#its all so fucked on so many innumerable layers. feels so fucking impossible. feels like everyone hates me

[groupwest]

its all such bullshit

[bizarrebaby]

On The Feed | Mandalorian/Reader

Pairing: Mandalorian/Reader

Word count: 3k

Summary: Mando accidentally turns on the crest’s old security cameras. One of which happens to be in your bunk

Warnings: NSFT! Slight somno/voyeurism (mando watching you sleep), feelings

The first time the Mandalorian had turned on the long-forgotten surveillance system on the Razor Crest, and had seen you asleep in your bunk, it had been a complete accident that was rectified quickly. The cameras were from a time before he’d had the carbonite freezer installed, and he’d had no choice but to keep live quarries in the ship. A wayward brush of his hand against the console had turned them on, and just as quickly turned them off. But not before he’d already burned the image of you through the monitor into his mind. While the whole thing was over quickly, it was not nearly as easily forgotten.

The second time, he had told himself that it was out of concern. The planet you’d just spent the last week on had an inhospitable climate to say the least, and you’d had your fair share of scrapes as well. So he turned on the feed to see if you were ok-- that you weren’t sniffling or coughing, or secretly nursing some injury you hadn’t wanted him to concern himself with. While that wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the whole truth, either. To see you sound asleep was comforting, it stirred something deep within him that he couldn’t remember having ever felt before. 

The third time… was something he couldn’t explain without suffocating with guilt. He’d just come back from a long, difficult bounty hunt that kept him away from the crest for a few days. He’d missed you terribly, and had returned in the middle of the night, and unwilling to wake you. To disturb what little rest you got just because he had missed you seemed childish to him. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. Climbed up to the cockpit, locking the door behind him, sat in the pilot’s seat, and removed his helmet. He bit his glove and tugged it off, unbuckling his codpiece. He palmed the bulge in his pants gingerly, fuzzy imaginations of your hesitant touch at the fringes of his mind. 

He hissed as he released his erection to the cool, recycled air of the cockpit. He spat in his palm before wrapping a calloused hand around his cock, thumbing at the frenulum while he tried to pull scenarios from his memory. All he could come up with was you. Touches against his bare skin when you’d patched up an injury, the moaning you’d do as you stretched awake in the mornings, how peaceful you looked in those few moments he saw you before you woke up…

He remembers the camera feed. How, shameful as it had been, it had been so comforting to see you safe and sound. Looking so soft and pretty in your sleep clothes, curled in on yourself. The Mandalorian tries and fails to think with anything but the dick between his legs. The out-of-the-way switch is flicked once again. The rarely used technology took a few seconds to hum to life, an eternity considering Mando’s trained reflexes and the racing of his mind. But he chose not to go back. He couldn’t, not having come this far and being so close to satisfaction. He doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve to see you in such a vulnerable state, but he’s too weak-minded to deny himself. 

You’d once told the bounty hunter that while space was cold, the Razor Crest was colder. Being that he had always been in the layers of his flight suit, his armor, and his cape (not to mention that the cold had never bothered him), the Crest’s temperature controls favored lower temperatures. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with saving on energy to grant some small reprieve to the aging vessel. Nope. 

So there you lay, wrapped up in a quilt he’d gotten you in the market on some backwater planet. It was primarily dyed a warm peach color, a pigment extracted from a native insect. Perhaps it was some predilection from growing up in a Mandalorian covert, but Mando almost preferred that he couldn’t see much of you. Just the outline of your figure, where he could use his warm memories of you to color in the beautiful pieces of you that he cherished. 

He gripped his cock and began to stroke it slowly, thinking of how you’d touch him for the first time. Exploratory, almost hesitant. It wasn’t possible for him to fool himself completely, not with how large and calloused his hand was compared to yours, but every so often his imagination was vivid enough that he was able to dip into the dream. And when he did, the pleasure was something priceless.

In these fantasies, he was always without the helmet. The Mandalorian wouldn’t think of it in the moment, but after he came he would wonder why it was he chose to imagine things that way. Did he yearn for a freedom from the creed that gave him purpose? Or, perhaps worse, did he see you as the one he wanted to share his life with, until he went marching away? 

You shifted and moaned in your sleep, banishing some discomfort imperceptible to your traveling companion. He wondered if you dreamt at all, considering how inconsistent and uncomfortable your sleeping arrangements usually were. He hoped that you did dream, that there was an escape from the endlessness of space for you, if not for him. Selfishly, he hoped to be a part of those dreams. He wanted so badly to be the talisman against your nightmares.

He often imagined taking you in a flurry of mutual passion, on the Crest or away in some city, anywhere you would have him. He’d be rough, but you’d like it, and you’d be so, so good for him. But tonight, he felt so miserably lovesick and starved that he couldn’t imagine fucking you in any way but the gentlest way he could manage. He’d trained his entire life in combat, those who’d found death by his hands were innumerable. And yet, he’d use all of the delicacy at his disposal to coax you open for him. He’d put his mouth on you, and use his tongue to spell out all of the words he’d been too afraid to say through the vocoder.

Through the haze of his fantasies, he saw you smile in your sleep on the feed. Just a sweet tug at your lips, and he felt ruin upon him. Mando breathed like a wild beast as he fisted his cock, brows furrowed, eyes glued to the screen. His orgasm hit him like a freight train, cum splashing against his breastplate as he closed his eyes and saw you behind the lids. He cleaned himself up after coming down from his high, but kept the cameras on for a little longer. He thought that maybe if he saw you like this before he went to sleep himself, he could pretend you were sleeping next to him. Maybe that comfort would let his mind finally rest. Maybe he could dream. 

The Mandalorian had promised himself he wouldn’t do it again. But like so many promises he made to himself regarding you, it wasn’t kept. 

You told him precious little about life from your planet of origin. Of course, it was because he hadn’t asked. Even though he wanted to know everything there was to know about you. You once told him that where you came from, people believed that no one should ever be alone. Much the same as Mandalorians, they were very communal, and interpersonal support was of great importance. But there was an expression you taught him that he’d never encountered in the galaxy. He had a hard time remembering the word, but he remembered the meaning: to feel alone in one’s own body. 

