#so i can’t tolerate even trickle feeds

[autisticlenaluthor]

i feel like the universe is playing one big practical joke on me

[hairenya]

The most stupid concept in American politics is constitutional originalism. Like it would be funny if it didn’t do so much damage to the nation as a whole.

You’re telling me the constitution (which has amendments btw, I can’t stress enough how it has amendments) can only be interpreted to mean what the framers originally intended in the exact words it’s written in and can never be changed. Notice how these people always seem to think the framers would agree with them even when we have letters explicitly to the contrary. But even done in good faith it’s still a stupid concept. Tell me you’re incapable of independent thought and problem solving without telling me. Did you also ask your mom’s permission for everything as a child? Do you need your dad to give you advice on whether or not to eat a grape? Like it’s such a cowardly cop out for people who are too afraid to take ownership of their own opinions and responsibility for their own rulings.

“But the founding fathers”- I hate to be the one to tell you this but they’re dead babe. That’s how the passage of time works. They are d-e-a-d dead. Jefferson is scrubbing a toilet with his toothbrush in Hell. John Adams is getting drunk with the angels. Alexander Hamilton was most recently reincarnated as a squirrel and Ben Franklin won’t stop sexually harassing people via mirror writing at seances. Do you want us to Ouija board them every time there’s a court case? If so Hasbro better release an updated version with caller ID so Dick Cheney doesn’t hide in the vents pretending to be the voice of god to spark a war again. For people who constantly yell about dead people voting, you seem to think we should let dead people make policy.

Of course, they get around this by claiming the constitution was “divinely inspired”. Okay main character syndrome. I don’t think you should take governing advice from a guy who flooded the earth because he had a temper tantrum but it sure would explain a lot. If we’re going to base our government on a narcissistic autocrat who doesn’t tolerate dissent, may I suggest Stalin instead? He doesn’t have quite as high a death toll as God (he’s only human after all) but at least we’d maybe get healthcare out of it. Plus while I realize it wouldn’t help the country any, putting dead leaders in glass coffins would be personally beneficial to my morale. “Jesus is love”- No sweetie that’s Shrek but okay sure. I’m down. Let’s base our government on history’s most controversial hippie. Oh sorry, not what you had in mind?

The worst part is that this idea that the constitution can only mean exactly what it explicitly says nothing more or less with no room for common sense, critical thinking, or interpretation has been expanded to apply to almost every text. It trickles down. When the people in charge of educational policy can’t read between the lines, you get an entire generation who struggles with the idea that not everything has to be explicitly stated. That you can interpret things without spoon feeding. That an author not having a footnote disclaimer decrying the actions of their character as immoral does not, in fact, mean they condone irl murder.

[flowerwrites06]

utopic desire finale — jjk

Plot: Under an elist system of Vampires, Jungkook is torn between his old values and the lowest ranked Vampire he begins to fall for.

Pairing(s): Vampire!Jungkook x Vampire!OC

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Series

Genre: Supernatural/Vampires | Angst/Fluff/Smut

Tags & Warnings: discrimination, explicit smut, angst, coarse language.

Authors Note: this is a repost after my break since I’m not really going to convert this one to original fiction. So enjoy to those who missed it! I’m doing it in parts cause posting big posts on Tumblr sucks.

A week passed since Belle closed the curtains on Jungkook but she still remembered how flooded his eyes got when she broke their ties. However loose and frail they were, it left a stain in her memory that didn’t seem to wipe off easily.

The sky faded into a deeper shade of purple welcoming mid evening. Belle walked through the campus courtyard to her car, books hugged to her chest tight like a shield. It became a habit whenever she felt it getting dark and she was walking alone. As she came close to her Centenario, her heart dropped noticing a group of boys hanging around it and laughing to one another.

Belle took a deep breath and kept padding casually to her car until one of them turned her head to face her. She felt her stomach twist when recognition smacked her like a brick. Jung Hoseok standing near the passengers’ door caressing the top of it with his eyes flashing red. “Can I please get into my car?”

Hoseok scoffed as loud as he could muster erupting more chuckles from the group. “You expect me to believe this is your car?” His gaze flickered up and down her body in both judgement and slight interest.

“It was a gift.” She mumbled.

“Ah…” He nodded. “…yes you’re Min and Park’s fuck toy.”

“They’re my friends.”

“Of course they are, sweetheart.” Hoseok gave her a mocking pout while more snickers echoed in the air. “I also heard you’re Jeon slut now too, aren’t you?” He began to take a few steps forward.

Belle stayed frozen in her tracks, stomach lurching and twisting as she tried to figure out what to do. “We don’t know each other.”

“Right…” A wide, toothy smirk spread across his lips. “It’s funny ‘cause he told me—you had the tastiest blood he ever tried.” Hoseok leaned forward and took a faint whiff, humming a little in delight when he found something very sweet lingering in his nostrils. “Kind of want to see if that theory is true.”

“Please…” She finally started backing away, running back to Taehyung’s dorm or calling someone but Hoseok kept walking forward. “Please leave me alone.”

“I will.” The pure blood nodded still moving closer and closer until he completely towered over the girl. “As soon as I get a little bite.” Hoseok leaned into her without hesitation, mouth parted and fangs baring.

Belle didn’t know what else to do. She could have ran but he would be just as fast as her. So she raised her hard cover book and swung it across his face. A thud echoed in her ears as Hoseok groaned and fell back against the side of the car. Eyes widened when she noticed the blood trickling down his nose. “Stay away from me.” She tried to warn with the hardest voice she could possibly muster until her tongue clipped when the group began surrounding her.

“You’re gonna pay for that, breedling.” Hoseok growled, pupils completely red as his fangs were still bared. He snarled at the girl and lunged forward but was harshly tugged back causing the group to scatter.

Before Belle could gather her bearings and blink away her blurry tears, a figure towered over Hoseok with his back facing the girl. She would have expected the group to fight back against him but they only backed away further looking a little worried.

Vision finally cleared and her heart jumped seeing familiar dark curls and a raspy voice laced with pure fury.

“I could squash you on this pavement right now and no one would blink twice.” Jungkooks’ deep crimson pupils burned into Hoseok’s battered face. “Don’t ever touch her again.” He gripped onto the male’s collars, nails ripping into the fabric as he pulled him back on his feet despite his light stumbling.

Hoseok spat blood out on Jungkook’s shoe with a clear grimace on his bruised and cut face, eyes almost permanently red. “Your father will hear about this, Jeon. I’ll make sure of it.”

Jungkook tightened his jaw, body still burning with so much anger he wished he could throw more punches to relieve himself. “Get out of my sight.” He seethed.

Nothing but a sharp glare shot towards Belle, Hoseok walked away down the pavement with the group following him like little puppies.

He turned around and walked over to Belle examining her for any injuries. Expression softened so quickly when he focused on her movements. “Are you okay?” Jungkook asked.

“I’m fine.” Belle muttered, shaking her head. “Why did you do that? He’s going to tell your father, he’s—”

“I’ll take care of it.” Jungkook replied simply giving her a weak smile. “I promise. Just go home.”

“Jungkook—”

“Go home, be safe.” The pure blood muttered before walking the same direction as Hoseok and his group leaving Belle in a deep pool of confusion and concern.

I’ll take care of it.

How?

-

Five days went by and Jungkook was nowhere to be found on campus. Even when Belle tried to peek at the groups Vira or Hoseok were in, he wasn’t there. Not in class. Not in the courtyard or even in the bars. He was gone. She hated counting how many days but it was officially the sixth day and Jungkook still wasn’t in campus.

“Why are you looking so sad these past few days?” Jimin asked breaking her out of another trance. He forgot all about his assignment to notice the girl’s face looking blank for long minutes at a time before freezing on her readings.

Belle shifted in her seat with a significant pout on her lips. “I’m not sad.”

“Concerned then? About what?”

“I—” She sighed in defeat. “I’m just worried about Jungkook.”

Jimin’s face hardened almost immediately as he glared down at his assignment.

“See that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“No, it’s fine. Look he didn’t attend a few days of school.” He shrugged, scratching a few doodles on the corner of his paper. “It’s no big deal.”

“Jimin…”

“What?”

“He beat Hoseok up.”

A silence spread between them that made Belle uncomfortable. Usually she would expect a jab about how Hoseok deserved it or the two pure bloods were just having a dick sizing competition of some sort. Unfortunately when she searched Jimin’s expression, she saw reluctance and the same concern she saw in the mirror for the past few days.

“Why did–why would he do that?” Jimin leaned forward resting his elbows on the table.

Belle gulped down lowering her gaze for a moment. “He—he tried to feed on me.” When she met the original’s gaze, she immediately noticed the long fade to pitch black as his face hardened again.

“You never told us.”

“Then you’d kill him.”

“He would’ve deserved it.” He spat, the full black hue of his eyes unable to wipe away.

Belle reached out and held onto his tightened fist hoping to ease him somehow. “Nothing happened to me.”

“What if Jungkook didn’t come around? You really think Hoseok was going to just feed on you once?” Jimin winced feeling his breathing growing heavy and ragged. “Fuck, Belle he could’ve—”

“He didn’t.” She emphasized the words as sharply as possible even though the original didn’t look like he was going to let Hoseok live after this new knowledge. Not that Belle cared much about the ordeal. “That’s not what I’m worried about. Jungkook protected me in front of them…Hoseok told him that he was going to tell his father. A-and then Jungkook told me he was going to take care of it.” The more Belle voiced what happened that day, the more her stomach began to lurch again so harshly she couldn’t even look at her iced coffee without feeling nauseous.

“We’re usually the exception to protect you but—Jungkook’s father is not a tolerant man.” Jimin shook his head.

Dread travelled up to the middle of her ribcages squeezing into a tight ball as Belle let out a shaky breath. “You don’t think—” She almost winced. “You don’t think he’s being punished, right? For—for me?”

Jimin took a deep, drawling breath finally opening his fist and holding onto the girls’ hand. This time attempting to give her some comfort. “I can’t say for sure.” He spoke honestly. “But whatever happens…it’s not your fault, alright? I know Jungkook won’t want you to blame yourself for his decision.”

“Why are you talking like he’s not going to come back?” Belle pressed her quivering lips together, tears burning at the brim of her eyes like a dam had been shattered behind them.

“I love you…so I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. Pure bloods and originals don’t have to go to universities or schools, they just do it for their own enjoyment.” Jimin sighed. “If I know our culture accurately, he might be forced to stay at his apartment for a few months until he is welcomed back to the mansion.” He held onto her hand as firmly as he could to ensure she didn’t pull away but tried not to hurt her skin. “Then he’d have to train there until he’s ready to run the Jeon’s respective community.”

Belle hung her head slightly, sighing. “Is that the whole punishment?”

“I really can’t say, Belle. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry too, she tells herself as an possibly dangerous decision passed her mind.

-

Deep in the dead of night, a Lamborghini Centenario parks in front of the luxury apartment buildings specifically for well off vampire students. They usually tried to keep humans and vampires separate unless humans don’t really care or prefer it that way. Belle turned the car off and padded quietly towards the apartment room number she got from Yoongi who ‘convinced’ Hoseok to blurt it out.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” Belle asked.

Yoongi scoffed with a bitter smile. “I fucking wanted to…but Kiku promised me something in exchange for keeping him alive.”

“What kind—”

“Don’t ask.” Jimin shook his head with a grimace. “I did…don’t do what I did.”

“When you have someone, you’ll understand the appeal.” Yoongi pointed at the younger male.

Up the elevator to room 418, Belle stood in front of the door observing the numbers for a moment. She hadn’t truly prepared on what to say coming this far. If he even was still here. What would the punishment have been? Would Jungkook’s father really hate the lower classes so much that he would hurt his son for protecting them?

Letting out a detached sigh fingers curled into a loose fist and rapped on the wooden door a few times. Feet continuously shifting from one side to the other to shake off the anxiety bubbling up from her toes to her head. She really shouldn’t be here. If anyone saw her walking around and recognized who she was, Jungkook might get into more trouble. Before she could think more into it however, shuffling sounded from the other side and the door opened.

Hair tousled and curlier than ever, eyes slightly bloodshot and his lips extremely pouty with his torso completely bare like he had just come out of a nap. Jungkooks’ brows were furrowed when he tried to see who disturbed him but immediately his expression softened.

“Belle?” Jungkook peeked out of the door to see if anyone else was with her before gently guiding her inside and closing it behind him. “What’re you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Belle winced lightly. “You can’t just break the rules like that and disappear for days on end without a single warning.”

He peered through his fringe noticing how much she was shifting around on the spot. “Were you worried about me?” Jungkook walked closer away from the now locked door.

“Well I’m not horrible.” She folded her arms over her chest. “You helped me. Even though you were going to get punished for it. I thought—” Belle sighed averting her gaze to look at the couch setting on her right. “I thought you were gone.”

“But you didn’t want us to see each other anymore.” He shook his head despite the light warmth spreading through his belly. “Why were you concerned about me?”

“Just because I told you we can’t see each other doesn’t mean I wanted it.” Belle turned to look at her left this time, eyes stopping on the things resting on the dining table. Her brows furrowed when she recognized the gauze and antiseptics with towels soaking red tinged water.

Jungkook stammered rushing over to the table. “Sorry I was just—”

Whatever kept squeezing in her chest from time to time now tumbled down into a dark abyss, endless and terrifying. Belle’s gaze paused on Jungkook’s back as her fingers began to tremble from a dangerous brew of dread and anger. Deep red lashes broken his skin in different directions, some of them still freshly bleeding while others were taking their time to heal.

“Jungkook…” She whispered in a light sob. Belle walked over to the male who tried to face her with his torso again so she wouldn’t see but she wanted to. Somehow a part of her felt like it was her responsibility to see. See what happened to people who protected her. Holding onto his arm, Belle gently turned him around again and her features contorted, tears burning in her eyes as her shaky hands hovered over the angry markings. “I’m sorry…I-I’m sorry, why did—why didn’t y-you walk away?”

“Walk a—Belle, he was going to hurt you!” Jungkook argued, wincing turned to meet her teary gaze.

“I can take hurt when it’s directed to me!” She sobbed out. “This…I-I don’t want other people getting h-hurt ‘cause of me.”

“You could’ve been at any level of the system, Belle. I’d still beat the living shits out of anyone who hurts you.”

“If I was in any other part of the system, you wouldn’t be punished.”

He wanted to keep fighting off as much as he could. To remind her that people should still rise up and protect people in need no matter where they stand in some kind of messed up system tradition created. “It’s done now, okay?” Jungkook softened his voice, reaching out and cupping her cheek so she could look at him instead of the lashes. “Besides I should be saying sorry.”

Belle didn’t hesitate to shake her head. “No—”

“I do. I don’t fucking know why I couldn’t say it at the yacht but I’m sorry.” He brushes his fingers gently through her hair. “You’re not an abomination, you’re not dirty, not even close.” Jungkook closed their distance a little more, relishing in the heat radiating from her body again after staying away from it far too long. “You’re so fucking warm and sweet.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I love being around you.”

She tried so hard to respond with the words swirling in her head but they all faded into short, trembling breaths as tears trickled down her cheeks. Something lifted from the abyss back up to her chest, bursting with flowers and butterflies as they soared across her body.

“You know how I told you that the yacht made me feel free?” The corner of his lips curled up a little.

“Mhm…” Belle sniffled.

“The moment you walked into it was I felt free.” He curled his fingers around a few of her hair strands reminding himself that this wasn’t some sick dream from the wooziness. “When you left, I felt trapped again.”

Belle nudged her nose against his, a small smile creeping on her quivering lips. “Feed on me again.” She muttered in a low voice barely audible but it caught Jungkook’s attention with barely any effort.

