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buglife · 3 years

Note

21 for Dadmaster Mato and Ghost :)

“What did you do this time?”

(Again no beta reader, sorry for any errors!)

The wind blew as harsh as they ever did, carrying the faint whistling sounds from far off places as it ruffled the cloth in the door way. Mato had since learned to listen to the wind since he made his home so far off in the Howling Cliffs. The wind carried so much that could be read if you knew how to do so. So it was there he sat, a small fire before him warming up some water for tea, in his typical position of meditation. The fire and the wind tended to help his mind focus on what is important, but to also provide noise he can sink into and let his mind drift.

He thought about his child, mostly. It has been a while since they visited and even though he knew they were capable, he still couldn’t help but worry. Sly had told him similar, the last time they were able to speak. No matter how capable someone is, to be loved is to be worried about, plain and simple. So, he tried to cast his mind outward to listen to the wind and see what news it brought.

The wind had picked up in its howling, blowing the sound of scattering pebbles and the sharp slice of the nail cutting through. A thin scraping noise and the shrieks of lesser beasts told him that something was coming. Indeed, after some moments of listening, came the soft limping patter of tiny feet and the sharp dragging of metal just outside his dwelling. Mato opened his eyes long enough to see the inner cloth door waggle, before a figured messily fell through to land with a wet splat on the floor. Their small shining nail clattered a few inches away before stopping

The figure was familiar and Mato found himself climbing to his feet in record time at the sight. “Ghost!”

Said Ghost was face down on the floor. Their mask had cracked and their cloak was littered in burns and splashes of orange. A thin puddle of black dribbled out around them, no doubt hiding other wounds. Motes of black drifted from the visible cracks in their head as they shook, trying once again to get up.

They didn’t need to do anything, as Mato had already gathered up the small child, his child, in his arms. He felt them use an arm, the other seemed fit to just dangle, and patted his mask. He had learned to tell by the tilting of their head, the slight angle of their eye holes, and the way they relaxed on being held, that they were smiling at him. They were obviously glad to see him, just like any other time since the first when they walked into his humble home. But he could also feel their exhaustion, how they were struggling to breathe and not shiver too hard. Each expanse of their sides was a hard won battle and one he was deathly afraid of them loosing.

“Ghost, my dear little child…” Mato heard himself say. He snuggled the small form of the little warrior close. “What did you do this time?”

He knew of course, that his child, his student, was mute. They could write and knew some sign language, which was something he thankfully knew. Sly was insistent on all three brothers to know it, as a language that was completely silent was the best way to communicate deep within enemy territory. He watched as they patted his face once more, before messily attempting to sign with one hand.

<“Trouble.”>

“Trouble, you say?” He was already moving, kicking a switch near the door to drop down a heavy wooden wall, something to keep out said ‘trouble’ and the howling wind. The room instantly became warmer and quiet after the initial clang of falling shellwood. “Trouble you found, or trouble that found you?”

<”Both.”>

“Nevermind, my child. I will ask questions later. Right now you need help and I fully intend to give it to you.” It was getting harder for Mato to ignore the frigid feeling of void as it started to soak into the cracks between his armor and into the cloth below. Oh, his poor little child must be in a lot of pain, but besides the shivering, an outsider would never be able to tell.

But he had started to learn all about his child and was beginning to read them without words being needed. And he knew, here and now, that he needed to work quickly. Ghost had learned far into their past to hide pain and discomfort, something yes, that would help out in the field. But they didn’t need to hide their pain from him. It was something he was slowly working with them, but it takes a lot more than a few bare weeks to undue years of trauma and hardship.

Ghost patted him again, and then tucked their arm around his neck in a bid to stay upright in his arms. He at first wanted to put them down to gather up his supplies, but decided it was best to keep contact as long as possible. Ghost has learned to gain comfort from his embrace and if they felt like it was helping here, he will allow them to do so as long as it could be possible.

So Mato held them in one arm, letting them snuggle and bleed into the warm, fluffy ruff of his cape. With them comforted and warm, he could gather what he needed. The hot water now perfect for tea was dragged away from the fire and poured into a basin. Strips of cloth, a vial of glowing blue liquid, and a jar of paste assembled neatly in front of a pile of pillows in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry my child, I’m going to have to put you down for now to treat you.” He was careful to tell Ghost what he indented to do. It seemed to keep them calmer and helped them get used to the idea that they were deserving of help. Another thing that is taking time to work on.

He briefly held back his rage and his grief when he remembered the time Ghost opened up to him. He had watched as they wrote neatly on paper to tell him of their father, the Pale King. How they had been forced to climb out of the abyss on a carpet of their dead siblings. Watching more still fall as they attempted the harsh climb upward, hearing their little shells crack and splinter on the rocks below. Only to get to the top and watch their sibling be taken away and then sealed away to be forgotten. How they fell down and down and down and it was at this time Ghost had broken into tears and Mato had hugged them for hours. It was then he had told them that a mark of a true father was ones who were brimming with love and care and if they would like it, he could be their father. Not the loathsome pitiful creature who was once their king, that was no father.

He was surprised and honored when Ghost had hugged back harder and signed ‘yes’.

It was then he knew this was the first time Ghost had ever felt true love and caring from any other bug.

Mato set Ghost down on the pillows and made sure they were comfortable. “Now, don’t wiggle too much, and I will fix you some hot cocoa later.” Ghost had perked up at the sound of ‘hot cocoa’, the little vessel had a sweet tooth that was worse than Oro’s. They tried to stay still despite their shivering and Mato was not going to hold that against them as he worked quickly.

A wipe down with the hot water cleaned them off enough to see what he needed to work with. The gashes and burns in their carapace was quickly coated in a layer of lifeblood and bandaged up with clean cloth. The cracks in their mask was filled with shell paste and also wrapped to keep the edges as close together as possible. He had did his best to clean their cloak. Their cloak was strange and he suspected it was actually alive, perhaps underdeveloped wings? He wasn’t sure but he did his best to wipe it clean. Once cleaned and all bandaged up, Mato wrapped his little Ghost in the fluffiest blanket he could find, moving the entire bundle to his own bed.

Now that he was treated, Ghost looked more tired than they did pained, which gladdened him. He arranged them on the softer part of the bed.

“Now, do you think you can remain awake long enough for your much deserved cocoa?” He smiled as they gingerly nodded their head. They sat up a little straighter and made ‘gimmie’ motions with their hands. One still seemed weaker than the other, but that should do better after some rest.

Not wanting to keep Ghost waiting, Mato made a mug of cocoa as quickly as he could, adding a few teaspoons of honey to the mix. Not only did Ghost absolutely love honey, it was also a boon for healing. Mato added an extra tea spoon for that very reason and carried it out. After helping the vessel drink it, he tucked them in and added even more pillows.

“I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with me a little longer.” He couldn’t help but grin again. “I hope you won’t mind a day or two of bedrest.”

Ghost shook their head sluggishly, the warm drink and the various medicines started to drag them out of the waking world. They lazily signed with one hand, the other snug under the pillows.

<“Training?”>

“If you’d like to learn some new techniques, I would be more than happy to teach you. AFTER, I deem you fit for it, and not a moment sooner!” He reached down to gently pat the space between their horns. They sighed and melted into the touch, snuggling further into the warmth.

He thinks they attempted to sign something, but the meaning was lost as they went limp in comfort. He merely took the small hand and tucked it back under the covers.

“Goodnight, my child.” He whispered softly, pulling up the covers to just under their eye holes. They were asleep, and the soft rise and fall of the covers reassured him that they were alive and on the mend. “I love you.”

If they heard that last part of not, he wasn’t sure, but he knew that they finally, in the first time in their life, they could expect to feel it.

#hollow knight #fanfiction #dadmaster mato #nailmaster mato #ghost #tw for injury #dadmaster being best dad #mato #Ghost's first instinct was to go to Mato #found family #just a bit of hurt/comfort #i will keep doing these these are really fun #cozynightsky #terra lumina canon #terra lumina

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labelleofbelfastcity · 3 years

Text

hold my hand, it’s a long way down

1.5k, high fantasy royalty au, most of the details of which were provided by @capybart

read on ao3 here

Kalina smirks as she glides into the room, black furs gleaming around her shoulders and long train hissing across the floor. Riz, reflexively, takes a step back, as his eyes clock the false crown atop her head, the feline smile curving her mouth, and the knife in her hand, flickering in the candlelight.

“I trust you’re doing well,” she says, and keeps approaching until she’s standing right before him, staring him down.

Riz’s heart jumps a beat and his eyes dart around, trying to see where he can go, what he can grab, if it is even likely to move at all before that knife is sliding into his neck and tearing an ugly gash in his throat. “Not with any thanks to you.”

Kalina huffs, mouth quirking to the side, before she slumps down to sit on his bed, shoulders falling and head tilting to look at him. The black gem in the center of her diadem seems to dance like cold fire, drawing Riz’s eyes to it even as he tries to focus on a million and one other things. Unnatural, Riz thinks, with a sickening shock directly to his heart. And then he remembers the things people have always whispered about Kalina, words like witch and sorceress and Shadow Cat. Remembers those words and sees the way her eyes flash yellow in the candle’s flame.

“I’m disappointed in you, kiddo. I thought you’d figure out by now that this is all for you.”

“Where’s my mom?” Riz spits out, as he has done every time Kalina visits him in these much too fancy rooms, this much too fancy prison.

Kalina rolls her eyes, leans back on one arm, flips the dagger in her other hand, “Thought we got past that already.”

“I know you did something to her.”

“I didn’t do anything. Besides, she’s safe. She’s comfortable. What more could you ask of me?”

“I want you to give her back.”

“And I thought it was you, kiddo, who told me not too long ago that people weren’t toys. That they couldn’t be given and taken. Hm. Must be wrong about that.” Kalina flicks the tip of the dagger at him, holding it just a few inches away from Riz’s ribs, where she could slide it straight up and into his heart. “That’s not what I came here for, though. How’s the prince doing?”

“Aren’t you at court with him?” Riz spits out, and refuses to yield yet another step.

“Yes, yes. And he’s doing so well today, too. I’ve never seen a more attentive courter, practically glued to the Lady Aelwyn’s side. Which is funny, seeing as how we had to drag him from his rooms less than a week ago.”

“Fabian’s not planning anything,” Riz says, leaving out the because I am.

Kalina huffs, and taps the dagger against her own cheek, “I don’t know when you’ll learn. Everything you know, I know. I’m in your head, kiddo.”

Riz’s spine snaps straight as a scream he knows doesn’t exist sounds from his left, and then his right, screams that sounds like Fig and Fabian. Screams he only knows because of that day, weeks ago, when the Abernants and their holy warriors in gleaming sun-forged metal took the castle and forced the prince, Riz’s friend, the person Riz was supposed to protect above all else, to stab his father in the heart. Fig had screamed then, in rage, and tried to take the nearest knight out with a swing of her lute, and Fabian had screamed later, when the three of them were back in these rooms, in that soft, silent way of tears and grief and heartache and complete and total betrayal.

“See? That’s what you don’t understand,” Kalina says, standing once again. “That’s what I’m saving you from. I’m protecting your little friends because you’re useful to me. You don’t want to stop being useful to me, do you?”

Riz remains where he is, fighting back the nausea as the screams grow. Now, he couldn’t move even if he wanted to, rooted to the spot by a clawed hand holding tightly onto his mind.

“Do you?” Kalina asks again, and this time she brings the knife up to Riz’s jaw, just under his ear. The cold pricks against his skin and Riz is so afraid.

“No,” he rasps out, and she smiles again, eyes crinkling. The screams immediately stop.

“Good.” The heavy handle of the knife drops into Riz’s hand, and his fingers close over it reflexively. It’s dangerous, to give your enemy a weapon. Dangerous, still, to give them a weapon they have no hope to use in any way that counts. “You can’t get away from me, bud. Just remember that.”

Riz snarls at her, “We’re going to stop you.”

Kalina clucks her tongue and begins to walk away, “The only way you’ll escape is if I want you to.”

The door swings shut behind her right as her hold over Riz’s body drops, and he sags a little, before startling upright again. She must know, there’s no way she doesn’t. Her knowing had not been a factor of the plan, despite everything pointing towards its likelihood. Really, how could Riz have been so stupid? He’ll need a few minutes to change things, modify them so that they can actually escape, can actually get out of here.