The Mandalorian had been alone for much of his life. Travelling, keeping little companionship besides his covert, and he was convinced that things were best when he was alone. He remembered being confused by your expression, closer to when you’d first met. He mused that perhaps it was just a different way of expressing touch starvation, which he knew of intimately. 

He knew now that it was an entirely different feeling. You had wriggled into the gaps in his ribs, and taken little pieces of him every day. The breath from his lungs, the blood from his heart. And suddenly, when he had to be away from you, it didn’t feel right. 

Which brought him to another listless, sleepless night of him seeking his own pleasure in a desperate attempt to sate whatever beast had made home inside his body. The one that craved only you. 

When he turned on the cameras, he was met with your flushed face, eyebrows furrowed, as you moaned quietly and squirmed beneath your quilt. His first instinct was to ask himself what the hell could’ve been wrong with you? If you were sick or hurt, how could it have slipped by him? When did it—

Oh.

Oh.

You kicked the quilt off, revealing the hand buried in between your legs, your sleep shirt ridden up to the curve of your waist. The image of you curled around yourself made it painfully easy for him to imagine himself at your back, his hand replacing yours at the apex of your thighs. He felt sweat bead on his brow as he sat, paralyzed in the pilot’s chair; if what he’d been doing before was shameful, what he was doing now would have to be unforgivable. As if of its own free will, his arm reached to that far side of the console, and turned up the audio dial.

Unforgivable, indeed.

Your moans were muffled intentionally, and he felt a pang of unjustified irritation when he noticed. If he were there, he wouldn’t tolerate you quieting yourself. Not after he’d waited this long to experience every possible facet of your ecstasy. Something he knew himself undeserving of, but was past the point of caring. He’d become impossibly hard, and was about to divest himself of his flightsuit, when he caught something barely picked up by the audio censors.

“Mando--”

He was out of his chair and down the ladder before he even realized what he was doing. He paused just outside your bunk, unable to hear you through the steel door, but his reservations had long since been overridden by need. Your door swished open, and he caught just the barest hint of movement before you were entirely still. You weren’t deaf, and he hadn’t exactly moved silently in those few rushed moments. Your eyes nearly clenched closed, the quilt still misplaced, you pretended. But the Mandalorian had learned how to see through pretenders long ago.

Mando moved cautiously, carefully, as he slid himself into your cot just behind you. As if hoping to hide from a predator, you continued to lay still and try to breathe evenly. The Mandalorian rested a gloveless hand against your warm thigh, sliding it up slowly until he was able to slide a thumb beneath the elastic of your underwear, memorizing the feeling of your skin. 

“I know you’re not asleep, sweet girl. I know what you were doing,” he whispered through the modulator. His hand ventured to your front, and stroked over the obvious wet patch on your panties. “You were calling for me, mesh’la. And here I am.”

For less than a moment, he felt like he came to his senses, and worried that he was wrong, somehow. That his love-starved mind had invented those images of you, and similarly fabricated your calling his name. That these were all unwanted advances that would destroy the relationship you had. 

“Mando,” you exhaled, moving to grind against his hand. He shuddered slightly, but felt a certain pang of disappointment at the name you used. 

“Din,” he said, “my name is Din, sweet girl. Please use it,” he pleaded quietly against your neck.

“Din,” you called, pushing yourself against his front, and creating delicious friction against his hard cock through his flight suit. He used his free hand to hurriedly free himself, and you squeaked as his heavy cock landed against the small of your back, where your shirt had ridden up. You could feel the wet of his precum hot against your skin.

His once idle hand dove beneath your waistband, stroking his thick fingers along your slick. You could hear his pleased hum from under his helmet, too quiet for the vocoder to pick up.

“You’re so wet, cyar’ika, and so kriffing soft… Better than I ever imagined.”

You tried to pretend that the thought of him imagining this scenario didn’t completely undo you. The Mandalorian slowly slipped a finger in you, just teasingly up to the first knuckle, and you could feel him grind against your backside.

“Your pussy’s gripping my finger so tightly, I don’t know how I’ll fit. But I’m a patient man.”

Suddenly, you’re manhandled into a sitting position, between Din’s legs. His free hand slipped up your sleep shirt, groping a breast eagerly. He fingers you in earnest now, no longer feeling content in just exploring you. No, now he wanted to ruin you. Give you so much ecstasy that there wouldn’t be a doubt in your mind regarding how he felt about you.

He added another finger, stroking against your silken walls while his palm put delicious pressure against your clit. You choked out a pleasured cry, and he could feel his cock throb at the sound. You were already so worked up by the time he arrived, and all of the things he was saying were just so overwhelming, you were already close. The way your walls pulled at his fingers was mesmerizing to the Mandalorian as he drew you closer to orgasm. 

“Are you close, cyar’ika? K-keep making those noises—fuck, c-can you feel how hard I am for you? So pretty,” he cooed. “You’ll come for me, like a good girl, won’t you, cyare? C’mon, sweet girl, come, and then I’ll take you like you deserve.”

You whined, gasped, and shuddered when the white hot pleasure hit you, sending jolts up your spine as you pushed yourself further against the Mandalorian’s hand. You grabbed his thighs to ground yourself as he continued to rock his fingers into you gently, helping you ride through your climax. 

“Din,” you huffed, dreamily, “thank you.”

“Save your thanks for when I’m finished with you. I want you, cyare. Will you let me take you?”

“Please, Din. I wanna feel you.”

The simple, earnest desire—no, yearning, in your voice fanned at the hellish flames in his belly. You wanted him. Maybe as badly as he wanted you. His fingers withdrew from you, and he picked you up without fanfare, turning you to lay you on your back. He felt something in his heart break a little as he looked down at you through the filter of his helmet. First through the distortion of the camera feed, and now this. 

One day he would look you in the eyes as he fucked you, and it would be beautiful. 

The velvet head of his cock nudged at your clit while prodding at you, and Din smiled under his helmet at the sweet little noises it coaxed from you. He pushed into you, gently and incrementally, determined to make this moment last, as if this would never happen again. For all he knew, it might not. You might wake up tomorrow and condemn this all as a mistake, as a regret. But for this instant, he had you, and he would cherish you.

He choked out his groans as he felt the hug of your walls around him. He knew he wouldn’t have had this much trouble staving off his climax if he were with anyone but you. It was you doing this to him, it was as if he could feel the thrum of your heartbeat through the silk of your cunt, and it utterly undid him to think of your heart beating as hard as his.

