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tomriddleslove · 5 months

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Obliviate.

✩ Mattheo Riddle x Reader angst

Summary: The one where tensions are running higher, and everyone has to pick a side. You promised to stick by one another, but a stupid oath you made when you first met threatens to drive that apart. Alternatively: If you love her, then you have to let her go.

A/N: If you don’t listen to the recommended song when reading this i will fight you 🤺🤺

Song: Goodbye - Billie Eilish

The Daily Prophet

Unrest Brews as Dark Forces Loom

By Rita Skeeter

In a disturbing turn of events, Diagon Alley was rocked by an unprecedented attack last night, sending shockwaves throughout the wizarding community. Witnesses reported seeing a group of hooded figures, suspected to be Death Eaters, descending upon the famous magical thoroughfare with malicious intent.

The Flourish and Blotts bookstore bore the brunt of the assault, with its windows shattered and shelves overturned. Several nearby shops, including Ollivanders Wand Shop and Eeylops Owl Emporium, also sustained significant damage.

"I've never seen anything like it," said Horace Slughorn, a retired Potions Master who happened to be in the area during the attack. "It was pure pandemonium. People were running for cover, spells flying everywhere. It was like a scene out of the darkest days of the last wizarding war."

Ministry of Magic officials were quick to respond to the scene, deploying Aurors and members of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol to contain the situation. However, the attackers managed to evade capture, leaving behind a trail of destruction and instilling fear in the hearts of many.

The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, condemned the attack in the strongest terms, vowing to apprehend those responsible and bring them to justice.

"We will not tolerate such brazen acts of violence in our society," Minister Shacklebolt declared in a statement issued this morning. "The Ministry is fully committed to ensuring the safety and security of all witches and wizards, and we will spare no effort in our pursuit of these criminals."

The attack on Diagon Alley serves as a grim reminder of the growing threat posed by Voldemort's followers, who have been emboldened in recent months by reports of their dark lord's rumoured return. With tensions running high and fear gripping the wizarding world, many are left wondering what the future holds in this time of uncertainty.

You frown as you observe Mattheo, watching as he tosses the paper down onto the table in front of you with a huff. The tension in his face has become increasingly evident over the past few weeks, and you've begun to forget what Mattheo looks like when he isn't frowning.

You wrap your arms around his arm, leaning in close to him as you speak quietly.

“Hey. It’s alright,” You reassure, pressing a light kiss to his shoulder. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from the fireplace, a small huff of both frustration and amusement escaping his lips as he clenches his jaw, nodding.

“It’s alright.” He scoffs, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

It’s alright? No, it wasn’t alright. His father was a murderous lunatic who was about to trigger the second wizarding war. He had to sit back and watch his own friend get tortured for hours for failing to complete a task. He can't close his eyes without seeing Theodore writhing in pain on the floor.

Mattheo was expected to fight with them. The time would come, that was for certain. Mattheo would have to stand there, and raise his wand against the people he's shared a dorm with and sat in class with.

Hell, he would be expected to raise his wand against you.

“They always say this, Mattheo. They’ve been saying it for years, and nothing has happened.” You say, but even you can see how pathetic it sounds. Despite your efforts to comfort him, it's clear that his mind is elsewhere, consumed by the looming threat of war and the impossible choices he may soon be forced to make.

Mattheo finally tears his gaze away from the fireplace, his eyes meeting yours. Your breath hitches, the sheer look of sorrow in his eyes enough to shatter your heart into a million little pieces.

"I don't want to drag you into this," he confesses, his voice raw with emotion. "You deserve better than to be caught up in my mess."

Your heart sinks as you realize where this conversation is headed. "Mattheo, please," you plead, the fear in your voice palpable, "don't do this. Don't shut me out."

But he shakes his head, his expression pained. "I have to," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Remember our promise?"

Mattheo looks up when he sees you sit next to him, a wide grin on your face as you unpack your bag.

He had seen you here and there in the common room. You always seemed to have an impossibly bright smile, far too lovely for the gloominess of Slytherin.

“Riddle.” You hum with a small grin, and he can't help but let a small smile tug at his lips as he looks over at you.

“What's wrong? You’re looking at me as though I’ve grown another head” You tease as you sit down next to him .

Mattheo blinks in surprise as you address him, the warmth of your smile catching him off guard. He's used to being treated with caution and apprehension, especially given his family's reputation and his own reserved demeanor. But your easy manner and genuine curiosity leave him feeling strangely disarmed.

"Nothing's wrong, just lost in thought, I suppose," he replies, a hint of amusement in his voice as he watches you unpack your bag. Despite himself, he can't help but feel a sense of curiosity about you, wondering what it is that draws you to him when so many others keep their distance.

-•-

“Please-” Mattheo pleads in frustration, slamming the door shut behind him as he storms through the empty common room. You follow after him briskly, slamming the door that separates the common room from the dorms closed with a flick of your wand as you corner him.

“What do you mean, please?” You snap, frowning at him.

“Stop-” He says, his movements exasperated as he motions between the two of you “- this! Stop trying to be friends with me! It’s for your own good.” He says, looking up at you.

You let out a dry laugh, a mix of amusement and frustration as you shove him lightly.

“Oh fuck off. So you can kiss me and spend every evening with me but when it suits you we are just friends. You don't get to decide what’s good for me, Mattheo. I choose what I do and who I associate with, and if that hurts me then so fucking be it.” You retort harshly. Mattheo goes to interject but you cut him off.

“No! You don't get to choose when you want to be with me. I want you, Mattheo. All of you. I couldn’t give two flying shits about who your father is, or who you associate with. I'm capable of making my own decisions.”

He remains silent, his expression torn between turmoil and guilt, as your words hang heavy in the air between you. You feel slightly guilty for your outburst and your expression softens, reaching out to hold his hand gently as you speak.

"You know, if you really think it's that dangerous for me to be around you, you could always just obliviate me. Make me forget about you completely."You quip, trying to lighten the mood

For a moment, Mattheo's shock gives way to a burst of laughter, the tension in the room dissipating as he shakes his head in disbelief. "You're impossible," he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

-•-

You pull back from Mattheo, shaking your head. “No. No, that was a joke.” You stammer, but he turns to you.

“It wasn’t. We spoke about it afterwards. You promised me.” Mattheo says, sternly.

You know he’s right. You only agreed because the idea seemed so laughable. But now it was a reality, and you could see the hurt and disappointment in Mattheo's eyes.

Tears well up in your eyes as you struggle to find the right words, the weight of everything crashing down on you like a ton of bricks. "I love you, Mattheo," you say, more of a plea than anything else. He draws you into him, a strong arm wrapping around you tightly, as though he is scared to let you go. His hand cups the back of your head, pulling your head down to rest on his shoulder as he kisses the top of your head.

“I know. I love you too. That's why we have to.” He murmurs, trying his hardest to not let his voice break.

-•-

It’s not fair.

It wasn’t fucking fair.

Mattheo had just found it. Found his reason for living. Found his reason to keep going when all the odds were stacked against him. You were the air he breathed, the light that lit his life up and the tender hand that soothed him. You were his everything, and you had to be snatched away from him.

He gently raps on the door to your dorm, just to let you know he was about to enter before cracking the door open. You hastily scramble, shoving the book you were writing with under your pillow as you spot Mattheo.

He notices but he doesn't say a thing, no, he can't. Because in a few minutes, it would be as though he never existed to you. He couldn't tell what would have hurt more, you not being able to see him, or you not even knowing who he was. You’d hold his heart in your hands, unknowingly, and he would be nothing but a stranger.

“Not in here, Please, not in here.” You breathe out, your words hitching in your throat as you fight back tears. He nods wordlessly, taking a step back.

“No one’s in the common room. I’ll uh- go there.” He murmurs, his voice hollow and empty as he turns to leave, unable to bear the thought of facing you for what may be the last time.

As he makes his way down to the common room, every step heavier than the last, he can't shake the feeling of emptiness that gnaws at his insides. It's like a void, swallowing him whole and leaving nothing behind but a hollow shell of the person he used to be.

He finds a seat in the furthermost corner, where you both usually sat, facing the fireplace. He watches the embers crackle and dance, not even noticing your presence till you slide up into the seat next to him. He wants to avert his gaze when he sees the tears in your eyes, but instead, he reaches up.

His hands were shaking. Why were they shaking?

He wipes a stray tear from your cheek.

“My wand. Let me go uh-” He blurts , quickly getting up as he looks away. He blinks back tears as he hurries up the stairs. Instead of going up to his dorm, however, he sneaks into yours.

He walks over to your bed, pulling back your pillow. Sure enough, the small book you were so desperate to conceal from Mattheo was there. He looks around and then with a small huff, tucks it into his back pocket. He hurries back downstairs.

Returning to the common room, he sits back down next to you, his hand reaching out to gently intertwine with yours as you sit together in silence. For a while, you don't say anything. You fear that speaking will break this small bubble, where time has frozen and you can just enjoy your last moments together.

As Mattheo gently cups your face, his touch trembling with the weight of what's to come, he feels the soft dampness of your tears against his fingertips. Your eyes, filled with sorrow and pleading, search his for some semblance of reassurance, some sign that this isn't the end.

"I can't do this," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, his heart breaking with every word. "I can't lose you. You mean everything to me. I’m so scared"

Your sobs fill the air around you, the sound like a knife to Mattheo's heart as he struggles to hold back his own tears. He leans in, pressing his lips against yours in a tender, bittersweet kiss, savouring the taste of your lips one last time before it's all gone.

“I love you.” Is all you can muster. It’s pathetic, but it hurts to even think about anything.

You cling to him desperately, your fingers tangling in his hair as though trying to anchor yourself to the present. Mattheo feels a lump form in his throat, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket, but he knows that he has to do this. For your own safety, for your own sake, he has to let you go.

His forehead presses against yours, taking in every last moment of intimacy he’s granted. You don't open your eyes, and he's grateful, for he doesn't think he could bear to look you in the eye.

“Obliviate.”

The second after he murmurs the words he stumbles away from you, reeling backwards as though your touch has burnt him. You wouldn't remember a thing about him, not even his name. He couldn’t be close to you anymore.

Mattheo watches as you blink, confusion clouding your features as you try to make sense of your surroundings. You look around the room, your eyes scanning the familiar surroundings with a sense of bewilderment, and for a moment, Mattheo's heart clenches with the hope that maybe, just maybe, you'll remember him. But deep down, he knows that it's futile, that the spell has already taken effect, erasing every trace of him from your mind.

You shake your head slightly, as if trying to clear the fog from your thoughts, before turning and heading up to your bed. Mattheo watches you go, his heart breaking with every step you take away from him, knowing that he can never follow.

But then, just as you reach the top of the stairs, you pause, your gaze flickering back to where Mattheo stands in the corner of the room. And in that moment, you give him a small, absentminded smile, the kind of smile you might give to a passing stranger.

Mattheo's heart lurches in his chest at the sight of your smile. He wants to call out to you, to tell you who he is, to beg you to remember him, but he knows that it's pointless. You're gone, lost to him forever, and there's nothing he can do to change that.

As you disappear, he collapses down onto the sofa, He wants to sob, and for a second he thinks he is, a horrible restictive choking feeling in his throat as he looks down at the floor. He reaches into his pocket, fingers fumbling with the small black book, perhaps the last piece of you he’d truly have.

He finds the most recent entry and wipes away the tears that blur his vision as he begins to read.

Don't be alarmed when you see this. I want you to read every word of this carefully. This is you, that is writing. It is the 26th of June, 1996. You might have felt like you’ve woken up in the common room, feeling a bit disoriented.

You were obliviated. And it was your idea.

When you were that annoying, pestering little kid, you had taken it upon yourself to befriend a boy called Mattheo Riddle. You’ll see him over the next few days, perhaps. He might look at you as though it hurts him to. It most definitely does. He’s devastatingly handsome, with the softest brown curls and the most expressive eyes. I do believe you won't need me to describe him. Really, my love for him is so strong I doubt any sort of obliviate can erase the idea that Mattheo Riddle lives within the recesses of your heart. Everyone had warned you of how dangerous he was, how his father was rumoured to be the Dark Lord and that he was bound to be no good. But you, in your true Slytherin ambition, set out on a mission to befriend him.

And you fell in love. It was impossible not to, really.

He is everything to me. He was everything to you. He is the most brilliant boy I’ve known. Far too many people gave up on him early. He’s beyond just being incredibly intelligent. He feels. And that’s rarer than you might believe. For someone who was subjected to such horrible things growing up, he is tender. Do not let his bruised knuckles and split lips fool you.

Now, more than ever, he will struggle. He believes you are fully not aware of him. But with this, I hope you are.

Be there for him. Do not tell him about this. You were awfully good at forcing your way into people's lives. Do that for him now. Make him think it was a coincidence. Be there for him, and don’t let his stubbornness fool you. Merlin knows he will be stubborn. He is simply scared, and you mustn’t let that deter you.

People will often compare their lovers to the sun. Bright, warm, near perfect. Mattheo is the moon, casting a gentle glow in the darkness, guiding you through the night. He may not shine as brightly as the sun, but his presence is no less mesmerizing, no less essential.

You had always preferred the moon more, anyway.

Take care of him.

You stupid girl. You stupid, selfish girl.

Mattheo's hands tremble as he reads the letter, his heart constricting with every word, every line. It's like a knife to his heart, the pain of knowing that even in a situation like this, you still found a way to look after him, to care for him, to love him.

Tears blur his vision as he reads on, each word cutting deeper than the last. The book, filled with pages of recollections of the time they spent together, feels like a cruel reminder of everything he's lost, everything he can never get back.You had nearly filled the whole book, addressed to yourself with worries and letters in the hopes of getting your obliviated mind to fall back in love with Mattheo. To remember him, and to negate the whole idea of obliviating yourself by leaving this book for your future self.

And you did all of this just because you wanted to look after him.

It hurts to breathe, to even entertain the idea of going to bed tonight knowing that the love of his life sees him as nothing but a stranger. And in his hands, he holds the thing that could do the impossible, that could somehow reverse it all.

The very selfish part of him wants you to see the book. He wants to slip upstairs, and hide it back under your pillow, and let you find the words you addressed to yourself.

But he couldn’t. He could die far more happily knowing he’s not leaving you behind, no. Really, you were never his, the two of you forcing destiny in the opposite direction, living on borrowed time. Now he has to face the consequences of it all, and if he can stop you bearing the brunt of it, then he’s made no mistake.

He places the book down on the table, and doesn’t think twice about his actions.

“Incendio.”

#slytherin #slytherin boys #tom riddle #harry potter #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #theodore nott #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle x you

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araminakilla · 2 years

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Regarding Death Wolf...

Hear me out (NO, it's not the kind you are thinking)

We know Death has a job, right? To collect souls and most likely release them to the afterlife.

And for this job, he has to be there when somebody is about to die, as demostrated with him being there moments before Puss' eight death.

Supposing he is THE Death and he has been doing this since the beginning of time (or at least when there were enough stories of the Grim Reaper to adquire a physical form) that means he has seen a lot, A LOT of awful things.

Murders, suicides, massacres, death of infants, people who didn't deserve to die alone, animal cruelty, some other heavy stuff I won't mention here, etc etc etc.

And we thought "man, how is he able to cope with all of that? That job has to be utter torture for someone."

Probably many of you could think that he is able to do that because he is Death, and he was "born" with that purpose and only him can reap souls perfectly.

But while he is a force of nature, he also WAS a force of nature. Let me explain it well: He adquired a personality enough to be angry, excited, frustrated, amazed, happy, among other emotions.

While he has supernatural power and is most likely the most powerful being in the Shrek Franchise (or in Dreamworks as many say) he is also a PERSON.

Someone with a code of honor, morals, opinions, beliefs, etc.

Returning to the question "How can he bear all of that?" taking into account he is no longer an inevitable force, but a character of his own.

The answer is something you may relate to, and that is: Creativity and escapism.

To be the embodiment of Death, the guy is a very creative fella.

First of all, his design. I heard many people saying here and in Twitter that his design is something they would come up in their edgy, teen years of drawing their first fursona.