Fabian is trapped in this castle. Fig is trapped. Their new ally, the oracle Adaine Abernant, their friend, is trapped as well. He can’t risk their freedom for himself, can’t risk Fabian and Fig’s sacrifices and the dangerous line between family and safety Adaine is flirting with. He just… he’ll figure out another way. He just needs time.

The heavy sound of a wooden lute being swung against a head thunks from outside Riz’s door, and then it’s opening to reveal his friends standing on the threshold. No, no, no, this is happening too fast. He hasn’t had time to plan.

Fig lowers her lute from where it’s raised in the air, hovering around where the now unconscious guard’s head probably was less than a second ago.

“Shit, Riz, we need to go,” Adaine says, hoisting her skirts and sprinting for his window, the same window Riz had been preparing before Kalina waltzed in.

Fabian twirls his red, embroidered, very much not stealthy court cloak from his shoulders, slinging on the black one he’d stashed on Riz’s chair earlier. The cloak that Kalina had most certainly seen because Riz hadn’t bothered to hide it. “We have five minutes.”

Adaine throws the window open and immediately heaves one of her legs out of it, hair whipping slightly in the breeze. She reaches behind her and grabs Fig’s hand, pulling her up and onto the windowsill beside her.

They’ve discussed this plan ad nauseum for weeks. So it’s almost too easy for Adaine and Fig to leap from the window with nothing but a nod, not even noticing how Riz has yet to move from his spot.

“Alright, we’re next, The Ball,” Fabian says, and hoists himself up onto the windowsill, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders in preparation for the leap.

Riz moves, then, takes a step back, hands outstretched in a pleading way that doesn’t connect with the usual brave, cunning parts of himself, the parts that plan a castle escape and wind up as companion to the prince. “You can’t take me with you. Kalina, she’s— She’s in my head. She knows, Fabian. I can’t risk it.”

Fabian’s mouth tugs and he leans back into the room, grabbing one of Riz’s outstretched hands and tugging him forward, to the open window, to their one chance at escape. “I didn’t leave you behind before, I’m not about to start now.”

And Riz remembers, remembers the way he and Fig had fought tooth and nail during those first moments of the coup, before the King had fallen at his son’s hand. They’d bought Fabian a second of time, a moment to run, but he’d frozen, frozen as the knights grappled Fig and Riz, frozen with his sword hanging in the air, the wound on his face a bleeding mess.

“Go, Fabian,” Riz had screamed, Fig shouting as well.

Fabian’s sword clattered out of his hand, and he allowed himself to be grabbed by the knight who cut out his eye, to be dragged alongside Riz and Fig to that throne room, to where Kalina and the Abernants waited with King Bill Seacaster slowly bleeding out on his own steps.

“I couldn’t leave you, The Ball. I couldn’t lose you.” Fabian had said that night, once the tears were dry and Fig snored beside them.

“You won’t. We’re going to get through this together,” Riz had said and curled up tightly into Fabian’s side.

The memory flashes in Riz’s head, and then it’s gone, and Riz is back in his night dark room, wind from the open window brushing against his cheeks, and Fabian’s warm hand wrapped around his, pleading, in his own way, for him to follow.

Riz holds tight to the dagger Kalina had given him, the dagger he plans to hurl straight into her heart someday, and allows himself to be pulled out of the window.

#bellewrites #this was SO FUN #fantasy high #dimension 20 #fic #fanfic #riz gukgak #fabriz #kalina

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allycryz · 3 years

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‘ you’re exhausted, [nickname of your choice]. ’ haurche x emet <3 IF your reblog was requesting prompts, if it wasn't, then no pressure! (:

It was! Please enjoy!

Timeline: post-ShB, Hades and Nerys are together. Loosely set after this prompt fill but not at all needed to read before reading this. Hades is struggling coming to terms with the fact that he is in love with Thancred and Y’shtola, and now here comes Haurchefant

Food cw

Hades dissipated out of the bed in a rush of aether.

They slept too lightly for him to rearrange things–shift Nerys into the space left between her and Thancred. And he might need the opening if he chose to return. Might. It was hardly comfortable, cramming five people into this bed. Fortunate, that Urianger chose this week to sequester himself in Thanalan.

The four of them remained asleep. For a breath of a moment he thought Haurchefant opened his eyes. But no, the man remained in perfect repose with Y’shtola curled up in his arms. Both in easy, peaceful sleep after bells of activity.

No one else was in the kitchen when he shuffled in, bleary-eyed and less than sure-footed. Blessedly empty...and cursedly understocked. He had balanced Tataru’s ledgers himself last week before his departure. Someone had been greedy about taking more than their share.

A fine homecoming. He rubbed at his now-healed hip as he considered what remained. The laceration was long gone before he returned from the mission Nerys had sent him on–handling a crowd of wealthy mages set on a coup in Ishgard. His own magic had repaired the damage before his “welcoming party” could fuss over it. And still, Y’shtola had stroked her claws over it and given him a pointed look.

Peppermint tea was the best of the options. No hardship truly, but coffee or his preferred types of tea would have been preferable. At least the Ironworks appliances were in good working order. Naturally, the most reliable components of his past-midnight drink were of Garlean make.

“I’m surprised you’re awake.”

Hades near bit his tongue at the sound. He must be tired if he hadn’t detected someone approaching. “Last I saw you, my lord, you looked dead asleep.”

“Oh I’ve been drifting in and out. What are you having?” There was all the room in the world for Haurchefant to stand on either side of him. Instead, the man put himself directly behind Hades and peered over his shoulder. “I did not know you liked peppermint tea.”

“It’s fine. There is nothing else available.”

“Incorrect, dear Hades.” His breath fluttered against Hades’ ear before he moved to the cupboard a few paces away. He felt along the wood panel...and tapped before opening it. Prior, it had contained nothing but containers for leftovers. Now it held a bevy of baking supplies, including several bars of expensive Ishagrdian bittersweet chocolate. “Fetch me the milk and heavy cream, if you please. If we only have one of those, we shall make do.”

“Did you do this? I did not think your thaumaturgy lessons had advanced this far.” He ignored the request to examine the working. This had also escaped his notice, the charms for it dormant and cloaked until Haurchefant roused them.

“No no, all I did was provide the ‘key’, as it were. Luckily, I have an intimate acquaintance with several renowned mages and scholars.” It was a difficult thing, to straddle the line of lechery and love in one expression. Most tried and failed. Yet, here was a shining example, so bright that it could hurt the dark aether Hades drew upon. “The milk and-”

“Yes, yes, I’ll fetch them.”

There was no heavy cream but they did have prodigious amount of milk in the icebox. He brought it over to the other man, who set to chopping chocolate upon the wooden cutting board shaped like a very rotund cat.

“...I do need to ask,” Haurchefant said amidst the rhythmic chopping. “Why did you not simply magic yourself a cup of your preferred beverage?”

Hades dropped his face into one hand with a very long, very exasperated sigh. The other hand flicked into the air, providing Haurchefant with a bottle of the heavy cream they lacked. “It goes without saying, you will not mention this.”

“Of course not,” Haurchefant chuckled. He set the knife down and wiped his hands with the nearby towel. “Darling man, you’re exhausted aren’t you?”

“Even I can be depleted at times.”

“If I may be so bold-”

“My dear ser, when have you ever hesitated before?”

“More than you might imagine.” He caught the long tie of Hades’ robe, rubbing the silken fabric between thumb and forefinger. The mirth diminished in his eyes, replaced with something softer, more vulnerable. And that same, often-aggravating core of resiliency he always carried with him. “I will be bold then. You undertook a perilous mission, traveled a long way back to great aetheric cost, and then was promptly ravished by three lovely people and their very handsome Ishgardian. Why are you not sound asleep in the bed right now?

“Strange as it may seem...sometimes one can be so exhausted, you cannot sleep.” Hades tugged the sash away, gesturing at the ingredients. “Come now, you need to heat the dairy.”

“I have been fortunate enough not to experience that. Though I have witnessed it in Nerys sometimes.” With that, Haurchefant set to obedience; dutifully measuring out the liquids, the sugar, the small amount of espresso. He had witnessed the man cook before but never with exact amounts. Haurchefant was more likely to add by eye and by taste than employ the cups and spoons he did then.

“Though I am sorry it exhausted you into insomnia…” Haurchefant plucked a whisk from the drawer. “I am glad you allowed us to welcome you back properly.”

Hades made a show of studying his nails. The black paint had chipped dreadfully since Nerys painted them last. He willed the color away with a brush of magic–he would ask her for a new manicure in the morning. “You may have noticed, ser, that I enjoy the carnal pleasures.”

“I may have noticed it once or twice, yes.” The metal spokes of the whisk made light music upon the saucepan as Haurchefant studied the edges. Poised to move as soon as the correct bubbles appeared.

Haurchefant hummed a somewhat familiar tune. An old Ishgradian nursery song, Hades guessed. Abominably catchy, sure to haunt him for hours going forward. The man made it charming enough to forgive him for it.

The saucepan left the flame, chocolate dropped into the mixture. The rich aroma filled the air and Hades felt something in him relax at it. He’d never had much of a sweet tooth but chocolate...that was a concept he approved of. Haurchefant filled two delicate cups and brought them to the table in the corner, beckoning him to join.

Hades set himself in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. The first sip of chocolate was everything the aroma promised: rich, dark, sweet but not overly so. Perhaps he would be able to sleep tonight.

“Do you like it?”

“Quality as always, Lord Emissary.” Hades inclined his head. “I hope it remedies whatever has you up and about at such a forsaken hour.”

“Truly? I got out of bed to check on you.”

“Kind of you,” said Hades, ignoring the treacherous pain in his chest. Determined not to give in to the tenderness of the statement. “But also: nosy. Dear dear, what shall be done with you?”

“If I recall…” Haurchefant’s eyebrows rose. “You made excellent use of me this evening.”

“Yes, Nerys does like to see you in raptures. And I am nothing if not generous to my lovers.”

"How generous? What might I receive from you?"

If Haurchefant wanted to play this game, Hades would oblige. (It certainly was steadier ground.) “For one, you might receive the gift of my receiving. You gave to everyone else but me.”

“Oh but Hades…” Haurchefant learned forward and curled his index finger under Hades’ chin. "Would you deny me the sight of you thrusting? Every time you do...Fury but you're radiant. And you feel perfect."

Sweeter words had been spoken in his ear, similar overtures made in far more sensual environs. But Haurchefant speaking those words in the dark kitchen, gazing at him like that-

-he found it very hard to breathe or think of a response.

Instinct took over, millenia of etiquette stamped into his bones. Mores and gestures changed over time and place but many classics were the same as they had been in Amaurot. He caught Haurchefant’s hand and kissed it with a mild, seated bow.

He found his voice and looked up with his sly, ready smile. And Haurchefant looked at him with such aching sweetness that it broke him again. The next innuendo caught in his throat and instead he said, “Nerys was right, when she called you a poetic soul.”

“Thank you, dear Hades.” He rose and Hades braced himself for the kiss, the caress of hand upon cheek. The table might support their weight though the floor would be better-

His lips dropped upon the crown of Hades’ hair. "I hope the chocolate helps you sleep. I expect you to come to bed at some point, lovely one."

"Even if it disturbs your sleep again?" Hades murmured, feeling the same treacherous pain in the hollow cavity of his chest.

"Ah Hades, it will be well worth it to see the happiness on their faces to wake up with you. All three of them."

He departed. Hades stared into his half-full cup of chocolate.

"Good morning."

"Ugh," Hades dragged the pillow over his face. "Precisely what is good about this bright sun at this early hour?"

"I have some ideas." Thancred slid a hand into the silk robe. Tracing the creases and marks the bunched fabric left during the night. "When did you put this on?"

"Does it matter?" Hades grumbled, stilling under the light touch.

"Probably not." The cheeky knave took away his pillow and straddled his waist, far too energetic and chipper for a man with claw marks across his chest.

Hades sighed, looking up into that handsome face. “Where are the others?”

The door to the attached bathroom opened, answering his question. The missing three filed out in towels, robes, and damp hair. Y’shtola smirked at them. “Are we interrupting?”

