#its about more than just blood but the relationship and dynamics between them and i just Do Not Like webby shipped w any of them i dont!!!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angel-of-the-moons · 1 year

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Cycles

Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader

TW/Content Warnings: NSFW, Smut, PIV Sex, Heat/Rut Cycles, Territorial, bit of Feral!Miguel, improper use of webs, pheromones, hormones, predator/prey dynamic if you squint, Unprotected Sex, Biting, Scratching, Bondage(?), Breeding Kink (c'mon we all know Miguel has one), established relationship, boyfriend/girlfriend, rough sex, oral sex, blowjob

MINORS DNI: I am not responsible for the content that you are about to read/consume, if you are upset by the themes in this fic, do not read it and scroll on by!

A/N: For context, you are a Spider-Woman who is one of (maybe the only) the few Spiders who have similar powers to Miguel. This is my first Miguel x Reader fic I've ever written, and my first fic ever posted here on Tumblr! (Header does not indicate reader's race)

Earth 7164. New York. Middle of summer.

The scent hit him the moment he tore through the portal. A heavy, sweet, earthy scent that flooded his whole body with a rush of adrenaline. Even the fat droplets of summer rain that fell from the dingy skyline did little to diminish that delicious, mouth watering scent.

Your scent.

His body was trembling as he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to rid himself of the tension that roped its way through his heavy muscles. His talons flexed as he gritted his teeth, each drag of his lungs pulling your scent into his body.

Miguel O'Hara was a man who would claim he had a good sense of control over his urges. He would also say he was a good boyfriend, attentive. A bit protective (some would say possessive).

But, he had been neglecting you as of late, his duties in the Spider Society and ensuring the safety of the universe had kept him away from you these past few weeks, and he almost lost track until he felt that familiar boiling of his blood, an itch that he knew could only be scratched by you.

And he knew that you would be experiencing a similar situation to him, almost parallel. In fact, he surmised you were probably the only Spider who had similar powers. The only difference was that whereas Miguel's powers were (sort of) intentional, and other Spiders were given to them after being bitten by radioactive spiders... You were born like this. They didn't know why. Hell, you didn't know why.

You had the venom (you could consciously control how much you pumped out in every bite), you had your own talons (although yours were a part of your nails, not in the pads of his fingers and toes), the wall crawling abilities, natural web-shooting...

And your cycle. At first having you around was torture on his senses when it would roll around. It would start with your scent changing; the dampness he picked up from between your legs making the blood rush straight to his dick. More often than he'd like he'd have to excuse himself to his private lab to jerk himself off until he felt some of his clarity return.

But it was always just a temporary relief. It only got worse when your breeding cycle and his rut cycle synced up, resulting in the two of you needing to almost be sedated and kept away from each other. (How Lyla kept that under wraps, Miguel never knew.)

And once your dynamic shifted and you started seeing each other, and eventually getting intimate... well. He was positive that Jess or Peter suspected what was up... Especially when he would disappear to your universe for a week or so, only to come back in a slightly better mood, small dark patches peeking out from beneath the collar of his suit, or you would be walking funny or unable to sit comfortably.

Right now, though, those thoughts were shoved to the back of his mind. The only thing he could think of was you. He could smell you, taste you in the air. This was your territory, and he... Could be considered an intruder, depending on your mood.

A male spider waltzing into a pissed off and horny female spider's web during breeding season.

Shaking his head, he took another deep drag of the air around him, the smell of the city mixing with your earthy, almost fruity tones. Your scent was faded slightly, but he could still use it to track you beneath the smog, garbage, and vehicle exhaust.

It's not like he didn't know where your apartment was... But he knew during this period of time you'd be restless, irritable, angry.

And mind-numbingly horny.

Miguel launched himself up, slinging his wrist out and using his glowing webs to propel himself in between the buildings and skyscrapers; leaping, flipping, arching through the sky in a red-and-blue blur.

He knew he was closing in on you. Your scent was all but strangling him, choking the air and what little sanity he was clinging to right out of him.

He should have known you were waiting.

Miguel was rammed into with the speed of a runaway train, the oxygen he so desperately needed ripped from his lungs as he tumbled with a roll onto the rooftop below, landing on all fours as his talons dug into the concrete and tar, leaving deep grooves as he slowed himself.

He lifted his gaze to see you land in front of him, chest heaving, body trembling.

"I have been waiting for you, for almost two weeks." You wheezed out.

"Hell of a way to greet me, querida." Miguel grunted, pulling himself to his feet.

Beneath your mask, he knew your eyes immediately dragged down to the hard bulge pressing against his suit, the hard outline of it sending a fresh throb of arousal straight to your core.

"The kick was a bit much." He said, trying to maintain a professional composure.

But his control was quickly slipping.

"Shut the fuck up."

The short rebuke didn't surprise him.

"Should have been here days ago." Miguel said, swallowing hard at the lump in his throat. "I know that. But--"

You cut him off by lunging at him, hurling your full weight onto him and pinning him down beneath you.

The heat between your legs felt like it melted through his suit, burning the skin beneath and causing a fever to spread.

You raised your fist to bring it down on his face but his reflexes allow him to catch it, gripping you like a steel vice. His other hand gripped your thigh as he planted his feet on the rooftop, rolling to pin you beneath him, his massive frame caging you in.

He squeezed your hips between his thighs, muscles tensing and twitching, breathing heavy. Your free hand reached out and clawed at him, tearing at his suit, leaving a rainbow of glitched out fabric behind, small droplets of blood rushing forth to drip down his tanned skin.

He gritted his teeth at the sensation, the sweet burn sending another wave of heat through his body that made his cock twitch.

You were past talking, past negotiating and being civil. You knew what you wanted, and you wanted it now.

You breathed heavily, gritting your teeth as Miguel gripped your thigh and forced your knee by your head, squeezing the plushest part as his face dragged down to the dark patch soaking through the fabric of your suit.

Using this new position, you kicked at him square in his chest and threw him off of you.

Before he could right himself, you rolled to your feet and jumped off the roof, shooting a web to sling you away from him.

Sure, you were horny and wanted to ride his cock til he couldn't see straight for a month. But he had been gone for weeks and you had been struggling with your own self-care, your measley silicone toys and vibrators barely able to compare with that womb-punching length that Miguel crammed into you, or his skillful and knowledgeable hands rubbing you until your eyes rolled back. But right now, you were pissed.

He wanted your pussy? He was going to have to work for it.

And if that meant playing your cat and mouse game for an hour, building the anticipation and making his cock leak; aching, desperate for a taste of you? So be it.

You played this game for a while, teasing him, getting within arms reach before yanking yourself away at the last possible second, thwarting his attempts to catch you.

Sometimes you liked to play with your food.

But all games come to an end. And this one had an abrupt ending when Miguel headed you off, tackling you to the roof of some abandoned warehouse, pinning you down on your belly, hands above your head.

"Bout fucking time I caught you. Tu pequeño bromista.." (You little tease.) He snarled, leaning down to your ear as his mask dissipated from his head, letting his wavy chocolate hair fall free, damp strands plastering themselves to his forehead.

His eyes were wild, red and glowing; pupils blown wide.

"Fuck you." You hiss, squirming under him.

"Oh, sucederá en, no te preocupes." (Oh, don't worry, it will happen.)

Miguel raised his free hand and brought it down hard on your ass, making you bite your lip to contain the mewl that tried to claw its way out of your throat.

"Look at you, now, hermosa." He sneered, his chest huffing in a small, humorless laugh. "I can fucking smell you from a mile off."

He reached down and cupped your mound, his fingers squishing slightly in the damp fabric of your suit; but once again you deny him a moan, instead biting into your lip, fangs threatening to puncture your lip.

You squirm an arm free and go to elbow him in the face, get him off of you. (Or under you.)

But he predicted that. That's what always got you going when you were in the middle of your cycle. You liked it rough.

His large hand completely encircled your elbow and forced your arm back down. Quickly, he used his glowing, laser-webs to secure your wrists together before he gripped the fabric of your suit with his talons, shredding it as he yanked you over so you were on your back.

Miguel smiled and yanked your mask off of your head, tossing it to the side before gripping your chin with his fingers, putting enough pressure to keep your eyes on his.

"Now... What should I do with you?" He said contemplatively, tapping your cheek with his index finger, making a show of thinking, his eyes dragging over the flushed features on your face, your tongue darting out to wet your dry lips.

"Ah. That's it." He grinned, his slightly askew teeth gleaming in the dark. He grips you by the front of your torn suit and pulls you to your knees as he stands.

He grips the crotch of his suit, and rips at it with his talons, the torn edges doing that kaleidoscopic glitch of colors as his cock springs free from its confines; large, twitching, angry red tip leaking in excitement.

You have to bite your tongue to keep in your little groan, your heart soaking through and dripping out through your suit.

"Hmh." He grunted, annoyed. "I'll loosen your fucking mouth. I've been keeping myself under control this whole time. But now? I'm not going to be gentle."

He gripped your hair, just shy of painful as he dragged your head to his crotch, the tip of his cock smearing his precum across your cheek.

"Chúpalo." (Suck it.)

You finally give in, your hands bound in your lap as you drag your tongue along a prominent vein in the velvety skin of his shaft, earning a deep, rumbling groan from him that you swore sent vibrations straight to your cunt, making you flutter around nothing.

You pull your head back and swirl your tongue around the tip, pulling and tugging as you lap at his slit, eagerly tasting every drop of pre he was giving you before diving in and taking the rest of his tip in your mouth, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm.

He massaged your scalp, his talons tickling the skin under your hair as he encouraged you to continue.

But you knew his calm demeanor wasn't going to last. It wasn't long before he grabbed at your hair with both hands, forcing you to choke down on his length, just shy of blocking off your airway as he fucked your face, the tension and stress from your cat and mouse game coming out as his tip kept shoving at your throat, your nose brushing the dark curly hairs at the base, his balls slapping your chin with every thrust; saliva pooling around his length as you keep your fangs pulled back as you let him use your throat like a fleshlight.

You close your jaw microscopically, fangs grazing the flesh.

"Míralo!" (Watch it!) He reprimanded, pulling your hair roughly to pull you back, his cock springing out of your lips with a wet pop, saliva connecting the tip with the soft pink muscle in your mouth like a weak bridge.

"Be a good girl." He snarled, pulling you back down on his length, barely letting you catch your breath before forcing you all the way down, tears welling up in your eyes and falling down your cheeks as you choked and gagged.

You knew exactly how to lick, suck, and tug at his cock to get the best reactions, the most delicious sounds from him.

You snuck a glance up at him, watching as he tipped his head back with a throaty groan as you greedily swallowed him down.

You moaned around him; his cock throbbed.

You felt him twitch, felt his hips sputter as he gritted his teeth.

"Fuckin' close." He snarled, looking down at you as your eyes connected with his feral ones.

You rocked your clothed cunt on your heel, trying desperately to get some friction to your aching clit. Miguel caught this motion, and held you down on his cock, choking you from not letting you ease off.

"You're not allowed to touch yourself." He said through gritted teeth, pulling your head back with a harsh tug, letting you get a gulp of air before voraciously fucking your mouth again. You obeyed his command, sitting in your slick that was dripping down and out of you, your folds puffy and neglected.

"Fuck..." He breathed heavily, he could feel that burn, that coil about to snap, his blood boiling and rushing straight to the tip of his dick as he felt his balls draw tight.

You moaned softly around him, gagging slightly before that rush of heat flooded your mouth as you worked your throat to swallow every last drop of the load he was feeding you.

Miguel panted, dragging some much needed air in his lungs as he let you pull back, hacking and coughing as your airways flooded with oxygen again. You grin maliciously and bite down on his thigh. No venom of course, but just enough to remind him you were there, earning you a sharp glare and a slap to the back of your head as you licked your lips.

He ran a hand through his hair, and it wasn't but a moment later before he yanked you to your feet, and shoved his tongue past your lips to overpower yours, tasting his cum lingering on your breath as his heavy rut-scent flooded your nose. You moaned shamelessly into the kiss, biting and tugging at each others lips until a burst of cooper flooded your mouth.

Miguel pulled away and licked at his bloody lip, before his mouth twisted into a snarl. He barreled into you, forcing you against a rooftop air-conditioning unit.

His hand reached down as he ripped at your suit, your breasts bouncing free.

Of course you weren't wearing a fucking bra. Probably no panties either. Because you were just that fucking horny and desperate.

He leaned down and took one of your pebbling nipples in his mouth, biting and sucking roughly as you push your head back against the unit, the metal bumping as you do, a strangled cry coming from you.

He pulled back, before delving back down and putting the same torture on your other tit. This time however he pulled back, biting down on the marshmallowy flesh, making you mewl out as his tongue laves over the mark he made.

"Miguel!" You snarl, thrashing your leg to kick at him, your frustration and neglect finally getting to you.

Miguel caught your flailing lim and forced it up, pinning it against the air-conditioning unit with another shot of his webs, before securing your already bound hands with more, above your head.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his hot and heavy breath ghosting over your sweaty skin, before his hands once again swiped and gripped at your cunt, pawing at it like a cat kneading a blanket.

Miguel lazily dragged two fingers torturously slow up your slit, before punching your clit hard through the fabric.

"You've been misbehaving... But I know you're just going to keep acting out until I give you what you want." Miguel sneered into your ear.

You whimpered, arching into his touch as he pulled away, making a frustrated sob at the lack of contact.

You nearly had the air punched out of your lungs when Miguel dropped to his knees, inhaling the scent of your soaked pussy like it was a drug he needed a hit of. He opened his mouth and dragged his tongue up the soaked fabric, before latching on and sucking.

Now this was new. Getting eaten out through the fabric of your clothes. There was too much contact but somehow not enough as he rutted his nose at your clit, sucking more at your folds drawing more of your slick through the fabric.

You thrashed against his webs, trying so hard to roll your hips and fuck his face, but with the way you were pinned, you were at his mercy, especially when he hoisted your free leg over his shoulder. He pressed two fingers against your covered hole as he furiously suckled your clit.

Your orgasm crashed into you so hard you couldn't even manage a scream, your mouth just hung open on a silent cry, eyes rolling back as a fresh gush of slick leaked through your suit.

Miguel smiled against you and tore your suit's crotch open, and you shivered as the humid, summer air made contact with your slick and creamy folds. You barely had a second to realize what was happening before Miguel plunged back in, his nose rutting your clit once more as I sucked at your cream, your slick covering his chin.

Miguel was the best sexual partner you ever had, he knew exactly how to eat you out to the point you lost your voice without even using it.

Just as your second orgasm was creeping up on you, he pulled his mouth away, wiping his face clean with the back of his hand and licking his chops like a dog eyeing a juicy stake.

His cock bobbed against his stomach as he stood, a steady stream of precum dribbling out of the tip and to the ground below.

He pulled your free leg to wrap around his waist as he slid the underside of his cock against your puffy cunt.

Miguel bit down on your shoulder, hard as he forced himself into you with one brutal thrust, pushing the air out of your lungs as he punched your guts through your womb with his cock, spearing you wide as he set a rapid, relentless pace for the both of you.

You uttered breathless pleas, praises, and incoherent mumblings with each thrust; the two of you grunting and moaning in each others ears like rabid animals, Miguel's cock slamming home into your pussy, squelching, dripping, the slap of skin and hips colliding filling the very atoms around you.

Your body screamed, cried, ached for him to fuck you, fill you up to the brim.

Miguel's tip crammed against your cervix in such a brutal way that you swore he bullied himself into your womb with every thrust. It was a blossoming pain that bled into pleasure, quickly bringing you back to the edge of your second orgasm that he had denied you.

"That's it, baby." Miguel snarled in your ear. "Ah... So tight for me. You want me?"

You nodded, whimpering and sobbing into his shoulder.

"Want me to fuck you til you can't walk for a week? Stretch you til all you can think of is my cock?" He said, his voice edging on a gleeful tone as he pants, turning his head and licking at the sweat on your neck.

"Want me to fucking breed you?"

You bite into his shoulder at that, whimpering as his suit glitches around your fangs and you lick at the blood welling up.

He hissed, and his pace became frantic, almost angry as he reaches down and pinches your clit like before, and your orgasm comes flooding through every blood vessel in your body as you jerk mindlessly against him, your pussy crushing down on him, milking him for everything he can give you.

He moans loudly in your ear, snapping his hips up into yours, balls slapping your ass as you cry out, sobs wracking your chest as your vision blurs and the tension rips out of you.

You whimper, and hiccup against him when he forces himself into you one last time, his tip kissing that oh so lovely spot inside as he pumps his heavy and sticky load deep inside your pussy, dripping out of you with each jagged thrust as he fucks you through his orgasm.

When Miguel's hips still, his hand pets at your hair as he kisses your jaw, nipping the skin there as he slices the webs holding your legs and hands up.

"Mmmmh. I needed that." Miguel sighed into your hair.

You grunted in response, your fists gripping at his suit as you pull him down for a hungry and toothy kiss.

"Take me home and fuck me." You demanded.

All Miguel could do was smile, and carry you back to your apartment. The real trick was keeping his cock sheathed inside of you as he swung from building to building, trying to avoid anybody who may have a camera phone...

But honestly? You didn't care.

However...

The two of you did care, a few weeks later.

When two little pink lines appeared on the stick in your hand.

"Fuck."

#miguel o’hara x reader #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #spiderman 2099 #miguel O'Hara x you #my writing #spiderverse smut #smut

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alcorian-cycle · 7 months

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So, I just want to say something real quick about Wilbur Soot and the expectation fans have of all his friends to come out and immediately make statements and drop him. I particularly want to talk about Tommy because i see parallels between his relationship with Wilbur and my relationship with an adult who made me feel responsible for his wellbeing. I am not saying that their relationship is like this, just that based on what we've seen it could be, and we should be prepared to be empathetic and understanding to Tommy in case it is like this.

So some background. Starting at 13 or 14, I had a friend in his thirties who made me feel responsible for his mental health. I won't go into great detail, but I was constantly reassuring him and trying to keep him from killing himself, which was something he gave me multiple scares about. He would disappear and not respond to messages for days or weeks after posting suicide notes on his tumblr... but he was fine every time, just stepping away. Still, it scared me every time, and I felt like I hadn't been doing a good enough job helping him be happy.

I was friends with him from 13 to 16 and I felt responsible not just for his happiness, but his life.

It was so difficult to end that friendship that it took him blocking me multiple times before i could accept that he wasn't my responsibility anymore.

I defended him, let him get away with shit, let him have way more power over my life and beliefs and relationships than he should have. Because i was so toxically attached to him and believed what he told me, I seriously hurt my best friend in the whole world and I will never be able to fully express how sorry I am for it.

I'm saying this because there is evidence that Wilbur and Tommy's relationship contains similar dynamics. Wilbur has said that he relies on Tommy for his mental health. They met when Tommy was, what, 15? That's not healthy. Wilbur is an adult. I've also heard that Tommy has had to talk Wilbur down from suicide. This is extremely similar to what I experienced, and as much as it discomforts me to be seriously speculating about two ccs' relationship off-camera, I can't help but see the strong similarities to my story.

And Shelby's story corroborates this kind of behavior from Wilbur. She also was made to feel like Wilbur relied on her. For Shelby it was about his living situation--she felt like he needed her to take care of him, like he was too traumatized or depressed to take care of his own house and affairs, and if she stopped doing it it just wouldn't get done. And because she is a kind person, she didn't want to leave him like that.