Guess what? They are right, the wolf form is someone's fursona. It's DEATH'S fursona. He clearly came up with this badass, piercing canine form to blend with the Fairy Tale Land assuming the form of the "Big Bad Wolf". He most likely had other forms he designed over the centuries and was able to present as them like if he were on a role play game in the living world.

His sickles? The weapon of choice with the little crossed cats on it to have a bigger effect of terror for Puss? Those who can become knuckles and join to create a scythe? Those are his creation, probably after thinking it for a while and writing all of those functions on a paper.

The way he presents himself? In the bar? The coins in his eyes as a "watching you" sign while being a cool reference to the Ferryman of souls? He transforming Perrito's forest into the background of a skull? The chilling reveal at the Cave of Lost Souls? The fire ring? It was all him.

As for the escapism part...

When the world becomes too heavy to deal with as real life issues tend to make us feel bad, depressed, angry... we tend to escape it somewhere. And in our time the common place would be the internet as in webpages or comics, stories, etc.

But what has to do with Death Wolf you may ask?

Well, while he would NEVER be able to escape his job entirely, he can have moments where he can enjoy a good hunt of people who don't appreciate life, like the whole plot of the Puss in Boots sequel could demostrate.

He managed to have a little time outside his eternal routine to chase an arrogant cat who took life for granted. He enjoyed it, it was thrilling, it was exciting.

It was a way to escape a monotonous, grim "life", if just for a short moment.

So, when the chase ended as his prey no longer feared him and now was ready to fight for his last life, the wolf retreats, happy for Puss' character development but resigned because he once again had to return to "The Eternal Duty"

And that's not even counting all the times Jack "I'm dead inside" Horner had to interrupt Lobo's hunt and remind him of his job even in his "spare time"

Death knew the chase had to end eventually, but he didn't want it to end.

He didn't want to return to his own world

And if we look at Death like that, then he is probably one of the most relatable characters Dreamworks has ever make.

In the Shrek Franchise:

Monsters can be loved

Princesses don't have to fit the perfect standards of beauty

Handsome guys can be possesive jerks

Love at first sight doesn't work like one would think

Happily ever afters had to be built and not just obtain them with magic

And Death is the most creative and "full of life" being in the world

Because he would absolutely go crazy with his life/work if he wasn't.

Because in a world of Kings, Poets and Soldiers, he's the Supreme King

And he's also a perky goth but none of you are ready for that conversation.

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stoutguts · 6 days

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Ghoap 💀🧼 relationship dynamic HC (shall we?)

Simon "Ghost" Riley is no scaredy-cat.

The man has been through hell on Earth, survived torture, abuse,—and being buried alive for fuck’s sake. They managed,—even after everyone he loved was taken from him. Has been through countless tense and anxiety inducing situations throughout their military career.

But Ghost has nerves of steel, excellent control over his emotions, and naturally that’s why it’s so damn good at its job.

Though…there is one thing that scares the shit out of them. Soap.

Simon thought he was all big and bad,—intimidating,—until he met John “Soap” MacTavish.

Johnny is only around half its size, yet he manages to be even scarier than Ghost somehow. Which is wild, considering one of them looks like the damn grim reaper with that skull mask of theirs.

Simon may have a reputation for “the guy you don’t wanna mess with”, to the point where people won’t even bother with them.—But Soap’s got more than a few screws loose himself.

New recruits and others will at least approach him,—but with serious caution, and are careful to watch their mouths around him.

His anger is explosive, fitting, for a demolitions expert. A total loose cannon when he wants to to be. Some recruits even refer to him as “the psycho Scot” or "Ghost's guard dog". Titles he takes to with pride.

Johnny’s known for putting people in their place, and with every fight he’s ever gotten into,—he’s always won. Often sending his opponents to medical.

Most of the time though, he just has to look at someone and it scares them shitless. He’s mastered his death glare, and it even sends shivers up Ghost’s spine.

The man’s a total gym rat and health nut, nothing but muscle, and he trains the most of anyone Simon has ever seen. Works out constantly, and loves to get his body moving. He can never simply sit still, and being active actually helps him to clear his head and blow off steam. Always keeping track of his calories, weighing out his portions, and whatnot,—with a pescatarian and vegetarian lifestyle. He’s also a nature lover and tree hugger,—loves to go on hikes or go camping in his spare time. He’s naturally a reigning champ when it comes to hand to hand combat, and is a highly skilled fighter. He even beats Simon to a pulp on the sparring mats most of the time. (Ghost may like him beating the snot out of him more than they than would like to admit…)

Soap is often used for interrogations, as he’s morally bankrupt just enough,—to where he’ll do just about anything to get answers out of someone. Whether it involves violence or not.

Simon has seen the sheer extent of the injuries sustained by the poor bastards that were stupid enough to challenge him, that pissed him off, or that he’s extracted information out of—and that was enough for Ghost.

He recalls that one time he directly witnessed Johnny, feigning calmness, take a recruit’s hand in his, then proceed to snap the guy’s thumb clean in half in one fluid motion. (The recruit had decided to wolf whistle at him when he was walking over to Ghost, after their duties had wrapped up regarding training the newbies).

Simon is a smart man, and knows when to pick his battles. Soap being the battle he most certainly knows NOT to pick.

Johnny is more lenient with Ghost than other people, and lets them get away more. But Simon’ll be damned if it ends up on the receiving end of Soap’s wrath.

I really like the idea of Soap being the dominating one in the relationship, but Ghost not being entirely submissive either.

Like Simon can and will be the one to put him in HIS place, and knock his ego down a few pegs if need be. Though still allows him his fun.

While Johnny relies on Ghost to let him know when he’s “too much”, and makes a point to let Simon have the control, at least every now and then.

Both try to be as respectful as possible of the other’s needs and desires, while also "maintaining their roles". But both are effectively switches, whether it's in the bedroom or not, and mainly put up this dom and sub act for other people and for their own amusement.

SOAP BEING JUST AS MENTALLY FUCKED AS GHOST MY BELOVED

thanks for coming to my Ted talk

(Also, the tidbit about Soap snapping a recruit’s thumb in half is actually based on a family member of mine’s story. Basically, my older sister had this guy pour water down the back of her shirt in high school, and in response, she straight up broke his thumb/snapped it in half lmao).

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delimeful · 8 months

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let my mind reset (6)

warnings: angst, brainwashing, torture, psychological conditioning, references to injury/gore/death, harmful surgical implants, they are really going through it now, lmk if i missed any

Where the hours had passed slowly before, now they seemed to slip by all too fast. Every spare moment Roman had was spent in anxious anticipation of the next session and all that came with it.

He had never seen something like the haze used on a person before. Crav’n were invulnerable to it, and he’d only ever witnessed his aunt use it briefly on one of the local fauna once, a harmless and finicky tree-dwelling species about the size of his hand.

(Roman remembered the way Marta had compelled the little creature to pace back and forth, from place to place, wearing its will away until there wasn’t any hesitation between order and action. Then, she’d sent it walking into the nearby pond.

He remembered the way its survival instinct had set in late, the way it began to thrash, and still Marta didn’t call it back. He remembered feeling relieved when his mother stepped in and put a stop to the demonstration, scooping the poor beast from its fate with disapproval etched firmly in the set of her shoulders.

He didn’t remember if the creature had lived through the withdrawal, afterwards.)

Virgil was far from a simple animal, though, and despite Roman’s half-formed nightmares, he didn’t mindlessly succumb to the influence of the drug the first time it was forced on him, nor the second or the third.

In fact, every time the other Humans entered his cell with that unsettling green canister, he seemed just as panicked as Roman, if not more, putting up as much of a fight as he could with a battered body and a wrung out mind. No matter how they tutted or scolded, the other Humans still couldn’t get the mask on him until Roux had him forcibly subdued, which was a tiny victory in itself.

That didn’t stop the drug from taking its toll each and every time.

As horrible as it sounded, the worst part was that the effects weren't painful or malicious in nature. At least that would have been easier to fight against; a logical, instinctive response to being hurt.

No, it was far more insidious than that. The haze dulled pain. First, the physical: it eased away the stiffness of sore muscles and the burning of shocked nerves, leaving only a pleasant numbness behind. Then, the mental: it stalled the production of stressful chemical compounds, replacing them with whatever was needed to trick the victim’s mind into believing they were happy, relaxed, pliable.

Roman had never seen Virgil so unwound, so carefree, and he hated how unnatural the behavior seemed on the Human. It was a miserable experience, finally seeing him without the hunted slant to his posture, and feeling sickened by the sight.

What was worse was watching it wear off.

As though a switch had been thrown in reverse, Virgil would be plagued by a creeping, unrelenting sense of panic and dread, pacing around his cell frantically until a sudden hypersensitivity to touch left him crumpled in one spot, breathing harsh and pained.

Time after time, he was shown exactly how painful withdrawal from even a few doses was, until he was left bracing for it well before the next session had even begun.

“The last guys who had me would have killed for something like this,” Virgil said, nearly panting as he laid out on his back. He had his fingers pressed against his neck, feeling his pulse. His heart was racing so hard that Roman could see the veins pulsing eerily under the skin. A heavy spike of adrenaline, unprompted by anything tangible. “Bet she has at least a few people stashed away just to drain for easy cash.”

He spoke more, like this. Out of turn, about topics that were morbid and pessimistic, as though the thoughts were tumbling free of his mind without his permission. Roman never let his negative reactions to the more grim topics go beyond his ears flickering back; it wasn’t like he had the room or right to judge. They didn’t have very many reasons to be optimistic. Besides, he’d realized early on that the more worked up Roman got, the worse Virgil got in turn.

He still didn’t know the exact details of how Dren harvesting worked, and he was fairly sure he was better off for it. The very idea of setting an entire person aside for something like that was reprehensible, and therefore entirely possible for Marta.

“She said she… she gets rid of Humans that don’t break,” he replied after a moment, the words tumbling freely from him for once. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to turn a profit from it.”

He’d been trying to match the distant, dry tone Virgil had used, but he must have missed the mark, because the Human stiffened, and drew his hand back from Roman’s grasp to press it harshly against his eyes.

Belatedly, Roman realized what he’d just implied. Virgil was one of those Humans trying not to break, was at this very moment barely clinging to his composure, and he’d just been informed he was stuck between two horrific fates worse than death. “I didn’t mean—,”

“‘S alright,” Virgil interrupted, voice rough with exhaustion. “It’s not like I didn’t know. It makes me feel a little better, honestly.”

Roman stared at him, bewildered and still slightly aghast at his own stupidity, and Virgil shifted a few fingers to peer back with one eye.

“At least some Humans didn’t fall for it, y’know? At least some of them got out in their own way,” he continued, a thin thread of hopelessness tangled up in the words. “I was starting to wonder if the rest of space was right. If we were all just destined to be monsters with the right motivation.”

Roman should have been more alarmed at the implication that Virgil felt close to succumbing, that he was nearer than he’d ever wanted to be to a Human on the brink of falling under someone else’s blatantly malignant control, but all he could feel was a painful sympathy.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, and then, more firmly— “Humans aren’t monsters.”

Virgil’s eye widened slightly, gaze intent in a way that would have made Roman bristle in the past.

“They’re just people. They can do good or bad, just like anyone else. And sure, these guys are— they’re not doing good.” A pause, and Roman forced himself to meet Virgil’s stare. “But you have. You saved Patton, and you tried to save me, and you’re— you’re not a monster. You’re a good friend.”

Virgil buried his face back in his elbow and was quiet for a long moment.

“…You’re not so bad yourself.”

—

Roman hadn’t expected Marta to show up in person, not with how much she had delegated to her brainwashed underlings thus far, but arrive she did.

“Don’t fret, ghiva’al,” she crooned to him, passing by his cell with the lightest clink of her claws dragged against the bars. “I’m here to meet your little pet, not you.”

“Don’t—,” call me that, call him that, he wanted to snarl, but his throat closed up so sharply that it sounded a little like he’d choked.

Marta made her stilted croaking laugh, sparing him a glance that might have been pitying if it had bothered to reach her cold, empty eyes. “You always did struggle with words when emotional, didn’t you? Not nearly as well spoken as your mother. What a shame to see that hasn’t changed.”

There was a sharp clacking as an aggressive shudder ran through Roman’s scales, but he still couldn’t find his voice. Not even when Marta moved on to grip the bars of Virgil’s cell, her attention shifting to the Human where he stood warily in the center of the cage.

Roman had learned more than he’d ever thought he would about Human body language over the past few weeks. He knew from the slight sway to Virgil’s every shift that the Human was drained, likely barely keeping his feet.

Still, he was upright to face Marta, his height advantage allowing him to look down at her, and that was better than being crumpled on the ground at her feet. Little victories were all they had now, and they clung to each and every one.

Roux wasn’t there, Roman realized with a jolt, and the knowledge was enough to drag his mind into overdrive, a sudden double-edged hope springing to life in his chest.

Virgil must have already realized, because the way he held himself shifted into something taut and coiled, like he was preparing to lunge forward at the first opportunity, weak or not.

“Back of the cell,” Marta commanded, voice turned brisk and blunt in a way it hadn’t been with Roman. Like she was speaking to a beast instead of a person.

Virgil didn’t move, barely deigned to acknowledge the words beyond a brief flicker of his pupils upwards.

Marta waited, letting the silence stretch for a brief moment, and then clicked her teeth together in a mild reprimand. “The hard way, then.”

Despite her apparent annoyance, the words held a sort of anticipatory delight, and Roman felt the thick tar of dread slide under his scales as he watched her slide a small, triangular remote from a pouch at her side.

When she pressed the button in the center of it, she was looking at Roman.

It was Virgil who went rigid and fell.

Despite knowing it would undercut every lie he’d tried to sell about how little he cared, despite the fact that he was playing right into her claws, Roman couldn’t help but rush to the bars separating them, a shout of horror catching in his chest.

The Human hit the ground hard but stayed chillingly frozen, with every muscle locked into hard lines. He didn’t make a sound until Marta shifted her thumb away from the button, the motion somehow allowing him to finally go limp like a puppet with strings cut.

“Virgil!” Roman managed, though the sound of it was nearly lost in the sudden loudness of the Human’s gasping breaths. He hadn’t been breathing before, Roman realized with a terrified shock.

Whatever Marta was doing, it hadn’t countered Virgil’s natural stubbornness, and he climbed back to his feet with less staggering than Roman would have expected.

His gaze caught on the tremor to Virgil’s hands, the shuddering of his pulse, and he understood. Adrenaline.

The fight or flight instinct, Virgil had called it while talking with Patton. Roman had seen him choose to fight once, at their very first meeting, but even that couldn’t compare to the speed and ferocity of the way the Human lunged now.

Marta didn’t flinch back when he made loud, skull-rattling contact with the bars, but she didn’t blink, either, keeping her eyes firmly locked on Virgil as she pressed the button once more.

Instead of letting him drop, however, she reached out and seized him by the face, claws digging in on either cheek and holding tightly.

Virgil couldn’t so much as flinch away from the pain, and Roman slammed his arm against the door of his own cell with force, furious at his own helplessness.

Marta released the trigger again, and this time, every gasping inhale Virgil took was dosed with her haze. He tried to jerk back, but it was far faster acting straight from the source, and he had barely a moment before his expression dropped to something hollow and smooth, his desperate strength wavering and then extinguishing like a flame with nothing left to burn.

“Down,” Marta commanded, releasing her grip, and Virgil stood in place for a few long heartbeats before his legs collapsed underneath him.

She waved a hand absently down at him, still scattering her haze thick in the air. “There you go. It feels so much better when you listen, doesn’t it?”

Virgil twitched, a ripple of discontent crossing his face, but didn’t respond. He was shaking relentlessly now, his entire body trembling in a way that had Roman deeply concerned.

“You’re safe with me,” Marta lied, reaching down to glide the palm of her hand over the side of Virgil’s face. “You’re only safe with me. Everyone else wants to hurt you, but I’ll make the pain go away. Always do as I say, okay?”

Virgil didn’t move away, even as her rough skin caught on the wounds her claws had left only moments ago. His breathing grew wispier, slower, until he appeared almost calm, his eyes dazed and distant.

“Let’s try this again,” Marta straightened, and when her hand left Virgil’s cheek, he strained after it for a handful of seconds. “Back of the cell.”