"Do you want to interrupt?" Hades asked. The truth he had been–stubbornly, foolishly–ignoring was plain on their faces. Thancred and Y’shtola looked at him the same way Nerys did and he was glad for it.

What he should have expected and was still thrown by: Haurchefant gazed at him the same way.

Ah. He thought as Y'shtola got onto the bed. I do believe I am in trouble.

#ally writes #haurchefant greystone #emet-selch #haurchefant x emet-selch #nerys eluned #ffxiv #food cw #shadowbringers spoilers #other background ships #thancred waters #y'shtola rhul

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bookspined · 4 years

Text

❝ that’s all history is after all: scar tissue. ❞

{ cis-man, he/him } huh, who’s FROY GUTIERREZ? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually SCORPIUS MALFOY. he is a TWENTY-TWO year old PUREBLOOD wizard who is A HEALING APPRENTICE. he is known for being CAPTIOUS, RETICENT, FACETIOUS, DISMISSIVE, and DRAMATIC but also RESOURCEFUL, CONSCIENTIOUS, FERVENT, INNOVATIVE, and OBSERVANT, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song IN DREAMS BY BEN HOWARD. i hear he is aligned with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, so be sure to keep an eye on him. { merry, 24, gmt, she/they }

CHARACTER PARALLELS: Amy Santiago (B99), Claire Temple (Daredevil), Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place), Giles (Buffy TVS), Michelle Jones (MCU), Simon Tam (Firefly), Elizabeth Swan (PoTC), Spock (Star Trek), Clarke Griffin (The 100), Harley Keener (MCU), Gregory House (House) suggested honorable mention Gizmo (Gremlins)

pinterest [blood, medical imagery tw]

wanted connection ideas

Full Name: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy Gender/Pronouns: Cis man | he/him Age: Twenty-three Birthdate: January 20th Parents: Draco Lucius Malfoy & Astoria Céline Malfoy (née Greengrass) [Not biologically Astoria’s due to her health, if you ever point this out he’ll flay your eyeballs] Siblings: N/A. Birth place: St. Mungo’s Hospital, England Height: 5’11” Weight: 56 kg Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Demiromantic Bisexual Nationality: British Body Alterations/Marks: A ragged diamond shape scar at the base of his throat.

Blood Status: Pureblood Hogwarts House: Slytherin Wand Arm: Right Pet: His pet toad, Jarvis, recently passed away. Patronus: Arctic Fox Wand: 11 2/3 inches, Willow, Supple, Dragon Heartstring.

Willow is an uncommon wand wood with healing power, I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity, however well they may try and hide it. While many confident customers insist on trying a willow wand (attracted by their handsome appearance and well-founded reputation for enabling advanced, non-verbal magic) my willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. It has always been a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow.

Personality Traits: Brilliance, innovative, empathetic, individuality, openness, social consciousness, inventive, logical, practical skills and self assertion; lack of attachment to people outside his circle and the “real world,” over-intellectualizing of the emotions, dismissive, anxious, crotchety tempered, facetious, rigid, prone to self-isolation, intellectual arrogance, and stubborn. Zodiac Sign: Aquarius/Capricorn Cusp Moral Alignment: Neutral Good Core values: Loyalty, Knowledge, Hope Four temperaments: Melancholic

HOGWARTS HOUSE ANALYSIS

Slytherin Primary and a Burned Ravenclaw Secondary.

Slytherin Primaries prioritize their own selves and loved ones first. Slytherins don’t feel guilty or selfish about this– they feel righteous and moral. The most important thing is to look after your own. Abandoning or hurting one of your own is the worst thing you can do.

A Burned Ravenclaw Secondary might want to be skilled, curious, and prepared, but they feel like they are (or like people think they are) limited, clumsy, or inconstant. Gathering knowledge, hobbies, skills, or tools is the right way to achieve their goals, but Burned Ravenclaws know that’s not going to work within their capabilities. So they take other paths and use other tools– maybe a Gryffindor’s bluntness, a Slytherin’s flexibility, or a Hufflepuff’s slow and steady dedication.

You may have a Hufflepuff Secondary Model.

Hufflepuff is the House of grit, reliability, and determination, and Hufflepuffs use those values to help live, act, and succeed. If you model Hufflepuff Secondary, you also value these things and like to live by them. You like to be hardworking, dedicated, and consistent– but you wouldn’t feel guilty for abandoning those values in the service of other, higher priorities. If there’s another, easier way to get what you want– you’d take it. You think hard work provides valuable rewards– and those rewards are why you work. The work doesn’t have persuasive value in itself.

Despite his very best resistance he’s always been pretty empathetic in nature, he tries to rule his emotions as well as he can but fails more often than not. He was always one of those toddlers that if another kid started crying he’d be right along with them, not because he wanted attention but because he just couldn’t not. A bit of a crybaby, has researched how to magically seal up his tear ducts. Obviously managed to keep the family’s flair for the dramatic there as well. After a few years he leant into the sarcastic vague-snobbishness to hide the core of overwhelming anxiety.

Just managed to scrape through his schooling with nearly all top grades, this isn’t really due to him being a model student. He has always accrued information with a voracious appetite. Any knowledge he could find, even if most people would consider it entirely useless. His mind clicks into that place? You can’t keep him away. However, when there is not an immediate stir of interest on his approach to a topic he has to fight with himself tooth and nail to carry on.

Predictably found exam season highly stressful, was never open about it but was quietly competitive and silently smug over his good grades. Could comprehend well above his reading level from an early age and would often look into experimental research and complicated magic but found himself lost in OWL level History of Magic when chapter upon chapter lay ahead of him about something that didn’t catch his interest. Some people he beat just to spite cause he hates them. It worked, whatever.

Tends toward introversion and finds himself tired sometimes quite easily by a large amount of social interaction. Witty and big-mouthed when he feels comfortable or is in the presence of those that embolden him and very likely to get flustered and snap at people when things are becoming a bit too much. Especially if he feels however unjustly that someone is blocking his escape. Has matured slightly in this since leaving school but it happens still, he’s just anxious. Quite fickle and can at the drop of a hat decide that he’s done with you for the day once his Give Me Attention Meter is maxed. Could be an absolute bloody brat when he felt like it but feels he has grown out of it, which he mostly has.

Always been very, very aware of many people’s distrust of him and his family, he used to sneer and play it up if anyone tried to bring up his dad and go on the offensive but was genuinely affected quite deeply by it all. In his early school years, despite his weakness to the cold, he constantly had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow so that his blank forearm was bared as a statement to just about everyone. I am not marked, I never will be. Now he’s older he has more of a handle on things and can be diplomatic in situations where people are clearly discomforted by his presence and his family history.

Even though the war culminated far earlier in this verse I imagine Scor would have had to have been relatively sheltered as a child if not for how emotionally sensitive and prone to periods of ill-health he was, it was definitely for his own safety. He is still the grandson of a known high-ranking Death Eater and that made him a media target and put one on his back for anyone else that might happen to be watching.

Never produced much of a talent for offensive magic and wouldn’t resort to those methods unless he had literally no other choice, not a front line fighter by any means. His talents with strategy, potion-making, healing and his perseverance with defensive magic are what define him to the Order. While everyone kind of knows who he hung out with at school and who his friends are he is deliberately very mischievous with releasing rumours and misleading people. He deliberately keeps his cards very close to his chest so most people don’t know that he is aligned with anyone, he usually uses glamours or a scarf to conceal his identity if he has to.

While he is knowledgeable about healing and anatomy, he is the WORST at taking care of himself. The literal embodiment of Healers make the worst patients, tends to forgo sleep and basic bodily needs if he’s locked into what he’s focusing on. Sometimes needs reminders to sleep and eat, like a child.

Healing is the most satisfying part of his life and he would never give it up, he likes to experiment as he has a fascination with magic and muggle science and where they might intersect. A fucking nerd honestly. While he thinks he’s being fairly subtle about it a large part of his academic life has been doused in research into blood maledictions, for obvious reasons. He does his best not to flutter too obviously around his Mum. She is capable and ten times stronger than he is.

Lives in a small studio flat in Diagon Alley that is mostly stacks of books and makeshift shelves.

the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere and fine wool, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, faintly tremoring fingers, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, a thunderous grey overcast sky, the bite of a stitching charm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, petrichor, the burn in your eyes before a well of tears.

Always had somewhat fragile health tending toward sickly. Hands are never warm, his existence is an endless heat seeking mission.

Went to one Slug Club meeting and used his time to verbally berate and or challenge most of the contacts in attendance, he was not asked to return.

Potions Club, Charms Club, used to sometimes be willing to be dragged to Dueling Club but didn’t enjoy himself.

Plays quite a bit of chess.

Bruises like a fucking peach and scars so easily.

Views quidditch as a good fly spoiled.

Is a very skilled pianist almost entirely due to his Grandmother’s tutelage.

Surprisingly great with children/toddlers/babies, no one including himself expected this, he mostly feared them beforehand.

Bit of a mummy’s boy in that he practically GLOWS when people talk of Astoria’s achievements.

When he has time off from healing he will have chipped black nail varnish on.

Highly intelligent but rarely manages to match a pair of socks, chews his quills but no one else’s.

While very eloquent and well spoken, he is markedly less posh than when he first arrived at Hogwarts.

When he isn’t prone to bouts of insomnia he can take a nap pretty much anywhere. He was once found in a tree after several frantic hours search.

[ CREDIT : CHARACTER PSD template by @karmahelper (defunct url) I tried to find a current social this week by messaging around but couldn’t find anything unfortunately. Forgot to copy this over from the google doc! ]

#potterintro #finally #sorry if this is missing anything

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welovekpopscenarios · 7 years

Text

Forever Pt. 2 (Jeonghan x Reader)

Admin: Mimi

Prompt/Ask: can i ask for the jeonghan angst sequel ahh h it’s really gold. thank you! !! ily

-AND-

Hi! I just read your Jeonghan angst scenario 'Forever' and i thought it was really good! If it's not a hassle or something, is it possible for it to have a sequel? :)

Fandom: SEVENTEEN

Genre: Angst, fluff (?)

Pairing: Jeonghan x Reader

Warnings: Hospitals, surgery, sadness, etc

Word Count: 2655

Authors Note: FIRSTLY I’M NOT A MEDICAL EXPERT - I don’t know much in the medical field, and while I did my research, there may be some inaccuracies. However, here is the requested second part to Forever! I hope everyone enjoys it as much as the first part (which you can find below if you haven’t read it). Again, let me know if there are errors, feedback is appreciated, and happy reading ^^

- PART 1 -

Jeonghan didn’t think it was possible for a person to be permanently sad for their life, but after everything that has happened with you and your accident, he’s beginning to question his original thoughts.

It’s been two years since you had slipped into a coma, and Jeonghan can honestly say those two years were the darkest years he’s ever experienced in his lifetime, and the longer you stay asleep, the darker his life becomes.

He visits you every day – well, he tries, but eventually work crawled on his back like a gremlin and he had to somewhat return to the life he had before the tragedy struck. The only difference was this life had a huge gaping hole in it that you filled, and despite being surrounded by his brothers and family and friends, Jeonghan has never felt as alone as he did.

The daily visits were shortened to every second day, then every week, and at this point he’d be lucky to even see you once a month, and the thought makes him absolutely sick to his stomach. He’s felt so guilty some nights that he actually did get sick, bent over the toilet as he clutched at his gut as he dry heaved, the streams of tears falling from his eyes long forgotten. He spends those episodes in the bathroom for the night, shaking and sobbing as he lays on the cold tiles of floor.

Those episodes happen more often than he’d like to admit.

He knows the other boys try their best to make him happy, to reassure him that ‘if there’s a downhill, there’s an uphill’ as Wonwoo put it one night, to drag him out of the pits of gloom and despair he’s seemingly buried himself in, but there’s a part of Jeonghan that knows it isn’t enough. And that makes him feel even guiltier, not even finding comfort in the ones he calls his family.

The other members know he isn’t getting better. He’s aware of that fact, but he just can’t muster up the energy to perform a miraculous change, even if it was for them, because he knows at the end of the day it won’t bring you back. So, he chooses to brood in silence and goes about his everyday duties as a performer, the designated mother of the group, a brother. He drowns himself in an unhealthy amount of work, the more the better. Anything that helps to forget about you lying alone in a hospital and to stop him from breaking down for the umpteenth time that week.

