#oc tag: the gardener | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fourthwifematerial · 4 months

Text

garden of forking paths | 四 | part i. guilty

yandere lord tengen x fourth wife, eiji. word count: 7,077. explicit content. 18+ MDNI

man proposes, heaven disposes.

please be mindful of the ample warnings as we're all responsible for curating our own fandom experience✌️ this chapter contains ultimatums & coercion of an intimate nature, deception, forced marriage, dubious consent on all fronts, foreplay, degradation, consummation & deflowering, forced orgasms, self harm (not in the way you might be thinking) & scarification, nonsexual voyeurism, an off screen rape & accompanying aftermath, murder, threats of suicide, and a very apologetic author for taking on another behemoth when she still has works in progress

She’s never worn a piece so fine as her sister’s wedding kimono.

Bathed in white, the shiromuku settles heavily on her body and soul… A chilling wave passes through her as she stares herself down in the mirror. Crown to cunt, settling deep in her gut. Her nerves are at a fever pitch, threatening to boil over and lash out at any moment.

She hardly recognizes the woman staring back at her. Hardly an easy feat for one such as Eiji. The heavens saw fit to bring flesh to her reflection, one she was forced to protect their whole lives.

On their worst days, Emiko was more her charge than blood. A painful reality for the younger of the two. Years spent in her shadow, ready to strike those that would see her harmed. For flowers so lovely as the twins, it was ugly work in the Red Light District.

No. Her looks were always a matter of contempt rather than ignorance. The bride is abundantly aware of what she looks like.

The palette, however, is new.

A traditional visage for a traditional bride. Something the girls at the brothels were never granted beyond the realm of a marriage born from ashinuke or a buyout.

She couldn’t give into the temptation to touch. She wouldn’t risk damaging the canvas, eyes and lips painted as they were.

There was little need for it before all this. It wasn’t something she ever envied or missed. The closest she came to seeing herself with a full face was her sister.

Still. Not a trace of either sibling in the looking glass.

Eiji has never looked so beautiful. Nor as frightened.

Even through the beads of sweat lining her temples, she was grateful for the katsura wig concealing her sparse hairs. Remnants of her days in the Sisterhood, her cut had yet to grow past her ears. Her keeper was generous enough to postpone the marriage until after their wounds had healed.

It wouldn’t do for the ruse to end on such a glaring oversight.

The pins adorning the piece look costly. Too extravagant for one as modest as Sister Eiji. Hazarding a guess, it looked to be worth more than a month’s wages at the brothel.

Cocking her head to the side, her eyes catch on the embroidered flowers that rest upon the uchikake. The sharp angles and thorns give birth to a dangerous suggestion.

“Not enough…”

She gives voice to the intrusive thought before thinking better of it. Seppuku is on the girl’s mind, though she’s not fool enough to follow through. Would that she could and spare herself the devastation of this whole affair.

A delicate touch presses on her shoulder. It’s soft, but there’s an edge… as if the owner doesn’t have the strength for a proper scolding.

“Remember what this is for,” breathes a hushed voice of admonishment. “If I’m to marry him, I’ll never forgive you.”

Standing vigil is her better half. Wrapped in more fabrics than she’s accustomed; her kimono a muted black, with what little she has left of her once prized locs concealed under a zukin. The wimple is an unassuming periwinkle. Nearly so blue as the virgin snow.

While Eiji might dance with the idea, Emiko has every intention of bedding it. Neither sister needs the reminder…

Even once more and I’ll die. By my own hand if need be.

The threat lingers unspoken between them. Emiko draws back her hand, holding the wataboshi with a white knuckled grip to match. Placing the bridal hood upon her sister’s head, she collects herself with a sniff.

They meet each other’s gazes in the mirror, color on their lids nearly matching at this point. While one wore rouge, the other bore far less intent. Her eyes are red rimmed from endless days and nights spent sobbing. The anger and resentment, the fear, the loathing—it’ll end her life before the blade has a chance to.

Placing the bridal hood upon her sister’s head, Emiko nods in approval.

“You’re ready.” Her voice is broken, still shot from the fight.

Drying the twin tracks running down her cheeks, she lets her go.

No processional. No one to give her away. No tears in tribute.

She doesn’t even see their betrothed until the purification rites.

For as taboo as it sounds, she doesn’t consider Lord Uzui to be her husband. All the same, she’ll take her sister’s place as his lady wife. She has no choice, not if she wants to keep her alive and unmolested.

It’s all she can do to keep her sister in her prayers as she draws water into the chouyuza’s ladle, washing their sins clean. Twice, in as many hishaku, before rinsing her mouth with a third.

Uzui works himself over in silent tandem. Much as she’s loath to admit it, his refined montsuki haori and golden hakama make the man striking… gorgeous, even. His starlight hair was worn up when last she saw him. And now it rests, barely grazing his broad shoulders.

This is the closest she’s been to someone of the opposite sex who wasn’t a client. He hardly made a favorable impression to start. She didn’t know him well enough now to gauge his intent. Whether she’s walking into a den of wolves or a field of rabbits strikes her as a mystery she wouldn’t solve until he was already inside her, she’s sure of it.

Their union is a somber affair before the Shinto priest. Intimate. Tense. Almost severe.

The priest gives the blessings.

With the marriage announcement, Uzui bows where they stand. She realizes too late that she missed the prayers in favor of the mounting anxieties taking root. Nudging her out of her daze, she follows suit. Muscle memory and a lifetime of obedience takes her hand and guides the path before her.

The saké teases her lips and she finds herself tempted to drink before long. It’s not until passing off the small and medium cup that they are permitted to imbibe. She focuses on her throat, still burning from the alcohol as they move on to the rings. It keeps her present of mind enough to fulfill the task she’s been charged with.

A ring is slid on her finger. His handling isn’t rough with her but he’s hardly gentle. When she does the same, she notes the calluses on his battle-worn hands—a testament to his years spent honing his skills in combat.

The warmth throws her. She stills beneath his touch… Even worse when he’s cast his garnet gaze on her like that. With that smile on his lips, he almost looks fond. He turns her hand over and gives her wrist a small caress, far more tender than he’d been with the rings.

She has the grace to blush. The watashobi only allows her so much coverage from his prying eyes, so she takes advantage where she can. His vows barely register. When it’s her turn, her voice is a hollow echo of the priest’s dictation.

“I will marry this man,” he says.

“I will marry this man.”

“No matter what may come, I will love him, console him, help him. Until death.”

“No matter… No matter what may come, I will love him. Console him. Help him… Until death.”

“These things, I swear.”

“These things… I swear.”

The shrine maiden presents twin Sakaki branches to the couple. In turn, they place the branches upon the altar. Together they bow twice and clap in quick succession.

With the stinging of her palms and roar of her ears, it’s over.

It’s finally over.

In every other respect, this is only the beginning.

There was before Tengen… and after.

In another life, she might have been simple… a simple girl of simple means, grown into a simple woman.

What bliss.

No simple girl would ever endure the hand fate had dealt her. They’d never even know it’s touch, let alone see the blow coming.

Back when Eiji had a purpose, she was a nun.

Her mandate was as simple as things went for her. Find your sister, they told her. Find her, mind her. The task proved easier said than done for an Oiran in the brothels of Yoshiwara.

No. If she was anything like the girls to grow up not knowing any better, she’d have thought it a heavenly night.

