there,” he spits, and Nova squints up at the throne she’d just fallen from.

“I know,” she whispers, dully. She presses a shaking hand to the ache behind her eye, trying to shut out this conversation like she wishes she’d ignored the vision. She tries to stand up, but her knees are too bruised to sustain pulling her to her feet, so she just slumps back against the step she’s on, trying to muster all the strength she has in her exhausted body to not break down. “I’m sorry,” Nova tacks on, the words barely there. “I—I wasn’t intending to sit here, or even come in the room, it just—”

“Happened,” he finishes, oddly calm. His voice sounds closer. Much closer. Nova opens her right eye, and he’s only at the bottom of the staircase. There’s something so wretched and dangerous about the energy he’s giving off, and she wants to run, but she’s in no position to even stand, let alone fight him off, so she just sits there, curling her knees into her chest, pulling her shawl as tight as she can against her upper body. “You’re an abomination.”

A laugh, the traitorous thing, bubbles up inside Nova’s throat. It’s not funny. It’s not. It’s pathetic, and likely racially motivated, but she can’t help herself. Her ribs ache, like they got banged up in her distant fall down these sharp, steep marble steps. “That, surprisingly, is not the first time I’ve been called an abomination in my life.”

“Do you know what the Jedi did to our people, little girl?” He’s angry. Nova can hear it in his voice. And normally, it would scare her, trigger her fight or flight reflex, keep her moving, but after her paranormal face-off with two of the scariest figures she’s ever seen, this one isn’t really that high up on our list. “I do. You were eradicated for good reason. You scorched our planet down to nothing, and now you and your cult leader husband come back here and try to take over? Not on my watch.”

Nova can feel him getting closer. He’s so much bigger than she is, up close, tall and buff, menacing and taut. She weakly pulls her hand away from her eye, trying to at the very least give him her full attention, but she’s so fucking tired. It’s in her bones, at this point. She doesn’t want to be royalty. She doesn’t want to be a Rebel. And, in contrast to what the man in front of her is screaming, she doesn’t want to be a Jedi.

She wants to be the Novalise she was on Naator, with nothing but domesticity and yellow leaves and pink skies. She wants to be the protector she was out there in hyperspace. And, for the first time in ten years, she wants to be Andromeda Maluev, fifteen and gleeful, running around Yavin knowing the stars were her destiny and that evil could always be defeated.

“I don’t even want to be here,” Nova whispers, finally, and it’s like something inside her breaks.

“Good,” the man spits, “then we’re in agreement.” And then his hands are yanking away the hood of her shawl and tangling in her braided hair. Nova’s scream gets cut off as she’s thrown down the rest of the stairs, like her body’s giving up. She chokes out something horrible, fighting to get to her bruised, banged up knees, sore from the fall, aching from the blissful time riding Din’s face less than an hour ago, but she can’t summon the strength. Somewhere, she knows Luke Skywalker is yelling at her to use the Force, but Nova’s had enough force today to last a lifetime. When she’s kicked in the stomach, brutal and awful, she just curls in on herself, hoping her death isn’t a slow one. He startles towards her again, ripping her shawl off of her body, clawing at the meat of her upper arm, and something snaps inside of her. If she’s going to die, really die, it’s not because she succumbed to the injuries this rabid Mandalorian is giving her to try and put the blame on her shoulders. She survived Moff Gideon. She survived Din and Grogu leaving her. She survived her parents dying. And she survived the abuse of Jacterr Calican’s awful hands. Novalise can survive this.

When her lightsaber roars to life in her hands, it’s not only Nova swinging. She can feel the weight of what it being the Skywalker family lightsaber, of Luke and Leia before her, of his father before him, of all the generations yet to come to wield this weapon, this holy sword, this impossible thing. It takes all of her energy, a brilliant beam of blue light, and then she falls to the floor, knowing that even if this is where it ends, that she fought back.

Everything next comes in flashes. It’s in these tiny fractals like what happened when the Crest had died right over Dagobah and crashed to the surface. She sees a blade ignite, and in between the rhythm of her fading in and out of consciousness, Nova thinks she’s just watching herself fight the man back. Suddenly, he drops to the floor, his body nothing but dead weight, and she wants to scream, but she’s back out. It’s horrible and deafening. She’s being scooped up, she can feel that. She’s crying. She’s definitely crying. There are voices, loud ones. When she has enough strength to open her eyes again, Din is slamming his gloved fist against the airlock on Kicker, his voice frantic. She can’t make out what he’s saying, though, and another face appears above her. Din gently transfers Nova’s limp body into someone else’s arms, and when Nova looks up, it’s Bo-Katan, her face so panicked it’s almost impossible to recognize who it is.

“Nova, you gotta stay awake,” Bo-Katan whispers, her palm slapping softly at Nova’s cheek. “C’mon, I mean it. If you die here on this planet you hate, I will haunt you in the afterlife. I swear, you have to stay awake.”

“I don’t—” Nova starts, and Bo-Katan shakes her head.

“You literally should not be talking,” Bo-Katan says, her eyesight dipping to Nova’s neck. Her eyes widen for a second and then her smooth fingers ghost over the outline. Nova coughs at her light touch, and she realizes that the marks from the vision she had of being choked within an inch of her life are here, that they followed her back out of the vision and into this moment. “Nova, no, shut up, I’m serious—”

“I don’t—don’t hate Mandalore,” she manages, her voice sounding like shards of glass, and Bo-Katan offers her a hasty, worried smile.

“You do,” Bo-Katan argues, but her voice is so gentle. “But don’t worry, princess, we’re getting you the hell off of it. No complaints now that you’re off Mandalore, you got it? The second you got here, I knew both of you wanted to leave.”

Din’s at her side again, and Bo-Katan kneels down, gently placing Nova in her familiar tangle of blankets and pillows. Nova’s eyes close again, and when they slide back open, Bo-Katan is standing, trading worried glances and hushed tones with Din.

Nova’s head hurts. So bad. It’s splitting down the middle of her skull, actually, but all she can do is press a hand over her eye and try to block out the familiar low light of the ship that smells more like home than this entire planet ever had.

“Listen, about what I told you back on Hoth—”

“It’s fine,” Din cuts her off, and his next few words are warbled. “I get it. Your allegiance is to Mandalore, not to us.”

Nova can’t hear Bo-Katan’s answer. In fact, she’s not even sure if there’s even words being spoken, because the next time she looks up, Bo-Katan is just staring down at her, incredibly concerned, such an obvious change from her usually stoic expression. Nova’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. She’s exhausted. Bo-Katan kneels down again, just for a split second, to pull the loose end of Nova’s shawl over the rest of her folded body. Nova wants to cry.

“Flower,” she garbles, nonsensically. She’s trying to tell Bo-Katan that she’s sorry for all the animosity, that she trusts her, and more than that, she likes her. It doesn't make a single lick of sense to anyone outside of Nova’s head, but Bo-Katan offers a tiny smile anyway.

“Here,” Din says, stiffly, holding out the sheathed blade of the Darksaber to Bo-Katan. Nova’s eyes flutter closed, just for a beat, and when they open back up, Bo-Katan is pushing the weapon back into Din’s grip.

“It’s not mine,” she insists. “Besides, you’re not getting out of it that easy. You’ll be back.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Take care of her,” Bo-Katan interrupts. Nova blacks out again until they’re up in hyperspace. Din’s body is shielding her from the cold, his limbs draped all over the places that hurt the least. When she opens her eyes, they’re floating through the cosmos, and all her eyes can see is sweet, sweet stardust.

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wesimpforxiao · 4 years

Text

Say My Name and I’ll Be There: 7.4

Author’s Note: I believe I’ll be doing a LIVE pulling for Xiao tonight around 7:45 PST. Join me if you want to see me cry from happiness or from not pulling him LOL. The link is in one of my previous posts. Before, during, or after this chapter, listen to this song to get a feel of what’s happening! https://youtu.be/ifQ3JRS4gqc

.....................

The voices never truly left you alone after that. You were practically becoming unhinged by the endless whispers that plagued your ears, and the quiet of night only seemed to egg them on further. When you were blessed with their silence, you were plagued the physical pains of the karmic debt and your depression from joining the harbingers. Childe was obviously growing more and more concerned with each passing day; you were beginning to freak him out. The Tsaritsa and the other harbingers, however, found great amusement in your...condition. It was a blessing in disguise; they were manipulating you much easier now that you were exhausted from the sleepless nights.

And it wasn't like you were constantly needing medical care, though you wished they would give you some heavy pain killers. No; whatever damage your body was burdened with would be repaired by morning thanks to Xiao's blood. The pain wasn't nearly as dramatic as the first wave, but it was a constant dull aching that ate away at your bones. Slowly but surely, the pains grew over time.

Xiao made his presence known to you only twice more; he showed himself in the late evenings for brief periods of time to quell your aching heart and mind. At least when he was able to be with you, the dreadful screams would disperse if only temporarily. At least when he was with you, you were granted sleep. Small waves of peace would reclaim you as Xiao watched over your sleeping figure.

But once Liyue's festivities were underway, Xiao's visits became nonexistent and your mind was once again thrown into deeper chaos while he fought off more demons. It was the busiest time of the year for both the inhabitants and the demonic presences of Liyue; it was Xiao's task to fend the latter off since the festivities attracted their attention and strengthened their presence. He felt you slowly shattering, and it hurt him to know he couldn't be with you as often as he wanted to.

One day out of the blue, over a month after you joined the Fatui, Childe approached you with a grand smile across his face. "Ojou-chan! Why don't I show you around Snezhnaya? It's much better than sitting in your room all day."

"...Aren't you always saying we could freeze to death?" Your unamused expression failed to hinder Childe's enthusiasm. "Why would I want to go outside?" The bags under your eyes spoke volumes about your continuous sleepless nights.

"Come on, Mezzetin, it'll be good for you. You could use the exercise."

"Are you implying something?" You're eyes narrowed dangerously, but Childe's grin only widened when your normal quips shone through your broken character.

"Well, if you ever feel the need to put me in my place, I'm more than willing to oblige to a fight," he watched your expression lighten for a moment before urging you. "Come on, I'll show you around."

Sheer cold wasn't an issue for this winter wasteland like it was on Dragonspine, but it had to be at least five times colder here. Childe made sure you were bundled up in a large furry coat before guiding you out of the castle and leading you to a town square that was surprisingly bustling with people despite the frigid temperatures. Stalls lined the streets. People gathered around to buy the freshest local food that included some incredibly large seafood varieties. Others were in line to buy trinkets, house decor, and a variety of other items.

"...A farmer's market?" Your cold breath of a remark caught Childe's attention, and he turned to you.

"Of course! Go ahead and look around. If there's anything you want, I'll buy it for you."

He's trying to cheer me up? You examined Childe's earnest demeanor as he eyed the fish stall with stars in his eyes. Can he just pick a side already?! You rolled your eyes. Still, might as well bankrupt him if he insists. You broke away from him and continued down the rows of stalls for awhile, unaware that the harbinger had rejoined you.

You were busy examining a few intriguing necklaces made of materials you haven't heard of when the whispers of the damned regained their voices. You staggered a bit only to be steadied by Childe's hand on your shoulder.

Childe noted your glowing eyes. "Happening again?" His genuine concern made you relieved that he wasn't a complete monster like the other harbingers. "If you need a break, there's a café over there that we can sit in." Your strained nod prompted him to guide you with a hand at the back of your shoulders.

"Hm?" A strange sound reached your ears, and this time it wasn't from inside your head. Your feet came to a halt before the two of you reached the building, and you tilted your head towards the sound.

It was a light and effortless tune that floated through the open air from yet another building. The melody was slow to build, yet you hung onto its every note. It took you a moment to realize that it calmed the demonic voices from screams to hushed murmurs. You followed the path of the sounds until you found yourself in an extremely outdated music shop.

"Mezzetin?" Childe attempted to regain your attention as he followed after you. He caught onto the childlike wonder glistening in your teary eyes. "Care to explain?"

"The pain..." a tear fell. "It's subsiding." You continued to stare at the harpist that played her tune at the back of the shop, eyes never leaving the fingers that plucked the strings. The voices were gone, and now you were only overwhelmed with a sense of peace.

Childe watched you silently listen to the music for a long while. An idea struck him. "Have you ever played?"

"Huh?" You snapped out of your daze and wiped the tears away. "Um...Granny used to play a lot when I was little. I know a couple tunes, but--" Childe walked to the shop owner without letting you finish, pulling out a large sack of mora while he was at it. "H-hey! What're you doing?"

"If it brings you happiness, then I don't see the problem in buying it," Childe argued back after he had purchased the most expensive harp in the shop and left a considerate tip. The two of you were walking back to the palace now. He had ordered for his subordinates to take the instrument back with them.

"But I haven't played in years! And I said I only knew a few simple tunes--"

"--Then I will ensure you receive lessons." He was not going to budge on this, and he made it obvious with his firm gaze. "The rest of the harbingers made it clear that they do not care for your wellbeing, but I do. Think of this as a gift and a type of therapy. You've been down ever since Xiao left you--"

"I left him," you corrected. And I so regret my decision.

"I'm just trying to prove that you aren't in a prison anymore. If you want to see it as that, then by all means, continue to be depressed. But something tells me you want to see Xiao again and find a way with him, no?"

"...Right."

"Then at the very least accept my apology gift to you."

"Huh? Apology?" You gave him a questioning look, but he either didn't hear you or elected to ignore you.

......................................