“What?”

“I want you to feel free.” She whispered. “It’ll help you heal completely if you feed on me.”

Jungkook pulled his head away to meet her gaze properly. “Blood doesn’t work. They laced the whips with something…makes it harder to heal.”

“They gave you human blood. A few years ago I gave Yoongi some of mine in a bottle and it healed his wound from a silver bullet.” Belle wiped the stray tears away from her jawline. “I didn’t tell him it was mine at first but it works—Jimin explained that original vampire healing powers mixed in with the human immune system creates these…really potent cells in the blood.”

“Belle, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t…take from you.” He still thought about the first time he did it. How selfish he was to just take from the girl knowing she couldn’t really blurt it out to anyone. “I did it once and I—treated you like nothing, I just indulged.”

“It’s not taking, I’m giving.” She reached out and gave his bottom lip a featherlight brush from her fingers. “I—I liked it when you fed on me.”

Jungkook wanted to relish in her soft fingers for a moment, pursing them to almost resemble a kiss. Then her words threw him over the edge and brought him back to reality. “You what?”

Belle gulped down before lowering her head and putting her fingers down. “It made me really excited.” She admitted shyly. “I en-I enjoy it when it hurts a little.” Her cheeks ignited with a deep heat that didn’t seem to cool over any time soon. Anything to ensure Jungkook was convinced it wasn’t wrong to feed from her if she consented and liked it.

“You enjoy pain.” His own voice and words swirled in his mind like a potent drug as the heat from her body coated the air around them. Jungkook leaned in to brush his nose against her hair when she had her head lowered in adorable shyness. Her sweet, thick scent floating and filling his lungs to the brim where he could almost taste it on his tongue like honey.

Her hands absentmindedly pressed against his stomach gently, feeling his skin on her warm palms. “Only when you do it.” Belle had to close her eyes, allowing her body to succumb to the heat and the satisfying heaviness forming in her lower belly. “No one else.”

Whatever wall they tried to build between them practically melted as Jungkook placed his fingers on the underside of her chin to lift her head. Leaning in, he pressed a warm kiss on her lips, cupping her cheek firmly to push her into him deeper. Tongue pushed through Belle’s teeth, exploring every inch of her mouth taking whatever remanence of her taste he could get almost selfishly.

Belle let a hum into the kiss sliding her hands up his torso to his rising chest, fingers tracing his collarbones as their tongues danced against one another in messy but beautiful sync. She felt him pull away from the kiss, immediately moving his lips down to her jawline, licking down her neck to find the best spot.

Jungkook nibbled on one particular area, kissing and licking it making sure Belle felt as comfortable and loose as possible. Then his fangs bared sinking into the soft skin. His ear pricked when he heard a small gasp. But feeling her hand grip at his roots and gently push him further in, Jungkook didn’t hesitate to let the warm, sweet liquid touch his tongue and travel down his throat.

A growl emitted under his breath vibrating on her skin as he drank in more, gulping it down with such enthusiasm. Head spinning with bliss and the ache on his back fading away completely.

“Kook…” She whispered, tugging at his roots a little.

Pressing his tongue flat against the wound, he closed the intrusions up in seconds before moving to press his forehead on her hers again. Breathing heavy and ragged but his whole body felt a thousand times better now compared to the past five days.

Belle moved away from his grasp even though the male tried to tighten his hold on her. She peeked at his back and let out a sigh of relief seeing only blood stains on healed skin. “It worked.” She walked towards the towels in the bowl of water and wrung the cleanest one before moving to Jungkook’s back again.

Despite the injuries completely healed, she still carefully cleaned the leftover blood stains until all she could see was his glistening bare skin. “Does it feel better?”

“Much better.” Jungkook murmured turning around and taking the towel off her to put back on the table. As his strength reeled back to him, he took her lips again, hands trailing down her chest and slowly unbuttoning her cardigan.

She shrugged off the thin clothing letting it fall to the ground before wrapping her arms around his neck. Distance closed between them, bodies pressed taut against each other as their tongues began their dance. Belle felt his fingers grip at the hem of her dress. “Take it off.” She requested in a whisper.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate to pull the dress over her head, smiling at her hair completely covering her face. He brushed away her soft locks before kissing her again.

Belle moved her hands at his hips, pushing down his sweat pants letting them pool around his ankles before he kicked them away. She felt him walk forward forcing them to stumble and hit a wall behind her, soft moans jolting out of them. Unclipping her bra from the front, she pulled it off along with the other clothes scattered across the floor.

Jungkook’s lips travelled down to her neck, nibbling until he could see blood rushing to the surface forming a gorgeous redness to the skin. Kissing the valley of her beautiful breasts, middle of her ribcages right down to her clothed more, knees rested on the floor for her. He pressed a hand over the slightly soggy clothing with a smile tugging at his lips. “You really like being fed on, don’t you?”

Belle let out a mixture of a whine and a giggle, hips swaying against his hands lightly brushing against her throbbing clit. “Only when it’s you.”

“Good.” He hooked at the hem of her panties, pulling down to her ankles slowly letting her walk out of them before sliding them away. Jungkook pushed her legs apart just enough for him to lean in and taking her clit between his lips.

Letting out a shaky sigh, her fingers came up to bury themselves in his hair watching him move his head up and down. Toes curled in against the wood. Hips jerked a little into his mouth trying to get more friction from his tongue. Though the action earned her a firm slap on her bottom, her walls clenched around nothing, inner thighs glistening with wetness. “Do it again.”

Jungkook pulled away from her core with an excited smirk brightening his features. Standing up, he turned Belle around.

Cheek pressed against the wall, Jungkook kept one of his hands on the back of her head to keep her still.

Belle let out a breathy giggle, curling her back so her ass poked out in front of him.

Jungkook caressed her soft peach with his free hand. Kneading the soft flesh before giving his first swing. Palm slammed on her delicate skin, light blush forming a few seconds after.

She gasped at the first impact. Fingers curled against the wooden wall, trying to shift but the grip on her hair prevented her from doing so. Another slap came down making her ass jiggle.

Jungkook moved his fingers down to her sodden entrance, pushing in two digits carefully and curling down to find the rough spot inside her. The sweet scent so thick and intoxicating as it mixed with arousal and sweat. The more she moaned, the faster his fingers thrusted into her, faster and harder until he could feel her juices sputtered out on his hand. “You’re so hot, baby.” He leaned in and pressed a hot kiss on her shoulder blade.

Belle hummed in delight at his words before immediately whining when he felt his fingers pulled out of her. In a second, another harsh slap hit her ass again. Over and over. Jungkook’s drenched digits leaving remnants of her arousal on her blushing skin. Slap. Slap. Slap. Entrance drooled and dripped down her inner thighs. Slap. Slap. His fingers pulled at her roots just enough for her eyes to close. Slap.

It looked like a beautiful work of art seeing the deepening red marks on her skin, raw and fresh. Jungkook traced a finger over the darkest patch hearing a light hiss from the girl. He pulled his hand away and turned her back around again, raising one of her legs up to hook under her thigh. Wrapping another hand around his aching member he gave it a few slow strokes before positioning it at her leaking slit. Jungkook pushed through her with ease, walls hugging and clenching around him with such enthusiasm he could come done right there and then.

Ruby encrusted eyes fixated on how focused Jungkook looked when he moved inside her. As if getting all that he wanted but being careful to give her pleasure at the same time. Belle cupped his cheek, gasping a little as he slowly slid in and out of her, steady thrusts hitting deep, brushing against her sweet spot. With a light smile tugging at her lips she brushed her thumb across his knitted forehead.

Her core completely swallowed every inch of his length causing a groan to vibrate in his throat. Jungkook kept with his steady thrusts, flickering his gaze up to Belle as her lips parted allowing more choked moans to pass through her. “Feels good?” He breathed out, noses nudging against each other as they trembled where they stood.

Belle nodded frantically, another whimper stopping at the roof of her mouth. “So good.” She felt her leg aching a little as it pressed down against the floor while other was still locked under his arm. “Go harder…” Her voice came out in a faint whisper against his lips.

Jungkook’s eyes faded into a deep crimson red. Not a flash but complete transformation, growing darker and darker as her words sunk in. He hooked her other leg under his arm and dug his fingers into her hips until he could feel her bones. In mere seconds, Jungkook began his onslaught of thrusts slamming her back down harshly while the room filled with her pleasured cries.

Every time she was pushed down, Belle could feel him hitting the soft walls of her cervix sending her over the edge. Toes curled into themselves tightly as her fingers gripped at his hair, messily kissing his upper lip before she was bounced up and down again. The impact caused a sting on her reddened bottom as her throbbing clit rubbed against his lower belly. The tight ball coiled beyond its control, so ready to come undone every time his tip slammed deep inside her. “’m c-close…” She whimpered.

Despite the curdling heat ready to rush to his tip at her words, Jungkook pulled out of her smirking at the pleading cry she uttered. “Not yet.” He loosened his death grip on her hips soothing the dented skin before carrying them over to the bedroom.

Jungkook laid her down on all fours, placing one of the pillows under her hips not bothering to turn the lights on and leaving the moonlight from the windows to shine through. It didn’t take a second before he noticed Belle slowly grinding on the soft pillow to gain some of the lost build-up back. He swung another slap across her beautiful bruised peach, relishing in how she whimpered so desperately.

Knees sunk into the soft surface of the bed as he wrapped one hand around her neck, bending it back so she could look up at him. An ache tugged at the back of her neck from the stretch but it immediately drowned into a tremble of pleasure, his length filling her sloppy pussy once again, twitching for more. Belle whimpered, ragged breathing hitting Jungkooks’ face like a waft of fresh air. He leaned in and pressed a tender kiss against her puffy lips.

“You like being held down, don’t you, sweetheart?” The vampire growled into the kiss, hips pressing tight against hers so she could feel every inch of his length deep inside her. “Fucked like a hungry little animal in heat.”

Belle hissed in response, trying to swivel her hips but her knees were so far apart she could barely move. Her mind melting into a submissive state. Allowing the senior vampire to do as he pleased in his own pace. Sweat drizzled all over their writhing bodies, a few beads dropped from the ends of Jungkooks’ raven curls softly landing on her cheek.

The room was dark but couldn’t match the pitch black taint of lust in his orbs. “I asked you a question, kitten.” Jungkooks’ voice rasped. Pulling his hips back down, he applied full force to slam it back against her raw, reddened ass coaxing a shaky cry from her.

Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes as the ache from her neck further mixed in with the impact against her g-spot. The insane mixture of pain and pleasure made her shake, both in anticipation and desperation. “Ye-Yes—Yes…”

“Yes what?” He whispered but it still exuded the most delicious amount of power. Enough for it to crawl under her skin and further her lust fueled insanity.

“I—” Belle tried to take a few breaths. “I like—” A hazy smile tugged at her lips, staring up at him. “—getting fucked—like an animal…”

“Good girl.” With that praise, he pulled his cock out until only the tip filled her. A light hum emitted under his breath feeling Belle clench desperately around it. When she clenched tight enough Jungkook pushed it back in relishing in her sweet whimper. “Good girl.” He whispered again softly as he slammed inside her again. And again. He began his onslaught of thrusts releasing her neck from the lock.

Belle felt a slight relief from the back of her neck as he fucked into her, skin slapping against her raw ass. She dropped down to rest her cheek against the pillow as the heaviness in her belly coiled, tightening so hard that her head began to spin. The bed creaked a little, headboard hitting the wall at every thrust.

Jungkook dipped down, burying his head into her shoulder as his thrusts grew sloppy as he felt her walls pulsing around him. “I can feel you cumming, sweetheart.” He whispered with an intoxicated smirk against her skin as he reached one hand in between the pillow and her core, roughly rubbing her clit. “Let it out.”

Fingers gripped the sheets so hard, it pulled out from where it was tucked. Heat coating her aura closing on her as the only thing she could utter were a string of pleasure infused cries. Her entrance burned, coil tearing up at the seams until it completely burst, juices sputtering out of her in a soft sprinkle soaking Jungkook’s hands and the sheets underneath them. Belle’s legs trembled trying to close but her knees were still so far apart.

He moaned in excited desperation feeling how much her release spewed out of her before the heat rushed to his tip. Heaviness inside him emptying and spilling into the beauty as burning ecstasy spread through his veins. Jungkook kissed her shoulder softly, pulling out of her carefully before pulling her legs so she could lie on her stomach in a more relaxed way. “You did so good, baby.” He brushed her hair away to kiss her cheek. “You’re not an animal.” Jungkook whispered against her skin as he moved down her back, staining the words on it so she could always remember. Even if she didn’t, he could spend more nights constantly reminding her. “You’re a blessing.”

Belle let out a small, breathy chuckle despite the tears brimming at her eyes from how warm her belly felt at his words. She reached behind her and weakly brushed through his hair where she could catch it before feeling him kiss her fingers.

“I’m gonna clean you up then we can sleep, okay?” Jungkook soothed over the reddened patches on her bottom trying not to rub too hard.

“Okay.” She sniffled lightly, a smile almost permanently plastered across her lips.

Grabbing a wet cloth, Jungkook wiped the excess from her body before helping her get out of bed to the bathroom. A quick lukewarm shower involving the two stealing kisses from one another as their chuckles echoed against the tiled walls. He draped her in one of his T-shirts and some comfortable shorts before they walked back to the bedroom to change the sheets.

Finally they were settled under fresh blankets with Belle resting her head on his chest and nuzzling her nose against his jawline. Pleased hums emitting from under her breath as Jungkook’s traced up and down her arm.

“Say it again.” Belle murmured in such a tiny voice, he almost didn’t catch it.

“What?”

She kept her gaze on his bare chest, tracing circles on his left breast. “That thing you said before.” Her voice kept dwindling down in her shyness. Cheeks burning a little as she snuggled more into him.

“Blessing.” Jungkook smiled up at the ceiling feeling her body warm up so beautifully coating them in comfort. “You’re a blessing.” He brushed his lips against her hair. “Want me to say it again?”

Belle giggled completely hiding her face in his chest making Jungkook chuckle. “No…it’s okay. Thank you.”

“Thank you too.”

“Why me?” She looked up to meet his gaze.

“You came to see me.” Jungkook grinned, moving his hand from her arm to her cheek brushing his fingers against her warm skin. “No one’s visited me ever since that day. You were the only one who checked on me.”

Belle’s heart dropped thinking about the few days Jungkook had to tolerate and treat his injuries alone without the help of any of his ‘friends’. The moment he was seen going against the system, they all walked away without a second thought. “I’ll always come and check on you then.” She wrapped an arm around his torso as an attempt to hug him. “All the time.”

Jungkook fully embraced her with a light giggle under his breath. “Or you could just stay here.”

She grinned to herself. “Or I could stay here.”

“My blessing.” He whispered one last time before they drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep.

-

Morning broke in warm and comforting as Belle snuggled into the soft surface of the bed. She adorned in the soft T-shirt while shifting under the blankets. Her whole body wanted to just stay in here all day. But when she slid her hand to where Jungkook slept, something emptied inside her when there was nothing but a free space. Opening one eye to peek at the side, Belle whined a little.

Though eventually her annoyance faded when she smelled faint waft of berries in the air, fading the exhaustion as her eyes opened completely. Belle pushed off the bed slowly, fixing herself up as best as she could despite the clear thrilling bruise marks on her neck that made her body flutter in glee.

Walking out of the bedroom to the kitchen, she saw Jungkook pouring some hot water into two cups. The liquid was almost pitch black aside from the reddish tone glinting in the light.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered to see the girl, hair a little disheveled and lips incredibly pouty when she walked towards the kitchen counter. “Onyx tea.” He slid one of the cups towards her. “I forgot I ran out of coffee so this is all I got.”