The scene was a deep wash of cerulean and coal; falling snow aglow with what moonlight peered behind the kawara roof. A contoured edge ran crisp over the engawa, shadows and flakes stopping in tandem before she could so much as wet her feet.

It was the tenderest mercy she would be afforded in a place such as this.

The languid stream of smoke bled from her lips, too soon to think over another drag as she set her gaze on the abyssal sky.

Her brows furrowed, eyes pleading the heavens for intervention when she couldn’t will the tragic whimpers and panicked groans from breaching the walls.

The only warmth known to her was the burn between her fingers and the fury in her veins, neither poison more bitter than the last.

If her lungs didn’t fail her, it was bound to be her heart.

After a terribly violent gasp, Eiji tossed the remains of her cigarillo into the mounting snow, the pressing need for quiet far surpassing any desire for escapism. Flush palms ran over the veil concealing her ears.

Enmeshed in a deathbed of white, the snuffed out embers found themselves buried under the fresh flakes.

“Stop it.” A whispered bid—painful as it was fruitless. She broke on the words, knowing they’d never reach the bedroom. “Put her out of her misery, damn you.”

If that fucker didn’t come soon, she was going to have to finish the job. Tear the stuck pig limb from limb, out of the frying pan and into the fires of Hell. He would bleed for this.

She wouldn’t betray her vows. She only sought to avenge her sister’s rape. Nothing more, nothing less.

You can’t afford to fall apart. You know she can feel you. You have to be strong for her.

And before she could make good on that promise, there was nothing. Not a breath, not a sound.

The silence was deafening and nearly so oppressive as the screams.

The divine stall, dutifully prostrate before the raging tempest.

Any relief felt was dead on arrival. She knew better than to get comfortable. Her shoulders were still wound tight as a bow primed for the shot. Tense and waiting.

Rooms away, Eiji could hear the pleas so viscerally…

“Eiji—” she cried, her voice a death rattle that cut to the marrow. “Sister… Help me.”

a crash in the distance.

a whisper of fabric on the

wind.

the final screams to prelude

disaster.

The shoji was barely ajar before she’d pushed her way inside. She rushed past the hall of incredulous voyeurs, all with the same questions on their minds and lips.

She didn’t even know where they’d put her tonight. She had to follow the commotion like a dog after a vendor in the streets.

Desperate. Near rabid with its goal to fulfill. Out for blood.

If she centered herself, she could be by her side in an instant.

But her mind was racing. She had no time, no focus. All of her being narrowed on the sole objective of leaving this place for good.

Ashinuke beckoned with an outstretched palm whose finger curled so seductively, there was no need to ask twice.

The door flew open with a shout, “Emiko!”

She surveyed the room. Save the cowering fuck in the corner, it was a barren sight.

Dragging him by the collar of his disheveled robe, she hauled his sweating hull from the ground.

“Tell me where they took her,” she demanded. “I’ll gut you, I swear it.”

He shook beneath her. When the night air kissed the tracks on her cheeks, she didn’t have to look hard. There was a gaping hole in the screen of the shoji, ushering the cold inside.

You cried for me…

She shook the memory, focusing solely on the path ahead of her. Her entire world fixated on what little she could see from outside the door; a mere pinprick of vision in that busted screen. All she was able to manage were the snapping swords of some third party who’d entered the fray.

The pig squealed, fear coursing through him at the prospect of a fight.

“Useless,” she spat.

Blood came when the words failed him. The blade from her sleeve made fast work of disposing his filth without preamble or mercy.

sank into his ear…

pull out game for

the gods.

…dragged across

his throat.

He slumped pitifully at her feet, exsanguinating below her turning frame. She was already following after the chaos—dried her tears and righted the cloth just under her eyes.

The body was still warm as she made for the biting cold.

Eiji sullied the courtyard’s pristine canvas. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her. Didn’t make it very far in the dark; someone flew overhead, missing her entirely.

What should have urged her all the more only brought her to her knees.

She couldn’t afford to falter like this, not when the wager was her sister’s life.

“No one’s after you,” she muttered to herself. “There’s no time for this… Get up.”

She had to press on. So why couldn’t she move?

Eiji refused to give way to the fear. Surveying the perimeter, there was little to be done and less to be seen.

It had to be now.

Closing her eyes, she leveled her breath. Slow. Deliberate.

She emptied her lungs with a hiss in her throat and put her all into seeking Emiko out.

With the rolling of her stomach subsided, she picked herself off the street.

Nails bit crescent moons into the meat of her palms, arms trailing behind her as she took off into the direction she foresaw.

She felt her. She saw her in mind’s eye.

Smelled the cracked wood in the air. Burnt, not yet ablaze.

Blood… so much blood.

Eiji found her before too long, limbs akimbo under the caved-in front of a vacant business.

Her sister wasn’t alone. Shock coursed through her as she took it all in.

Three women crowded the body. One at her head, keeping her still, as the others made quiet work of removing the debris from her broken form.

She didn’t have to turn to know they were less alone than the moments that had passed. “Is she dead?” The man asked, feckless to a fault.

He was an eager one, wasn’t he. If this had been out of character for the man, if he’d been a stranger to them… surely they would have reacted.

The smallest among the women only threw herself at him with tears in her eyes.

“Lord Tengen,” she sobbed. “We couldn’t find the lair. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded towards Emiko, his eyes never straying from her unconscious frame. “And the girl?”

“An Oiran.” The name fell from Eiji’s lips with the ease and vitriol of a curse, “Kyogoku House.”

Every stranger encountered this night turned to her, suddenly occurring to them she was worth acknowledging at all. Turned on her just as quickly.

“Kakushi are meant to be seen… not heard,” he warned with a snap, all bitterness.

An incredulous echo fell from her lips, “Kakushi?”

He pinned her down, swiftly and effectively cutting the indignant echo from the root.

“Now what did I just say.”

The man towering over wasn’t asking, not remotely. He looked at her nearly expectant, all but daring her for a response.

Thick arms neutralized the struggle, pressing into her to drive the point home. Voice lowered in tandem with his head, the words in her ears enough to fill her gut with coal.

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least make it worth my while. Might just be tempted to take matters into my own hands and modify the offense.”

“Don’t. Please… stop. You can’t touch her. Please don’t touch her.”

Eyes fell shut as she laid witness to the swan song rasping from her sister’s bruised lips.

Tears streamed, hot and itching. Time slowed to a crawl. “Emiko. Forget about me,” she bade. “You have to save your strength.”

Gravel dug into her cheek the rougher he forced her down. A hitch in her breath. Eiji kept her gaze fixed ahead, locked on the carnage.

The women on assist weren’t concerned with lowering their voices.

“The hell’s a nun doing in the Red Light District?”

“You can’t say that in front of her, idiot.”

She burned under the heat of their scrutiny. Even more as his touch grazed her prone form, searching for weapons. It seemed he’d been blessed with brains to match his brawn and beauty after all.

“You’ve got red on you,” he noted. “You must have seen something.”

“Not my blood.” The words ran cold on her tongue. Near metallic as the blood staining her veil. “He’s dead now.”

“And the demon spared you after it fed?”

“Sir, there was no demon.”

He turned her over. Crouched over her thighs, urging her to continue.

“Patron. Something took her and he was a shit witness. I eliminated my sister’s rapist. If you have complaints, I suggest you keep them to yourself.”