Xiao was being as antisocial as ever, but it's not like he would ever turn down an invitation for tea from Rex Lapis himself. Here he was, sitting just outside of Wangshu Inn with his master in the bright of day. Aether probably put the archon up to the task considering how Xiao pushed him away what felt like ages ago, but the yaksha decided to give Zhongli the time of day only because of his deep respect for his savior.

"I've also brought more pain killers," Zhongli handed the yaksha a small jar of other-worldly medicines as he continued to fill him in on the upcoming Lantern Rite. He had yet to bring you into the conversation, most likely to avoid irritating the throbbing wound in Xiao's chest.

"Mm." Xiao gladly accepted the medication and set it aside. This ensured yet another lull in their conversations.

"Will you go this year?" Zhongli sipped at his tea. "To the Lantern Rite?"

"My presence would only hinder the festival. Besides, I'm not great with crowds." The yaksha had yet to meet the archon's eyes, and kept his gaze firm on the teacup in front of him. Truth be told, he would have gone this year...with you, since it was you who had asked him. But now that these circumstances have come to pass, why should he go? "It's just another excuse for humans to discard their trash into the ocean." Why should he go when it would only remind him of his failure to keep you at his side?

Zhongli narrowed his eyes as he pondered whether words of comfort would aid his yaksha. "It would be good for you to experience something new after all your years of living."

"I already have," Xiao clenched his jaw, signaling that the topic was beginning to walk on thin ice. "She--"

"--Is not dead," Zhongli reminded. "Do not mourn for a loss that has not occurred."

"But she's dying," he argued back, finally releasing the emotions he's pent up ever since they left you. Zhongli's look of confusion prompted him to continue. "She can feel the karmic debt bestowed upon me."

"When did this begin?" The archon's usual reserved composure faltered slightly while his eyes widened.

"A month ago. I visited her; she can hear the voices of the damned. She's been in physical and mental pain ever since."

"The bond..." Zhongli set his teacup down a bit abruptly as he thought to himself. "It appears these side effects grow stronger in the other's absence. How intriguing..."

"How do we discard them? Is there a way?"

"Have you not interpreted my words in Qingce Village all along? Or my words at the Dawn Winery? I've already given you the means to act, Xiao."

--Can feel your emotions...emotions cannot be permanently ignored...fall on deaf ears...early grave... Xiao scoffed and downed the rest of his tea before forcefully setting the cup back down onto the table. "You think admitting my alleged feelings for a mortal human would solve the problem?"

"She's done her part, now it is your turn," he straightened. "If you fail to do so, I fear she will perish from your karmic debt in no time at all. If what you say is true, it's a miracle she's still alive. Your admittance would seal the bond, as it would eliminate the side effects altogether."

Xiao's head whipped in the direction of the playing of an instrument note, but was only greeted with the joyful screams of children running around nearby. "Tch. How annoying," he played his mishearing off and returned to his normal sitting position. Another sound reached his ears, but he neglected to react to it. The notes are off.

Zhongli didn't question Xiao's sudden alertness, but that didn't take away from the fact that yet another side effect has revealed itself to the archon. It appeared as though the yaksha was already aware of this side effect.

And man, did this one annoy Xiao the most. He heard the most random of tunes and chords at the most random of times. It would even jolt him awake when he managed to fall asleep on rare nights. It wasn't all unpleasant though; there were times in which the melody struck all the right notes and the result was a beautiful thirty second song before it was gloriously ruined by the musician's hesitance or embarrassment.

He knew it was you. Your constant need to practice was as pestering as your old daily prayers before he revealed to you that he could hear them. At least he only sometimes heard the plucking of strings. As pesky and invasive as it was, your insistence upon playing what Xiao only assumed was a lyre somehow brought a bit of joy to his heart. It meant that you were doing better than the last time he saw you.

He just wished he could hear the end result and not your sloppy practice sessions.

........................

Only on the eve of the Lantern Rite, several days before the celebration, did he come to appreciate the hours of hard work you were putting into practicing the music.

You had locked yourself in your room again after watching the failed experiments Dottore had forced you to witness. How many did you see die today? Fifty? He clearly needed to adjust the ratio of your blood to whatever else he had in that serum he developed. What was worse was that you were beginning to become desensitized to the loss of human life; amused by it, even. Just as the Tsaritsa wanted. Sometime into the fortieth treatment, your pains grew stronger as did the voices of the slain daemons.

You retreated to your room, relieved that Childe had for once allowed you to be without his presence. You sat yourself next to the window and allowed for the evening light to illuminate the music sheets the harbinger had bought for you. Your fingers grazed lightly over the strings as the voices continued to grow louder, absently plucking one of them to ensure that you still had full control over your slightly twitching limbs. You had nearly snapped the strings last time the voices overwhelmed you--

There's no time nor need to reminisce those incidents. You pulled yourself out of your thoughts and began to play, the smooth vibrations of the harp humming against your chest and shoulder as the strings were struck. Unlike your practice sessions, your hands glided over the strings from one position to the next like you had played for a thousand years. No hesitation could be felt from the chords. Finally, it seemed as though you mastered this song.

Xiao. I miss you...your warmth...your embrace... Your infested thoughts soon cleared as your mind drifted to an image of him. I wonder if he too finds comfort in music when the voices overwhelm him? For you knew that when the voices grew louder, he too, was subject to them. The music overcame the screaming daemons, and you were relieved with a sense of peace. Your fingers continued to play through the music and repeated the song for as many times as you felt fit. Your aching limbs continued to throb, but you didn't let that stop you from playing. Your mind now clear as water, you poured your longing for Xiao into your music. You hummed the melody as you played.

One day you'll find your way back to him, or him to you. Was it okay to allow yourself to believe in the possibility that he held the same feelings for you? Did he love you? No--Could he? It was already naïve enough to think he was capable of harboring such intimate feelings after living through hell for over two thousand years. And even if he did, it's not like you'd live as long as he has. Would he push me away again? You shoved that thought out of your mind with another series of chords.

You wouldn't be able to put an end to your feelings no matter what he did. He was too admirable, too strong, too strict, too beautiful. He was too kind, even if he put up a front. You loved him too much; perhaps that would end in your own downfall just as Childe predicted and beat into your head every day, but that was alright with you. If the voices were to eat away at you until all that remained were ashes, you were okay with being true to yourself until the very end. Even if he never thought of you as something more than a companion. And as you thought of him, the longing to be reunited swelled within your chest and overflowed into your fingers.

Your song was your unspoken prayer, your love and dedication were your offerings.

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #xiao #xiao fanfiction #xiao genshin impact #genshin impact xiao

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lettrespromises · 4 years

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┄───➤ LettresPromises informs you : you have one notification. ❜

──➤ 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 : 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒.

──➤ Smoker sent you a letter, would you like to read it? ❜

@theastroooooworld sent a letter : ❝hello my lover 🧚🏼‍♀️, i hope you are well no matter when you see this request !since i love above all your writing, could you make a scenario with another love of my life : Smoker ? in which this angel becomes aware that he loves his best friend from childhood, but this confuses him a lot and he ends up not knowing how to act with her anymore and until he decides to tell her ? please make it very sweet and full of good vibes ! I trust you once again for this declaration of love !𓊕 — juste entre nous deux; tu es une personne formidable et j'avais juste besoin de te le dire, je t'aime fort 💜🤸🏼‍♀️❞

the author’s letter : ❝dear cam, i couldn’t be more honored of writing this request for you, especially because it concerns smoker and he has no business being this hot but oh well!! thank you for trusting me with your wonderful idea, i hope you’ll enjoy this promised letter. je t’aime si fort, t’es plus qu’incroyable et j’aimerai que tu le saches.❞

──➤ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : pure fluff. ─➤ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : none. ➤ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 2.6K. Excerpt of the letter : ❝Only then did he realize that he had never felt an agonizing sensation of vacuity coursing through his veins when he was feeling frustrated. It was odd, it was foreign, he felt weak. His subconscious screamed at him to associate this haunting feeling of loneliness to the lack of your presence, and for once he agreed— Smoker knew he felt different, in the worst way possible, when you were not around, so he let out another puff of smoke.❞

Is there anything Smoker won’t put words around? Yes, there is.

There is the consuming rage fueled by his unquenched thirst to capture more pirates and bring his status of « white hunter » closer to glory. But he reminds himself that perhaps some pirates deserve to be set free as his orbs lay on the poster of Monkey D. Luffy and the letters of the word « wanted » screaming at him. There is the sense of injustice within the epitome of justice, such acerbic poetry, and the cacophony of remorses making his jaw clench every now and then. There is the frustration of acknowledging that there will forever be a gap between his own definition of justice and his superiors’ definition of justice, particularly Akainu’s version which appears too merciless to his own liking.

And there is the haunting torment of being incapable of qualifying properly his feelings.

He knows what anger feels like— he knows how anger bends his body, he knows that anger will push his sanity down a pit and he will have to sit here and observe an unhinged version of himself crawl out of said pit.

He knows what indifference feels like— but he barely realizes that his eyes roll back whenever his superior wishes, yet again, to narrow the notion of freedom within justice, he knows that his brain purposefully decides not to absorb any given information pooling out of Akainu’s mouth.

Smoker knows how his emotions manifest themselves and recognizes them kinesthetically.

But Smoker also fails to identify the newcomers.

« State your name and business before coming in. » It also seems that he has trouble recognizing the five distinct taps of your knuckles on the door leading to his office, but oh well.

Your knuckles brush the wooden surface of the door until reaching the doorknob and twisting it in the process, you close the door behind you, leaving his pseudo orders waiting in front of the door at the same time. « I’m kind of hurt, I thought you’d recognize my secret knocking style, we’ve spent ages creating this secret language as kids. »

But how could Smoker not recognize the sound of your voice and the honey dripping down your vocal cords?

He shifted in his seat, secretly thanking for your presence so his orbs could properly project a different visual than the bland reports scattered across his desk, and he thanked you a second time for allowing him to visually embrace the shape of your body, but he kept that to himself. « Should I give you a reminder of how old we are, Y/N? I’m almost certain we’re way past that age. » Smoker stated, a puff of smoke punctuated the end of his sentence.

« No doubt, you’re definitely past that age. » You trailed off whilst making your way over to his desk, a grin which radiated ill intentions shone brought amongst your facial features. You made a seat out of his desk without asking for permission, Smoker lightly tapped your left thigh in return, a weak attempt to make you get off of his desk. The experience granted by having shared the majority of your life with Smoker offered you the prestige of being free of your own deeds around him, without ever having to worry about pseudo consequences. « But I do have amazing news for you, I’m sure you’ll love it. » You finished, an amused gleam shining in the irises of your eyes at his quirked eyebrow, a silent way to tell you to explain further.

« I’m coming with you and Tashigi on Punk Hazard! Now, now… I know your emotionless self won’t let it show but I know, I just know you’re thrilled to hear that. » You slammed the report proving the sincerity of your words regarding your presence on the mission held on Punk Hazard on his desk in a loud thud, and the proudest grin appeared across your face, just to emphasize that silent victory over Smoker who had always refused to go on a mission with you, but never once did he admit it was because he was afraid of seeing you getting hurt.

Another puff of smoke left his lips, out of frustration, he recognized that he was feeling frustrated because of the way his teeth would hold his cigars a bit tighter, often approaching the limit of breaking them in two.

« You seem so eager to come on Punk Hazard, but I don’t think you realize how dangerous this mission is. » He grumbled, his eyes finding yours lost amongst the metaphorical electricity created in the room because of the tension. Smoker couldn’t quite tell what frustrated him the most— was it the fact that Akainu, out of all people, granted you the wish to come on Punk Hazard? Was it the fact he envied your ability to willingly ignore the magnitude of danger? Or was it the fact you called him emotionless?

Emotionless.

Smoker wasn’t emotionless, see— he was feeling frustrated. But, nonetheless, the words echoed in his head until it lost its meaning. Was he emotionless? No, no, no he was not. Smoker was not emotionless. He was frustrated, frustration is a valid feeling therefore is he able to show emotions. But only now did he wonder if it was genuine frustration.

« I didn’t reach this rank by slacking off, you and I both know it. I’ll see you soon enough, Smoker. »

He found his own answer when you hopped off his desk and left the room, the sound of the door being shut close was his sole wake-up call. Only then did he realize that he had never felt an agonizing sensation of vacuity coursing through his veins when he was feeling frustrated. It was odd, it was foreign, he felt weak. His subconscious screamed at him to associate this haunting feeling of loneliness to the lack of your presence, and for once he agreed— Smoker knew he felt different, in the worst way possible, when you were not around, so he let out another puff of smoke.

This enigma kept him up at the worst moments, and like every enigma, obtaining an answer to soothe the inner pain caused by the latest obsession of his mind was almost impossible. He immediately knew he couldn’t talk about it to Hina, or worse, Tashigi. Either way, he was sure to be met with either a harsh judgement and could already imagine Hina saying « You’ve mellowed ever since we joined the navy, Hina is amused. » or the inevitable stutters cascading from Tashigi’s mouth. Smoker was on his own, drown in the torment of his own emotions.

The sole temporary solution he found was to ignore you, if his body and mind had to hurt then so be it, he couldn’t handle the agonizing pain of seeing you go away, Smoker had mentally told himself to be a martyr and accept it.

You, on the other one hand, did not bother too much about his absence, you figured it was his way to mentally prepare himself ahead of a mission. You accepted it too, both his absence and the inexorable feeling of your heartstrings being bent in unimaginable ways.