Virgil climbed back to his feet, and Roman closed his eyes as the Human quietly began shuffling across his stretch of cell. He felt all of six winters old again, watching his aunt lead something fuzzy and helpless back and forth, closer and closer to the water’s edge.

“Good. Now, heel.” More shuffling, wordless as a corpse.

How long did he have before Virgil took his own plunge?

—

It took longer than before for Virgil to regain coherence, afterwards.

Roman knew the moment he’d come back to himself, because the soft grip around his hand had instantly vanished, yanked away so sharply that he’d barely registered the movement before Virgil was up on his feet and backing away.

“Virgil,” he tried, and the Human shook his head, the motion harsh, his hands lifting up to grip roughly at his hair in a distressed motion Roman had only ever caught glimpses of back on the ship.

He’d continued to retreat until he hit the furthest corner of the cell, where he slid down and curled in on himself, utterly unreceptive to any of Roman’s stilted calls. Roman caught his expression crumpling into a miserable grimace before he buried his face in his knees and hid that away too.

The silence stretched.

If there were some right words to say here, Roman couldn’t find them. Even if he did, he undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to say them. The helplessness sheared against his scales like rough sand, but how could he allow himself to wallow in it when he at least still had his mind, his existence still unarguably his own?

Freshly taunted by the knowledge that he didn’t have even that much, Virgil remained still and taut and quiet in the furthest reaches of his cell for what felt like a very long time.

When he did finally stir, Roman was appalled to see the faint streaks on his face where his tears had washed away the sweat and grime.

Patton had described Human weeping as arrhythmic vocalizations, much like Ampens, but with a physical manifestation as well. Roman hadn’t known that Humans could cry silently, like a pup gone still and quiet in the face of danger, with only the barest hitching of breath to indicate distress.

The expression on Virgil now was creased into firm lines, but it didn’t seem agonized or crumbling at the edges. Rather, as he climbed to his face, he seemed to hold the same bitter resolution Roman had seen in him a few times before: during the tail end of their first meeting, and after the fight with the raiders, both times when he’d thought he was about to be left alone again.

“Roman,” he started, and then worked his jaw tersely, once, twice. Rather than continue, he held out a hand, palm-up in silent offering.

Things had changed a lot over the course of their captivity, Roman reflected as he reached out and set his own hand in the Human’s grasp with barely a shred of hesitation. It felt like second nature by now, to reach out and cling on whenever his stomach was roiling with stress.

Virgil watched him for a moment longer, and then wrapped his fingers around Roman’s hand and drew closer, slowly pulling his arm up until he had positioned Roman’s claws just above the skin of his neck.

“This,” Virgil said, each word resolute, “is the best place to sever if you want to kill a Human quickly.”

The words took a dull, ringing moment to sink in, but once they did, Roman jerked back sharply. “Virgil, what—?”

For the first time, Virgil held on, keeping his hand pinned in place with ease even as he had to grip the bars with his other hand to remain upright. Roman could see the way the Human’s pulse fluttered under the skin, a heartbeat racing visibly exactly where Virgil had indicated.

“It’s important. You need to know,” Virgil insisted, and lifted their joined hands higher, to his temple. “Head wounds bleed a lot. Gashes up here are valuable because the blood runs down and drips into their eyes, which will work pretty well as a distraction—,”

“Stop it!” Roman demanded, yanking harder as his panic increased. “I’m not going to— stop talking like that! I don’t need to know how to hurt you!”

At the start of their voyage, Roman would have done just about anything for information like this, anything to feel safe on his own ship again. So why was he learning it only now, when each word and accompanying gesture made him feel ill and rotted down to the tip of his tail?

“It’s not— Roman, it’s not about me,” Virgil said, frustration seeping into his voice. He let Roman drag his hand away from his face, but still didn’t let go. “It’s about them.”

Roman wasn’t sure he believed that. “I don’t need to kill anyone. They’re brainwashed, this is Marta’s fault! I know the truth, now.”

Virgil shook his head, ghosted the fingers of his free hand over his implant scar with a distant, sickened expression. “It’s not that simple. I don’t want guilt to be the reason— Look. If it’s them or you, I want it to be you. I want you to make sure it’s you.”

And what if it's me or you? Roman thought, but the words lodged firmly in his chest until he could barely breathe around them.

“They all made their choice,” Virgil continued once it became clear that Roman wouldn’t respond. “They’ve kept making that choice, every time. You have to want to survive, too, okay?”

Mutely, Roman nodded, trying to ignore the creeping sense of horror. He pulled Virgil’s hand back towards himself, fumbled for speech for a long moment before finding the words and hoping they didn’t feel like a betrayal when spoken aloud.

“The underbelly,” he started, and Virgil’s expression— shut down. Every hint of body language went flat like stone, and just as unyielding.

“No.” The word was final, a sentence all its own, and Roman scowled mulishly.

“But—!”

“Roman.” Virgil lifted his other arm over so that he was clasping Roman’s hand between both of his own. “You’re the only one left, right? You told me that.”

The thought was still a wound-like pang in his chest, even after all this time. “Yes,” he admitted. “But, even still—,”

“No way. I don’t want to hear it, man. There’s nobody I would be willing to use it on, anyhow.” Virgil kept his gaze locked firmly on a point past Roman’s shoulder, but his shoulders were set, his voice steadfast.

There was no point arguing. Not now, when the both of them were one wrong move from collapse.

“Okay,” Roman finally said, and forced himself not to protest when Virgil reclaimed the position of lecturer. It was a struggle not to wince away with each gory anecdote, a full guide on the quickest ways to make the Human body stop functioning or even turn on itself.

“Gut wounds are slow to kill, but they can be painful enough to debilitate. There are vulnerable organs here, below the rib cage, and damage to them is difficult to treat without surgery if the wound is severe enough…”

Still, he held himself at attention, did his best to memorize every word.

If Virgil wouldn’t accept knowledge about Roman’s own vulnerabilities as a gift of equal exchange, Roman would simply have to treasure this information with the same dedication that he applied to the rest of their small crew.

After all, knowing all the individual weak points of a Human would make it that much easier for him to protect each and every single part of Virgil.

Virgil wasn’t going to die. Not here, and certainly not by Roman’s own claws. Not if Roman had anything to say about it.

#sanders sides fic #wibar #lmmr #let my mind reset #ts virgil #ts roman #humans are deathworlders #my writing #writing #sanders sides #space au

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cherrsnut · 8 months

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Hostage - Chapter 1

Finnick Odair x Healer!Reader

Summary: Up until now, your life has been a solitary one. Being the sole owner of an herbal shop, and apothecary to many fishermen who have been injured. Just when your life seemed to follow the routine you were so used to, your life turns a 360 when you’re suddenly taken away for the 67th Annual Hunger Games. This turn of events forces you to accept the idea the Grim Reaper is stalking close behind you, faster than you had hoped for.

Tags: Extremely Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Typical THG Violence, Forced Prostitution, Forced Lab Rat, Injury, Mental Health Deterioration, Psychological/Physical Torture, Death, Alcohol/Drug Consumption, Medical Malpractice, Fluff (bc they deserve it).

Word Count: 3.8k

Previous // Next

Chapter 1

Silence echoed throughout the walls of the streets, and for once it looked like the town had been abandoned, just like everybody had agreed to up and leave it in search of a better fate than what lay ahead of them, or perhaps all the citizens just simply vanished from sight. The breeze of the sea, just as icy as the ocean, seemed to catch on with the mournful mood of the alleyways. The tense atmosphere signaled the hidden mice to not even voice a squeak out of respect.

Even at the plaza, everyone was quiet, and their usually lively ambiance ceased to exist. Just by the sight of the ocean, you noticed just how the wind didn’t spare any mercy for all the attendees of the Reaping. Making this already melancholic ambiance much harder to ignore.

You looked around and followed behind the big agglomeration of people queuing up, making another step further into Panem’s hell. You pursed your lips together and gulped down nervously, patiently awaiting your death sentence.

There were people everywhere, too many people for it to be so quiet to your liking. Although the great majority were adolescents of the oceanic village, you had previously realized the older folks stood far behind you, their suppressed anxiety over their children’s safety due to the men in white, the Peacekeepers, stance in front of them. Their threatening military pattern removed any type of confidence of any caregiver to sneak in and take their child away without facing heavy repercussions. Stationed there to install and make the proceedings of the Hunger Games go as smoothly as possible from outside the Capitol.

The sea of heads that appeared in front of you made the stage barely visible, but you came across what looked like a Peacekeeper setting up a camera, of course, the Reaping was to be live-streamed. Just on top of a platform and above the stage, you were sure the crystal lenses would take up the view of all the adolescents present.

“Everything will be alright” You turned to look beside you, surprised to find a voice breaking the quietness you were starting to getting used to and assume it would prevail for the rest of the annual event. At least before the cries of children as they break their realization of being chosen, or the burning point of a mother’s distress breaks out in a horrible scream.

You assumed it was a pair of siblings, taking notice of the facial traits to be almost identical. Very blonde locks, both wearing the same warm coffee color eyes with freckles of the same hue spotted all other cheeks. And while they represented themselves in the body of the other gender, you found the boy to look somewhere about your age, his sister was a head smaller than him, and you thought it was plausible she just came of age for the nauseating event.

“I promise” he made an oath to his sister, interlocking his finger with hers. She breathed heavily, the limit of her sanity crossing over a soon-to-be panic attack. She tried to fixate her eyes on him, fighting off a barrier to gain herself back together, a battle she looked like she was going to lose. Her brother, which you finally recalled his name to be Philip, crouched down and enveloped her in his arms. An arm protectively around her back, while the other moved around her head in an attempt to massage it to calm her down.

Even in his arms, the little girl was visibly trembling, probably both from the fear and anxiety, that were purging an acidic bile up to her taste glands. The little girl’s forehead pressed on her brother's chest, finding comfort in his protective body.

“Just breathe deeply, ‘kay?” he reassured. His hard fingers were full of little lines of scars, some of which you could recall treating at the herbal shop, and crept up to hold her face. Philip always found himself surrounded by District’s 4 aquaculture, and it was bound to happen after long shifts handling the wires of the nets to eventually cause multiple physical damages.

Philip removed himself from the little girl and looked at her features. She struggled to do so, every time she tried she’d be under attack from another uncontrollable shaking. She could only grab onto his shirt, the shaking becoming increasingly harder with each passing second. The hand that was used to the hard labor of the sea, wrapped itself on top of his sister’s hand, much bigger in comparison. The warmth of their bond calmed her down just slightly, and he went to kiss her forehead affectionately.

“I’m here” his whisper was carried by the breeze that brushed her ear, which tickled her slightly. Upon noticing your heavy stare on them, Philip looked over to you. Both of your eyes interlock with each other. You tried to give him an encouraging smile, but the heavy situation still weighed you down, and your smile came across as a sad one. One that showed pity and understanding toward his sister.

He gave you a knowing look, before his eyes went to his sister, and suffocated further in his embrace to help her to get back to the queue. “I’m here” he repeated.

The stern voice of a woman, announcing a “next” brought you back to reality. You’d forgotten just how the line always moved rather fast, especially so when you had a tendency to drown yourself in self-pity. You were always alone while queuing up to sign in, and never had people you called friends. But you were content with the short company clients or injured patients gave you, just like Edna’s until she died. But you did wonder how it would feel in this moment to be in the company of another person, would you cry together? Maybe hug each other? Or maybe just stay silent unable to utter anything that wasn’t bitter. But this year you felt differently, you wished for the little girl’s safety just like your own.

You gave your hand to the Peacekeeper just as you told her your name, and she took it with the rubber texture of the black-gloved hand of hers. The way she held it was rather rough, but you understood it as wanting to keep you completely still for the pinch in your finger and not mess it up. The end of the buzzing sound coming from the long mechanism suggested the dna withdrawal was finished, accompanied by the slight pain of the tiny nick, so small you’d never consider it an injury.

The Peacemaker guided your finger, a blood drop visible forming, and pressed it on top of the inky empty box drawn on a piece of paper. Your name was attached next to it, with your general information written in smaller letters below it. You assumed the pieces of paper that were attached just like a book, were the enlistment of the possible Tributes of your District. But then again, you didn’t care enough and let that thought drift away just as fast as it came.

Another mechanism, this one much larger and formed just like a box had been stepped and decided to stay in that flat shape. A laser came from the bottom, scanning the blood accompanied by the noisy sounds of mechanical beepings. When it was all set, the Peacemaker simply bid you farewell and called for the child behind you.

You left defeated, another step closer to the selection process. The idea of you being chosen terrified you, and you could feel the anxiety taking hold of your bones. You prayed again in self-pity. Edna always mentioned the idea of sirens existing, and while you never truly believed in it, you prayed for them to listen to you. Every time, at the Reaping, for the past four years you prayed for them.

With an exasperated sigh flying out, you walked around the plaza trying to find a place to stand by and wait for your trial. That was until a hand tapped your shoulder and a raspy voice called out your name. You turned, even more surprised to find Philip along with his sister, both holding hands.

You looked at the boy standing in front of you, expectant as to why he had called you. He gave a quick glance to the little blonde beside him before he spoke.

“Hey, umm, you mind taking Emi with you?” your eyes trailed off to the girl, finally being able to give her face a name. Emi looked at the floor, a mortifying expression coming across her face.

“It’s just-” he tried to continue his explanation.

“Sure” you smiled at the girl gripping onto dear life to her brother. You took out your hand for her, and with unsettlement pumping over her brain, she brushed her finger across yours.

“So, Emi is your name” The statement oddly sounded like a question, but you wanted to make her feel more comfortable even in this terrible situation. To communicate with her, and make her see you as someone she could trust momentarily before she would hopefully turn back with her brother.

Her crystal eyes moved up to you and murmured an mhm before walking indecisively toward you. She looked at the ground when you told her your name, but you couldn’t feel any type of annoyance by it, not when her hands were trembling exaggeratedly. So you squeezed hers lightly in an attempt to make her feel more at ease in your presence.

Philp sighed and you noticed the heavy burden that lifted off of him. He gave you a small smile, the one he hadn’t reciprocated before.

“Thank you” his eyes shone, which only suggested to you the tears he wanted to pour out in that moment. You empathized with him, he probably didn’t have much time to take in the Reaping for himself, and rather give away his attention to his sister who needed him to be strong in her stead. A thought appeared one which you respected and showed sympathy for the mental work they put in for the sake of the younger family members.

“Don’t mention it” you smiled with him. You rolled your eyes at the girl holding your hand, and with the same smile, you muttered. “Let’s go Cupcake”

“Hello Cuties” Sing sang the woman on stage. Her peculiar fashion style nationally known for the Capital’s trends flied around with her sparkling personality. With the color theme of purple pink and pale yellow, shades lighter of the sunflower petals, she wore a design that resembled a kimono. The notable way how the coat of the fabric was placed on top of the other to keep it in a steady place, and with the addition of the belt, covering the whole of the waist until just below her chest, as a means to keep the clothing stuck and not untie itself. The completely yellow obi, name of the kimono belts, was adorned with some sort of lacing at the top and bottom of purplish-dyed sheep wool, with the addition of a pink bow wrapped around the obi.

The star of the fashion design was the sleeves. With a hole showing the shoulders and a few inches down the arm, the rest was covered in the beautiful colors of the spring. With many odd shapes and colors on the fabric. Which later opened up its sleeves up to three feet long. It gave off the impression of wings when the arms were pulled up. The rest seemed to just be decorations around her figure, from a fabric choker of purple as well as the striking head ornaments of the same color scheme presented.

Her voice was too optimistic for your liking, and the singing tunes brought up were as distasteful as her color choice.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be in your favor” The District 4 escort celebrated baring her teeth out with that pink tint across her lips, the same tint that decorates her eye shadow.

“But before we begin, The Capitol has brought us a special film for us” she again songed, and you were already starting to be filled with the irritation of her voice.

Emi was still holding your hand. She had kept a close distance from you, practically stuck to your form from the moment we were placed here. She tugged onto your long skirt, and you looked down to find her somber eyes looking up at you. Although you agreed to stay by her side, her added melancholy was starting to affect your already distressed mood, and even though you tried to calm her down she seemed focused on her overwhelmed state.

You smiled at her, with the film starting in ahead of you.