“Eliminated, huh?” He pressed, incredulous. His eyes returned to the women tending to Emiko’s injuries. “Don’t suppose she’s one of ours?”

His aubergine companion spoke with unbidden ease. “Lord Tengen.” A pressing gentleness, as if shepherding apoplectic cats in their twilight years rather than the man straddling her. “In polite society, there are certainly ways to extract such information.”

He eyed her beneath his rippling thighs. Considered the account she’d woven for him. “You really don’t know anything?”

“If I knew what you were talking about, I’d tell you.” She met his gaze, beseeching. “Please, just help my sister. Kill me for my crime if you must, but please… She needs to leave this place.”

When the weight on her thighs was suddenly relieved, she had little time to breathe. He loomed over her, making fast work of tossing her over his shoulder.

“Don’t go getting too dramatic on me, Sister. Isn’t blind faith supposed to be your thing?” He gave her backside a condescending slap before taking off.

Too burnt out from the fight to argue, she merely allowed herself to be lulled by his hellish pace.

She hadn’t slept in so long. The push and pull of the jostle took her back to that day.

Fractured memories of the shore. She was no more than a child then. Now a woman grown, the bitter cold kissed her cheeks.

She looked out on the water’s edge. The drag of the waves. The crash as they touched back down.

Walking into the sea, she collapsed. Falling onto her knees, the water soaked her kimono. She abandoned her zukin, letting the habit drift away. When she looked down, there was an isolated pool of blood.

Her eyes widened, hands shaking as she dragged her touch underneath. The source of the bleed was heavy. She pulled desperately, fighting the mounting tide and her own limitations.

When it breached the surface, she was loathed to lose her grip.

She knew that face. She wore that face.

Realization dawned on her and she was all the more desperate to retrieve what the watery grave that saw to claim from her.

Limp in her arms. On death’s door, if she hadn’t crossed the Sanzu River already. When she opened her eyes, they were worse than void—they were dead.

Eiji woke with a start, her own eyes locked on the ceiling of the infirmary with a scream locked in her throat.

The medical wing remained so unclouded, so quiet, there was a small part of her that considered she might be dead already.

Eyes blinking into consciousness, she wondered to herself how everything got so fucked.

“The prodigal daughter wakes,” came a rasping welcome.

“Emiko!”

She nearly tripped over herself trying to reach out to her; the hand beckoning her closer so small under the covers.

Closing the distance between them, Eiji was treated to a slap to the cheek. She didn’t even register it at first. Her expression thrown, ears roaring.

“You’ve killed me, bringing me here.” Her voice was as weak as her will to live. “Good as signed my death warrant, you bitch.”

Eiji stared in shock before it hit her as one thousand blows.

She was asleep.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t protect her. Hell, she was barely able to find her on time. She’d failed her and the burning realization that there might be more threatens to consume her.

“What happened while I was out?”

Emiko turned away with a hiss—either from aching injuries or her own malcontent, she’ll never tell. “You heard what Lord Tengen said,” she groused. “Demons and the like. He works to annihilate them…”

Her throat went dry in an instant. “What?”

“Sissy, I’m tired.”

Already having rolled to her side and brought the bedding past her ears, Emiko’s eyes pooled. She let the tears fall away from view but couldn’t hide the way her shoulders shook.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

Thoughts swirled in a vicious cycle. She was as furious as she was suicidal.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

The unspoken reverie was loud enough to hear even separated from the bond their blood allowed.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

It was all Eiji could do to crawl into bed with her, arms wrapped around her trembling body.

“Are you more angry that I couldn’t save you… or that I did?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Emiko rolled to face her sister, curling tight against her as a babe to its mother.

“Too late,” she teased gently. Her voice is gentle as the touch that ran up and down her back. “Then tell me. What is it?”

“Just cursing the heavens for damning us with this face and body. And all the bastards who came before Uzui.”

Eiji kept her eyes on the wavering fist curled around the sterile linens they both wore. Trailing her fingers up her back, she brings her palm to her sister’s hair. Pulled her in close, stroking her scalp. She said nothing, merely gave her the means to speak.

“He’s a Hashira. Former Shinobi, by his own account.”

“Shinobi,” she echoed, incredulous. Aren’t they meant to be a dying breed?

“I can’t deliver on the promise I made. I was coerced into accepting his hand, it was the only payment he wanted…” Emiko kept talking over her, vision clouded as if in a daze. “I couldn’t just let him kill you… we needed safe passage.”

A fresh tremor coursed through her. The sight chilled Eiji’s blood.

Bloodshot eyes nearly so vacant as her dream stared back. She didn’t have to hear it to know.

“Emiko… look at me.” She was desperate with tears of her own threatening to break.

“I can’t go through this again. I refuse. Even once more and I’ll die. By my own hand if necessary.”

Her head shook, stunned to silence.

“Those women are his wives. Says I should get used to them.”

“I can’t let you go through with this!” She refuted further, “I won’t. Not for my sake.”

Holding her hands flush against her ears, Emiko’s eyes shut. Face twisting in anguish and grief, she pushes away from her. “Sleep first, then dream.”

“I’m not dreaming. I’m pleading… Let me help you.”

“You don’t understand,” Emiko argued. “That night… It left me with scars, scars you haven’t seen. He saw me. He saw all of me.”

Eiji’s face flushed with anger. “He fucked you?”

“No… He only kept me talking while I was bandaged. Said he wants to wait until the wedding night to touch me.”

“Show me,” she insisted. “If he’s seen it, I need to see.”

It’s a beat before either moved, let alone spoke. Eiji pushed herself off the bed to stand on shaky ground. She was wary, but didn’t argue. Her sister looked away in a pastiche of offered modesty.

“You can look,” she prompted, voice faint.

When Eiji returned her gaze, visions of that night returned with a vengeance.

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

Breaking on a sob, she saw her under the roof collapse so vividly as she did that night.

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

Her sister’s skin was tattooed, marred with the visible representation of her own failure. Hypertrophic scars cut around her waist. A contracture piece gnarled on her back. Superficial grazes claw across her breasts.

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

She had to avert her eyes, choking on her own shame. She would never forgive herself.

Head raised to the heavens, she was anywhere else.

“The Madame will never have me back now,” Emiko noted wryly. “At least there’s one good thing out of this mess, even if it won’t last—”

With the shattering of glass, the words died in her throat. It took seconds for her eyes to catch up, watching her sister follow after the broken vase. Eiji was there, already on the ground. There seemed to be no rhyme, reason, nor method to her madness.

“What are you doing?”

She sifted through the rubbish on hands and knees, seeking out the perfect instrument for her needs. She’d have to start soon while the sight was fresh in her mind… The rest were tossed aside.

“I’m not letting you down again.”

“What does that even mean?” She pleaded, “Eiji, stop… You’re scaring me.”

And still, she refused her. Not until hope was secured.

Lord Uzui ushers his bride inside the bedchamber, quickly sliding the door shut behind him.

no prying eyes, no vying wives.

Eiji makes to sit on the marital bed, still lost to the events of the day. It’s an absolute miracle her knees haven’t given out already.

“Not so fast.”

The command chills her to the marrow. He’s behind her before she can react, let alone flee. Uzui pins her in place, a belt of his corded arms wrapping around her middle. Despite the warmth, she’s frozen in place as she stiffly shies from his touch.