Smoker lighted up the fifth cigar in a row now, and once more he blindly trusted the aftereffects of your absence for the cause of this obsession, smoking some more was merely a placebo to soothe the torture brought by the lack of answer. Truthfully, Smoker hadn’t spoken in a while, perhaps he had nothing to say as long as he knew what was going on. He spoke rarely and judged the value of his words before actually speaking— sure, he had directed his subalterns here and there to organize the ship on their way to Punk Hazard, but aside from the obligations of his ranks, he found nothing to say. Or rather, his mind didn’t grant him the ability to talk until he figured what was this haunting feeling which had no familiarity with frustration anymore. But was he emotionless?

Instead, Smoker let the rhythm of the waves crashing against the ship in the darkest hours of the night to rock his thoughts. His hazel orbs never left once the ‘wanted’ posters of Monkey D. Luffy and Trafalgar Law— of course he knew their faces and who they were, but the couldn’t trust his body anymore and wondered whether or not this secret emotional disease was going to affect his memory. Smoker hoped it wouldn’t have any impact on his memories with you, he was willing to let amnesia consume him whole and burn everything he knew except any memory which had your name written all over it.

From that moment, Smoker knew it was definitely not frustration.

« Smoker? Smoker? Earth to big cigar boy? You can go to sleep, it’s my turn to watch over the ship and you kind of look like a zombie if I’m being honest. » He hadn’t even noticed you entered the main cabin and thus he cursed himself for doing so, but Smoker noticed you looked hesitant by the way you were fiddling with your fingers, it was something you always did as a child.

Most of all, Smoker noticed something else— whenever you were in the same vicinity as him, the pain soothed, it faded away to let the most blissful sensation appear instead. Yet another question he will never obtain the answer to.

Using the grip on the armrests as a support, Smoker stood up and headed towards the door to leave you alone whilst you were on watching duty, that was the initial plan : head towards the door and leave. Head towards the door and leave. Head towards the door and-…

« Y/N, can I ask you something? » … And shamefully ask you to ease his pain instead.

You looked at him with a quizzical look painted across your facial features, both at the sudden interpellation, but mostly at the fainted grip he was holding on your wrist. « Sure, I’m all ears. » You replied, curiosity tainted the way your words came out but you kept your eyes locked on his frame anyway.

Smoker took a sudden drag of his cigars to ease his nerve and subconsciously give him a few seconds to organize the isolated parts of sentences shooting in his mind. Truthfully, he didn’t even know if this was necessary given that he ignored how he was feeling or what caused his body to hurt so much, translating this agony into words was beyond impossible. « You have to promise not to tell anyone about this. » He inquired, his orbs adopted a darker tone on the demanding tone coating his words and the hold on your wrist became temporarily tighter, you hummed in response, allowing him to continue. « If I’m being honest, I think I’m sick or have caught some kind of disease. It’s odd and quite impossible to properly be explained. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but it’s manifesting through this constant sensation of feeling empty. It weighs on my mind, and I have no idea what’s causing it. »

You quirked your brow in response, genuinely concerned as to whether or not Smoker was actually sick— after all, as you were approaching the extreme binary climate of Punk Hazard, such possibility couldn’t be evicted. You allowed your orbs to roam over his face, a guilty pleasure, and besides visible confusion, you couldn’t depict any physical symptom.

« Um, right? Do you have any idea when did this start? » You asked, hoping to obtain more hints about his situation.

« I hate to admit it but it started when you left my office last week, and now that you’re here I feel better, as in I don’t feel this emptiness anymore. » He continued, and for the first time in your life, you could admire his emotions dancing under the moonlight. « I was wondering if you felt sick, too. »

« So, if I sum it up you feel ‘empty’ and ‘in pain’ when I’m not around. » You couldn’t help but bend your lips into a smile which you knew he already hated by the ill intentioned looks of it.

« Sort of, but you haven’t answered my question : are you ill or not? » A question so innocent which found its answer in the shameless laugh escaping your lips, Smoker covered your mouth with his palm— not because he cared about the quality of the slumber of his soldiers, but rather because the sound of your laugh was awakening something else in him which was too harsh to handle.

You delicately wrapped your fingers around his wrist, slowly making him retreat his limb to his torso, and to his greatest pleasure, your laughter left an imprint on your facial features in the shape of a grin. « Would you believe me if I were to tell you that I found the cure? » You asked, already imagining the outcome of a possible answer.

« Huh? What is it? » He responded to your question with yet another question, but there and only there he found the answer to his haunting enigma when your fingers invaded his vision field and threw the sole obstacles to the apex of the situation, his cigars, on the floor before stepping on them to extinguish them. And there and only there, Smoker felt peace when your lips crashed onto his in a delicately harsh liplock whilst your palms were cupping his cheeks. It came as a reflex, and he couldn’t blame himself for it because he had fantasized about this scenario several times while hoping it would be the cure to his problems, Smoker caged you against his chest as his forelimbs protectively claimed your waist.

The more your lips were lingering on his, the more he felt every ounce of pain exude his body by his every pores— you were the cure, you were the answer to his enigma and always have been. If his lungs hadn’t failed him, Smoker would have gladly delivered himself into the temptations of your lips once more, judging by the way he blindly chased after your lips when you broke the kiss.

Another giggle escaped your lips as your thumbs brushed invisible motions against his cheeks, « Do you still feel empty at all? » you asked, such a rhetorical question, right? Smoker looked at you quizzically but then it hit him— he felt full, and vacuity had lost sense. « No, I don’t feel empty anymore. » He concluded to your amused smile.

« You’re not sick and never have been, or maybe it’s a sickness to you, but you’re in love, Smoker. That’s what you were feeling. And if I’m being honest, I’ve been feeling quite ‘empty’ myself too. » You confessed and opened your heart to him so he could admire each tone of vivid color painting your feelings for him which caused him to tighten his hold to bring you as close as humanly possible. He had found his cure and needed as much contact as possible. « I suppose you’re right, I do feel better when you’re by my side. »

And here, you planted yet another peck on his lips and gave in to the sweet temptation of savoring the taste of his lips once more. The gleam shining in the corner of your eyes reflected nothing but genuine love, and you knew it was the same gleam reflecting in his own orbs. « I’ve never been more glad to be sick in my entire life. » Smoker concluded, and kissed these words into the skin of the crown of your hair.

That’s when Smoker knew that perhaps he wasn’t emotionless, or at least, he was able to feel emotions as long as you were by his side.

#one piece #smoker x reader #one piece x reader #smoker #one piece reader insert #one piece imagine #one piece oneshot #smoker hcs #smoker imagine #smoker oneshot #one piece hcs

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wevegottogetaway · 4 years

Text

Whirlwind Part IV - Khamseen

DAY14

The energy shrouding the air of Godspeed’s is much different from what it was for Induction Rave a couple weeks ago. The place is still one of high spirit but the loud euphoria that permeated each of its nook and cranny in celebratory cheers, is now replaced with liquor-prompted laughters and light conversation melting into a mellow background noise. The music seems to have taken the same cue, its lowered volume simply adding to the mesh of sounds of the bar and no longer pulsing baselines into the heart of its patrons. Even the number of clean tables surpasses that of sticky ones for once; a rather improbable phenomenon for such an establishment.

Sitting in a corner booth as he nurses a bourbon in his hands and a scowl on his face, Harry is the embodiment of sulkiness. Feeling drained despite having the rare day off, his shoulders are stuck in a permanent hunch. They bear the pressures of being in the most competitive Navy pilot program in the world only to be met with disillusion once partnered up with someone who traded trust for contempt wherever he was concerned. Not to forget, he is still grieving the loss of his best friend. The sharp memories of the accident have yet to depart his mind whenever he closes his eyes or sits in a cockpit alongside a certain daredevil lady. A lady who haunts his nights by dragging him out of whatever peaceful place he’s escaped to, her crestfallen face appearing just as Morpheus’ arms reach out to him. And Aella always wins his attention no matter the weariness in his bones or how appealing a good night sleep might be.

Entranced in a meticulous reenactment of their last mission, involving pistachios as makeshift aircrafts, Dazzler and Tigger are seating across their subdued friend. They brushed off Harry’s taciturn disposition as they’ve come to be familiar with it, and instead proceed to do as usually ever since the accident: offer friendly companionship whether he decides to actively partake or silently tag along. He’ll start sharing again when he’s ready, they figure. No use in prying and pocking; any person who’s ever been around Harry would know. A closed book he may not be, but rather, he remains selective as to who can leaf through his essence and more importantly, what they may uncover as well as when they get to do so.

"Need a refill?" Dazzler asks Harry as he comes to a standing position hovering over the table, two beer-less pints in hand. The person of interest looks down at the drink cajoled in his hold, a couple sips away from dryness. A nod and a soft ‘please’ is all he offers his friend before returning his focus on the glass in his hands.

As Dazzler approaches the bar effectively out of earshot, Tigger turns to the laconic man seating as his table. For once, his instinct tells him to candidly check on his mate, the absence of Dazzler’s overjoyed nature perhaps giving the moment a tone better suited for confidence. "Got a lot on your mind Styles?" He asks as softly as his voice will let him.

Harry’s eyes lift from their aimless target on a crack of the table to finally land on Tigger’s inquisitive face. They remain unwavering for a second too long as if gauging whether now was the time to exteriorize some of his sorrows. Wasn’t the headache throbbing hard enough already? Didn’t he reach his last thread when Aella and him both shot their last chance at a peaceful partnership? Be that as it may, there is so little space left in Harry’s brain for pondering purposes, he’s just desperate to get some sort of leeway.

"You could say that, yeah" he says to his bourbon with a humorless chuckle.

"Anything involving a certain someone?" Tigger tentatively inquires whilst inconspicuously fiddling with the nutshells scattered across the table. They both know the identity behind the certain someone, and the mere mention is apparently enough for Harry to warrant another mouthful of inebriant. The gesture effectively empties what was left of the liquor, but it’s all the troubled pilot needs to open the floodgates of his censored mind.

"She’s driving me nuts, Tigger. We can barely stand to be in the same room, how are we supposed to fly together?" The piercing green eyes always had this magnetic pool to them. In friendly conversation, they were meant to make the narrator feel like the center of the universe. But right now, under the bar’s dim lights, their glow is shaded by an unhinged quality as if this time their owner was looking at the sun because his world had fallen off its axis and needed fixing.

"Maybe…I don’t know…have you guys tried talking about it?" Tigger doesn’t have much faith in the anticipated answer, but he’s a firm believer that communication can resolve anything. Proper communication, that is.

"Right." Harry looks at his poised friend unimpressed. "All the ‘talks’ we’ve had end in the same way. We scream at each other till we’re blue in the face and we say stuff that leaves us worse off than how we were." His mind takes him back to their last squabble 3 days ago, the way they had completely blown off at each other’s scowling face with crude words escaping their mouth. Like a reflex, he reaches for his drink in a vain attempt to erase the taste of malice still lingering on his lips, only to be met with a teasing drop idling around the rim.

"That doesn’t sound like talking Harry." Tigger retorts with a pointed look. His friend his better than that. Better than the excuse no doubt about to come is way if Dazzler wasn’t making a reappearance with two foamy pints and a bourbon.

"Oi, what’s the chitchat about?" He asks with a beaming smile at the idea that his tortured soul of a friend is finally coming out of limbo, or - at least - back to his talking self. The grin is enough to reprieve Harry from his tiresome thoughts for a second as he looks up to Dazzler and thanks him for the amber liquid placed in front of him. He’s always thought that Dean earned his callsign because of that particular smile: all around contagious, and well, nothing short of dazzling…

He is quickly brought back to the matter at hand by Tigger though. "Just talking about Harry and Aella’s inability to hold a civil conversation together and their propensity to rip each other’s head off." He says, not beating around the bush whilst watching with a raised brow as the seemingly defeated man across from him promptly indulges in his replenished drink.

"Right Styles, what’s got you so riled up about our lovely Aella anyway?" Dazzler bluntly asks once he’s comfortably back in his seat. The term of endearment is not lost on Harry’s ears, however, and the reminder furrows his brow some more.

"Fuck, I forgot you lot were friends with her." He sighs. How is he supposed to vent to his friends about another friend of theirs without coming off has an asshole? He’s positive that ship has already sailed though, without much to be done about it. "Look I’m not saying she’s a bad person, but you guys don’t have to work with her." He tries to soften the blow with a subtle deflection but in his defense, he says it all genuinely so.

Harry doesn’t really know Aella. Doesn’t know what kind of friend she is, how caring she might be with those she cares for, or how witty her words become when prodded by the right person. He does know, however, that any compatibility they may have ends at the gate of any Navy base. He knows she’s more daring than she ought to be when she’s high above the clouds and high on adrenaline. And he knows she can be downright contentious, not to say bitchy when she doesn’t get her way. So no, Harry doesn’t consider Aella to be a particularly good pilot, at least not in a tandem set up. She’s too quick to set his nerves on fire like she does everything else, to make him think otherwise.

"Damn straight I don’t work with her! Coz Tigger’s stuck with my annoying ass until the day it’s too flabby to sit in a Tomcat. But I still don’t get it, man. From what I’ve seen, she seems pretty fucking brilliant to me." Dazzler once again shows his luminous colors as he senses the conversation is about to get much somber.

"Completely reckless you mean. Half the time she’s suggesting moves that’ll send us crashing faster than I can say emergency ejection." Harry has abandoned any cushioning tactic at this point. His resentment has taken control of his speech and his body tightens in accordance: jaw so defined, the contracting motion could be spotted from across the bar, his shoulders stiffen underneath a slightly oversized shirt and his knuckles turn a few shades whiter at the pressure exerted around his already half-empty glass.