This kind of behavior traps the victim in a relationship with the abuser by making them feel guilty if they try to leave or even distance themselves. It makes the victim feel like they cant hurt or go against the abuser in any way, for fear of blood on their hands, literal or metaphorical. It drives you to defend them, to try to stay by their side even as they prove themselves a terrible person.

So if Tommy isn't immediate and decisive in dropping Wilbur, I think we should be understanding. In these sorts of manipulative relationships, its really hard to speak badly of the abuser, and its hard to accept when others say they're abusive. That's an aspect of the abuse.

It took me until I was 13 to even be consciously aware of my mom doing this to me, and I only became aware of that "friend" doing it when I hadn't spoken to him in years.

This is the sort of thing that is VERY difficult to process and navigate and I think we should give Tommy, and other people close to Wilbur, some grace in navigating it. They should still drop him, but I think we should let them take some time because dropping an abuser who acts like this is very difficult, and they make it so on purpose.

#alv posts #wilbur soot #wilbur situation #abuse cw

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goosewriting · 8 months

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Warmth

summary: now that reader got to look underneath the surface, they discover the not so pretty parts about being an inquisitor

relationship: inq!Cal Kestis x gn!reader

warnings: 18+, semi-graphic violence, mentions of blood, trauma, it gets pretty steamy, but still fade to black, implied sexual encounters, cal being emotionally constipated because what else is new, dom cal, soft cal, dirty talk? sorta?, talking about killing people, reader being a nerd, having a bath together, non-sexual nudity, reader gets choked, a lot is happening ok

word count: 12k … this one got away form me, i–

A/N: tbh when i started this i had no idea where i was going with it; this just took on a life of its own. i guess this one’s a little more grounded than the previous one, as reader and cal explore what it means to be an inquisitor. it’s a bit different to my usual stuff but i hope you like it nonetheless :’D

this can be read on its own, but it's technically a sequel to underneath!

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

— — —

It’s rather calm today, uneventful, as you sit at your office desk doing your work absent-mindedly.

You think back to your first night together with inquisitor Cal Kestis. It’s been some time since then, and you’re glad that there were more nights after that one.

Whatever is going on between you two, you try to be discreet about it. But it didn’t go unnoticed by others how Cal would approach you in the hallways to say hi or have a quick chat to check in on you. At first, you were nervous that it would affect your job in some way, negatively change your relationship with your boss and colleagues (not that you’re too close with them, but you still want to keep it professional and respectful with them). To your surprise though, the others seem to respect you more because of it. Apparently being able to hold your ground against an inquisitor isn't a small feat. ‘Hold your ground’... More like being wrapped around his finger.

You smile to yourself as you think back to a couple of nights back. Your heart quickens and the tip of your ears burn as you remember the trails of kisses Cal left on your skin, setting your whole body on fire, accompanied by words of praise and adoration, words only for you to hear.

Shaking your head to rid yourself of the slippery slope that is your current train of thought, you refocus on the screen in front of you and continue clacking away on the keyboard. You haven’t really defined or put a label on what you two have, but you know it’s special, and it is real. And you’re content with that for now. You like the current dynamic, where you have dinner together as often as your jobs will allow it, and you sleep over at his quarters every other day.

However, lately there’s been a habit of Cal’s that worries you a bit. There’s been several instances now when you wake up in the middle of the night and your hand reaches out to find him, but his side of the bed is empty. Sometimes he’s not in the room at all. Other times you can see him standing at the window with his back towards you; his red hair seems to glow above his dark silhouette contrasting with the dim fiery glow coming from Mustafar, appearing from behind a veil of clouds. You know he knows you’re awake, but you stay still, pretending to be asleep. Whatever is weighing on his mind, whenever he feels ready, he’ll come to you. And you’d wait for as long as he needs.

Still, getting up so often at night starts to take a toll. You notice he’s more irritable, you see the dark bags under his eyes. But when you try to confront him about it, he dismisses it as unimportant, saying he’ll get better sleep that night. But it’s just the same thing over and over again.

One night after dinner, you’re both sitting on his couch, and you finally manage to pry out what has got him unable to sleep: nightmares. You don’t really understand what the problem is; everyone gets nightmares every once in a while. Even if he were to move around a lot, you’d try to calm him down and get him back to sleep.

“Do you know how inquisitors are made?” he asks seemingly out of nowhere while on the nightmare topic.

You take a moment to think about it, and realise that you do, in fact, not. So you shake your head.

“The Empire captures Jedis, to torture and remake them however they see fit”, he explains and stops from a moment to let it sink in.

“Part of them is lost forever,” he continues, his gaze moving to the side, looking at nothing in particular. “The other seems to be trapped, unable to move or escape. Jedis are trained to not give in to hate or anger. For inquisitors, those are the only things keeping them going. Ironically, feeling an enemy’s life force fade away… It makes you feel alive again.” He looks down at his hands. “It lets you feel something again at all: the rage, towards oneself and towards everyone who’s ever wronged you. It’s an addicting feeling, all-consuming. But much too short. So you seek it out again. And the Empire has plenty of enemies they need gone, so you comply.”

He pauses, allowing you to interject if it’s too much, but you remain silent, listening attentively. You’ve never heard this side of him, of how it felt being an inquisitor.

“In those moments–” he goes on, clenching his hands into fists. “–feeding off of someone's desperation and pain that you can feel through the Force, it also opens a minimal gap for you to feel other things too. Things you thought you had forgotten or want to forget, like regret, fear and doubt. Or things you think you don’t deserve to feel anymore, like warmth. Happiness.” He pauses for a moment. “Love.”

You remain silent for a moment longer in case he wants to add anything else, but it doesn’t look like it. So you ask something instead.

“And what do you remember in those moments?”

Cal closes his eyes and throws his head back slightly, taking a deep breath.

“The smell of the temple library on Coruscant,” he replies. “The rare sound of the clones laughing in the mess hall. How safe I felt with my master.”

You tilt your head with a slight grimace; it breaks your heart to hear he thinks he can’t have those things anymore because of what he is now. Or rather, what he was made.

“You still deserve all of that, the warmth and feelings of safety,” you say, and reach out to run your fingertips over his cheek, but he turns away.

“You don’t think I’m a monster? Like everyone else does?” he asks with a wry chuckle. “You know what I do. I don’t deserve any of it.”

Or you.

He doesn’t say the words aloud, but they hang heavy in the air between you two.

“Okay, Kestis,” you say as you stand up, one hand stretched out towards him. “No moping, c’mon.”

He gives you a suspicious look, but accepts your hand nonetheless. You guide him to the washroom and run a bath for him, using one of your nicer bath bombs which you kept for special occasions.

“Time for some pampering. You deserve it,” you enunciate that last part. “Clothes off.”

He narrows his eyes at you, unsure of what you’re scheming. You can’t help but laugh at the faint blush spreading on his freckled face as you start to strip yourself.

“Now, don’t get any ideas. No funny business, I mean it. Just a bath,” you say, pointing a finger at him.

“Alright, alright,” he gives in with a low chuckle, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Not long after, you’re both in the tub, with you sitting behind Cal, both enveloped by fragrant bubbles filling the warm water surface. You instruct him to lean back so you can wash his hair. Using your own shampoo instead of the boring, Empire-issue one, you lather up his hair, massaging his scalp, which earns you a grunt or two, and you can’t help a triumphant smile.

“Does it feel good?” you ask, and you get another grunt in response, so it must indeed feel good.

After you’re done with the hair, you tell him to turn around, and you squirt some soap onto a wash cloth. Starting at his neck, you scrub gently in circular motions, making your way down over his shoulder and his arms. Then you repeat the process on the other arm. As you lift it out from the thick layer of bubbles, you notice some reddening on his skin at his bicep. You take a closer look.

“Is that a new scar?” you ask.

“Yeah, don’t know where from though,” he says, and you get the impression that he does, but you don’t ask him about it.

“Is that so,” you mumble, then lean in to place a soft kiss on it. “There, now it will heal faster.”

Cal snorts and rolls his eyes, but his gaze remains soft.

“What, you don’t believe me?” you retort in mock offence. Then you start placing kisses on all his scars, the ones on his face, at his jaw and over his nose. The scars on his chest, his shoulders. You end by placing one last kiss on the tip of his nose, and grin up at him, but your face changes into worry when you see his expression. His brows are furrowed, as if in pain, his eyes shut tightly, his shoulders tense.

“Cal, are you okay?” you ask, and his hand comes out of the water to hold your face. You place your hand over his. He blinks a couple of times, and when he fully opens his eyes again, his features relax, and he smiles warmly. But what shocks you the most is that his eyes aren’t their usual yellow; they’re greenish blue. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. His gaze is not only a different colour, but also as vulnerable and tender as you’ve never seen before in him.

“You’re too good to me,” he whispers, leaning in to place a single, lingering kiss on your cheek.

Suddenly, his face contorts in pain again, this time more than before, and his hands shoot up to either side of his head, pressing onto his temples. When he opens his eyes again, they’re back to the yellow you know and love.

“My head is killing me suddenly,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can we wrap it up?”

“Uh, of course, yeah,” you answer, making quick work of rinsing off both of you and getting some towels.

Soon you’re both in bed, with your back against his chest, as he holds on to you like his life depends on it. Cal falls asleep first, but it’s rather restless. He keeps twitching and flinching, and with every sudden move, you’re dragged back out of your almost drifting to sleep. When he seems to finally have calmed down, you exhale deeply, eager to follow suit and drift into dreamland as well. Instead, Cal groans loudly, and you lean onto your side to look up over your shoulder. He looks distressed, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.

“Cal, are you okay?” you ask, placing your hand on his shoulder to try and wake him, but you retrieve it quickly when his eyes shoot open, wild and angry and disoriented.

“Prauf!” he screams, grabbing you harshly and rolling over so he’s straddling you, one of his hands fisting the sheets while the other goes to your throat, starting to choke you.

“C-Cal…!” you rasp out, holding onto his wrist to try and get him off of you. “You’re hurting me!”

He puts more weight into his hold, and you start seeing white dots sprinkled in your field of vision.

“It’s me, please,” you gasp, raising your hand to hold his cheek instead, and that seems to work. Slowly, his eyes seem to focus again, and his ragged breathing calms down slightly. When he finally sees you under him and understands what he is doing, he lets go and jumps off of you, off the bed, and slams his back against the opposite wall. You take a gulp of air, falling into a coughing fit.

“Are you okay?” you croak when you can finally talk again, and you see him holding his head, trembling.

“I- I’m sorry- This-” he starts, but can’t form a sentence. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he lets his hands fall back down to his sides. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

Cal leaves the room before you can protest, and the doors close behind him. Just like that you’re left alone, wondering what in the world just happened. Does it have something to do with his eyes earlier? And what, or who, is Prauf?

— — —

The next morning, you’re awoken by the alarm clock on his night stand, and it takes you a couple of tries to turn it off. Sitting up on the bed with a yawn, you start remembering what happened the night before, and your hands comes up to your neck, where you can still feel some soreness from being choked like that.

You tiptoe out of the room, but just as you expected, Cal is gone. Taking a quick look at the clock, you yelp as you realise how late it is, and you hurry to the washroom to get ready.

Once you’re ready to go, you take one last look at yourself in the mirror, and realise that your neck has visible marks, clearly in the shape of a hand. You grimace slightly, propping up the collar of your uniform as high up as it will go, and it covers up most of it. As long as you don’t look up or stretch your neck too much, you should be good. So you leave Cal’s quarters and head to your office.

The whole day, you’re a bit distracted, hoping that Cal doesn’t feel too bad about what he did. You just want to help; sure, the nightmares are worse than you thought. But you’ll figure it out, together.

You don’t get to see or hear from Cal the whole day though, or the next, or the one after that. For almost a week, he seems to be avoiding you completely. He doesn’t answer your holocalls or texts. You only catch the occasional glimpse of him leaving a room just when you’re entering.

Tired of this game of cat and mouse, you decide to go find him. Instead, you end up cornered by the Ninth Sister. You’re slightly scared of her if you’re honest – no, scratch that. You are scared of her; she’s incredibly intimidating, not just by her sheer size and strength, but her presence in general. She always sounds mad, a deep frown etched into her face. So when she suddenly tells you to follow her, you don’t find it in you to refuse. To your surprise, she hunts down Cal as well, and brings you both to an empty hallway.

“Whatever is going on between you two: fix it!” she barks, then turns around with a scoff, muttering something about it being like scolding children.

You look around, and there’s no one around, so you look up at Cal’s helmet visor, trying to find his eyes under it, but obviously only seeing your own reflection.

“Hey,” you greet him, giving him a smile to signal you’re not mad. “I missed you.”

His shoulders slump slightly, and he looks around as well. Instead of answering, he grabs you by your elbow and guides you some steps down the hallway to a maintenance shaft. He flicks his wrist, and the doors open, he shoves you both inside and closes the doors.

Only now does he take off his helmet, and you can’t suppress a gasp, horrified at the sight. His hair is sticking out everywhere, the bags under his eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen, and he not only has new scratches on his face, he also a black eye that seems to be a couple of days old.

“What happened to you?” you ask, and you’re aware that it’s not a great opener, but you’re genuinely worried. Your hands gingerly run over his face as you inspect the damage. Cal shrugs nonchalantly.

“I’ve been distracted lately and it affected my performance,” he says with a wry smile. “So they had to correct my bad behaviour.”

You take a moment to make sure you’re properly understanding what he’s implying. By the look in his eyes, kinda sad and a bit ashamed, it seems you are.

“Do you get corrected often?” you ask carefully.

“Sometimes. When I get greedy,” he answers. You think back to your conversation about being an inquisitor, and remember how he said that he only got a glimpse back into his own heart when he was out there, doing horrible things. Does that mean he was defying orders just to be able ‘to feel something at all’?

“Do you usually get corrected… after being with me?” you ask this time, almost scared of the answer.

“It’s not your fault,” he indirectly answers your question, taking your hands in his. “Being with you is just as addicting as being out there. I’m just… weak like that, I guess.”

“Oh, Cal,” you whisper, giving his hands a squeeze. “The warmth you yearn for and that you seek, it may make you feel vulnerable, and you think that makes you weak, but all it does is make you real. You’re real, Cal, and so am I. And I don’t want you to get hurt. You don’t need to be greedy; I’m here, I always will be. You deserve that warmth, and if you’ll have me, I’ll give you all of it.”

His brows rise slightly in surprise, and you realise you basically just professed your love for him. Heat erupts on your face and in your panic, you grab onto his collar and kiss him, hard at first, but then you’re both moving in unison with a rare softness you don’t always get to experience from him.

Suddenly he pulls back with a pained grunt, and he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor.

“Cal, are you okay? What’s wrong?” You kneel down beside him, and you lift his face to look at him. Once again, you’re met with blue eyes, this time like an ocean about to erupt into stormy waves. He’s close to tears, and he looks so scared, so small, it breaks your heart. If only you knew how to mend the broken pieces of his soul, you’d kiss them all better if you could.

“I’m sorry I stayed away so long,” he suddenly says, hugging you into his chest. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you again. What if I don’t snap back in time? What if I do something worse?”

You rack your brains for something reassuring to say, and finally land on something.

“You know, as a kid I used to have this recurring nightmare,” you start, hoping to not only get your point across better with your story, but also getting him out of the rabbit hole he was about to go down. “I kept dreaming that my parents abandoned me. We would all be together somewhere, and I looked away for a moment, but by the time I turned back around, they were gone. And I would feel so alone, and full of dread, I felt like I was going crazy. I’d often wake up screaming and crying.”

You take a moment to gauge his reaction; talking about your pasts has been kind of a taboo topic between you two. He openly said once that he doesn’t want to talk about his past, which you respect, but it also meant he never asked questions about yours. Maybe he’s scared to know more because it would reawaken memories of his own. Maybe he just doesn’t want to pry. Maybe he doesn’t care. Either way, you’re now crossing that invisible line and hope it won’t scare him away completely.

“No matter how much my parents reassured me that they wouldn’t abandon me, it always played out the same,” you continue your story. “One night, I was so scared of having the nightmare again, that I straight up refused to go to sleep. That’s when my mother told me this: sometimes, dreams are just your mind and soul processing something that actually happened. But other times, it’s the mind’s way of trying to find closure for something that hasn’t happened. So even if the dream isn’t nice, you have to wait until the end. Only then will your mind be able to tell you what it needs, even if it’s something you don’t want to hear.”

Wiping the silent tears off of Cal’s cheeks, you give him a comforting smile.

“And I know this doesn’t compare in any way to the nightmares you have,” you say. “But, maybe, you just need to let them play out. What if it’s your subconscious trying to tell you something and you cut it off before it has a chance to? What if… it’s the Force trying to tell you something important?”

This seems to click in some way with Cal, and he takes a moment to think over your words.

“Whatever happens, when you wake up you won’t be alone. I promise”, you assure him.

Cal is about to say something, when his eyes shut closed and he claims his head hurts again. He blinks a couple of times, holding his head, and his eyes switch between greenish blue and yellow.

“Don’t block it out,” you encourage him, removing his hands from his temples and bringing them to your face instead. “I take back what I said earlier. You can be greedy, but not out there. Be greedy with me. Take everything you want, Cal. As much as you need. It’s all for you.”

He blinks one, two more times, his eyes fully reverted to their usual fiery yellow, and the fear from before is completely gone, now replaced with something sharp and dark.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says through gritted teeth, his whole body trembling in anticipation or self-control, maybe both.

“But I do,” you reassure him, climbing over his legs so you’re sitting on his lap, and gently press your forehead against his. “That yearning is eating you up from the inside. You’re hurting. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

Cal’s hands wander from your cheeks over your shoulders, down your arms, until they rest on your waist. He looks up at you, still a little unsure, and you roll your hips against his to further encourage him and tell him it’s okay. You both can’t help the low moans that escape your lips.

“It’s okay, Cal,” you whisper, leaning in and stopping just above his lips, where you feel his shaky breath. “Consume me until there’s nothing left.”

That seems to snap him back to his usual, more dominant self that he is in intimate moments like this. Adjusting your position in his lap, he presses your body into his, kissing you passionately. It’s just as intense as your make-out sessions usually are, but there’s something else lingering as well. You can’t quite describe it, but it’s like there’s a newfound meaning behind his actions. As if he is trying to pour his whole being and soul into it in an attempt to reach you. And it does. In fact, he’s using all his senses, Force included, to breathe in all of you, and his presence envelops you like it never has before.

You start undoing both your uniforms, and you pull back for a moment to take a much needed breather.

“You’re doing great,” you pant, not really thinking about what you’re saying as you try to undo the clasps and buttons as fast as your trembling hands will allow. “Such a good boy for me.”

To say that his whimper takes you by surprise, is an understatement. You stop your movements and pull back a little more to take in the image before you: Cal’s partially exposed chest is rising and sinking rapidly, a violent blush spreading from the tip of his ears all the way down to his sternum. His usual confidence and cockiness seem gone, and biting his bottom lip, hair completely dishevelled, he gives you a flustered look you’ve never seen on him.

“Don’t call me that,” he breathes, trying to pull you closer again so you can’t look at him.

“Call you what, a good boy?” you tease him, and his whole body tenses up under you as he takes a sharp breath. “I think you rather like it, no? Being such a good boy for me. C’mon, keep going.”