“It’s okay.” Belle smiled down at the cup, blowing off some of the stream before taking a small sip and her tongue tried to push the bitter taste back out. “Little pungent.” She attempted to hide her grimace.

“Oh yeah it tastes disgusting.” He chuckled. “But apparently it helps in relaxing the muscles.”

She remembered the slight soreness between her legs and continued drinking past the putrid taste. Part of Belle wanted to keep dragging on the comfortable silence just for a little bit longer but nothing good came with holding back reality into a tiny box for it to burst. “Jimin told me what happens when you break the rules.”

Jungkook’s smile faded at the mention, gripping at the edge of the counter with a deep sigh. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But I do. You can say that it was all your doing but it’s not going to change anything.” Belle tightened her grip around the cup when she remembered the marks on his back again. “I want to help.”

“Help how?”

“Maybe if I ask Yoongi to take you in like he did me.”

The vampire scoffed immediately, shaking his head. “I highly doubt that.”

“We could go talk to him and Kiku. Jimin–Jimin’s gone through something like this before, I know he’d understand.”

“The last time your friends saw me, they all wanted to kill me.”

“Because that’s what they do.” Belle got off the stool and walked closer to the male, caressing his forearm. “They protect the members of their group. Please…” She held onto his hand and hugged it to her chest. “Please let me do this for you.”

Jungkook stammered lightly trying to come up with an excuse or an argument that could convince her otherwise. That this system was impenetrable and his punishment was going to be inevitable. But the way the rubies in her eyes glimmered so brightly, he was reminded of the things Belle must have gone through. Despite all of it, she still stood here trying to convince him that good can come out of their suffering. Jungkook found it hard not to be swayed. “Alright. We’ll talk to them.”

-

Dawn brightened into midday when Belle escorted Jungkook to her group’s regular café hangouts. The colours were oddly cutesy with its mint and pink colour scheme when it served the best desserts and coffees for vampires. However no one really liked a horror themed café in the morning. She already noticed Kiku sitting near the window in the last booth while Yoongi shyly kissed her cheek.

Her arm hooked around Jungkook though his steps were slower than normal. Belle looked up to see the male gulping when he noticed the group.

“Are you sure about this?”

“It’s gonna be fine.” Belle muttered. “Besides we’re in a public place so they can’t kill you in front of witnesses.” She couldn’t help but giggle when Jungkook gave her a look of disapproval.

Jungkook couldn’t be mad for too long when the girl leaned in to press quick kiss on his cheek.

“They’re not horrible people, Kook, they’ll understand. And your plan might even make them like you.”

“Or trust me even less.”

“Well…on the bright side, this café has the best crimson macarons.” Belle smiled already feeling her mouth-watering at the thought of having it again.

“I’m here pissing my pants scared and you’re thinking about cookies?”

“Macarons, silly.” They walked into the establishment feeling a cool air rush though their clothes before stepping to the counter. “And try not to actually piss your pants.” Belle murmured under her breath but enough for Jungkook to hear.

Belle ordered her macarons and a red latte while Jungkook ordered a ruby black with two extra shots of blood. She felt a small tingle in her belly when he absentmindedly placed his hand on the small of her back.

“Did they all have to be here at once?” Jungkook rubbed her back, somehow oddly giving himself comfort by doing so. “Can’t I do it one by one?”

“They kind of always come in a unit nowadays so no.” Belle patted his chest. “I want you to talk to them properly, Kook. So you can at least be civil with each other in the long run.” She held onto his hand and finally led him over to the end booth.

Immediately Kiku noticed the girl and waved with a wide grin. However Yoongi managed to see someone else coming behind her causing a significant frown on his face.

The couple stood in front of their table while Jimin and Taehyung also joined in to shoot sharp glares at Jungkook leaving him in more of an uncomfortable position.

“No one freak out.” Belle muttered glancing at his friends. “But he’s here in peace.” She picked up a chair and placed it at the table so Jungkook could sit down albeit reluctantly. Belle opted to sit down next to Jimin while Taehyung observed the window outside.

Kiku hooked her arm around Yoongis’ when she noticed the anger radiating from him.

“His father hurt him a lot for protecting me.” Belle spoke plainly ensuring everyone knew why it was so important not to push him away. Especially with what their group stood for.

“He hurt you too.” Yoongi seethed.

Belle glanced over at Jungkook for a moment and saw him hanging his head. “He was ignorant…a lot of you were. Jimin, you cut off ties with Gaia because she was a human.”

Jimin’s head shot to face her. “That’s—That’s not the same.”

“Oh? Did you not feel weary about showing her off to your parents?” She tilted her head as the older male pressed his lips together. “Because you were afraid you two would get married and make someone like me?”

“Gaia was really heartbroken, Mini.” Kiku explained with a saddened expression. “It’s…kind of why she transferred to Tokyo.”

Jimin’s swallowed down the lump in his throat, blinking profusely before hanging his head.

Belle then looked over at Yoongi who had his gaze lowered in the thickening silence of the group. “Yoongi…you hated me when we first met. You wouldn’t even look at me until that day you got shot.”

The older male didn’t try to argue but he could still see that little glint of guilt spreading across his features as he tapped the side of his cup. “I love you now though.”

“I know.” She smiled. “And I want you guys to do the same to Jungkook. Maybe not now or even a couple of years from now but the system turned its back on him just like the rest of us.” Belle paused her words for a moment as the waitress came in with their orders, placing them carefully on the table.

“The Jeons are a little harder to sway when it comes to loopholes in the system.” Kiku explained while the other boys were trying to get their bearings after the walls Belle broke down between them. “Your father might not even care if you’re under our protection.”

“I can get my father to talk to him.” Jimin spoke up which caused Jungkook’s head to shoot up though the older male didn’t look over at him. “If he hears from an original, it might—at the very least—make Jeon weary of testing boundaries far too much.” He side glanced at Belle for a moment, shifting in his seat. “I will have to tweak the story a little, however and tell him you were protecting a half-blood or a turned to make it more uh—”

“Palatable.” Belle answered for him, giving him a reassuring smile.

Jungkook glanced over at both of them with a slight frown. “You’re going to lie for my benefit? I thought your parents hated lower classes.”

Jimin sighed. “Abiding by my parent’s beliefs has never gotten me anywhere good. I think everyone here can agree with that when it comes to their families.”

Belle watched Yoongi lean back against the booth couch, letting go of his cup with an unreadable expression on his face.

“You’ll need another place to stay.” Yoongi spoke, silencing everyone else completely.

“He can stay at mine.” Belle nodded. “It’s too big for one person anyway.”

“I gave you that penthouse as a gift.” He pointed at the younger female with a slight pout.

“And it’s lovely but there’s two spare rooms that are doing nothing for me so you can take one.” Belle smiled at Jungkook who whispered a small thank you.

Taehyung scoffed with a smirk, leaning his back against the window to face them properly. “Yeah, like he’s going to use the spare room.”

Kiku cleared her throat, giving the male a soft warning look before smiling back at Jungkook as she held onto Yoongi’s hand. A silent way to thank him for not pushing the boy away when he was in need. “So it’s decided. We remind Jeon not to enforce his beliefs on one of our own.” She looked at each member of the group.

Jimin nodded followed by Taehyung before Kiku turned to Yoongi.

The oldest male gazed around the group, stopping at Jungkook before looking over at the hopeful look on Belle’s face. “Always wanted to piss on the system one day, what the hell.”

Belle’s lips stretched into a wide grin as something fluttered in her belly when she saw Jungkook letting out a deep sigh of relief.

The air around the group lightened in a few minutes as Kiku started teasing Yoongi for being such a good caretaker. He would have looked annoyed usually if Kiku didn’t whisper something else in his ear causing a smile on his face. Even Jungkook began joining in on the laughter as they talked about how crooked Hoseok’s nose looked after he battered him.

Although Belle could feel a raging storm brewing in the future as they all did, it was a moment of small joy and comfort. In a world that wanted to shun them forever, they could still laugh and joke to show off their new freedom.

<< PREV CHAPTER 

[cherienymphe]

Too Good (Ransom Drysdale x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, CLASSISM, a surprise crossover

{IF ANY OF THIS OFFENDS YOU, PLEASE DNI}

➥ {page breaks done by @whimsicalrogers}

summary:  you’ve worked for the Thrombeys for years and your professional, borderline detached, attitude has always led Ransom to take you as another low class citizen who hates the rich. A surprise run in at your engagement party proves that isn’t the case at all: it’s just his family you hate.

~

“You staying for the soiree tonight?”

You paused in your cleaning, glancing up at Meg as she pulled from her juul.

Winter break had been well under way for a few days now and the entire Thrombey family had been trickling into Harlan’s home one by one. The famous writer always welcomed his family during the holidays, and while you admired his generosity, you hated that it put you face to face with the rest of the snobbish bunch.

Walter Thrombey was spineless and his wife, Donna, wasn’t much better. His wife at least had the tendency to steer clear of drama while Walt, on the other hand, was always trying to tell Harlan how to run his business. These were things you could overlook if it weren’t for the fact that they’d managed to raise a Nazi in the making. Some of Donna’s comments during politics talk told you that this wasn’t exactly a case of a rebelling teenager.

Joni was harmless but annoying at best. It wasn’t surprising that she and Meg were the only ones you could tolerate. They were far less snobby than the rest, but there was still something about them that didn’t make you completely comfortable around them. Meg loved to refer to Marta, Harlan’s nurse, as family, but occasionally you found yourself wondering how sincere that really was. You often told Marta that she shouldn’t have told Meg the truth about her family, but Marta was a trusting girl.

Linda, Harlan’s daughter, walked around with far too much self-importance all because she considered herself to be self-made. You chose your words carefully because you were positive anyone could be as successful as she was if they too got a small loan of a million dollars from their father. Her husband, Richard, was a racist who would balk at such a label. He’s full of micro aggressions and sometimes just downright aggression. He loved the money that came with being married into the Thrombey family, and considering he’d signed a prenup, it was no secret that the man lived in fear of losing everything with one wrong move.

Perhaps you were a bit harsh in how you looked at Linda and Richard, but they gave you more than enough reasons to think negatively of them, and the biggest reason of all was due to drift in with the wind any moment now. Joni had reached some milestone in her business that was apparently quite a big deal, and so Harlan had offered to throw a celebration. You were invited, not as help, but as a guest. You were still undecided and that was what you told Meg.

She exhaled, the sickly-sweet scent filling your lungs as you slid the rag along the kitchen counter.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a better night planned with that boyfriend of yours?”

You chuckled, throwing her a small smile.

“Maybe I do,” you coyly replied.

She took another drag before replying.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t blame you if you ditched us for a hot date. Ransom is gonna show within the next three hours or so, and you know he can barely stand the sight of you,” she said.

“The feeling is mutual,” you murmured, turning to face her as you finally finished.

She laughed, offering you the juul. With a sigh, you accepted it, figuring that you deserved it after your day. You’d been cleaning along with Fran nonstop all day in order to prepare for tonight.

“Why does he hate you so much anyway?” she wondered out loud.

You pressed the plastic to your lips and handed it back to her just before exhaling.

“Because I think he’s a piece of shit,” you answered.

She rolled her eyes with a crooked smile.

“We all do,” she deadpanned.

“Yeah, but…you’re family. It’s kind of expected…especially in your family. Besides, I disliked him the very moment I met him. I never even gave him the benefit of the doubt because I saw right through him, and he knows I see right through him.”

You gathered your cleaning supplies.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure why that gets underneath his skin so much. I know I can’t be the only person he’s met who feels the same way, but maybe it has something to do with his pride or whatever. Who knows? I should get ready to go, anyway.”

There was a smirk on Meg’s red lips.

“I knew you had a hot date.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I wouldn’t call it a hot date or anything, but spending time with my boyfriend does beat the alternative,” you told her.

She followed you out of the kitchen, pouting as you threw on your coat and grabbed your purse.

“You hardly talk about him that sometimes I forget you have a beau waiting at home for you when you leave here,” she complained.

“Meg, you know I like to keep my work life and personal life as separate as possible,” you reiterated, looking for your keys.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re so uptight about that,” she waved you off.

You threw her a look.

“You know how your family can be,” you told her matter-of-factly.

Meg playfully scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she followed you to the door.

“Are you ashamed of us?” she questioned as you walked out.

You stuck your head back in, hand on the doorframe as you smiled.

“Yes.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’ll be back first thing tomorrow, right?”

“Of course,” you chirped. “I can’t leave Fran to clean up the mess that will no doubt be left in the morning.”

“Drive safe,” she called as you descended the steps.

You were nearing your car when the purr of another sounded from the long driveway. You paused as you realized just who was making their way in and you wasted no time in unlocking your car. His light-colored vintage one slid in beside yours, and you sank into your seat just as he hopped out.

You didn’t spare him a glance as you started your vehicle, but you could feel his cold blue gaze boring into you. Your suspicions were proven right when you went to close your door only to be thwarted. His large hands pressed down onto the top of your door, and when you looked up at him, there was a mocking smile on his pink lips.

“Y/N,” he greeted. “Leaving so soon?”

You couldn’t see his eyes for his dark shades, but you just knew they were mocking you too.

“Yes,” you tersely replied, pulling on your door.

You huffed when he, and your door by extension, didn’t budge.

“That’s a real shame. I was looking forward to seeing what you look like when you’re not on your hands and knees…scrubbing, that is.”

“I have a prior engagement,” was your simple answer, pulling on the door again.

“Ah. I think I did hear Meg mention a boyfriend once. Let me guess… You’ve got a homecooked meal waiting for you in whatever rundown apartment you live in? Maybe you’ve got a date planned. Feeding the homeless? Singing to less fortunate children?”

You clenched your jaw, just waiting for him to back away.

“That is more up your alley, right? You’ve got to do something to make up for hanging around us snobs all day lest we wear off on you.”

You stared through your windshield, looking away from him with so much dismissal you were sure you heard him growl at you.

“Are you finished?” you wondered.

He scoffed, staring at you for a moment longer before eventually backing away. You slammed your door shut and locked it without hesitation. With a sigh, you finally backed away, pushing all thoughts of Ransom Drysdale out of your mind as you drove home.

Soft music littered the air as well as the aroma of food as you stepped inside of your house. You dropped your purse and keys onto the table beside the door and peeled your coat off as confusion filled you. You didn’t recall having planned anything for the evening, but you shouldn’t have been too surprised. Your boyfriend was always going out of his way to treat you.

You looked around for him as you approached the kitchen, confusion growing when you saw no sign of him. You had just opened your mouth to call for him when familiar arms wrapped around you. You jumped a bit before relaxing into his embrace, a smile on your lips as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Welcome home,” he purred.

“…and what a nice welcome it is. Is there some occasion that I missed?”

He inhaled, humming as he thought.

“Mm, no. None that I can think of. Can’t I spoil you? Especially after the day I’m sure you’ve had?”

At the mention of work, you groaned, and he chuckled.

“How was work, by the way?” he wondered, massaging your shoulders now as he walked you through the house.

“Tiresome,” you honestly replied. “They’re having some celebration of sorts tonight, so it was up to me and the other housekeeper to make sure the entire place was in tip top shape.”

He paused.

“You weren’t invited?” he asked, an iciness in his voice that was familiar to you whenever you talked about work.

“I was, but…”

You shook your head as you trailed off.

“You know that I don’t like to be around those people any longer than I need to be.”

You weren’t exaggerating when you told Meg that you liked for your work and personal life to be completely separate. The Thrombeys knew absolutely nothing about your personal life, including your boyfriend, and the reverse was the same. While your boyfriend knew that you worked for a rich family on the side to help with graduate school, he didn’t know what family it was, and that was how you liked it. Especially considering how tight knit elite circles were, there was always a chance he knew them.