Din thrusted slowly, deeply, gentle yet punctuated. Words of affection, praise, and endearment fell from his mouth freely now, when usually coaxing conversation from him was akin to pulling teeth.

“Sweet girl, fuck-- My sweet girl… ngh, even if just for tonight.”

Your eyes widened momentarily, insecurity behind them as your brows furrowed. Your eyes drifted from his visor as you continued to quietly pant and mewl with his thrusts.

“I… I want to be yours after tonight, Din. Please?”

For a moment you wondered if you’d said the wrong thing. Ruined it all, broken whatever spell he’d been under, the one that seemed to make him so suddenly and miraculously interested in you the same way you were in him. Then, his thrusts turned punishing, and he shoved his hand between your bodies to knead at your clit with his thumb.

“Fuck, cyare, you can’t just say things like that and expect m-me to last,” he gasped, wholly unprepared for such a confession.

Your cunt squeezed him, as if you’d had his heart in your hands, and you were unable to contain the longing look that made itself known on your face. He couldn’t take it. Din stilled as he came, streaking your insides in ropes of his hot cum, a deep growl leaving him as he shook with the intensity of it. 

He continued to thrust into you with his softening and oversensitive cock, stroking your clit with renewed vigor.

“Come on, mesh’la, I wanna feel you come on my cock, fucking soak me--”

You keened, a broken cry leaving you, and Din felt your walls milk him so hard it almost hurt with his sensitivity as you gushed around him. He finally collapsed on you, his weight resting heavy on you for a moment before he rolled over, pulling you along to rest on him. You both huffed quietly, the only sound aside from the unending hum of the systems of the crest, which you were suddenly able to perceive again.

“For as long as you’ll have me.” He said.

“What?”

“You… you said you wanted to be mine. After tonight,” he paused to collect his thoughts, a struggle as he still waded in post-orgasmic haze. “Be mine. And I’ll be yours. For as long as you’ll have me, cyare.”

You’re stunned into silence for a moment, before you hoist yourself up, looking down at him.

You lean your forehead against his helmet.

Taglist (this is the first time I’ve done one of these! Sorry if I fuck it up lol)

@auty-ren @gallowsjoker

[keeroo92]

Be My Nightmare Ch15

Run

The usual blood/gore warnings apply, plus mentions of alcoholism and *gasp* sex.