He relentlessly attacks your neck just the way he knows you like, biting and licking and nibbling along your pulse.

“Ah, kriff, these uniforms, I swear–” you curse under your breath into Cal’s temple, trying to rid yourself of your jacket without losing contact with him. You only manage to push it down to your elbows. Cal’s hands slip under your shirt and start wandering up and up. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire, goosebumps erupting on your arms and back as you arch yourself into his hold. Another moan escapes your throat as he bites down hard, immediately licking the darkened spot. You finally manage to shake off your jacket and–

Your comlink beeps and you groan. Cal seems unbothered, as he’s still going, now moving back up to finding your lips, tongue darting out to meet yours. After blindly tapping around to find the device in a pocket of your discarded jacket, you take it out and look at the caller ID. Your blood freezes when you recognise it to be your boss. Right, you’re in a maintenance shaft half naked with the inquisitor when you should be at your office.

Shoving Cal away begrudgingly, he growls in annoyance, about to flick the still beeping comlink out of your hand.

“Wait, wait, it could be important,” you say through heavy breaths, trying to calm yourself down enough to sound somewhat normal. Cal merely pushes his face into your chest with a defeated sigh. After clearing your throat, you take the call.

“Took you long enough, officer,” your boss says in a clearly annoyed tone that makes you cringe slightly.

“Sorry, Sir, I was, uh, occupied,” you stumble over your words and mentally slap yourself. Cal doesn’t even try to hide his snort at your response. You smack him lightly on the back of his head.

“Whatever you were doing, officer,” the man says in a way that he knows exactly what you were doing and with whom. “Prepare your things and get ready, you’re to leave for an off-planet mission by tonight.”

“Yes, Sir,” you reply, instinctively straightening your back.

“You’re to meet us at the hangar by 1900 hours. And officer,” he adds with a sigh, his voice adopting a strange tone of embarrassment, almost. “If inquisitor Kestis happens to be there, tell him to come as well.”

“Understood, Sir,” Cal replies with no qualms, and you’re petrified.

After one more sigh and some unintelligible curses, your boss hangs up.

You blink a couple of times, trying to recover from the shock. Great, now your boss knows for sure what you were up to.

“We’re not done here,” Cal says, as he places one last kiss on the corner of your mouth and stands up, helping you get on your feet as well. “We’ll pick up where we left off later.”

“At a different location though, I would hope,” you chuckle as you two get ready to leave the little room.

After a quick detour to the nearest washroom, where you both fix your messy hair and uniforms (his smirk as you’re barely able to cover all the hickeys with your propped up collar will be the end of you), and one to your office for you to pick up some supplies, you make your way to the hangar. A group of people is already waiting for you two; two purge troopers, two stormtroopers of your own squad your boss stand next to Cal’s ship, a zeta-class shuttle: black, sleek and menacing.

After the debrief, you review the data on your holopad. It’s a mission on another planet, and you’re always excited to get one of those, as you don’t get to go out “into the field” often. In this case there’s a possible rebel cell, but their transmissions are set up in a way that decoding them from the Fortress Inquisitorius would take a considerable amount of time, so it’s quicker to get close to the base and physically infiltrate their comms system to get the information you need. Additionally, there’s been a tip about a possible Jedi being hidden within the rebel group, that’s why they’re sending an inquisitor as well. You’re to stay on the ship working on the decryption while they do their thing.

The ship takes off, and once you’re far enough, you make the jump into hyperspace. During the trip, both the purge troopers and Cal sit unnervingly still, probably power napping and saving their energy for the possible fight ahead. Your two troopers are in the cockpit flying the ship and having a chat, so you have a lot of time for yourself. You mainly work on preparing your equipment, revising your software and getting all the tools you’d need ready. It doesn’t take long for you to have everything prepped; the moment you’d enter the planet’s atmosphere, your scans would tell you the rebel’s comm system location within seconds, and once you land, you can head right out to hook up your own tech. There’s still a good portion of waiting after you’re done though, and with the constant hyperspace humming, you find yourself dozing on and off, replaying the earlier conversation you had with Cal in your mind, wondering how to act and what to say once you get back to base.

After what feels like an eternity, the piloting troopers finally announce you’re here. The drop out of hyperspace shakes you slightly, and as you look out the window, you see your goal: a small planet on the very edge of the Outer Rim; you’ve never been this far away from the Core Worlds, and as you see the vast expanse of pitch black void surrounding it, you notice the lack of starts in the distance, and you almost let yourself be swallowed by the dread that runs a cold shiver down your spine. Shaking your head, you rid yourself of any distracting thoughts and get to work. As expected, your holopad is already beeping, alerting you that it found your target location. You stand up from your seat and approach the cockpit, for which you have to walk past Cal. His helmet visor is aimed at the floor in front of his feet, and he doesn’t look up as you walk by. For all you know, his eyes could be trained on you though; there’s no way to know for sure.

Standing between the pilot seats, you show one of the troopers the coordinates on your holopad, and he punches them into the console. Holding onto the back of the seat, you stand there as the ship approaches the area you marked, and the landing is swift and almost motionless. So this is what the good ships feel like, you think to yourself. And the troopers seem to be thinking the same, if the slow whistle coming from one of them is anything to go by.

You turn around to go inform the purge troopers you’re here, but Cal is already standing in front of you, blocking your exit from the cockpit.

“My men and I will look for our target, you two stay here,” he says as he points at the two stormtroopers. Then he gestures towards you with his head. “The officer is in charge while I’m gone, and better be unharmed when I come back, understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” they respond in unison.

Cal seems to linger on your form for a second longer, then turns on his heels. The cargo door opens and the smell of humid, tropical air reaches your nose. Cal and his troopers take off, and you nod to yourself with an ‘alright’, as you get to work. Connecting a couple of wires here and there, you call one of the troopers to you.

“We need to bring this–” you point at your contraption. “–to the base of this structure.” You show him the red dot on the holomap at the edge of a water body. “That seems to be the backbone of their communication system. There have to be wires that we can hook the machine into.”

“Understood.”

He picks up the machine and starts heading out. You gather a couple more tools, throw them into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. As you approach the cargo door, you turn to the other trooper one last time.

“You stay here and hold down the fort. Keep the usual channels open for us and for C- Inquisitor Kestis.”

“Yes, Sir!”

And off you go.

After a while, you get to the point at the cliff as indicated by your holomap. Both you and the stormtrooper stand at the ledge, carefully looking down. At the base, a broad river runs along the cliffside. Scanning the rocky walls with your eyes, you find what you’re looking for.

“Jackpot,” you say, pointing at something, and the trooper follows your line of sight. “That’s our transmitter.”

It’s essentially a big metal box built into the side of the cliff, with an antenna on one side and a rather wonky satellite dish on the other, partially hidden under a rocky overhang. You’d have to climb down quite a bit to reach it.

“We didn’t bring any climbing equipment,” the trooper points out.

“We improvise,” you retort with a shrug.

You take the rope out of your bag and tie one end to a nearby tree that looks sturdy enough, and the other around your legs and waist.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Sir,” the stormtrooper starts. “If anything happens to you, Inquisitor Kestis will–” He’s stopped by the stern look you shoot him.

“I know how to take care of myself, trooper,” You say firmly. “Now, help me get down there.”

You plug in one of the thicker wires into your machine, holding the other end between your teeth. The trooper helps you climb down the cliffside step by step, slowly letting you down. Once you reach the desired point by the transmitter, you take the wire out of your mouth.

“Here’s good! Hold it there!” you call. A grunt is all the response you get.

You plug in the wire, and your holopad starts beeping, starting to intercept the messages. But they’re not written words, voices or even proper sounds, it just sounds and looks like static.

“Guess I have to calibrate my receiver,” you think aloud. “Pull me up!”

Climbing back up the way you came, you untie the rope the moment you find your footing again, which left a slight stinging sensation at the back of your legs, and you absent-mindedly rub your bum to alleviate the sensation. You notice the trooper giving you a strange look, and heat spreads on your face.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” you say as you straighten up, looking for an order to give. “Go, uh, go collect the rope.”

“Yes, Sir…” he responds with a snicker.

You roll your eyes, but you’re not really mad at him. That must have just looked really funny. Either way, time to get to work: you kneel down next to your contraption, holding your holopad next to it, adjusting some levels here and pressing buttons there. But no matter how much you try to isolate the signal, it still doesn’t get cleaner or clearer.

The trooper places the neatly tied up rope next to your bag which you left on the ground, then holds up his blaster, undoing the safety. You look up at him in confusion.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure…” he answers. “I have a bad feeling about this place. Let’s get what we came for and go back to the ship.”

“Okay…” you stretch out the word, unsure what put him on edge like that. Yes, there’s known aggressive fauna here, but all in all the planet is abandoned, there's no particular danger. Not documented, anyway. You keep looking at the static on your holopad, trying to make sense of it. But the more you see, the less random it seems. That’s when it dawns on you.

Suddenly, you furiously type away on your pad, trying to translate the encoded message, but it’s just gibberish. You tilt your head in confusion, revising your translation; it should be right. But it isn’t. Why?...

“Oh!” You say after a few more seconds, getting up to your feet so quickly that it almost makes you dizzy. “Oh, this is actually quite brilliant. Ah, these rebels sure are getting crafty. Come here, you’re gonna love this.”

The stormtrooper shoots one last look over his shoulder into the vegetation, then turns to you, still holding tightly onto his blaster.

“You ever heard of Dadita?” you ask, not bothering to hide your excitement.

“No?”

“Of course you haven’t,” you say with a click of your tongue. “It’s an ancient Mandalorian code consisting of short and long bursts of static, where each combination stands for a letter. But these rebels combined it with Mon Calamari blink code, which is the same principles but with light sequences. They used Dadita static, but the sequences actually correspond to the blink code letters. No wonder back at HQ they thought we couldn’t intercept proper comms. It’s made to look like static.”

“Uh-huh,” is all you get out of the trooper, still nervously looking around.

“C’mon, this is cool,” you try, but to no avail. Sighing in defeat, you add, “You know what, nevermind. Let’s just go back.”

At least Cal will show interest in your find. Or so you hope. Speaking of, you wonder how he’s doing. You know you shouldn’t ping him as it could interfere with his mission, but you just hope they made it back safely to the ship by the time you’re there.

“Contact the ship, will you? And tell them we’re going back,” you instruct. The trooper presses some buttons on the console on his wrist.

“Ground team to ship, do you copy?”

The only answer is static.

You look in the direction of the ship as the trooper tries again, and you feel something cold on your nose, then on your cheek. You look up; it’s starting to rain. Great. Your machine shouldn’t have trouble with a little rain, but you still don’t feel great about it. You kinda made it up on the spot, so there are a couple of exposed wires.

“We need to go get something to cover the receiver. Any answer yet?” you ask, and it’s really starting to come down now. You have to blink several times to get the water out of your eyes.

“No,” he responds, nervously looking around. “I told you, something is wrong.”

“Okay, no need to panic,” to try to calm him down; his demeanour is starting to make you nervous as well. “Let’s just quickly go back; I'm pretty sure I saw a piece of canvas that we can use to–” You sling your bag back onto your shoulders as you speak, but the inertia of the bag makes you lose your balance for a second, and with the ground now turning into mud, your boot loses its grip on the ground, making you slip and your knees give out under you.

“Officer!” You hear the stormtrooper call as he stretches out his arm in a vain attempt to catch you, but you’re already falling backwards off the cliff. Seemingly in slow motion, the trooper and the treeline disappear from your view, being replaced by a grey, cloudy sky. You close your eyes, feeling the droplets on your face and the air rushing by your ears, and you’re strangely calm. All you can think of is Cal.

Are you okay? I wish we had properly made up before this.

When your back hits the water of the river at the base of the cliff, your survival instincts are awoken all at once. The current is stronger than what it seemed from up the ledge. You swim with all your might, trying to stay afloat and taking gulps of air whenever you can. it isn't long until your arms are burning from the sudden effort, and you scan your surroundings, desperate to find something to hold onto. The river seems to open up and away from the cliffside. Here, the shores are filled with mangrove-like trees, their roots thick and plenty, some of them stretching out like low-hanging branches over the water surface. You try to hold on to one, but your gloves don't provide much of a grip, so you take them off and ditch them. Nearing the next big branch, you ready yourself and throw your upper body out of the water so that you can hold onto it with both your arms, and it works. Slowly, you inch closer and closer to the tree trunk, until you reach the shore. Letting yourself fall onto the mossy ground, you take some deep breaths trying to calm down your breathing, racing heart and aching limbs.

You pat your uniform and conclude that you lost your bag somewhere along the way, which had your holopad and all your equipment. You sit up and wipe the back of your sleeve over your eyes, but the constant rain keeps hitting your face. You pop open the collar of your uniform and it feels like ridding yourself of a chokehold. The uniforms were never particularly comfortable, being on the stiff side, but drenched like this, it’s much worse.

Looking around, you stand up; you have no idea where you are or where the ship could be. Giving yourself one more pat down, you find your comlink in one of your zipped up pockets, and thank the Maker under your breath.

“Hello? Does anyone copy?”

You can hear static, so you assume that it is working, but it’s the mic or speaker, or both that are ruined. At least from the ship they should be able to locate you with it.

A gust of wind makes you shiver slightly; despite it being a rather tropical climate, being completely wet does make you feel the dropping temperatures that will probably await you at night. In fact, it’s starting to get dark.

They’ll find me. It’s fine. I just have to make sure I’m alive by the time they get here, hah, you tell yourself with a wry chuckle.

First thing you have to do is seek shelter from the relentless rain. Hugging yourself, you cringe at the sensation of your feet against the wet boots, but you still take step after step into the vegetation, looking for some place to dry off. Completely lost and giving up on the idea of ever getting out of this maze by yourself, the only information you keep in your head is the direction of the river; you'll be needing water after all. For now, you could just drink rain water though, so you venture further and further away into the forest. With the dense branches sporting big, round leaves, they already stop part of the rain, but not enough. Finally, you come across a big tree, the roots lifted into the air so that they form something akin to a cage, and the ground beneath it is dry; that's exactly what you need.

Hurrying through the gaps between the roots, you take off your boots, jacket and trousers, giving everything a good squeeze to wring as much water out as possible. Left in your underwear and a black short sleeve shirt, you wonder what to do next. You’d need food soon. You sigh, leaning back onto the rough surface of the tree.

“This is exactly why I wanted an office job,” you say bitterly. So much for being excited about a mission ‘on the field’.

For now, you decide to wait out the rain, which could hopefully stop just as suddenly as it started, and you just sit there, holding your comlink in your hands, looking at it intently.

After a while, the rain finally seems to subside, and while your clothes are nowhere dry, you don’t exactly want to explore a jungle half naked. So you put your trousers back on, which takes a while, as the wet fabric keeps sticking to your legs. After what feels like another workout, you finally zip them up, and put on your equally wet boots. Oh, how you crave a warm shower right now.

Taking the jacket into your hands, you feel the wet fabric and decide to leave it. Your skin dried much faster, so it was better to be a little cold without a jacket than very cold with a drenched one. Placing your comlink into your pocket, you go foraging for some sort of fruit or berry. After the rain and with no equipment, you doubt you’d be able to start a fire to cook anything, so you have to find something you can eat raw.

As you’re picking some reddish purple berries from a bush and contemplating if you can eat them, you hear some rustling behind you. Dropping the berries and immediately turning around, you’re met with a human and you notice several things. First of all, they’re holding their side, which is bleeding a lot, their clothes stained in a dark red. Second, you see the lightsabre in their hand, emitting a blueish hue, its electric hum the only sound aside of their ragged breathing. And third, you see the plea in their deep brown eyes, silently asking you for help. Almost in the same moment, you also see their eyes dart down to your uniform and back up to your own, realisation spreading on their face. And you’re conflicted.

You know who’s after them. You know what’s going to happen. So it’s not like you don’t want to help; you can’t. If the circumstances were different, would you help? You realise you don’t want to know the answer to that. Either way, you're unarmed, hungry and shivering, so you can't really put up much of a fight against them either.

“I'm sorry,” you say instead, and you're not really sure which part you're apologising for. You're about to take a step to the side and gesture them to go past you, but you hear footsteps approaching quickly.

The stranger winces in pain as they try to take another step, but collapse onto the ground, the sabre retracting with a whirr. They look up at you again, this time enraged, a deep frown etched into their face, and you're about to say something, but a modulated voice is quicker.

“Officer, what are you doing here?” It’s the purge trooper.

“I- I fell,” you say sheepishly. He scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head.

“Well, good job stopping our target. It’s a slippery one, this one.”

The trooper picks up the sabre, and turns around the Jedi onto their back with his boot, earning a pained grunt. From behind him emerges Cal out of the vegetation, and you’re horrified at how he looks: helmet gone, hair wild, and face partially covered in blood. If it’s his own or not, you can’t tell. He looks frustrated and beyond angry. You’re about to say something, asking if he’s okay, but the sharp look in his eyes freezes you in your spot.

“It’s the end of the line now, Jedi,” he spits through gritted teeth, and holds his red lightsabre a little tighter. He shoots you a quick look, then at his trooper, and motions with his head to the side. The man nods and turns to you, grabbing you by your bicep, and starts dragging you away.

“Wait, wait!” You try to turn back around, but the trooper’s grip keeps facing you forward. When you reach a thick tree, he slams your back into it rather harshly, and tells you to stay there. He doesn’t move from in front of you, holding onto his electrostaff with both hands. It emits an electric crackle of purplish hue, clearly warning you not try anything funny. And to be honest, you don't have the energy right now, so you just rest the back of your head against the bark. You can hear the stranger starting to plead for their life, trying to get under Cal’s skin, saying something about a time before being an inquisitor, but Cal is fresh out of patience, and the Jedi chokes on their words. Their laboured breathing fills this corner of the jungle, and after the sound of a lightsabre swinging and the distinct sizzling of flesh, there is silence.

The purge trooper stretches his neck to see past the tree, then gestures to you with a quick nod.

“Let’s go,” he says, and you comply.

Cal stands in front of the body, partially shielding it from your view, and you walk past him as well, following the trooper. As you three make your way back, you notice there's no trace of the second purge trooper that had left with them.

“The other one's dead,” Cal says before you can even ask, and gets handed the Jedi’s lightsabre, which he clips onto his belt. “Why are you down here? And where's your jacket?” You sigh.

“I fell,” you say, and it still sounds as stupid as it did before. “I slipped, and fell down the cliff. I left my jacket by the river. But before that I did get the receiver hooked up and I know how to decrypt the messages. Do you know if my squad made it back to the ship?”

“Don’t know, our comms don't really seem to work down here.” He suddenly stops and looks around, gesturing to a different direction, and the purge trooper takes off through the bushes. Cal turns back to you, and you shoot him a questioning look.

“You fell from a cliff? Just what were you doing.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly distressed by your reckless actions. “I pinged you several times, and you didn't answer. I knew it probably was the signal being jammed but… I thought that– What if–”

“Hey, it's okay. I'm okay.” You place your hand on his chest and that's when you notice several gashes on his uniform. “Are you okay, though?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his worry replaced by exasperation.

“You really shouldn't have–”

He stops in the middle of his sentence and takes a quick step back away from you as both your heads turn towards the sound of approaching footsteps. The purge trooper approaches Cal and hands him his helmet. Or what's left of it, anyway. The visor is broken, the part that sits above the jaw seems to have been sliced off entirely, and there are several dents on the other side. Your eyes meet Cal’s again in worry, but he avoids your gaze entirely.