“It’s almost over, hun. You’re almost done with your degree, and soon you won’t have to go back there ever again,” he murmured. “Of course, you wouldn’t be there in the first place if you’d just let me…”

You scoffed as he trailed off, and you turned around in his arms just as you two reached the stairs. You rested your hands on his shoulder, gazing into his blue eyes as he fought a smirk. You playfully narrowed your eyes at him before running a hand through his dark hair.

“Charles Blackwood… How many times do I have to say it?”

“Providing for you will hardly make a dent in my fortune, Y/N,” he sighed.

“I don’t care. There’s no reason you should pay for my tuition when I can do it myself. We barely compromised on me living here instead of my old apartment,” you grumbled, still miffed about it.

“It’s been what, 2 years since you moved in? Don’t tell me you’re still sour because I made more sense than you did during the argument,” he said with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes.

“That’s not important. You are not paying for my tuition. Like you said, I’m so close. I only have to put up with that family for a few more months and then…”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his.

“I’m all yours,” you whispered.

“You’re all mine anyway,” he haughtily replied, deepening the kiss. “…after you get cleaned up.”

He gently pushed you away.

“I’ve run you a hot bath and its waiting for you,” he said.

You threw him a confused smile.

“Seriously, what’s the occasion?” you wondered.

“I’ll tell you later. Go on,” he urged, shooing you up the stairs.

With one last skeptical look thrown over your shoulder, you followed his demands. You didn’t think twice about getting undressed when you entered the lavish bathroom. Rose petals floated along the steaming water and the lighting was low, candles lit all over the room. You sank into the tub with a low moan, relieved to finally be off of your feet.

You did your best to enjoy the moment, doing everything you could to keep tomorrow off of your mind. Like Charles said, it was almost over. You only had a few months left, but you were sure that you’d murder Ransom before then. You scoffed at the thought of the dark-haired prick.

Hugh “Ransom” Drysdale was the embodiment of everything you hated. He was selfish, obnoxiously arrogant, spoiled, and there was a complete lack of reality that surrounded him that made your lips curl. Him being blissfully unaware of matters of the real world wasn’t the problem at hand. It was his contentment in his ignorance that was the problem, and Linda and Richard had raised him that way.

It was why you could never understand their displeasure with his attitude. Their annoyance and grievances with their son never failed to confuse you. Ransom was the way he was purely because of them. The spoiled brat did not raise himself. Forcing the blue-eyed devil out of your brain, you finished washing up. When you exited the bathroom, a gorgeous, and no doubt expensive, nightgown was waiting for you on your bed.

It kissed your feet as you descended the stairs, and you brushed your hands over the wine-colored garment as Charles faced you. He was placing your plates on the table when you entered the dining room, and his eyes lit up when he looked at you.

“You look a thousand times better now that you’re more relaxed,” he said, kissing your cheek as he pulled your chair out.

“I feel a thousand times better,” you agreed. “I really needed that. Thank you.”

Dinner was a talkative affair. You only discussed work for a short while longer before asking Charles about his day. He told you about some clients, one of them a bit of a pain, but nothing he wasn’t used to. You found yourself smiling at him as he droned on, just basking in the sound of his voice, and eventually, he stopped when he noticed.

“What’s the matter?”

You shook your head at him, finishing your wine.

“Nothing. I just…like hearing you talk,” you confessed.

He rolled his eyes and stood, approaching you.

“You’re so sappy,” he complained, leaning down to press his lips to your cheek, taking your empty glass.

“More wine?” he asked, grabbing the bottle.

“Please,” you said.

He placed the refilled glass before you, moving into the kitchen.

“Don’t tell me you have dessert planned too,” you called over your shoulder, bringing the glass to your lips.

With the day you had, you emptied it in no time. He didn’t respond and you were going to say something else, but your mind went blank when the light caught something at the bottom of the glass. Your mouth parted as you eyed it, blinking a few times, wondering if you were imagining things. Shakily, you stood up, turning to call for Charles when you nearly tripped over him.

He was kneeling…on one knee, blue eyes gazing up at you as you gaped at him. Startled, you dropped the glass, and before you could shout, he caught it, preventing a mess to clean. You fought to say something.

“Charles…”

“You’re mine just as I am yours, and I want to make it official…”

You softly exhaled as he continued.

“I know you hate it when I spend money on you,” he continued, pouring the ring into his hand. “…but it’s just how I know to show I care. I would buy you the stars…if I could…”

He held the ring up to you.

“I know you want to be a lawyer and rule the world, so let me rule it with you…”

He took your hand, pressing his lips to your fingers as he looked at you from beneath his lashes as your full name fell from his pink lips.

“…will you marry me?”

It was insane how quickly you answered, how smoothly the ‘yes’ fell from your tongue. Marriage had come up maybe once during the entire relationship, and it’d been so long ago that you’d forgotten how the conversation went.

Once the ring was on your finger, it took no time at all for him to sweep you up into his arms. It appears that you had spoken too soon, because there was indeed a mess to clean when Charles cleared the table in one sweep, depositing you on it before attacking you like a man starved.

You didn’t keep count of how many times he fucked you that night, on every surface he could possibly lay you on. He loved the feel of your hands pressing against him, the cool band of the ring pressing into his skin. You didn’t feel guilty at all for calling in the following morning, opting instead to spend the day in bed with your fiancé.

You walked out of Harlan’s office with a small smile. He’d taken your abrupt resignation better than you’d hoped, but then again, Harlan always had been a kind man. The months you’d originally had left had been shortened to a week. When asked why, you simply showed Harlan your ring, watching his crinkly eyes widen at the sheer size before a youthful laugh left his lips.

“Well, congratulations,” he’d said.

You’d thanked him, telling him that the next few months or so would be spent planning the wedding. Neither your or Charles wanted to waste any time. Harlan respected how private you were about your personal life, so he didn’t press for information, only saying that your fiancé was a lucky man.

Harlan’s voice carried, you’d always known that, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise to find Meg and Fran waiting outside of the door when you exited. Their eyes sparkled in anticipation, and with a playful sigh, you reluctantly lifted your left hand.

Embarrassment flooded you when they shouted, gasps and ooh’s and aah’s leaving their lips as they admired the ring. It started to attract the attention of the rest of the family, and you shrunk in on yourself. Meg suddenly took your hand, lips parted.

“Y/N, this…this cost a fortune,” she breathed.

You cringed.

“Please, please don’t tell me how much. I was kind of hoping that since it’s one of those big diamonds its really more show than what it’s worth,” you said.

“Not likely,” Meg scoffed, running her finger over it.

“You sure know how to pick them,” Fran said, lighthearted jealousy coating her tone.

“Oh my God,” Joni dragged out as she took your hand, mouth gaping as her eyes flickered between you and the ring. “This is from the new-.”

She cut herself off when Meg nudged her, signaling that you didn’t need to know.

“Please, I’d sleep much better at night if I didn’t know how much this cost. You can speculate amongst yourselves, but leave me out of it,” you laughed.

You ran into the rest of the family, sans Ransom, as you walked away. They immediately pulled you into hugs, congratulations on their lips. They all took turns admiring the ring and telling you how lucky you were. When you finally broke away, you got started on your job. You were much happier to do it now that you only had one more week left.

You were upstairs, cleaning a spare room when you finally ran into Ransom. You had turned to exit only to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. A light blue sweater adorned his frame, making the color of his eyes pop even more.

“Hugh,” you barely acknowledged, moving to get past him.

The asshole that he was, he pressed his hand to the other side of the frame, blocking you in as he smirked down at you. Before you could react, he was gripping your left hand in his own, holding it up to his face as he looked down his nose at your ring. He let out a low whistle.

“I suppose Meg wasn’t kidding. That’s an expensive piece you’ve got there,” he murmured.

You snatched your hand out of his when he brushed his thumb over your skin. You pursed your lips as you glared at him.

“Thank you,” you curtly replied.

When he didn’t move, you heaved a sigh. It seemed that he was determined to make your last week as miserable as possible.

“Judging by your taste in men, I do have to wonder how he can afford it,” he said, just shy of an accusation.

You scoffed.

“…and how would you know my taste in men? You don’t know anything about me,” you argued.

He smirked down at you, disdain in his eyes.

“I know that you wouldn’t be caught dead with…let’s say, a man like me. I’m simply curious is all. I would hate for you to find yourself in an embarrassing situation all because it turned out to be stolen,” he quietly replied, lips curling over his teeth. “…or fake.”

You clenched your jaw, tempted to slap him at his insinuation.

“You’re right. My fiancé isn’t a man like you, and that’s how I know it isn’t stolen…or fake, so you don’t have anything to worry about,” you snidely replied, shoving past him.

You could feel his eyes boring into your back as you descended the stairs.

“Sweetheart, you look amazing,” Charles purred, hand tightening along your waist as you adjusted your strap again.

“I just… I feel so out of place,” you murmured.

You and Charles had rented the most extravagant hall to host your engagement party. It was just a taste of the life you were marrying into, and you’d accepted that when you said yes, but it was going to take some getting used to. While you were familiar with some of Charles’ friends, it had never occurred to you that everyone who was anyone would also be invited. Wealthy business partners and elite families alike were in attendance, eager to see who the Charles Blackwood had popped the question to.

Your friends and family seemed to blend right in though, much more receptive to this lifestyle than you were. It was your own mother who’d picked your dress and shoes, and a close cousin who’d done your hair and makeup. You decided to entrust them with the task more often the minute you saw Charles’ face, eyes darkening as he took in the golden number you had on. It swished around your feet as you walked and tastefully clung to you in all of the right places.

“Relax,” he murmured, kissing your cheek.

You laid your hand on his as you did just that. The two of you stood on the spiral staircase near the entrance, greeting everyone as they came in. A greeting was already on your lips as the next set of guests entered, but your words died in your throat as you eyed them.

You turned your head away, back almost completely to the entrance as you looked down. Charles laid his hand on your shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Why are the Thrombeys here?” you wondered.

He frowned.

“They’re old friends of the family. We hardly speak, the last time being years ago, but I felt it polite to invite them, nonetheless. How do you…?”

He trailed off as your eyes met his, realization bleeding into them.

“Ah,” he quietly said, blinking. “I feel silly for not connecting the dots sooner…”

“Don’t,” you said, placing your hand on his chest. “I wanted to keep my personal life private from them and the same goes for my work life with you. You know how stressed I get talking about them and I just…”

“No, I get it,” he murmured. “Let me guess… The ‘asshole’ you often refer to is none other than Ransom. He hasn’t changed at all, I see…”

He nodded over your shoulder as he said this, and you nodded. His lips thinned into a line, but he simply pulled you closer as you turned back around. Your smile was strained as the familiar faces got closer.

“Y/N, you never told us that your fiancé was none other than Charles Blackwood himself,” Joni cried out, kissing each of your cheeks. “When we saw the names on the invites, well, I just said to myself there’s no way!”

You let out an awkward chuckle as Linda did the same.

“It never really came up, I suppose,” you lamely replied.

Meg pulled you into a hug, making you swear to tell her everything, and you could hear Richard and Walt congratulating Charles as Donna hesitantly hugged you as well. Ransom was quiet, and you found that odd. He never ran out of insults to hurl at you, but then again, you supposed he was saving face.

Walt and Richard extended their congrats to you again, and you swallowed when the questions started. How did you meet? How long have you been together? How did he propose? Deep down, you knew what they really wanted to know. How had you bagged him? What did he see in you? How did you even meet, what with your differing social circles and all? Charles was more than happy to answer all of them for you, sensing your discomfort, and you found your eyes connecting with a familiar blue pair.

Ransom was dressed as impeccably as everyone else, black suit adorning his fit frame as he gazed at you. Unable to hold his heavy stare, you glanced away, relief flowing through you when they finally departed to go partake in the festivities. Charles pressed his lips to the side of your head when they finally left, breathing you in.

“I won’t invite them to the wedding,” he offered.

You chuckled, shaking your head.

“No, it’s fine. It’d be odd not to, I suppose. Like you said, they’re old friends of the family, not just my employers…”

“Former employers,” he corrected with a smile.

You happily sighed, smile widening.

“Ah, yes. It feels good to be reminded of that,” you replied, squeezing his hand as he pulled you along.

Yesterday had been your last day which was why you were gutted to see them again…and so soon. Your farewells the previous day seemed silly now. Embarrassing even, since you’d been so sure that would be the last you’d see of them. Ransom had just made your last week so unbearable that you’d been overeager to leave the house.

Every sly comment he threw at you was meant to get under your skin, to make you uncomfortable. You suppose that had been his goal ever since you started working for his family. The dislike was mutual sure, but at least yours was valid. Ransom treated people he viewed as less than like garbage. He was a classist prick, and there was no doubt in your mind that his sour mood had everything to do with a low rate citizen like you joining his world, so to speak.

After having too much to drink, you slipped away from your fiancé with a kiss on his cheek.

“Where are you off to?” he wondered.

“I have to use the little girl’s room,” you whispered in his ear.

He chuckled, urging you along.

“I told you to slow down,” he whispered back with a smile. “Hurry back.”

“Will do,” you sang, leaving him with a peck on the lips.

The two bathrooms downstairs were all full, and considering how full your bladder was, you had no other choice but to climb the stairs to the second floor. You’d made a deal with the owners that all of the festivities would be held downstairs, upstairs off limits, but you were one of the renters and you had to pee. Badly.

The elaborate hallways were a bit confusing, but eventually you found a bathroom. You hurried as best as you could, not wanting to keep Charles waiting. You took longer than you intended to when washing your hands, distracted by your ring. It gleamed at you in the light, and you found yourself absentmindedly smiling at it, still in disbelief that you were getting married.

A yelp of fright escaped you when you finally opened the door, almost running into a chest. For a brief second, you thought that it was Charles, thinking that maybe he’d come after you, but the dark hair and blue eyes did not belong to him.

“What the hell, Hugh? You almost gave me a heart attack,” you complained, hand pressed to your chest.

“We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he hummed.

You blinked, fully realizing that he was upstairs when he shouldn’t be.

“What are you doing up here?”

He didn’t answer you, instead stepping forward, causing you to stumble back as he entered the bathroom. Before you could say anything else, he slammed the door closed behind him, and your heart jumped in your chest. Alcohol may have been coursing through your system, jumbling your mind a bit, but you were coherent enough to understand that something wasn’t right. You looked him over, somewhat concerned, and noticed that his tie was missing.

“Hugh-.”

“You know, all this time, I just thought you were the typical jealous bitch,” he casually started, making your eyes widen as he glanced around with a sigh.

“Excuse me?”

“You looked at me like something you find on the bottom of your shoe the very moment you met me,” he quietly spat, eyes meeting yours. “What a shame I thought it was that you were another one of those ‘eat the rich’ types. I thought we could have had some fun together, but you wouldn’t look twice at me. Hell, you hardly looked once.”

“Are you drunk, right now? Is that what this is?”

He stepped closer, and you stepped closer to the sink, trying to get around him.

“You always have a grand time with Fran and Marta, giggling with them and any other staff member we temporarily hire, but you clam up the minute any of us comes near you. I always hated how obvious you were about it, how unashamed you were to broadcast your disgust with our lifestyle-.”

“I think you’re drunk,” you finally decided.

“Little did I know that it wasn’t the money that disgusted you. Otherwise, why on earth would you be getting married to Charles Blackwood, of all people?”

He said your fiancé’s name as if it were the vilest thing in the world, and you frowned at him. His expression was unreadable, and your frown deepened.