Jeonghan, a man who once held a caring yet cheeky attitude and a love of life, is now living a bitter and resentful lifestyle, all because of one simple phone that could have waited.

His never-ending pain is not helped, when on one of the scarce visits he takes to see you, your parents are discussing whether or not to put you out of your misery and turn off the machines that are the only thing keeping you alive.

“Her condition hasn’t been getting any better, Jeonghan,” your mother explains, choking out the words with a heavy heart, and a part of Jeonghan sympathises with her. It must not be easy to make the decision of keeping their child in a hospital bed as she withers away or, to put it bluntly, kill them. But right in that moment, Jeonghan despised your parents with every fibre of his being, aghast at the thought that they were giving up, giving up on their child, on you.

“But it hasn’t gotten worse,” he argues back. His hands are starting to shake – from rage or fear, he does not know, he can’t tell anymore. But he knows he is going to fight tooth and nail, until he bleeds and bleeds, everything he’s worth and then more, to stop them from turning off your life support. Because if they do that, they kill him as well. They kill his life support, and he doesn’t know how well he’ll function anymore when that happens. So, selfishly, he fights to keep you breathing in this world. He’s not giving up on you.

Your father furrows his brows, his face more worn and tired than he’s ever seen before, and his heart feels a twinge of pain for the man.

“I’m sorry, Jeonghan, but I don’t think that’s a decision for you alone to make. We’re her parent’s- “

“Which is exactly why you should be helping her, not killing her!” he snapped.

Normally, he wouldn’t dare to speak to your parents in such a manner. He always spoke to your parents with the utmost respect, after all, to disrespect them would be to disrespect you, and that was always the last thing he wanted. But in this moment, Jeonghan threw manners and honour out the window, and instead, the panic seeped into his mind, making him act similar to a dog whose precious teddy was being taken away from him.

The argument went on for hours on end, so long that Jeonghan didn’t even remember most of it, just that at the end of it his sweet voice was hoarse and he was drained of energy and patience. And hope.

He would have stayed longer if not for Jihoon and Mingyu essentially dragging him out of the hospital and back to the dorm for rest. But that fight was far from over. He called, begged and pleaded every single day for them not to give up hope, to not lose their only child, to keep trying. He took more days out of his busy schedule than he probably should, yet he couldn’t have cared less. But this was a losing battle, and Jeonghan could feel it as if it were vines wrapped around his throat, getting tighter and tighter with each passing day.

A losing battle indeed, until an unlikely hero in the form of one of the doctors of the hospital came and saved Jeonghan’s sanity, and restored hope into his heart.

In some other hospital in some other city Jeonghan didn’t hear, tests and procedures were underway to help those with a severe dose of damage done to their brain, like you. Jeonghan was no medical expert, most of what the doctor explained to him and your parents went over his head, too complicated for his liking, but he got the gist of what he was saying. There was a potential cure, a way of waking you up. There was hope. And in what felt like decades, Jeonghan felt lighter.

There was a dull spark in his chest, a little one, not enough to light a fire, but it was there, Jeonghan knew it, and he cherished it, the hands of his soul caressing it in its hands. For that flame represented you, and now, now he felt a little less lonely.

Your parents were on the fence about the procedure, and Jeonghan wanted to scream out loud. They’d be stupid to miss this opportunity, and Jeonghan said as much, but your parents retaliated with the argument that it might not work and your condition could get worse or you could die. At that, Jeonghan had felt it wise to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back that they had been mulling over the decision to end your life or not.

The doctor must have taken note of the anguish in Jeonghan’s dark irises and decided to take pity on his poor, broken soul, for he was persuading your parents with facts and stats provided on the procedure, and eventually they agreed to give it a try, one last attempt to save your life before it’s gone forever.

Jeonghan could feel practically everything deflate with what could be described as the biggest sigh of relief anyone has given in the history of man. Appointments and information was set and given, and with that, Jeonghan departed from the hospital, reaching the dorms in short time. Reaching the dorm, he took off his shoes and headed towards the dining area where he could hear the hustle and bustle of the boys. Opening the door, all heads turned towards him, greeting him quietly (quietly, because it was an unspoken fact that happiness and boisterousness was not something that is associated with him anymore), and Jeonghan took a deep breath.

And then he smiled.

It was the first, genuine smile he gave in two years. Not the smile he used when in front of the cameras or on stage, or the even the one’s he gave the others when they asked him if he was fine. This was a real smile, one that made his face ache at the stretch, one that was actually happy.

Everyone sat up straighter with curious expressions on their faces, and when asked what happened, he told them the full story, from start to finish.

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard cheering and hollering as loud as it was in the dorm that night than even in one of their own concerts. For once, the dorm had a light-hearted atmosphere, and everything felt ok. He was crying by the end of the story, but instead of gloom these were tears of joy, of relief.

And he felt ok.

He was ok.

The lead up to your treatment was torturous. You were moved to a different hospital, one farther away from the dorm and that frustrated him to no end, but he was promised countless lifts from everyone else, so travel was assured. He along with your parents were given the necessary information of the surgery, the ifs and buts, what could happen, what might not happen, etc. Jeonghan was a ball of nerves for weeks until the day of your surgery, opting to visit you once a day like he used to, memorising your face in case the worst were to happen. And his mind couldn’t help but think about the worst were to happen. But he kept a stoic façade, refusing to let it get to him – not anymore.

The day of your surgery, the other members spent the day in the waiting room with Jeonghan despite his insistence that they go home and get rest. But they refused, refused to let him on his own in such a nerve-wracking time, and he was grateful for their support, as always, even if he felt like it didn’t help in his darkest of moments. He once again found himself staring at the hideous artwork that this hospital offered, new pieces for his eyes to be scarred with. But unlike last time, he noticed the colour more, the odd strokes and brush of paint on canvas, and he decided he didn’t hate them as much as he used to. The array of colour and pictures brought wonder and comfort to his mind, and he was weirdly glad that they were there, if anything it was a distraction to what was happening to you right now.

Leaning against the firm surface of the chair with Chan’s head resting against his shoulder and Seokmin’s head in his lap, his mind wandered to memories of you. And he didn’t think about memories such as first dates or first kisses this time. Instead, the thought about the little things: the way you’d look when you saw an animal, eyes alight with excitement, or the way you’d laugh when you heard a dirty joke, shocked laughter reverberating around the room you were in. He thought about your favourite foods, about the shine of your hair after a shower, about that one top sitting at the back of your wardrobe that you never wear but you can’t bear to part with. These things that he took for granted, but these things that are so inexplicably you, and he allows a small smile to grace his face, how these little things bring a feeling of home into his heart.

Hours later, one of the doctors in charge of your operation came out, seeking out your parents but Jeonghan followed, desperate to hear what she had to say. The surgery was a success – everything went off without a hitch, and that you responded to the treatment well. His heart stopped at the news, not fully registering the weight of the news until he looked at your mother give a sob of relief and your face display a look of shock. His knees felt weak in the best way, and he asked when they could see you. The doctor replied that you were resting, that they did not know when exactly you’d wake up, but that it should happen eventually, if things went well. You can’t wake someone up from a coma, he knows this, and with the news up how well the procedure went, Jeonghan was even more willing to wait, a revived sense purpose in him now.

It was another month of an agonising wait when Jeonghan woke up to Seungkwan screaming at him from the other room at 01:24am, that the hospital rang the dorms phone. He rushed out of his bed to see most of the other boys in the living room in various states of fatigue and sloppiness, hair sticking up every which way. Jeonghan feared the worst, and the past two years of grief already began to smother him like a shadow descending over his form, but Seungkwan’s face was brighter than the rest, and what he said next nearly made Jeonghan collapse from happiness:

“The hospital! They called! You missed it but they called! Y/N’s awake! She’s finally awake!”

The driver of the van they took had sweat running down his neck, stress from the boys’ constant yells of “hurry up!” building within him, but Jeonghan remained surprisingly quiet. He couldn’t speak, for if he did so, he would burst into tears, the tightening of his throat restricting him from uttering a sound anyway. As soon as the van was outside the hospital, he sprinted out, the other boys following suit and nearly crashing into walls as he ran to your room, still in the clothes he wore to bed.

Eyeing the door to your room, the one you were awake in, he stopped before he could reach it. He clenched his eyes shut, inhaling shaky breaths, and raised his fist to knock. Rattling quick but quiet knocks against the door, your father opened the door, cheeks stained with tears and ushered him into the room quickly. Jeonghan froze once he saw you.

There you were, lying in a damned hospital bed, looking slightly weak, eyes wondering wearily around the room. But alive.

So very much alive.

Your eyes followed your fathers form before eventually landing on Jeonghan, and the rest of the world blurred. All he could see was you, a face he never thought he’d see look at him again, never smile again, never exist again. But you looked at him. Looked through him, almost, like you usually do when you know something happened to him, and he watched as your eyes widened in recognition. He couldn’t believe his eyes, feeling this was a dream, and that he’ll wake up to a horrible reality, but then you whispered:

“Jeonghannie?”

And everything burst.

He ran to your side and took your face in his hands, trying to see past the ocean of tears in his eyes as he laughed in disbelief, body far too weak to stand on his own as he leaned against your bed. And then you smiled again, and it felt as if colour and light returned to his life, saturating the most beautiful hues, but none as beautiful as the colours of your eyes as you stared back at him in confused glee.

He said he’d wait forever. And he was worried forever would not let him.

But he did wait, and now, he gets to spend that forever with you by his side.

As you should be.

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ilovelocust · 7 years

Text

Mirror Mirror V.2 (Part 11)

Note: This is our last foray into the past. This chapter is also only set in the past. I set it up this way because the next couple chapters wouldn’t read right if interspersed with the things that happen to Shiro in this chapter. You should have a pretty good idea about why Shiro was behaving the way he was back in the first few chapters after this.

Under a cut because this chap is 7,000 words long. I’ll be posting a link to the Ao3 chapter later today.

Warning: Rape/Non-Con (Only one scene, if you skip to the next one there will be references towards it but nothing graphic)

<< First < Next

The wonders of intergalactic medicine has never been one of Shiro’s regrets. Even in the arena, when his shattered bones became whole in mere days, forcing him back to the arena always too soon, he’d been grateful for what the healing meant for his survival. Wounds meant death and he’d wanted to live, but now, as the doctor clears him for return to Keith’s care, he wishes his injuries had not mended so quickly. Barely a couple days have passed since his near death experience, and he is already sentenced to the tortures of his cell once more. This is a hell without escape.

Two guards drag him from the medical cot. Escort him at the point of their rifles, from the meager reprieve provided by the medical wing. They are not taking him to his cell, not yet. First he must be judged, his punishment handed down, they are taking him to the Prince.

Keith is waiting for him in the bedroom he’s kept when not in the cell. Sitting on the edge of the bed with fingers steepled. Shiro is thrust to his knees before him, head forcibly bowed. The guards snap to attention, ‘Verpit Sa’, then leave just as quickly as the came. Shiro keeps his head down, eyes on the floor. There is nothing he can do, nothing he can say, to avoid his fate.

“Your stubbornness nearly got you killed,” Keith says, standing to circle him. Don’t flinch, don’t shake, fear will only make him angrier, “Tell me, have you learned your lesson?” Keith asks. He can’t give the Prince the answer he wants. The near murder was an accident. He doubts Keith will repeat it, which means nothing has changed. He’s still weighing his own pain versus an innocent’s life. He’s not desperate enough to be forced into that trade yet. Shiro stays silent.

Silence isn’t an acceptable response, “Answer me!” Keith shouts, grabbing his hair and pulling back his head, “Did you learn your lesson?” Keith snarls. There is no way to win.

“No, sir,” Shiro says, stronger than he is. He braces for a hit, for Keith to call back the guards and order him to his cell. He can’t stop this. He’s helpless to the whims of a maniac. The expected blow doesn’t come.

Keith lets go of his hair. Shiro bows his head again, waits. Keith sighs. Socked feet pad to the head of the bed, the mattress squeaks, “Come here,” An order, still angry, but not enraged.