“Let’s move.”

The trek back to the ship is quick, as per the relentless pace of the two men. There are some obstacles on the way though, where you need a little help. When crossing a river with a particularly strong current, you lose your footing on the rocky riverbed, and find yourself holding onto the next best thing, which happens to be the purge trooper. He lets you hold him as he guides you across to the other side, where he quickly shakes you off. You wonder if he’s really that uncomfortable to be close to you, and you make a mental note not to ask purge troopers for anything in the future, especially if it entailed physical contact of any kind. But what you didn't see were the Force daggers that Cal was stabbing into the back of the poor man’s head.

Not long after the river, you come face to face with an abrupt slope with a flat, rocky surface. It’s almost like a wall, leading to the plateau above. It’s too high to jump and too even to climb, so you wonder how you will get up there. Once again, Cal seems to read your mind, as before you can even ask, you see him essentially levitating up and onto the ledge above. Now that's a handy Force trick. You expect him to throw down a rope or something for you to hold onto, but instead, you're being lifted off the ground by an invisible force, as is the trooper next to you. Once you reach the top, you’re gently placed back on solid ground, while the trooper is let go far earlier, which he is unprepared for, so he falls forward and onto his knees with a grunt. But he gets back up onto his feet without complaints or remarks, simply dusting off his thighs and continuing the way back to the ship. You want to scold Cal a little for being unnecessarily mean, but the harshness still etched into his face, now stained with dry and flaky patches of blood, refrains you from making any comments.

Finally, you make it back to a place you recognise, where the ship isn’t far away. You run off first, despite your muscles screaming in pain to finally give them some rest. The cargo door is closed, and you bang your hand on it twice.

“Open up!” you order, and the ramp opens with a mechanical hiss, then gets lowered down. You quickly climb up before it even completely reaches the ground.

“Officer!” both stormtroopers exclaim in unison and in apparent relief when they see you alive and in one piece. One of them runs off to the equipment storage to get a blanket for you, and you gladly accept it. Only now do you realise how cold and stiff your whole body feels.

“Have you been intercepting the messages?” you ask, grabbing a spare holopad to log into your receiver’s software to start decrypting.

“Yes, and as you said, it’s a coded transmission made with static bursts” the first trooper explains, the one you had been on the cliff with. “I covered up the receiver with the canvas as you asked, and we’ve been monitoring it this whole time, but we didn’t know how to decrypt it without you…”

“That’s okay, that’s my job after all.” You playfully shove your elbow into his side. “I’m just glad you’re both alive.” You smile genuinely at them, and you wonder if they're smiling back at you from under their helmets as well. The Empire may think that stormtroopers are easily replaceable, but this is your squad. And you intend to take care of them.

You take a step back to take a seat and start decrypting, but your back bumps into something, or rather someone. You turn around just in time to see Cal gesture to the purge trooper, who once again merely gives a short nod, then heads to the cockpit.

“Let’s get out of here,” is the last thing you hear him say before the cockpit and cargo doors close with a hiss, and the engines start.

Cal and you just stand there for a moment, looking at each other.

“Are you going to say something?,” you go first. “Because if not, I have work to do.”

You sit down and he doesn't stop you, instead taking a seat next to you. You type away on the holopad, letter by letter, and the message starts forming. By typing with both hands you’re quicker, but the blanket keeps slipping down from your shoulders. Cal notices and picks it up, wrapping your form in it properly again, and then leaving his arm around you so it would stay there. You give him a quick ‘thanks’, but don't stop what you're doing. For a moment you wonder if you're giving him the silent treatment, and if so, why, but you really have to get this thing decrypted, so you focus on that for the time being.

At some point, Cal carefully places his head on your shoulder, and when you don't shoo him away, he properly gets comfortable. By then, you've written a program to automate the decoding. It's a bit crude and not your best, but it works. Now the decrypted message appears much faster, and it seems to be mostly correct, except for the occasional letter here and there. The message is still clear and understandable, though, and you can feel your focus and energy quickly depleting, so you decide it’s good enough for now. You set it up so that the live decryption gets sent back to HQ as your receiver feeds the rebel comms into it.

Setting down your holopad on the seat next to you with a yawn, you gently stroke Cal’s cheek.

“You awake?” you ask softly, and he hums.

“You done?” he asks back, and you hum as well.

Then you sit in silence again. The constant rumbling of the ship, combined with your adrenaline completely gone now, is all inviting you to the sweet embrace of sleep.

“We have to talk when we get back,” is the last thing you manage to mumble before drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep.

— — —

You wake up to your shoulder being shaken and the repeated call of your name. Your eyes shoot open and you sit up straight, immediately slumping back down with a wince as your whole body aches, both because of the whole river action earlier, and sleeping in such a weird position.

Standing up with a grunt, you shiver as you look down at yourself: still without a jacket, your boots and trousers are stained with dirt, moss and sand. Your upper half must look even worse. Especially with the marks on your neck and who knows where else, courtesy of the inquisitor himself. So you grab the blanket and wrap it around yourself like a hooded poncho of sorts, hoping to hide most of your face and dirty clothes.

“I called earlier and they're waiting with a stretcher for you at the hangar,” Cal says as you try to hide both your head and legs, but the blanket clearly isn't big enough for that. You turn around with a raised eyebrow. “They're going to wrap you up and take you straight to medbay. So no one will see you.”

“How–”

“I may or may not have said that you might have a slight case of hypothermia.”

“We were on a planet with tropical climate,” you retort.

“I was convincing,” is all he says.

You can't question him further, as you feel the familiar sway of a landing ship. When it hits the ground with a ‘clunk’, everything happens so quickly: the cockpit and cargo doors open, and Cal suddenly picks you up bridal style. He places you onto the promised stretcher which is already waiting at the base of the ramp, and two med troopers quickly wrap you up in an emergency foil blanket. Just like that, you're taken to the medbay.

After your check-up, they tell you that other than being a little shaken and dehydrated, you're fine. You're free to stay a little longer to rest up, but you can also leave if you feel like it. And just like that, you're alone in the little room. How Cal managed to convince them to give you the private medbay room, you still don't know. But at this point, you should probably be used to it. Inquisitors seem to get almost anything they want here. Albeit at a cost.

The cot is decently comfy, and you consider staying here for a couple more hours to nap and rest up, knowing you won't be interrupted. So you get comfortable with a sigh, and just as you find a good position to sleep in, the doors open. You groan, lifting the blanket over your face.

“I thought you were asleep,” Cal says as the doors close behind him and he approaches your bed.

“I was about to be,” you reply with a sigh and fold the blanket back down to sit up properly. You're about to ask him what he wants, when you see that he’s sporting several bandages, one on his jaw, and some on his torso, visible through the white shirt he’s wearing.

“Are you okay?,” you ask and scoot over on the bed to make what little room you can spare for him to sit. However, he stays where he stands.

“Just a couple of scratches, I’ve had worse,” he replies, but it doesn’t make you feel better. “What about you?”

“Well, it’s not hypothermia,” you joke, in an attempt to ease the strange tension building between the two of you, but he doesn’t react. “I’ve basically been discharged. I was just about to nap, but… what is it?”

He looks at you as if he didn’t know what you mean. But the whole time, he’s been chewing the inside of his cheek. Clearly something is on his mind, and right now you don't have the energy to play the back and forth game.

“You want to tell me something, right? So, tell me.” You want to sound trusting, but it comes out harsher than you meant. He seems slightly taken aback.

“You said earlier you wanted to talk,” he retorts defensively. “And I understand.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitates for a second.

“We don’t need to keep–” He looks for the right word. “–seeing each other.”

You pause for a moment, trying to dig deeper behind his words and try to get the real meaning out, but you're lost and rather shocked by his words.

“What do you mean?” you repeat yourself, alarmed.

He sighs, running his hand through his hair; he's nervous.

“I didn’t want you to see it,” he starts, avoiding looking at you. “It’s a side of me I didn't want you to see.”

“Oh,” you say, and you understand what he's getting at; the whole hunting and killing Jedi business.

“What do you mean, ‘oh’?” he asks, his eyes finding yours and narrowing them at you. “Isn’t that what you wanted to talk about?”

“I mean, we can talk about it if you want to. I–” You sheepishly fidget with your fingers on your lap. You actually wanted to talk about how he treats his purge troopers, but this is far more important, you realise. “Yeah, let’s talk about that.”

Before he can inquire what you actually meant to talk about, you gesture for him to sit next to you. He still doesn’t move.

“Please sit,” you insist, and finally, he does. With the extra weigh dipping the mattress, you kind of lean into his side. You keep talking, both of you looking ahead. “Everything I said earlier, it still stands, you know.”

He doesn’t respond, so you continue.

“About the… warmth. And you being you and still deserving it.” You gingerly place your hand over his, and he momentarily flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “I’m not stupid, Cal. I know what you do. I’ve been aware of it from the start. And I simply don’t care. It’s not like my job is any better. My work also has… certain consequences, for others. And I’ve made peace with it.”

Finally you dare look up at him, his gaze still cast down. You can feel him trembling slightly though.

“You may be an inquisitor to others, but to me you're just Cal.” You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. “Cal who makes pancakes with me. Cal who calls in a stretcher for me so I can save myself the embarrassment of my boss seeing me being a dirty, flustered mess. Cal who would stab someone else for looking at me the wrong way.”

He chuckles lightly at that. You reach out to cup his face, and make him look at you.

“But also the Cal who has nightmares. Cal who is sometimes scared out of his mind. Cal who asks me to stay the night because he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. I want all of them.” You pause for a second, but you’re too tired to fight the question that’s been pestering your mind for ages now. “And all those versions of Cal… they give me warmth too. Right?”

His shoulders slump slightly with a sharp exhale.

“They do,” he finally answers in a voice so small you almost miss it.

“Glad we could clear that up then,” you say just as softly, and close the gap to place a kiss to his lips, and he reciprocates so tenderly, holding your face like it could crumble any moment and disappear through his fingers.

You want to pull back from the kiss, but his lips follow yours, capturing them once again. Cal climbs on top of you, pushing you back down onto the mattress.

“Don’t you want to get back to–” you try offering to move to a better location, but your words are interrupted by the squeal you let out as he pinches your side.

“We have to make up for lost time,” he states, getting back to attacking you with kisses, each one more and more ferocious.

You hear the distinct hiss of the doors opening, but Cal is quick to close them again with a quick flick of his wrist. From the other side, you can hear the nurse complaining.

“The officer is busy,” Cal calls over his shoulder, looking down at you the way a predator looks at its prey. “Come back later.”

— — —

Later that night, after a shower and slipping into your comfiest PJs, you’re both in his bed. Cal lies on his back and you have your head on his chest, drawing random figures onto his shirt.

“Are you sure about this?” Cal asks for the hundredth time.

“Yes,” you reassure him, propping yourself up on your elbow so you can place a kiss on his nose. “I’ll talk you through it. Just, try to stay in the dream. It will all work out, I promise.”

“Right,” he sighs, closing his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

You get back to cuddling into his side, and the even drumming of his heartbeat does quick work of lulling you to sleep.

It doesn’t take long, however, and you wake up to Cal twitching again. His brows are furrowed, his hands holding onto the bedsheet for dear life, and you sit up next to him, caressing his hair and holding his hand, whispering words of encouragement.

Cal is back on Bracca, collecting scraps from the same ships that he used to call home back when he was a Padawan. That seems so long ago now. Lifetimes ago. And maybe it is.

What would his younger self think of what he is now?

Cal stands at the edge of the partially stripped apart engine, impossibly small against the size of the machinery. A voice calls out to him, and he turns around. The world around him spins, turning into a blinding white, and he shields his eyes from the sudden change with his hands.

“Why are you here?” a trembling voice asks.

Cal looks up, meeting his own eyes, still a greenish blue, of his 13-year-old self. Disappointment and horror etched into his little face.

“What have you done?” another voice spits condescendingly.

Cal whips around, now looking at his master, Jaro Tapal, looking at him in disgust.

“Cal!”

He turns around again, starting to get dizzy, and his body freezes up, he can’t breathe. He’s standing at the edge of a scrapper platform now, surrounded by other people he used to know, but all their faces are blurred or scratched out. However, he can clearly see Prauf, his good friend Prauf, confronting the Second Sister. She holds her sabre at his throat, the blade sizzling in the rain. The red hue reflects in Prauf’s eyes.

Cal instinctively reaches out to his belt, expecting to find his own lightsabre, but it’s not there. He looks down at himself, and sees that he’s donning full inquisitor armour.

“Kill him,” the Second Sister orders.

Finally, Cal seems to be able to move and breathe again, and he takes a huge gulp of air.

“I said, kill him,” she repeats.

“No,” Cal says, and she slowly turns around to him.

“No?”, she chuckles, but the venom spills out of her voice like an overflowing glass of spotchka. It burns.

Suddenly, Cal is shoved in her direction against his will, and his inquisitor lightsabre appears in his hand. His arm is lifted into the air by an invisible force, about to swing down on top of Prauf’s head.

“Do it!” she yells, and Cal screams as well, trying with all his might to hold back his arm.

He hates this, he wants out. It hurts too much. The force trying to push down his arm and the sad look in his friend’s eyes tear into his heart like iron claws, shredding everything in its way.

Cal can hear the Second Sister’s voice yelling, urging him to get it done, but he hears something else too: it’s you. Your voice cuts through the cacophony of the scrapping grounds, pushing away all sounds of machinery, drills, saws, the rain itself and the inquisitor’s voice. Shoving it all aside, there’s just you.

“It’s okay, Cal,” you say, and the oppressing force on his arm is lifted with every word of yours. “I’m here, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not alone.”

Finally, the force is gone entirely, and he screams in both pain and relief. Cal lets go of his weapon, which retracts mid-air with a whirr, and it falls to the ground.

The world around him freezes, and everyone disappears. He’s back in the blinding white room, now in his old scrapper outfit.

“Cal,” Prauf’s voice comes from behind him, and the redhead whips around.

“My friend,” Prauf says warmly, as he always did, and stretches out his arms. A silent invitation.

Cal hesitates only for a second, then gives in. Taking the few steps that separate the two, he lets himself be embraced by the Abednedo. Unable to hold back, he cries into his friend’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps between sobs.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the older man comforts him, lightly patting Cal’s back. “It’s not your fault.”

After a few more moments, when Cal’s cries subside, he pulls back to look up at Prauf.

“Why am I here?” he asks.

Prauf smiles down at him.

“I just wanted to let you know: it’s not your fault,” he says, placing his hands on the younger man’s shoulders and giving them a squeeze. “And to say thank you, for being my friend. I hope you found your way off Bracca and can have a peaceful life. You’ve been through so much, kid.”

Cal feels another wave of tears prickling behind his eyes.

“You never really belonged on Bracca, but I’m glad I met you,” Prauf says, his voice trailing off, as if swept off by the wind, as his image also starts disappearing from in front of Cal. “I hope you found your place.”

“No, wait!” he calls, trying to hold on to him, but his hands phase through the shadow of the figure still left.

Suddenly, Cal sits up on the bed with a scream, which takes you by surprise and you flinch backwards, falling onto your hands on the bed.

He holds his shirt over his heart so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and with a broken sob, he lets himself fall back onto the bed. You hurry to scoot closer.

“You were right,” Cal says between sobs. “The Force was trying to get a message to me.”

That night, you hold him as he cries, this time not out of fear, but because he can finally allow himself to grief the loss of a friend from a long time ago.

I found my place, Prauf, Cal thinks, about to drift off to sleep after the exhaustion of crying takes over. He looks at you lying on his chest one last time, a soft smile spreading on his lips.