“Are you telling me you’re shocked that my hatred of your family has nothing to do with your wealth but instead, oh…I don’t know, your personalities?”

“As if Charles is just a beacon of generosity,” Ransom sneered.

You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him.

“Are you upset with me because I don’t like you? Is that it? I refuse to believe that because, believe it or not Hugh, a lot of people don’t like you,” you mockingly told him.

He leaned one hand on the sink, officially trapping you as he looked down his nose at you.

“That usually stems from some level of envy, but not you it seems. Why would you be envious? You’ve been dating Charles…Blackwood…”

He chuckled, but it lacked humor. His other hand gripped your left, and he sneered at your ring.

“It was easier to write your rejection off when I thought it was shallow and unfounded, you know. That isn’t the case though, is it? Hell, soon you’ll be richer than me,” he murmured.

“Are you jealous?” you chuckled. “Charles doesn’t exactly seem your type…”

“Didn’t think he was yours either,” he threw back.

You scoffed.

“I don’t care about the money. That’s not why I’m with him. If I wanted to bag any rich guy for tuition, I would’ve slept with your father a long time ago,” you told him.

His jaw ticked, and he backed you into the wall. Ransom was definitely drunk, that much was obvious, and you found yourself growing nervous the longer he stared at you.

“What does Charles Blackwood have that I don’t?” he slowly questioned.

The question confused you, throwing you off, and you huffed, looking away from him. He was so close, body heat mingling with yours, and you cringed when he rested his hands on the wall. Fed up with his games, you pushed against him.

“My fiancé is waiting for me,” you hissed.

He pushed back, pressing his chest against yours as he pinned you to the wall.

“You wouldn’t look twice at me, but you’ll marry Charles Blackwood?”

“He has class!”

He glared at you.

“…for one thing,” you continued. “…and unfortunately for you, that is something money can’t buy. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

He gripped your wrists when you tried to leave, and you winced.

“Let go of me, Hugh! Charles will start to look for me,” you warned him.

His lips curved upwards into a smirk.

“Then I guess I better be quick…”

You opened your mouth, but he swallowed whatever you were going to say with a kiss. You fought against him, but he wrapped his arms around you, pinning you against him as he moved his mouth against yours. You gasped for breath when he pulled away only to sharply inhale when he shoved his tie in your mouth.

Your screams were muffled as he spun you around, hand pressing into your back as he pushed you against the counter. The sound of his belt buckle caused your struggle to increase, and your fears were confirmed when you looked in the mirror. Tears skipped down your face when he pulled up your dress, and you reached back, but he simply grabbed your hand and pinned it to your back.

He was pressed so firmly against you that you could hardly move your legs. His chest was firm as it grazed your back, and your heart dropped to your stomach when you felt him reaching in between you, the head of his cock grazing you moments later.

You tried to call his name around the fabric in your mouth, to try and talk sense into him, but it was no use. His lips grazed your ear as he leaned over you.

“You think I’m not good enough for you?”

You pushed back against him, and he chuckled.

“You think you’re better than me? You think your fiancé is better than me?”

He thrust into you, and a choked yelp escaped around the tie. One hand clasped around the back of your neck, pressing your forehead against the mirror as he forced himself into you again and again.

“I can have any woman I want- I do have any woman I want. I’m not going to let you walk around thinking you’re the exception,” he purred, rutting into you.

Your core burned at the forced entry, his hardened member dragging against your walls. You stomped your foot, sobs escaping you now as he had his way with you. You squeezed your eyes shut when he would groan, his labored breathing coinciding with the rhythm of his hips connecting with your butt.

“You walk around that house like you’re better than us. Looking down on us like you’re too good. You’re not. No one’s too good for me,” he moaned. “Not even the future Mrs. Blackwood.”

Somewhere upstairs, you could hear your name being called. You knew it was Charles, and there was no telling how long it’d take for him to find you. You yourself had almost gotten lost looking for a bathroom. Ransom’s thrusts grew erratic, his harsh breaths in your ear.

“That sounds like your lovely fiancé… I wonder what he’d do if he walked in here? You think he’d still marry you? Hmm?”

His hand slid around to the front of your throat, cutting off your breathing.

“He’d probably throw you out of that big ole house…you’d have to come and work for us again…”

He pulled you away from the sink and pushed you up against the door. His hand that was on your back moved up to turn the light off, sliding into you with ease now. You reached up to claw at the hand around your throat, vision blurring. You moved to bang against the door, but his arm snaked around you, pinning yours to your side.

Your head lolled back to land on his shoulder, and he let out a low moan in your ear. You shook as he came inside of you, his thrusts slowing down, lazily sliding his cock in and out of you now. You heard Charles getting farther away, his voice distant now. Ransom gripped your chin, finally allowing you to breathe and forced your head towards him, tears in your eyes.

His blue eyes were cold, nostrils flaring as he glared at you.

“No one is too good for me,” he quietly told you. “Remember that when you walk down the aisle.”

~

tags: @darkficreposter @xoxabs88xox @sebabestianstan101 @villanellevi @readermia @opheliadawnwalker3 @notyourtypicalrose @nickyl316h @captainchrisstan​ @coconutqueen21​

[im-the-king-of-the-ocean]

The Bitterness of the Earth

Jonmartin Week Day 3: Healing & Recovery // Self Sacrifice

I originally planned for this to be the first in a series of oneshots set in this fantasy au, but things didn’t go quite as planned (I didn’t get the other oneshots written in time for jmart week).  So instead I think I’m going to restructure it as a short multi-chapter fic.

Enjoy!

@jonmartinweek

.

The first lesson Martin learned after transforming for the first time, when his mind was still realizing his body had switched sizes and everything was different and wrong, was never to interfere with the ocean’s whims.

The old sea captain who had changed him looked down upon his flailing form with uncaring eyes and told Martin it is their way.  As one of them now, Martin is bound forevermore to follow their laws without question, lest they forsake him to return to his miserable life on shore.

Martin tried to gasp and beg, plead ‘no, no!  Of course I’ll follow the rules!’ at that.  The thought of returning to where everything ached and hurt and was never ending pain horrified him down to his soul.  Neither words nor familiar sounds came out of his mouth, for it was gone completely.  Instead, Martin made a gurgled, strained squawk with his new, unfamiliar beak.

Peter Lukas, the old sea captain, chuckled at Martin as if he could understand him.  He rubbed a hand across his large, salt-speckled beard, took one final consideration of Martin, and then turned and strolled off into the thick fog that covered the docks.

It took Martin a handful of days, though time blurred together so he’d never be quite sure just how many, to adjust to his albatross form and learn to fly.  It took significantly longer for him to gain the confidence to leave the shoreline behind and glide out to sea for the first time.  It was almost two years before he realized he could purposefully transform himself from albatross form to human and back again.

It was not something Martin did often.

He kept to his role, gliding out above the waves, always watching, observing, but only swooping down long enough to feed himself when he felt hunger.  High amidst the clouds, everything was easier.  The world was quiet and calm, unbothered by his presence.  Martin found it nice, pleasant, and came to not care how deeply he sank into the feeling.

Eventually, driven by the need to have a place to rest after particularly brutal storms, Martin found a small, isolated island to call his own.  He never considered turning it into a home, but he did build a structure and fill it with books and other distractions for the few times when he felt like being human again.

Things progressed for years.  Martin’s life remained peaceful, tranquil.  Not much changed in the day by day for him.  He could never bring himself to care too much.

...

As one unremarkable day dies and an equally uninteresting night begins, thick, dark storm clouds roll across the sky.  Not in the mood to deal with the lightning spirits who would surely come out to dance, Martin hunkers down on his island.

He observes as wind whips the few trees and vegetation of his not-home and howls bitter agony.  Waves roar and crash, wreaking havoc upon the beach.  Thunder bellows.  Lightning cracks across the sky in blinding flashes.

The storm reaches its crescendo somewhere in the hours just before dawn.  The wind twists and twists.  For a moment, Martin fully believes a tornado will form and sweep him off wherever it pleases.  With a deafening snap, the sky cracks open.  Something falls, tumbling through the funneling wind.  With a mighty smack, it plunges into the ocean.  Water shoots up and sprays in all directions.  Waves roll, and then still.

Slowly, surely, as if nothing of note had happened, the storm subsides.  The world calms back into silence.  Martin blinks, and ducks his head back inside his shelter.  He’ll wait until sunrise to take off again.  Best not to tempt the powers that be so soon after they expressed themselves.

When morning comes, and Martin walks across the beach, indulging in the squish of the sand between his toes, he finds himself coming to a startled stop just before the spot where he usually gives up his human form.  There’s something there.  Someone.  Someone with the warm, even breath of the living.  A form, unceremoniously dumped by the ocean on dry land, where it naturally belongs.

Martin stares at it, uncertain of what to do.  It has been so, so long since he’s come across another person, he doesn’t know how to, what to, should he…?

A muffled groan comes from the person, and an emotion long disused painfully twinges inside Martin.  He smothers it back down and, when that doesn’t truly work to rid himself of it, resigns himself to dragging the person to his shelter.  He doesn’t care what happens to them, Martin tells himself.  He just wants the guilt that will accompany doing nothing to go away.

The person sleeps and sleeps and sleeps and fills Martin’s abode with the rich scent of earth, and life.

…

The first time Jon wakes, it’s in the unexpected way one does when they weren’t expecting to wake at all.  Which is to say, he opens his eyes, sucks in a breath, and abruptly feels everything hurting, throbbing, all at once.  He groans and tries to bring up one arm to shield his eyes from the too bright sunlight.  He’s stopped, and shushed quietly.  Calm, cool hands pin him down.

Jon thrashes.  His throat is too hoarse to scream, but he won’t, he won’t.  Not after everything he did.  He stopped Elias—Jonah—whoever.  He sacrificed his life.  The world is better off for it.  But, no.  No.  If he must live yet, then Jonah doesn’t get to keep him.  Have him.  Jon struggles, uncaring of the damage he does to himself or whoever’s holding him.

“Be still,” says a tentative voice, unsure of itself, like it’s not used to speaking.  “You are very hurt.”

Jon relaxes.  It’s not Jonah’s voice, dripping with condescending and self-satisfaction.  Regardless of how much his head is swimming right now, Jon is positive Jonah is incapable of sounding so timid.  He attempts to speak, to ask who the stranger tending to him is.  He only manages a mangled whimper.

A dish is pressed to Jon’s dry lips.  A trickle of cool, crisp water runs into his mouth and down his throat.  Without hesitation, Jon slurps the water greedily.  When he’s drunken all he can tolerate, Jon settles his head back down.  He closes his eyes to give them a brief reprieve.

He won’t remember falling asleep until the next time he finds himself waking again.

…

Jon sleeps and wakes and sleeps and wakes in a dizzying cycle he can’t keep track of.  Each time he stirs, it’s for a handful of minutes at most.  Long enough to gulp down some water or what could possibly be soup broth offered to him.  He groans and murmurs what are hopefully intelligible articulations of the questions his feverish brain comes up with; Who are you?  Why are you taking care of me?  Where are we?

His mysterious caretaker doesn’t offer explanations, only soothing ‘shushes’ that are so soft Jon wonders if he imagined them.  The most Jon is able to feel the person’s presence happens late one night, when he’s jostled out of a nightmare into wakefulness.  There’s hands on his shoulders.  Jon almost screams at the physical contact.  The hands immediately vanish.

“You’re alright.  It was a bad dream.  You’re safe.  Nothing will hurt you here.”

Jon gasps.  How can I trust you? is the question he wants to ask, but he can’t quite get those words out.  He’s not scared of this person.  If they wanted to hurt him, they’ve had ample opportunities.  The question of trust, though, is something Jon’s not sure he wants an answer for.  Not while he’s so vulnerable.

Out of the darkness comes a thick blanket of better quality than any Jon has noted so far during his stay wherever this is.  It surrounds, and then swaddles him.  No matter how hard he looks, Jon can’t make out more than his caretaker’s moving silhouette.  It leans in close to Jon and he hears the words, “Sleep peacefully now,” whispered in his ear.

In the morning, Jon wakes.  There’s no sign anyone but himself was ever there.

…

Martin paces across the beach.  This is bad.  This is very bad.  Being around someone for so long feels uncomfortable, like something under his skin is aflame.  No matter what he does, he can’t make the sensation go away.  He wants it to.  He wants to not care.  He can’t.

“I just need to get him off the island,” Martin tells himself, while not sounding very convinced.  “Then everything can go back to the way it was.  Like it never happened.”

Is it technically even interfering if the ocean spat the man out onto the island?  Surely, if it was the waves’ will to drown him, the man would have been gulped down long before he could ever reach Martin.  Saving his life, therefore, wasn’t actually breaking any rules.

Martin pauses in his pacing, considering.  He knows what Peter would say to him now.  What Peter would have done in his place.  He’s not Peter.  Martin squeezes his eyes shut and clenches and unclenches his fists.  No matter how hard he tries (and he’s mostly done his best to avoid having to try at all), he cannot bring himself to be cruel, or completely callous.

Martin sighs.  He heads back into his shelter.  He purposefully looks everywhere but the man he’s been nursing back to health.  Martin reasons with himself that, if he is to make a voyage (a true voyage on a boat), he needs to take stock of what supplies he has.

He’s deep into counting what little funds he has and debating how to go about acquiring a boat when he hears a small, but pointed cough.  Martin ignores it.  He knows how to sail well enough.  Once upon a time, he was part of the Tundra’s crew.  That’s not the issue.  Flying to the coast and acquiring a small dinghy to transport the man is.  Martin will have to talk to people.

Maybe he could steal something?  Scavenge from a junkyard?

There’s a second pointed cough.  This time, it strikes Martin that someone had to have made it.  Apprehension sinking in his gut, he turns.

Looking at him, studying him with what could be called a curious expression, is the man.  He has warm brown eyes and tangled curly hair matted with sand and sea water.  He clears his throat, making a hoarse, rough sound.  Habitually, Martin reaches for the fresh water he’s been keeping for his patient and passes it over to him.  He watches as the man’s long, spindly fingers tentatively reach out, touch the water gourd, take it, and then lift it to his lips.

It’s hypnotizing to watch the man drink.  The way his adam’s apple bobs up and down as he gulps.  How he pauses to take a breath and wipe his mouth on the back of a hand.  It’s like he’s a beacon radiating warmth and life directly in front of Martin.  The longer Martin stares at him, the more the chill that has cloaked him for years dispels.

Martin jumps back.  He calls upon Forsaken to wrap him in its cold, comforting embrace.  Fog rolls.  The man makes a startled noise.  Without thinking, Martin calls forth light mists and pushes them forward to shroud the man.  He tells the mists to make the man sleep.

Martin exhales with relief when the man’s eyelids flutter and he slumps back down.

…

In the end, Martin leaves the man in an enchanted sleep, flies to the nearest continent, finds a wooden, one-man dinghy on a dock, and leaves a pouch with all the coins in his possession in its place.  The sail back to his island takes some time, as he’s unused to traveling without a bird’s eye view, but Martin manages it.

The man’s state is unchanged upon Martin’s return.  He slumbers uninterrupted.  Martin gazes down at him, wonders at him, and then gently bundles him up in blankets and carries him to the dinghy.  It isn’t hard.  He’s a small, slight man.

The journey is a peaceful, contemplative one.  If he’s being honest, Martin rather enjoys it.  It’s been years since he last took the time to sail anywhere.

Reaching shore, however, brings back all his old anxieties and fears in a tidal wave of inescapable emotion.  The first moment he sees land, Martin panics.  What is he going to do?  He can’t just unceremoniously dump the man somewhere.  Not after all he’s done to take care of him.  He needs to make sure he’s safe.  At the very least.