His voice in her ears only drags her further. “Let me look at you.”

It’s not permission he’s after. He’s taking what he wants tonight.

Kissing down the column of her neck, he gives her tit a rough pinch. The assault punches a groan out of her throat, “Lord Tengen, please.”

“Look at that. My prized whore acting like a virgin for her husband. How quaint is this.”

“I just don’t want to sully the garments.” She pushes past the fear and finds her voice. “With all your wives, I don’t see you stopping at four… who knows when you’ll need it again.”

The man drops his arms. There’s a soft sound, almost muffled. She looks over her shoulder and he’s laughing behind a manicured fist. Her eyes widen, the whiplash becoming all too much to bear.

He watches her, watching him. He doesn’t react to being caught. Doesn’t scold her or tease. Merely lowers his hand, leaving only a seductive beam in its wake as he leans forward to take the wataboshi hood from her head.

His gaze lingers on her lips. Before he thinks to act on base impulse and desires, he turns to place the hood away for safekeeping. She trails after him and shirks off the uchikake, offers him the robe and fan. Fingertips graze, earning a hum of anticipation from her husband.

“If you’d prefer me not to do the rest, I suggest you undress yourself.”

She bows. “Thank you, Lord Tengen.”

“Your respect and frugality are refreshing.” A sigh escapes him. “With any hope, you’ll rub off on the others… In more ways than one, I imagine. And I can imagine quite a lot.”

Her cheeks flush at the suggestion.

He gropes her ass as he passes, already stripping as he takes his spectator’s seat at the foot of the bed. Uzui watches her as an expectant beast would his prey. She takes a steadying breath when he bids her to start.

Eiji thinks of the shamisen players in the brothels. She wills the strings to the forefront of her mind. Her eyes are closed as she tugs at the knot of her obi-jime…

No more than a feather on the stream, the silken cord spills to the floor with unbidden ease.

Her ivory obi joins the pool of fabric at her feet. She gives herself over to the music, abandoning her nerves.

Deftly unfastening the datejime leaves her kimono hanging loose. She sheds the rest like a second skin, stepping out of her confines in only her slip of a nagajuban.

More than a chrysalis. A rebirth.

The juban is her only defense. She knows it’s guileless to hope, to dream. It’s all she could have wanted just to keep her sister from the bedchamber.

No. She will do what needs to be done.

When the last whisper of cloth leaves her exposed, she’s quick to cover herself. A futile gesture born from her days in the convent.

A hand catches her wrist and she’s far too exhausted to fight him. Neither for her body, nor her modesty.

Fingers curl around her own as he guides her to the bed. Pushing her gently, back flush against the futon, he holds her in check with only his right hand; keeping her arms raised so nothing might obstruct his view.

He appraises every inch of her flesh, taking his left to explore with the pad of his touch.

neck and collarbone. sternum. breasts.

Kneading her aching tit, Uzui nods in approval. “Scratches are gone,” he notes. “Didn’t even leave a scar.”

her ribs. her waist.

He traces the lesion with reverence. “I’m sorry I wasn’t of more use to you then.”

The words tumble from her lips before she can stop them. “You’re blameless,” she says under her breath.

“Come again?”

“My… my sister. She feels every bit of shame for that night. There’s nothing left. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

Moments pass without a word. Just when she’s about to take it all back, he’s pressing kisses into the worst of it.

Eiji chokes on a whine, eyes widening in shock. “Ah!”

“I think your sister would disagree with you there,” he whispers tenderly against her belly. “I only met her once but she looked like she wanted to kill me for even breathing the same air as you.”

Her heart stutters in her chest, conflicted between the sensations roiling through her and the threat of being found out. She keeps her mouth shut. Neither pleasure nor information would pass her lips. Not when she’s come so far…

She would not let her down again.

Once she found the ideal shard of glass, she made fast work of undressing herself.

“What are you going to do?” Emiko asked desperately.

Eiji walked to her sister’s bedside. She caressed her face. “I’m going to protect you.”

She returned to her own bed, drawing the curtains around her.

Before she lost her nerve, she pressed the glass into herself. She kept digging the piece further inside until she was certain it would take.

She ignored the cries and pleas of her sister. She had to do this. She had to make this right.

With a trembling fist curled around the bloodied glass, she took a leveling breath.

“Once more,” she urged herself.

She dragged the piece along her back, piercing herself to the hilt. Eiji didn’t need a reference to know. She’d never forget for as long as she lived… It would take her a great deal longer to forgive herself.

Falling to her knees, she curled in on herself… With her body shaking from the shock of it, the deed was finally done.

“Never… Never…”

He laps at the trail of pink with his lips, relishing what reactions slip past her schooled features.

“Even still, it’s healed up nicely,” Uzui remarks, dragging her back with him. “Clean margins, not a trace of infection.”

“You certainly know your way around a battered woman.”

“If you recall, my girls are former Kunoichi. Scars are a part of the work culture… You’ll fit in perfectly, my little prize.”

Eiji masks her disgust with a breathy titter. “And here I thought I’d scared you away,” she quips.

“Thought or hoped?”

With those three little words, the room chills around her. She won’t allow herself to falter.

“I am but a traumatized woman.” A dangerous answer to feed a dangerous question. “You don’t think they're mutually exclusive?”

He bullies her legs open with the mass of his bicep. Abandoning her arms, he locks her in place with a firm hold on her hip. Rakes his nails against the meat of her thigh, all too quick to soothe the path with his tongue, just as before.

“Answer me,” he growls against her.

Before she can think better of it, she pushes against his shoulder. He buries his face in her cunt, undaunted by her silent protests.

One swipe of his tongue and she’s gone.

“I… I thought!” Her thighs tighten around him, despite herself. “We had—ngg! We had a… a deal—”

A harsh slap to thigh has her opening back up for him. She stifles a cry behind a shaking palm. He carries on batting at her clit in rapid succession, her groan turning helpless when he buries himself past his knuckles.

Two fingers with a wail on the third, too thick as they scissor inside.

She’s anywhere else.

The cacophony of noises bleeding from her lips has her mind racing in tandem with her pulse.

Unrelenting pleasure. Blinding sin.

He makes quick work slinging her legs over his shoulders. Colors her thighs with his affections, cups her cunt. She jerks further into the assault.

Propping himself on the balls of his feet, he suckles his fingers. Uzui laves up the juices, savoring every morsel of her essence.

“And you’d never do anything to rescind a deal, would you, sweet Emiko.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t dare dignify him with a response. If Uzui wants to go fishing, he can drown in her silence for all she cares.

Slow to start, he presses down and teases her all the more. Middle finger lapping her juices, he fucks them deeper every time. His wrist twists without resistance. It’s all she hears. He latches onto her clit, a steady staccato of tongue and teeth with his forearm shining with sweat and her own wetness.

Bracing for the forced release, she maintains a white knuckle grip on the sheets beneath her.

Thighs shaking. Stomach tensing. But it’s over before she can fall over that razor thin edge.

He pulls out without mercy, without warning. She sobs at the loss, sweat beading along her temples and brow.

Uzui takes his time spreading her lips, appreciating her cunt twitching around nothing apart from a watchful eye and wandering touch to match. He slaps her tit, diving back into the fray. She’d scream if she thought it would help.

She’s never felt anything like it.