He hopes that some day, he’ll be able to find warmth just with you, not needing to resort to other methods ever again. And maybe then, finally, he can offer you all the warmth back that he forgot he held.

~~~~~

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#goose feathers #cal kestis x reader #star wars cal x reader #jedi fallen order x reader #jedi survivor x reader #inquisitor cal x reader #inquisitor cal kestis x reader #inq!cal kestis x reader

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milksuu · 3 months

Text

❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ❞ ─── ☾⏺☽

phase O.1 // phase O.2

pairing: yandere!aphelios x solari!priestess!reader (LoL)

tw: non/con, fem!reader, oral sex (f. receiving), possessive/obsessive behavior, somnophilia, object insertion, blood/violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, kidnapping/imprisonment, implied forced relationship, unbalanced power dynamic, enemies to lovers vibe

notes: here it is besties. thank you all for being so patient with me. and thank you to all the lovelies who've commented/msgd me asking about it and wanting more. im just so glad to share my unhinged obsessions. i do have plans to make a third part, but again, could be a bit. so sorry ahhh.

You hadn’t realized you were stolen to sleep. Sobbing yourself into the veiled shadows of your mind in the arms of something—someone—so haunting. A damning surrender on your part. It was a miracle you had the pleasure of opening your eyes. When the moon crawler could have offered you death instead.

When your lashes winged wholly, the haze of a night-dark bedroom washed your sight. You breathed in your surroundings. The linen bed sheets beneath your fingertips, a worktable littered with dried herbs and vials, and a vaulted chest for storing valuables. A simple room one would toss a coin for a night at a common tavern.

With effort, you pulled yourself to your knees. The weight of clothes shifted against your body. Looking down, you pinched the fabric of a clean gown. And when a hair strand fell to your cheek, you caught the faintest scent of lavender and nightshade. Drifting your attention lower, a mild soreness welled between your legs, accounting for last night's debauchery. A reminder of an ache you could never wash away, no matter how much you scrubbed yourself raw. But even scrapping your skin till you bled from bone seemed a better feeling than this.

That thought alone made you pause in your observations and consider the only details that mattered.

Where were you and...

Where was he?

You crawled over to the side of the bed. Pressing your feet against the ground, something like cold iron grazed them. You reached through the dark and secured a dulled paring knife. Your gaze studied an apple not too far away, half peeled from the skin of its flesh. Dropped mid-serving, for whatever the reason was. Knife in hand, you tiptoed to the bedroom door and tried to pry it open. It shuddered against your touch—locked. It seemed the only way to escape was by key, and to your misfortune, you didn’t have to guess who had it in strict keeping.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A brush of cold licked across your nape. Turning towards the sound, there was another adjoining room. A washroom, perchance. You tightened your hold on the knife, and willed your bare feet forward, swallowing your thudding heart. You counted each step, pausing when a puddle glistened before the doorway. Dark in color and metallic in aroma, a shiver traced your spine as you stepped over it.

Under the door frame, your sight fell upon him, bare and slumped in a wooden bath. You stood still, not daring to flinch, in case he had his own knife hidden beneath the surface tension. When your presence hadn’t been acknowledged, you padded closer.

Examining him further, you noticed not a lick of a wound, scrape, or gash on his body. Nothing that would substantiate the splatter of blood you'd passed. Falling onto his face, the faintest shimmer stained the corners of his lips. You would’ve deemed him dead if it weren’t for the labored breaths and shivers of his body.

A saccharine taste of flowers sprang to the tip of your tongue.

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you brought the knife a near inch to his throat. You hadn’t noticed the slits of his eyes cracked open, branding you the moment you stepped in. Before you could jerk back, his hand leapt from the bath water. You winced when he took your wrist, expecting him to plunge the blade in your direction. Instead, he lulled his head to the side, and guided your hand to press the sharp edge against the skin of his neck.

“This angle is much better, isn’t it?” Aphelios stated rather than asked, his wet hair flowing like liquid night across his features. “You can stare deeply into the eyes of your enemy, and watch that insignificant light fade from them. Then, and only then, do you know they’re truly dead. If that's what you would like to do to me..." you held your breath and felt the blue of his veins beat against the blade. “Now’s your chance.”

Your hands trembled, his mortal essence flowing right at your fingertips. But the mere thought of relishing red-stained hands overwhelmed you with a bout of nausea, weakening your grasp at the hilt. Even if he deserved every bit of suffering, and for you to celebrate his undoing by a dull carving knife, it wasn’t who you were.

You refused to be anything like him.

“Strange. Not many Burning One’s would hesitate at the offer. It’s no wonder they locked you away in that sunlit temple.” He released your shaking hand and traced the outline of your face. “Far from the shadows they’ve cast down.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you seethed, tugging your chin away from his touch. He leaned back in the basin, his shoulders taut as he fought against a cough. You narrowed your lashes at a string of blood pouring from his lips. “It’s not my place to deliver your punishment, but your trial of judgment will come. It’s already apparent you’re paying for your transgressions. And I’m glad for it.”

Your words were false against your true sensibilities. Feeling foolish for your heart to ache with sympathy for him, a wretched murderer and lech. The wiser part of you screamed when you set aside the knife, took up a washcloth, and wiped at his mouth. A cord in his jaw tightened, and you noted a life-stealing grip at the tub's edge.

A trained reflex to wrap his fingers around your neck.

Had you been anyone else.

Had you been anyone else, you would’ve been flayed open across the altar. Had you been anyone else, the pathetic knife you threatened him with would be stuck heart deep between your breasts. Had you been anyone else, She would have commanded your sacrifice.

You banished the unwelcomed thought.

“The water’s freezing. How long have you let yourself sit here?” His lips merely mirrored a fine line at the question. Under your gaze, you watched another invisible ripple tighten the tethers of his muscles. You exhaled on a presumptive thought. “You can’t move. Can you?”

The black glass of his eyes stared at nothing, and said nothing. Then and there, that cold existence would rather suffer than utter a single word of admittance.

“Seems you like to keep quiet when it’s convenient for you.” You quipped, wringing out the washcloth with indignation. “No different from a child throwing a tantrum when it suits them. I should leave you here then. Let whatever you catch take you within a week’s time. It would save a lot of others the trouble.”

His face remained a blank sheet of ice, and you interpreted it as an invitation to do as you pleased. He’d given you the choice to take his life, after all. Now you understood he’d meant every word. Perhaps he even intended to pay a compliment. Not a bluff or jab at your softer nature, even after you had foolishly settled to spare him.

You banished the strange sentiment. Once you had found a way to get him to bed and asleep, you would scrounge the room for a key. Wherever he had chosen to hide it.

“Golden Sister, avert your light," you asked for pardon under your breath.

You drew up your hand, calling forth a kindle of golden sunlight. It pulsed and radiated with warmth, kissing the tips of your fingers. The glow of it illuminated your company’s features. That face of marble chipped at the corner of his eyes; a crack of unnerving reproach. When you guided your hand towards the pane of his chest, he ruefully shifted away.

You clicked your tongue. “You’ll let me freely cut your throat, but the moment I try to help, you want nothing to do with it. Either you hold still, or I reconsider your offer. Which one is it?”

He responded with a slowed and pained breath. When he leaned back, you pressed a palm to his sternum.

Closing your eyes, you concentrated on the ebb and flow of warm light reaching for him; through him. When you entered, dark shadows ripped and slashed against your magic. Sharper than daggers of ice, piercing hotter than any black flame. Sweat gathered at your temples. Furrowing your brows, you steeled your magic from shattering and concentrated your radiance. Gradually, the thrashing tendrils subdued into undulating wisps that languidly brushed across your presence.

“I can’t heal whatever sickness you’ve caused yourself. It's unfamiliar to me. And even if I could, I wouldn't want to keep you waiting to spend eternity with your false deity," you admitted, withdrawing. “But I should have eased the pain. Enough for you to manage from here and to bed.”

Without a word, and with what little strength he still possessed, he gripped the lip of the tub. You hooked an arm underneath his own, and his legs trembled as he rose from the bathwater. When he dragged his feet from the bath, he banked to catch himself on the wall with his hand. The unexpected sway almost swept your footing away. With luck, he managed to hold himself as you helped him stagger out of the washroom.

When he dropped onto the bed, the weight of him brought you to your knees beside him. You huffed, prying his arm away from the support of your shoulders. He made no effort to force you to lay with him. Thankfully, the soothing effects of your work made him pliable, gifting you a moment of safe assurance.

Your gaze roamed the softness that rounded his previously sharpened features. His brows rested light above his closed eyes, and his lashes long and airy curtained over the smooth contour of his cheeks. His face once devoid of color now brushed with a stroke of pink from your magic. If you hadn’t been the wiser, you would’ve believed him to be a completely different person.

Nothing like a weapon now.

You pulled yourself from your careless observations, remembering time was of the essence if you’d hope of escape. Turning away, ghostly fingertips graced the skin of your cheek. Your breath hitched. Drawn back, his black pearls peeked from their bed of lashes. His lips moved, but deft as the words were, you swore it was a mere breath in the night.

‘...thank you.’

Your heart constricted, abandoning you in a space stolen of thought, let alone a reply. To your horror, the squeeze of your chest wasn't entirely unpleasant. Still, you feared to linger on it, knowing it would sooner kill you if you’d let it. You consciously berated yourself to get away—hurry, hurry! But like a silent poison of its own kind, you suddenly felt weak in spirit. And to no one’s fault but of your own.

You had drained yourself dry by helping him.

Still in his touch, your body sank onto the bed next to him. He traced the contour of your neck, past the dip of your clavicle, down to the arc of your hip bones. Lingering there, he drew lazy circles against the fabric till it hitched at your waist. His fingers slipped beneath, brushing a hand against the bare skin of your waist. You trembled, weathering the cold bite of his touch. No better than prey submitting to a cruel yet ordained circumstance.

“I should have never…” you swallowed, remorse tightening your throat.

His hand paused—watching a glint of wetness stain your eyes—then pulled you in with devastating gentleness. Resting his brow at your breasts, he enveloped you in his arms, and curled himself bare between your legs. Holding you in an embrace that was more delicate than heartbreak, drawing out a shuddering breath from your lips.

For what seemed like an eternity, you laid there. Feigning death, praying for your eyes to never close again. Hoping to salvage the opportune moment to escape once he let go. But exhaustion was a beast that stalked your side and sank its fangs in the spots where he held you close. Paralyzing all your nerves till they went flak, dragging your body limp in his touch.

And your waning consciousness along with it.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Behind closed eyes, the world was dark. An unfeeling landscape where nothing else existed. A state you could find yourself clinging to for the rest of your days to come. If only you were lucky enough to stay. Like a match to your body, a flame curled and burned beneath your dampening skin. The scorch of it trailing the woods of your body. A fire in your blood snaking lower to feed the smoldering spit simmering in your belly.

You shuddered, twitched and bit softly at the bottom half of your lip. Long, devoted fingers cradled your waist as lips graced the lower parts of your stomach. The careful graze of teeth at your navel sent your eyelids fluttering, where a glaze of lingering sleep clouded your vision. Only after a few blinks did you bid the fog away, and woke to the sight of yourself.

The hem of your nightgown had been shelved above your swollen breasts, revealing nipples perked and coated wet with saliva. A sheen of sweat glistened like oil from mound to curve, and found the wicked Lunari man responsible for your state laid between your legs.

Your lips quivered, struggling to speak through the feverish qualities burning away at your flesh. You couldn’t even attempt to prop yourself up, let alone drag yourself away. Your body felt heavy and drunk off whatever pleasure it had thirsted for and drank without complaint.

“What are you…” you started, but your voice was too sticky. Too mumbly. Not even swallowing would help.

“I had a dream about your sunlight. That small, pleasant piece you shared with me last night.” He took pause, flitting his attention up from below, where his black slits narrowed with shameless intent. “I wondered what it would taste like.”

“N–Not down there,” you pleaded out a half-choked whimper. “It isn’t clean.”

“Isn’t it, though? Have you considered how you might’ve bathed last night? Wondered who could have done it for you.” He trailed feather-light kisses down your inner thigh, leaving a path of goosebumps in his wake. “Washed your hair. Washed your body. And...” he tempted lower and lower, until the heat of his breaths warmed your folds, making them bloom with ache. "Everything in between.”

“Stop saying things like that. Stop doing things like this,” you said, wanting to speak them as commands. But the crack in your voice watered your tone down to unconsolable weeping. Knowing you had made a terrible mistake. Knowing no amount of your good nature would spare the heat of his mouth from teasing you relentlessly. Knowing you had no control as your cunt dripped itself into a pitiful mess. You tossed your head back and forth, desperate to hide the humiliation of your face in the throws of bedding.

“Please.” Your chest heaved and shuddered. “Just let me go.”

"Fated or not, you’ve chosen to stay. First, when you decided not to kill me in my most vulnerable state.” He eased the flat of his tongue over your leaking entrance, dragging it upward to flick your clit. Your hands clasped over your mouth to stifle the degrading noises that dared to leave. “Second, when you helped me to bed and kept it warm with me. And third—”

He plunged the length of his tongue into you, reaching for your center. You cried out through the gaps in your fingers, feeling something clenched deep inside you—and it wasn't his tongue. It was impeccably hard, with a distinct weld, shape and curve. The tip of his tongue swirled and twisted around it, coaxing it to rub along your sensitive ridges on the way out. When it revealed itself at your entrance, he took the object with a bite. A clink of metal between his teeth. With a shuddering gasp, your hips bucked once he slipped it past the squeeze of your hole.

“Even though you held the key inside you this whole time,” he fingered the iron loop and slid it across his tongue. You flushed when he consumed your gaze below. “You waited for me to take it.”

Your head and heart pounded with blood. When…when did he…?

Before you could object, his mouth reclaimed all your ripe and swollen parts. Graciously kissing, licking, feasting between your legs. Your hips jolted as you squirmed against him. His hands gripped to dimple the softness of your thighs, parting you open like two delicate and succulent halves of a fruit.

Your eyes clenched shut, trying to forge the words that would stop him. But none existed in the pleasurable thickness that drowned your senses, possessing your hips to meet him at each languid lap. Turning your saliva into hot syrup in your mouth. Muddling any conceivable words down to moanful whines, sloppy whimpers, and broken utterances. Completely helpless as every stroke of his tongue made a creamy reduction of your insides, threatening to spill over every edge.

Your nails twisted into the bedsheets, and you broke for breath. “Can’t—n’ more—“

The moon devil interpreted your incoherent pleas for mercy as undying praise. Encouraging him to devour you with the passion of a starved man who’d forsaken each meal before you. Listening to a hunger that told him you would be his last, and echoed a fear that it would never be enough.

One last brush of his tongue and he clasped his lips around the bud, suckling on its throbbing plumpness.

A burst of pressure had you coming undone onto his mouth. Wails ripped through the air as your back careened into that awful crescent shape for him. You reached to push him away, but he’d caught your hands before you could lay a finger. You choked out a sob when he tacked your writhing wrists against the bed and continued to worship your taste with his mouth. Savoring every part of your quivers and cries, down to the very last gushing drop induced from your spasms.

When he had taken his last sip of pleasure, he rose from between your thighs to loom above you.

“You’re exactly as I imagined you would taste.” His voice was a thin whisper on his glistening lips. As if he hadn’t even wanted the walls to hear. A secret only he would ever know, and for you to be the only one he’d share it with.

He bent forward, panting with an unsatiated appetite against your mouth. “Sweet and warm.”

He took your lips, letting you drink up your arousal. A heavy, generous pour. The dewy tang of yourself flushed your face and neck with color. Your heart raced, gasping for breaths in a blur of moans and kisses.

Tears of utter shame and frustration dotted your lashes, till they fell over in heaps. Yet, even your tears didn’t go to waste. He traced his tongue over your flushed and burning cheeks, catching every bit like spilled honey. And all you could do was lay there, unable to escape his sensual gilded cage. All the while hating yourself for wanting his mouth all over you—wanting to know how it’d feel claiming every inch of skin.

And hating him all the more for it.

#aphelios x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #league of legends #reader insert #aphelios #x reader #yandere aphelios x reader #yandere smut #league of legends x reader #tw noncon #mdni

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snailsgoingdowntown · 1 year

Text

Intrigued With You

I ii iii iiii

Yandere! Pinocchio x Fem! Mechanic! Reader

Warnings: Implied toxic familial relationship, unbalanced power dynamics between the reader and Geppetto, very slight mental breakdown, slowly going into a downwards spiral, paranoia, mentioned past violence and stalking. When the full game comes out, this work may be completely different from the actual game. Please tell me if I missed any.

This blog contains/creates/interacts with dark content.

Minors/blank blogs/blogs that don’t reblog any fan art or fan fiction DNI.

Word count:3096k

Over all story summary: Your uncle’s puppet takes a bit too much of an interest in you: in which you fucked up in this chapter.

The public’s opinion of you started to go downhill since then.

It’s been a week, and while most of the citizens won’t throw rocks or stalk you, they still stare – glares that are sharper than a knife, cutting deep into your arteries. You could practically feel the blood oozing out, a puddle forming underneath you as you stood on the stage, heart threating to explode any second now. The crowd just stares, and the puppet next to you cheers. How funny. The damn puppet is offering you more support than the intended audience.

Your foot taps against the wood. Your head throbs and you hold back a scream. You’re a monkey in a circus and they’re throwing peanuts at you.

“Hello everyone. I am here today to introduce a new, and improved, Nanny Puppet, upgraded with new codes and everything.” Your smile is strained, some of the people cheering with others sitting in silence. Seems as though some are genuinely interested and perhaps even excited about the new developments.

Glancing at your uncle who rests behind the curtains to the side, he nods his head. But most of his attention was on the puppet rather than you. “And it even comes with settings you can adjust yourself at home.”

The Nanny cheers again, robotic, and staticky still. So lifeless, its entire being written on a script. But as you look over the crowd on the wooden stage, head light and heart thumping like thunder, you feel the same. From the way you are standing, to the wave of your hands and your words, is all scripted.

A script written by your uncle.

“Now, come,” you gesture to The Nanny, and it listens, turning its back towards the crowd as you stand next to it. There’s buttons and latches, and you undo them all, with a quick ‘sorry,’ uttered into its ‘ear.’ A habit you picked up from the years of working with your uncle.

And with the rise of malfunctions, part of you thinks it’s for the best. Pretend you’re sorry to them, and maybe when everything goes south, they’ll take pity on you. Paranoia doesn’t look good on you, you realize, showing the audience the off switch, the lights in its eyes dimming as it turns off. This wasn’t a new feature.

But the kill switch is.

“As you can see, the power switch is still enabled, even in these new models. So, don’t worry about that, but!” you bring out a control panel from your waistcoat pocket. It’s small enough to fit in your hand, and on the black surface lies a red button, a little glass cap covering it. To prevent any accidental touches. You grip it a little too hard.

“This right here is a kill switch. Now, I’m not going to press it,” your thumb rubs circles over the cap. You can’t find it in you to force another smile, mentally and physically drained from everything. “But the moment you press it, the puppet will immediately shut down… but it won’t turn on again, either.”

There’s some ‘ooo’s’ and ‘awe’s,’ but the silence of the rest is what puts you on edge. They’re most likely the protesters. You wouldn’t be surprised if this stage would set fire any minute now. You shudder at the thought. Another glance at your uncle – he nods, again.

But his eyes are still mostly focused on the puppet. You can’t tell if it is in interest, hope, or disappointment. Just like how you can’t tell if there’s still warmth in his eyes when he looks at you.

“How does it work?”

You blink, off guard. A woman raised her hand, curious eyes drilling into you. You prepared yourself for this, practicing in front of a mirror for hours on end. You got this. You need to. You might fall apart otherwise.

“So, essentially, it – “

“Or, how about you don’t make them at all? The puppets, I mean.” A man speaks up, hat hiding his gaze, but you feel the hatred and frustration radiating off him in waves. You prepared yourself for this too. But reality still sends you reeling back mentally, the thought of rocks being thrown, or stage set on fire. At least he pretends to be respectful, even with his group frowning at you.

Your body trembles the slightest bit.

“Oh – um… I understand where you come from. It’s… it can be difficult to see use in the puppets, but they’re mostly here for when you can’t do something or need extra help…” you can’t tell if you’re lying to him or saying the truth – it’s all part of the script. And truthfully, you agree with him.

You just keep your mouth shut on the matter.

“They’re taking our jobs, you know? Oh wait, you probably don’t – you’re well-off, producing and selling these… things.” The same man shakes his head before pushing others out of his way – he stops just shy of an inch before the stage. “You don’t have to worry about them stealing your job. For now, at least.”

He adjusts his hat, and the contempt in his eyes is so heavy you’re on the verge of drowning. You swallow. You do know, you do, but it’s not like you could do anything. You already tried, you tried, but talking doesn’t work and –