Word Count - 5,950

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

________

~~~~Reader~~~~

Ugh… why is it so hot in here?

You blinked your eyes and groaned, licking your dry lips as a pounding headache announced its presence. The familiar weight of blankets pressed upon your body, but something wasn’t right. The texture was off, like a layer was missing…

What happened to my shirt?

For that matter, why did your mouth taste like salt?   

Oh shit.

The memories of the night prior flooded your mind, hazy and confused but clear enough to explain the flavor on your lips. Dinner, whiskey and drinking games, and… 

Oh SHIT.

Bedding rustled as you rolled over with a grimace, expecting to find a certain murderous artist by your side. Instead, you found only empty space; the other side of the bed didn’t appear to have been disturbed all night. Was that a good sign, or a bad one?

It didn’t matter. First order of business was getting coffee and some ibuprofen. Everything else would have to wait.

You took your time clambering out of bed, muttering expletives with each motion. The neutral walls and unobtrusive decor did little to ease the urge to vomit, but it was the stairs that made you pause, remembering how you struggled with them last night. 

Just take it slow. One step at a time.

By the time you reached the last step, your hands were screaming to release the railing. Even so, you waited a moment to regain your balance before acquiescing. 

Your tired eyes scanned the familiar shapes of your apartment, searching for a head of tousled ebony locks. He couldn’t have left, could he? Where would he go? Was he out killing someone right this very moment? 

You couldn’t discount the possibility as you found no trace of the man. 

Goddamnit, V! After everything I’ve done to cover your ass…

How could he be so stupid?! If anyone saw him and recognized him, he’d end up right back in police custody! It didn’t make any sense to take the risk, what the hell was he thinking?

You pulled out your phone and opened your email, tapping at the painfully bright screen until you found what you were looking for. It was a long shot, but you were desperate. It might already be too late, you might just make everything worse, but at this point you were screwed anyway.

  You pursed your lips and waited, eyes locked on the screen as if you could make him answer through sheer force of will. Every second he failed to respond heightened your anxiety, innumerable disastrous scenarios playing like a sick film in your imagination. Not since junior high had you been so anxious to hear from someone. Damn him!

Releasing a huff of annoyance, you forced yourself to set the phone down and make coffee. The pounding of your headache wasn’t going to fade unless you took action, and you needed to be able to focus and think clearly. Getting emotional helped nobody. 

As you readied the coffee machine, ears perked in case your phone alerted you to a response, you noticed something odd. The dishes from last night’s dinner were clean, sitting on the drying rack as if you’d scrubbed them in your sleep. 

The madman had cleaned up.

But something was missing.

He stole my sharpest knife. Fuck.

Your head swam and sweat dotted your palms. He might have taken it just as a precaution, but more likely he was out making another art piece. What message was he crafting? No doubt you’d find out sooner or later; the police would probably be in touch once the scene was discovered. At least he did his work in private areas, that lessened the chance he’d be caught in the act. 

But still.

You sighed, hoping against hope that he was safe as you poured a cup of dark roast and took a sip. Bitter and strong, just how you liked it. A dose of ibuprofen accompanied the next gulp. 

I’m not an idiot teenager. Sitting here and waiting won’t make a difference.

Even so, a moment later you checked your phone. Still no response. Damn him!

  Part of you wanted to scream and throw the slim device against the wall. Another part wished for nothing more than a good cry. A whirlwind of emotions, swirling like a tempest at sea, leaving you to battle the waves or drown beneath them.

What if he has another episode? There’s no one there to help him and make sure he’s okay.

Going catatonic at the wrong time may lead to his death. Crossing the street, driving a car, even stalking his prey could leave him exposed and at risk. Heaven forbid it happened in the middle of his creative process; his victim would have the perfect chance to turn the tables and kill him. 

But what could you do to prevent it? How could you keep him safe?

Not to mention the fact that maybe he wouldn’t welcome your aid. It was possible he left with no intention of returning, abandoning you like all the rest. All you’d have to remind you of his presence would be the sketches from his sessions and the absence of your knife. It’d be like he never existed at all, the puzzle of his mind left unsolved.

A tight ball of grief twisted your heart, pins pricking at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to swallow the lump in your throat. After all the people who’d turned their back on you, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the artist did the same. What did you have to offer him, anyway? You should’ve expected it, been ready for it. Why did it always hurt so damned much?

I should just turn myself in… what’s the point anymore? I can’t fix myself; I’m going to be broken forever. No one would miss me anyway.

The thought sent a dagger into your chest, the blade twisting and shredding the last remnants of hope you held. What a stupid thing, to hope. It only brought more pain. Better to accept things the way they were than waste time striving for something better.

Sniffling quietly, you stepped away from the kitchen to part the curtains and grimace at the bright street below, just in case you could spot him. The area you lived in wasn’t crowded; the peace and seclusion brought you comfort in the past. Today, it only hammered home how very alone you were. 

Another glance at your phone. Still nothing. 

He’s gone.

Your shoulders curled inward as a single, strangled sob broke free. Blinking back pointless tears, you swallowed and released a shaky breath, fighting to remain in control. Old habits died hard, and crying wasn’t something you’d allowed yourself to indulge in for many years. Even as you were dying inside, you refused to let the agony show. 

Stop it, Y/N. Think about something else, pull yourself together.

A dark sedan caught your teary eyes. Unfamiliar and parked a few spaces down from your own old beater of a car, it seemed out of place somehow. Like it didn’t belong; an outlier. You pursed your lips and looked closer, letting the puzzle of its presence distract you from your aching soul. Why did it stand out so much?

It’s too clean.

Indeed, the vehicle shone with its lack of filth. In a city with a grand total of two car washes, a clean car was a rare sight. Whoever drove it must have an interesting list of priorities. 

Wait… it couldn’t be.

Your focus narrowed on the license plate. From that distance, it wasn’t easy to tell, but the spacing of the digits left a strange void. Right where the three letters that mark all undercover law enforcement vehicles could be found. XMT.

Exempt. 

“You gotta be shitting me,” you murmured, stunned. Cops. Here, at your home.

I’m under police surveillance. 

You stumbled back from the window, heart racing. Did they already have V in custody? Had he sold you out? What the hell made the cops think you merited surveillance? You’d been so careful to play along, something must have happened for them to suddenly be paying attention to you.

Not that they were wrong.

You couldn’t help but release a peal of manic laughter. This was your life now, watched by the authorities and worrying about the well-being of a man who left you behind. Pitiful. 

I can’t do this, I just can’t.

V was right; you’d been hiding for decades. Concealing your flaws as best you could in the hope that you could one day heal them. Pretending to be all right when you were anything but. You’d grown so accustomed to the mask you didn’t even know what was behind it anymore. 

Your body hit the counter, the sturdy structure supporting your spine as you slid to the floor. Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around your knees and curled inwards, cocooning yourself as best you could. 

With your life in the state it was in, what was the point of it all? Coming back from this disaster would be near impossible. Just thinking about it made your legs feel like lead. An uphill battle to be fought alone was all that awaited you in the weeks to come. Who in their right mind would come to your aid? No; you had no allies. Others couldn’t be trusted, anyway.

V had abandoned you. Kotomi betrayed you, and Malphas… Malphas simply couldn’t be bothered. He hadn’t reached out a single time since your suspension. He obviously didn’t care about you, and he was far too intelligent not to know what really happened on the day of the fire. No, he knew. He just thought Kotomi was more worthy of his protection than you were.

And those were just the people who’d walked away in the last month and a half.

A humorless laugh split your lips. Maybe your dad was right all along. 

Once they get what they want, the people I care about will forget I ever existed. Caring only brings pain.

~~~~V~~~~

Elegant fingers clutched a paper bag in a tight grip, green eyes scanning the block for any sign of danger. He didn’t think there was any reason to fear, but one could never be too careful. The knife in his pocket comforted his nerves as he crossed the last intersection and peered into the parking lot or your apartment complex.

Odd. I don’t recall that car.

His errand hadn’t taken long, perhaps twenty minutes if he were being generous. All his friends begged him to stay put, but their warnings fell on deaf ears. You really didn’t stock your kitchen well, and after last night you’d need a solid breakfast.

Beanie pulled tight against his scalp, V longed to tear it off and scratch away the irritation it brought. He’d tucked his locks within it and borrowed a hoodie from your closet to hide his tattoos. So far, it had been enough to disguise him, but this newcomer made him pause.

Tinted windows. Shadowy outlines of two figures in the front. The vehicle was parked in the ideal spot to watch the front door of the building; it would be impossible to enter without being seen. While he couldn’t be sure who occupied the car, it simply wasn’t worth the risk.

The artist withdrew, traversing the sidewalk beside your building and thanking his lucky stars for the shrubbery that hid him from view. An urge to look over his shoulder swept through his mind, but he ignored it. If someone was watching, it would only make him seem more suspicious. Better to appear unconcerned, as if he belonged here.

If one cannot avoid being seen, one can still avoid standing out.

From what he recalled, your apartment was in the south east corner, two floors up. With only one entrance on ground level, he'd need to get creative to find a way back to you. 

He smirked. Creativity wasn’t something he struggled with.

Within moments he found salvation; an iron wrought fire escape firmly anchored on the eastern wall. He climbed it quickly. Surely you were awake by now, and hopefully coherent enough to let him in. If not, he could settle in and wait. 

Yet through the gauzy curtains covering your window, he spotted you. Curled up on the floor in the kitchen, head bowed. Likely due to the hangover you were sure to be suffering from. Perhaps he should’ve stopped you sooner last night. He tapped the glass with his free hand.

The look on your face as you lifted your head stopped his breath. Vacant eyes, tear tracks on your cheeks on either side of your red and runny nose. It was a look he knew intimately, one of grief and mourning. He’d seen it on his own features for many months after Nero’s passing.

Whatever happened to summon such an expression of sorrow would meet the end of his blade. Quickly.

He tapped the glass again, rewarded when your face shifted to recognition. Those delectable fingers he so adored tasting wiped away tears as you came to let him in. 