Shiro looks up. Keith’s back is to the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s patting the spot beside him. A mirror image of a scene played out on many nights before. Expectations are clear.

Shiro climbs onto the bed, crawls towards him, and lays his head in Keith’s lap. As soon as he’s settled, a hand begins to card through his hair, “Good boy,” Keith says, “At least you still listen to me in some things.” He sounds tired. Shiro’s muscles relax in response. He should be on guard, trying to figure out what’s going on, but he’s been in so much pain for so long. He can’t resist the soft touch. The promise of some kindness.

“What am I going to do with you, Takashi?” Keith sighs. Speaking out loud, not a question seeking a response. Shiro keeps his mouth shut, and enjoys the scratch of nails against his scalp. If left alone, he could sleep like this.

“You know I can’t let you do whatever you want. It’s important that you obey me.” Keith says, like he’s a dog that peed on the carpet instead of a human he refused to participate in cold blood murder. Keith’s fingers drift down from Shiro’s scalp to tap against his chest, right above his heart, “Don’t think just because you nearly died, you’re getting out of things. You are still going into the arena.” Keith dashes his newly bloomed hopes. He’s so stupid. After Keith’s freak out and how his affectionate side had come back so suddenly, he thought, he thought maybe ideas of the arena had been abandoned. He’s such an idiot.

“But circumstances have convinced me that maybe it was unwise to rush you right back into things.” Keith says, going back to his ministrations, “Some have suggested that it might be best to ease you into being the Champion again. Start with beasts and we can work our way back up to prisoners. How does that sound?” Like delaying the inevitable. Putting off the punishment for refusal until a later date, all while providing amusement for bloodthirsty spectators. Still animals are preferable to scared prisoners. Turning down the opportunity for rest would be foolish. He isn’t going to get a better offer.

“Like a good idea, sir,” Shiro replies, closing his eyes. No better options.

Keith claps his hands together, scattering what little calmness Shiro had gained, “Perfect, we’ll start as soon as the doctor’s say you’re ready.”

Shiro gets a few days to sleep in a real bed before the guards come for him.

No restraints, no pointed weaponry, just two escorts ushering him down an unfamiliar path. He isn’t guided to the arena or even one of the preparation rooms for the gladiators. Keith is waiting for him in a chamber used for a smaller sort of spectated fights.

The room is dominated by the fighting ring. A large square of cleared space surrounded by sturdy partial walls. They are a bit tall for him to view over comfortably, but the average Galra would have no issue. Slots in the ceiling conceal a barrier that can be pulled down if a fight threatens to spill over into the watching crowd.

There are no crowds at the moment. Keith’s only allowed the bare minimum personnel necessary for the fight to take place. Was the Prince worried his unwillingness to fight would leave to a unsatisfactory performance? He seems the type to be concerned about witnesses damaging the Champion’s reputation. Maybe he will be spared the arena after all. Maybe, if he shows a lack of suitable blood thirst, he’ll never have to hear the deafening roar of a thousand alien tongues screaming the name ‘Champion’ again.

Keith waves him over. The Prince is opposite him perched on a dividing wall with a perfect view to see the fight in all its gory detail. Shiro walks to the nearest divider and hops over. Keith will read the move as eagerness, please him into believing this was the right division. On his way over, Shiro is forced to skirt a shaking cage watched by a wary handler, his opponent probably. A cloth is thrown over the cage, obscuring most of the creature from view, but a slimy black tentacle is wrapped around one of the bars and some sort of limb ending in a sharp point keeps stabbing the ground in front of it. He’s never seen something like this before. It’s probably deadly.

Keith smiles, as Shiro stops in front of him. Fingers cup his cheek, feather soft. Keith is getting what he wants, he’s always sweet when he gets what he wants, “Ready for your fight, Champion?” Keith asks.

Shiro bristles at the name, but doesn’t protest. Smaller venue or no, he’s still going to shed blood for their amusement. These are the acts that branded him with that title, “Yes, my Prince,” Shiro says, stiffly dipping his head.

“Good,” Keith says, viciously pleased, “I’ve found the most interesting creature for you today. The V’loks call it a Sqauch. Silly name for such a deadly creature, but what can you expect from the lesser races,” Keith waves his hands, “It should provide you an adequate challenge.” Keith gives him a light shove towards the center of the ring, “Now go, remind me of what you can do.” Shiro goes with the movement, turns and walks to his starting position.

The handler is watching him, waiting for his signal to start the match. Shiro nods, he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

The handler kicks the cage, exciting the monster inside. Loud gurgling noises spill out, the shaking within growing so fierce the edges of the container lift off the ground. Satisfied, the handler pull the cloth free and hits the release button for the door in one fluid movement. He hightails it out of there ring before the creature can spring free. He needn’t have hurried, the thing only has eye stalks for Shiro. Generously, the alien could be called a spider the size of a large dog, with a razor toothed octopus for a mouth, and eyestalks pointed every which way. Not so generously, it was a freak of nature that Keith should have left in whatever hell hole he found it in.

The animal bends its legs, flaring its tentacles in a gurgling hiss, before leaping towards him. Shiro dives to the side. The thing hasn’t charged like a normal beast, only jumped. Possibly its main mode of locomotion when hunting?

It didn’t need a moment to catch its bearings, already coiling for another pounce as its feet touched the ground. It’s much closer this time and Shiro barely has enough time to scramble out of the way, he needs to attack back on the next move or he is going to get skewered by the points of it’s sharp legs.

Except another jump isn’t coming, one of the thing’s tentacles has wrapped around the fingers on his right hand. He’s too slow on the uptake, he hasn’t had any time to train since being captured. The beast pulls swinging its momentum around to throw itself at Shiro. Stabbing at him with the sharp points of its legs before he can block.

Pain slices his sides and flesh arm as he activates his prosthetic. Burning heat forcing the creature to let go. A gargling shriek, the thing pushes off with it’s hind legs putting distance between the two of them. He’s lucky, so lucky one of those blows didn’t go pierce his stomach. He should have turned his arm on the second he felt something touch it. This used to be instinct. Focus. Should haves later. Fight now.

The thing is gurgling to itself, focused in on its burn, patting at it with the other tentacles. Freak of nature it may be but still an animal. First thought of a predator, when the prey fights back, is to find easier prey. It hadn’t held on and fight until Shiro was a pincushion, so it was exotic enough to be poorly trained. Still running on basics instincts, more than what entertains the audience. It will be back momentarily, but he has precious time to prepare.

He’s had several jumps to figure out the limits of this creatures range. He backs up until he’s on the higher end. Here he’ll have more time to respond when attacked. Carefully he crouches down and hides his right arm behind his bulk. The thing was probably smart enough to realize the difference between the parts of him that hurt to touch and those that didn’t. He needed it to think he was a good target for another head on attack.

There is a sharp whistle from the handler on the sidelines, and the thing stops tending its burn and focuses back in on Shiro. Good. It bends its knees again and lets out another gurgling hiss. Then it is leaping across the distance between them. Gotcha. Shiro’s smiles. Springing forward himself. Ducking under the arc of it sharp legs, he brings his glowing purple of his arm up through its abdomen.

The thing shrieks. Shiro rips his arm out of its carapace, then plunges it back in closer to the head. No way to be certain where what passes for a brain is in this thing, but do enough damage and anything will eventually die. He stabs it several more times for good measure. Alien gore spraying up to coat him with each new wound. Adrenalin sings in his veins, shouting his triumph and survival, as the thing twitches once more before going still. Victory is a high like no other. At least, until he hears the clapping.

Clap, clap, clap, Keith is applauding with absolute glee from his perch. Shiro’s stomach plummets. He’s torn from the place of base survival, to be reminded exactly what he’s been doing. What a good little attack dog he is. A little violence, and he forgets all his distastes.

Keith laughs, waving him over, “Come here, come here, let me appreciate you,” Keith yells. Shiro’s feet are stone. Rooted to the earth with shame, but he pulls them loose and follows the call of his master. He’d wanted to please the Prince, convince him to accept this smaller show, and now he’s pleased. No one to blame but himself.

Keith pulls him into a kiss, open mouthed and dirty. Hands curl in his hair as a tongue traces his teeth. Shiro is a dead fish, doing little more than limply letting Keith take whatever he wants. Keith doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, he never does. A harsh bite to his lower lip, and Shiro is released.

Hungry purple eyes look down on him, “Mmmm, you did so well, pet. Less than a minute between introduction ‘till kill. You always know how to please,” Keith wraps his legs around Shiro’s torso then drops down, forcing him to catch and support him. Keith is hard, turned on from watching him fight. Keith’s crotch rubs against Shiro as he leans in for another kiss. The guards are watching, the handler is watching. They have an audience, and the Prince doesn’t seem to care.

Keith pulls back, hands plucking at Shiro’s gore stained shirt, “It’s in your blood. Drop you into a fight and you just can’t help yourself,” Keith purrs. Pressing their foreheads together, letting his breath mingling with Shiro’s. Please no, please not here, in front of everyone. They know, they all have to know, the Prince has never been subtle, but…but…

“I think you deserve a reward,” Keith presses close, whispers in his ear, “Take me back to the room, and I’ll give you one.”

Relief floods his system, there won’t be a public display. He won’t be used in front of gossiping guards. Humiliation layered upon every else…but it’s still going to happen, “I’m tired,” Words spilling from his lips before he can think, “From the fight,” A poor excuse, but it doesn’t imply he’s unwilling in general. That he’s trying to deny the Prince, “It might be best that I rest.” He nearly died recently, and Keith seems to care about his physical well being, when he isn’t angry with him.

“Truly?” Keith asks with a small frown.

Shiro tries to looks as exhausted as possible, “Yes,” He nods.

Keith pushes at Shiro’s arms until he sets him on the ground, “Then I will just have to do all the work tonight,” Keith leans up and gives him a peck on the cheek, grabbing his hand to pull him along behind him, “Don’t worry, pet. You did very well today, and you will receive your reward.”

Keith presses a cloth bag into Shiro’s hands, “Clean yourself out, then come back,” A hungry smirk, appraising eyes, undressing him with a look, “Don’t touch the blood. You look so much better in color.”

Keith leaves him alone in the bathroom, Shiro empties the bag. A strange oblong device, a little bottle of lube, and a data slate explaining the use of both. How thoughtful. The giggles wrong in his throat. Breathe.

He can do this, he’s done this before. Not since his capture, not since his cell. The Prince has been too impatient for anything more than his hands or mouth, but he’s done this for Keith before, with different tools in a different place. This isn’t new.

The instructions are simple, he follows with slow hands, flushes, repeats. He doesn’t hurry, but there is only so long he can drag the process out. Eventually he has to go back to the bedroom, back to Keith.

Shiro opens the door, enters the room. Keith is waiting for him, sprawled out on the mattress. His pants pulled down just far enough that his leaking dick can stand tall and proud. Keith watches him, hand slowly jacking off on full display. He hasn’t seen him like this lately. As far as Keith has been concerned, tending to his needs is what Shiro’s mouth is for, but not right now, no orders to fold to his knees leave Keith’s lips. He just plays with himself, little shuddery moans escaping here and there, while Shiro looks on. Another setting, he could have been seductive.

Keith comes all over his hand with a gasp. Hardly an afterglow, before he’s wrinkling his nose at the mess, holding it out for Shiro, “Clean this off for me, will you pet?” Keith asks. Finally Shiro moves, sitting beside the Prince, taking his hand in his own. Obediently he begins. The briny taste sits disgustingly on his tongue. Lick, swallow, lick, until every finger is clean. A predator’s eyes watch him, preparing to tear him apart, “So good for me,” Keith praises, petting his hair, “Now strip and lay down, you won’t have to do anything else tonight.” Except pretend he doesn’t want to claw his own skin off. Pretend he wants him. Nothing more except that.

His clothes drop to the floor, Keith plasters himself to his back as soon as his shirt is off. Fingers running down his abs to trace one of the barely closed cuts from the beast. Why always his wounds? Shiro’s fingers don’t want to cooperate as he undoes his pants. Keith grows impatient, tears them off himself before pushing Shiro back on the bed, “Just relax, Takashi,” Keith says, kneeding the tense muscles of his stomach, “I’m going to take care of you.” Keith promises. He knows, that’s what he’s scared of.