Martin stays out at sea for a few days, floating, uncertain and nervous, until a fog bank rolls in from over the water.  Under its comforting, concealing damp, Martin finally approaches the shore.  He steps off onto the docks, the man held securely in his arms, and soundlessly walks off to find a hospital.

For three days and nights, Martin watches from windows, in his albatross form, as doctors and nurses tend to his man.  He’s there when the enchanted sleep wears off and the man wakes and blearily looks around.

Martin spreads his wings and takes off before he can be noticed.

As he flies away, one of his feathers already loose and on its way out, drifts in through the window and lands on the floor of the man’s room.

The man turns at the movement, slides himself out of bed, pads over, and plucks the feather up between his fingertips.  He studies it intently, an unreadable expression on his face.

…

There is a man in Jon’s dreams.  One he doesn’t quite recognize, but who feels so very familiar.  The man’s hair is the color of sand shifting on a beach.  His eyes, the blurred blue-gray where sea and sky meet.  His skin is vague, somewhere between seashells and fog.  Sometimes Jon thinks his imagination concocted the man all on its own.  A fantasy.  A personification of the ocean to humanize his own experiences while lost at sea.

It’s a lucky miracle, the doctors and nurses of the hospital where he stays during his recovery tell him, that the dockhand who found him unconscious on his boat discovered him when he did.  They feared the worst would have happened if no one had stumbled upon him.  Jon silently nods along with their explanations.  He doesn’t wish to worry them, or be argumentative over the matter.  Even if his memory is hazy in some areas, he knows they wouldn’t understand the full story of what he’s been through.  He doesn’t want to drag them into it either.

Jon insists on keeping the albatross feather he found on the floor, despite the doctors protests of cleanliness.  He holds it at least once every day.  Studies it.  It reveals nothing to him.  At the same time, he can’t bring himself to discard it.  It connects him.  To what, he’s not quite sure, but it’s not a connection he wants to lose.

When he’s finally discharged, Jon makes arrangements.  He acquires a horse and rides across the land to a city tucked in the mountains.  It would have been easier to hire an airship, certainly, but an unease in his stomach prevents him from taking to the skies.

Jon passes through the city until he finds the university it’s famous for.  He inquires around and makes his way to an ivy-covered, lopsided but still standing, tower on the edge of the campus some distance from every other structure.  Without knocking, he opens its door and walks up its spiral staircase all the way to the office at the top.

“Come in,” speaks a tired voice from the other side as he reaches the final step.  “And tell me what you seek.”

Jon does as he’s bid.  He walks into the office where books are stacked high against the walls.  He places his albatross feather down on the desk in front of the seer, who quirks an eyebrow.  Ever so carefully, Jon takes a folded bit of parchment out of his pocket and smoothes it out so the seer, a man with long, unkept black hair can read what it says:

My voice was once stolen.  This is how I speak.

and a little below that,

I need your help to find the one who this feather belonged to.

[avatarvyakara]

Drops of Gold and Silver

A Tangled Fanfic

Prompts 151-165

“Having Fun”

151. Ivory

For all that Eugene still seems afraid of him, Hookhand was a surprisingly gentle teacher. And part of learning to be a princess apparently involved learning sheet music. So when she can finally put it all together for simple songs, a few months after her life began, it’s a wonderful feeling.

Playing piano is like playing drums and guitar at the same time.

(Better yet, her Mom plays too. Where Mother never really indulged her, her actual mother plays a mean left hand, as Eugene says.)

152. Whisper

Hortense Crowley, Mistress and Housekeeper of Corona Castle, tolerates the gossip from her maids. Living Downstairs, even in Corona, can be a boring business, with not much time to develop interests outside the confines of work. So long as they don’t slack, and don’t bite the hand that feeds them, what they talk about in their own time is their own business.

(Besides, it gives her something to share on card nights. And Mr. Nigel’s and the Captain’s poker faces are substantially worse when they’re thinking about having to put up with Flynn Rider, especially when news of his latest escapades trickles down. Were they playing with stakes, Mr. Fitzherbert would have netted her several hundred dollars within the first two months of his arrival.

To be fair, bring up the Princess—and muddy tracks down the halls—and Hortense might have had to pay it back again.)

153. Oblivious

It’s nice to have two friends who don’t disregard how happy she and her sister are to finally stop being thieves—really do look happy for them, too.

Even if Varian is blind to the fact that rambling on about copper-plated alembics (whatever the heck those are) is a sure-fire way to knock someone out at close range.

Somehow, Catalina is unaffected by the hypnosis, and actually seems interested.

Angry is many things, but unobservant isn’t one of them.

“Anyone wanna switch seats with me?” (And she can pretty darn pragmatic when she wants to be, too.)

But apparently Rapunzel couldn’t read the room with a magnifying glass. She sits between the Strikers and the alchemist and chatters away about the animals spending time together and becoming better friends—nice bit of irony—while Varian looks bemused and Catalina slumps and Angry grumps.

(Maybe Angry’s missed something, but she sure can’t tell what.)

154. Spin

Don’t get Cassandra wrong, she’s got a lot of fun stuff. Her stuffed owl, the ragdoll knight Sir Sir and her regiment of wooden soldiers and the criminal Jerk, an equally wooden sword and shield, the books Dad’s basically kept from the castle library for years now...but when she doesn’t want to play at hunting or fighting, she could watch that little blue top for hours.

155. Parkour

“Uh, Friedborg?” calls (recently-married and thus recently-titled) Princess Arianna. “Are you okay up there?”

Her lady-in-waiting smiles at her from the top of the Bishop’s Tower.

It’s surprisingly enjoyable, Your Highness, the gentle reply settles in Arianna’s head, as clear as if Friedborg were standing right next to her. Only...I may not be entirely certain how to get down yet.

156. Grab

“I swear I got bimberries this time!” Eugene protests as the gopher makes a valiant attempt at breaking the sound barrier.

Angry raises an eyebrow at her sister, who looks sheepish.

“I just told him we’d catch him first! Anyway, it was only a little growl...”

157. Bicker

Arguing isn’t good, Rapunzel knows. Arguing leads to cold moods, and needing to apologize for getting the other person upset, and being stuck in one’s room for hours. Arguing leads to Bad Things.

So—

“You know, if you actually spent a minute on something useful for every hour you spend preening yourself, I might understand what Rapunzel sees in you.”

“We practice what we’re best suited for, Cassandra. I’m good at looking good, you’re good at scaring people with your face.”

“My face is scary?”

“Aha! She admits it!”

—why do they look like they’re enjoying themselves?

158. Artificial

They can leave his father trapped. They can call him a criminal. They can let the Black Rocks destroy the whole kingdom by making up stories of how they’re all gone. They can pretend they ever tried to be his friend.

But, thinks Varian as he turns the music box and watches the parts of the Amber Guard automaton assemble themselves with something akin to satisfaction, they cannot stop his mind working.

They’re pushing a false happiness on people. He’ll make real happiness for himself.

159. Meal

“Oh, and by the way,” says Mom, “I wanted to say thank you for inviting Friedborg to your Ladies’ Lunch the other day. She had a wonderful time.”

Three possible responses appear in Rapunzel’s mind, sounding respectively rather like herself, Cassandra, and Eugene:

“Aw, Mom, I’m really glad!”

“Ah, at least someone did.”

“Uh, Mom? How can you tell?”

Option One seems best, under the circumstances.

160. Parry

Sword-fighting isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s a difficult task for protectors of the land, something they have to be proficient in, just in case someone tries to kill them one day.

“Cass? Are you okay?”

Eight-year-old Cassandra, padded and disarmed of her brand-new wooden sword, looks up from the ground at her father, who looks about ready to break down apologizing.

She grins.

“Again!”

Task or not, it is fun. It’s a challenge.

161. Purr

The low rumbling sound fills the room as Eugene tickles the enormous palace mouser under the belly.

Rapunzel nearly coos. Pascal and Cassandra just stare. (Whittington is widely regarded as the most dangerous animal on the island for a reason. Even Owl and Maximus keep their distance.)

“What? I’m a cat person.”

162. Rerun

They remember bits and pieces. Something about a top? Pretty sure there was a quest of some sort. But being a kid (again?) brings its own set of feelings.

Cassandra feels...energetic. Her hand is much better, even though she’s not sure why it wouldn’t be. She wonders, idly, where her Dad is, but remembers that he’s back in Corona. (Where is she? Ah, doesn’t matter, she can’t be that far.) She knows Lance—he’s her silly, funny friend—and she knows Eugene—she doesn’t like him—and she knows Rapunzel—she’s upset with her about something but she’s not sure what. Time for some fun—and she finally doesn’t have to listen to anyone if she doesn’t want to.

Lance feels...oddly free. He doesn’t have to pretend to be cool or anything, he can just ask anything that comes to his mind. He knows his name is Arnie, but his friends call him Lance so that’s what his name is. And these are his friends. Cassandra is fun, even if she plays rough. Rapunzel is nice. Eugene is Eugene and he’s very, very special. Time for some fun—all the world to explore and so many questions he can finally ask.

Shorty feels...the same as ever. He’s around people he trusts, even if he has no idea why and doesn’t much care. He has a lot on his mind, but not a lot of mind left to balance it on. One thought remains, though:

“I finally found my duck!”

163. Maze

Her human friend had an odd fascination with them. Which was the only reason why she was indulging him as they passed through some ruins in Planitia Australis.

“You do know,” said Zhan Tiri pointedly, “that I can simply fly overhead to reach the other side?”

“Ah,” replied Demanitus with a grin, “maybe I would do that, if I could. But you won’t, because then you’d never know if you could have beaten the maker at their own game.”

Damn the man.

164. Intermission

What with one thing and another, it’s actually very hard for Rapunzel not to have fun. The difference lies in the why.

For most of her life, she had fun because, well, yes, things were enjoyable, but also because the alternative was just being bored stiff with nothing to do. Then, once she was the Lost Princess, it was doing fun things as a distraction from what she needed to do. But there was that brief period, maybe two days long, where she could choose to have fun with no lack of options and no duties. Between one Tower and another, there was the world.

And, really, two days like that is more than most people get in a lifetime.

165. Psychology

Arianna has played chess with three girls in the palace in her time, and each of them played slightly differently.

Cassandra played the hardest; she treated every game like a battle, trying to intimidate her opponent into giving up. And when she got to the endgame, she was nearly unstoppable. But Cassandra also focused too much on single pieces, using her queen or her knights or her bishops on their own as much as possible and trying to wear Arianna down one stage at a time, instead of trusting that she could use focus on the action in more than one way. So many combinations, but only with a few pieces—like weapons to be used and then switched out when broken. Getting to the endgame was the hard part.

Calling Rapunzel a girl might be stretching things, but she is Arianna’s daughter and therefore will always be that mix of newborn and young woman and everything she missed in-between. And Rapunzel’s beginning-games are superb, considering she only had one partner before Arianna. But therein lay the rub—Pascal was (so it seemed) incredibly intelligent, but he was just one chameleon. So he and Rapunzel could play the game practically knowing each other’s moves, turning a battlefield into a ballroom, each mind working dozens of turns ahead. The same way Arianna might play with Friedborg, or Frederic. Fun—but Arianna is not Pascal, and Rapunzel is not used to other styles of play. Go too far from the style she knows, play a riskier game, and despite her enthusiasm remaining the same her confidence plummets. A misstep in the dance can leave her scrambling to pick herself up.

The third—one of the Silent Strikers, who she’d found exploring one day—plays well. Kiera, who prefers to be called Angry, didn’t know the game, but a few lessons later she was already making Arianna guess. Where to Cassandra it was a duel and to Rapunzel it’s a dance, Angry plays the game like poker, watches for tells and tries to redirect the flow her own way. Much like Mr. Strongbow plays, if it comes to that. But she overplays. Angry can see combinations that work, and can force Arianna into playing hard if she wants to—but there’s so often a moment of early triumph, a feeling that it’s all fine and the next few moves won’t matter. Sometimes she loses when a single extra combination could lead to checkmate.

Sometimes they win. But when they win, it’s because Cassandra lets the pieces on her side work together like a team, or Rapunzel is learning her mother’s style of play, or Angry retains her caution up until the end. When they overcome their weaknesses.

(Arianna’s weakness is a tendency to be goaded into unwise decisions, or making fatal errors early on that she scrambles for the rest of the game to fix. But sometimes —sunset, a girl who looks so familiar, years of guilt over tearing apart her kingdom and her family and herself by not being strong enough finally fading away—she wins too.)

[crimson-dxwn]

AT ODDS 6 (Kal Skirata x F!OC)

Summary: Tea gets spilled at Kyrimorut. Ordo gets involved. Ori makes a choice and a new enemy.

Warnings: Mando profanity, pregnancy, SPOILERS for Republic Commando books (all but the last one), medical shit, surgery, fucking SADS

As always, so many thanks to @detroitbydark who lets me screech about my weird fic and Kal and Ori! Also this is barely edited be kind, I’m on my psych rotation and barely scraping by. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kal realizes he’s slipped the figurine into the pocket of his bodysuit semi-consciously in his hasty retreat from the apartment. Knotted Jonah wood whittled smooth forms two stylized figures, one large and one small, their hands joined between them. 

He barely registers the ride back home and comming Mij. They need a plan, and they need one fast if they are going to find her. He knows little about how the Empire treats their prisoners compared to the late Republic, but he isn’t about to have any illusions of honor or fair play. After all, he doesn’t play fair himself. But there’s a hydrospanner thrown into the mix. What he doesn’t know is how the Imps treat prisoners with … unique health conditions. Or if they even give half a bantha’s shebs. Odds are they send men and women alike to those osik’la camps he’s gotten word of. Yeah, the Empire was equal opportunity like that. 

If Mereel can’t slice into the system remotely, they were going to have to do an old-fashioned infiltration. He’d ask his ad’ike if they were up to task, there’s no way he could ask to put them in danger, not after the entirety of their lives being war. It hurts him to even think about asking. But he has to do this, even if it’s just his sorry shebs. 

He tries to put on a good Sabaac face when he’s back in the karyai, discreetly gathering up all the surplus weapons they have that he finds might be useful for an infiltration into a heavily armed and fortified position. 

Mereel of course, catches on within minutes. 

“You’re going to find her,” Mereel interrupts. Kal yanks his head up out of the gun locker to look at his son. “And you didn’t even think to ask for backup?”

His son’s tone is accusing, edging on hurt. That he did not expect.

“It’s my fuckup, son,” he replies, “I’m the one who needs to fix it. I can’t ask you to do this.”

“What’s so special about this doctor?” Mereel slams the door of the locker shut. It’s obvious his ad’ika is protective. They all are. 

“She delivered your ba’vodu’ad, Mereel. I’m pretty sure she saved Parja’s life.” Kal says, keeping his eyes on his work, cleaning the weapons, arranging the ammo he needs. Sharpening his father’s three-sided knife. 

“And that’s enough to go up against the Empire? ”

He’s going to have to spit it out. Mereel is looking at him expectantly, sure that he’s going to change his mind, see reason. 

“She’s pregnant, son.” Mereel, who has been away for the events of the last few months, just stares back at him in a puzzled fashion, brows slightly furrowed. Looking at him like he’s lost his damn mind. Maybe he has. 

“It’s yours, isn’t it?”

In comes a second voice, and the accusatory tone startles him enough that, when added to his baseline urgency and anxiety, causes his hand to slip and nick itself as he sharpens his knife. 

“Osik,” he hisses, holding pressure to the cut as blood wells, looking up to the figure in the doorway. Ordo. Mereel stares at his brother, unsure whether he is joking. Kal sighs. He should know better, trying to keep things from them. The last time he was successful at that was when they were four. 

“Does it matter?” 