“Where were you?” you asked the moment he was inside. “Is that my sweater?”

This is a waste of time. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.

The artist clenched his hands and growled. “Stay out of it.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his package on the nearby countertop. “Not you; Vergil was being rude.”

You sniffled, dewy eyed and with fidgeting hands . “Right. S- so, where did you go?”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s wrong?”

The blade in his pocket called to him, urging him to wield it against your foes. He would not allow anything to interfere with his plans for you, not when you were making such excellent progress. 

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” you said dismissively. “What’s in the bag?”

It was obvious you were not fine, but pressing the issue might do more harm than good. Better to distract you and ask again later, when you were calm. “Here, let me show you.”

Your eyes went wide as he unwrapped the chunk of meat. Blood dripped from the tissue he’d used to wrap it and beautifully soaked the counter with his favorite shade of crimson. If only he had a camera handy…

“That’s not… human, is it?” 

Griffon’s raucous laughter filled his mind, but V only smirked. “Bovine, actually.”

“Ohthankgod…”

At that, he did chuckle. While the human form made a splendid canvas, it didn’t appeal to him as a meal. He had his limits. “I thought I could make you breakfast.”

As if your strings had been cut, you fell into one of the chairs by the counter and stared at him incredulously. “Breakfast… you risked being seen… to make me breakfast.”

He scoffed and reached for a frying pan, flicking the stovetop on with his free hand. “Indeed, though I wouldn’t call it a risk. I wore a disguise.”

You pursed your lips as he seasoned the meat. “You mean my bright orange volleyball sweater? Yeah, you are the epitome of discretion.”

An undercurrent of irritation spoiled your teasing statement. Shadow growled her displeasure and V clenched his jaw. Here he was trying to do something thoughtful and kind, and you only got upset with him. Vergil would surely tease him about it later. Wonderful.

“Sorry. I just... “ you murmured. “I just didn’t know if you were coming back, and-”

“And you think so little of me that you imagined I’d abandoned you?” he snapped, setting aside the spatula and turning to face you. Breakfast could wait. 

You refused to meet his eyes, a stony expression locked in place like a barrier against his annoyance. “Why not? Everyone else has.”

There, she gave you the perfect opening. Leave now and don’t look back.

Yeah, even I say it’s bail time. Gotta draw the line somewhere, pal.

His patience shattered. The artist slammed his palms on the counter with an animalistic snarl, barely noticing how you jumped. “ENOUGH! My decision is made and I will not hear any further protests! Aid me or be silent, all of you!” he roared.

For several seconds, the only sound in your spacious apartment was his panting breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart pounding in preparation to do battle, yet it seemed his friends would abide. For now.

He released a long sigh and tore the accursed beanie from his scalp, ruffling his hair to relieve the itchiness. Your sweater wasn’t far behind. A twitch of his slim wrist and the stove was off, waiting until the mood befitted a meal. 

“I must apologize. My friends are quite insistent at times, but in this they cannot sway me,” he began, circling the counter to sit beside you. He peeked through his dark hair to meet your eyes, still wary but warming with each word he spoke. “Forgive my boldness, but I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffled and offered a subdued smile. “Leave a damned note next time, okay?”