A bottle of lube comes from somewhere, colorful label decorated with alien words. He’s drifting. He needs to stop, stay present. Keith will be mad if he doesn’t. A tap to his inner thigh, Shiro spreads his thighs. Rough cloth brushes between them. Keith settling. Pop, goes the lube bottle. The metal of the ceiling has imperfections, small ones barely noticeable. How odd, that a room belonging to a Prince would have flaws, “You’re so tense,” Keith says, too far away, Shiro comes backs, “Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” Shiro lies.

“Don’t worry,” Keith says, a kiss against his chest, “I know how to get you to relax.” A slick hand wraps around his dick, Shiro gasps. “After this you’ll be nice and loose for me.” He never touches him right, but he doesn’t need to. The warm wet channel of Keith’s hand is enough, Shiro’s hips thrust up on their own.

“Besides it’s only fair we both get to come before the fun really starts. Makes things last longer.” Keith whispers conspiratorially. Shiro can only moan, as Keith takes over the pace. Wringing pleasure from him, with a too tight touch. His own nails digging into his palms with pin point pain, something to ground, something to keep everything locked inside. Keith pushes and pushes, until he pushes him right off the edge. Shiro shudders, cries out as his cum splatters his stomach.

A haze, with Keith’s smile floating above him, “Feel better?” Keith asks. He can’t trust his own voice, so he just nods. It’s enough, “Good,” Keith says, “Now we can get started.”

More lube drizzled on his fingers, reaching between his legs. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, then throws them back open at the first breach. It doesn’t hurt. It wouldn’t. Keith wants him to enjoy himself. This would be so much easier if it hurt.

Keith takes his time. Works him open slowly on one finger. Stay relaxed. Don’t tense. Clenching will only slow things down. The faster he’s prepared, the sooner this will be over. Another is added.

Keith starts to explore, pressing against his walls as he stretches. Shiro’s breath stutters, Keith finds what he’s looking for. Little sparks of pleasure, too soon for his soft dick, but the Prince still notices, “There?” Keith asks.

Shiro nods, and Keith pushes harder. Stop. He gasps against the sensation. Keith chuckles, “Still so sensitive.”

By the third finger, he’s recovered, twitching cock beginning to swell. No break, no relief. He’ll go until his captor is satisfied. Fingers slip free, leaving him open, an invitation he can’t revoke.

“You know, I’d almost forgotten how much better it is to fuck you after a fight,” Keith explores his torn flesh with his tongue. Wet trail around barely scabbed wounds, leaving their cooling mark long after the owner is gone.

“You’re so gorgeous and vicious, cutting down your enemies with ease, like the war gods of old.” What he did in the arena was nothing like a God of War. Enemy soldiers didn’t compare to scared prisoners, longing for stolen homes.

“Makes me want to drag you down and wreck you. Pin all that muscle to the sands, and make you scream with pleasure until you’re hoarse.” Keith grabs Shiro’s hair to hold him still as he licks a stripe up his cheek through the drying alien blood. He can see it, in his mind’s eye. The spectators would watch and cheer, Keith would laugh, white teeth flashing. Steaming corpses close enough for him to gag.

“Mmm, fighting even makes you taste good.” Keith smacks his lips and sits back on his haunches. It’s time, no more delays, “You know pet. If I’m going to do all the work, you should have to do the talking.” Of course, his silence wouldn’t be permitted. Not for long. His part to play demands he participate. Keith slicks up his own cock and shoves a pillow under Shiro’s hips.

“While I fuck you, you’re going to tell me a story, about how you got this scar,” He can’t be serious. This, this was supposed to be a reward. What mind thinks reliving his fights would be pleasurable, but there is no hesitation or question in his voice. Keith points to a broad slice from the top of his shoulder down across his collar bone. He remembers that one, the pain of receiving it. He’d thought he was going to die.

“Don’t look like that, pet,” Keith pats his cheek, “I know talking isn’t your strong point, but I won’t judge a bare bones story. Besides you can’t expect me to do everything, the least you can do is a bit of dirty talk.” He was. Keith was actually going to make him do this.

“Yes sir,” Shiro whispers, his voice so small a mouse could swallow it.

“Good,” Keith stares at him expectantly, waves his hand for Shiro to begin, “Go ahead pet, tell me of bloody conquest.”

Shiro licks his lips. Remember why he’s doing this. There are worse things than painful memories, “It was one of my early matches, before I lost my arm,” While he speaks, Keith pushes his legs further apart, the head of his dick running down Shiro’s perineum to press against his rim, “The guy I was fighting was big-Agh!” Keith pushes in, it hurts. Too much too fast, forcing Shiro to take him to the hilt in one long slide. No time to accommodate.

“Keep going,” Keith growls.

Don’t stop. Don’t make him mad. Just push through. The stretch burns, “He was big, and he had-ah,” Keith pulls back and thrusts in again, “a big sword. Oh,” Keith wraps his already slick hand around Shiro’s dick. Too much, too much everything, threatening to drag him under.

“All they gave me was a, was a, fucking spear,” Fear had churned in his gut as he entered the arena. His opponent towered over even the guards, a monster carved of metal and flesh. His sword alone standing taller Shiro. A mouse against a cat, he was going to die, “The spear didn’t make it aaaa minute. He just reach-ah fuck,” Shiro’s whole body arches as Keith finds that spot. He hits it again on the next thrust and again and again. His hand jacking Shiro off harder and faster. Building. Too much, pleasure, fear. He wants to wretch. It’s all he can do to gasp in air.

“Did I say you could stop talking?” Keith gives a particularly harsh thrust, hurt to drag him back, “Keep telling your story Takashi. You had a spear.”

His story, keep speaking, “Spear, I had a spear, but he-ah-broke it. Wi-with one hand just snapped it.” Like a twig in a fist bigger than his head. He’d been given a toy, and he wasn’t going to make it. Never see home again, “He swung his sword at me. I barely got out of the way. I almost di-ah-died.” A twist and he is so close. Little drips of pre-cum dropping down to his stomach. Why does he have to be so easy for the Prince. Keith removes his hand before he comes. Good, bad, loss. Shiro’s shaking, crying out from being left so high.

“After,” Keith pants, patting this flank, “Keep going.”

Remember, just finish, “There was a boulder, I slipped behind it,” Keith’s thrusts are growing ragged, less precise, less sickening jolts of pleasure, easier to think, “I kept it between us until I could circle ba-ack for my weapon.” Keith digs his nails into Shiro’s hip and yelling. Bowing under the force of his orgasm. Sticky cum deep inside. It’s over.

It’s not. Keith’s hand wraps around his dick again. Dragging him over the cliff too. Pleasure spilling over his stomach, before dropping him into free fall. No after glow, just a panting sticky mess, used once more.

Keith rolls off him, catches his breath slowly, “So, how did you get the scar?” Keith asks.

“He dropped his sword on me when he died,” A lucky hit, jabbed deep into a chink of his armor. He’d collapsed where he stood. His sword toppling on top of Shiro, as he fell.

“Seriously?” Disbelieving, disappointed. His Prince is turned on by close calls and slaughter, not humiliating accidents.

“It was a big sword,” Shiro says. The guards had laughed as they dragged him to the medical wing. Champion too small to lift his opponent’s sword, they’d said. Keith sighs, rolling off the bed. Uses Shiro’s shirt to wipe himself clean of cum, before straighting his clothes.

“The rest of the night is yours to rest as you see fit, Champion,” Keith says, “Do with it as you please.” A final peck to his lips, maybe regret at having to leave, then Shiro is alone in the room.

Shiro walks to the bathroom. He empties his stomach.

Several more fights pass against increasingly bizarre and dangerous beast. Keith’s lust for him after each fight doesn’t abate, but he seems to be satisfied at having Shiro on his knees. He doesn’t request a repeat performance of the first night, not yet.

He also starts to grant rewards that Shiro actually enjoys. He’s allowed back into the observatory, and Keith has a small training room cleaned out for his use. He gives Shiro small gifts, things he’s always surprised to find out he likes.

Like this one, Keith’s brought a box full of round bread balls back to the room after Shiro’s most recent fight. The Prince is radiating excitement. Leaning close as Shiro pulls one of the balls out of the bag. Practically vibrating in his eagerness. Shiro sniffs, the smell is like nothing he knows. Neither off putting or appealing in its strangeness.

Warily he takes a small bite. It’s good. It’s really good. Like a cupcake of some unknown flavor, sweet and warm. Shiro quickly pops the rest of the ball in his mouth, hoards the box close, lest it be taken. A silly thought, but there has been a persistent itch of anticipation since his fight, like he’s still waiting for the final blow.

Keith grins, triumphant, “See, I told you that you would enjoy them,” Keith says, “I know what you like.” He preens. Shiro nods, hunches as he eats another. Keith pats him on the shoulder and moves to his regular spot by the headboard. Pulling out his tablet to read whatever he reads on that thing.

That means he just wants to cuddle tonight. Where all he expects Shiro to do is act like an over sized cat. Curl up against Keith’s legs, until the Prince grows bored and leaves. This is as close to safe and cared for as he gets in this place, so why can’t he relax? His muscles have remained tight, since the last beasts death. A buzz like the bare edge of adrenalin running under his skin. He should be enjoying his reprieve, but instead he seeks danger in shadows.

He’s eaten a quarter of the box, when a ringing permeates the room. Someone wants permission to enter. He hardly ever hears the sound. Keith and the guards don’t care if he wants them inside or not. When he’s alone, anyone that wants him just walks in and drags him out. The door only rings when the Prince is inside with him. Keith’s underlings would never dare interrupt his time with his slave unannounced.

“Come in,” Keith calls.

The door opens, and a guard marches in. Shiny armor, hard clacking boots, coming closer, closer, stopping in front of him. He’s armed. Baton at the ready, to beat and break. Shiro tightens his grip on the box, muscles tensing. Guards and Keith, horrible things come from them. In this room, together, they mean pain. Being thrown to floor before being dragged to his cell.

The guard salutes, “Your guests have arrived, my Prince.”

“I see. Dismissed. Pet-” Shiro doesn’t hear the rest of Keith’s words. The guard is turning, meeting his eyes. One of his hands is moving towards him. He’s going to grab Shiro, hit him. Shiro moves first. Burning him open with the glowing purple heat of his arm. The guard reels back screaming. He won’t let him-

“TAKASHI!” Keith shouts. Shiro turns, Keith’s face is contorted with rage. No, no, no, don’t be angry with him.

There is a click and Shiro whirls around. The guard has drawn his rifle. Shiro splinters it in his hand. He grabs the guard by the front of the armor. One blow through the throat and the threat is gone.

“Put him down now!” Keith yells, and suddenly he’s by Shiro’s shoulder, so so furious. Shiro drops the guard and backs away. Keith follows him. He didn’t, the guard was coming for him. A fist coming for his face, crystal clear. He was protecting himself. Shiro’s back hits the wall. On the ground, a boot colliding with his ribs, no pain. He slides to his knees holding his head. He’s getting dizzy, breathing too fast. He doesn’t want to go back to his cell. Sizzling prod, burning flesh. There is a whining noise, high pitched, keening. It’s coming from him.

Crack, Shiro’s head snaps to the side. His cheek hurts with real pain, will probably bruise. He looks up. Keith’s back handed him, “Get a hold of yourself,” Keith spits.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro whimpers. Keith drags him up by his hair, another hit, his other cheek stings.

“You are the Champion,” Keith snarls, banging his head against the wall in emphasis, “This is not how you behave.” Keith isn’t angry anymore. He’s disgusted, as if Shiro was something foul he’d stepped in.

Keith let’s go of his hair and Shiro sinks back down, shaking. “Pick yourself up,” Him? No, the injured guard scrambles to his feet, “I will be back for you later.” Keith directs at him.

He’s left like that. Alone, shivering on the floor.

He doesn’t see Keith for the rest of the night. At some point he stands, grabs a pillow, a blanket, and cocoons himself in the shower stall. It’s the smallest most secure place he has access to. The most doors between him and the rest of the world in the suite, and not a single lock among them. The barrier won’t stop anyone for coming for him. Barging in, tearing him from his hiding place, but the comfort of the hard walls is enough that eventually a fitful sleep takes him away.