His nose prods her clit while he gives her a tongue lashing she’s never known. He laps up her juices like a condemned man drinking his last.

Hooking his fingers, Eiji sees white. She came under him and he fucked her right through it, fingering her while spreading his idle hand over her middle. His pinky caresses her scar with such care, almost worship.

It takes her far too long to register he’s been grinding into her splayed thigh.

He’s hot on her bare skin, heavy and thick… She doesn’t have to see him to know.

As if he can read her trepidation like a damn book, he takes her hand and drags it encouragingly over his cock. “You can touch,” he offers.

She says nothing, denying him all the more. Pushing against his advances, she means to end this encounter. Any longer, she fears he may see fit to fuck her into the little hours.

He pushes her back no less than three times before relenting. Fed up with her efforts, he scoffs angrily. “Should’ve brought Suma in to sit on your face,” he laments, all petulance.

Tossing her over his shoulder, he settles her before the bureau.

“Hands against the wood,” he instructs her curtly, nodding where he wants her. Damn bastard’s already slotting a knee between her legs. “Forearms, too.”

When she does so, he roughly forces her back into an arch. Eiji hears the whistle of the strike before the pain registers. Feels the dresser’s chill graze her nipples before the burn on her bottom. She grits her teeth, detaching herself from the scene.

His touch roves across the handprint left behind before drawing back to hit her again.

Appreciating the canvas before him is a short lived reward.

One hand with an iron grip on her chin forces her attentions. He pinches and gropes what he can reach with the other, the taunting lilt of his voice never leaving her.

“Open those eyes.” The order sends tingles down her spine. “Let me see my gorgeous bride.”

Another thrashing leaves her crying out. He tightens around her jaw, tears flowing freely now.

She does as he commands, her deep brown gaze at last meeting his scrutiny.

It’s when she catches sight of herself in the mirror that her resolve nearly crumbles at his fingertips.

where did emiko end…

…where did eiji begin?

He takes her in his arms, flush against her back as he cages her against the dresser. Uzui sucks a bruise just under her ear, his eyes never leaving the mirror. He feeds his cock inside her, ears singing with every scratch of her nail against the wood.

A rough gasp tears its way through her. Eiji remains frozen to his whims as he callously fills her to the hilt. Barely four thrusts as he meets no resistance.

He can’t help but groan at the sight of her.

Stuck-still, she’s too shocked to move, to speak or breathe.

It’s not long before he tires of her cockwarming and his grunts fill the room with a renewed pace. One sharp snap begot the rest and her cunt fell so tight around him.

He sets a punishing staccato, the sounds of them filling the room in a symphony gone wrong. Coaxing the cries from her, Uzui kept pushing and pushing… bottoming out until he was coming apart himself.

“How can a whore like you be so damn tight,” he murmurs, nearly slurring his abuses. “All that work getting you open? What a waste…”

Beads of sweat make a mess of his forehead, the silver strands of his hair catching on his skin. She flushes beneath him as he nears his release.

“Keep those eyes on me,” he commands. “I want you to see who’s making you come.”

She holds more than her will as she looks at her husband. She holds her contempt. Her rage… Her every motive and intent. That’s why it’s such a shock to them both when she meets him thrust for thrust for thrust.

even as the wooden borough grates against the floor and wall. even as he works his spit inside her asshole.

“Fucking close—”

He throws his head back with a trembling exhale and stuttering hips. Eiji’s unbidden wails fall on deaf ears as he spills his seed.

His shaking breath echoes off the walls in a strange marriage of ecstasy and quiet discontent. Would that he could, he’d stay buried inside her forever.

Uzui pulls out with a hiss, beyond loath to leave her pristine warmth. Releasing her, his gaze falls to their combined fluids trailing down her legs. He spreads her cheeks, reveling in the sight of his debauched bride.

Spent. Humiliated. Done. Eiji rests her weary head against the wood, between her trembling hands.

No blood, she relishes inwardly… with Lord Tengen none the wiser, Eiji has fulfilled her duty. If there was a shadow of a doubt, it’s gone now. He wouldn’t find proof of her innocence. It was gone by her own hand the day she gave herself her sister’s scars.

Kisses press against her spine, all the way down to her tailbone. He massages her bruised and bruising flesh while huffing in the musk of their consummation. She twitches under his watchful eye and it’s all the prompting he needs to dive back in for seconds, albeit gently this time.

The deft tongue that pleasured her is the deft tongue that cleans her. She doesn’t shy from it this time. He feels the stark contrast as she bears down on his face, grunting his approval as he lazily stokes himself.

It’s not just for her benefit. Tengen knows that despite the closed doors, this intimate moment was always going to be shared.

Not his wives. Not even the heavens.

He knows the nun is sitting vigil at this exact moment, waiting outside those very doors to tend to her battered sister.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure that was her role back in Yoshiwara. Poor girl’s never known the touch of a man, has never come apart by another’s tender care… judging by her disdain that night, she’d likely only ever heard the shameful encounters of brutes and bastards.

Who was he to deny her? To deny either of them?

If the Sister wanted a show, he’d give that holy voyeur the most flamboyant fucking of her damned life.

Emiko sits beneath a wash of indigo, the stars shining bright enough to spite her. She wrings her hands, anxiously praying he’d be done with her soon. The sun was barely set when they arrived back from the ceremony… He’s had her in there for hours.

It’s all she can do to pray he’d leave her soon enough.

“Stop it.” The familiar prayer falls from her lips, a hush of a bid. She broke on the words as her sister had done so many nights. “Put her out of her misery, damn you.”

In the quiet isolation of the veranda, the only voyeur is the moon above. Emiko weeps for her sister. She weeps for herself.

No one will mind. No one is around to hear it.

#yandere tengen uzui #tengen x oc #tengen x wives x oc #can be read as #tengen x reader #tengen x wives x reader #yandere tengen x reader #for my brown eyed girlies #.garden of forking paths #.shi #honestly the tags are down to a marketing issue... please advise if possible

69 notes · View notes

the-silver-chronicles · 3 months

Text

WIP Wednesday and Last Line

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @g0dspeeed @nightbloodbix @cassietrn (for WIP Wednesday) and @deputyash (for last line)

Tagging @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @strangefable @strafethesesinners @carlosoliveiraa @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @chazz-anova @bitchofedensgate @trashcatsnark @minilev @onehornedbeast @voidika @afarcryfrommymain @corvosattano @derelictheretic @deputy-morgan-malone @dephellseed @skoll-sun-eater @florbelles @fourlittleseedlings @henbased @titiagls @vampireninjabunnies-blog @wrathfulrook @inafieldofdaisies @la-grosse-patate @ladyoriza @shallow-gravy @snake-in-the-garden @softtidesworld @starsandskies @thewanderer-000 and @megraen

FC5 WIPs for No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden, a new fic Let The Skyfall (When It Crumbles) and last line for You’re Almost Like Family. Also the first official introduction for Silva's (disowned) adopted father, Paul Yellowjack!

TW: First WIP involves mentions of bullying and abuse. Second WIP involves... IDK body mutilation? Self-body multilation? Screw it, a wasp comes out of a character's hand, then it takes off its hard shells, and proceeds to enter a different character's mouth in semi-disturbing detail. Probably inaccurate anatomy on both humans and supernatural yellowjackets too. Last line involves a main character getting shot dead (not for long though) so there's that too. There! Enjoy.