He hummed his agreement and offered his palm. “Deal. Now, come help me with breakfast.”

~~~~Reader~~~~

You spent the next half hour watching V orchestrate a feast. He moved like a dancer through the kitchen, practiced hands flying as he flipped a massive omelet and expertly seared meat. A content smile graced his full lips as he cooked; the man was truly at his happiest when being creative. 

The best help you could offer was staying out of his way.

Not to say he let you sit back and idly watch; not at all. He had you chop vegetables and set the table, taking the chance to touch your shoulder or waist when you were close enough. It was peaceful, like an island in the tempest raging around you. If only things could be like this every day.

But you were a realist, and eventually you couldn’t keep from shattering the illusion.

“So I take it you saw the cops outside? That’s why you took the fire escape, right?”

V frowned as he dished up your half of the omelet. “I wasn’t sure they were cops, but caution seemed prudent.”

You sighed and carried the very full plates to the table, silverware and napkins already prepared. The savory scent of steak brought a flood to your mouth as you took your seat. “Yeah, I think I’m under surveillance.”

The sting of it still hurt. Tony and Nico seemed like nice people, but one of them must have suspicions. It was only a matter of time before the house of cards came tumbling down. All it would take was a moment of inattention, V walking by a window at the wrong moment or getting spotted on his way back inside; it was foolish to imagine he wouldn’t go out again.

So. Options.

“I think our best play is for me to leave. Since they’re watching me, they should follow. Then, you can leave and find somewhere else to lay low.”

The artist smirked, taking a bite of fluffy eggs. “I could just dispose of the issue.”

You shook your head and cut off a chunk of meat, moaning quietly at the exquisite flavor. “No, this looks above board. They’d just send more cops and get more suspicious.”

Not to mention all the other reasons murder isn’t the right way to solve your problems...

Before he could reply, a sharp knock on the door stole your attention. Your eyes and V’s went wide in unison, though his hand hovered by his pocket far too quickly for your liking. He still hadn’t returned your knife…

“Squirt, it’s me! I know you’re home, saw your car.”

Ice filled your veins. He wouldn’t leave without getting whatever he came for, he never did. Damnit, of all the times he could've picked to randomly show up! Was he drunk? What the fuck did he want? You sighed.

“It’s my father. Take your plate and go upstairs. I’ll get him to leave as soon as I can.”

The artist’s eyes flashed. “The drinker?”

“Yes, just go! He can’t find out you’re here.”

His nostrils flared, jaw tight. His posture reminded you forcefully that he wasn’t just some guy you had over for breakfast; this was a serial killer with untold amounts of blood on his hands. A man mentally unstable enough to be sent to a psychiatric hospital, with frequent auditory and occasional visual hallucinations. “Unpredictable and dangerous” was putting it mildly.

Though, some problems can be solved with murder.

“Just say the word, you’ll never have to deal with him again.”

Instead of answering him, you stood and headed for the door. Following your instructions at last, V ascended the stairs with a frown. He’d just have to deal with it, it’s not like these were normal circumstances.

With your best false smile in place, you opened the door. “Hi dad. What are you doing here?”

Greasy brown hair covered a growing bald patch on his scalp. A beer gut bulged out from his flannel tee, a stench of Miller radiating from him like cheap drugstore cologne. A few days worth of stubble cast a shadow on his jaw.

At least he’s not covered in vomit.

“Heya, squirt! You gonna invite me in?”

Do I have a choice?

“Yeah, of course. Come in.”

You made it a point to not socialize with him unless he initiated. There was too much bad blood, too many tainted memories and half-hearted apologies. He was beyond forgiveness and you were done trying to build a bridge when he insisted on burning it down. The most you’d grant him was civility, if only to avoid outright conflict. 

“Nice place. Kinda too perfect, though.”

Ten seconds in, and already he’d insulted you. Not a new record, but close. “I like it this way. Uh, what… what are you doing here?”

He shot you a lopsided grin, displaying his yellowed teeth. “Can’t a father visit his genius daughter? C’mon, let’s catch up. You got anything to drink?”

Not after last night, no.

But you let him see for himself. He wouldn’t take your word for it if you tried, anyway. Like many alcoholics, he always believed himself to be the victim of persecution. As if it excused his rotten behavior. 

“Nothing?” he said at last, closing the final cupboard. “Damn, you’re lame…”

“S- sorry. Maybe we can go out instead?”

It set your teeth on edge to hear yourself stutter. In high school, it’d been the main reason you got picked on, along with your father’s history. It wasn’t easy to escape the blight of sharing blood with the man. Just one night, a mere handful of hours to keep your secrets hidden. You could tolerate him that long, surely.

“Nah, how about you just run to the store and get me something like a good girl?” 

Don’t you call me that. Don’t you dare call me that.

You bit your tongue. Emotions were just a chemical reaction; you were in control. He just stimulated the neurons that brought this feeling on, it wasn’t like he had any actual power over you. Not anymore. 

“Look, this, uh, this isn’t really a good time for me. Can we catch up later this week?” you replied. A mask of neutrality paralyzed your face, but inside you were screaming.

Get out! Get out of my home, this place is mine and I won’t let you ruin it! Haven’t you done enough damage?

You knew better than to let the words take shape as your father settled into your couch, propping his legs up and sighing happily. “Truth is, I got evicted. Got nowhere else to go, so figured I’d stay with you until I get back on my feet. Hell, you could even help me get going like you used to.”

Never had V’s method of solving problems appealed to you more. It didn’t matter how much you wanted him to leave - you would never agree to be his accomplice again. “What about a hotel? My couch isn’t that comfortable.”

He chuckled, gesturing dismissively as if your words held no weight. “S’fine, I’ll take the bed. Oh, is that steak? Awesome!”

1000… 993… 986…

The sound of his chewing and happy moans barely preceded V’s footsteps. 

No, no, nonono! What are you doing?! You idiot!

“Good evening,” the artist began, approaching your father’s meat-stuffed face with his own plate in hand. Though his expression was still, sparks of rage flickered in his green depths and his hand twitched toward his pocket. As if the situation wasn’t bad enough already…

“Uh, hi? Who are you?”

One metaphorically bloodstained hand extended over the table to shake the equally morally questionable hand of your kin. “You can call me V.”

“Heh. V. Weird name. You sleeping with my daughter?”

Someone please just kill me. I’m so fucking done.

It wasn’t embarrassment that made you purse your lips as V sat down. It was the knowledge of what would inevitably come out of your father’s lips and the potentially atomic reaction it would elicit from V. 

“More or less,” replied the artist, taking a bite of his own steak.

Your father glanced at you and smirked, as if to say ‘watch this’. A sinkhole opened in your stomach as he licked his lips. This was it, train wreck in five, four, three...

“You sure you want her? She’s kinda… well... “ his voice dropped. “She’s kinda nuts.”

A flash of silver, copper staining the air as fresh blood soaked your table. Maniacal laughter and a twisted sense of relief, that at least you’d never have to hear his voice again, endure his insults or manipulations…

That was what you expected.

You did not expect V to laugh and wave you over, wrapping an arm around your waist possessively the moment you were close enough. You did not expect him to smile at you fondly and never would you have imagined his response. 

“I know. That’s why I love her.”

Intricately tattooed fingers brought your hand to the artist’s lips for a kiss. You barely made it to the chair beside him before your legs refused to support you. Love… Is that what he called it? It had to be an act, some scheme to throw off your father. 

He can’t be serious.

“You got some fucking shitty taste in women, then, my friend. The last guy she was with wound up dead, the one before that still can’t walk properly.”

Beneath the table, V’s hand clenched yours in a vice-like grip. His wrist kept twitching, closer to his pocket where your knife still resided. It took all your strength to pull him back.

“Dad, knock it off. Let’s get you a hotel room, we can talk tomorrow.”

He took another bite and grinned. “Whasamatter? Don’t want me talking to your newest boy-toy?”

V’s grip tightened. You winced but refused to pull away, lest he lose control. How long had it been since he killed? Most killers had a pattern, a time frame. If he were overdue, restraining it would be even more difficult. 

Defuse, deflect, de-escalate.

An obviously fake laugh found its way past your lips. “Aw, don’t worry. I’ll always be a daddy’s girl.”

The source for half of your genetic material burped and polished off the last bite of steak, chewing open-jawed as if trying to catch flies. “Good girl,” he said.

That time, it was your hand that twitched closer to the blade.

By all rights, you knew he was toying with you. Playing with your fucked-up head and sending it spinning, like a child’s top or a carousel. It was his standard opening move; destroy any existing emotional framework and get you to revert to being his “good girl”. Burn you to ash so he could rebuild you however he pleased. Remind you of how powerless you were and how easily he could ruin everything you built.

Angry tears prickled at your eyes, a baseball blooming into existence where your vocal cords were supposed to be. If you clenched your teeth any harder, you’d crack a molar. Every ounce of self-control and restraint went into withholding a scream.

~~~~V~~~~

Your father was perhaps the most magnificent canvas he’d ever seen. The sheer volume of ways he wanted to carve the man into pieces outnumbered the entirety of his portfolio. A slice here, a stab there, how delicious would it be to make the man eat his own eyeballs? His steaming entrails spilling onto the floor, his still-beating heart visible through the hole artistically positioned across his ribcage; the ideas refused to slow.