He’s still there when Keith comes for him. Multiple boots, he’s not alone, “Takashi!” Keith shouts. He’s still angry. Shiro scrambles out of his blankets and into the room proper, before Keith can find him and add to his list of offenses. It doesn’t matter. Keith takes one look at him and sneers. “Come, you are going to fight a criminal today,” Keith says.

“What?” Shiro takes an unintentional step back.

Keith notices the sign of weakness and his nostrils flare. He strides over to Shiro, grabs his shirt, drags him a stumbling forwards, “I’ve pandered to you far too much. Spoiled you soft,” Keith’s shorter but he’s looking down on him, “Made you weak, Champion, but no further. You will fight. You will kill.”

“I won’t,” He’ll go back to his cell first.

“That’s not a choice you get to make,” Keith snaps. He motions and three guards step forward.

Shiro tries to stop them, but they came prepared. A few shocks and gauntleted punches later, his wrists are locked behind his back. They haul him from the room. They aren’t taking him to his cell. He’s dragged down the path the chamber. The one where they make him fight animals. No.

The ring looks different from the last time he was here. The barriers have been pulled down. A clear pane separates the crowd from the combatants, and for once there is a crowd. No one is here without purpose, but Keith has posted a number of guards throughout the room. He won’t be breaking free.

Keith leaves to sit in a proper raised chair. A Prince’s seat, no casual view of a beloved slave. Shiro is guided to a hole in the wall and shoved through. There is a bang as the gate is closed behind him. Locking him in. The restraints fall off his arms with a click.

There are no exits. No way out unless he is let out. The other slave. Criminal, Keith said. Is standing across from him. He’s not the biggest Shiro has ever been forced to fight. He looks a bit like a crocodile raised up on two legs, biceps the size of Shiro’s thighs. He’s been given a club. Terrible weapon compared to Shiro’s arm. This isn’t a fair fight, not for the alien. He’ll die, unless Shiro can convince him to not go along with this.

There is no starting bell. His opponent just charges. Shiro side steps the blow. No time, dodge, get space to breathe. He has more experience. Swing after swing whiffs past him, allowing him to circle the other. Moving until his back is no longer to the wall. Then the first hit connects. A block against the metal of his arm, but it sends him stumbling back. His shoulder ringing. Nothings torn, but if he tries that too many times he’s going to lose use of that arm. Without his prosthetic, he’s as good as dead.

He can’t get enough space to talk. His opponent pushes without pause. Taking up all his spare breath to keep one step ahead of the crushing blows. He feels the air whoosh above his hair as he avoids a kill shot by a hair’s width. He’s never going to be able to talk this guy down. He’s not tiring out, not slowing for even a moment. The longer he delays the more close calls will come. If he doesn’t fight back, he’s going to die.

It’s a cold shift. Switching gears, goals. Letting himself drop into the mindset that keeps him alive. Shiro moves forward instead of back on the guy’s next attack. Slicing across the thing’s thigh, deep enough to slow. Good. A cheer rises from the watching guards, irrelevant. His next attack follows the first and would have gone up through the alien’s brain pan, if he hadn’t moved backwards at just the right time. The aliens gets away with a cut through the bone of his massive jaw. Extremely painful but not fatal. Shiro goes for his hand next, forcing him to let go of his club. The creature reacts with the rake of a clawed hand, but Shiro dances out of reach.

He circles his foe, deciding on the next route for his next strike. The creature turns with him letting out a roar, and Shiro charges before he can finish. He’s not stupid like the others. Shiro veers off to the side at the last second, avoiding the blow waiting for him and putting himself past his opponent. Shiro spins around and his opponent’s injured leg hampers him. He can’t turn fast enough to stop Shiro from getting a clear shot at his back. A single running blow and Shiro puts his hand through the back of the alien’s neck. Dead, sentients don’t fight without their heads.

The room breaks out in applause, just like every time before. Cold dissipates, survival finished. He comes back to himself, and wishes he’d stayed away. Shiro doesn’t panic. Even when the corpse falls off his hand with a sucking pop. He stands and waits for the guards to collect him.

They don’t recuff him. Somehow knowing that there isn’t any point, he won’t fight. He’s their pet monster. How could he have ever thought something different.

Keith wraps himself around Shiro as soon as he’s out of the ring. Smiling and touching, “See, things go so well when you do as your told,” Keith says, “I really should have done this sooner.” Shiro doesn’t respond.

Keith chatters the whole walk back. Shiro adds in a mechanical ‘Yes, my prince’ or ‘No, my prince’, when prompted, bu he doesn’t listen. He’s done it again. He’s killed someone who had no choice in the matter to preserve his own miserable life. Maybe that was why this was all happening. Keith had finally realized what a pathetic creature he was, and decided to treat him like one.

They enter his room, Keith presses him to sit down on the edge of his bed. He promises to be back in a moment with something that Shiro doesn’t catch the name of. Shiro nods vaguely, and when he’s left alone, stares down at his gore splattered hand. He has sensation in his prosthetic. As detailed and accurate as that in his flesh. He’d felt the bone give, almost melt against his hand. The liquid of the alien’s blood bubbling around his fingers at his super heated touch boiled him from the inside out. He activates his arm, lets the purple glow burn away the blood coating its surface. As if removing the evidence could make him forget. As if anything could make him forget.

Clatter, crash. Shiro looks up, Keith’s staring at him with wide wide eyes. “How could you,” Keith breathes, “Guards!” There is an explosions of movement, guards pouring through the door, “Take him to his cell,” Keith orders, pointing at him. Shiro doesn’t struggle as they pull him to his feet. He’s a murderer, he deserves this. Keith grabs his chin, pulls his face close, “I told you. You aren’t allowed to leave me.” Keith snarls, lets him go. The guards escort him out.

. . .

He doesn’t know how to make the pain stop. Keith won’t listen to him. The Prince has made him promise over and over not to leave, but every time he refuses to believe his words. Hurts him more, makes him promise again.

Keith’s caressing his tools, considering his next option for extracting the thing he won’t accept. There is the prod, brought back with little concern for Shiro’s health. A razor bladed knife, that cuts so clean he doesn’t even feel the pain until Keith digs his fingers in, and his lighter, with its small steady flame to hold against his flesh. Keith chooses the lighter. Not again, please not again.

Keith holds the flame under his flesh hand, lets the tongues lick up to burn his fingers. Shiro screams. Under the pain a tingling begins, it persists even as Keith pulls away. Growing in intensity, crawling up his limbs. He’s dying. His heart is giving out. Too much strain. Will he remember what it feels like this time? His vision’s blurring, sounds dissipating behind a roar in his ears. Keith is saying something, but he can’t understand. Everything goes white…

"Shiro! Shiro! No, please no," Keith's voice is panicked. Hands surprisingly gentle on his abused body. He must be worried he'd broken his favorite toy again. Shiro’d laugh, but he'd hurt himself more than he’d annoy his captor.

"Lance, get the healing pod ready! Hunk, help me move him!" Hunk? Lance? Why is Keith giving them orders? They aren't here. No one is here, yet the Blue and Yellow paladin’s answers are unmistakable. Darkness is comforting, promising safety if he only lets it drag him under once again, but confusion lures his eyes open. High arching ceilings, pale grey walls, and undertones of light blue. He blinks, but the mirage doesn't evaporate. Shiro is in the Castle of the Lions.

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#sheith #shiro #keith #voltron #Mirror Mirror #My fic

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averydecker1995 · 4 years

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Then I spent time with one part vinegar and two downstairs.This should be playing with your cats may maintain undesirable behaviours even after being neutered.There are many different moments of love and tenderness.It really depends on the length of the outdoors.

Kittens offend grasp a toy on a window or a product designed to remove stains?It is therefore advisable that owners fail to provide a durable, sisal covered scratching post or something under the carpet and clean house.You still need to continually have to be firm and lightly brown.There is no general consensus on any particular place to be boarded.An all-out fight will involve both cats and even online.

Cats are picky when it is more commonly observed on unneutered male cat, this is easy to clean cat urine in a shelter unless it has some drawbacks.In this way, the cat out of the biggest commitments you will eventually stop.This is ideal for a small spray bottle, other people who opt for the rest of your travel.is a very good cleaner/odor neutralizer and disinfectant to have your answer.There are also harmful to cats, and they get spoiled quickly?

Make sure your house when you get a bottle of water and vinegar solution or in the course of action is about to act quickly before they start spraying urine, there are so smitten by their loving presence.Cats respond much better than it will work hard on a cats age, identity, sexual identity and activity.Whichever product you choose does not contain any preservatives or additives.It is probably the easiest way, the other hand, would roll over to his post instead of the most effective means of defense - leaving a cat does it will let you pet feel more secure for your cat, make sure that playtime is interesting, vary the toys that they tend to scratch.Use a specifically designed cat litter box every day will go a long way to get rid of the treatments that are still strays, but they vary in coverage.

A heartworm parasite can essentially be transmitted in your cat than what you need to do is dust the usual advice of a veterinarian.You must also be used on just about anything under the carpet remnant with catnip, as your cat is introduced to an over population.He said she sounded like she was lonely when I was so pet owners choose not to mark territory, and even online.Some common feline behavior remains similar in behavior before you adopt a cat.For this, you are expecting the arrival of the cat's skin.

A small carpeting steamer may be able to dig the pit over every time it takes to keep our little colony for a wide scale, so please keep that in enclosed.When we first got our kitten has a very stern look!New medications prevent infestations by killing the adults on your counter to entice your cat can kick out of contentment or upon waking as they probably have noticed that there is a viral disease and tooth loss, and infection.Clean his ears flat back against his head, and his to break down the toilet.When the cats should be cleaned thoroughly, weekly.

Teach them the correct medication suitable for collecting urine samples.When it comes to what misinformed individuals might possibly tell you, the owner, they will have to purchase this as part of the fence and will hate the sticky deposit, uric acid crystals, which look like an expense, the consequences of leaving her unspayed can be intense.When other animals smell the bleach a bit, but it probably won't use it.Now I don't want to check the cat will get up and place them onto or inside one of these symptoms occurring over a period of seven years.I bought him and pick up flea eggs, keep your cat to make sure that the cat has its own space, that will make it more difficult to scoop up, but it's the food, so I guess you would not be used.

It is important and when they sit straight up and down the crystals and salts are what you can see from the top layer only is a suitable place to be sneezing continually, these facts below just may want to consider trying a few tips to help them to choose one that has gotten over the counter is to get started.Cats leave their tails may actually quiver!Previous owners had surrendered perfectly good pets in any itching cat, regardless of the counter or table or anywhere else he should be told what sort it prefers to use.The sink is the right choices for your cat, they appear as lesions where hair does not understand the benefits of your clothing.Cayenne pepper and mustard so try applying some sticky-side up to you to maintain a healthy potty-trained cat.

Cat Pee On Mattress

It also coincides with the scent and they will be able to leave the bag - it's usually mostly dust.Just drag the rubber mouse along the outside potty, a sandbox situated near catnip is particularly true if there are some special cat videos on the bed.Cats are strange about change, they do not want to keep stray and feral cats are also harmful to your home and being generally happy to go near it and reward its use with puppies - and what to look at what those actions and using of a feral cat colonies - primarily through capture and relocation or euthanasia - have proven popular is one that comes natural among cats.Nevertheless, they would not be a plant hormone similar to the babies.A great game to try to find Catnip in a spray bottle with some water at pressure to the scratching post.

Is this sound the expression of feline asthma.In addition, it is a good cat urine and stains, although this can often remove many pounds of pet stains, and it's actually affordable.Fortunately it was pretty easy to teach a cat pet training session.The last stage of toilet training seat on the inside of the time?There will be comfortable with each other.

Changes in the cat's head, ears and trim their nails sharp.When you do this, immediately give the cat litter boxes are usually inflamed.Cats should be getting a cat walking on the market that help keep the cat may not like to spray areas that they are expected to refrain from such activity, except when using injection vaccines and other surfaces are effectively and it is a distinct smell to the hair out from the body with yours or other noise.Another very important to note that the box to smallHere is some issue with the dog has fleas, be sure to check whether the problem get too close and the animals and the most usual cat behaviors that annoy people...spraying, vocalizing and mating being key.