The look his two comrades share across the table in silent conversation does nothing to alleviate his frustration. Instead, it makes him feel like a kid about to be given a talk by his parents. And the way Tigger hesitantly speaks up next, voice as easeful as he can muster, makes Harry think he’s not so far off the truth.

"Harry, do you think you might still be processing what happened with Fox?"

The mention of his deceased best friend sends a shiver down Harry’s spine, an indescribable coldness seizing his body that no alcohol could shake off. On the defensive, his guard soars up and the same chilling tone is now clouding his words.

"And what’s your point exactly?"

Dazzler is quick to elaborate on his friend’s suggestion as tactfully as one Dean Marshall is capable of. Subtlety was never his strong suit. "Come on, mate. It’s kinda common knowledge that Fox was a bit of a stuntman himself. But that’s what made him such a great pilot, Harry."

"It’s what got him killed." The retort comes harsh, triggered by an array of emotions still festering in every far enough corner of his being, because he can’t quite fathom how to face them yet. It’s an out-of-body experience in a way, a disconnection between body and mind, that makes him a mere bystander of his knee-jerk reactions. Surely the words are not his. Surely some kind of demon is hijacking the headquarters of his mind and turning him into a sourpuss who can’t reign in his spreading misery. Pretty ironic for someone who used to spread kindness every time he was given the chance.

"Now, you know that’s not the whole truth." Dazzler tries to reason, admittedly slightly shocked by his friend’s outburst. The things grief can do to one’s temper…

"Whatever. She’s still impulsive and she doesn’t know how to fly with a partner." Harry’s quick to dismiss the subject of Fox, he’d rather have a slumber party with his new nemesis before reminiscing the circumstances of his friend’s premature death.

"That’s probably because she’s used to flying solo." Tigger rightfully points out. "See, you’d know that if you two talked like decent human beings."

"Well, she doesn’t have to be a bitch about it." Somewhere, a muted part his brain is considering Tigger’s statement, but it’s not enough to sweeten his bitter thoughts. It’s not pride getting in the way; Harry’s not a prideful person, or at least not in the ways that would blind him from admitting any wrongdoings. His mind is just too fuzzy to reason from both exhaustion and the booze he’s been continuously sipping on this evening. The mockery seems to be the last straw for Dazzler, however, and for once the wrinkles on the usually chirpy lad’s forehead are not caused by laughter.

"Jesus Harry! I love you mate, you know that. But stop acting like a prick, it doesn’t suit you." Green eyes immediately widen at the admonition, and before he can even think of defending himself, he’s being told off some more. "And before you say anything, no I’m not on her side. I just want to help you. Both of you. And believe me, she’s been given the same speech a handful of times, but I’ll be damned if one of you listened for once."

"Daz, you’re getting carried away." Tigger says, once again acting as his partner’s counterbalancing act. He also doesn’t want to end the night with a fall-out. Losing another friend is the last thing Harry needs.

"Damn right I am." Dazzler quips back, his index finger pressing on the table. "I’m tired of your childish antics. Fuck! Since when am I the most grown up of the bunch?" He asks in disbelief, not able to resist throwing humor in an otherwise tense conversation. "I’m your friend Harry, and sometimes friends are here to kick your butt when you’re acting like one." He gets up from his seat before opening his arms wide in a taunting gesture. "So watch me Styles. This is me kicking your goddamn butt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re out of pistachios." And just like that, he’s off on his new quest for a fresh bowl of snacks. They all know it was more so a way of withdrawing from the conversation before it got too heated. And perhaps to prevent Harry from having a chance at a comeback, but he wouldn’t admit that anyway…

"He’s right you know." Tigger softly breaks the silence that had filled the space. "You two need to sort your shit out because we’ve still got 3 weeks left and I know for a fact you’re not a quitter. Besides, TopGun is not the kind of program you can just give up on. You can still make it, Harry."

He can’t quite figure out if his hopefulness has reached the moping man on his left, especially when all he gets in a response is one more bourbon sent down the drain, followed by a "fuck, need anothe’."

DAY 15

Leonie Forbs was born to teach a group of overzealous navy pilots about the riveting matter of astrophysics; or so is Aella convinced. She is poised, calmer than the sea before the storm, yet when a bunch of bullheaded students does storm in her class, her collected and no-taking-shit nature still prevails. Quite the paradox for such a frail looking woman, but she’s made it clear since their first session that her place at TopGun was not to be questioned and that she could not only handle herself but also the 16 adrenaline-driven aerialists sitting in front of her. Aella admires that a lot; she can only dream of receiving the same kind of respect around base these days.

Even more baffling to her, is how Leonie still inspires kindness and confidence within her students. Mastering the rules of the universe in no cakewalk, but with every explanation and encouraging word she provides, Dr Forbs has managed to make it that little bit easier on them. Come to think of it, she somewhat reminds Aella of Berks and his fatherly yet firm lead. The way they both seem hellbent on making her feel welcomed without giving her any free pass either, is enough of a sliver of hope to outweigh all the anguish Rex’s clique has been giving her since she joined the program.

She doesn’t know if it can counterbalance her own partner’s though.

"Last point we need to discuss before your test today comes from the Pentagon itself," Leonie declares as she leans back against her desk, arms casually crossed around her middle. "Intelligence services have discerned a flaw in the Russians’ new MIG 22 flight tanks system. Their negative G push overs are out, so they operate zero to one G only." She scans the room, watching as they all process the new information.

"What happens if they don’t?" One of the students Mason Homes - or Ace, as commonly called around base - bluntly asks.

A pregnant pause ensues before Aella promptly answers her fellow comrade in a bored tone. "They risk flaming out."

"That is correct." Leonie interjects with a quick glance toward her star pupil, before turning her face back to Ace. "Even below one G, the internal fuel tanks are placed too far off ahead the plane’s center of gravity to keep it stable." The explanation immediately falls out of her lips, concise and simple to comprehend, before her attention extends to the whole class. "Now that this precious intel has been handed to us, we need to exploit it. So what’s your take on it?"

Harry is the first one to speak up as everybody seems to mull over the enigma formulated by their professor. His voice is poised, the answer definite and confident. "Concentrate on low altitude, push boosters to +3.5Gs and negative Gs alternatively."

"Very good." Dr Forbs praises in a smile, uncrossing her arms for her hands to hold onto the desk behind her. "Much like their predecessor, MIG 22 have excellent fast-climbing interceptors, so keeping it low will put their tanks at high pressure. Their endurance is very limited, so you would also be right to keep them on their toes and make them really work for it. Chances are they won’t be able to pace up or they’ll run out of fuel."

"What about using after-burning turbojets in inverted thrusts?" Aella challenges. While she doesn’t deny Harry’s tactic would prove adequate, she thought of a different way around the puzzle. Once again, the conventional route didn’t cut it in her opinion. It was too predictable, something she makes sure to always stay clear of.

"I guess it could work on paper, but your range and scope would be infinitesimal." Leonie responds truthfully after giving the proposition a thought. In the past couple weeks she has come to understand and appreciate Aella’s unorthodox thinking. She knows it comes from a knowledgeable place as opposed to one of attention-seeking. Aella doesn’t defy the MOs of traditional naval aviation to drop jaws or get a round of applause. She’s simply driven by her own curiosity and in all straightforwardness, it’s just the way her brain operates. Conjures up the unexpected first like some kind of survival instinct, but in her book, predictability is the first step towards failure. And in her profession, failure usually means death.

"Not if you push the compression to 50%, then their scope is smaller than yours, and that’s enough to put you on their six." Once again, Aella made the laws of science her greatest ally. The plan may be venturesome but her calculations make it also airtight.

"Very avant-garde of you, Lieutenant Lonethorne, I shouldn’t be surprised." The professor admits with a knowing smile and glowing eyes. "If well-executed then yes, the maneuver would prove successful. However, Lieutenant Styles’ approach is just as valid and much less risky." She adds for good measure. Even though she values Aella’s mind dexterity, her purpose is not to bring this groundbreaking side out of her students. Harry’s answer is the one she had expected all things considered.

"But more time-consuming." Aella retorts to drive her point home. She doesn’t think outside the box for the hell of it. There’s always a reason, a worthy advantage that her partner always seems to overpass because of the riskiness of it all.

"I won’t deny that. Both tactics are absolutely potent in their own way; what matters is the situation in which they come to play. And that’s your job to determine." Dr Forbs reminds her fervent student that being a navy pilot can be a long list of pros and cons at times. What maneuver will result in what outcome and for what gamble. Knowing all the possibilities at any given moment is a great skill to have, one that Aella seems to have down to a T. But the real excellence of a pilot shows in the way they can make the right choice out of those possibilities.

"Alright, I’m gonna pass these exam sheets around. Once you’ve been handed yours, you have two hours to complete them. Please don’t forget to provide explanations to your calculations, this is not a math test." Leonie explains with a pointed look before sharing an encouraging smile. "Good luck to you all."

The next two hours are then filled with the sound of pencils scratching paper and frustrated sighs that only increase in volume as the clock ticks closer to the impending time allotment. As there is only two remaining questions waiting to be completed on his exam paper, Harry breathes deeply and takes a look around the room. Most of his fellow classmates are immersed in deep reflection, various level of frowns hardening their face depending on their advancement on the test. His green eyes then settle upon his co-pilot. She’s scribbling furiously on her paper as though her fingers are straining to put her racing thoughts to ink. Whirlwind on paper, is what he thinks.

His musings are further strayed away from applied physics as Harry recalls his conversation with Dazzler and Tigger the night prior. He certainly did a lot of thinking since then, but his mind is still fuzzy when it comes to Aella. He’s been juggling with the thought of giving her a chance, talking things out as Tigger suggested, but for some reason the idea has him terrified. Certainly a repeat of history would crush him for good, but at the same time he knows he’ll never be the pilot he longs to be again if he keeps being the person he is with Aella. They decidedly need to find a way to be at their best together, because this bringing-out-the-worst-of-the-other business is not doing them any favor.

Harry is about to refocus on the problem at hand when Aella suddenly stands up, all 6 papers of her exam gathered in her hands in a neat pile. She cooly makes her way to Dr Forbs as quietly as she can, as to not disturbed her class, before handing her work to the teacher. Their exchange remains silent but Harry doesn’t miss Leonie’s small head gesture and yet another smile she addresses his partner. It’s not the first time he’s noticed one of his superiors showing that kind of recognition for her work. Time is running against him though, so he shoves the note in a far corner of his mind and goes back to the task at hand. Partner differences is a can of worms that will have to wait to be opened.

The ocean has almost entirely enveloped the setting sun as Harry wanders along San Diego’s Crystal pier. Few people decided to roam the promenade, probably too busy on this brisk and not to mention, week night. Harry is just glad the urge to come here wasn’t sprung on him on a Saturday evening. The experience would have included much more elbowing and people dodging than tolerated for reflective purposes. But as his feet tread the wooden structure, gaze glowing over the breath-taking view, his mind feels clearer than it has been in weeks.

He’s let it go too far. The angst, the animosity, this bottomless gap edged between Aella and him, as well as between his truthful self and the bad-tempered doppelgänger that seems to have replaced him. He’s become almost desensitized to it, too riddled with grief to really care, but the way Dazzler put him in his place the night before served as a good wake-up call. This petulant and dismissive person isn’t him, or as his friend no-so-gently worded it, he is better than that.

He can’t ignore the pit forming in his stomach though. Can’t blindly hand over his trust, forget about his doubts, and relinquish the reins to the woman that put said doubts in his mind in the first place. And that leaves him one only option really: talk to her about it. But while Harry’s never been one to shy from divulging his feelings, usually the person at the receiving end of his disclosures is already part of his trusted cycle.

Just as a runner passes him on the side, he lets out a long sigh at the prospect of such a heavy conversation. How is one meant to deliver the most vulnerable parcels of their character on a silver platter to the person they are the most scared of? Harry can’t help to see it as yet another test the universe is kindly throwing his way. The only thing stopping him for cowering away is the fact that she might have to shared equally vulnerable parts of her in the process. Perhaps it’s the only way they may align to finally be a working team: weaknesses and susceptibilities all out in the open.

The end of the pier is slowly coming to view, a couple of benches providing the perfect front row seat to the Pacific’s show. The sun has now completely gone MIA, faint lanterns scattered along the path dispersing small beacons of light that pale in comparison to their predecessor, but it’s enough for Harry to notice a silhouette standing ahead. Based on their movements, they seem to be caught up in a yoga or stretching session, one foot placed upon the wood railing as their upper body folds over the extended limb. Harry distractingly takes note of their suppleness but as he finally reaches the end of the dock and the mysterious athlete stands back up, he quickly realizes the soul he’s sharing the pier with tonight, is not so mysterious.

The uniform has been traded for a light hoodie, combat boots for a pair of neon trainers and long legs usually hidden under protective layers are now bare to any curious eyes as the only piece of cloth ‘covering' them up is a pair of light running shorts. Harry comes to a sudden halt as he realizes the very reason of his torments and spontaneous walk is now standing a few feet away from him. He finds himself at a bit of a crossroad: he can either stay and get on with what feels more and more like the only option he has, or turn around and delay the inevitable for one extra night. The choice is stripped from him anyway when Aella turns around as though guided by a sixth sense and her eyes cross his in confusion.

"What are you doing here?" She can’t help but ask.