But you’d told him long ago not to harm the bastard. 

Not yet...

“Let’s get the dishes started and give your father a moment to settle in, hmm?” V commented. 

“Works for me. Where’s the remote, squirt?”

“Coffee table,” you ground out. 

The instant the abominable man turned away, he pulled you to your feet and grabbed a dish. How would your father’s spleen look on a plate? Or perhaps his cock? The artist hummed; that was an idea worth revisiting.

The kitchen was barely far enough to be considered out of earshot, but it would have to suffice. He licked his lips and asked the first question that came to mind. “Why do you let him speak to you like that?”

A muscle in your cheek clenched as you released his palm, eyes narrowed into a ferocious glare. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Lithe fingers handed you a plate. “I strongly disagree.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Water spewed from the faucet and you commenced scrubbing, using more force than he imagined was required. He handed you the next plate. A knife was next, but he hesitated. It fit so well in his fingers, like it was calling his name…

Do it. Stab her, kill them both and leave. Enough foolishness.

He dropped the knife.

His words still echoed in his mind. “That’s why I love her.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie, but was it the truth? Why else did the monstrosity in the living room still breathe? Why else would he hesitate to slice the fool’s throat open and dance in the gushing fluid? 

Yeesh, look what she’s turned you into, Van Gogh. This is just pathetic.

“Stop it,” he muttered, handing you the dropped knife as quickly as possible. The warmth and comfort it brought moments ago was but a memory. Only cold steel remained, foreign and obscene to his grip.

“Stop what?”

Kill her. She is nothing, a plaything you’ve outgrown. You’re free now, she is unnecessary. 

He shook his head. Wide jade eyes searched for something safe to view. A cutting board? Perfect for slicing your thighs open. Kitchen shears? Excellent choice for severing tendons. A wine glass - the perfect container to hold your detached fingers.

Just do it, you’ll feel better. Trust us, have we ever led you wrong?

“V? What’s wrong?” 

His skull was splitting, too many voices all at once and why wouldn’t they just shut up? Yours was the one life he wished to preserve, why did his friends want to end it? Far away, he heard your voice calling his name, but it was like you were a ghost calling from beyond the veil. 

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her…

No!

Dainty hands wrapped around his torso, a warm voice telling him to breathe. He latched on with all he had, desperate to let those arms comfort him and bring him back to himself. 

Kill her.

Agony. 

Wave after wave of unbearable pain, rolling over him with no end in sight. Like a boulder on a beach, eventually he would wear away into nothingness. He was powerless against the inferno boiling his blood and the spikes digging into his gut. 

Kill her.

He lacked the strength to stand and fell to his knees, groaning as he struggled to resist the shining blade glittering in the dishwasher. It would be so easy to end his suffering, all he had to do was take the handle and plunge it into your body. He could do it over and over until nothing remained but holes for him to fuck. To feel you wrapped around him was a persistent fantasy, how divine would it be to create caverns only he would ever enjoy?

“NO!”

The artist lurched to his feet and ran, sprinting to the exit as fast as his long stride would carry him. It didn’t matter that he had no sweater and no beanie, it didn’t matter that the police were right outside, he didn’t care that he would never again taste freedom. 