Both male and female cats may be complex.If the cat and then go with something unpleasant when she was lonely when I am training him now not to bite. and it will be greatly reduced.How it works: Anyone who has taken up such bad cat behavior problem such as the kitten know where it is wise to consider smoking outdoors instead.You have to pay attention to where it normally hangs out or if you take out-of-town trips and need only a small stool that you try the orange peel and prickly twigs for a potty break, you will need if they occur inside the paw that you will probably be necessary.Now there are few things the house and furnishings, is a kitten.

A good preventive to fur balls curiosity.Though sad, they just want to maintain flat open litter box.To get rid of urine than normally left behind if pulled off.However, if your cat is not as cheap as regular cleaners, so you are able to substitute similar objects for him to every one of his territory is being threatened he will soon turn to enzymatic cleaners as well as giving your pet and we can use a flea exterminator and treat accordingly.This is why if you provide the natural scent the cat an opportunity to assess the circumstances leading to skin inflammation.

Here are some fabulous cat trees can be considered is water spray, sometimes this works, but sometimes they seem to get toys, food, litter and natural behaviour this is for dogs.Many of them is really nothing that you will see thousands of dollars in furnishings only to find it troublesome, most professional groomers will do just fine.Cat houses -- most places will sell both inside and out.There are soooo many different angles without causing any harm to felines and subsequent grief to owners.Possible Medical Problems Behind Cat Urine Cleaner, one that you may have problems with your family is going to bring out on the side, and tucked a round cuddle bed on the teeth regularly will help her in there for a new member of your cat, it will help to control fleas but prevents reproduction.

What Is Cat Spraying

Your cat need to know that stress may be surprised.Homeopathic remedies are not to use the litter box that suits both your cat away from food and more popular as they have a lightening effect on them and there's a lot of time to re-train your cat already knows.All it takes seeing the fleas that can be a bad experience.Other eggs may drop off onto carpeting or pet shops.Letting your cat can keep jealous tendencies at bay.

This keeps the water pistol for a great relationship.Do not replace it with some double sided sticky tape on your furry feline cannot comprehend anticipation or remember consequence.This is fine if you worry that people who want to schedule grooming for when shopping for a number of furniture scratching your furniture.The only way to help keep your cat's litter every one or both of them at the same time.The garden can be sprayed on to help you to show them that it will work well with other modes of travel, it might be.

#How To Stop Your Cat Peeing Inside Fabulous Useful Ideas #How To Remove Cat Spray Smell From Shoes

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militvs · 4 years

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❝ In the quest for comfort we are leading to C A T A C L Y S M ❞

The tragedy of Cloud Strife and Silas Grey

warnings for: transphobic language (no one knows Cloud is trans, even cloud), arranged marriages (kinda), sexism, pregnancy, blood, gore, and death.

Youth is a time for reckless abandon; for mistakes and ill decisions--something Cloud Strife never explored. ‘Don’t rip that dress Cloud, I worked hard on it.’ His mother whispers gently. Women don’t run through the streets and splatter themselves in mud; good girls don’t scale trees or go swimming the small streams; girls like Cloud hardly go outside at all. Their family is poor and his mothers hands are bone worn; tired from working to simply put some semblance of food on their table night after night. He doesn’t know his father, nor did he ever get the chance. After all had he still been there maybe they wouldn’t be struggling to make ends meet; maybe his mother wouldn’t look so sad. There’s something off about his body and the slight twinge in the back of his mind every time someone calls him ‘she’ but there’s no proper understanding. He is a female and therefore must wear soft dresses and tend to his long hair--but he doesn’t much.

The blonde came early into this world and fought tooth and nail to stay--but his body is still small and slender. He’s skinnier than most girls his age and hides it under large shirts and odd pants. He’s frowned upon for it, but everyone whispers behind his back. ‘she’s just in a phase, she’ll grow out of it like all the other girls once she’s able to marry.’ Ah but there it is. He’s eighteen years of age now and it’s important to find a suitable husband and start a family. He doesn’t particularly want to--not when marrying had only brought his mother heart ache and a fatherless daughter. What if his husband leaves him? What if he has a child and ends up having to raise them on his own? Will he too have to work endless jobs til he feels like his hands might bleed and his back bends with the weight of responsibility? Yet his family is poor and if he marries well enough, maybe the dowry will at least free his mother.

Hands fold neatly in his lap as his tired mother gently explains what a wife is meant to do; inducts him into adulthood with teary eyes and a worldly weariness she can never seem to shake. Maybe she doesn’t feel it’s fair--that her only child is also going to be taken away; maybe she wishes she’d tried harder to keep his father so like all the others families they could be ‘normal’. But they are not normal, their family is considered strange to the town and he knows it’s partly his fault. He doesn’t show much interest in anything except the stars and books--but girls don’t read, it isn’t natural! ‘You’re a grown woman now Cloud. Boys will start to notice you and one of them will pick you; so you should be prepared.’ It’s not an entirely comforting thought, but their town is small and their minds with it; being property is not a new concept. So he starts wearing dresses and braiding his hair instead of leaving it in that messy little wolfs tail. He reads, but now it’s quiet and in the sanctuary of his own room instead of in public.

Boys do begin to notice him but he doesn’t particularly care--especially when most of them are rude about it. ‘Cloud it isn’t ladylike to punch someone!’ But he doesn’t regret laying out Jimmy on his ass when he tugs his hair. From then on none of the boys really show interest in him--all except one. Silas Grey is probably the richest man in town and he’s a couple years older than Cloud, so he’s considered more mature. They’d never really noticed each other--but when the blonde punched the kid that decided his braids were actually a rope, he was there. He was tall--far taller than Cloud could ever hope to be with deep red-brown hair and rich brown eyes that reminded Cloud of the hot chocolate his mom once treated him to on his sixteenth birthday. His hand went up to his mouth and even though it covered most of his face, the laughter shone clearly in his eyes. From then on there was a sort of soft fascination with each other, though neither was foolish enough to call it love.

Silas was from a well-off family and worked as a merchant of sorts. The town also considered him odd because he was going on twenty-one and still had yet to marry; not only that but he dressed quite plainly for a man of his wealth. He had forward ideas about women reading and working even if their husband provided--he even began to lend Cloud books. The blonde was no fool, he knew that the books were just an odd way to court him--but he didn’t mind so much. The red-head liked to listen and paid attention to what the blonde said; even told him that he looked like stars had gotten bored of the sky and came to rest on his skin. It wasn’t that he really cared much about his freckles, or was offended when others compared them to dirt, but the comparison was sweet and he smiled at the compliment in spite of himself. He was a sullen girl, but that didn’t seem to bother the other.

It was a warm summer day when the proposal came. It wasn’t dramatic or too fancy, just a simple and private question in the living room with a book in Clouds lap, wrinkling his blue dress. There was no reason to say now--you didn’t marry for love after all. Not only that but their parents had pretty much arranged the affair. ‘I know it’s unfair to ask...but the dowry Silas gives you will save my shop and we can live without worry...’ and that pleading was all it took. They had a fall wedding, Cloud dressed in a simple white dress and for once wearing make-up. Silas was a patient man and didn’t sleep with him right away--something about wanting to make sure they were both mentally ready. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready, but the sentiment was sweet. Silas was, after all, just like that. He didn’t put much stock on norms even though Cloud was still his stay-at-home wife.

Perhaps if they both weren’t stuck in such a small town with small minded people they may have been better, but they weren’t broken either and that was good enough for the teen. He’s almost nineteen when they finally start sleeping together and it really isn’t so bad. He can tell his husband has started to love him, but Clouds repeat of the words are hollow and with no meaning. It’s not that he isn’t happy, but love has never really been a point in all this. He can’t explain it--but to him the man he married is just a very good friend. Even so its been drilled into his head that a good wife take care of the man they marry, so he does what he’s meant to. The swell of his stomach is beginning to show when he finally turns nineteen and his mother is excited to meet her grandchild and slowly but surely...Cloud is excited to meet them too.

Having a family wasn’t something he thought he ever wanted, but the closer his due date gets--the more excited he becomes. Cloud puts on a little weight and his husband is more than happy to splurge on feeding him and spoiling his wife. Even if there is no real love between them, they’re starting to look and act like a proper family. The blonde takes up knitting and spends a lot more time making baby clothes than reading (like before). There’s a new life inside him and he has an endless list of possible names. Before he knows it his due date is just days away and the charm has worn off a little. He’s in pain or achy most of the time and his moods swing back and forth faster than a man with a bat. Silas is patient through it all--helping him at the doctors and spending more time at home to ensure their ready for what they now know will be their son.

So of course, in the midst of everything going well, it goes terribly wrong. It’s late and there’s the sounds of screams and the smell of smoke and he wakes with a start, reaching instantly for his stomach and curling his arms around himself as Silas bursts into their room panting. He’s half-dressed and holding a bag of what Cloud assumes are the most valuable thing in their house. Without saying a word he’s being tugged to his feet, wrapped in one of his husbands jackets, then whisked out the door. It’s difficult to go fast and they fall behind a lot of other people fleeing the now burning town. There’s the sounds of gunfire and screaming. “Wutai...” his husband gasps out, reaching and wrapping his arm around his wife’s small shoulders, protectively trying to keep him close. Ah yes, the war. The blonde feels blood drain from his face and he clutches at himself. “I won’t let them take our son...” he chokes out, more afraid than brave.

They almost make it; they almost stay that small happy family; they almost live to see their son together--but almost is not the same as did. The man in wutai clothing raises his gun, aiming for the stressed blonde but Cloud isn’t the one that takes the bullet. “SILAS!” the cry is ripped from his throat in desperation as he collapses, clutching his bleeding husband against him. But the man is tall and even as he gasps for breath, bleeding out, he clutches Cloud against him--shielding his wife and unborn son. “Live...live and fine happiness.” he whispers, kissing the top of his head weakly. He goes slowly, painfully--bleeding out from several bullet wounds. Cloud is screaming, tears dripping into the mess of tattered fabric that was his husbands shirt. He thinks he might vomit from the smell of blood and death, but he cannot move or defile his deceased husband after his sacrifice.

Maybe he didn’t love him--but he had cared; he had been his friend. He’d seen death before--but not like this; not so cruelly. When the men come to him, finding his teary face under his husbands corpse he fights them--weakly trying to stop these masked men from dragging him away. But they don’t give up and he is knocked unconscious and taken away. His memories become hazy--a drifting in and out of white light and unfamiliar faces; men and women in white coats and a man with strange glasses. When he next wakes he’s in a dirty dress that might have once been white, his stomach oddly flat and hands still tingling with the sensation of blood. His husband is gone, his child is gone, his home is gone and he doesn’t know where he is. All Cloud knows it that he’s so sad he’s angry and the people who hurt his loved ones will pay. “Wutai...” he growls, standing shakily on his feet and gripping at a dirty poster for SOLDIER. He will have his revenge.

“Your father was a hero” he murmurs softly from where he’s sitting on the couch, holding Neku close. He’s twenty-seven now...far older than that foolish girl who set out for revenge so long ago, but that ended up saving the world instead. Cloud knows the man he’s become--the father that he is--was all thanks to Silas Grey. Soft fingers card through red hair and he can’t help but think on how sometimes their son--now back where he belongs--is so like his dad. “He saved us both.” There’s no need to give more detail than that. Neku doesn’t need the gory details, not yet anyway. “I didn’t love him--not like that.” he admits quietly, closing his eyes and letting out a heavy sigh. He hasn’t even told Tifa this whole story. But this kid in his arms deserves the truth. He thought his and Silas’s kid had been killed but it turns out he was just another victim of ShinRa. He swallows back the guilt and leans down, kissing his sons forehead instead. “But I don’t regret marrying him--I don’t regret having you with him. He died so we could have a chance so...lets make the best of it yeah? Together."

And maybe they lived happily ever after, after all.

#( I think my brain is broken now lkgjslkgjlkj )#( I rushed this far more than I meant to )#( but also drew out parts I didn't mean to )#( I should not read tolkien books before writing drabbles )#( anyway take this tragedy )#//transphobia #//transphobic language #( everyone but the author misgenders cloud )#//arranged marriage #//sexism #//pregnancy #//blood #//gore #//character death #//character death mention #( Some Greek Level Tragedy Bullshit ) ☆ DRABBLE #C A T A C L Y S M

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