Here's the moment in No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden that the Voice realizes its Muse is in the wrong occupation and Joseph unfortunately suffers from its temper tantrum. I hope I was able to do Joseph and the Voice justice here. Snippet below:

The distrustful gazes of the deputies nearby did not go unnoticed by Joseph, their eyes held onto barely hidden wrath towards him and his brother. It felt like an additional weight of the burden he carried, even after John successfully bailed three of his formerly detained flock.

The Sheriff and his department saw him as crazy. They looked at him like a madman. Their fear of the unknown, it prevented them from seeing the signs of the Collapse.

The sins that blinded them from this truth were the same sins that the government pushed them to indulge in, indoctrinating the consumerist lifestyle upon them, turning them away from God's warm embrace.

Joseph mumbled a silent prayer, a blessing for these misguided souls, holding onto faith that his Lord will guide the deputies, the supposed protectors of the county, to his flock, where he and his siblings would guide them on the right path.

Perhaps Jacob could train them to be true protectors...

But only time will tell if the deputies would accept his truth, if the Sheriff would. For the meantime, Joseph would focus on his children, those who have accepted him as their Father.

Turning his attention back to the conversing John and Sheriff Whitehorse, he felt warmth on the back of his head, and recognized a soft humming above him.

He was more alert, closely listened as the words exchanged between John and the Sheriff became mute, the persistent hum above him canceling out the hum of the building's air conditioner. The warmth of His glow consumed the cool air, and Joseph felt expectant eyes upon him, from beyond his own perception.

The Voice. His Lord, his God. Have you a message for me, Lord?

No, the Voice spoke, its tone even and still, lacking emotion yet always familiar, always reassuring to Joseph, I have need of your eyes, Joseph. The Hell that will follow the Whitehorse is here... nearby.

Joseph's blue eye widened in shock. The pace of his beating heart quickened. The very reminder of this... figure, quickened the steady pace of his heart. This figure whom the Voice had said embodied "Hell" itself, was one that haunted him. This lost soul was one he never truly got a glimpse of in his visions, both the good and the terrifying. Always obscured by the environment, whether it be the sun that shined between him and them, in the Garden that will become their New Eden, or the shadows and flames that consumed him and the corpses of his family, their back turned to the destruction they made, the paradise he tried to preserve.

The Voice had told him that it was up to him, His prophet, to bring this Great Sinner to the correct path, for they were his family's salvation, or face the destruction they will wrought. He had asked once, at the pews of his chapel, "How will I know to help them if I don't even know who this Sinner is? What do they look like?"

The Voice hadn't answered him right away, but when it did, he was unable to stop the dreadful weight sink on his soul, "You will know on the day the locusts come for you. You will know when Hell stands in front of you in this house of Mine. You will know on the morning the First Seal breaks and the Reaping finally begins."

He wondered, briefly, if it was time. If the day of reckoning that he had been tasked with preparing for had finally come upon him, at a moment where he wasn't with the rest of his flock, and in the heart of the locusts' nest.

Though Joseph put the thought to rest with the knowledge the Voice had passed to him. The day the First Seal broke would be in the morning, on compound grounds where his Flock and Family resided, and the locusts' attitude was more that of frustration than being on the offensive.

As if sensing his confusion, Joseph heard his Lord's voice once more, Calm yourself, my child. It is not time yet. This is merely an observation. An introduction if you will. You had asked me, "Who is the Sinner whom heralds Hell?" I had not thought you ready, but now, I deem it so. You will see the shape this harbinger of destruction takes form in.

Joseph's eyes shifted from the locusts, the green deputy uniforms coiling the uneasy nausea that settles on his dread. And what form is that, Lord?

The anticipation of finally seeing the one constant figure in his visions, his flock's savior or destroyer, all depending on the choice he makes, how far he can go to reach their soul and bring them into the light.

He felt God's presence above him, a constant reassurance to the Father, waiting with him as they scoured the moving bodies for the one person that will change the fate of his family at a moments notice.

That of a deputy, my prophet, the Voice revealed, Focus your eyes down the left hall.

Joseph did as instructed, his gaze locked on the corridor, catching the sight of two large double sided doors.

Can you feel their presence yet? Overwhelming, isn't it? He chuckled as Joseph's breathe hitched at a presence he swore he could just touch with his fingertips, despite no movement from his own hand and the lack of physical presence, Not something the majority of humanity is skilled enough to do. Unless you have the privilege of being my chosen prophet, of course.

Is... is this how you touch us? How you see us? Joseph questioned, gaze locked on the doors as the presence that was not there yet continued its pace towards the doors.

The Voice only chuckled, like a parent amused by a child's question. God did not answer him, again, and Joseph realized he had already answered his own question, again. Through this new sense the Lord had blessed him with, Joseph tried to close the gap between him and the approaching presence of the deputy that will doom his garden, or be another addition to it. With just his hand at his leg, he closed his palm.

But it did not last long, and swiftly opened his hand, hissing as if he had been bitten, only silently as to not alert his younger brother nor draw attention to himself. The sense the Lord gave him ceased, and Joseph could not feel the presence that had stung him, no, burned him upon touch.

He could, however, hear the echo of bellowing laughter of his Lord, his God. It was familiar, in a way, reminding him of how Old Man Seed had once bellowed at his expense, rather than roar with wrath, once word of Joseph getting battered and beaten by a group of older teens who he had come across while walking home from school. Jacob hadn't been there at the time, forced to stay at the house to do chores for their father after another suspension.

Joseph shook his head. He would not compare God to that wretched monster of a man, over a bellow of laughter no less. He should feel honored to have heard such a rare moment of laughter from God himself.

Careful now, Joseph, the Voice silenced further thought, Touching affinity that high will damage you. Thankfully your soul knew exactly what to do.

Joseph could still feel the sting on his palm, even though he was uncertain on how exactly that happened, I don't understand...?

It's not important. Humans weren't meant to have such senses. We have more pressing matters. Keep your eyes on those doors Joseph. I want to see.

Joseph kept watch on the doors, and though he could not feel their presence like before, but he could feel the Lord's grow warmer and warmer as the moment continued on.

Finally, it was at last that he saw the handle jiggle, and the door begin to creak open.

Finally, the Voice spoke once more, the humming drowning all other noises as its warm protected Joseph from the cold embrace of the building, everything except for the corridor and the opening doors darkening as God and his prophet watched a figure emerge from the end of the hall.

She reveals herself-

The Voice didn't finish, hushing itself as Joseph stared at the woman from down the hall.

Files tucked under her arm, the woman who emerged from the doors made her down the hall, her path leading towards Joseph.

The Father remained still as he observed the approaching woman, who seemed none the wiser of Joseph's presence, nor that interested in John's debate with the Sheriff. Hair dark hair flowed smoothly behind her, not tied up, not braided, simply free. Slim, rimless blue rectangular cat eye glasses rested on her slender nose.

As her figure became more discernible the closer she came, Joseph noticed the slivers of silver running down her hair, likely dyed. He was almost shocked to see the small faded scars that littered across her face. The scarring was notably darker than that of her tawny brown skin.

Now merely a meter or two apart, almost face-to-face, he noticed more details. Thick eyebrows, high cheek bones, the indifferent frown she wore on her pouty lips, and more concerning to the Father, the dark bags under her eyes.

Her eyes.