All that mattered was putting distance between himself and you.

~~~~Reader~~~~

You stood in stunned silence as the door swung shut behind V’s departing figure. The sink still sprayed water, ricocheting off a forgotten plate to douse the counter and your stomach but it didn’t matter. 

The wanted murderer you’d been giving shelter was gone. Running outside in full view of the police watching you.

Your life was over.

“Fuck…”

Somehow, throughout this whole mess you’d believed you could put your life back together. There was always a path back, always a way to move forward. It wouldn’t be easy, nor quick, but it was still possible.

V had just drenched that chance with gasoline and tossed a lit match on it.

It happened so fast; your hands still hovered where you’d been trying to hold him. Leftover heat from his body warmed the air and his scent lingered in your nostrils like a memory. 

“Where’d that loser go? You scare him off?”

Your shell-shocked gaze turned to your father. Everything was fine before he showed up. Did he even know what he’d done? Did he care? “He’s… he’s gone.”

“Good riddance, I say. Now it’s just me and you, like old times.”

Old times…

There was still hope. Maybe the cops were gone, maybe V managed to slip past them. You could still salvage this. You had to at least try.

But… how?

You closed your eyes, mind racing. There were two obstacles you had to deal with; the cops, and your father. Operating on the assumption that all was not lost meant that the cops could be ignored for now. If they were still a factor, it was a moot point.

That left your father.

The man who took less than ten seconds to insult you when he arrived.

The man who coerced you into counting cards as a child.

The man who’d run over a kid in your third grade class.

The man who demanded everything and gave nothing back.

The man who would sell you out as soon as he’d blink.

The old you would have backed down and meekly done as he told you. Gone back to pretending you were okay and that you felt things the same way as everyone else. Accepted his praise and craved more, never imagining there was a different life out there for you. 

I can’t- what do I do? What would V do?

You already knew the answer. He’d do what was necessary. The artist would never pretend, he’d tear the mask from his face and scream his defiance to the world. No matter the cost, he would not shy away from it.

No more hiding.

A trembling hand reached into the soapy water and grasped the same blade V stole just hours ago. How fitting, to use it for this. 

It’s time to take action.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

[uncleruin]

Episode 2: The Court of the Crimson King

Day turned into night, as per usual, and the desert wind became cold and biting. Ruin had a tattered jacket, several decades beyond its original coloring, but too thin to make much difference. His jeans were torn and worn through at the knees and the ass, so pretty much only around for modesty at this point, not utility. They’d been sewn up and patched too many times to count, only to fall apart again. Kind of like my life, he thought. Work hard to get somewhere just to fall back down, fight your way back up just to have the fucking world end on you. That was surprising enough he forgot about the cold for a minute. It’d been a long, long time since he’d felt bitter about the life he’d had before whatever it was had fucked things up so spectacularly and irrevocably. Maybe, he thought, I’m actually worried I’m going to lose what life I have left. No, not lose - have it taken from me. Uncle Ruin leaned his head back against the rear wall of the cab and listened to the tread of the wheels on the broken macadam, seeing the past in the blackness between the stars.

Ruin’s melancholic reveries were interrupted some time later by a deep bass reverberation drifting over his head from somewhere in front of and above the rig’s cab.

“Hey, Pissant,” Ruin directed at the boy. “What’s that racket signify?”

Nitros, who had been standing up on a spare tire, with his torso leaning over the rig’s roof, turned to look down. “That’s the war horns. They sound to tell the whole Sanctuary a war party’s come back.”

“Not coming back from much of a fight, though, are you? You’re just making up a parade for a tired old man.” Ruin chuckled bitterly and shook his head. “You see it time and again with weak rulers, that creating victories where there ain’t any.” At this, the Pissant stared thoughtfully for a moment before turning his attention back to their destination.

The sound of the trundling vehicles distorted and echoed as they rushed into an opening, but an opening into what couldn’t be said. Ruin couldn’t see, but could could feel, walls going by. The rushing wind made his ears pop, but suddenly they were in the open again and Ruin could see they had passed through a tunnel in a mighty curtain wall, a vast shadow outlined by star light. The rig slowed as it passed by decrepit lean-tos and their emaciated residents, dead eyes gazing at the ongoing queue of rusty, armored vehicles.

The mighty wheels ground to a halt. Berzerk McFierce swung out of the warrig, then hopped up on the flatbed to see to Ruin.

“Alright, old timer. Let’s get you to the Duke.”

“Lead on, chauffeur from hell. Don’t be expecting a tip.”

Ruin was untied, stood up, and shoved off the side. He hit the ground, fell to his knees, and rolled to absorb the impact. Another layer of dust was added to the innumerable patina of grime preceding this. When he rose up again, he saw the war party had brought him to a castle of red stone. It stretched monstrously and impossibly high, smattered with windows of stained glass and spiked crenellations bristling sniper’s rifle barrels. Battlements and barbicans, arrow slits and murder holes. Across the central and broadest wall, lit up by gigantic spotlights, hung an enormous maroon banner. Blazened on it was a stylized rendering of the Duke himself. Dark eyes, hooked nose, mustachio. Above the Duke’s face, in bright yellow, read: OBEY. Below, the same flaxen script proclaimed: YOUR SAVIOR.

“Subtle,” sneered Uncle Ruin.

“Just get moving,” Berzerk grunted before shoving him towards the mighty oak doors of the gatehouse.

The yetts creaked inward. Ruin and a handful of the war party entered the shadowy hall, while the remainder began preparing the vehicles - and presumably his rocket, only brought along to taunt him - for storage and maintenance. As Uncle Ruin and his escort traversed the vast length of the entrance hallway, he heard strange noises. Muffled moans and grunts of violent pleasure. Eerie music drifting through the aether, propelled by a frenetic beat, echoing off the stone but absorbed by the rich tapestries. The light was dim, and red. A peculiar musk hung in the air, vaguely ammonia-like. The carpet was deep and clung briefly to his boots as he lifted his feet. Finally these same sticky feet brought him to a large oaken door. It swung inward on massive iron hinges.

“The Great Hall,” whispered Berzerk.

Uncle Ruin said nothing, but the hall was not misnamed. Evenly spaced in a grid formation across the plane of the ground were filigreed stone pillars, stretching up to a ceiling that could not quite be discerned by the naked eye, similar to the left and right walls. In front, and still some exorbitant and unnecessary distance away, light filtered down through an ornate stained-glass window onto a dark blur that, as Ruin was prodded closer, resolved itself into a gilded throne on which sat a gigantic asshole.

“Uncle Ruin, welcome!” called the Duke of Diesel cheerily. “How’re the sand wastes treating you? Looks like you’ve kept up the diet; wish I could say the same, ho ho ho!”

“Not a lot of fat on those mutant creatures still don’t know to avoid my territory. Great for the physique.”

“Of course, of course. Wouldn’t know, myself. Plenty of decadent delights to dine on around here, I’m afraid, much to my tailor’s chagrin.”

Uncle Ruin regarded the Duke’s bulging maroon trousers and smoking jacket. They were well constructed, anyway for this grisly hellhole of a world. Ruin was surprised to see the Duke wearing an ascot (thought it was a bit obscured by fleshy jowls) - he hadn’t expected anyone to remember them. The Duke’s white beard was full and fluffy - clearly they had found a way to make shampoo. Ash of rice husks and merang?

“What’d you drag me here for, Duke?” Ruin asked flatly.

“You didn’t want to come? I thought you’d relish the chance to get away from your hovel, have a change of scenery, broaden your horizons. No? And do I detect you are not honored to be called before your exalted regent and worldly master?” The Duke’s baritone grew louder. “Is this disrespect I detect? After all I’ve done for you? Kneel, foul cur!” Spittle flew from his lips.

Berzerk McFierce, from behind, brought his hands to Ruin’s shoulders and shoved downward. Ruin’s knees hit the stone with a crack and a sickening pain.

“I’d have thought so long in the sun, reflecting on your sins, would have taught you your place. It seems I was mistaken.”

“I know who I am, Duke, and I am no subject of yours.” Ruin rasped out.

“Fool! The whole known world is my kingdom, and all living souls are mine to command! But,” and here he regained his composure a bit, sat back in his throne, “this brings us to why you’re here. The whole known world is my kingdom, it’s true, but there is more out there for the taking, beyond the great wastes that no one can cross - none that is, except for you. When my border patrols found you all those years ago, trundling in out of the great unknown desert - out of fuel, half dead, and dragging that ridiculous rocket behind you - I thought it was some kind of miracle! Not only was this proof there was a world beyond the sand wastes, with people living there, but evidence it could be reached! Why didn’t you just tell me then how you made it?”

“Because I knew from the start you were a deranged tyrant whose evil must be contained.”

The Duke chuckled at this. “Evil? Such an outdated concept. I’m not evil, I’m merely the one best taking advantage of the state of the world.”

“So be it,” Ruin replied, “but if you’ve brought me here for this, I tell you again: You’ll get no answers from me.”

“Not at all, not at all!” laughed the Duke of Diesel. “I brought you here because I wanted you to know: I don’t need you anymore. You’re no longer the only person to cross the great desert! But where you came through with a rig, and hauling your ridiculous rocket he came through on foot.”