“Alright, alright, I think that’s enough for now.” Your uncle comes out, places a hand on your shoulder. It feels more restricting than comforting. “It’s been a rather long day for everyone, hasn’t it? The sun is going down, and dinner time is drawing near. Same place and time tomorrow, as it was yesterday and today.”

Unlike you, he sounds confident. Gentle, but firm, and yet, you’re starting to grow more wary of him than the protesters. You wish you could hurry and pick a side. Money or no money, everything was starting to seem more futile, meaningless. You want to live under a rock.

Live under a rock and become separated from your job. You tap your foot more aggressively, biting your lip once your back is turned to the crowd. Your hands twitch even with the control in your hands.

He doesn’t leave room for debate, guiding you on the shoulder to walk down the stage and to his little personal workshop. The police – puppets, again – prevent anyone from getting close. You weren’t here yesterday; it was just him. Did he go through the same thing? Is that why he’s so calm, so natural about it?

Or was he always like this? Disconnected from everything that did not concern his work, his dreams? His puppet, his –

“… Uncle,” you fiddle with the control in your hands. “Did anyone accompany you yesterday?” You can’t find it in you to look at him. Can’t even talk properly, no matter how hard you try to accept everything, like you should. It’s expected of you. And maybe it is because of that, that you can’t find yourself willing to do so.

“Mm. Howard did. It was a welcomed surprise.” He chuckles low in his throat, adjusting his hat as you make way home. Guilt immediately starts to boil within, your heart squeezing painfully as your throat closes in on itself. “He’s a fine young man indeed.”

“He is, isn’t? Such a nice young man…” you agree, nodding your head, ignoring the gnawing at your chest. You care about him, dreadfully so, to the point it was horribly painful. Which was why you tried to keep him out of your business.

But he was just so stubborn.

“Hm,” he takes a glance at you; eyes shifting from one side to another. You see it but don’t think much of it. But even so, you can’t ignore the lack of warmth in his gaze. “I heard he’s been visiting you more often now. Are you two perhaps…?”

“No! No, it’s not like that. It won’t ever be like that again.” You laugh, shaking your head. You fidget with the control more. You look down at your hands – scars and light burns decorate them like tattoos. No longer as ‘pretty’ as society would like to describe.

The though brings out a laugh.

“It just won’t work out.”

“How come?” He sounds interested, but not in a caring way – it was in a way that made you feel like a test subject. “You were such a great pair. He would have made an excellent son-in-law for your parents.”

You grit your teeth. “Yeah. He would have. But that’s neither here nor there; it’s in the past. And it will forever remain in the past.” Your face feels hot – anger? Shame? Annoyance and irritation jabbing at every corner of your very being, you try your best to remain stoic about the conversation. Even if you subconsciously know he’s taking a jab at you.

Even though he has no reason to.

You were sure of it now – all of the warmth that was inside your uncle was slowly becoming cold. Was he always this type of man? Cold? Disconnected from everything? But surely, there was still some left for you, right?

A faint chuckle. “I apologize – I shouldn’t have brought up the subject. I wasn’t aware that it was still a touchy subject.” His fingers dig into your shoulder before his grip loosens. He pats it twice before fully letting you go, turning his head to smile at you.

You think it was meant to be gentle. “It’s fine. It was my fault for… assuming you had other intentions by bringing it up.” It’s a lie. It wasn’t fine, and you both know that. But it should be okay, because he’s a man you consider to be your uncle, and of course uncle Geppetto always wants what’s best for you. It would crush you if he didn’t.

“Mm, that’s the spirit. Don’t let anything drag you down.” You’re at his personal workshop now, the wind picking up. It’s getting colder. The leaves are starting to fall more and more, flowers wilting as the days go by. Just like you.

“Now then, I hope you take great care of him. I have other business to attend to, but I wanted to make sure you made it back safe and sound.” Your uncle gives you exactly two pats on the back. Adjusting his glasses, he turns to look at you, smiling.

Smiling, smiling, smiling – it’s all he does. It’s what unnerves you the most. It’s what the citizens hate about him. It’s what unarms your family. It’s what feels the most inhuman about him.

“Yes, of course,” you reply, nodding your head. Your fingers start scrapping against the control gently. Foot tapping, you attempt to smile. “I would never harm… it. It is also my project, you know?”

It wasn’t.

“Mm, yes, of course. Thank you for all your hard work.” And with a tilt of his hat, he’s off – you watch his retreating back, the muscles with every movement. You just realized he could easily overpower you.

Your fingers dig harder into the control until you can feel your fingernails digging into your own flesh. You wonder if he would turn against you if you were to abandon this job field.

Two hours and forty minutes.

That’s how long you have been tampering with the legion arm – your uncle begged you to stop calling it a mechanical arm – greasing it, tightening the screws, making sure that the fingers curl just like a real hand would. And of course it did – it should, especially since nearly all your paychecks and funds go into this puppet and not your own personal life.

Two hours and forty minutes, plus two months and you’re barely about to be done with this damn thing. You finished two other ones before this, but even then, you might have to ‘fix’ them. Make sure that they’re up to your uncle’s very high standards.

“Fuck… why am I even working on this thing? This is the least of our concerns, not to mention – ow, fuck!” In your hurry to get another type of screwdriver, you pushed over a failed ‘heart’ test dummy. It lands directly on your foot, causing you to drop everything else as you hold it with your trembling hands.

They were doing that more often. “Wow, okay, great. Sure, let’s just let everything fall on you. God, I’m going crazy. I might turn into a menace before the protesters and puppets do.” Running a hand through your hair, you pace back in forth, biting your free thumb.

Every time you enter this godforsaken place, your sanity dwindles bit by bit. “Okay, let’s calm down – my foot isn’t bleeding, I think. I should… I should take a break.” Despite your words, you go back to working – picking up the old ‘heart’ and placing it back on the messy table.

Research papers messily stacked at a corner, puppet parts scattered all over, grease stains on the wood. The table wears scratch marks like medals of honor. Pausing for a moment, you walk to the far-right side of the table, picking up the papers and placing them into a clean square bin on the floor. You kick it to some random corner of the workshop.

The urge to rip them to shreds is, in a way, comforting. If those were gone, how could you continue on? They even had blueprints. Nails dig into your palms at the thoughts. Not harsh enough to draw blood, however.

“Hm, I should clean up… but what’s the point? Everything gets scattered again, uncle moves the parts to the most random of places, Howard ends up losing them… so much to do, such little time.”

Ranting to yourself, you stomp to the table again, picking up the new and ‘official’ heart for the puppet. You remember putting it elsewhere. In a drawer. Safe and sound.

And yet, it was on this stupid, stupid table –

“Are they trying to kill me?” you mumble out, on the verge of pulling out strands of your hair. “Not only that, but the fact I could have been harmed today… he knows they already threw stones at me, why make me appear in public again? Why get on the wooden stage that could easily be consumed by fire?”

Without thinking, you stride over to the puppet sitting on the red plush chair. When you’re shy a few inches from it, you take a moment to admire its beauty – the eyes were closed. Long eyelashes that cast shadows onto pale, freckled ‘skin.’ The carob brown hair still looked as soft as ever, with messy curls that remind you of his hair back when he was younger.

Back when everything was normal. Gentler times where warmth wasn’t forced into honeyed words, when you weren’t so scared of being beaten to death. When everything was fine. Happy.

It was missing the left arm – the legion arm. You cast a glance behind you, spotting the arm on the table. That’s the one he wants to put on for now. The most simple, basic one, no complicated functions, no paint, just metal. You decide to leave it.

Turning to face the puppet again, tilting your head, you really take in its appearance; it has an average body type. Maybe a bit more on the lean side, but aside from the pretty face and missing arm, it looked human. It looked normal.

And that’s what scares you.

“…,” against your better judgement, your hand reaches out. Fingertips graze against the cheeks, feeling how cold and smooth it was. It’s flawless compared to your hand. You pause to see if the puppet will move at your touch. When it doesn’t, you bring your hand up, taking a closer step to it. The hair was soft, fluffy. It didn’t feel fake like it should.

It felt real.

“… I shouldn’t be doing this. Hah. I really am going crazy.” The thread that was holding your sanity together was close to snapping. Again, against your better judgement, you act on impulse. Unbuttoning the white button-down, you feel your heart drop at how… human it looks.

But upon closer inspection, there was a thin line, forming a square across the chest. There was a little screw, the opening to inside of the chest. Huffing, you dig into your overcoat pocket, retrieving the specific screwdriver – your uncle makes you carry it like a lifeline. However, you are not sure if he thought it through – what if someone mugged you?

Your hand hesitates as you hold the screwdriver, hovering by the opening. The ‘heart’ was still in your hands. It starts to beat slowly, almost as if coming to life. “… Uncle might kill me if I mess with his favorite puppet…”

Instead of heeding your own words, you open the chest cavity, placing the screwdriver back into your pocket. You’ve seen it before; hollow, wires connecting with each other and to the sides. There’s a small open space where a human heart would be. You look at the one in your hand before nodding your head.

You were acting rebellious, in a way. And it may very well lead into your downfall, either being killed by a puppet going haywire or by your uncle’s red, blinding rage.

You hesitate before gently putting the ‘heart’ into its assigned area. Connecting the wires to it, patting it, watching as it starts to glow, beating steadily. You did not think twice about your actions. After a second, you close it, screwing it shut before walking serval steps away.

Nothing happens.

“Hah… ha-ha, what was I thinking? I went from zero to a hundred within a few minutes… I should take a few days off. Maybe even a week…” chuckling to yourself, you rub your head. You’re getting a migraine. Much be too much caffeine, that coffee would eventually kill you.

Turning around, you walk away from the puppet, heading towards the door to get some fresh air. To force some sanity back into your head before you scream your lungs out and pull out every single strand of your hair out. The longer you stay here, the worse you become.

Creak.

You stop in your tracks, blood turning cold. No. surely not – your eyes widen when you realize how stupid you are. You were dumb enough to connect the wires to the heart. But! When your uncle did that, this didn’t –

You turn your head around so fast you almost snap your neck. Your heart drops.

It opens its eyes, and the first thing it sees is you.

tag list:

@ijustreblogstuff-i-like @chiofany @quzbea @cute-angi

@nealcaffrey2129 @connorsoddsock

@rositabluemoon

#yandere x reader #lies of p #lies of p x reader #yandere lies of p #yandere lies of p x reader #lies of p pinocchio #pinocchio #pinocchio x reader #yandere pinocchio #yandere pinocchio x reader

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chickenparm · 11 months

Text

Thorough (Wriothesley/afab!Reader)

happy halloween, we're suckin' and fuckin' in a graveyard.

---

AO3 Link

Wriothesley/afab!Reader (female anatomy, no pronouns)

3,212 Words - NSFW

(mild consensual non-con, handjob, handcuffs, use of anal plug, power dynamics, fingering, cavity search, pre-established relationship, i wasn't kidding it's in a graveyard)

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It’s a good hiding spot, you think. No escaped prisoner would be brazen enough to hunker down in a place like this. Maybe it’s a little cliche, and if you were any less than you are, you’d be worried about something spooky. But under the moon it’s just mausoleums, rows of tombstones in varied states of care, you, and the loose clothing hanging off your frame. The least they could do is get you some standard-issue prisoner’s clothes in a size that’s appropriate.

A shiver runs through you, just from the cold. Not that it’s a little unsettling being here at night. But it’s just so quiet, only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, a slight dryness to it thanks to the changing of the seasons. The air even smells a little different, a little more crisp as you inhale deeply and get a move on.

Among the tombstones, you feel too exposed. It allows you to see around yourself to make sure no one is tailing you closely - and they are tailing you - but it also means that the vision will go both ways. No matter who you are, being in a cemetery at night isn’t normal behavior. As the larger constructs of mausoleums and tombs grow closer, you pickup the pace, pulling the collar of your shirt back up from where it sags on your shoulder.

They’re close together, with enough space to walk single-file between them. Fontaine has a long history, shown in the rows of noble-blooded family resting sites, one after another after another. You feel a little safer, less exposed when it’s you and the marble on each side of you, your fingers running across the chilled stone. Not even your own footsteps echo - the leaves haven’t blown far enough to fall here.

Maybe it’s best to just settle here for the night. To wait until your pursuers lose hope that you’re nearby, and you’ll have a little more wiggle room to plan your next moves. Leaving the country for sure; you’ve heard good things about Natlan and its hot springs. Warmth sounds really nice right about now, a little shiver bringing goosebumps along your skin as you turn down a different row.

It’s darker here, the moon at just the right angle to cast everything in shadow. It calms you a little, lets you slow down and take a deeper breath, another shudder as your lungs fill with cold air. God, why couldn’t you have committed a felony in the summertime?

That cold air in your lungs is swiftly forced out, your cheek smacking against the marble as a weight pushes in against you from behind. There’s that warmth you were thinking of, pressed against the length of your back, breezing across your face as you look over your shoulder and your stomach drops.

“Almost got me good, you know,” his voice rolls across your skin as surely as his breath. “I thought, surely you wouldn’t be brave enough to hide out in a place like this.”

And then he laughs, low and from the bottom of his chest, yet it still makes your spine vibrate with its proximity, “But you were brave enough to run from the authorities. Brave, or stupid. Maybe a little of both; I’ll be generous.”

And in response, you say nothing at all. What is there to do but plead for your freedom, spout apologies, spit insults back at him? None of that would change the fact that he’s got you in custody again, and the latter would certainly make all of this worse. So you pull your lower lip between your teeth and try not to shake as he makes a little tsk noise with his teeth. “Right to remain silent, of course. Unfortunately, there are no attorneys around to represent you, so you’ll just have to trust I’m doing it right, hm?”

Wriothesley’s hands, palms pressed into your shoulder blades to hold you still, start to run down your sides, fingers dipping into every little space they can reach. “Now, you were out of my sight for a little while, so I’ll just have to conduct a search to make sure you didn’t pick up any contraband.”

You shake your head - of course you don’t have anything, you didn’t have time. But he continues on, sliding his hands along your arms, then back to your shoulders to feel around your too-loose collar. Nothing there either, of course.

Unthwarted, his fingers slide down your spine once more before easing along your waist toward the front, feeling at your waistline for anything tucked there. Unable to help yourself, you stammer, “I didn’t pick up anything, I-I swear-”

“Stuttering? Are you nervous?” Wriothesley’s hands pause for a moment, pressing into your lower stomach with light pressure, his pinky just beneath the band of your pants. “You have nothing to be nervous about… unless you have something to hide.”

And with that, his hands rise, dipping beneath your shirt to skin along your skin. There’s no way he doesn’t feel the goosebumps, or the way your breath catches as his fingers skim at the bottom of your ribs. Wriothesley must be able to feel your racing heart as one hand slips up the center of your chest to your sternum, fingers splaying out across your collarbones. “Hm. Nothing so far.”

Your eyes shut tighter, a shuddering breath leaves you as his hand moves to the side, sliding across the curve of your breast before he stops to squeeze, the heel of his palm dragging against your nipple - hardened from the cold, not from this. At least, you try to tell yourself that as he cock his head to the side curiously and his fingers tug to draw a little hiss from between your teeth.

“That was something, but not what I was looking for. We’ll come back to that.”

Your cheek presses hard against the marble of the mausoleum he has you pinned against, the cold seeping through your cheek enough to make your molars hurt with the change in temperature. Parting your lips, you suck in a lungful of that same chilly air as he releases your breast and travels further down.

The tip of his pinky beneath the cheap elastic of your pants has been humming at the back of your mind throughout this exchange, demanding attention enough for you to remember it’s there. You don’t forget, especially now that one finger has turned to five, then ten as his hands slip beneath. One holds you steady at the hip while the other brazenly cups you, the tip of his middle finger dipping in just so.

Your thighs clench together, a reflex born from the unexpected suddenness of it all. Like you didn’t know this would happen the moment you saw his expression over your shoulder when you slipped away from him and the Gardes in Vasari Passage.

Wriothesley notes your instinct, the way you close your legs tighter as if to keep him out - or keep him close. A little cooing sound leaves him, as if he finds your reactions impossibly amusing, “Aw, did I not say this was a cavity search?”

Dumbly - because you feel dumb - you shake your head, and he leans in to laugh against the shell of your ear, his breath warm enough against the cold skin that you feel it condensating.

“Oops.”

That teasing fingertip presses harder, curling up through your undeniable wetness until it strokes against your clit once, then again when he decides he likes the way your hips rock at the sensation. Your spine curls, arching against the wall in a way that you’d feel shame for in just a moment. But for now, your mind is whirling and his finger is dragging wet little circles that make your nails scratch uselessly against the perfect, polished stone.

There’s nothing for you to grab on to, nothing to brace yourself with as he toys with you.

“Wri-”

“Your Grace,” Wriothesley corrects you, pressing hard against your clit to push the line of pain. The motion steals your words, and he only makes a little sound that sounds awfully close to, “Oh well.”

With a drag, his hand releases your pussy, smearing wetness up and over your hip as both pull free of your clothing. A bit of relief flows through you, barely noticeable from the frustration of his little game. You didn’t think the Duke was one to be cruel, but you had broken the law. It should’ve been expected.

Roughly, he snatches your hands from where they’re flat against the marble, tugging them behind your back with an ominous rapid-fire clicking of his cuffs. They’re frigid against your skin as he binds them at your lower back, something he should have done when they first picked you up. But you’d been so well behaved, he’d remarked when you went so willingly into custody.

Fear has a way of shaking things up, and now that you’re completely at his mercy, it’s potent in your throat with its incessant squeezing. Patiently you lean against the wall, waiting and waiting for him to start to drag you away. Yet all you hear is the shifting of fabric, the jingle of something that sounds like a belt buckle, and then something hot is pressed into your hand behind your back.

“Just… hold ‘em right there. Where I-... mmh… can see ‘em.”

Wriothesley’s hips roll forward, his cock thrusting into your curled fingers, abundant arousal catching on your palm and easing his way as he does it again and again. With a slap that startles you into squeezing your hand around him tighter, his palm smacks against the wall next to your face to brace himself against the movements of his own hips.

Heat burns at your cheeks, creeps down your neck, makes your thighs press together as he uses you to get himself off with slow, languid rocking. Like he has all the time in the world. In truth, he does, because who else would come looking for the two of you in a graveyard? No one is coming to find you, no one will see the Duke of Meropide rutting himself against your cuffed hands.

Each push forward comes with a little groan in your ear, his knuckles bleeding whiter as his fingertips press and press against the mausoleum wall. You’re entranced by them, your eyes watching as his grip starts to slip with the sweating of his palms. Zoned out, eyes glazed over, your mind takes in the hotness against your palm, the weight of his cock as your fingers close a little tighter.

The sound of his quiet appreciative moan in your ear.

It makes your jaw tick, your eyes refocus on the moment, just in time for Wriothesley to pull back and leave your hand wet with pre cum that chills rapidly in the autumn air. He hadn’t finished - denied himself of it, it seems. Wriothesley doesn’t lean on you for support, instead using the wall over your shoulder with both hands, just for a moment to catch his barely-lost breath.

And then both hands leave your vision, curling around the band of your pants again. Anticipation floods your veins, making you tense as he snaps it against your skin once. “Got a little distracted, sorry about that. Back to business - we’re not done with the cavity search.”

Your knee jerks, smacking painfully against the wall as you instinctively try to stop him, but his chest presses you flat against the surface with a quiet sound of sympathy to placate you, “I’ll be quick, just relax. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about running from me, hm?”

Not running from the authorities, or from the Gardes, but from Wriothesley.

The curve of your ass is revealed as he tugs your pants down enough to get at what he needs. Closing your eyes, holding your breath, you wait on the precipice as his fingers squeeze against your cheeks, then pull apart to scrutinize your ass.

And then laughter, disbelieving and a bit more elated than you expected. “You little liar. And to think I almost trusted you when you said you didn’t have anything to hide.”

His hand on the right shifts, his thumb pressing forward, pushing on the flared base of the plug to force it a little deeper, making you whimper breathlessly. The same fingers that pinched at your breast, toyed with your cunt, find purchase on the plug and tug on it a little, just enough for the flare to pull out a little, to test the tight ring of your hole before letting go. You can feel his interested gaze as it goes back in, the base sitting snugly against you once more.

“Spread your legs. Looks like I’ll have to be more thorough in prior places. You understand, right?”

You weakly nod, spreading as much as you’re able with your pants still caught on your mid-thigh. It’s good enough, you think, because he adjusts his position and he presses his cock against your cunt with very little preamble. Just a single moment for you to take a breath, to reconcile all of this, to say you don’t understand.