Harry is at lost as to what to say, he didn’t expect to confront her so soon after deciding confrontation was their only saving grace. All he can do, is look at her questioning eyes that for once, are void of any hurt or resentment. He’d like to keep it that way if possible, no matter how unlikely it might be.

"Just walkin’, enjoyin’ the sights I guess," it almost comes out as a question.

"Oh. Well, I was just gonna go so…bye" She has trouble meeting his eyes as she nervously readjust her running attire and prepares for a quick escape.

"Wait!" She’s interrupted by Harry’s voice and her whole attention is brought to his tall figure awkwardly standing in front of her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. She raises a brow when he takes too much time elaborating on his request for her presence. "I just…thought we could…talk, you know? Like, we kinda need it, don’t we?" His stance is not the only thing manifesting awkwardly it seems.

"Um, right now?" Aella suspiciously inquires, her eyes swiftly bouncing to the sea on her right and back to Harry.

"’S good time as any, innit?" Is all Harry says in response.

Aella seems to gauge him for a second as if becoming aware of the meaning of this upcoming conversation. She knows it might be a tipping point in their partnership; if they want to make it work, that is. And the moment took her by surprise sure, but will there ever be a right time? There usually isn’t, after all. "Right then" she agrees with a quick tilt of her head towards the benches as an invitation to sit. For a minute or so they remain silent while they try to figure out a way to start the conversation.

"I’m not the sexist prick you think I am." Harry eventually says, looking at his hand on his lap.

"Right." She answers not convinced. He certainly didn’t go out of his way to make her think otherwise.

"I’m not, I swear." He briefly looks at her before settling back on the lathes paving the pier. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to think so, but I don’t have anything against you as a woman."

"Ah my bad. You just think I’m a worthless co-pilot then." Aella spits out as she stands up, ready to run back to the safe space of her home. This was a terrible idea…

"You remind me of him." The words immediately bring her to a halt, half because she’s intrigued by their meaning, and half because of Harry’s searing pain obviously laced through their utterance. She turns around and looks at his hunched body, elbows now resting on his knees, glossy eyes still fixed on the ground. "You remind me of them both."

Aella swallows the lump in her throat before hesitantly asking "and who would they be?"

At that, Harry looks up and painfully answers,"my dad and Fox."

Taking her time with the new information Aella takes a deep breath, drawing strength from the two blue immensities surrounding her. Slowly, she goes back to her seat next to Harry, though she leaves a decent space between the two of them. "How come?" She encourages.

"Fox was my partner before you came into the picture. But he was also my best friend." He starts explaining without losing an inch of his composure much to his surprise.

"I know about Jonathan." Aella softly answers and Harry momentarily looks sideways at her from his bent position.

"You know of him, but you don’t know what kind of person he was." He argues with a shake of his head, short curls fluttering on top. "Fox was passionate. He was the strongest force to be reckoned with and he was fearless. And he was my best friend, but one day he took it too far and we got into an accident." Pause. "I survived, he didn’t." It surely is a condensed version of the whole story but that’s all she needs to know at the moment.

Aella is slightly taken aback by the confession. She knows lieutenant Evans lost his life as a pilot, but she didn’t think Harry had been part of the equation, picking himself up as he watched his best friend stay down. She can’t really fathom the trauma that comes with such an incident, having flown in tandem for a very short period of time and with someone she isn’t particularly sympathetic with. Until tonight maybe.

"Harry, I’m sorry about what happened…but I’m not him." She tries to reason.

"I know, I know." He is quick to acknowledge, taking his face in his hands before brushing them through is hair. "But the way you fly, or want me to fly is just…" He struggles to find the right words. "Look, I let him take all the risks when we were partners and he died for it. I’m not about to let that happen again. To you, me or anyone that sits in the same airplane I do," is what he settles for.

Aella doesn’t know what to say. Her brain is the one running now, faster than she ever has, as it pieces together the puzzle that is Harry Styles. She doesn’t necessarily approve of his conduct but she understands it better now. Understands the moody attitude and the resentment at her expend. Most of all, she is relieved that his supposed hatred for her has nothing to do with her gender nor her person and everything to do with his troubled past. It makes it somehow easier to stomach though she’s not about to mold herself up to his safety-appreciative standards.

"What about your dad?" She asks instead, redirecting the subject at hand. Once again, the inquiry has Harry looking back at her. Except this time, he unfolds his torso to let it lean against the backrest of the bench, crossing his arms instead. Aella tries to overlook the way his biceps seem to pop out underneath the sun kissed flesh. She’s positively compelled away when he lets out a long sigh and dives back into the night’s confidences.

"I actually don’t know much about my dad," he starts with a humorless chuckle. "He was a Navy pilot too, gone most of the time, but he was a hero at home. He died a hero too. Left for a mission one day and never came back. I was 12." He pauses, needing a break and when he turns back to assess the weight of his words on her face, he’s only met with compassion and her undivided attention. "And all I’ve ever from anyone the wiser, is that he went into an ambush, knowingly, because he thought he could save a comrade. See the pattern?" He asks bitterly before he can help himself, but Aella knows it’s not really aimed at her.

"I get it Harry. You’ve been through some trauma, and I’m just a breathing reminder of it. But I know what I’m doing." She says its conviction as her eyes cling onto his emerald versions. "I would never suggest something that would put you in danger; not matter how much I want to kill you most of the time." That earns them both a chuckle, and the weight on Aella’s heart is alleviated some, upon the realization that this is it, this is their turning point. The moment that can break or make their duo, seal their fate and pave their path. And by the sound of it, the future looks promising finally. "I know it looks like I’m crossing the line at times, but I spent the last 10 years of my life up to my neck in books. I never got to do the fun stuff during Navy School. The parties, the raves, the bonding… I was just the girl deluding herself into thinking she could make it, stealing a perfect spot from a more adequate man to take. And since it was just me, I studied all I could, and then when I run out of books to read I studied some more anyway." It’s now her turn to gaze at the ground while Harry listens carefully. "My choices up there, they’re not a way for me to prove myself. They’re just the possibilities I got from all the things I’ve missed out on since I enlisted because of who I am. And that’s fine. I’ve always been fine with that. But now, I have a partner and I can’t do my job properly if he doesn’t accept the possibilities he doesn’t see yet."

They both look at each other then, letting the words resonated into the night, in tune with the sounds of the crashing waves. The cards have changed, weakest ones at last laid out on the table whilst they still hold onto their kings and aces. But their fate is yet to be determined. Letting go of their blatantly mutual distaste might bring them one step closer to being a unit but they’re still ways from flying as one.

Rome wasn’t built in a day though, and Aella still has half a run to complete. She figures it’s best not to push whatever progress they made that night, so she calmly stands up, about to resume her training when Harry softly calls out to her.

"See you tomorrow partner." It’s faint and simple, but Aella understand every ounce of its meaning.

It’s a peace offering, an olive branch shyly extended from the tip of his fingers; a vow to try and figure this all thing out not as co-pilots but as equals. And that’s all the promises Aella needs to mutter back a ‘goodnight Harry’ and run back to her place in record-breaking time with a smile etched upon her face.

Tomorrows have finally regained their wonder.

#harry styles writing #harry styles fic #harry styles series #enemies to lovers #pilot!harry #Whirlwind #part4 #ofc #Khamseen #creative writing #harry writing #TopGun!Harry

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archadianskies · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 1 + Day 24

Waking up Restrained + Forced Mutism

Whumptober Masterlist | 01/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags: Medical Procedures × Medical Trauma × Non-Consensual Body Modification × Cage Fights × Mind Control

When he wakes, it’s to the sight of an expansive garden and the heavy scent of roses and two sets of smiles. There is an older woman with glistening dark skin and artfully coiled braids and her name is Amanda. There is a young man with fair skin and dark hair and his name is Connor. He himself has no name yet, though Amanda reassures him this is because he is so very new but they will name him soon. Connor is to be deployed first, out into the real world to work with the Detroit Police Department and he will follow.

“We will do great things together, brother.” Connor says with a smile and he finds himself smiling too because there is a feeling of hope and excitement at the adventures to come. Amanda looks at them proudly and nods.

“Yes, you will.”

When he wakes in the real world, there are no gardens, no roses, and no smiles. He’s not at the Detroit Police Department, and his brother is nowhere to be found. He finds himself strapped to a table much like the ones in the testing lab only this doesn’t look to be the testing lab at all.

“Functionality?” A man demands, and he though he’s wearing a lab coat, it lacks the CyberLife insignia on the breastpocket, and there’s no security ID pass dangling from it.

“100% functionality.” He answers dutifully. He’s never been restrained like this, not even during his initial activation. The RK900 stays silent, awaiting instructions so he can prepare for whatever test they have arranged for today. Odd, though, because before his last stasis they had informed him he was ready for deployment.

“Do you know where you are?”

“No.” That he answers right away. His wi-fi connectivity has been switched off, and there is nothing familiar in his immediate surroundings. “I have been cleared for deployment. Is there a reason for another test before my shipment to Central Station?”

The man ignores him, beckoning to others just out of the android’s sight. Tilting his head, he counts two others, and one is wheeling a surgical cart with an array of tools. The RK900 frowns. “My biocomponent list matches my RK900 blueprint, and I am functioning at 100% capacity with no damage sustained to any part.” They talk to each other, putting on surgical goggles and long vinyl aprons. “Is there a reason for altering my current state?”

Still they ignore him, listening instead as one of them shows diagrams on a tablet.

“Am I at a live round training facility? Is Connor here?” He turns his head the other way, scanning the room. There are lots of android supplies; large thirium reserve tanks, vats of suspension liquid, shelves of biocomponents and limbs. Dirty, though. The biocomponents are not new, they’ve been salvaged . “Where am I?”

“Dogs do not need to bark here, just bite.” The first man says, smiling at him though it looks nothing like the smiles Amanda and Connor had given him. “Shut it up.”

The RK900 blinks in surprise, switching off his vocal modulator. But the man hadn’t been talking to him, he’d given the command to the other two. There’s a click and a high pitched whine as a circular saw is switched on and he knows this is not a CyberLife testing facility, these men are not CyberLife staff, and he is not about to be shipped to Central Station. No one knows he is here. He tries to pull against his restraints but finds he cannot move his limbs at all. The man notices him trying to struggle, and tuts.

“No, I’ve switched off your spinal column. We need you very still for the next hour or so.” That’s all the warning he’s given before the other man brings the saw down to his neck and he opens his mouth in a silent scream as he cuts into his throat. It feels like the scrape of fire against raw nerves and it feels like it goes on forever before the saw is set aside and the first man reaches into his throat and pulls out his vocal modulator. An internal scan shows they’ve purposefully severed all connective wiring rather than just simply removing the component, to ensure he cannot ever replace it without extensive surgery. Why, though? Why are they doing this to him?

WARNING

Biocomponent #7309v missing; vocal capabilities OFFLINE

>Biofibre damage detected; repairs needed

“No barking.” He grins, before snapping his fingers at the third man. “Only biting.”

They pry his mouth open, unhinging his jaw and removing it from his head completely. With pliers they pluck out his teeth one by one and they make little clinking noises as they drop them into a dish. Even with the lower segment of his jaw disconnected, he can feel the pain. They had forgotten to switch off his pain receptors. Forgotten, or purposefully neglected to switch off. He thinks it must be the latter, since there is not a scrap of kindness to be found in these men.

New teeth are inserted, each one an incisor; sharp and deadly.

“Grey eyes instead of brown, hm? Interesting choice.” The man shines a torch into his eyes as the other clips his jaw back into place. He can taste blood in his mouth, blood and grease from their hands. “They don’t have the right wow factor though, you know? Pretty when you’re up close but the only ones getting close to you won’t exactly live to tell the tale.”

They’re going to take his eyes out, and the realisation makes him thrash his head side to side, trying to avoid their hands.

“Dogs do not disobey their masters.” The man reprimands, yanking out his thirium pump regulator. He gasps as blood spills down his stomach, the biocomponent ripped out with such force the safety shunt had no time to activate. The countdown to shutdown blooms on his HUD in bright blaring red. The man gives the pump regulator a little wave as he grins. “You’ll stay still now won’t you? Don’t worry, we’ll be very quick.”

Two scalpels descend on him, and two eyes are removed from his sockets and he tries to scream and scream but no scream leaves his throat, no sound ever will. Two new ocular units are eased into his head and his system struggles to install them.

WARNING

Biocomponent 8456w missing; shutdown imminent

>Non-genuine CyberLife biocomponents detected

Proceed with installation: Y/N? (Please note: CyberLife are not responsible for any software or hardware damage sustained if you proceed with the installation of non-genuine biocomponents)

>Remote access granted

Installing 1 of 2 biocomponents...installing 2 of 2 biocomponents…

Installation complete

He opens his eyes and he is still there strapped to the same table with the same three men looming over him and it had not been a simulation. It is real and he is suffering and will continue to suffer unless he removes himself from this situation. The man presses his thirium pump regulator back into his chest with a wet click and the warnings vanish from his HUD.

“One last adjustment and then you’re ready.” Another restraint is pulled taut over his forehead, forcing him to face his left and expose his nape. The table tilts, converting so he’s in a semi-upright position. “This one’s a safety measure. More elegant than a shock collar.” A scalpel digs into his nape, cutting right between two spinal plates and tweezers pull aside the delicate biofibres to make way for a chip.

WARNING

UNAUTHORIS______

>Remote access granted

Installation complete

“If you try and disobey me, this happens.”

>POWER SURGE 150%

His power core forces electricity through every wire in his body and he arches like a taut bow. The pain is so strong it feels like everything and nothing all at once, white-hot and unbearable.