As she crossed paths with him, Joseph caught a glimpse of her grey eyes, dull but determined, focused on some deputy or another further behind him, her attention neither on him nor his brother. They appeared to be irrelevant to her apparent mission of delivering the files.

His brows scrunched as he squinted from behind his yellow-tinted aviators, mouthing the words plastered on the file. Office of the Sheriff-Coroner?

Then his eyes widened, as he took in the clothes she wore.

Instead of the telltale green jackets and the deputy's badge, she wore a white coat over a dark blue button-up and a black turtleneck shirt, with an ID badge that he couldn't get a steady look on as it shifted and turned as she walked.

She also had dark grey jeans, black combat boots and gloves. Joseph had to wonder why so much of her skin was covered, aside from her face. What was she hiding from everyone else?

She passed him, no indication nor acknowledgement of his presence. He watched her move from desk to desk until she found the right deputies, Hudson and Pratt he recalled, catching their full attention as she spoke, for what he could only assume was about the contents in the files.

He observed in silence, the humming above him growing louder, the Lord's presence no longer warm and welcoming as it always has been, but uncomfortably hot and erratic.

Lord?

This... this can't be right- No, it's impossible! She can't have- Why? How?!

Joseph froze, confused and lost on the tone of the Voice. He'd never heard such strength of emotion from Him. When God chose to speak with him, it was with a monotone neutrality, well-spoken and well-versed with an air of seriousness. Rarely He showed amusement. Even rarer to show disappointment.

But he'd never heard God's voice hold frustration before. It even bordered on rage.

He felt a sharp pain pound in his head, the heat becoming unbearable, his shirt itching against his skin.

Lord, I don't understand... is this not part of your Plan?

He looked to the woman who was supposed to represent Hell, the woman who conversed with the two deputies out of ear-shot. The Voice spoke once more, almost hissing, Does she look like a deputy, Joseph?

Joseph swallowed emptily, swiping at his damp forehead, the heat almost unbearable. He took another glance at her once more, the woman unaware of what she had done, however baffling it is for Joseph to believe that this supposed Sinner had managed to spit in God's plan.

Joseph tensed when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he swiftly turn to face John.

"We're all done here brother. No trouble will be coming from the Sheriff's Department for a while," John informed him, grin wide as he looked into Joseph's eyes, searching for any pride.

Joseph could only nod, the heat dying down as the sensation of the cold air rested against his skin once more, the aches pounding in his head still present though.

John furrowed his brow in worry, his concern overpowering his need for his older brother's approval, "Joseph, are you alright?"

Reconvene your heralds back at the Compound, Joseph, the Voice spoke, His warmth and light retracting away from Joseph's head, There is much to discuss about this new course of events.

As you wish, Lord, Joseph almost mumbled, but the light and warmth God shined on him left, already knowing Joseph's answer.

Turning to John, he was weary of the audience around them, though giving one last glance to Hell's enigmatic vessel, he saw her eyes were not amongst the deputies and Sheriff who watched their every move.

Gesturing to the door where their released flock members were waiting outside, John understood immediately and walked alongside Joseph towards the department's entrance.

"We must gather brother and sister," Joseph whispered to his faithful brother, "The Voice has spoken once more. New developments have occurred. Some I fear have threatened all that we have worked for."

He had faith in the Lord's ability, but the shock that even the Voice could not have predicted the Great Sinner's change in occupation had deeply shook him, making him ponder what else this sinner was capable of.

"What do you mean brother?" John asked, his confusion evident. Once out of the building, Joseph decided that he will not answer his younger brother just yet. Better to have the whole family together.

"I will explain when we gather Jacob and Faith at the Compound, but for now, we should return our missing flock back to the rest of the family," Joseph gestured to the three men who piqued up at the sight of both the Father and the Baptist, in awe of the brothers as they were lead into the car.

Here's a WIP for a new FC5 fic, Let The Skyfall (When It Crumbles), a scenario where I pondered the question of what would have happened if Paul Yellowjack, in all his wasp-y glory, had been at the events of the Reaping (or FC5 in general) where Silva was busting her ass to fight the Seeds... the answer? He would win. He... would have won. I mean... there's really not much you can do with someone who, in their current supernatural incarnation, can pull off a Kenjaku move (Jujutsu Kaisen reference... and spoilers for the manga and season 2) amongst other things and is an experienced, cunning strategist to boot. Case-in-point... Paul's first victim; the Father himself, Joseph Seed. The post giving a summary of this scenario idea + a summary of who Paul is and his relationship with Silva can be found here and the WIP snippet I have is below:

When lamplight disappeared from the window, Paul rasped a whisper to himself, "Go time."

He looked down to his glove-less hand, opening his palm far and wide. The vespe that watched from his shoulders flapped their wings, snapping at the air, chattering encouragement as the runt of the alveare crawled its way into the body's right palm.

Paul could only describe the sensation of a vespa maneuvering under the skin, especially in a fresh body, as a numb tickle at best and the numbed pain of popping a pimple at worst. The bump the runt made under his skin finally made it to the palm, and without further instruction, broke through the flesh.

The runt, unlike its kin that were irregularly bigger for the kind of wasp they were, was as small as the average vespa should be, and perfect for the task he needed it for.

It used its forelegs to clean itself off, while devouring as much of the nutritious meat and blood as it could before it begun its journey to the cabin. Two of its bigger kin flew down to the gaping hole in the hand, mandibles snapping before widening, a yellowish pale substance slowly spewing out, their forelegs pulling a stream of it out, and then working together to cover the breach in the sticky spew, swiftly hardening as they worked.

He brought the hand up to his clean-shaven face, the runt looking back up at him with beady red eyes. It knew what it needed to do. He knew what he needed to do. So without further prompting, the runt flapped its wings and made its way towards the sleeping cabin, the lights at the Profeta's compound glowing brightly in the distance.

Though if things went to plan, Paul smiled to himself as he hummed out an old tune he heard, walking back towards the cover of the trees, They won't be much of an eye sore for much longer.

Though he rarely allowed his hive to separate, he was confident that the runt would ensure that Profeta's body was under his thumb. Seeing through its vision now, he was already impressed how far it made it without being eaten by a bat.

The runt flew towards the small wooden cabin, landing at the window sill. Looking inside, the darkness held no disadvantage over his vision, and he could see clearly that the Profeta was laying down on his bed, sleep having finally caught up to him.

The runt clamped its mandibles together, its body convulsing and buzzing erratically. He had quite enjoyed keeping the Profeta awake over the course of the month.

Crawling through the cracked and broken glass he made during a another nighttime visit, the runt had successfully entered the cabin.

It looked to its target, growling out softly at the sight of the shirtless man.

The Profeta was a man in his early forties, reaching his mid, facial hair grown into a small beard, the hair on his head usually tied in a bun, but locks left to flow naturally as he laid asleep on his back.

The man was shirtless, a proof of arrogance and ignorance towards the vulnerability that can be exploited. Not to mention his doors and windows were all unlocked as Paul had discovered.

The visible tattoos that strewn across the younger man's chest held little meaning to the runt nor Paul, though the self-inflicted scars littered across, some with the labels of the seven deadly sins, did gain attention. How mocking it was to Paul, seeing the Profeta display such scars in public, when he had done nothing to earn them.