“War. Terrible war” You rolled your eyes up while making a hand movement in a sign to poke fun at President Snow’s repeated speech. Your mock seemed to finally crack a little smile on the little girl, and you were pleased to see her relax a tiny bit.

The film carried on, and your attention span had been but all gone. The Hunger Games were a devastating reality, that had already taken hundreds of children away. You couldn’t see the point of this little speech anymore, and right before the selection process at that. And it seemed Snow was trying to ridicule the Distrct’s anxiety. It exhausted you to no end to have to listen to the same words and the same images, and it got you wondering just why it had to be the same recycled film every single year.

You thought of Emi again. The very same thought appeared every single year, just why were we taking the consequences of a revolution none of us partook in? The only person that you knew who was alive from when the Revolution was still afloat was Edna, and she still lamented that she was just a child when it ended, and luckily enough she never got chosen as Tribute. And that thought only led to helplessness because even though it wasn’t in the least bit fair, there was nothing you nor anyone who would be able to do anything about it.

“The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness” It was the voice of a pragmatic leader giving a speech, sprinkled with sentimental music that made your stomach stir uncomfortably. The crease in your eyebrow knitting as you tried to forget the nauseating feeling from inside you, represented exactly in your self turmoil, you were disgusted.

You gulped down hard as the film finally ended. You gave Emi a quick squeeze to comfort yourself. She only gave you a pointed glance before directing her attention to the colorful escort on the stage.

“Alrighty. Now the time has come for us to select one courageous young man and woman” she informed, as you bit back your tongue to correct her misuse of words of man and woman for children.

“For the honor of representing District 4 in the 67th Annual Hunger Games” she continued. She then started walking over the large crystal sphere. Inside laid the names of all the girls that had been forced to sign in, inside a folded piece of paper. “Ladies first” she giggled further.

Her hand moved around the pieces of paper messily scattered around the sphere before choosing one. She quickly picked it up to her eye level, a sneaky smile appearing on her face.

You let out a breath, you had done your best to try and calm your nerves. The anxiety was way past the boiling point, and you swore your legs felt drunk.

The escort walks back to the microphone, and the only thing missing for her to further mock your emotions was to make a little dance around the platform, kick up some moves, or simply jump in excitement.

She opened the piece of paper. Your heart beating fast in the back of your throat, as another wave of anxiety filled every single pore in your skin. Her long nails made it difficult for her to open it, and as time passed on, you could feel yourself growing insane. You internally cursed at the escort, every cell in your body screaming at her to just finally read it. And before you knew it she called out a name, your name.

Everything just stopped in you, and if it weren’t because you’d be a dead corpse from organ malfunction, you could’ve sworn your heart just stopped. Your eyes were locked on the colorful woman, but you weren’t looking at her. You were staring into space, you were trying to assimilate the situation you just got yourself involved. But you couldn’t, there was something in you, and that something didn’t connect the wires that you were going to die sooner than you hoped for. The idea of being picked for the annual event was always at the back of your mind, what would be your reaction? You thought that rationally, you’d be upset, maybe crying as well, or perhaps straight screaming and begging to do a re-drawl.

But you weren’t, you were simply still. The look of every girl that had known you looking at you, and it wasn’t melancholy that invaded their intense gaze, but rather they were grateful they weren’t the ones chosen. As hypocritical as it made you, you were mad at them. Your internal anger was justified in your eyes, maybe because you needed someone or something to be mad at. But no matter how irritated you were, you’d done the same in their stead the previous three years you had attended the Reaping.

With another exhale, you came to yourself. You needed to get on the stage. You walked out to the corridor, but barely made a step when Emi tugged back on your fingers. Her eyes were scanning your facial expression. And the way she spoke your name suggested to you, she was beyond her shocked stage.

You gulped another chunk of saliva and got to your knees. You smiled at her, as brightly as you could force it out. And it occurred to you to close your eyes, because you knew you couldn’t force a reassuring look without the fear lurking behind it.

The military steps of the Peacekeepers echoed within every corner of your body so quickly and in a rushed matter. You kissed her forehead, as gentle as a flying feather, to put her at ease.

“I’ll be fine, Cupcake,” you told her as confident as possible, trying not to let the fear accumulated in you spill over the beautiful young girl. And so you stood up, another quick smile flashing over your face before walking the hall that would send you straight to a living Hell. You kept muttering those words “I’ll be fine” as if you wanted to console yourself unknowingly. For now, if lying to yourself is what kept you sane enough to act normally, even suspiciously so, you’d go for it. And once the situation avalanched over your entity, you could collapse and lament for yourself on your own.

You held your head high while walking, your form an empty shell void of any emotions. The very pink hue colored on the escort’s face became clearer with each step, she smiled brightly at you. The wrinkles shown at the corner of her eyes signal of her enjoyment.

“Wonderful! We have our female Tribute for District 4!” playfully expressed the escort, looking straight at your eyes. You walked up the stairs, with Peacekeepers in tow behind you.

The escort held up a hand to you, helping you get up faster, so she could back to her selecting process, although this time it would be a boy. All in her chillingly joyful manner.

Without hesitation, she placed the mic in front of you.

“So, dear, tell me, was that your sister?” she asked you, although it seemed she was asking on behalf of the whole Capitol.

“No…” your voice was weak, the intimidating audience just looked up at you which worsened your nauseating bitter taste. The escort eyed you, waiting for any further explanation.

“She’s my… friend” Her impatience only made your voice quieter, which she must have been content that your husky and throaty tone was speaking through the loud microphone.

The sudden realization came crashing now. Seeing the look of pitied people just below you, wishing you luck before you left for the Capitol, filled the shining of water in your sclera and, you hand was lightly shaking beside your thigh.

“Everyone, please! A round of applause for our lovely Tribute!” she called your name again. Her clapping was soon stopped at the awkwardness that she was the only one celebrating this. You breathed in and out heavy air.

“And now, for the gentlemen” announced the woman standing beside you. Of course, she was trying to salvage the situation. You looked at everyone, and they were all looking back at you. You were lucky enough to connect eyes with Philip, and while you never considered him to be a friend, you were happy to see a familiar face. He was the only one to provide you with that comfort. He looked like he wanted to say something through his eyes, and you responded with a tear swimming down your cheek, and following its path further down your neck.

“Vito Rosechaser” was called. The look of another adolescent, about your age or older roamed around his fellow friends, that gave him a sad look. He opened his mouth, surprised, and as the situation sunk deep into him, he walked down the hall, again with the Peacekeepers around him like frustrating flies.

Just then you’d taken in his appearance, from afar his eyes seemed dark just like his hair. Big build and muscles that suggested he’d worked hard in his life, and you lamented that he propably didn’t deserve this.

You looked at Vito at the end of the stairs, and his eyes briefly grazed yours before he stopped to look at the public. The mic was stolen from you.

“And finally” the hyper tone echoed throughout the plaza, loud enough to quiet down the crashing waves of the beach nearby. The breeze cold as snow felt like it had punctured your veins, and that icy hurt traveled through your body.

“Our Tributes from District 4” her white teeth never failed to show at the camera.

“Come on you two, shake hands” The oddly dressed woman grabbed onto the hems of your and Vito’s shirts, encouraging you two to do the action and let it be over. She stepped back, and the both of you looked at each other before gripping both of your hands.

“Happy Hunger Games!” she sang happily. It echoed in every single rib, deep inside your abdomen. A voice you’d never forget, you were sure of that. Even long after the Games, if you’d even be able to survive, you’d be waking up with this chilling lullaby she was singing.

“And remember, may the odds be ever in your favor”

Previous // Next

#finnick #thg finnick #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick x you #the hunger games #thg #thg x you #thg fanfiction #thg x reader

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tallyanimatez · 1 year

Text

A twisted wonderland mafia au

Authors note: So I had barely any ideas to write for the current aus I have, and since I've seen so many mafia aus in twisted wonderland, might as well join the party since I'm a sucker for these types of aus. Sorry for the lack of posting for who knows how long :D

1. A fresh start

Tonight was as cold as usual, the strong winds blowing at the curtains which are threatening to fall at any moment didn't make you flinch that much. After all, there was nothing to keep you warm and nothing you could use to shelter your self. All you could smell was the smell of rotting food, the stench of animal feces, and a tingling iron smell...

What a terrible end isn't it?

But you couldn't bother to go and poke your head into the "commotion" near your dwelling, you are exhausted, starved and thirsty. Your body would not dare to move an inch as if it would shatter against the wind, so you caved into the tiredness and sat there, curled up into a defensive state, to hope for the best that those hooligans will march off to wherever they want after they're done with their business.

You could also nip some of the cash from the dead body if they haven't taken them the next morning, it would be nice to have a decent meal-

"It seems we have another guest near our disposal area." To what you made out was a word from a man said. If they're going to kill off all the witnesses, it better be a painless death.

All of a sudden, you felt a hand on your head, gently patting you as if you were a dog.

"Oh look what I found, a pup in the alley, albeit their looks need more refining."

You groaned, smacking the hand that patted your head. What you don't need now is an empty compliment from a murderer, maybe you should have ran away if they were going to react like this.

"A little Imp? It's been a while since I've last seen them when I worked at a school, I thought nowadays these imps would be in human trafficking."

Okay. You're very annoyed.

Looking up with an unamused face, you probably saw a man who dressed like a super star with his furcoat and the other with skeleton looking features on their skin. You don't know the details fully with your eyes being blurry from all those days on the street.

"Well, since I am such a gracious man, what if we make a deal, little child?" Another voice chimed in

You perked at those words, a deal? You know adults hardly keep their promises, but would a mafia not? It's worth a shot to get yourself out of this wretched place.

"I'll hear you out, Sir."

-·--------------------·-

"Pl-ease! Spare me! I'm sorry that I betrayed Sir Crowley, I-I needed to pro-otect my family fro-"

BANG. The man that was on his knees, trembling and begging for mercy now has a big bullet hole in his forehead. You aren't the type of person who takes in joy from torturing people, but seeing people begging for their life seems ironic to you. Nobody would spare a child who stole food even if they cried for forgiveness.

You took out a note to see what is next on your to-do list.

"Go back and report to Sir pain in the butt, looks like I just need to report back to him that I've dealt with the traitor that I'll get my next gig." You yawned, stretching your hands out. You've been working overtime lately just to earn a sufficient amount to feed yourself, your cat and pay for rent. The image of Grim giving you attitude just because you come home late for his dinner bloomed a smile on your face, an expression that nobody saw, nobody alive saw at least.

Rrrriinnngg Rrrrrinnggggg.

You wasted no time and answered the call, only to receive another news.

"What did you just say Mister Oh so generous Dire Crowley?"

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst au #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x you #dire crowley #divus crewel #twst crowley #twst divus #twst sam #twst staff

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the-bloody-sadist · 4 months

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Hi, it's been a while - I haven't looked at anything bsd related in a while (besides just reading the last chapter of the sinner epilogue) because it's not one of my current fixations, but I wondered if I could hear more from you about emotions? Recently my brain has been rotten by a love of computers and robots and maths and physics and I have been obsessively consuming all versions of I have no mouth and I must scream (have you heard of it? If not, ihnmaims is a short sci-fi story written by Harlan Ellison about an AI, AM, torturing the last 5 humans). The relationship between Ted and AM is fascinating to me, especially in terms of what 'emotions' AM feels towards him, and it reminded me of something that I think you wrote about how intertwined hate and love are - how hate is to care enough about a person to want their suffering and pain (I'm not entirely sure if that was you, forgive me if I'm wrong-). I'll spare you my ramblings about the story itself unless you are interested in hearing more, but I am very curious about your perspective on a being who was created for war, gained sentience and immense power and intelligence but will never be free, will never belong, will never play Mozart on the ivory keys of a fortepiano... a being who cannot feel in a way we can conceive but is driven by hatred, who craves humanity or release yet cannot die, who has no mouth but must scream.

There is a point where AM invades Ted's mind, ramming The Hate Monologue in the form of a steel pillar into his mind - some of the lines in this section make me go a little bit feral - "AM touched me in every way I had ever been touched, and devised new ways, at his leisure, there inside my mind."

It's incredibly intrusive, and for Ted there is no escape from AM - it's physical machinery covers the entire planet and the humans live within it, it's 'belly slaves'. As AM cannot die it keeps them alive, pretty much immortal (but not indestructible) and in the end, Ted too has no mouth though he must scream.

It's a fascinating mix of hatred, envy, deification, love (?), hope, resignation, invasion, co-dependence, wires and viscera that can never mix or understand each other but are the same in every way.

Apologies for the rambling infodump (especially if you have already read it/have absolutely no interest in this sort of thing - this isn't a rec, just my putrefied brain matter leaking into your ask box), I should really be asleep right now so I would not be surprised if this is entirely incomprehensible.... I just want to study them under an electron microscope.... It's a very grim story, with a powerful sense of the indomitable human spirit but very grim nonetheless. The hyperfixation is hyperfixating....

Anyway I should shut up, and I would love to hear your thoughts (I don't even know what I was intending this ask to be .. I can't remember now but I don't think it was .. this..) and thank you for putting up with this mess of a message- hope you have a lovely day/night!

- 🪼

P.S. oh yes! I loved the last chapter of sinner's epilogue- your writing never fails pluck my heartstrings like.. a very strange surgeon (?)(I'm so sorry I am very tired)(I have no brain and I must sleep...) I adore how you write Fyodor's experience of emotion and (as always) Dazai's fear and panic-

Okay listen, I don't plan to get into this story (I've watched essay videos on it so I do know about it, at least), but I respect how much time you took describing this to me in my asks box, so I'm putting it out for anyone else who might find it cool!

Despite my love for psychological trauma, some stories are a certain flavor that I know I shouldn't get into, and IHNMAIMS belongs in that category. Pretty sure if I read it it'll haunt me for the rest of my life and I'll have to deal with a big depressive episode over it for the weeks after, WHICH IS NEVER FUN.

This and other reasons are why I never read A Little Life, and then I learned that I dodged a bullet by putting the book down on the first instance of Jude's cutting episodes, BECAUSE OH MY GOD DUDE THAT STORY DID NOT HANDLE IT THE WAY I NEEDED IT TO BE HANDLED AND I COULD SMELL WHERE THE STORY WAS GONNA GO WITH IT AND TAPPED OUT. I won't get into the frustration of A Little Life but IHNMAIMS felt like it would be that same level of too much grim, not enough plot?? for me. Does that make sense? Too much bad happening just feels like dragging myself through mud without reason, making myself miserable by enduring hours of hurt-no-comfort LMAO

Regardless, thanks for talking to me about it! I knew most of the details of the story, but it was entertaining to read your description of it--I'm glad you find such interest in the story!

ALSO THANKS FOR THE COMPLIMENTS ON THE NEWEST SINNER EPILOGUE, I'M ACTUALLY WRITING YET ANOTHER ONE CURRENTLY...AHAHA....THEY NEVER STOP....we'll see how long it takes me since my writing has been out of touch with me for a while, but fingers crossed! <3

#sadist’s answered asks #sinner fanfic #ihnmaims

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artsy-hobbitses · 1 year

Note

Besides Ratchet, Mirage and Hound, have any of the other Autobots experienced physical/psychological torture? And if so, how did it effect them?

Sure! The ENTIRETY of the Dinobots, for one! They were lab-mutated and forced to be Proteus’ ‘attack dogs’, so they’re naturally extremely mistrustful of any scientists (it takes a long time before they let Wheeljack touch them), do NOT like to be handled/restrained (Swoop has panic attacks, Sludge has VERY DESTRUCTIVE panic attacks given his size and strength, Grim/Slag/Snarl react with judicious, instinctive violence). Grimlock sometimes disassociates, Swoop has shut-down episodes of PTSD, and Sludge is, even on a day-to-day basis, mentally gone compared with how he used to be/has been reduced to a simpleton.

It’s why Ratchet agrees to teach Swoop to become a ‘Medicine Man’, to make things more comfortable for them and so they can receive care from someone who is part of them.