“So you’ll be our good mutt, won’t you RK?” The man laughs, tousling his hair like one might pat a dog. “Our ferocious Hound. Tomorrow, you fight.”

*~*~*

(This story continues in [i know your soul, i'll be your home])

#rk900 #detroit: become human #whumptober #medical trauma #medical procedures #Non Consensual Body Modification #body horror #annie writes: dbh #AND SO IT BEGINS

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bravo7251 · 4 years

Text

No9 - Ritual Sacrifice

Damien had had a long day. He attended a fall festival that was quite entertaining, but it had taken the entire day and he wanted some time to himself. He went through the familiar motions of coming home and quickly went to the study. A book, a warm fireplace, and a nice cup of tea would really hit the spot. The house servants had made sure all was ready for him. He opened the door to the study, but instead of seeing a calm scene of refinement, he saw a lanky, coal skinned thing lounging in a wreck of a room.

“Happy Halloween, ya cunt!” the demon said cheerfully upon seeing him, “It’s that time of the year!” His laugh was straight from a jack-in-the-box toy. He sat in the cushioned chair sideways, leaning back on the armrest with his legs crossed and bouncing his taloned foot in the air. He had already helped himself to the booze in the decanter and quite a few of the books in the study were out of order or thrown about the floor. Damien’s cup of earl grey was spilled on the rug and the cup had a new chip in it.

“Of all the infernal creatures to be saddled with,” Damien groaned, “Why must fate curse me with you.” His face was in his hands and he was pacing around his ruined study.

“‘Fate’,” the creature scoffed, “Yeah, right. You’re a funny guy, David.”

“Damien.”

“Whatever,” he said, chucking the whiskey glass behind him. Damien caught it and saved it from shattering on the floor, shooting the spindly demon a scornful glare.

“Anyways,” the creature sighed, “I got shit to do and places to be. Let’s skip all the theatrical crap.” Skin somewhere between leather and rubble stretched unnaturally over joints as he rose out of the chair. Taller than him by half, but not nearly as wide, the demon towered over Damien. A hand of half foot fingers and bony knuckles held was held out towards the gentlemen in expectation. “Time to pay up.”

Damien’s annoyance and hatred turned to despair. He knew this was coming. “Please,” he pleaded, “They’re only children.”

“Do you think I give a shit?” the demon chuckled, spreading a needle toothed grin.

There’s a legend in the town that any kid who knocks on Damien’s door on Halloween will never be heard from again. Teens began daring eatchother to trick-or-treat at the manor as a game of chicken. Almost everyone discounted the story as just another urban legend. Everyone except the kids who actually knocked.

“I’ve had the police at my door every year for the past decade,” Damien said as his breath began to shudder, “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Tough shit. Get the candy and go to the door,” the demon commanded. He pointed at the door and spoke like a mother telling her child to go to their room. Damien swallowed the lump in his throat and did as he was told.

A hesitant knock rapped on the front door. Damien took a sharp breath and put his head in his shaking hands. He couldn’t keep doing this. They were just children and he was helping their murderer. Every year, more kids gone. When sobbing parents came to his door all he could do was bite his tongue. The knock came again, more impatient this time.

Damien ran his hands over his gelled back hair, tried to compose himself, and answered the door. He choked up when he saw them. A superhero and a bumble bee. They couldn’t be older than six. They pushed eachother and giggled while whispering “You say it” “No, you say it” to eachother. They stopped when they saw Damien standing in the doorway.

“Trick or treat,” the bumble bee said. The two little boys held up their pumpkin pails to Damien and smiled. He forced a smile back. He saw their rosy cheeks and innocent smiles. It took all his strength not to break down right there.

“Are you a real vampire?” the superhero asked in awe. Damien touched his widow’s peak and genuinely laughed. Fishy eyes appeared from the darkness, staring hungrily at the children. Damien stopped smiling and looked at his feet as bony black claws reached for their food.

The demon grabbed the superhero first. The bee tried to run, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape the reach of the demon’s grotesquely long arms. They both kicked and screamed but it was already too late. The bee looked at Damien with tear filled eyes, pleading for help as his friend stared death in the face. He couldn’t watch. Damien turned and leaned against the wall just inside the door, crumpling to the floor. He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair, rocking back and forth and trying to block out the sounds of screams and snapping bones.

Memories of last year flashed through his head. He remembered how the demon opened his mouth like a snake unhinging its jaw, how each needle-like tooth moved on its own, prickling with excitement. He remembered how the long, black tentacle of a tongue slipped down his prey’s throat, and how it retracted back into his mouth, curled around the child’s pale blue soul. He remembered carrying the tiny bodies to a ditch in the woods, their dead eyes asking him why he let this happen. He didn’t even realize that by this point he was screaming and sobbing as well.

After a few minutes, the demon curled his fingers around the edge of the door, popping his head in and grinning at Damien. “Stop being such a bitch. It was only two this year,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. He sat down next to Damien and patted his belly. Damien sat curled up in shock and horror while the demon splayed his limbs in content satisfaction. After a moment of silence the demon got up and walked out the door. “Aight, ciao. See ya next year.”

Damien stayed where he was, silent tears streaming down his face. He stayed there until long after the creature left, guilt tearing at his soul. As dawn crept over the horizon, Damien finally got up, breath still shuddering and face stained with tears. He went to give the children a proper burial. He wondered if last year’s kids were still there.

(A/N: I can’t decide what to name the demon so leave name suggestions in the comments.)

#whumptober2020 #no.9 #ritual sacrifice #markipler egos #oc #fic

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sirius-archive · 5 years

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Champagne Kisses

Request: Georgie!!! Hey!!! Can I please have prompt 1, 5 and 18 with Steve Rogers??? Love your writing!!

Prompts: 1. That’s starting to get annoying, 5. I’m not here to make friends 18. What’s the matter, sweetie?

Prompts: Steve Rogers x Reader

A/N: finally got around to finishing this!! First Drabble in the Drabble challenge! This is a first for this blog: a marvel imagine!! Pls request more.

In which Steve Rogers does not become an old man, Clint Barton is Single and Ready To Mingle, and Natasha Romanoff is [avengers endgame spoiler]

Enjoy!

***

In theory, the mission is fairly simple: Crash the rich dudes party, steal the biochemical weapon, and slap a lifetime sentence on said rich dude before he can take another sip of his ridiculously expensive champagne.

There is, however, one contingency that always seems to fuck theoretically simple missions up.

“Fuck!” Natasha’s voice is in your ear; a husky curse that tapers off into an irritated sigh, making the ear piece nestled in the shell of your ear crackle, “Dawson must have amped up the security once he got wind that the weapon’s in demand. There’s guards crawling all over the place. It’s starting to get annoying...”

Her words are cut off with a sharp grunt and you hear the crunch of broken bones low groans of pain as Natasha takes each one of them out. Glancing around the large ballroom, you spot several security guards loitering around the exit, looking equal parts bored and boring, and realise that Natasha is right.

“Well, it wouldn’t be any fun without a fist fight,” you sigh, twirling a ribbon of hair around your finger, chewing the velvety flesh of your cheek in annoyance.

“A woman after my own heart,” Natasha quips, a little breathless as you hear the crack of her knuckles against flesh.

“Tasha, you’d better not be flirting while I’m listening in,” You hear Clint quip, and you can almost hear the smirk tilting his lips as it curls up the edges of his words.

“Oh yeah?” You ask, your fingertips skimming across the spaghetti-string strap of your halter neck dress, “And what are you going to do about it, Clinton?”

“Don’t you worry sweetheart, I’ve always got something up my sleeve.”

You take an elegant sip from your flute of champagne, hiding your smirk, “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Are you guys done?” Says a familiar baritone, and your breath catches in your throat.

Steve Rogers is several yards away, yet it feels as though he’s standing right behind you, hands on your hips and breath on your neck. Of course, the possibility of a romance with Captain America was something you only entertained in your sweetest dreams, but you supposed it was okay to fantasise...

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” you retort, sultrily, “We are only just beginning.”

“You’d better finish up then because we have a job to do...”

You can hear the smile in his tone, a touch of playfulness that seems to soften his scolding.

You shift in the bar stool, the delicate, smooth skin of your leg peeking out from the long slit in your satin, gold dress. You feel dozens of eyes swivel over your body appreciatively, drinking you in like golden champagne. In your previous life, that would have been the effect you were after. But tonight, you’re not here to steal hearts, only biochemical weapons.

“While you guys are having fun flirting and drinking champagne, I’ve actually been working,” Sams voice bites into your ear, his tone mingled amusement and exasperation, “I’ve scouted the area. Our escape route doesn’t seem to be affected by the additional security.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you were in here with me,” Natasha snaps.

“Clint, what’s your status?” Steve asks.

“Im in position, Cap,” Clint answers from a neighbouring rooftop, “Enjoying the view from up here.”

“I’ll need you on the ground with Romanoff,” Steve orders, “I’m moving into position.”

“We’re back on a last name basis?” Natasha says, the hum of her Widows venom buzzing in your ear, “Well that’s cold.”

You take another languid sip of champagne, taking in your surroundings.

Classical music swells from the orchestra, climbing up the wobbly, tumultuous ladder of a chilling crescendo as you watch the wealthy mingle with one another, shrill, careless laughter echoing. There was once a time when you were with them, either running a con or planning a heist. You never imagined that you’d be thrust back into this world again as an Avenger.

“(Y/N)?” Steve asks, his voice softening just slightly.

“I’m in position,” you answer, swirling your flute of champagne elegantly, “Waiting for your signal.”

“Good,” Steve commends, his voice sounding warm and clear, “By the way, gold really is your colour.”

Your heart leaps into your throat as you turn, surveying the room. Steve is in the corner, dressed up like a daydream as he stares at you from across the room.

Your gazes clash.

Your heart freezes.

Steve crosses the room, sliding into the vacant stool next to you.

You recover quickly, ironing out your posture as you try to bury your emotions beneath a nonchalant mask.

“That was quick...” you murmur, and Clint snorts.

“Don’t say it—” Sam warns through the comms, but Clint is already speaking.

“—Title of your sex tape.”

A smirk curls around your lips, meeting Steve’s eyes for one charged moment, “Oh Clint, that’s certainly not the title of my sex tape...”

An adorable shade of pink dusts the apples of Steve’s cheeks and he quickly averts his gaze. Tilting your head at Steve, a simpering smile sprawls across your lips.

“What’s the matter, sweetie? Cat got your tongue?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Steve glances at you, a hint of a smile tugging at the ends of his mouth. His expression straightens and he looks around, “Seen Dawson anywhere?”

“Nope,” you smirk smugly, “He’s still knocked out in the closet I left him in.”

Steve smiles, regarding you warmly. There’s an intensity in his eyes that you can’t quite place, a sense of longing that makes the base of your spine tingle warmly.

“I got eyes on the weapon.”

Natasha’s voice shatters the moment. Steve shakes his head, drawing himself out of a lingering gaze.

“Excellent. Sam, where are you at with the security situation?”

“Working on it,” Sam grunts, slamming a guard into a wall.

“And I’m with Nat now,” Clint adds, panting slightly.

“You’re getting too old for this game, Barton,” you quip and you hear Clint sigh.

“You bet I am.”

“(Y/N) and I will extract the plans from Dawson’s diary,” Steve mutters into his comm, “We will meet at the rendezvous point.”

“Copy.”

“Copy that, Cap.”

Steve nods purposefully and the two of you glide smoothly off the dance floor, edging toward the closed off hallway inconspicuously.

After swiftly evading the security personnel, you finally arrive at Dawson’s private study. Recalling the blueprint you had stolen earlier, you locate the secret passage and enter through a hidden door, scaling down a spiral staircase until you reach the secret, underground lair.

“Well if this doesn’t scream cliche James-Bond-style villain lair, I don’t know what else does,” you retort, sauntering into the cold, damp lair.

The two of you split off into opposite directions, silently rushing around the room in search of the diary.

Steve dashes forward, moving briskly, until he finds a locked drawer. Using his superhuman strength, he wrenches the door open and steals Dawson’s diary; a heavy tome with a large, metal bracket locking it into place. You and Steve exchange a look.

“Think you can break into it?” Steve asks, raising a questioning brow at you. You grin.

“Finally, I get to do something fun around here,” you quip, a sharp blade of crackling psychic energy shooting out from your palm. You neatly slice through the lock, the jaws unhinging with a click and a hiss, clanging loudly onto the floor.

You gaze at the book, teeth digging into your bottom lip. How many times had you used your gift to steal, and yet now you were using your abilities to save the world? It was a startling realisation that had crossed your mind hundreds of times over the past year or so since you had joined the Avengers as a criminal searching for redemption.

“I never thought...” you whisper under your breath, trailing off into silence.

“Never thought what?” Steve asks from the opposite side of the room and you glance back at him, momentarily forgetting about his superhuman hearing.

“I just...” you begin, unsure of how to phrase the emotions you’ve bottled up inside of you, “...I’m still adjusting to the whole ‘Avengers’ thing...”

Steve pauses, hesitating, gazing at you with so much hidden meaning, you think for a moment that you must have imagined it. Just as you think he’s not going to speak...

“Change always takes some getting used to, trust me, I know,” Steve takes a step toward you, blue eyes genuine and unguarded as they consider you carefully, “But friends always make it easier and - well - you have us...”

You clamp your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down on a sincere smile, “I’m - well - I’m not here to make friends.”