But you don’t, and you take that breath, and look at him over your shoulder with eyes that plead for him to do it. And he does, with one long, slow stroke that makes you feel every inch of him. Everything feeling is magnified, your breath turning into a low moan as both of your holes are filled, each feeling tighter together than they would have alone.

“Your Grace…”

“Don’t cum,” Wriothesley orders, hand curled around your hip, squeezing in emphasis of his warning, “little liars have to face their punishment.”

“Please-”

“Hush, or the sentence is just going to be worse.” You don’t doubt it, and you keep your mouth shut even around your moans as he crowds you further against the wall, your arms shifting uncomfortably with the cuffs at your wrists. “Take what you’re given. Be grateful that it is what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.”

It doesn’t even sound like it’s affecting him, but you know it is. You can feel the way his pace picks up when he shifts and his cock drags perfectly inside you. The plug in your ass makes it all the better for him, but it doesn’t seem to be quite enough. Lost in your own haze of pleasure and a desperation not to succumb to it, you don’t notice his wandering fingers until they’re already tugging on the plug again.

The sudden shift, the slight stretch as he pulls on it, makes you tense and tighten and bear down on his cock in a way that makes him laugh through his pleased groan. “Nice, just like that… knew you could be amenable.”

It rankles at you, and your fists tighten. One of them is sticky, the remnants of his use before he abandoned that for elsewhere on your body. And yet you can do nothing but bite your tongue and taste the blood that blooms faintly in your mouth, hoping the pain will distract you from the way his cock nudges insistently against something inside that makes you want to scream loud enough to wake every one of the remains in this graveyard.

But beyond disturbing the dead, it would also likely bring someone curious. Some caretaker or passerby that can’t leave well enough alone. As much as you want this to end differently, you don’t particularly want to end it prematurely. So you keep your mouth shut and let your eyes roll behind closed lids as he fucks you against the wall of some mausoleum that belongs to a family you’d never heard of before.

Meeting his demand is a near impossible task. You think you’re going to fail with how he pulls and twists at your contraband, how his free hand curls around your shoulder to pull you back onto each thrust. But then he snaps first, his grip turning from the pads of his fingers to nails digging into the loose fabric and the skin beneath.

The length of him pushes as deep as he can, pressing his entire body against you, up against the wall until your toes barely reach the gravel below. It’s like he can’t drive himself far enough in, even as he throbs inside with each rope of his cum you’re given.

With a little slide, he pulls back and you barely catch yourself on your wobbling feet. You did as he asked, you didn’t disobey for fear of a longer sentence. You were well behaved - willing. But you’re still surprised when he fixes his clothing in a deft move then takes a knee behind you.

Craning your neck to try and look back and down at him, you cry out as you’re given no warning when two of his fingers slide inside and hook. His thumb finds your clit with clumsy, rough circles that still do a hell of a job making you writhe as he works you over quickly. It’s torture, one that you can’t endure for long, and you plead, “Please, Wriothesley-”

“Oh, yeah, no you’re good. Cum hard, push it all out.” A brush of his lips against the swell of your ass that turns into the feeling of his teeth in a little grin. “Wonder if I could make you do it hard enough to push your little toy out, too.”

Really, you’d love to have this conversation later, but he’s got all the time in the world to chat away as you writhe on his fingers and feel the remnants of his release drip down the inside of your left thigh. “I’ll be honest, that was a nice surprise. You hadn’t mentioned you were gonna do that.”

“Wriothesley, please-”

“Yeah, you’ve been saying that a lot. Alright, anything for you.”

The words are like an invisible tripwire, one that sends you tumbling end over end as your shoulders roll forward and you arch in on yourself under the weight of your orgasm. Wriothesley is relentless, watching with an attentive gaze as you leak down your thighs, along his fingers, into the fabric of his wrappings. And you’ll never see him use the same ones again, unaware of what he does with them.

That thought doesn’t get to live in your mind long as it peters out into some strange white noise that could be a short circuit, or just your blood rushing in your ears. Vaguely you feel him cleaning you up with a square of fabric from his pocket, his hands working quickly to fix your clothes and then wrap you tight in the very jacket he’d been wearing.

It’s warm. It smells like him, comfortable and familiar, tea and whatever brand of aftershave he’s been fond of lately. Against your ear, he asks if your legs work or if you need to hitch a ride, then doesn’t wait for an answer as he scoops you into his arms.

You’d like to apologize to whatever resting place you just desecrated, but as you look over Wriothesley’s shoulder, you honestly couldn’t pick out which one it was from this distance.

Hopefully they’ll understand.

#mind the a/n for content tags #wriothesley #genshin impact #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #mdni #nsft #x reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley/reader #genshin #genshin x reader

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jazzyblusnowflake · 5 months

Note

I've got one for ya. What were the first kisses in the N/V/Uzi relationship like. Uzi and N first, Uzi and V's first, and V and N's first.

(Bonus points for V and N's first kiss at the manner for some bittersweet angst)

Also, good golly gumdrops, love your stuff, even if you don't answer this one, still gonna keep enjoying

oh oh i love these kinds of ideas :"D tho it takes a bit of brain power to think of a good scene uhm.... lessee....

Ok so first up, although im still waiting for a canon first kiss for NUzi- since they are a thing now, i still like to think of something separate for my own version- [since obviously the main show isn't going towards a poly dynamic lmao]

See, we all know that the show is fast paced and its hard to find any empty spaces between each event, hell it almost feels like earth was blown apart and the DDs were on copper 9 the next day, Liam we need a fucking timeline order. 🙄 soooooo i personally like to imagine that there's a lot more time between events than is shown in the actual show. like- lets maybe put a few days between Uzi administrating N and V and the arrival of J and Cynessa- like.... maybe lets put a few NIGHTS between that??? what's the freaking rush 😭

But anyway yeah- i would put the first NUzi kiss somewhere around betwenn the camp and the flashback eps probably :p my idea would be that since the camp incidents, Uzi would be having a lot of bodily changes to deal with, one of which being her inability to tolerate the sun much anymore. other things would probably be the growth of literal flesh and blood and bones inside of her and lets make this morbid by adding her throwing up blood but keeping it a secret from everyone :p she may sneak back to the other two at night and stay with them- clearly shaken up- [V probably also being shaken up because on one hand she's terrified of seeing this transformation take place- but at the same time, she clearly cares enough about Uzi AND Ns happiness...] asking for help and advice- and the 3 grow closer during this. They practice with her for flying or controlling her tail- maybe some stuff on her control on oil hunger too. she probably also gets some fighting, sneaking and sparring practice with V-

//insert one of those cheesy moments where V riles up Uzi enough to tag her on the snowy ground but then realizes its the same position she got V in her solver!mode and starts panicking and pushing herself back- V getting back up and asking what the heck was that and Uzi just saying she doesn't want to hurt her and V is an insensitive jerk for making her spar with her in the first place and tries to fly away to calm down-..... which probably just ended with her falling face first in the snow and a lecture from both N and V.

overall they all started subconsciously getting even closer. tbh there's so many things i could add here but i gotta keep it a few NIGHTS not a few MONTHS until the next event 😭

either way during this i guess N and Uzi could have maybe ended up alone at some point- maybe after a flying lesson having gone right and they were a little too happy on top of a building or upturned bus or something lol- i imagine after a hug maybe Uzi asks if she could kiss N but quickly backtracks saying nvm it was stupid or something but N softly says its okay- //probably picks her up too, adding to her embarrassment- cuz she's short lmaooooo// and Uzi just decides to give a small unsure smooch- but decided to make it not too long. they decided to just hug after that to not let the other see them blushing like hell 😭 [also they didn't really decide anything after this cuz they are idiots????😭😭😭]

but anyway for the Vuzi first kiss i have no idea if or when V would return if she's been set to remain alive in the canon- but for me its probably when she appears again in her normal form, as herself. not a clone. Alice isn't alive to take the cores and make them sluggish with heat and the sentinels wouldn't have a chance against the solvers centipede lookin ass form.

Anyway if we consider that one way or another Uzi, N and V will meet up again, [and N and Uzi preferably get to share a better kiss this time-] the first thing Uzi is doing is landing a swift punch in Vs face and then kissing the daylights out of her- //confusing herself and everyone in the area in the process including V herself...// overall she would scold V on the whole "i trust you" shtick and leaving them alone- but yeah :p [ keep in mind that im also considering a few nights between when J and Cynessa show up and when they decide to actually go and find and search the labs, because PLOT REASONS :D ]

as for the first Envee kiss- ill do you one better and make it more angsty and say that N and V used to always spend time with each other and do silly things like hold hands in secret or send internal chat messages to eachother, draw and read books together- maybe N used to put flowers for her sometimes. But at some point a certain little corrupted drone started feeling possessive of her favorite "big brother" figure not spending time with her anymore...

one time, N had asked V if he could kiss her and at that they were both blushing messes but before V could respond they get interrupted- maybe by someone giving them orders or maybe by Cyn. either way, V quickly whispers to him "later, i promise" with a smile, making N happy and giddy. but the later never comes... V becomes comatose soon after... N sadly reading books to her and sometimes whispering to her to wake up and that she still has to keep her promise...

anyway after all things are said and done in the future and the solver is defeated- whether they are still living on copper 9 or any other planet idk- N, V and Uzi are all close, but since both N and V are close to Uzi, they also start spending more time with each other too. maybe one time on a walk or going out and about N was able to catch up with V and they reminisce about old memories they can now remember; and when V was finally able to open up a bit to N, he mentions that he still remembers the promise and asks her if he could kiss her again and she lets him.

and thaaaats all the brain power i have for tonight... i think... hope it made yall smile or cry or idk something lmao. :")

#snowballflo #snow rambles #murder drones #nuzi #vuzi #nuziv #envuzi #biscuitbites #violetviolence #violentbitingbiscuits #uzi doorman #serial designation n #serial designation v #envy #envee #goldenmemories

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ddarker-dreams · 2 years

Text

Entropy.

Yan Cyno x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships and unbalanced power dynamics. Word count: 2.6k.

You used to never hear his footsteps coming.

This is a detail you once pointed out to him — more in jest than anything — which earned you an unexpectedly pensive look. No matter how light you intended your words to be, he weighed them as if each syllable were law. It had always been that way, for as long as you could remember. Back in your Akademiya days, if you made a little suggestion to Cyno’s work, he’d rewrite the entire paper to accommodate your idea better. If you wondered about a strategy’s viability in Genius Invokation TCG, he’d stay up for nights on end to test and record the data for later presentation. He was always so eager to please you. What he struggled to express in words, he’d make up for in his actions; accommodating and bending to your will if it meant you might look his way.

A few days after you joked about how quiet he moves around, he solemnly promised ‘to remedy the issue’. And sure enough, he did. He started to announce when he arrived home or would make some other noise so that he didn’t sneak up on you. You didn’t give it much thought then. Certainly, it was nice that you no longer got startled or had to worry he’d been silently watching you do something embarrassing, but it didn’t particularly stand out more than that.

Until now, that is.

You’d been alternating between chopping vegetables and plopping them into boiling water, humming to yourself while you did so. The scent of spices and herbs picked fresh from the market hours prior permeated the evening air. As always, the table was set for two. You always ensure to have a hot dinner waiting for him whenever he returns home.

Nothing seemed particularly out of place. There was no sudden draft, no creak from the front door whose hinges desperately needed oiling. You carried out your meal prep routine in the same humdrum manner as always.

Then there were arms ensnaring you.

You almost jump out of your skin at the abrupt sensation. In an instant, your body prepares itself to fight back before your mind can intervene. You twist your torso around, leading with the knife still in your hand, adrenaline shooting through your veins like a geyser. The blade never connects with its intended target, for a singular hand holds it unwaveringly still midair, overpowering you easily. It’s then that you finally register just who the unknown assailant is.

“Archons above, Cyno,” you lace your tone with exasperation, “You almost gave me a heart attack. What if I had…”

You shake your head, not wanting to consider it for even a moment.

He calmly plucks the knife from your grasp and sets it aside, taking the time to straighten it while you steady your breathing. He never liked anything to be crooked, utensils weren’t an exception. What immediately strikes you is how void of expression he seems. Some may claim that the General Mahamatra is incapable of emoting, but after knowing him for so long, you had caught onto his many tells. He stands up perfectly straight when he’s looking for an opportunity to insert his joke into a conversation. He sighs quietly to himself when he’s content. The skin beneath his eyes crinkles whenever he sees you.

These various nuances you’ve spent years accumulating suddenly feel useless, like a once bountiful fruit tree that has dried and withered away.

You almost doubt if the man staring back at you is Cyno.

“I found your brother.”

There are no inquiries about your day, rushing over to lend assistance with the meal, or kisses stolen whenever he sees an opening. He delivers the grim news without tact or any other reassurance such a statement necessitates. You swallow thickly, shrinking yourself into the counter behind you. He’s scrutinizing you just as much as you are him. Your homeostasis is thrown off, somehow causing you to both shiver and sweat. The blood-orange eyes that stare back at you are reminiscent of the scalding sun in the desert. Unrelenting, pouring down heat without favor toward anyone or anything.

“... I see,” is your careful response. You grip the counter for leverage until your knuckles ache. “Does that mean the investigation into him is concluded?”

“Far from it.”

You think you can afford to look downcast upon receiving heavy news like this, so you do. That begs the question of what intonation to use next. He’s obviously waiting for you to speak up and say something more on the topic — hence his silence — yet having the spotlight thrust on you so abruptly leaves you feeling unprepared. Do you sound remorseful? Apologize for your brother’s grievances? Or do you sound satisfied, content that the arduous search has come to an end?

You decide to try a combination of both.

“I appreciate all your hard work in tracking him down,” the melancholy in your smile is genuine. You transition to something more sheepish, avoiding his burning gaze by looking to the side. “I know it hasn’t been easy. I suppose he’ll be brought to justice.”

“Everyone always is,” Cyno confirms. The corners of your mouth twitch. “He inquired after you.”

“Oh?”

“Normally, I don’t make a habit of talking to fugitives, since they’re always trying to worm their way out of due punishment. I made an exception in his case. I told him that I’ve been taking care of you in his stead; that you don’t want for anything. He seemed relieved. He must’ve assumed his assets would be seized once his academic infringements came to light… and still, knowing this, he chose to put your livelihood at risk.”

This is a safe conversation topic for you to lean into. Cyno always contended himself on the fact he solely provides for you.

“We’ve both caused you a lot of trouble.”

Normally, when you say something in this vein, Cyno rushes to reassure you that you’re no trouble at all. That he would give you the clothes off his back if you requested it. Presently, he does no such thing. You finally pick up on a telltale sign woven into his otherwise unreadable body language — how he’s struggling not to clench his jaw. Subdued frustration. While you’re used to playing an actor who must improvise their lines, Cyno must still be adjusting to the role. How unfortunate that you know he’s a fast learner.

You focus on the sound of boiling water threatening to overflow by your side. Neither of you moves to adjust the heat so that it won’t, too absorbed in what the other will or won’t do next.

“You said that it’s been hard work for me to track him down,” Cyno starts, reaching his thumb and pointer finger out to tilt your chin upward. You fight back the urge to flinch. “I agree, although, it shouldn’t have been. Not if he didn’t have help.”

He knows.

“... Not if he didn’t have you.”

The world is falling apart and you don’t know if anything can force the jagged pieces back together.

When it came to interrogation, few were better than Cyno. He understood it on an intrinsic level. When to apply pressure, when to offer a false sense of security, what words and actions it takes to utterly break a person. You thought knowing this in advance might offer you some sort of advantage. Never have you had an assumption proven so painfully wrong.

“What?” You demand, your eyebrows furrowing together. You are a virtuoso at playing the tune of ignorance. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

It’s a solid performance. Most innocent parties are rightfully outraged when faced with serious accusations they had nothing to do with. Their righteous anger is different from the guilt-ridden outbursts of their guilty counterparts, Cyno would tell you. In the same way an expert artist could differentiate between two shades that appear alike to any other unskilled eye, Cyno noticed all the minute details. This was what he did best. This was his life’s calling.

He runs the coarse pad of his thumb over your trembling lower lip, his eyes lidded. Then, he whispers, “You are a good liar, aren’t you?”

“I—”

Cyno shushes you and you’re compelled to listen.

“I’ve tracked down individuals with networks spanning across all of Teyvat in less time than it took for me to find your brother, who has no resources,” Cyno’s words are accompanied by electricity thrumming in the air — a warning that the time to be judged is nigh. “I couldn’t understand. It was as if he knew my movements in advance and planned accordingly.”

His grip on you tightens. “I lost sight of my objectivity. You… make me lose sight of objectivity. Still, that didn’t explain how exactly you were getting the information. I ruminated on this for some time. After all, what would my suspicions matter if I didn’t have anything definitive to work with? Then you asked me that favorite question of yours. ‘What time can I expect to have you home for dinner’, was it?”

You had been playing with something infinitely more dangerous than fire.

“You have enough knowledge of Sumeru’s geography to guess where I’d be going with the tiniest information,” Cyno narrows his eyes, “Isn’t that right, [First]?”

His exposed chest heaves, each breath coming out heavier than the last. The feverish skin that touches yours tingles in rhythm with the thrumming of his Vision. You wonder if any god would take pity and bestow their favor upon you. It’s a silly thought to entertain, for you know that even if they did, his strength far surpasses yours. There’s always the option of arguing your case. Combing through his words for inconsistencies you’d never find, prolonging an admission of guilt to the charges being presented. That would only add fuel to the raging hot fire.

“They were going to lock him up for life, Cyno,” your throat is tight and it all feels like too much. “I-I know that what he did was wrong, and— there are no good excuses to justify it. He told me as much before he fled. He said… he said that they’d been denying him funds for years. His research had been his dream since he was a kid. When I heard that, I just… I wanted to protect him.”

From you.

Tears gather upon your bottom eyelashes like dew on blades of grass at daybreak.

“The scales that your justice relies upon, how can you know they aren’t imbalanced? What good will throwing someone into a prison cell until they rot do? That’s no recompense for a crime committed, it’s punishment for punishment’s sake!”

Cyno allows you to finish your rambling without interruption. From what you understood, when the General Mahamatra found one that ‘must be brought to justice’, they’d immediately be whisked away. He never extended the process more than necessary and was almost considered fair for this facet of his. As a man so entirely defined by his ideals, you assume you’ll receive no different treatment. Obstructing an ongoing investigation and aiding a known fugitive were both sentences that’d be wrapped around your neck like a noose.

You decided that if the day ever came when he discovered your damning secret, you’d go down with some dignity intact. This was something you made peace with when you struggled to sleep beside someone you were actively deceiving. So you brace yourself for the absolute worst. You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for whatever he might say while he arrests you, the inevitable tug on your wrist that’d come as he drags you off to whatever clammy holding cell awaits.

“Did you ever truly love me, or was it all a ploy?”

His voice is so quiet, you almost thought you imagined it.

This was the last thing you expected to be confronted with following such a severe revelation. The ache in his usually self-assured voice, the utter rawness that threatens to rip your soul asunder; accumulates and weighs you down. You force yourself to reopen your eyes. To own up to your mistakes, no matter how little it’d do to mend the gaping chasm that’s formed between you.

The scathing intensity in his eyes has long cooled off. What it leaves behind is far more delicate than glass.

“I’ve always loved you dearly, nothing changes that,” you reply in truth. As a friend and someone you could always rely on. You hope to leave this part unspoken, but by how close he is, you doubt he’ll leave it at that.

“Romantically?” He probes further.

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Cyno—”

“If you’re going to lie or avoid the question, do us both a favor and remain silent.”

At this, you obediently purse your lips.

He relaxes his grip on you, his arms falling to his side, though you know better than to think that means you can walk away. Anxiety swarms inside your gut and clouds your other senses. The fear of what comes next always triumphs over the fear of the present. It’s this thought that urges you to risk speaking up again, though your better judgment advises against it.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

The question seemingly pains him almost as it does you. He’s normally so certain of himself, ready to respond at a moment’s notice. His convictions were a firm foundation that he built himself up from. It never mattered to him who one was, or their reasons for doing what they did, so long as they breached the Akademiya’s rules, they would be hunted down by him without reprieve.

That’s why you can hardly believe what he says next.