There’s also Bumblebee, who came from a very abusive household (and has the burn scars to show for it/healed fractures on his x-rays) and still wakes up hyperviligant some mornings remembering that yeah, my sperm donor’s last words before I left were for me to run because he was gonna kill me if he ever caught me. He's always on edge around people with loud voices/who have a tendency to yell, and he's constantly dancing between fight or flight and oftentime there is NO middle ground. He either thrashes everyone on the battlefield or he fucking runs for miles when he has no outlet and is reminded that his abuser is still very much alive and one day, that man will find him again.

Prowl is the Poster Child for psychological torture--he just genuinely cannot remember a lot of it because Trepan was working on him (He's the only one on both sides who HAS had mnemosurgery done on him several times) any time he showed signs of rebellion as a youth. His memory is fractured/in pieces and he's calm/stoic because he's well-aware he's terrible at emotional regulation otherwise. He used to break down in private though, in his early days of having Little!Springer around because it's like, he used to be like this, why can't he remember any of it, why did Methosulas DO THIS he didn't have agency, and now he clearly doesn't even have ownership over his own DNA, what is he really if not fucking SPARE PARTS at the end of the day how is he even a person at this point (Jazz has to help him out of this state a few times)

#inbox #tw child abuse #tw experimentation #tw ptsd #tw dehumanisation #save for later

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headingalaxys-spicy · 2 years

Note

Say the omega rebellion is successful and the government collapses. What would the yandere alphas do? Who would try to escape? Who would try to fight back? Who would fail?

Alright as you try to drown out the screams and panic in the background I’m here to give you a quick breakdown of the colossal calamity. Because holy butter. Do omegas have a lot of pent up anger. And all of you know what happens when something has been pent up for far too long.

Fucking Ka-BOOM!

Yandere Alpha’s - Omega’s toppling them will break some of their goddamn brains. Which makes it easier for more of them to be a part of the slaughter. By enhanced scythes that make murder almost effortless. It just takes one swing! *cue Grim from Billy and Mandy-esque laughter*

Others will be fighting back and trying to subdue some of the hoards that have spawned from seemingly nowhere. It’s as if there was an entire nation of Omega’s that were living in hiding and only just now had the proper leadership to overthrow the repressive dictators. The hellish scenes of those who are in their rank, that does not cease nor subside will eventually wear those with mightiest of mettle. Will succumb to the hordes.

Some will beg and plead to not be killed.

Others will simply sit in their leather chairs and have a stiff drink as death walks through their doors armed with Molotov Cocktails.

Fleeing for an Alpha isn’t too possible since most of the good hiding places are still occupied by those who were ostracized by them in the first place.

“Sucks when the shoe is on the other foot doesn't it?” A frying pan crashing into a figure could be heard from miles away.

Only a small population of docile Alpha’s that were known to be kind to those in the lower classifications will be spared.

America, Germany, and Russia would be the Alpha’s that fight to their deaths.

England and China were prepared for this. They escape. England with his magical powers. But he now has to live in his magical dimension probably permanently. China, he’s wise and was not here for the bullshit. He built an entire secret underground palace where he’ll live out the rest of his days with his staff and his omega love.

Canada dude just had a lot of favor with the Omega’s. He was kind to them. Mattie boy gets to watch the collapse of life as he once knew it while watching it on his HD TV. He’s chilling while he eats a pile of maple pancakes and enjoying the absence of his annoying twin.

Beta’s - A lot of them are in awe of how feral Omegas are. They’re impressed, terrified, and lending a hand to the rebellion. Although it took a reasonable amount of discussion and discourse to get through to some sizable groups of them.

After the war has started a lot of them will either be stationed in the city facilitating medical, transport, and communications amidst the blood, debris, & political dissonance. They’re the ones behind the larger operation and do their best to seek out Alpha’s with enhanced technology that can look at a person's gene code. Since some Alpha’s have tried to hide amongst the Omega’s and pretend that they were on their side for the entire time.

The ones who fail in this group are the ones who firmly believed in the Alpha Controlled Government, those who ratted people out, blackmailed, etc will be the ones who get interrogated for information, tortured, and imprisoned.

France- Going to be inebriated though all of this. The rebellion has broke his brain. He’ll be found at the end of the war somewhere with an empty red wine bottle facedown on the concrete with sparkles still around him. (He’s that fabulous.)

Italy- With his brother and Spain, mass producing white flags, annnnnnnnd trying his best not to flood his apartment.

Spain- Considering drinking but doesn’t want to freak out Italy.

Romano- Stress drinking and chowing down on his third bowl of pasta.

Omega’s - Some of them are scared and excited out of their mind. Only about 20% of them would be unwilling to get violent in the uprising. However, that did not mean that they were going to be useless. Since a great deal of them are nurses, cooks, and other blue collar jobs that made life for the Alpha’s easy. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean that all Omega’s dedicated themselves to the cause.

#yandere hetalia #hws america #hws germany #hetalia headcanons #headingalaxys spicy #hetalia au #hetalia fandom #hetalia #headingalaxys writes stuff #hws #alfred f jones #hetalia fanfiction writer #hetalia imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere x reader #hetalia omegaverse

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algandarsplaguepositive · 1 year

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“Eternity”

A/N: I’ve long wondered what happened after the ending of the nonhuman path. What was Zane’s fate? Something tells me he succumbed to algandars despite the world supposedly being reset but what if the reset actually cured his algandars? I imagine he would have mixed feelings about it. Relieved that he was spared yet saddened that his brother wasn’t so lucky. Not to mention the fact that one day the humans may return while Nogueira is gone forever.

---

A full year has gone by. A full year since the war ended, since our victory... A full year since you passed away. As I watched that beam of light illuminate the sky, I was filled with delight knowing that the humans would be gone, that they could no longer torment us, and that your death would finally be avenged. But for some reason... that joy was short-lived. As the light faded, darkness fell and the night sky returned, the warm feeling of accomplishment and catharsis left me and soon my body felt cold—cold with the grim realisation that, although I had gotten exactly as I wished, none of this would ever bring you back.

You're dead, gone forever, consumed by algandars--and the itching moss creeping along my skin guaranteed that I would soon meet a similar fate. My joy turned back into sorrow. My laughter faded into tears. On the one hand, I feared algandars more than anything but on the other hand, deep down, a part of me accepted and welcomed the embrace of death. I was beginning to understand how you were feeling as you neared the end of your own life.

To my surprise, however, the infection on my body healed gradually over the course of the next couple of weeks and within a month, the moss was completely gone. I knew it must have been a result of balance being restored to the world and the guardians giving me a second chance but it felt like a miracle. Although, much like with my victory, there was a bittersweetness.

Life has practically returned to normal for us fairy creatures as we no longer have to worry about the threat of humans. I have returned to the City of Flowers to resume my duties as leader. The green orcs and blood orcs have put aside their differences since the end of the war and are living somewhat peacefully for once in a long while. The goblins are the same as usual--lazy and useless but keeping to themselves. With the humans no longer present, the dwarves have reclaimed Earth Valley once more.

And of course, the dark elves, which I'm sure you're the most concerned about, have been doing well for themselves. They have since appointed Clarence as their new leader, although I will still check in with him from time-to-time as you did with me when I became a leader. I'm happy to say that he's been settling into the role with ease. It seems you mentored him well.

While peace and balance has been restored to Tottaus and my life has been spared, there still remains an emptiness within me. I visit your grave as often as I can, though I admit it brings me sadness to do so. This second chance at life has given me a lot to contemplate about the road ahead and how I will walk it without you by my side. It doesn't seem fair. Why was I given another chance but you weren't? I am once again immortal and shall live on forever and you are destined to be nothing more than a rotting corpse in your cocoon, never to see the light of day again. In a way, it's a torture... because I know that now I will be forced to live out eternity without my brother.

#radiata stories #zane's writing

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cuttoothed · 3 years

Text

A grim and cosmic soufflé

In one of the S4 Q&A episodes, Jonny said, of TMA becoming more political/less escapist:

“The longer you go, the more you are going to find yourself saying something. And the real question is, how long before you try to be more aware of what it is you're saying?”

I would love to understand what it is he was trying to say with this finale, and whether it’s truly as hopeless a message as it seems to me.

Look, I’ll be honest: I never cared too much what happened to the other worlds in the cosmic trolly problem of the final few episodes. This is fiction, and I chose to invest myself in the characters and world we had for five seasons, rather than worry about other fictional worlds we would never see. I’m also not big on utilitarianism, so the idea of “let’s torture this whole world to death as quickly as possible to spare countless other worlds from lingering harm” didn’t convince me. So I’m not unhappy that the Web got its way, necessarily.

I’m also not against the concept of “everything the characters have done has played into the schemes of an unfathomable intelligence and it turns out there was never any way to win.” That’s good old fashioned cosmic horror, of which I am a big fan.

The issue, for me, began where TMA stopped being primarily escapist cosmic horror, and started leaning into the Fears as a metaphor for real world systems of control and oppression. The analogy has not been even a little bit subtle throughout season five, to the extent that a lot of fandom discussion sees them through that lens first and foremost (“fear capitalism”). We had people trapped in the system and being exploited, avatars complicit in the system out of cruelty or fear of being victimized themselves, Georgie realizing that opting out of the system doesn’t help, etc. etc.

The problem with this weighty analogy, though, is that it demands a subversion of the system, a glimmer of hope for the oppressed, or else it becomes unbearably bleak.

Compare with Jonny Sims’ book ‘Thirteen Storeys’, which is even more blunt with its analogies than TMA is. It’s a fun read, with the protagonists of each chapter victimized by and/or complicit in oppressive systems to varying extents, and it ends (SPOILERS FOR THIRTEEN STOREYS) with these people banding together to fight back against the embodiment-of-capitalism antagonist in an incredibly unsubtle but wonderfully cathartic “Eat The Rich” scene. They don’t smash the system, they still live in an unjust, oppressive world, and in the end we’re left with a picture of wounded, traumatized survivors. But their victory over a symbol of oppression is meaningful and frees them in both a literal and metaphorical sense.

By contrast, in TMA the ending tells us that the system always wins. Everything the characters do plays into the Web’s plan. Jon finds a way to destroy the system from the inside (leveraging his power to kill the world), but his act of rebellion is meaningless, because the system knew what you were going to do, silly, and it is already leveraging your emotional connection to the person you love most to keep you in line.

Yes, the TMA world is saved, the Fears pack up their factory farms and move on, but that only happened because the Web wanted it to. Because giving up your foothold in one world for access to possibly infinite others is just good, capitalist business sense. The characters never get a meaningful victory, or even the hope that the system has some vulnerability. They just get lucky.

The only catharsis Jon gets after a lifetime of being used by the system is killing Jonah. Which is satisfying on a completely different axis (an abused person getting to strike back at their abuser) but doesn’t impact the Web’s plans or give him any agency against the system that used him.

With the “fear capitalism” metaphor so strongly to the forefront by season five, what originally could have been a spine-shivering revelation that a vast, cosmic intelligence has outplayed the characters at every turn, and the survivors are fortunate that it has turned its attention elsewhere, instead becomes a fable about how it’s impossible to make even the slightest dent in an oppressive system, and how every choice you make, regardless of how well-intentioned, makes you complicit in your own oppression. That, to me, is unfathomably bleak. A grim soufflé indeed.

#the magnus archives #tma spoilers #tma 200 #tma negative #tma meta #tma

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bruhstories · 3 years

Text

Vogel und Jäger

- PART TWO

Summary: After waking up, you realise the realities of the world you've been pulled into. Pairing: Zeke Jaeger x Fem!Reader (mafia AU) Warnings & Content: stabbing, language, angst Word Count: 1.7 k

A/N: make sure to read part one, otherwise this won't make any sense xD there's still a bit of build up going on, but starting with part three we'll be getting some action

You woke up from a restless sleep, crumbs of mascara stuck to your face. God, you needed a shower and a toilet immediately. The club was dead empty from the view upstairs, only a few people cleaning the tables and moping the floor. You stretched your arms and walked to the door, surprised it wasn't locked.

"Ah, miss Y/L/N, good morning! I hope you had a pleasant sleep." Someone startled you and you cleared your voice.

"Hi, who are you?"

"Oh, my apologies, I am Onyankopon." The man smiled and handed you a paper bag. You peekee inside and saw something which resembled clothes and toiletries. You recognised the stag pin in his chest, another of Zeke's employees. "I assume you'd like to clean yourself up. Please follow me."

"I'd love that, thank you." You smiled and followed Onyankopon downstairs. He told you bits and pieces of the Jaeger family overthrowing the police and gaining control of Paradis City, how the Marleyans wanted control over the city's resources and docks, all kinds of information you weren't entirely sure you were supposed to know. He walked you to the backstage, where all the strippersdancers got ready, encouraging you to use whatever you needed for you'd be the star of the club. That didn't help you in any way, instead it was anxiety-inducing, and your toes curled at his affirmation. You quickly took off last night's makeup, brushed your teeth, washed your face and body in a sink and got dressed. The clothes were simple, a long, light blue shirt — clearly a man's — and a pair of leggings. You wondered whom they belonged to, perhaps that grim-looking lady, Yelena. She terrified you with her look that could kill. Your hands hovered over the vanity in the dressing room but decided not to waste any more time and folded your old clothes, placing them in the paper bag.

"I'm ready." You walked out of the room and met with Onyankopon. He smiled and guided you out through the back door. "Hey, Onyankopon, who's Mikasa?"

"Oh, miss Mikasa is our best assassin. She's loyal only to Eren, though, which is an impediment for Zeke... I probably shouldn't have said that." He opened the door of a superb black car and you climbed inside with a sigh. You heard how the mafia was based on trust, and no one trusted you.

Most of the ride was silent, your eyes wandering out the window until Onyankopon parked in front of a huge and heavily guarded mansion. You knew the Jaegers were rich, but this was beyond obscene. You opened the door and Onyankopon scolded you for doing that, but you assured him you were perfectly capable of doing things by yourself. He walked you through the beautiful front garden of the mansion, through the large hallway and into what you assumed to be a living room. Or an office? Whatever that was, it was as big as the dining room of the orphanage.

"Ah, the little bird has arrived! You look splendid in my shirt." Zeke welcomed you and you felt your cheeks warm up at his words. The heat disappeared just as quickly when your eyes met with Yelena's. "Come, sit. I suppose you're hungry."

You nodded, feeling saliva building up in your mouth at the sight of croissants, bagels and all kinds of foods you've never had before. Historia was rich, but even her money wasn't enough to feed so many mouths. Doors swung open and you saw Eren barge in, followed by a few people close behind. He plopped on a couch opposite you, the same inexpensive look on his face.

"Let's get over with this. I've got shit to do."

"Impatient as always." Zeke rolled his eyes. "Y/N, do you swear to obey and serve the Jaeger family?" The question caught you off guard, but you nodded.

"I do."

"There, done." The older Jaeger brother shrugged and Eren clicked his tongue.

"You almost didn't let Mikasa walk out of this room alive because she swore loyalty to me and this is all you do to her? You're getting soft, brother."

The air in the room grew thick, almost impossible to breathe it in. All eyes were on you, and you didn't know if what you felt was shame or fear, or both.

"Very well." Zeke walked behind you and took your left hand, placing it on the coffee table in front of the couch. "Hold that there, will you, love?" He smiled and you slightly relaxed. Until — a sharp pain, followed by electricity and heat shot from your hand, through your arm. A blood-curling scream erupted from your throat, tears falling from the corners of your eyes as you squirmed and thrashed at burning sensation, your hanned pinned to the table with a knife. Blood seeped from the wound and you panicked, no one in that room rushing to your aid. No one blinked, no one felt sorry. "Swear your loyalty to me. To the Jaeger family."

"I swear! Oh, God, I s-swear! Please!" You begged, feeling your temperature falling from your cheeks. Zeke twisted the knife and you fell from the couch, knees hitting the wooden floor.

"Who do you belong to?" He asked, unphased by your whimpers, sobs and yelling, as he let go of the knife that still pierced your flesh.

"T-to you! Make it stop, p-please!"

"Good enough for me. Any objections?" Zeke eyed his little brother.

"Just stitch her hand. She's annoying." Eren clicked his tongue and poured himself a cup of coffee. When Onyankopon pulled the knife out, blood gushed out of the fresh wound and you felt the room spin and your head heavy, vision blurry — you fainted.

A hard slap across your cheek woke you up and you met with Yelena, eyes drifting to your bandaged hand. It was damn painful to move it, and you used your other hand to support your weight, shifting your position on the couch.