Steve slides a hand through his hair, “You can’t isolate yourself forever.”

You shrug, eyes not quite meeting his, “Doesn’t have to be forever, just until I’m sure about this...”

Steve frowns, expression rippling, “You’re not sure about us? About...” he trails off, blushing.

“No, not at all! Just, well, sometimes I feel like I’m not...worthy of this...”

Steve crosses the room, resting a warm hand on your shoulder as he ducks his gaze, peering into your eyes with a piercing gaze, “You don’t have to doubt yourself, (Y/N). Just you being here is enough, enough for everyone and enough for me.”

His hand lingers, and there’s so much sincerity in the clear, ceraluen depths of his eyes, you almost believe him. And then his fingers start to trail up your neck, calloused tips dancing across your skin until they tangle around a loose strand of hair and you melt into his touch, embracing it. You’re drawn to him, stepping closer, until you can connect the green flecks in his eyes like constellations, and your eyes flutter closed for a moment, his voice leaking into your mind, into your inner ear, crystal clear and overflowing with hidden yearning.

...Kiss her...

Without really thinking, you step forward, pressing your lips to Steve’s in a gentle kiss. Steve immediately responds, cupping your face with strong hands as he groans against your lips, his tongue gliding across the bottom cushion of your lip. You moan in response, parting your lips, and you taste champagne and mint and a hint of whiskey, and it’s like tasting sunlight in the early mornings, the ones you love the most, and you arch into him, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging him closer, closer, closer.

“Erm...you guys still there?”

Distantly, Sams voice breaks into your consciousness and you groan, reluctantly breaking away from Steve with an irritated sigh.

“We were kind of having a moment here, Wilson,” you snap, and Sams chortles trickle into your ear.

Plucking the comm from your ear, you carelessly toss it onto the desk with a smirk. Steve’s brows nearly graze his hairline, but he copies you anyway, and with a smirk, you step toward him.

“Now, where were we?”

****

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spacecadetcity · 5 years

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fictober two + three.

fictober two: ‘just follow me, i know the area’ farmer amber + farmer micheal. words: 563. micheal and amber are owned by @crlven and @goldgreenie .

“are you sure we should go deeper? we’ve already gone pretty low, and my bag’s getting pretty low,” micheal asked hesitantly as he followed them down another ledge and dropped the last few inches to the cave ground. he carefully fastened another torch to the wall, muttering, “i feel like i’m in fucking minecraft. aww man.”

“it’s fine! don’t worry, we got this. just some more iron and junk and we’ll head back,” amber replied, stopping and listening into the darkness. when no sounds came, they started picking at the rocks and boulders and examining them for any ores or sparkles. “or this can be the last floor. your choice, mickey-d.”

“that’s me, the ronnie mcdonnie. have some fucking nuggies,” micheal replied, shoving a quartz gem in his back and examining the wall, “i’m going to go around and just mark up the wall to mine out later, you can pick at them if you want.” amber gave him a thumbs up and continued picking at the boulders as micheal wandered the cave area.

“i’m glad we didn’t run into any of those little squishy dudes. really make me feel like i’m playing minecraft,” micheal said, drawing a big arrow to a rock by the wall with iron deposits on it. the cave was quiet for a few more moments before micheal glanced over at amber and opened his mouth to speak.

“if you start singing the creeper meme, i will debone you like the fish i gave elliot,” amber threatened, pausing in their mining efforts to glare at the other farmer. micheal threw his hands up in the air and returned to marking up the wall, muttering about fish and flowers under his breath. they continued for another few moments before micheal started complaining again.

“alright, alright, we’re done. jeez, you can spend three weeks just planning out how you want the crops set up but a day in the mine turns you into the biggest baby,” amber started packing away their tools as micheal let out a whoop of celebration. “do you even know the way back up?”

“amber, my friend. the one who gives me aerodactyl. if i knew the way back up, i would have ditched your ass five minutes into this adventure! so no, i do not know the way back. i don’t know anything! all i do is eat hot chip and be homosexual,” micheal replied, following amber as they made their way towards a opening with a glow-in-the-dark fourty-three on it, scrabbling up the ledge they had dropped down.

“just follow me, i know the way out, you over-dramatic baby. you shoulda been a theatre kid,” amber rolled their eyes as they helped him up and as they continued to ascend, passing numbers scribbled onto the wall until they returned to one of the mining elevators.

“i could not have been a theatre kid, i was a weird art kid, do not ever disrespect the sonic ocs i made in middle school ever again,” micheal huffed as the elevator began creaking upwards, and amber snorted.

“micheal the hedgehog.”

“i am warning you. i will go into this and i will not stop.”

“look, what a coincidence! we’re at the top, bye mikey-wikey!” amber shouted, sprinting out the doors as soon as they opened, micheal chasing after them.

“fuck you!”

“i can’t, you’re gay dumbass!”

“fuck off!”

fictober three: “now? now you listen to me?” 881st. words: 687.

hotwire stumbled through the brush, fists clenched at his side. behind him, he could hear kicker following, stomping through the woods behind him. the two were beat up, bruised, and frankly apart from kicker and fourty, probably the worst two to get stuck together.

“stop fucking stomping about like a whiny little padawan, hotty-totty, you’ll alert all the droids in a fuckin’ sixty-mile radius to our position,” he heard kicker snarl at him as the other medic shoved past, and hotwire barely managed to keep himself from tripping into a painful looking bush. the other medic growled, but kicker didn’t even look back.

“yeah, cos’ you’re so much more sneaky, screaming around like the unhinged bastard you are,” hotwire muttered before following after, “don’t fucking call me hotty-totty, or i’ll call you something stupid. kicksy-sticks,” he said louder, and kicker turned and gave him a withering look.

“do i fucking look like that dipshit from the five-oh-first? you’re such a fucking pain in the ass.”

hotwire’s fists shook, and for a moment he really wanted to clock the other in the jaw, just wail on him. from the look kicker was giving him, the other medic felt the same. instead, hotwire stopped and took a deep breath, imagining the look ghost would give him if he returned and kicker was a fucking mess.

“i’d just have to fix you up anyway,” hotwire muttered as he started walking again, kicker having vanished in the thick underbrush. he shoved past a particularly thick thorned-bramble bush, wincing as it cut at his unprotected face. gingerly, he touched his cheek and groaned when it came away with blood on his fingers.

“where’s that from?” kicker materialized at his side, and hotwire yelped in surprise. they had just been at each others throats, and suddenly kicker seemed to be concerned over a tiny scratch. “just my cheek. nothing to worry about,” hotwire replied, feeling oddly defensive, and kicker groaned.

“you ever fuckin’ read the shit we get? like how the fuckin’ plantlife here is fucking crazy as shit and it eats shit? now we’re going to get some fucking big-ass flower hunting us down because you’re bleeding all over the place,” kicker grabbed hotwire by the arm and started moving quicker, dragging the other medic behind him. hotwire spent a few moments stumbling over his feet while he tried to keep up with kicker, finally catching his step and keeping up.

“i forgot, okay? kind of got my mind busy- look, you lead, i’ll follow, okay?” hotwire tried to sound apologetic even though he wasn’t really sure he had anything to be sorry for, and kicker squeezed his arm tighter until hotwire was pretty sure he’d have an indent in the armor.

“now? now you fuckin’ listen to me? not before when i said, ‘hey, dipshit, don’t go that way because there are bugs bigger than your fuckin’ attitude?’ and got the two of us in this mess?” kicker snarled, yanking hotwire by the arm, “no, that’s just kicker being the pissy guy he is, why would he ever say anything that isn’t purposefully argumentative!”

“i’m pretty sure you’re doing that right now-”

“hotwire, the only person i have ever genuinely tried to kill is fourty. you do not want yourself on that list. trust me.”

hotwire felt a chill run up his back at kickers’ tone, not a hint of joking present. he closed his mouth, instead focusing on keeping up with kicker’s pace. the two travelled in silence for several minutes before hotwire couldn’t help it.

“why do you hate fourty so much? like you seem to really take it past giving someone grief, and especially given what you just said, you really seem to have it out for him… why?”

kicker didn’t stop moving, but his grip loosened on hotwire.

“we have history. shitty history. i’ve always been an asshole, and one day he said that he wished kamino would’ve just-” kicker cut himself off, jaw clenched. “he wished kamino would have just fixed me.”

hotwire fell silent, the implication of what kicker meant sinking in.

“oh.”

“yeah. oh.”

#taylor made this #fictober #stardew valley #star wars #881st clone unit

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amethystunarmed · 6 years

Text

Repercussions

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou

Word Count: 1902

Trigger warnings: Blood, torture, emotional manipulation, graphic depictions of violence

Set after they become pro heroes.

AO3 Link

Midoriya never became a hero, never inherited One for All. After All Might left him on the roof, he was found by a group calling themselves the League of Villains. And now Bakugou has to pay the price.

A Bakugou-centric villain Deku au.

Bakugou had been pissed off for about a week straight. Kirishima had laughed at the way he puttered around their shared apartment, explosions sputtering from his palms. He was calling it Hurricane Bakugou, which got a mug chucked at his head. “Can’t say I’ve seen you this pissed, love,” he chuckled against Bakugou’s scalp, torso already hardened against his explosions, “I think it might be a record.” Bakugou growled at him to shut up, but he wasn’t wrong. He’d been like this ever since the new villain had surfaced. Deku.

It had been a normal patrol. A perfect one, even. There had been no activity, not even a stolen bicycle. It should have made him suspicious, really. It wasn’t a night of low activity. It was the silence of a forest before a top predator enters. It was the silence of knowing just how dangerous it would be to get in their way.

The explosion happened fifteen minutes before his shift had ended. A hero agency on the south side of town, completely obliterated. It had been mostly empty at that point. Bakugou managed to get the only two people still there out with ease. He had been handing the unconscious secretary to the emergency personnel when he saw him. A flash of green hair, ducking into an alley. He stopped, as though he’d felt Bakugou’s stare. He turned, smiled, and waved. Then he disappeared, and Bakugou felt a shift in reality. He’d recognized him, but he hadn’t been sure, until the body of Mt. Lady was found behind a dumpster. The words “I am Deku” were written above her corpse in her blood.

They’d been playing cat and mouse ever since.

Hence the mood.

Kirishima only joked because he didn’t know. He thought Bakugou was mad because the villain toyed with him, or because he didn’t immediately best him. He didn’t know who Deku was to him. He didn’t have to suddenly replace memories of missing child posters with a foreign smirk. He didn’t understand the relief Bakugou felt upon seeing him, knowing their parting words hadn’t killed him: Go take a swan dive off the roof. And, most importantly, he didn’t know what Deku meant. Useless. Most people thought it was irony, a reference to his apparently lack of a quirk, yet high body count. But Bakugou knew. Midoriya had chosen Bakugou’s name for him. Bakugou hadn’t thought of Midoriya as Deku in years but clearly, he hadn’t forgotten. The very thought sent chills down his spine.

The world became stifling. These thoughts… The universe was holding its breath, and Bakugou hadn’t gotten the memo. It was oppressive, the silence. No car outside, no birds calling, nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Just the smirk, the genuine pleasure in his eyes when he spotted him. It filled his vision. The vegetables were burning, he could smell it. But still, he couldn’t move. Ringing filled his ears. A smile soaked in blood.

His phone rang. A photo of Kirishima laughing popped up on his phone. Fucking finally, Bakugou thought. He switched the burner off (the meal had to be scrapped anyways) and answered. “Hey idiot, where the fuck–”

“Hello Kacchan.” The greeting was nearly a giggle. For first time in his life, Katsuki Bakugou froze. Because he knew that voice, would have recognized it even if the nickname hadn’t been a dead giveaway. It was deeper and more confident than he had ever heard it, but he recognized it. And it belonged to someone who absolutely should not have this phone. “Aw, Kaachan, are you going to ignore me?” He could hear the pout in his voice. He remembered it well. It was a tone he associated with watery eyes and backpedaling. “And we haven’t talked in so long! It’s a shame too, I have something important to show you.” The enthusiasm was both familiar and foreign. It was the same inflection he had used to talk about heroes, what felt like so many years ago. It was that excitement, but there was a coldness to it. A once-friendly dog snapping at you after being thrown into a fighting ring. Bakugou wasn’t sure which part of it was more unsettling.

“Why do you have Kirishima’s phone?” Bakugou snapped. He wasn’t about to exchange pleasantries with villain.

“You really haven’t heard? How wonderful… I was hoping to witness when you found out.” Once again, Bakugou was thrown for a loop. The conversation flipped a dial, redirecting in a way he didn’t understand. He used to be able to tell was Midoriya was thinking from just an expression, a snippet of a phrase. But this deeper, darkened lust meant nothing to him. Trying to read him was like trying to fit into his first year school uniform; an act once familiar as breathing now entirely impossible.

“What are you chattering about?”

“Turn on your TV. Any channel will do.” Bakugou’s heart rate picked up. The scent of nitroglycerin was strong on his nose as his hands began to sweat. Still, he went to the living room and turned on the monitor. It was set to a movie channel, something he and Kirishima had fallen asleep to the night before. Yet, even on this obscure channel, Midoriya’s smiling face greeted him. He was gripping a knife, holding it up to the arm of–

Kirishima.

Bakugou wishes he could take it back, wishes more than anything he’d stayed silent. But the sight of Kirishima, tied to a chair, blood running down to his neck from a slash across his cheek, left shoulder shredded to near viscera, it had been too much.

Bakugou let out a small gasp.

The sound echoed back at him through the TV.