“No.”

“Then what,” you lick your lips, almost not wanting to finish the dreadful question, “Are you going to do with me?”

“That has yet to be determined.”

You gape at him, incredulous. His usual calm and calculating ways have returned. He’s regained control over his voice and body, betraying nothing that you can work with. Cyno finally breaks his attention away from you, taking the overflowing pot of water off the heat source, then grabbing the knife from earlier to finish chopping the vegetables. Your heart beats faster with each thump of the knife against the cutting board. His side profile is decidedly neutral, his eyes barely flickering to you like this was just any other regular evening. The hairs on the back of your neck stand and the more primal part of your brain urges you to do something, anything.

Subconsciously, you take a step toward the door, holding your breath while you do so.

“Don’t bother,” Cyno’s tone is flat and unimpressed. “No matter where you hide, or how far you run, if you take one step out of this house, I will track you down.”

You thought your resolve was firm — that you’d be prepared for anything, if it meant helping your family — but this is something you never dreamed of.

“There’s no need to look at me like that. I won’t hurt you or let any harm befall you. After all, you said it yourself. If it’s no good to ‘throw someone in a cell until they rot’, then surely, there must be a better alternative. I’m interested in seeing this novelty myself. So, [First], what recompense do you suggest for a broken heart? In my opinion, there is only one fair trade that exists for such a steep debt.”

He tilts his head, daring you to challenge him in any way. When you don’t, he continues, and oh, how you wish he didn’t.

“And that is for you to finally give me yours.”

#yandere cyno x reader #cyno x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #my stuff

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saintsenara · 3 months

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Thoughts on bellamione?

thank you very much for the asks, anons!

controversially, i think i could be induced to back bellamione... just not in the way it seems to commonly manifest itself.

by which i mean, it seems - like many hermione ships which don't feature ron - to be beholden to a version of hermione i find really dull [the hermione who's preternaturally brilliant and creative and sly and emotionally intelligent and popular and enviable and so on], and for this to be the case whether the fic is about bellatrix undergoing a redemption arc or hermione going dark.

what is interesting to me - however - is the fact that the canonical bellatrix and hermione have two shared traits which would provide a dynamic to any relationship which would be extremely fun to explore: absolutely incandescent loyalty, which leads to a tendency towards seeing what they want to see.

it's striking in canon that - in contrast to ron, who is more pragmatic, and harry, whose narrative role allows him to expect loyalty from others without reciprocity - hermione is an astonishingly loyal person. i genuinely think this is her most admirable trait - and i think it actually contributes far more to her role in the series than her intelligence - but it nonetheless comes with the flip-side that she can have a pretty hagrid-ish tendency towards blind faith, and that this makes her prone to wishful thinking.

[this is a girl, after all, who believes that she's overthrowing the institution of slavery at hogwarts because the hats she knits vanish overnight.]

this is at its most obvious [and complex] in deathly hallows - when she struggles to deal with the revelations about dumbledore raised by rita skeeter's book and so ends up just annoying harry by being unwilling to listen to the process of recontextualising dumbledore which he's undergoing - but it's present throughout the series in both her positive and negative traits.

extreme - but also, obviously, slightly wishful - loyalty is, of course, the bellatrix special. i'm struck by the similarities between hermione's response to the revelations about dumbledore and bellatrix's response in order of the phoenix to harry shouting about voldemort being a half-blood - and, in the same way that bellatrix is such a good death eater because she's fundamentally inflexible in her belief system, hermione's own fundamental inflexibility is the reason why i'm convinced that [no matter the common fandom belief that ron holds this murky crown] she'd make by far the best death eater of the trio.

a tendency for both members of a couple to see what they want to see - and to be remarkably resistant to any attempts to get them to see otherwise - is a really messy thing for fics to untangle, and i can see it working really compellingly in this case.

especially since hermione would undoubtedly want to convince herself that bellatrix was sorry, and bellatrix would want to convince herself that hermione didn't care that she wasn't...

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #bellamione #hermione granger #bellatrix lestrange

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johannestevans · 1 month

Text

Alien: Romulus: An Abortive Attempt at Homage to a Classic

Romulus started out promising, then proved itself an awful disappointment.

Review also on Cinemania.

The original Alien (1979) is far and away one of my favourite sci-fi films, one I’ve written about in the past, and I have a lot of affection for Aliens (1986) and even Alien 3 (1992), for all I feel it has its narrative flaws.

And then there are later additions to the original series; the less said about them, the better — later still, we see attempts at updating the series with sleek, shiny, lens-flared prequels and Michael Fassbender playing a mildly homophobic pastiche of a gay-coded eugenicist synth, these things replacing the original strong, complex writing in the original films.

I was honestly mildly into the premise of Alien: Romulus as a return to the original xenomorph rather than the Promethean nonsense, but that was all I knew about it going in — I went in with fresh eyes, having neither watched a trailer nor read any reviews.

In the first act of the film, there is an incredible return to the original aesthetics of Alien — without sacrificing the broader quality of set design, costuming, and film, there is an incredible recreation of not only the visuals originally displayed in 1979, but also the soundscape that accompanied those sets and mechanisms, and more than that, the haptics.

Every single button, dial, switch, and key in the original films looks as if you can reach out and touch it, and this incredible awareness of tactility is not only present in the machine and mechanic designs but in every other aspect of the set design. You can imagine how it might feel to touch everything in the film — feel the fuzz of static covering the screens in a sort of film, feel the trip of condensation on soaked engines, run your fingers over the texture of the walls, doors, grate floors, vents, even touch the aliens themselves. The slick, wet skin of the xenomorph, the slime slicking the segmented bodies of the facehuggers, the torn films of skin, the bubbling burn of their acidic blood — it all feels three-dimensional from the beginning, and that emphasis on the tactile and the textural is what makes the film so impactful.

It engages not just one’s emotional and mental state but all five of one’s senses, and in the beginning of Alien: Romulus, there is an attempt at recreating that physicality.

Not only are the original machines and their aesthetics replicated but there is a deep focus on tactility and certain sensory details in the mining colony our protagonist and her synth “brother” are trapped in — we see the gases and smokes and powders on the streets, see the machinery and all the trapped people working it, feel the cloying thickness of the polluted planet, see the near-literal sapping of colour from the whole of the planet by the miners.

The one tiny flicker of colour is, in fact, in the yellow canary in a modern cage, a fun little detail that emphasises how ancient the cruelty of the Weyland-Yutani Corporation is — just as each of the miners on the colony is trapped in an inescapable contract, owned by the company and trapped within its artificial economy, that yellow canary represents the cruelty of the old mining towns that the Weyland-Yutani Corporation effortlessly recreates even halfway into the twenty-second century.

The initial hooks in the narrative are planted here — we meet Rain as an orphan, and we see the complex familial dynamic between her and her adoptive brother, Andy. Andy is introduced from the out in the autistic-coded manner of any synthetic within the series, malfunctioning and vulnerable as a result, and Rain feels deeply about protecting him and protecting their adoptive relationship, and yet for all, Rain seems to be the primary caretaker between the two of them, Andy’s prime directive is to care for Rain.

Different Alien films have explored the varying levels of humanity for synths — I’ve spoken disparagingly about David and how he repeats certain homophobic tropes in sci-fi that go all the way back to the likes of Space Odyssey, but obviously, there’s the contrast between Ash as a villainous representative of the company’s violence — upholding its aggressive hierarchy and the violence within that — and the likes of Bishop, who is far less sexually driven if not arguably emasculated in the Aliens film, contrasting the hypermasculinity of the space marines; contrasting these again is the character of Annalee Call, who has the most agency and personality of the synths, and seeks to make use of that liberty.

One might think, introduced to Andy and his immediate familial connection to Rain, that the film intends to explore new dynamics for a synth — not only is Andy introduced alongside Andy as her adoptive brother, but he’s also the only Black member of the cast, and the only Black synth we’ve seen as a main character within the series, and one might think this would introduce more consideration as to his position as a synth as well.

The introduction of the rest of the party is rushed and, frankly, bizarre — while the central conceit of their reaching out to Rain makes sense, being as how they need Andy’s ability to speak to a Mother system on the decommissioned station in orbit above them, what is not firmly established is Rain’s connection to these people, or what their actual relationships with one another consist of.

Certain expository details are dropped in, that they’ve been distant from one another since Rain’s father died, but it’s evident that Rain does not know these people well for the most part, nor vice versa.

Throughout the film, attempts are made to emphasise the intimacy and closeness between Rain and Tyler, with them holding hands with one another and sharing significant looks or non-verbal communications, but the film doesn’t wish to expand this into a romantic connection nor expand on it as a sibling dynamic either.

The relationship has these hallmarks of being close or important, having these levels of friendship and physical intimacy, but there’s never any verbal acknowledgement of the closeness between Rain and Tyler, nor commentary made by the other characters, and it makes their interpersonal dynamics feel almost random.

This isn’t unique to Rain and Tyler, of course — all of these relationships seem similarly slapdash and thrown together, with no consideration as to their wider ramifications or the implications of those dynamics. Kay is pregnant because of “some guy”, and no further time or effort is given to fleshing out the whys and wherefores of her pregnancy; Bjorn obsessively seems to despise Andy and acts as if he’s never seen or met him before, but at the same time is a dick to every single other character, and no further details or complexity to his character background is added in; Navarro is an excellent pilot but for some reason is very attached to Bjorn, and their relationship seems a lot more highly sexed, but not… anything else.

These characters conduct themselves, in short, like they were AI-generated for someone’s worst nightmare of a YA novel — they’re in their twenties, but they act like young teenagers; they’re theoretically adults with complex dynamics with one another, but everything about their personalities seem vapid and shallowly written.

The only character who’s given any depth or apparent inner turmoil is Rain, and that makes less and less sense as time goes on. Rain feels a great deal of loyalty to and a need to protect Andy, and at the same time, Bjorn reveals that Rain was never going to bring him to the Yvara system, and Rain doesn’t argue the point or claim otherwise.

She seems overcome with guilt about this fact, and everybody argues she shouldn’t think much about any feelings Andy might have because he’s a synthetic — Andy himself seems to have no emotional response to this and immediately accepts this as in line with his prime directive.

Is this expanded on as the film goes on?

No, not remotely.

Andy’s software is apparently updated when he’s given the disc from Rook’s body, and this updates his physical mobility, repairs the damage to his verbal processor, seems to improve his concentration, overwrites his prime directive, and then…

Somehow, it goes away again as soon as the disc is removed? In another film, the introduction of the disc to Andy’s processing might have added some level of inner turmoil or inner battle for him, his broken processors engaging with the attempts to remotely update his AI and software, especially given that this is aboard a decommissioned station, but no such turmoil is introduced.

The disc temporarily makes Andy more useful, but while it introduces a risk that he is acting in “the best interests of the company” as opposed to protecting Rain, he still does protect Rain and her friends as best he can — the only sacrifice he makes is with Kay, who is already immediately under threat; Navarro goes from being infected to being dead almost immediately, and Bjorn is similarly very quickly doomed.

What’s the point of these sacrifices? What is their narrative purpose other than people dying on screen? What do they represent?

Why is Navarro’s death so immediate, rather than giving the xenomorph its usual extended incubation period? What does her death actually do, emotionally, to any of the other characters, bar Bjorn, who was already angry about his mother dying because of a synth? Does Bjorn now change his feelings and further blame Andy, or feel differently toward him?

No.

No one’s feelings about anything change in the course of the film whatsoever. We might as well be watching a puppet show.

Even later in the film, Rain approaches Andy after his original directives have been restored, and rather than saying, “Now, your prime directive is to look out for yourself,” she says, “your prime directive is to look out for us” — so what has she actually learned? She isn’t extending Andy any further humanity, self-sufficiency, or autonomy.

She’s paying lip service to the idea that Andy should consider the two of them as a unit, and we know that that’s only talk because scant minutes later, we see her abandon Andy on the floor whilst preserving her own life.

This is the core flaw of this film — it repeatedly attempts to call back to moments in the original Alien film, pays homage to certain lines, dynamics, or scenes, but doesn’t actually seem to understand what the point of any of those scenes for, and thus, in recreating them, makes a pastiche of a film without meaning.

I actually really appreciated the approach to the xenomorphs by the cast of characters initially — using the cryogenic fuel to freeze a facehugger’s tail and thus paralyse it was a creative and interesting solution to a problem. The thought behind it is slightly lateral, and for a film coming out fifty years after its original iteration, it makes complete sense that you would introduce new characters coming up with different solutions to the original problems in the franchise — and it’s all the more interesting to create new solutions that use resources available to the original cast.

This lateral thinking becomes somewhat less interesting — not to mention less sensible — when it comes to raising their ambient temperature in order to render themselves invisible to the facehuggers. It’s all very well liking the Alien videogames, but dropping yourself to the level of videogame logic doesn’t really play well for cinema.

Why introduce the temperature-controlled space suits minutes ago if not to use them for this solution? Why set the ambient temperature at their own body temp and then warn them not to sweat when, of course, they’re going to sweat in 28-degree heat, even were they not anxiously moving at moderate speed down a crowded corridor in the dark?

Why then continue on a pointless conversation on fucking loudspeaker whilst surrounded by facehuggers?

There’s nothing wrong with having flawed characters or even stupid characters in your film — in fact, having stupid characters can make a film very fun. God knows that in the original Alien, Brett and Parker being goofy as shit creates some of the best parts of the movie.

But your characters can’t just be randomly stupid and make random decisions. What is driving their thought processes and decision-making? Yes, in that scene, Tyler is extremely emotional about having been cut off from his sister… but why do Rain and Andy both just let his idiocy unfold? Is Rain okay with dying because this man doesn’t know how to silence his headset for a second and take this call in thirty seconds once they’re not surrounded by facehuggers? Does Andy think that allowing this sort of nonsense is somehow best for the company at this moment?

Every single character in this film is obscenely and strangely passive. None of them seem to make active decisions or considerations about anything in their lives — they only react to unfolding situations or respond to ways other characters act upon them, and they only act one step ahead and no further.

Case in point, all that business with the acidic blood — I appreciate that someone wanking behind the camera evidently thought this would look cool, but it’s just silly, and for what? So that blood can burn through the station in all directions instead of one? So that there can be a long, drawn-out scene where the infamously quick, intelligent, and physically resistant xenomorphs are gunned down like exploding cans on a farmyard fence?

So that characters can tremblingly quote iconic lines from the original film and not quite figure out how to make the delivery land in the context they’re now delivered?

And as for Kay’s pregnancy…

Introduced so early in the film, it would make sense for it to be the true crux of the film’s core philosophy, and yet Kay is lying down and having naps for half of the film. She has absolutely 0 character beyond being sad and a bit of a damsel for Rain and Tyler to each want to protect — Weyland-Yutani, throughout the Alien franchise, treat victims of the xenomorph as little more than incubators for their weapon, and here, our filmmakers treat Kay as little more than an incubator for their plot twist.

And as for that plot twist, it’s…

Well, again. It’s stupid.

The introduction of Rook as a synth is in poor taste — Ian Holm’s image is terribly animated, and the CGI used to animate the synth seems incredibly out of place compared to every other aspect of imagery in the film. At the very least, they might have attempted to reuse or recreate the original film’s animatronics and puppetry — Holm’s image was least poorly recreated when appearing on screens, and it might have been a better choice, if they were so insistent on profiting from the ghost of a man’s corpse, to at the very least have it be a version of Ash’s original personality uploaded to the computer as a special authority on the xenomorph and its species, rather than simply being another science officer wearing a parody of his face.

Attempts were made, I think, to replicate Ash’s manner of speaking in the original films — evidently, this was not proofread or workshopped in any way because, particularly in the third act of the film, every piece of Rook’s dialogue was bizarrely stunted and sounded rather more like an extra from the Big Bang Theory than a character in a serious piece of sci-fi.

Rook wants Kay to be injected with the xenomorph DNA, this being the best thing for the company (How? How is that the best way to preserve those samples? Why not wait for her to get to a station so she can be experimented on under controlled settings? If Rook is a different character to Ash and lacks his memories, then he doesn’t have Rook’s fetishistic focus on the advancement of the human species, so what motivates his actions?), and then her pregnancy advances rapidly and immediately, with an explosive birth.

It’s unfortunate that this film repeatedly rushes through scenes of violent birth and body modification because those are the core engines of fear and dread within the Alien films.

The xenomorph isn’t just a random scary monster — she is frightening because of how she can infect, take over, and use your body for her reproduction, and a greater horror is laid over this threat by the fact that Weyland-Yutani seeks to profit from this reproductive cycle and are willing to allow you to be sacrificed.

Birth itself, reproduction itself, is repeatedly under threat from authorities within Weyland-Yutani because attempts are being made to modify, streamline, and profit in the most extreme ways possible from the reproductive process, and especially given that these young people all exist under contracts that keep them trapped, one would think that Kay’s greatest fear would perhaps be that the foetus inside her might be or become the property of Weyland-Yutani.

Kay doesn’t seem aware of this or even consider it, even though it’s ultimately what happens in the mutation of her baby.

And as for that baby, again, what’s the point of it?

Cynically, the point is clear — they wanted a new, slightly different monster to try to profit from because they’ve stuffed their film full to the brim with dozens of xenomorphs and facehuggers and no longer fully understand how to create the atmosphere that makes those monsters and their ecosystem frightening, so the solution is a new monster!

It was really obvious that they were going to go for a breastfeeding thing with the monster’s approach of Kay, her horror whilst scrambling back, and its gaze on her chest, and I think it was a cop-out for them to go with the blood-sucking instead, but honestly, I suppose it was a surprise they even implied the lactation at all. It just seems like too original and too horrifying an idea to be embedded in such a mess of a film.

At every juncture, this film just feels undeveloped and unplanned — barring the atrocities with Ian Holm’s CGI puppetry, the film visually has a lot going for it.

While the facehuggers are not always super well-articulated, their movement was haunting and always quite threatening; the xenomorphs really had that wet feel that made them so disgusting and so visually iconic in the original films, and yet, again, for what purpose?

The camera repeatedly zooms in for shots of the xenomorphs screaming in the corridor, but not to serve the narrative or any sense of tension — as with virtually every other choice in the film, it feels utterly random.

Ultimately, I spent the last hour of watching this film in the cinema fidgeting and frustrated because nearly every scene felt strangely disconnected from the last, with little to no consideration as to the broader narrative or themes at play — I remember having a similar experience watching Cobweb (2023) a few years ago, which is a pastiche of various /r/NoSleep tropes that ultimately goes nowhere and has no idea or direction of its own.

Like so many remakes, this film tries desperately to copy the most iconic lines and moments from its source material but makes no attempt to update its ideas with new context, its own ideas, its own motivations, and the result is as hollow and empty as any film ever gets.

These kids want to leave their mining colony and strike out as autonomous by stealing not only equipment but also themselves out of their contracts, but as soon as they leave the planet, no talk or consideration is made of that fact.

A woman starts out pregnant in the movie and births a monster, which dies immediately after being born.

A Black synth is introduced as being of familial importance to the white MC, is dismissed as being just an object, is finally given permission to care about himself as well as her, and then is, immediately after, dismissed as just an object.

What was the point of any of it? What was the meaning of any of it? Where, in this entire film, was there a signal coherent and considered plotline that actually had any sort of thematic end goal?

I can’t believe a film we went to see on an afternoon whim could be so disappointing, but hey. At least they accomplished something after that mess.

#musings #alien #alien romulus #movie review

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