"Finally." Eren got up and and handed you a file. You flipped through it and found pictures and information of the men from the club.

"Y/N, this is Armin, our bookkeeper. He'll be paying you after every successful show. And this is Mikasa, she'll train you in self-defence. I suspect you won't need it, but it's better to be safe than sorry." Zeke pushed the glasses with his index finger.

"You stabbed me." You bluntly stated, eyes glued to the bandages.

"It'll heal."

"It'll heal? I'm already in debt, you didn't need to stab me!" You got up and instantly felt a gun to your head. Great.

"Sit." Yelena's voice was brash and commanding. Your brain told you to listen to her, but your instincts told you to provoke her, to taunt her. Teeth gritting, you took a deep breath and lowered yourself down, deciding to do both.

"You're not gonna shoot me without Mr. Jaeger's permission, so don't point your gun at me." A satisfied smirk creeped on your lips — you didn't technically provoke her, just stated the obvious.

"Can I shoot her?"

"No." Zeke enjoyed the show, and unbeknownst to you, he, too, felt somewhat proud of your little snarky remark. "You still have to prove your loyalty. Talk to the band, choose some songs for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. You're free to settle your training hours with Mikasa, and to go wherever you want, but you are not allowed to step foot anywhere outside the centre of Paradis. Last thing I need is some Marleyan kidnapping you and torturing you for information. Or the cops. Dismissed."

"Mr. Jaeger, if I may?" You waited for his nod of approval. "Since I won't be living at the orphanage anymore, where exactly am I going to stay?"

"Ah, yes, of course. Blouse, Springer, come here." Zeke waved his hand. More people, more names.

It slowly dawned to you that the Jaegers had a thorough structure with extremely loyal people, and you'd have to quickly find your place there and earn their trust, lest you died a painful death. A bubbly brown-eyed woman and a cheerful-looking man approached Zeke's desk, and finally you saw someone less serious. Onyankopon was nice and all, but he wasn't exactly a ray of sunshine. These two seemed... fun.

"These are Sasha Blouse and Connie Springer, leaders of the drug cartel. You'll stay with them until you're capable of living by yourself."

The duo smiled at you and you felt genuine warmth from them, making you wonder just how bad the mafia was. They seemed to like working for the Jaeger brothers, but you couldn't judge that just yet.

"Oh, we've already moved your stuff to their place, so there is no need for you to visit Historia. Now go, we've got work to do." Zeke placed a cigarette between his lips before turning his back at you.

You were right, Sasha and Connie were fun people. They talked a lot, and you warmed up to them with a few jokes and puns. Connie handed you a phone containing a few contacts, neither of which were Zeke or Eren— apparently you weren't allowed to speak to them, they would speak to you. Sasha explained how you had to forget your past, and dedicate yourself solely to the family — no relationships, no friends, no acquaintances. You were not permitted to fall in love, which was understandable, considering the circumstances, but hard, considering the inability to control feelings.

"Don't worry about it too much. Zeke and Eren care about their subordinates, as long as you listen." Connie wrapped an arm around your neck. Besides, you're one of the lucky ones. Boss never spares witnesses, so he clearly saw potential in you." Somehow, that didn't make you feel any better, you only felt more weight on your shoulders.

"Yeah, I heard you can sing!" Sasha beamed, clapping her hands. "I can't wait for your first show, I bet it'll be awesome."

"It has to be, otherwise you'll have to come to my funeral." You shook your head, exiting Jaeger Manor. A honk caught your attention and you saw Mikasa impatiently waiting for you in a car. "Any advice before I go?"

"Don't get attached to any of us." Connie sighed.

"But trust that the family will protect you if you're loyal." The woman encouraged you before hugging you. A hug, something you never thought you'd get from a mobster.

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chicagofanfictionfan · 2 years

Text

Sailing Part 38

If only we could all enjoy this beautiful sunset. This incredible orange glow dipping low towards the horizon; - the heavens blue of the ocean seem to melt into the pastel purple clouds fanning across the sky. Instead; we all rock endlessly back and forth on this makeshift blow-up inflatable raft and all we can see is the black darkness that slowly awaits us – nightfall and the never-ending numbing chill that’s going to come with it.

‘I think [Y/N] was right,’ Tony says, his voice grim. ‘They’re not coming for us. Nobody is.’

‘We can’t think like that, Tony.’ Ziva said. ‘We have to stay positive, they’ll come soon.’

It’s as if Tony doesn’t hear Ziva at all. ‘If the Coast Guard has our co-ordinates, don’t you think that they would’ve been here by now?’

‘Yeah, something’s wrong,’ says [Y/N]

‘Yeah, something’s definitely hinky,’ Abby cut in and Tim nods in agreement.

‘Listen, all we can do right now is to stay right here and wait for them to come,’ Ziva said and she knew it’s not the exact most persuasive argument she’d ever made. It succeeds for a reason she didn’t intend and all because she said wait.

Her boyfriend Tony stares down at her leg. He looks back at her – his eyes do all the talking – there’s one thing that can’t – most definitely, not much longer. There’s nothing like an open grade-IIIB tibia fracture to change the subject we’re currently on.

‘It’s time to do something about that; isn’t it?’ he finally asks her, glancing down at her leg again. ‘Yeah,’ Ziva said, nodding. ‘I’m going to need some help with it, though.’

‘You can count me out, for one,’ says [Y/N] immediately. ‘I’m sorry, Ziva.’ [Y/N] said as Tony shoots her a look. ‘Oh; C’mon. After all you’ve been through today, and you’re the one telling me you’re fucking afraid of a little broken bone?’

‘When it’s a bone I can see? Yeah, Tony – that’s what I’m telling you.’ [Y/N] replies, squeamish.

‘Its okay, Ziva; I’ll help,’ offers Tim.

He says it in a way so incredibly sweet Ziva wanted to cry. Still, cramming a bone back into her exposed flesh, setting it isn’t something for someone to experience, no matter how mature he is.

‘Thanks, Tim for your offer but I only need your brother for this,’ Ziva explains to him while watching Tony dig into his shorts. Their clothes have been dry for hours now; Ziva thought I’m thinking that whatever Tony’s got in his pocket must still be a wet mess.

That is, until she sees the plastic bag and the Bic lighter that Tony dangles from his fingertips in front of her, giving a shake before smiling. ‘Hey, what do you know, dry as a bone.’ he exclaims.

‘Tony!’ she exclaimed. ‘You were supposed to give all of it to your dad.’

‘I Know. I know but what can I tell you? I always carry a spare doobie,’ he says. He removes the already rolled joint and hands it to her. ‘Just think of it as medical marijuana. It’s perfectly legal, right?’

A few seconds pass as all she can do is stare at the joint. Am I really about to smoke my boyfriends’ pot? That’s when Ziva gazed down at her leg again considering the god-awful pain that awaits her. It’s amazing how much your world can change in one day. She muses. ‘Hand me the lighter.’ She tells Tony.

The pot works –kind of – it does reduce the pain somewhat. Instead of sheer agony, it’s more like a mild form of torture.

#ncis x reader #gibbs reader insert #leroy jethro gibbs x reader

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camdentown-library · 4 years

Text

You hurt me first || male!Eivor x fem!Reader

(GIF by eivorella )

𝕺𝖍, 𝖆 𝖇𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋𝖋 𝖆 𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖋, 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖙 𝖇𝖊?

Summary: You are a Hidden-One and Eivor is your travel companion. Things will change when Eivor forgets one of your important expeditions to spend a whole day with Randvi. What will happen? Requested? ANON: I love love LOVE your writing 😭 and I have a request that I hope you would accept 🥺 could you write a jealous reader x eivor awwww I love that kind of stuff about randvi’s crush on eivor and a cute confession at the end. 😚 Genre: Fluff, a bit angst (only 20%) Words: 2048

NOTE: siktir et = Fuck in turkish

"Eivor" your voice called the attention of the Viking who was returning to Ravensthorpe on a horse "But where have you been?" you asked impatiently putting your hands on your hips. You had been looking for him all day, today you would have had to leave for the porssimo kingdom to conquer, important peace negotiations were underway and he needed an alliance as much as you to find the rest of the order of the ancients. The blond friend with an agile leap jumped off his steed and only then did you notice that Randvi was with him, riding another horse. As your eyes met your stomach felt a sharp pang, as if your own hidden blade had pierced your organ, while a bitter aftertaste formed at the end of your tongue. "Y/N!" Eivor said in a joyful tone, awakening you from your hostile thoughts "Were you looking for me perhaps?" the hands on your hips tightened in a tenacious grip for the nervous. "Maybe I was looking for you?!" you asked with an ironic tone "siktir et Eivor, have you forgotten what we were supposed to do today?" you asked visibly annoyed, while your Viking friend (probably from the alcohol still running lightly in his veins) looked at you puzzled as he tilted his head to one side. You stared up in shock, was he really so overwhelmed by Randvi and his stupid crush that he forgot why they were there in Ravensthorpe?! "Oxenfordscire?! Your brother Sigurd?! We were supposed to leave this morning and I've been looking for you all day!" you said angry, while Eivor remained silent not knowing what to repeat "Your brother and my mentor had requested our presence, the negotiations seem to be more difficult than you thought, but apparently it is more important for you to go roaming around fields with Randvi!" your tone became more and more poisonous, and your anger and your jealousy took more and more possession of your body, leaving your calm and calculating Hidden-One mind on the corner "And tell me Eivor, did you drink together? fucked? Or maybe you did both, since you're back in the late afternoon" Randvi's gaze became dark with slight embarrassment, while getting off the horse she slowly walked towards the long house of Jarl Eivor on her side she seemed to have lost her patience, and as always she knew how to do, besides regaining consciousness of himself, he sharpened his sharpest weapon: his tongue and his words. "Stop being a child, Y/N! And above all do not disrespect Randvi, she is the Jarl's wife" replied the man approaching you, his tone was grim even though he tried to stay calm. "Jarl's wife? Seriously Eivor? Do you think ... Do you think I am blind or deaf by any chance?" you asked mimicking his words, while Eivor shook his head in disappointment. "I just took Randvi for a walk, you see she doesn't have the privilege like you of being able to roam far and wide, her duty is to stay locked up in that damn long house. I just let her breathe some air new and moreover..” Eivor took a few more steps towards you, but you did not retreat, as your faces left a few centimeters away “I have no obligation to inform you about my private life, you are not my Jarl , you are not my mother and you are not my wife” your eyes met for a moment, but nothing romantic passed through them, only disappointment and anger. Eivor had been clear with you, you were nobody to him, just a foreign girl who, together with her mentor and her partner, had entered the crow's clan. Pathetic, that's what you were, pathetic to have thought for just a moment that that rough, arrogant Viking cared about you. You took a deep breath, never looking down at those ocean-blue eyes and turning your back on Eivor you said in a cold tone: "I'm leaving now and alone" you said as you mounted the nearest horse. "Wait, the sun has almost gone down now, it's not safe to venture out" said the groom, emerging from the horse stable. "I've ridden alone for years in the desert and in far more hostile places than a couple of green hills" you said seriously and arrogantly, and then cast one last look at Eivor, who looked you in the eye almost...sorry. No! Nonsense...It was obvious he was anything but that or he wouldn't have said those heartless words to you. I beckoned to the horse to leave, and the horse pawing enthusiastically set off at a gallop towards the Oxenfordscire.

* * *

Night had fallen over the moors and forests of distant, cold England. You had camped near a river with your horse, while next to you there was a small fire lit in the hope of keeping you warm. You swore in your mother tongue that you were so reckless...you could at least have taken some fur or something to eat, and instead you were there, cold, alone and with nothing to eat. You looked out over the river, letting the water mirror the image of your face. Look at you, anything but feminine, foreign and definitely not Viking. What did you think was springing up in Eivor's heart? The burning fuse of love? The truth is that you were a fish out of water and neither you, nor Hytham, nor Basim would ever have been part of that extended family. A tear full of frustration, furrowed your face contracted in a grimace that tried in every way to suppress the desperate need to cry and in the impetus you chased a menacing growl by throwing a slap at that river, thus breaking your reflection. A strange rustle in the bushes caught your attention, making you whirl towards that threatening noise. Something was hiding in the dense bush! Slowly you let your hidden blade slip away from your wrist, approaching with extreme silence towards the source of your threat, and as soon as you noticed a dark shape hiding behind the trunk of a tree, you slid as quickly as a splinter, pushing the intruder to the ground . You overtook him immediately, sitting astride his chest and blocking his mighty arms with your legs, while the tip of your blade dangerously caressed his throat. "Give me a good reason not to kill you intruder or you will not see your precious Valhalla" you said threateningly, trying to see his identity in the dim light. "Well if you do, you'll have to explain to Sigurd the reason for his brother's demise" that voice ... Eivor? "You..." "Yeah ..." "YOU HAVE FOLLOWED ME" you said indignantly. "How could I have left you alone?" Eivor asked him indignantly this time. "Yes, sure, right ... spare your bullshit when you explain to Sigurd your delay in Oxenfordscire" you answered bitterly, shaking your head. Eivor was silent for a few moments, perhaps admitting defeat in that speech, and then cleared his throat. "As much as I'm finding, here ... very exciting having a woman straddling my chest, could you take your blade off my throat?" your face flushed with embarrassment and anger and after snorting annoyed you said: "I would really want to pierce your dick with this one, at least so you won't be fooled with that instead of your head" You got up nimbly from him, trying to ignore his amused laugh, how could he behave like this after your argument? Ugh...that man was absurd...

You both leaned back around the small fire you made while Eivor rummaged in his big bag. You tried hard not to stare and ignore it, but when you recognized the smell of dried meat, your throat twisted with hunger. "Have you eaten? I brought some food from Ravensthorpe" Eivor explained, as he brought two succulent strips of dried meat to you, but you shook your head. "I'm not hungry" but he didn't seem to believe it, in fact he raised an eyebrow along with the corner of his mouth. "As you want, then I'll eat it all" he said marking the last words...what a bastard, was he psychologically torturing you?! A cold gust of wind, however, shook you abruptly from your thoughts, making you shiver noisily...damn, what would you pay for a fur coat to cover you with, that cold was so different from the hot nights of Constantinople. Something heavy wrapped around our shoulders, and blinking in perplexity, you turned to Eivor, who had moved to your side, covering you too with his fur cloak. "I don't need you, stop it" you said arrogantly as he rolled his eyes. "Listen, I'm just trying to get you all to your destination, difficult days ahead and I need you and all your strength" the wheat-haired Viking explained seriously. "You wouldn't think you cared today" "Wha-? Listen Y/N ... I don't know what got into you today but I didn't want things to be like this" "Didn't you want? Eivor, you literally told me that my opinion doesn't count for you" the man bit his tongue at the thought of what he had said and shaking his head said: "I can prove to you it's not like that" "Go on" "Today, when Randvi and I were walking, she kissed me" you opened your eyes wide in shock, as you felt for the second time your heart crack into a thousand pieces "But! I rejected her...And not because she was the wife about my brother...as I initially thought. When I saw you go off on horseback, alone, the very thought of not being able to protect you made me feel like I was lost in the cold lands of Hel” he explained, it seemed really to be honest "And when I finally saw you camped here I was able to breathe again knowing that you were not in danger..." "This is not love, it's just a sense of guilt Eivor” you tried to reject it, still burned by your own jealousy. "No, no it's not guilt! I...I want you Y/N, I feel it when you climbed on me to attack me, I feel it now that we are close to warm up, I...for Odin sake I cannot be without you I'm sorry things had to go like this” he said, looking you in the eye. His expression seemed sincere, all of a sudden it no longer seemed I had a fierce and arrogant Viking beside me, but ... a wolf cub, a tender puppy, who just wanted to have his love reciprocated by him. Now it was your heart that was filled with guilt. "In truth...it is not because of the missed mission that I have taken it out on you, Eivor...seeing you with Randvi, has me-ugh what a shame in saying these things... I felt abandoned, I felt cornered, I felt I was worth nothing to you and I could touch the feeling that she was taking you away from me-” your speech was interrupted by the hand of the Viking who fleetingly grabbed your chin making it turn towards him, so as to be able to join your lips in a chaste first impact kiss, but which then poured out all your need to be united, to be able to touch you, to be able to merge your souls into one League.