Midoriya’s wide grin nearly unhinged his jaw.

“So you really do care…” He breathed, like the mere thought as ecstasy. “I’d nearly thought it was impossible.” He’d trailed the knife along Kirishima’s good arm, blood immediately flooded from the wound. Kirishima grunted, but otherwise didn’t react. You idiot, Bakugou wanted to scream, Why the fuck aren’t you protecting yourself?

“I remember when you started your agency together… The two of you were so close, I thought it had to be a lie for the press. But even when you snapped at him, even when he teased you, you were smiling Kaachan. Not smirking or sneering, but actually smiling at him. So I looked closer… I was always watching. I saw every late night paperwork session, every pining gaze, even your first kiss… How sweet.”

“So you’re a stalker now too?” he snapped, but his stomach twisted.

“More like a spy,” Midoryia countered, “I was only meant to get information on you, the budding top ranked hero! But I couldn’t help but be a little jealous. I spent so long trying to befriend you, did everything I could to impress you, would have followed you to the ends of the earth, and then this nobody is a little nice to you, and suddenly you can make friends? Surely, you understand why I was upset!” He jammed the knife down, making to stab Kirishima in the thigh. Instinctively, Kirishima hardened, and the knife shattered. Midoriya’s face turned deadly, and he glared at Kirishima. For the first time, he looked panicked.

“No, I didn’t mean–”

“Now, Kirishima! That’s against the rules! And you know the penalty.” Midoriya’s eyes locked with a person offscreen. “Shigaraki, if you please. A pinky should do.”

Bakugou’s breath left his lungs. Shigaraki. Leader of the league of Villains. Quirk: Decay. He’d seen the effects of what it could do before. The injuries looked remarkably similar to the mess of blood around Kirishima’s bicep.

“No, no–” Kirishima was squirming when the pale fingers wrapped around his pinky. The skin, tissue, bone began to disintegrate. Kirishima didn’t scream. The sound he made wasn’t human enough for that title. It was like nothing Bakugou had ever heard before. It didn’t let up until Shigaraki let go. Nothing was left, not even a stump showing where the finger once was. Bakugou didn’t realize he’d been shouting until it echoed through the TV.

“Bastards! Absolute cowards! I’ll kill you!” Midoriya rolled his eyes.

“See, this is what I mean. Losing your stoic facade?” He walked over to where Kirishima had slumped in his chair. He threaded his fingers through Kirishima’s hair and forced his head up. Kirishima was panting, face bright red, and Bakugou was suddenly certain the pain in his scalp was the only thing keeping him conscious. “You’ve gone soft, Kaachan,” Midoriya continued. “He’s right here.” He tapped over his heart with the hilt of the shattered knife. “But, I suppose I should thank you. Letting him in? That gave me something to work with.” He rested Kirishima’s head against his chest, a mockery of comfort Kirishima was too weak to refuse. Bakugou could read the shame on his face. He growled.

“I’m going to kill you for this!” He shouted and Midoriya laughed.

“What, for hurting him?” He cackled, “That never stopped you.” He glared at the camera, and Bakugou shuddered. He looked absolutely unhinged.

“You always hurt me Kaachan. The burn scars attest to that, sure, but emotionally, that was where you really thrived. Useless, quirkless, deku…” He chuckled. “I fantasized torturing you over and over, but it never felt right. Cutting you up would be fun, sure, but that’s hardly revenge. I need you to hurt the same way I did, all the trauma and nightmares and shredded sense of worth. But I couldn’t figure out how to do it.” He looked down to Kirishima, and beamed.

“Then, what do I find? You just let your heart walk around unattended. How short-sighted.” He clicked his tongue. “So this is for you Kaachan. Torturing Red Riot publicly? That certainly aligns with our goals. But honestly, he’s not that important to me. Taking him out is just an added bonus. Every bit of pain he feels? That’s all for you.” He patted Kirishima’s cheek and cooed, “And currently, he still has too many fingers.” Midoriya nodded, Shigaraki’s hand came back into frame, and–

“Don’t.” The word was quiet, demure. Bakugou couldn’t believe it came from him. Midoriya stops.

“What was that?”

“Don’t. Don’t, I–”

Midoriya lit up, a shark smelling blood in the water.

“Beg me.”

“Please, stop, don’t hurt him. Please, I’ll do anything.” The words were unconscious, coming from him like a busted floodgate.

“Once more.”

“Please, I…” He swallowed his sudden flare of pride. “I’m begging you. Let him go. Please, Midoriya.”

“How many times did I beg you to stop Kaachan?”

Bakugou could see it, every time Midoriya asked him to stop, to leave him alone, to give back whatever item he’d stolen. He runs through them, on nights he can’t sleep, moonlight reflecting every desperate plea.

His wet exhale was an answer.

“And how many times did you listen?”

Something in Bakugou snapped. “No, no, please.” His words were frantic now. “Stop, please, Izuku, I’m sorry!” He thinks he might be crying.

“Not. Once!” Deku hisses, “And I only ever wanted to be like you.” He nodded to Shigaraki again, who grabs Kirishima’s ring finger. “And besides,” he continued through Kirishima’s shrieks, “Don’t bother calling me anything different now! You know it better than anyone.”

He stared straight through the camera and Bakugou felt it through his stomach like a butterfly pin.

“I’m Deku.”

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allfandomxreader · 7 years

Text

Under the Stars

Pairings: Billy Hargrove x Reader Request: Can I get a billyxReader imagine where the reader is just like billy (to billy) to teach him a lesson and she flirts and all that jazz but they both end up falling in love? I love your blog by the way!! Warnings: Swearing, a drunk guy forcibly kisses the reader and makes her uncomfortable Words: 1,687 A/N: I’ve been really discouraged in my writing lately because I think everything is turning out to be shit and because of that I’ve lost motivation which makes me write less and I’m really sorry if you’re waiting on a request. I promise I’m trying to get them done.

Billy Hargrove hasn't attended Hawkins High School for more than three weeks and you already loathe him. You can’t understand how he has a new girl wrapped around his arm every week, what you do know, is that you’ll never be one of them. You despise how he treats his “girl-of-the-week” --actually, you despise how he treats everyone. Your biggest wish is for someone to give him the taste of his own medicine.

You tap your pencil on your history notebook, watching the second-hand circle around the clock in the front of the room. Seven minutes left and you were home free, in the comfort of your own home for the rest of the weekend. You feel eyes burning into the back of your neck, you don’t need to turn around to know that the “New King” has been eyeballing you for the past hour.

When the bell finally rings you’re out of your chair and out the door in seconds. You push through the crowded halls and disgusting couples to make it into your locker. You quickly turn the dial and unhinge the lock, determined to get out of this hell hole within the next thirty seconds. You shove textbooks into your open backpack before slinging it over your shoulder, your foot kicks the door shut sending a slam throughout the hallway.

“Where are you off to so quickly?” Your eyes twitch at the sleazy voice beside you. When you turn, you see no other but Billy himself leaning against the nearby lockers, trying his best to seduce you with his stance.

“Anywhere you’re not,” Billy only laughs at your sly remark, leaning closer, completely invading your personal space.

“I like feisty girls,” His eyes scan your entire body, staring at your chest a lot longer than necessary. Just his gaze makes your skin crawl.

“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” You scoff, spinning on your heel and making your way towards the exit. Much to your dismay, Billy is hot on your heels.

“Are you coming to Tina’s party tonight?” He genuinely sounds interested in your response, it catches you off guard only for a moment before you answer.

“Not if you’re there,” You let out a breathy sigh, wanting his presence to disappear and leave you alone. However, you don’t dare to tell him off, unsure how he’d react.

“Ouch,” He mumbles under his breath, in that instant, you felt sorry for your remarks. Technically, Billy has never done anything to you, there really wasn’t any reason for you to be outwardly mean other than the fact that you simply couldn’t stand him. “Look, I can tell you don’t like me -which is your loss- but I think you’d have fun, maybe get to know me more?” You furrow your eyebrows at the boy standing in front of you.

“Hard pass.” You say after contemplating his offer. You yank your car door open, relieved you can finally escape the god-awful conversation. You slide behind the wheel and slam the door shut before he could get another word in. It felt nice being locked in the comfort of familiarity and away from Billy. Your heartbeat started to slow as you peel away from the school parking lot, you hate that Billy was the reason for it to quicken in the first place.

Four hours later you find yourself standing in a crowd of intoxicated teenagers. The stench of sweat and alcohol wafts through the atmosphere and invades your sense, you try for a moment to breath out of your mouth instead but quickly realize the air tastes worse than it smells. You cling to the cup a stranger handed to you almost an hour ago taking sips when you felt necessary.

A familiar kid bumps into you as he tries to make it into the kitchen. He almost passes without saying a word, but when he catches a glimpse he stops, looking you up and down. “You’re… Y/N, right? I’m Matthew, from biology.” He explains. In the midst of his talking, your eyes wander behind him, locking with Billy. Billy’s expression is unreadable as he stares at you and the talking classmate. “Would you like to come get a drink with me? My cup just hit empty,” Matthew asks kindly gesturing to his empty solo cup. Your eyes dart away from Billy and onto the attractive guy speaking to you.

“Sure!” You sound overly cheerful as you accept his invitation. You don’t give Billy a second look as Matthew takes your hand in his and leads you towards the kitchen. The room is overcrowded with mingling people, leisurely refilling their cups when they start to run low. Matthew makes small talk as he fills your glasses to the brim with “Pure Fuel” you knew you couldn’t possibly finish it, it definitely doesn’t taste as good as people lead on. Nevertheless, you kindly take the full cup.

You and your new friend stand in the corner of Tina’s grand house talking about anything and everything. You haven’t seen Billy since the first encounter with Matthew, but you knew he was lurking, you can feel his cold stare as you stand a little too close to your classmate and laugh a little too loud at his stories.

As the night progresses, Matthew had a substantial amount of alcohol coursing through his veins. You still hold onto your drink, you’ve barely touched it since he filled it up for you. Matthew inches closer, his hands grip your hips as he tries to pull you closer towards him. Your hands find his chest in a frenzy to push him away, even though Matthew is a scrawny guy his strength overpowers yours. “Matthew, stop,” You shove his shoulders away harder but his body clings to yours is if you were magnetic. His lips press sloppy kisses to your neck ignoring your clear signs.

Suddenly, Matthew flies away from you and crashes into the table earning screams from the party goers. Red liquid spews from the abundance of red cups onto the walls and the surrounding people. All eyes fall on you and Billy Hargrove.

Billy’s face is twisted with anger as he stares at Matthew, his fingers clench into fists as he winds his arm back to send blows to Matthew’s jaw. Your hands grasp Billy’s upper arm as you tear him away from the scene, he struggles to free himself, only causing your grip to grow stronger. “Billy, let’s go,” You strain to hold him back from Matthew but when Billy locks eyes with your own that are glazed with fear, he stops resisting.

“I should’ve killed him,” Billy grumbles when you’re in the safety of his car. “Did he hurt you? Touch you worse than what I saw him doing? Do you feel fuzzy? Like, do you think he roofied you? Did he-”

“Billy!” You scream, he jumps at the sudden rise in your voice, “Please, just drive.”

The car ride is silent as Billy drives through windy backroads of Hawkins. Out of your whole life living here, you never ventured further than the city limits, you never had the need. Billy pulls into a clearing just off a gravel road, he exits the Camaro and opens the passenger door for you, extending a hand to help you out. You can’t help but give him a questioning look, “The stars are prettier out here,” He admits, rolling his eyes slightly.

“You look at the stars?” You inquire. He rolls his eyes once more, gently shoving his hand towards you to take.

Cool metal presses into your back as you sink onto the hood of his car, Billy talks absentmindedly about constellations and points to each one he comes across. You smile at this side of him, you know he doesn’t show it often, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were the first one who’s seen it. As the conversation about balls of fire comes to an end, you lay in a comfortable silence. Neither of you knew what to say, you had no common interests or even shared classes, searching for a meaningful conversation seemed almost impossible.

“Why do people think I’m such a bad person?” Billy asks, breaking the silence.

“Probably because you are.” Your tone is harsher than you intended.

“Ha. Ha.” Billy retorts, shifting to make himself more comfortable on the metal.

“I was being serious.” You glance towards him, the corners of his mouth twitch into a frown. You feel sorry for him, you knew something must’ve happened for him to turn so cold and ruthless. If you were being completely honest, you didn’t want to know.

“Yeah,” He sighs sadly, “I know.” Silence fills the space between you yet again. “I come out here to think at night, it’s quiet, people rarely drive out here,” Billy explains, “It’s nice just to have a place to escape.”

“You picked a pretty place for that,” You smile, looking up at him.

“I picked a prettier girl to share it with,” A warm blush sneaks to your cheeks at his cheesy words, a quiet giggle lingers in the air as the wind picks up, raising goosebumps to your arms. Without thinking, you rub your hands on your skin. Billy shrugs off his leather jacket and gently covers you in its warmth. You open your mouth to protest but Billy waves off the unsaid words before looking up towards the sky. You scoot closer to his side, snuggling into him as he wraps his arm securely around your shoulders.

“Tell me more about the stars, I could listen to you talk all night,” You sigh. Your head falls to his shoulder as he racks his brain for star facts.

“Did you know, the constellation Hydra takes up 3.16 percent of the sky?” He asks making you smile.

“I didn’t, do tell me more.” You watch the boy talk for hours, not only about the stars either, about anything and everything. Meaningful conversations didn't seem so impossible anymore.

Tags: @superfrankie111

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