They weren't reminders of what he survived. They weren't lessons that shaped his core being, nor were they stories that told a tale of hurt and despair, of someone in pain, and yet through persistence alone, they continue on, to breathe, to live. No, the scars of this profeta held no merit, no truth, no reason to exist beyond glamorization.

A point of glorification to impress the gullible sheep he had entrapped with his charm, to show that suffering is a choice, giving them no chance to naturally experience what it means to fight and crawl and survive. Telling a lie to keep them subservient, slaves who never question the question of what is right and what is wrong, only what the Profeta wants. Individuality and potential talent squandered and crushed over trusting the wrong words.

The truth, the universal truth Paul knew, was that suffering was apart of life. Pain is unavoidable, and the only choice one can have in it is either enduring it or die trying.

To endure pain is to prove you're alive. To endure suffering is to prove your strength. To endure and overcome both, though, is to show your worthiness as a survivor.

The Profeta has only proven how low he will bend to the whims of his cruel master. While Paul's own existence was less than satisfactory, yet he at least had enough freedom to choose how to serve his own Master.

The runt looked to the black pants the man wore, a potential landing spot. But Paul opted against the idea, directing its gaze to the Profeta's jugular. The runt's faint red eyes locked on to its target, wings spread out for flight.

This chance was now or never. There wouldn't be another opportunity, not with the sceriffo's department so restless. The fate of Paul's precious Boa hanged in the balance.

Without further hesitation, the runt leaped in the air, its wings propelling it faster as it brought out its stinger. In mere seconds, the stinger stabbed through the neck, injecting the venom into his bloodstream.

The runt swiftly dropped off his neck, avoiding hand that slapped against the stung area on instinct, the pain rousing the Profeta from his slumber.

The runt's wings saved it from hitting the floor, allowing it to hover up to see the Profeta try to lift himself up, the drowsiness of interrupted sleep becoming heavier than usual.

His hand rubbed his neck, sucking a breath in at the sting, though his arm numbly slouched over the bed. He attempted to lift it, only to find he couldn't. The Profeta tried to sit up, but found himself barely being able to lift his head.

The runt watched the Profeta's face twitch, then it listened as he groaned, moaned and grunted nonsensically, no words forming. His voice failing him.

Through the runt's eyes, Paul couldn't help but smile at the sight of the broken down instrument of a God. One of many tools used to keep the cogs of the wheel going.

Paul urged the runt to go for a closer look.

The runt complied, buzzing and chattering excitedly as it landed on the man's nose, right in his view.

It stared into the Profeta's blue eyes, allowing Paul to see the still gaze of a man helpless and trapped, but more deserving of it.

Paul wondered what this man saw when he slept. What he hears?

The laughter of those long gong, whom he'll never see again except in the depths of buried memories, to bring himself a moment of joy to the grim purpose he existed for now? Did he fantasize of a life he'll never get, one where everything went right?

The runt turned to glance at the arm that had the woman's face etched on his skin.

Does he wish as I do? That he could have made a different choice than the one he did?

The runt faced the Profeta's gaze once more, taking notice of the tears that matched his watery eyes, the body reflexively trying to wet the dry eyes, the venom keeping him from doing something as simple as blink.

Or does he believe he has done no wrong?

The runt turned its back to the Profeta's frozen eyes, looking over the tip of his nose to the half-open entrance that awaited it.

Has the lies he's been told and never doubted become truth, despite how ludicrous they are?

The runt gently hopped down to the man's upper lip, gentleness no longer a necessity as the vespa's legs dug into the soft flesh.

Does he sleep soundlessly despite the terror he's wrought? The lives he's ruined?

The runt's middle legs steadied on the man's upper teeth, its hind legs pushing the upper lip back, while its forelegs pushed the forward the Profeta's bottom teeth, the venom's sluggish effects combined with the vespa's unnatural strength widening his mouth open. With the entrance now large enough to fit it inside, the runt flew over to the chin, its head looking down the interior of the mouth.

Does he hear their damning screams?

Slowly, the runt turned its middle legs to latch onto the slim outline of the shell Paul had attached to it, hooking underneath casing before loosening the thorax and abdomen shells, letting both fall to the sides.

The writhing small tendrils pulsed out, dripping small yellow-ish pale spew, like what most of the alveare produced. The liquid substance hardened as it dripped further down. The Profeta's breath quickened, panicked and confused, unaware of the plans Paul had in store for him. The runt shuddered as the heated air washed over it, before beginning its descent.

Though I'm not overly upset of never knowing the answer.

The runt crawled through the heated wetness of the Profeta's mouth, passing the tongue until it reached his throat. Beady red eyes looked down the path that descended into the esophagus. Unless it wanted to trigger the Profeta's gag reflex, it would avoid the path. Growling, it looked up, and found the breach point.

Crawling to the roof of the mouth, it ascended upwards, the writhing tendrils on its back lubricating in preparation, as its mandible jaws opened wide for the breach.

And last line paragraph(s) for You're Almost Like Family, the time loop fic where the Seeds realize just how easy it is for Silva to just wound up dead, and much they miss the luck she had in the first three months she fought against them. Anyway, paragraphs below:

A shift in movement from one of the Chosen stepping out of his peripheral momentarily caught John's attention, and he almost glanced to see where the Chosen was moving to, but noticed that Alexander raised a brow at the movement from the other end of the circle they surrounded the Deputy in, giving Jacob a signal with his head.

John heard his big brother huff out an annoyed sigh, glancing a quick glare over to the Chosen's new spot. Seeing nothing to worry about, John returned his attention to Joseph's pleas to the wayward sinner who had caused everyone trouble.

"Child, this wrath... this violence that you have escalated for the sinners who only use you as a weapon is no longer necessary," Joseph spoke with a soft, even voice filled with paternal gentleness, "This unnecessary rebellion needs to end. The Collapse closes in on us ever closer, just as I showed you in the Henbane, and the only salvation... are the Gates my family has prepared for. I see you, the person you are. And that is not as the tool of destruction your so called friends view you as. We see your compassion. Your bravery. The virtues you only think you don't have. And we welcome it, in our Garden. You seek someplace to belong... God has shown me you belong with us."

John watched as Joseph outstretched his hand to the Deputy, the Baptist sucking in a breath as she, of all people, eyed it, even as Joseph continued, "Please, child. Put aside the wrath. Put to peace the suffering. This doesn't have to end in blood. We can help each other. With your help, we can save more souls, more lives... and together we can bask in the new world God promised us."

John watched in bated breath as the Deputy glanced down, putting together her options.

When the Deputy finally found an answer, John saw Alexander's eyes widen at something ahead of him, and was shocked to see the Chosen Leader reach for his sidearm.

"Tch, you li-"

A loud crack shot through the air as it did the Deputy, her lips glistened with blood instead of the rest of her words. John watched, frozen on the spot, as the Deputy's body slowly fell back, following after the cartilage and blood that the bullet blast clean through. The bullet of which glinted at his eyes.

And the bullet continued to glint at him, just as the Deputy's corpse stopped in its descent, not even touching the ground. From what John could see, Joseph midway from stepping back, and hadn't planted his foot down, just as Alexander hadn't even been able to fully aim his sidearm at the culprit.

He tried to glance to Jacob and Faith, but found his eyes refused, locked on Joseph and the fresh corpse of his family's most determined rebel, who defied gravity just as she defied them.

What is going on?! Though he couldn't move, John was relieved he could still think to himself.

21 notes · View notes