"I'm here, forever Y/N" Eivor whispered as his mouth brushed yours "but only if you stop being an angry child and promise me you'll eat something, mh?" he said with a playful little smile, getting a light slap on the cheek from you. "Otherwise? Are you abandoning me?" you asked ironically, raising an eyebrow. "I know methods of torture that you cannot imagine, to make you smile with force" he said, returning the ironic tone, while his calloused hands caressed your soft hips. "I thought you were leaving these things to the Ragnarsson, Wolfkissed" you pretended to be surprised, as he pressed his lips to your ear and kissed the earlobe, while his frizzy beard tickled your sensitive skin, giving you a few snorts of laughter. "You don't know my evil side then" he replied with a chuckle and playfully biting your jaw.

#Assassin's Creed #assassin's creed imagine #assassin's creed imagines #assassins creed imagines #assassins creed imagine #assassin's creed valhalla #assassins creed valhalla #assassins creed valhalla imagine #ac valhalla #assassin's creed valhalla imagine #eivor #male!eivor #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed

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uselessidiotsquad · 3 years

Note

MY FREN YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST give me 👋 💕 💋 + 🤯 for Dei I MUST SEE what you do with it. Bonus; 💥 if you're inclined :3 - moonlit-grove

*Updated with all scenes + bad end!*

OH HO HO! Deiliús, eh? >:3c @moonlit-grove

CW: abuse, death

(Note: Deiliús is bisexual but aromantic)

MEETING: Deiliús

You joined because the recruiter had all the right things to say. All the right answers to the questions that others considered too macabre, too grim, and too inappropriate. You did not, however, join for some half-assed concept of a family which the Countess kept harping on about. Of course, you didn't say this to her face, or to her guard dogs because you valued keeping your blood in your body.

Which is why when the Countess suggested that you try to get along with some of the other members of the 'family' you barely concealed a sneer. Yet you obeyed all the same because only a fool would disobey the one in charge around here. Some of the more devoted of the Court tried their hardest to resemble what one might think of as a family, or at least the perverted shade of it. In truth there was a lot of fake smiling and compliments, a lot of hearing without listening, and a lot of lies.

The first you met but hardly spared a thought for were her guard dogs, blindly loyal and slobbering all over themselves for even a glance from the Countess. Disgusting. Madrúil was the worse of the two, his aggressive nature and cold, red stare seemed to invite - to challenge. Take a wrong breath at her, it screamed. I dare you. You found out through others that his nickname was the Bastard Hound, but only a few dared to say it around him.

Rhiannon, the other guard, was not as actively cruel but still enjoyed the pain of others. Though she kept to herself and wasted her days pining over the glances and affections, too.

The last of the 'family' you had time or patience for meeting was a fellow new recruit. Approaching them as they studied a mirror intently, not looking at themselves in it but rather focusing on the object itself.

"What are you doing?" You ask, not really curious but eager to get the introductions over with already.

"...trying to see if this glamor works, or if it needs more fine tuning." Is what they reply with, they don't turn to you to say it. They sounded about as bored as you felt, which strangely was encouraging.

You introduce yourself and after a lengthy pause they return the introduction,

"...I'm Deiliús." They sound mildly disappointed by it.

Deiliús, as you have now found out, seems a little out of place here. Amongst the other recruits and Courtiers, who favor darker colors and have an air of malice about them - they seem almost normal. Almost a Dreamer. Dark purple blooms, arranged in a spray at the top of their head which trailed down their face, are surrounded by leaves. Their leaves match the rest of their bark in a green that's almost white.

They are the first person here to not instantly cause a gut reaction of contempt, so that's something, you suppose.

HEART SCENE ONE: Deiliús

One of the first things you have come to find out about the Countess of Blasphemy's Court is that it's run with a single minded goal. To obtain as many new converts as possible and by whatever means are needed. Most of this conversion is voluntary, like how you joined. Others are less... hygienic.

Madrúil, one of her prime henchmen, has been given the responsibility of torturing random captives into either death, insanity, or conversion. It leaves a bad taste in the back of your mouth, but thankfully you don't have to look at it very often. So you can halfway pretend that it isn't happening.

Today, though, you do have to look at it.

As part of the initiation into the Court, the Countess and her two rabid pets are watching as you and a few other new members are given daggers - and told to inflict pain. There are three Sylvari directly ahead of you - they are all bound, gagged, and blindfolded.

One of them is crying hysterically. One is quiet. The last one seems to be trying to say something but can't around the gag.

Looking around, you see other members begin creeping out of their lodgings and have come to watch the show. They seem... happy? You notice that the member you spoke with before isn't present among them. Deiliús is no where to be seen. The other members who you are standing with have a disparity of expressions, ranging from excitement, to confusion, and then neutrality.

The Countess tells you that you each get to choose your participant (you find her word choice amusing). You...

A. Go for the one that's crying.

B. Go for one of the other ones.

C. Wait for everyone else to pick their participant.

➡A.

You take a step towards the Sylvari that is sobbing through their blindfold, only to be knocked away from them by a fellow member. They brandish their dagger at you threateningly.

"This is one mine." They growl, and turn to descend on the unfortunate captive with renewed vigor.

Now annoyed yourself, you settle for the one that is trying to speak. They're a thin framed Sylvari, who looks to resemble some type of tree, but you're too irritated to think of which type. Kicking them harshly in the stomach, they buckle over and you go after them with your dagger. You plunge it into their ribs, not deep enough to risk killing them but enough so that it will certainly damage something.

Twisting the blade, they give a muffled scream and you can't help the cruel smile that appears on your face.

The Countess nods in approval at you and you feel like you have found where you belong.

(ROUTE END)

➡B.

With the other captive spoken for, you choose the one that hadn't moved or made a sound this entire time. Part of you wonders if maybe they were a dummy or something. When you jab the knife downwards into their collarbone and they let out a little, albeit muffled, shriek, you change your mind. Guess they were real after all.

You start to back away from them now that your curiosity has been satisfied, but are met with the displeased eyes of the other members. They seem disappointed in your lack of savagery. Madrúil approaches you with heavy footfalls and wrenches the knife out of your hand. Glaring at you with malice, he drags the knife as slowly as he can up the side of the bound Sylvari's face - refusing to break eye contact the whole time. They shriek and try to escape but the kennelmaster has a vice like grip of their ferns.

It's clear that was a threat.

You are dismissed for the day.

➡ C.

You wait for the other members to pick whoever they want first and you go for whoever is left over. As it turns out, they all wanted the one that was crying - which seems a little unfair, but you let it slide.

Picking the Sylvari who has hardly moved an inch since the ceremony began you examine them, testing the edge of your knife as you do so. They're a mushroom presenting Sylvari, the large red and white flecked cap that's atop their head seems like an obvious place to start.

Truthfully, you don't really see the point to this. Isn't this Madrúil's position? Why should he get to slack off and make the lower ranked members do his grunt work? That alone makes you slightly irritated. Still, if you want to gain knowledge from this place - it's listen to their rules or else you suspect that it will be you on your knees next week.

There are eyes on you in anticipation from the other members, curious as to what you will do. With nothing else for it, you make a testing cut right down the middle of their cap. They jolt in shock and make a muffled sound of pain. Though it's not something you had considered before in seriousness, the adrenaline it sends through you is something else. It's not... pleasant. Or unpleasant. But it did give you a rush for a moment.

They are still watching to see what you will do.

Well if once worked, why not a second time? You make another precise cut swiftly down the center of their red cap, the contrast of the gold sap leaking from the first one makes you feel odd. Unable to tell if it's pleasant or unpleasant still - you bolster yourself and continue making hairline cuts across their mushroom cap. It's become a delicate lattice work of gold over the red.

Breaking your sight from your handiwork, you evaluate the state of the other captives. One of them is already dead, the new member who was assigned to them having stabbed them repeatedly in the neck. The new member looks wild and manic. Madrúil has to lead them away but claps a hand on their back in approval. With one of the captives accounted for, another is either unconscious or playing dead, and then there is yours. They've made a few sounds of pain and something akin to crying but no where near as showy as the other two.

The Countess smiles at you and the other new convert who remains,

"Well done. You've proven your place. Some of you with... great relish." She covers her mouth and she gives a soft laugh. "Welcome to the family."

Courtiers drag away the two captives and throw them back into their thorned holding cell, not bothering to remove the binds. On your way back to your quarters, which is all of a small bedroll and a few choice items you had brought with you, you find Deiliús. The two of you share quarters or at least are in close proximity for lodging it seems. They are working on the glamor from earlier. Scribbling notes on a piece of parchment, without looking up at you.

"Not interested in the ceremony?"

They shake their head, still focused on finishing whatever they were writing about. After a moment, they set the quill down and face you.

"I've seen it before, it's not new to me." They remark a little bitterly and you wonder where that came from. The apathy returns as the frown on their face smooths again. Deiliús tilts their head at you slightly, "Did you enjoy it?"

Shrugging, you're still unsure yourself. "I don't know."

"Well... that's better than some." They reply, turning back to the mirror and notes at hand.

HEART SCENE TWO: Deiliús

You hear the distinct, headache inducing sound of Madrúil, screaming about something. Part of you wonders if the reason why his voice is so scratchy is because the kennelmaster lacks a reasonable volume control. The Countess had left for a short while to attend to affairs in Twilight Arbor, leaving the already volatile bastard even more angry than usual. And as usual, he tended to take out his anger on others.

The crash of something breaking and the sound of something hitting the ground does elicit a wince, though. He'd blown through several prisoners already and at this rate the Countess would be upset, which would make the rest of them miserable. If conversions were currency then they were soon to be in the red.

You go to see what damage he has done now, if only to satisfy your own curiosity, approaching the kennelmasters quarters warily. The storm blue Sylvari stomps out and completely ignores your presence. He was flecked with sap, though somehow you don't think that it was his. Waiting until he is well and good out of sight, you peek around the corner with the excitement of a child pulling the wings off of a fly for the first time.

To your surprise, it wasn't a prisoner you find - but a fellow member.

Oh. It's Deiliús. They're sat on the floor, holding the back of their hand against their nose to keep it from bleeding. A split lip and a minor cut running up from the bridge of their nose. There's a broken shelf in pieces on the floor next to them, it's spattered with sap.

You...

A. Turn around and leave, this isn't your business.

B. Stay quiet and observe.

C. Ask if they're okay.

➡A.

You turn around and leave Deiliús to handle this. It's not your problem and you aren't about to get involved, not when Mad is already in a pissy mood.

When you encounter them later, as it's unavoidable, they seem no worse for wear. There's no sign of injury or bruising, or even staining from sap. You eye them curiously for a time before they meet your gaze.

"What now?"

"Oh. Nothing." You mutter, "Nothing at all."

They give a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement and return to their quarters.

(ROUTE END)

➡B.

Saying nothing, you watch in quiet observation as the mesmer removes the hand from their face, it's dripping with gold sap. They sigh and return the pressure, seemingly waiting for it to stop.

Wondering if the Countess knows how her pet is treating the rest of her 'family' you frown. As you start to move away, you hear them speak,

"I know you're there. I'm not an idiot." They say, in a quiet, flat tone.

That sort of surprised you, you thought you did an excellent job at being stealthy. Perhaps that was something to work on later.

"You're still bleeding." You remark, more of an observation than a reply.

"It'll stop eventually." They look up from the broken pieces of shelf that had held their attention. "You saw?"

"Heard, rather."

"Then keep it to yourself."

You tilt your head curiously at them. Wouldn't they want the Countess to know? To try and get involved? Seeming to pick up on your question, they sag a little and clarify.

"It'll just makes things worse."

About to reply, how they could even get worse you remember that this is Madrúil you are talking about so the realm of possibility is well open and gleaming. Deiliús checks to see if their injury has stopped bleeding and upon finding that it has - makes an attempt to stand. They seem to struggle with putting weight on one of their legs. Feeling something which almost resembles pity (though surely you must be mistaken, Nightmare doesn't allow for such things) you offer a hand to help them up.

They stare at it warily as though expecting it to bite. Impatient, you gesture with it again, offering a hand up. This time they do accept it and carefully heave themselves up. The purple blooms atop their crown sway for a second and they find their footing.

For a fleeting second, something looked different about them, but it may have just been a trick of the light.

"Thanks." Is all they manage to offer before beginning to pick up the pieces of the shelf and try to clean up as best as they can. You leave them to it.

They watch you go out of the corners of their eyes, staring at the space you occupied before resuming work.

➡C.

"Are you okay?" You ask, more surprised than concerned. Fully aware that Madrúil's temper was caustic - somehow it still is a shock that another member of the Court would be so... reluctant to fight back. More of them than not secretly or not so secretly wanted to kick the ass of that kennelmaster.

"I'm used to it." They say, pointedly avoiding the question.

Were the situation different you would have pressed the point but it's clear that they're not going to elaborate anymore. Curious you can't help but want to find out more.

"Why didn't you, I don't know, do something?" The words come out a little reprimanding, which wasn't what you intended.

"I'm not that good at fighting."

"I... oh."

"If you're just going to stand there asking unhelpful questions, can you leave?" Deiliús seems a little annoyed with you.

HEART SCENE THREE: Deiliús

This culvert of Nightmare is far from what you anticipated it would be. The recruiter gave you a mental picture of a group of like-minded people, working together beyond the barriers of ancient morality to discover themselves. Not this, not the cesspool of torture and babbling fools. Not the sweet but empty words and people falling all over themselves to be held in high regard. If they did not want power then they wanted fame, attention, or favors.

You didn't particularly want any of these things, you just wanted information and a change to explore things. So now as a sinking feeling of despair begins to descend on you, you think this whole decision was a mistake. Maybe if you go speak to the Countess, she will help calm your nerves or at least offer some advice. Walking up the rise to go and see if she will take visitors, as you approach her quarters you are surprised.

The Countess' personal lodgings are not as elaborate as you thought they would be, surely a person of rank would want some luxury? It seems very much just like the rest of the dwellings that you've been in here, simple, efficient, if not a little boring. The only main difference is that there are no high shelves and there is a ledge around the walls that is too shallow for holding anything.

Seated on a mushroom based stool and reading a letter of some kind, she looks up at you as you approach. And gives a friendly smile,

"Can I help you, blossom?"

"Um." You stammer for a moment, not expecting to be treated so fondly, "My Lady, are you open to giving guidance?"

"Certainly. What ails you?"

"I am having doubts about whether I belong in the... family."

She furrows her brows at you worriedly. "What brought this about?"

"I don't feel like my curiosity is welcomed. It feels like..." You pause, trying to find a polite way to word this, "...like I am intruding."

"Is someone making you feel this way?" She says it lightly but there's a shiver that runs through you.

You...

A. Answer honestly

B. Blame Madrúil

C. Blame Deiliús

➡A.

You answer her honestly, "No. It's just... I feel like there is something I am missing. Some part to the puzzle that hasn't come to me yet. It's frustrating."

The Countess makes to rise from her seat, grabbing onto the ledge next to her to help her up. Oh, so that's what it's for.

"It takes some time to get used to things. Think of it like... when you first blow out a candle in a dark room. Your eyes haven't adjusted to the state of your surroundings yet. In time you will see the truth of things and the awareness of Nightmare will be gifted to you."

Her words comfort you some but you can't help but feel like you've been given a blanket answer. Wait and see. Wait and find out. Nodding in respect and appreciation all the same, you take your leave from the Countess, who nods at you in dismissal.

The walk back to your quarters doesn't feel any less uncomfortable.

Upon arriving you see that surprisingly, the other member is absent from the shared quarters. You look around the dimly lit area, the glow of a candle casting flickering yellow lights and strange shadows. Strange. They're usually here, in fact, now that you think of it - you hardly see them outside of this place at all. Laying down on your bed roll, watching the shapes of the shadows morph and melt in their endless waltz as the candle burns slowly down.

Sleep finds you well and without much fanfare. For several hours, at least.

Until you are awakened by the sound of movement, sitting up with a start - knife in hand. A pale green and purple bloomed figure raises their hands in a gesture of surrender. Deiliús. Right. Why on earth were they out so late?