“Maybe,” Ordo replies, just this edge of indignant, “is she carrying my vod?” 

A strange and protective piece of him flares at Ordo’s tone and Kal stands, still holding the cloth to his cut hand. 

“Most likely.”

“Then we need to get her back.” Ordo meets his eye finally and Kal nods, satisfied, and starts gathering ammo from the safes. This time Mereel moves to help, still in a rare state of stunned silence. 

By the time they’ve gathered what they need and loaded it into aayhan, Mereel has a willing team assembled and what they know of the building schematics up on a datapad in the karyai. Fortunately for them, the team won’t be breaking into any prison blocks, which are bound to be heavily guarded. 

“All we have to do is get into the information security room that houses the main terminal,” Mereel starts confidently. “We can stay far away from the security blocks and the bucketheads.” 

“Though it would be fun to bust some vode out of there,” Scorch adds. 

“Not our mission,” says Mereel, regret plain in his voice, “we’ll have to get them another time.” The realization that they were leaving prisoners at the mercy of the empire sobers the group even more. It was becoming more and more apparent that more planning was needed before they could root out the Empire on Mandalore. Meanwhile, Kal had set Uthan to the task of trying desperately to make their own homebrew vaccine. 

---

It’s been many many years since he’s fastroped. Lately, he has been finding that it’s been years since he’s done many things. Fastroping, underwater diving...fathering kriffing kids. He swallows, hard and regroups himself. Every single one of them needs to be focused if they’re gonna pull this job off. 

Yes, he’s fast roped before. But he’s never liked it. Where his sons get twitchy when confined to tight spaces, he finds himself sweating more than usual under his beskar the more stories they climb. Right now, they’re about ten stories up, far above the sensors of the garrison and way above his tolerance for heights. They have about a minute to pull this off before the Imps realize this transport is lingering too long in their airspace. 

Mereel, Sev, Scorch, and Kal are in Aayhan, hovering silently above the Keldabe imperial garrison in the inky black late summer night. The humidity sticks his tactical garments to his skin, making it itch and crawl in addition to his surging adrenaline. That was one thing that never changed, no matter how old he got, no matter how many missions he’s finished - that nauseating spike of pure fear and bliss. 

He gives the signal to move move move and soon he’s roping down, strong north Mandalorian wind whipping around him, soaking through his underlayer. The four of them land silently on the roof of the compound, and Scorch starts laying a strip charge along the floor to create a hole leading below, straight into the admin offices. Four sets of Mando armor gleam lowly in the moonlight. It’s a perfect night for an op like this, whipping wind obscuring any slight noise they did make and the faint whine of aayhan’s engines. The charges detonate with a controlled bang and flash of bright light that briefly blinds his HUD. Kal switches to night vision.

*His child*. It’s barely a concrete concept in his mind yet, but an instinctual piece of him knows the truth. The timing is too perfect for him to be wrong. The way Orla had looked at him in the med center…

The stakes are too high to fail, and distracting thoughts get men killed. Mereel leads the way through the door, rifle at the ready, and Kal banishes his musings to the back of his mind, pushed away by a fresh rush of adrenaline. It’s a stealth mission, and they navigate by night vision, as silently as their boots will allow. 

They stalk through dark quiet hallways lined with innocuous office doors until they reach the end, what is presumably the CO’s office, with its durasteel double doors and obviously larger size. 

Mereel starts in on slicing the door panel while Sev shoots out the camera in the hallway corner while the rest of them listen for any approaching patrols. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed they were there, whether it was the hole in the roof or the blacked out camera. The double doors open quietly and they head inside. Vau’s boys guard the door while he and Mereel crowd the desk in the middle of the room. 

“I need a few minutes to get into this,” Mereel says, eyes locked onto the screen before him. One of his slicing tools is between his teeth.

“You’ll get it, son. We’ll take care of anything that tries to get in our way.” 

So far it looks like no one has noticed them. The imps must really be confident in the plan to neutralize Mandalore with so few guards and patrols. Sweat drops trickle down the back of his neck and into his bodysuit.

Mereel studies the datapad stripping the system for a few more moments and turns it towards Kal. There’s a concerned look stretched across his handsome face. Together the watch the recorded scene on the screen before them. 

There’s Orla, still in her work clothes, talking with an Imp who’s behind this very desk, flanked by two stormtroopers. He knows those gestures - she’s spitting mad, barely containing the fury that was directed toward the man behind the desk. Without audio he can only guess as to the contents of their conversation. The Imp behind the desk gives a short reply and nods curtly to the right-hand trooper who, without hesitation, raises his blaster rifle and cracks her across the face with the butt end. She doesn’t even see it coming. Even in the shades of blue from the holoprojector the blood is obvious, trickling down the side of her face. 

Kal is livid, trembling so finely it’s barely visible, and he almost forgets where they are for a moment. Deep in enemy territory, with hostiles incoming any minute. 

Mereel makes a disgusted noise from deep in his chest as they watch her be pushed to the ground. They follow the video feed where she’s led to a cell. His breath catches. There’s a chance she’s still here. His hope is tempered, however, when an alarm starts to sound from within the garrison. A patrol must have finally found their breach point.

“Sarge?” warns a voice from outside the door. It’s Sev, by the gravelly tone. 

“Almost finished,” he shouts, over the screeching din. Mereel continues to work furiously, his bulk hunched over the console. He’s able to parse through incredible amounts of data with immense precision; Kal can practically feel the concentration rolling off him. 

“Wait,” Mereel says. Kal looks over at the screen. They’re centered on a video feed again, this time outside. The sheer amount of prisoners in line for the transport is shocking enough, but the fact that none of them are in armor is even more appalling. The Imps are slowly stripping their culture away, plate by plate. 

“She’s not on the manifest for this transport, even though the records say she leaves.” 

It doesn’t make sense. Unless… Kal knows Mereel must be thinking the same as him. Judging by the brutality of the footage they’ve watched, the stories from around the planet, he wouldn’t put it past the Empire to take care of a pesky problem in the easiest way they knew how. It wasn’t something that supposedly peaceful, orderly governments liked to keep records of. His dread and guilt intensifies, leadening his limbs already weighed down by heavy beskar. 

He chokes the words out. He has to know. “Is there any footage of…” Kal can’t bring himself to say them. It doesn’t need to be said, Mereel knows what he’s looking for. He’s been in a war zone long enough to know that armies aren’t sentimental. 

“No, no footage. Just them leading her away.” The alarm continues to blare. It could be minutes, seconds before they have to blast their way out. 

“Here.”

Kal steels himself to watch. It’s his fault, he reminds himself again. Two more fresh marks in his ledger. His arm reaches automatically to his son’s to steady himself. He feels Mereel’s slump ever so slightly, whether it’s in relief or defeat, he can’t tell. 

“I have what I need,” he says, “time to go. Debrief can wait for later.” Distant footsteps start to echo towards them, modulated shouts following close behind. They were about to be grossly outnumbered, by the sound of it. Kal shoves his helmet back on, heading through the doorway and signaling Sev and Scorch to follow. 

They wind through the garrison, avoiding both patrols and squads of stormtroopers sweeping the building. It’s laughably easy compared some of the other heists they’ve pulled - except he speaks too soon. As they make their way out of the back door of the garrison onto the Keldabe streets, one squad catches up to them. Ordo has aayhan back at Kyrimorut - earlier they had decided it was too risky for the four of them to fly home and possibly expose the homestead. So instead their plan was to run the winding streets and strategically borrow a transport. The problem is that Kal is pushing sixty and the other men are - physiologically at least - still in their early twenties. They’re a lot kriffing faster than him, even with his ankle fixed. 

The streets and alleys twist and turn, switching from ancient cobbles to smooth duracrete without warning. Easy enough to get lost if you’re a local, they are impossible to navigate as aruettiise. Soon the four are panting, ducked into an alcove off a cobbled alley. Finally, it seems they’ve dodged the patrol. Only time will tell if they were recognized. Kal finds he doesn’t much mind if they know his face. In fact, he hopes they do. He wants to meet that garrison officer. 

-------

Imperial Rehabilitation Center

Weeks later

19 BBY

Life isn’t all doom and gloom. They are kept...occupied. Like rats in a maze. Ori shares a bunk with another Mandalorian, the only other there. Taren is a kid really, small and slight except for her distended belly. It’s obvious she’s used to wearing armor by the way she walks, how upright she holds herself, arms swaying slightly away from her body. And how she closes in on herself when she realizes it’s not there, when it’s nighttime in their room and thinks Ori can’t hear her sob breathlessly into her pillow every night. 

It’s almost childish, the way they’re herded from room to room. Chaperoned and on a schedule, like one would handle a naughty child needing extra discipline. It was how she imagines Coruscanti boarding schools some of her medical school classmates attended - polished stone floors and crisp uniforms, all strict routines and synchronized repetition. It’s meant to numb the mind, making days run into weeks. She suspects they’re kept intentionally disoriented. After all, most of them are still political prisoners, and many she’s found have important connections on their respective homeworlds. 

They’re at lunch, scattered around their assigned tables. Generously, they are allowed to converse during meals, though their seats remain assigned. The ‘rehab center’ has proven to be much more expansive than she expected - some rooms are swallowingly large, like the one she is in now, and some are as small as a broom closet, connected by narrow winding hallways. The building itself could have been any number of things in a past life - a school, factory, or prison. She supposes it doesn’t matter much now. Today there’s a newcomer, sitting quiet and sullen at a back table with the Corellians. Time would tell if she was one of them or if she hailed from a different world. 

An arm jostles her, hitting her square in the ribs. It successfully knocks her out of her analysis of the newcomer. 

“-did you hear what I just said?” Taren says, mouth full of tasteless nutritional paste. It’s far from delicious, but you ate what they give out and she is hungry *all the time* nowadays. A fleck lands on Ori’s face and she wipes it away with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, al’verde.” Commander. Her eyes roll automatically. She knows she doesn’t deserve the title. Discreetly, Ori shushes the younger woman - they’re lucky the stormtroopers here don’t understand Mando’a. 

They put together kit for new stormtroopers, morning and night. It’s another endurable humiliation. She stabs at the cubes bitterly with her spoon, scattering crumbs across the table. They’re not allowed forks or knives, not after Taren’s first week. A tiny smile flits across her face as she thinks on the memory. 

 Ori feels like a geriatric compared to the spry warrior, though they’re less than ten years apart in age. She’s seen things in that time, lost people, buried dreams. Though Taren is looking older and older by the day, cooped up in this place. 

“Theera is gone,” Taren says, “she wasn’t at breakfast either.” 

Looking around and finding no sign of the woman, Ori hums an agreement. She’ll be gone for good soon, and her baby as well. Every time someone delivers it sends a sense of unshakeable dread down her spine and into the pit of her stomach. All of them are marching slowly towards that finish line. 

The artificial hierarchy into which they are forced has made the two Mandalorians de facto leaders, despite Ori being one of the newer inmates and to cement her as *alverde*; her medical expertise makes her invaluable. 

The room hushes as Dr. Loesch sweeps down to the cafeteria, all business in crisp grey scrubs, so confident in his admiration. He insists they call him ‘Doctor L’ like he’s a popular lecturer at a university. He’s the worst kind of hut’uun, just as bad as the rest of the Imps she’s met here. Loesch is in charge of their medical care, all 100-some of them, including herself. Loesch towers over most of them, even herself. 

As a physician, Ori is personally insulted at his complacency, the fact that he is perfectly content in his post and cemented in his belief that what he was doing is just, his complicity. She stabs at her cubes some more to try and make herself feel better. 

As a woman, she’s decidedly less surprised. Men like him are everywhere, tall and handsome, handed success on a silver platter, born into families of privilege and power. Taking and taking with no thought of the carnage they leave behind. 

He saunters his way over to their table and sits with a charming smile. 

“Beviin,” he starts, “I heard through the gossip chain that you were an obstetrician before you came here?”

It’s physically painful to keep her retort in hand. She’s been here long enough to see women sent to solitary. And to see them come back, changed indefinitely. 

“Mmm,” she mumbles affirmatively through a mouthful of cubes. She swallows. “Yes.” Keep it simple, that’s easy enough. 

He smiles sardonically. “How ironic,” he adds, obviously pleased with the revelation. Expectantly, he looks around the table to gauge his joke, and they catch on, laughing softly, nervously, afraid of what might happen if they don’t. Even Ori joins in, the butt of the low blow, though her simmering rage ratchets up another level.

They finish the rest of their lunch largely in silence and Loesch pulls her away when she files out with the others. 

“Ms. Beviin,” he says conspiratorially, “I know it must be difficult for you to be here.” 

The man over her, face too close for comfort, his voice deep and low. Alarm fills her as the other people in the room dwindle until it’s just the two of them and the scattered troopers on the upper level. All Ori can think about is where the nearest exit is located when she realizes he’s still speaking to her. 

“...what do you think?” He waits patiently, a benevolent expression in his face. He blinks too little, she thinks, and his eyes are devoid of expression, shining with an amused sort of malevolence. They’re a strange shade of brown...no, green? The little noise he makes in the back of his throat brings her back to their conversation.

“Ah...sure?” she replies weakly, stunned and frozen.

“That’ll be nice for the other inmates,” he says. Incredibly white, straight teeth flash as he smiles down at her. “I think it will give them comfort to have you there. I’ll have the guards collect you when it’s time.” 

——

Three nurses eye her from across the suite. They wear sweet matching hospital uniforms, in the same soft fabric as hers except in a delicate petal pink. With a pang, she misses her fellow nurses and doctors on Mandalore. Who knows how many had fallen ill? Been arrested? The way they clustered in a little group reminded her of her schoolmates, when they found out she didn’t like fighting, whispering rumors from across the room. That she thought she was better than them, that weird girl who was more concerned with grades than winning fights and impressing boys. Now they stand across the room from her like a little bunch of flowers in their coordinated outfits, identical and perfect. She’s an other in their world, someone to be feared and hated, pitied at best. 

Orla stands awkwardly, waiting for the show to start when her stomach flips. The scrub top she has on stretches across her middle awkwardly, pulling at the seams and the soft shoes that cover her feet are obscured by her bump. The strange sensation returns, a little differently this time, just the barest flutter, deeper down than that nervous feeling. Her baby. She lays a gentle palm over the swell, as discreetly as she can, still feeling the scrutinizing looks of the women across the room.

Another nurse wheels a bed into the room, complete with Theera shivering atop it, her hair and gown drenched in sweat. Orla rushes to the head of the bed as she’s prepped for the operation. Theera is dazed, too exhausted to make much sense of anything right now, glassy eyes focused on the ceiling. She smoothes back the sweaty hair from Theera’s forehead. 

“Hey cyar’ika. It’s Ori,” she says softly. The woman’s eyes focus a little, just enough to meet hers. She bumps their foreheads together. It was as much to comfort herself as much as the other woman. Non-mandos typically didn’t understand the meaning behind the gesture. She can’t squeeze her hand like she wants to - it’s being hooked up to IV tubing.

“I’m cold,” she mumbles. Some of it is adrenaline, some from fear, and the rest from the icy operating room temperature to keep the surgeons comfortable. Drenched as she is, it’s no wonder Theera is shivering. 

Ori asks the wary tech for a warm blanket, terrified of overstepping and getting her shebs kicked out of the operating room. She’s promptly ignored in favor of his work. Dr. Loesch enters the room and the nurses titter around him while he ensures everything is prepped to his liking. Ori settles for as much skin to skin contact as she can get with Theera, trying to warm her, mumbling comforting nonsense into her ear as Loesch starts to work. A warming bassinet waits ominously against the wall for its prize. 