"Deiliús?" You ask, relieved it's not a threat and lower the knife. You rub your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to brush away sleep. "What-?"

"Sorry. The Countess needed me for working with a prisoner. It took longer than expected." They say. They seem tired and a little out of it. As they walk to their own designated area, taking a seat at their small desk, you notice for the first time that they have a limp. They're typically seated so you hadn't seen it before. Maybe it just gets worse when they are exhausted.

"Isn't that Mad's job?"

"Not for when we need them in one piece." Deiliús sighs heavily and writes something down on the sheet of parchment that sits on top. They cross out a line with a thick stroke and then set the quill back in it's holder. Staring blankly at the paper, their expression is empty.

"Are you... well?"

They don't answer for a while before shaking their head as though they were the ones just waking. "What? Yeah. Would mind talking about something? Anything? I don't want to think about ...what I just did."

That's ominous. But you oblige them, the retreating coattails of sleep get further and further away.

"I saw the Countess earlier." You hum, pulling your legs up to you comfortably. "We talked for a bit. I know she tries to be pleasant but there's something about her that sets me on edge. Anyway, I told her I'd been having doubts about joining the 'family'" You put air quotes around the word. "She told me just to wait and that I'd acclimate to it eventually."

"And do you believe it?"

"...Not really."

"You learn fast, then."

"You don't buy it either?"

"No. But don't let them hear you say it out loud. That's an invitation for, well, you know. Use your imagination." Deiliús says with a grim chuckle.

Hearing confirmation of it settled like a stone in your stomach. They had looked up from the desk for a moment and you notice a dark gold almost brown coloring around one of their eyes that hadn't been there before. You think maybe it's dying light of the candle casting shadows where there are none. This is the second time you've thought you saw something like this though. Before you can ask about it they heave another sigh and say,

"I'm bothering you. Go back to sleep."

➡B.

"I don't want to sound ungrateful but Madrúil's not the most welcoming person."

"Mad?" She asks, surprised. "He's never been one for hospitality. Still, hearing that he's making you feel like you don't belong is troubling to me. I'll speak with him about it tonight. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, blossom."

After bowing in respect, you take your leave. A weight feels lifted from you, after the confirmation that the Countess would take care of things. Mad would likely have gone after you if you'd talked to him about it, but even he wouldn't dare go after the Countess.

For the next several days, things seem to go by with relative smoothness. You note with relief that Mad isn't around as much as he used to be. That alone is an improvement, for there isn't the perpetual background noise of someone threatening and yelling at all hours. Or if he is around it's during the time when you are not in Hemlock Coil.

Strangely, you also notice that you haven't seen Deiliús around either. You wonder if it's just scheduling and timing playing it up or if they just aren't around. Maybe they got transferred to a different camp by the Countess? You finally get your answer when you stop by Hemlock's healer, or rather where the healer should be. They've been away for long enough that when something comes up the other members just help themself to the supplies they need.

A stomach ache from some poorly cooked roast troubled you and you were looking for a simple potion to help ease the fire in your gut. When instead you felt worse upon entering.

The healer's quarters had a nauseating amount of sap splashed throughout the whole building. Trailing along the ground - it had already oxidized and turned into a thickened brown coating. There were streams of it that streaked the wall, smudged and blurred as though something had leaned against it for a moment. Letting your eyes follow the trail in horror lead to a large pool of it. Much of the pool was still golden, giving you a clue as to how much had actually been spilled.

There was no body, but you suddenly stopped wondering about the mesmer.

➡C.

"The member I'm sharing lodging with, Deiliús, I believe their name is? They just... don't want to speak to me. It's not as though they're ignoring me but I always feel like I'm boring them."

"This is troubling news indeed, I had hoped that making them share lodging would encourage them to open up. Yet it seems I was mistaken. Very well, I'll see who else I can arrange for you to stay with - have no fear."

The next day, you're shown the new lodging. It turns out that you are sharing it with a Knight - who takes great offense at having such a low ranked member be in their general vicinity. However, since the Countess ordered it, they can't complain or at least not loudly.

They speak with you even less than Deiliús did and pretend that you do not exist. You're not sure if that's an improvement or not, but you're not going to go back to the Countess about it.

After that, you notice that you see less and less of the mesmer around. Either they stay in their lodging full time or they are sent out on missions at the time that you are in Hemlock. Eventually, you stop seeing them around at all. You wonder for a moment where they've gone. Part of you regrets saying anything about it - at least Deiliús didn't snore like a dozen norn.

(ROUTE END)

GOOD ENDING: Deiliús

Morrigan's Spiral would not have been the first place you thought of when it came to relaxing, the magically floating stones above your head don't instill confidence. Plus the frequent attacks from the Risen let the air perpetually smell of rot and sea. Still, it's far enough away from Hemlock Coil that it provides some sort of comfort, even if the telltale red and purple spirals of another Nightmare camp nearby detract from things.

Your whole experience with Nightmare has proven that while they may humor your curiosity, they certainly don't encourage it unless it meets their needs. Hoping that in being free from the dogma of the Tablet, you could explore things but all you found was a new dogma, one of pressure and malice. Not what you were expecting but it's not as though you can leave now.

The silently spinning boulders continue their dance, unbothered.

"It's not the best place in the world, but it's better than Hemlock." The figure to the left of you mentions, their voice is a little less flat than usual.

Turning, you see Deiliús watching the stones rotate and spin, the closest thing to happy you've seen since you met them.

"That doesn't narrow it down much."

The remark elicits a chuckle from the mesmer next to you. Gradually, that flicker of near-happy leaves and they grow serious. Deiliús shifts uncomfortably and sighs. You had been about to ask what was wrong when they chose to speak first,

"I don't know what you're expecting from me. But if it's what I think it is... sorry. I don't - I can't do that."

You tell them you don't expect anything. They aren't convinced but choose to let it go. On the other hand, you do not want to let it go. Adjusting so that you are fully facing them, determination building more by the second. A grey shadow of a spinning rock wobbles over head.

"I mean it, I don't expect anything. Just be you and I'll be me."

"And if I don't know who this 'me' is?"

"Then we can try to figure it out. It'll be an experiment." The idea of it fills you with curiosity but of a less pointed and macabre kind. It's almost... warm.

The corners of their mouth twitch in something that suggested a smile. You and Deiliús sit in comfortable silence and continue watching the tumbling, floating rocks in peace. It was a pleasant way to end the day.

SECRET END (True End)

Hushed discussion lead to a makeshift plan, that plan solidified over time like lava. It was happening. You two were going to flee from the Court. Deiliús had not taken well to the idea at first, being met with an anger and hatred that felt out of place for their usually distant nature. The night before you were going to go with the plan, they take you aside for a moment.

To the patrolling Courtiers, it looked as though Deiliús had asked you for help with one of the their illusions.

You, however, could tell that there was something wrong.

The area that they typically claimed as their chamber was set back into the rocky cliff, surrounded and isolated from the rest of the otherwise open area that was Hemlock. A few spider hatchlings here and there wove silver webs among the higher areas. It was far from comfortable but the few amenities that were given to the members of the court made it livable if nothing else.

Scattered on their desk were a number of pieces of paper with notes, diagrams, and a large array of mirrors and mirror fragments. Presumably from the glamor Deiliús was working on when you first met them.

Out of earshot from the other members, you're a little confused as to what's suddenly brought this on. The plan was seamless, tempered and ironed into a perfect edge. Why the sudden change? You wonder if it had anything to do with the anger that the purple bloomed mesmer first showed at the idea of 'escape'.

Unable to stop from feeling irritated, a creeping wave of it washes over you when Deiliús says simply.

"It won't work."

"You're just paranoid." You say with a terse sigh, crossing your arms in annoyance.

"They've tightened security and added new patrols since a few... prisoners... escaped." The word seems to be painful and barbed in the back of their throat.

You...

A. Ask how they know about the prisoners

➡ A.

"How do you know so much about these 'prisoners'? Did you help them escape?"

Deiliús pales and their expression is an ocean of resentment and what you could almost call sorrow.

"In a way... yes." Their tone lowers to nearly a whisper, "It didn't end well."

Pushing aside anger for a moment, you take in the scene. Given that they didn't appear to be battered like those who had been converted by force, you assumed that they joined of their own volition. Yet here, as they stood before you - doubt began to bloom. And with it, that strange feeling resembling sympathy that you swear Nightmare shouldn't have permitted.

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

The lack of answer alarms you and you unfold your arms, taking a step closer to them. They flinch at the movement and your doubts have now ripened into fruit.

"Deiliús...?"

"They left me here." Is all that they said, in a small voice that sounded carefully level. "While they ran."

You had joined for sake of curiosity, for expanding your own boundaries. It wasn't hard to assume that Deiliús had done the same too, given their fixation on illusions and projecting them. But knowing now that this was not the case filled in more answers for you than their words alone.

"It won't work. Mad's got patrolling courtiers and hounds nearly everywhere now. He won't make the same mistake again."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"I don't know. Maybe if you go with one of the recruiters, you could slip away while they're preaching?"

"What about you?"

Deiliús attempts a smile, but it crumbles. It didn't even reach their lavender eyes before it started to slip. They swallow thickly and don't meet your eyes, trying to blink back tears. The sight of it lights something in your chest that all the guidance of the Countess couldn't even snuff out, for all her talk of the encompassing Nightmare - you hurt.

You hurt for them.

This talk of replacing empathy with truth and compassion with awareness falls utterly flat now as you stand within arms reach of Deiliús who looks like they are three seconds from coming undone. You've had enough.

Closing the space, you pull them into your arms. They freeze for a moment in shock, before melting into you. There's a lot that goes into the hug that they return, a lot of words that weren't said. But as their arms fit around you and they grab fistfuls of your shirt like you were the only solid thing left on the face of the earth - you know you've made the right decision.

"We will think of something. We're getting out of here."

Deiliús doesn't reply so you repeat yourself.

"We are getting out of here. Okay?"

"...okay."

(TRUE END)

BAD END: Deiliús

The air was cool and still as the last of the sun’s rays left the earth. Radiating it up gently from the ground and keeping away the suggestion of chill, at least for the moment. Night song started gathering itself into the different parts of the orchestra. The whippoorwill, the thrush, the barred owl clearing his throat in preparation for his solo.

The silence and peace was disrupted by the sound of footsteps. They were uneven and off-kilter. A normal step, a half step, a normal step, a stagger. You’d become familiar with the gait even before the purple of a hyacinth became visible. The mesmer which you’d gotten rather acquainted with stood just outside your lodgings. In truth it was both of yours, since they stayed there as well. They were breathing rapidly, in shallow panicked gasps.

“Dei-?” You had started to say when they made a frantic gesture for you to stop talking. Obliging, you clapped a hand over your mouth and nodded.

Deiliús leaned back, craning their head and looking left and right, making sure that they hadn’t been followed. Upon not hearing or seeing anyone, they entered into the shared space and nearly ran into you in their haste to get indoors. You managed to catch them by the shoulders before that happened.

“What’s wrong?” You whisper, now finding the courage to speak.

“Can - will - will you do something for me? Please?” They reply quickly, stumbling over their words. The urgency behind them alarmed you, their voice was usually calm and even, if not a little bored.

“I can try, what-”

Deiliús interrupts you. “Kill me.”

“What?”

“Kill me.”

“Okay, slow down, just tell me what happened.”

They take a deep breath only for it to catch in their chest. “The Countess is gone. She heard of one of her favorite members' deaths. Gavin or something. She’s left Mad in charge until she gets back. That could be days.”

Your eyes widen in dismay. The only word that seems sufficient is, “...Fuck.”

Deiliús nods in fervent agreement. They look around again to make sure no one has heard the two of you before looking back to you with the same pleading expression as before.

“So please. Kill me.”

“Maybe Mad will be distracted by having to run Hemlock Coil and he’ll be too busy to notice you?”

“He’s just going to use it as an excuse to get away with whatever he can.”

You can’t help but think that they might be right on that front. Realizing you are still grabbing their shoulder tightly, it comes to your attention that they are twitching and trembling under your touch. Concerned you might be hurting them somehow, you let go.

“Dei, no. No. We aren’t doing this.”

Deiliús looks crestfallen. No, more than that. They look defeated. They deflate as a shaky exhale escapes them and you decide to pull them into a hug. They don’t return the gesture and just stand there, frozen.

There’s movement when they go to take something out of the pocket of the dark purple leaf skirt, taking a half step back. As one of your arms drops to their waist, the other has something pressed into it. It’s cold and metallic. A round shape at the end of it you recognize as the pommel of a dagger.

“I’ll… I’ll make it easy for you. It’ll be so easy.”

Deiliús is holding the dagger by its blade, their grip on it is so strong that it’s cutting into the palm of their hand and fingers. Gilding the edges with golden sap. They either don’t notice or don’t care. Letting go of the blade, they take your hand instead and position it so that the both of you are holding the hilt. Fingers overlapping. The warmth of the sap trickles around your hand and between your knuckles. They rest their forehead on the top of your shoulder as though their head was too heavy.

Knowing that Madrúil had a special hatred for them, you are torn as to what to do. They hadn’t ever shared the full extent of what they’d gone through at the hands of the kennelmaster, but your imagination filled enough in to make you feel sick. With the Countess gone for the foreseeable future you wonder about what would be kindest for them. You…

A. Refuse.

B Reluctantly comply

C. Try to talk things out.

➡A.

You refuse.

“I won’t.” You hear your voice crack at the end. Surely there was something else that could be done. Pulling your hand out of theirs and retreating backwards in alarm. Deiliús is devastated.

“Please don’t make me do this alone.”

“I am not going to kill you.”

They had been close to tears before but something shifted, something broke. The expression changed from grief to a wooden distance, a blankness.

“Fine.”

As they say that, you realize with a bolt of terror that you’ve left them with the dagger by accident. Not realizing you’d handed it off when you pulled back. They’re aware of it too and before you can get it away from them they’ve sunk it deep into the side of their neck. Pushing it away from them and cutting a thick line across the whole of it.

You frantically reach to try and keep pressure on it but it’s no use, you can’t seem to slow it at all. Worse still, Deiliús weakly pushes you away as you attempt to help and sinks to the floor. They refuse to look at you.

Helpless, you can only watch as the pool of escaping sap grows larger and larger, while the mesmer pales. They scoot away from you to press their back up to the wall and pull their knees to their chest, curling inwards. Seconds lead to minutes. Eventually, you realize that they have stopped moving at all.

➡B.

Swallowing with difficulty around the lump that has sprung to your throat, you nod.

“If you’re sure?”

“Thank you and I-I’m sorry.” They turn their head just enough to be able to meet your eyes for a split second, offering an apologetic smile.

You feel the grip around your hand tighten and before you have a chance to say or think anything else, Deiliús has already forced the blade up through their chest. They make a little strangled sound of pain and you catch them as they start to sink. You lower the both of you to the ground, to a near sitting position and there’s a hollowness that grows when you realize how light they are.

Staying that way until the last of the too wet sounding gasps stop.

➡C.

“Let’s just talk about this. We can think of something else.”

“There is nothing else.” Deiliús says with a tone that haunts you with its certainty. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to?”

You pull away from them for a moment. “There might be something.”

“I’m dead anyway when he figures it out. So what does it matter?” They give a bitter, airless laugh. Your expression must have read loudly a certain way because they frown and close their eyes, as if tired, sighing heavily.

“You don’t have to help but don’t ...leave. I don’t want to be alone. And then run. Mad’s not going to be happy he didn’t get to finish the job.”

You can only nod in agreement. Turning your eyes away for a moment as they impale themselves on the dagger with a grunt of pain. The blade goes skittering across the ground as they toss it away from them. Deiliús puts a hand against the wall to steady themself before realizing there wasn’t a reason to. Seating themself on the floor before they fall to it.

You sit next to them - they give a tense yet grateful attempt to smile.

Minutes pass in heavy silence. When you find you can’t hear them breathing any longer - you make to stand but find the exit has become obscured by a shape. It’s dark blue. And glowing orange.

“Well isn’t this cozy.” Madrúil grins unkindly, pointed canines revealed. You understand Deiliús a lot better now.

#gw2 #Deiliús #NMC #nightmare troop #OC #Sylvari #asks #otome asks

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