A thin cry interrupts their mumbling and Theera’s eyes sharpen at the noise. Loesch holds the little thing over the curtain separating them indulgently, just for a moment. A boy, he says, and she and Theera find themselves mesmerized by the bloody little thing and his tiny squished face and flailing arms, already so angry at the world. He’s held up for a second, allowing Theera a cursory glance and then whisked away by the nurses to the bassinet. His mother is still paralyzed on the table and it makes it all the more unjust that she isn’t even allowed to touch her son, see him up close. The nurses at the bassinet laugh and coo, oblivious to Theera, who starts weeping pitifully. Fat tears slide down the side of her face, wetting the starched white sheet beneath her head.

Ori is in the middle of the absolute emotional chaos around her. Theera crying, Dr. Loesch talking with his assistant about weekend plans, and the nurses with the baby, who have turned back at the sound of crying to glare at them judgementally. She can practically hear them now. Serves her right, their looks say. She deserves it. The rage congeals around Ori, settling itself in her throat. This feeling is exactly what had put her in this place to begin with and she knows she has to control it, use it somehow. She watches them place a little bracelet around the infant’s ankle and scan it into a datapad. They don’t bother with Theera. It dawns on her then that if she’s lucky - incredibly lucky - she can use the Empire’s obsession with order against them. 

She makes her way over to the bassinet under the ruse of joining the indulgent cooing that is going on, trying not to throw elbows before she’s kicked out of the room. The little boy’s leg is caught for a heel stick an she gets her chance. The number on the leg band is just visible, only for a second. She sends a prayer up to the Manda that she gets it right. 

Taglist

@clonewarslover55 @simping-for-fives @808tsuika @jedi-mando @cherry-cokes-world @nelba @fractiouskat @passionofthesith 

[kaetastic]

LINGERING EYES

pairing: Isaiah Jesus x Shelby!Reader

summary: The Peaky Blinders spend their night at a ball, however, Isaiah notices the wandering eyes of other men on the second youngest Shelby.

word count: 3.5k 

warning: slightly nsfw ?? jealousy, mention of blood, mention of violence, language

note: I loved writing this one! The flow was so smooth and I couldn’t stop writing, so here it is! I was hit with inspiration after checkin’ out some prompts (i saw them on pinterest so i don’t know who’s the original blog, if it’s you please dm me 🥺)

“Take my coat.” 

White— pearly beads of opal tears were poked through with a piercing needle. The bawling drops of clams drooped from the yellow ceiling, hanging low as gravity clung onto the strands. While shuffling of polished shoes screeched into the air, ear-drumming squeals from yanked corks paced to overlap obnoxious laughs. The laughs worthed grands; the laugh of slithering serpents.

Despite the approaching night, there was no heaviness resting upon the awaken eyes, which only led to the fact that they have tolerated and befriended the aspect of long nights. Long nights of claimed hard work. Long nights of staying at work late to complete the pending task, allegedly. Bitterly, the woman who strayed near the marble bar assumed, even though she knew she was right.

The lavish dress she wore that she plucked out of the most expensive rack in the store were no different than those women who were present. The women who had been dragged out from the comfort of their home to flutter a smile while they drowned in their husband’s gold, not knowing their mistress circled nearby. However, her privilege of wearing the fabric that was enough to feed a whole village was not the same as them. While it might not be her money, she knew that Thomas’s money was now as legitimate as the rest, despite the fluttering rumours weaving from mouth to ears.

Y/N grew up on streets that reeked of feculent piss and mud as face-paint. They, on the other hand, were nurtured by a maid, money already swimming in their bloodstreams while their parents spent days on end overseas.

‘You’re not a Peaky, Y/N.’ As the tornado in her champagne flute swirled, she glared at the red wine with irritated eyes. Despite her hating the proper way of holding the glass which was as posh as it could be, she reminded herself to where she was and who breathed in the same room as her. Recalling the talk she sat with her older sister who believed that the woman shouldn’t even bother to relieve her presence to the party, Y/N beamed her eyes at the smearing grey against the whites of the marble counter. Y/N wasn’t sure if it was the destiny the Shelby’s will be cursed by, but heartfelt conversations were rare. The woman needed to get it out of her chest. She needed to tell her older sister the lingering eyes when she would walk down the streets. The elderly knew of the tainted reputation of the Shelby’s name, the main theme of the conversations whispered behind their backs. ‘No, but I’m a Shelby.’

That’s what she’ll always be. Just a Shelby. Not the woman who struggled through the obstacles of maintaining a deaf ear to her colleagues who would whisper under their breaths about her and her background. No matter what curtain draped over her, she’ll be seen as the younger sister of a gangster. Gypsy Shelby. Carnival wanderers. Y/N, the woman who sipped on wine in the dress of the same colour, will forever be known as Birmingham’s Infamous Gangster’s Little Sister.

Y/N was no longer the giggling child who swam through mud; she was no longer the girl with dangling tooths who hid her older brothers’ socks under her bed. Even Arthur, the eldest, has admitted how times have changed. Sitting on the stool was a woman, not a girl. A woman with cold, crystal eyes of a smeared cerulean blue that can only be glistened at a certain angle of light, a woman who had been prize hung upon the fair’s walls for men who were up to the challenge- that was until they heard of her last name. Unless they were cowards, they tiptoed away with the utmost silent steps. It was barely a handful of men who found the challenge of swooning the woman to be entertaining.

However, to be in radar with the Peaky Blinders themselves; to be in their loyal, trusted ranks, Isaiah Jesus just couldn’t find a fuck to give. There had been countless times he had seen eyes grazing over her figure, ogling her as if a taunting piece of meat. Would he be different to their scandalous actions? No, because he would do the same. The man just had a more discreet manner of observation. People with a name and money to flaunt might’ve shoved him to the edge since deep down, he knew that he’ll never be like them. But, at the end of the day, who was deep in her while she breathlessly screamed out?

“What?” Once her eyes peeled away from the intense rolling of liquid in her champagne flute, she shot a perplexed glance at the iconic oversized coat he would constantly wear. It seemed the memo to wear different had not reached the man. Her orbs glimpsed back to his face as if he had gone mental. The room had a barely noticeable breeze of wind that only kissed those who strayed next to the golden, colossal windows. 

“I said take my coat.” Isaiah repeated, arm extending, urging the woman to take it. 

There was no jest in his eyes. Isaiah wasn’t playing around, “It’s fucking hot in here.” There weren’t any trails of sweat visible on the woman, but there were beads of them crawling down her back. It seeped down through the minuscule crack of space between the velvet dress and her glossy back. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the same case for those who did not handle well with heat as some elderly men incessantly wiped their foreheads with their lavish cloth.

“Just fucking take it.” Isaiah didn’t mean to take another glance, but he did. Accidentally. The group of vigilant observing eyes did not quiver from the pair, well, it was mostly attached to the woman who was sipping on the red wine. However, the closeness of Isaiah and the Shelby had brought alarming thoughts in their heads. There wasn’t a plan so it wjasn’t part of it, it was more of an impulsive act of decision when one of them shot up from the seat.

In the corner of Isaiah’s eyes was a blur of an approaching figure, increasing in size. The pace was casual, gait relaxed with his hands tucked in the pocket of his waistcoat. A haze of shimmering gold sparkled, the intensity of the blaring reflection multiplied by a tenfold.

“I’m gonna suffocate, I can’t breathe already.” Y/N scoffed, mouth finding solace in the half-drunk wine.

With every step, Isaiah’s eyes wavered back onto the woman. A fire burnt in his chest, no, it roared behind his eyes as fury dumped a barrel of petrol into the growing rage. Doubts settled in. Was it truly rage? Or was he scooting around the idea of jealousy? Before his head caught a glimpse of his peripheral, his hands were already chained around Y/N’s wrist. A satisfied smirk crept up on his lips when the figure halted in his steps. Watching the woman he was about to approach thrash in the man’s grip, he gawked.

“Isaiah!” Although eyes were darted towards the catastrophic scene, Isaiah didn’t bat an eye, head too blurry with satisfaction. Y/N with ajar opened mouth was yanked away from her barely finished wine. It tasted rich. A privilege she had been surrounded with only recently. “What the fuck was that?”

Once he managed to drag her into a hallway of stacked barrels, he finally noticed the dripping beads of tears from the leaking metal pipe. As teardrops descended from the sobbing pipe, it puddled on the miniature lake. The hallway felt exposed to the frosty night of London. A breeze of the chilly air overflowed through the cracked open hopper windows.

Not too long ago Y/N was clamouring with the pungent odour, now, she was sure the secretion had become icicles, frozen. Isaiah wasn’t so different, his shoulders remained in the stance of shock. After yanking her hand out of his grasp, the dishevelled woman beamed at the man. His flared nose was tinted red. While he pressed his lips shut, the echoing noise of the bawling pipe trickled in to fill in the pregnant silence.

An exasperated sigh fell off his lips, “They were fucking you with their eyes.” Blinking in disbelief, she let out a scoff. The reason he had dragged her was because people were looking at her? Well, fucking her with their eyes?

“So what? And who the fuck are you to bother?” Isaiah’s jaw ticked. How was he to answer? The man himself didn’t know how to reply. Thoughts resounded off his head, springing from one side to the other as he tried his best to think of an answer. There was fire roaring in his chest. A flicker of blue plastered across the dancing red canvas. It burned hotter than a summer’s day, flaring scorches of heat than heatwaves when one would stray around the furnace who had been chugged by boulders of dusty coal. But actions speak louder than words. As his eyes flickered to meet hers, the flame on the candle died with a blow of air.

Isaiah was fired up, chest taut, fingers clenched, ready to hurl it in their faces’. It all vanished. The anger, the fire, the stirred up hurricane, it all wiped off from existence. Her hair that was once a coiled perfection which was a result of an hour of refining each and every lock, had become a wild, untamed bunch. It was no different to that of her hairstyle she would wear in the creaking morning after an exhausting night of moans and groans. The pearl necklace that draped down her neck sat on her shoulder, clumping up a rubble even though it hung above her cleavage a few minutes ago.

Frigid bites of the brick wall pierced into her skin. The bleeding words that rested on her tongue were exhaled into a familiar warm mouth. Long forgotten, the coat he could’ve used for defence to crawl out of the fancy ball to protect him from the chilly night, puddled into the ground. A groan grumbled out of his lips to puff into her moaning ones; although, Isaiah wasn’t sure if it was because his coat would be the absorbing cloth, soon to be drenched by the unknown liquid from the pipe, or it was because her wide open legs had curled around his hip. 

There were no words exchanged, only wanton moans and guttural groans. The world around them faded into black and white before it all was swirled in a hazy blur. The tiles of the mosaic painting were soon plucked out. The world didn’t exist, just each other. There weren’t any irregular singing notes of the pipe, no blowing of wind into the cracked orifices and no boisterous thrumming of heart in their ears. It was just each other's breathing and their fingers rustling faint noises of caress. 

An exhalation rolled out of her chest to gush out into the tensed air. Air that was once struck with chords of anger and jealousy, but now, it was trickling with need and lust. Knocking the back of her head into the wall, the gaps between her fingers were spurting of his curly locks. The piercing cones smeared over the brick walls embedded into her skin. If his mouth wasn’t planting bruises on her skin, it would’ve hurt a lot more. 

“Saiah... fuck, no hickeys...” Stuttering between heavy breathing which was from the nipping of his teeth on her skin below her ears, Y/N finally managed to breathe out the words. Although it had been an unspoken rule which was brought up only once (the first time they fucked), Isaiah couldn’t give a fuck. To have the Shelby’s as a boss, Isaiah had somewhat familiarized himself with the gears spinning in their heads while he watched them work on the field. Not Thomas Shelby, never Thomas Shelby. The man was impossible to see through, just like the murky canals of Birmingham. If his siblings had not succeeded in reading his mind, what miracle did he possess if he could do so? 

So it was no wonder the pair had not taken the risk of overlooked details such as markings on their necks to be seen. There was one thing Y/N could do when having scandalous ties with her brother’s employee, and that was to be one step ahead of any of them. Preferably Thomas Shelby. It was the least she could do. Nights when Isaiah would climb through her windows, she would complain about the aching in her stomach beforehand. Although, that plan nearly blew up on her face as Polly had incessantly banged on her door to check up on her paining niece. Oh, how they all would’ve lost their shit if they knew Isaiah was deep in her, thrusting his hips with lust before her aunt lingered outside her door. 

Y/N always pondered to how everyone would react to their relationship. Relationship? There never was an appropriate time where the two sat down to discuss the fire sparking between them. Even though she had tried to bring it up at points, it always led her to a moaning mess. The pair had scooted around the topic, ignoring its existence. But for how long? The stunt Isaiah had pulled back not too long ago was of pure jealousy, the feeling of someone else eyeing something of his. It was not something he had felt before, ever.  

Pulling his lips away, his eyes grazed over the masterpiece he had painted. Streaks of red trailed across the side of her neck in peculiar directions. While Isaiah admired his prominent markings, Y/N noted the curled up corners of his lips and his gazing eyes on the scene. Oh, she was too late. Worried if her brothers were to see Isaiah’s branding, formulas were scribbled in her head. All she had to do was avoid everyone, Finn and Arthur especially if she didn’t want a wildfire to burn. Finn who was still a babe had curious eyes and quick fluttering lips, Arthur on the other hand just had an agile tongue and a rock as a fist. If one of them was to even peek a glance at the hickey, the news would’ve crossed the other side of England. Ada was easy to avoid as the woman was not present at the party; however, Y/N could not imagine her never-ending rambling. Knowing her older sister, she was sure it would lead to pregnancy and stubborn questions about the mysterious guys.

The trio of Thomas, John and Polly was one to keep in mind. Y/N herself wasn’t sure why she had grouped the three together, but she knew they had one thing in common. Merciless. She wasn’t sure how it would proceed if one of them was to gaze upon the marking; she never wanted to see it happen. While the woman who had a painted canvas on her neck was concerned with future issues to which she hoped she would never have to stumble upon, Isaiah was a smirking mess. The thought of them seeing the art he had created flicked a lighter to his gun powder. Once his eyes grazed over her shut ones and her lips pecking of silent mumbling, he let out a sigh. The woman was overthinking again. The noise of her saliva smacking on her swollen lips only made sense to her head as she went over the whole plan. Avoid, avoid and avoid. Isaiah’s eyes brushed upon her smeared lipstick, he wouldn’t be surprised if some made way on his lips. 

Her train of words halted once a warm thumb grazed over her bottom lip. Although scribblings of words jotted in her head, nothing made sense as Isaiah’s lips were on hers once again. The layers of planning and never-ending what-ifs vanished, wiped from her head to be buried deep underneath the bedding of soil. Back splayed against the wall and legs around his hip, Isaiah’s fingers trailed down to clutch on her thighs, nudging the stubborn hem of her dress up, coiling it in a bunch. Tongues caressing one another while strings of wanton moaning brushed down the bristles of their throats, everything was long forgotten. There was no Thomas Shelby. There was no Peaky Blinders. Just the two of them.

“What the actual fuck.” With the familiar straining voice echoing through the narrow hallway, the feeling of need vaporized. Heat that was once beaming through their chest seeped into the air, dancing in the wind. The glass bottle in his hands shattered. Piercing shards of glass embedded into his skin, slashing through his blood vessels, but he could see nothing but red. Snapping the neck of the bottle into millions of fragments, Arthur no longer cared the good chug of whiskey he wanted to have away from all the lying cunts. Tonight was full of people who had dollar signs in their eyes while they grasped onto leashes around those who needed to pay back stacks of cash. More than fucking enough. If Arthur heard any of their voice, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to hold back.

So, when Arthur decided to pull away from the crowd to enjoy even the crappiest stench of whatever the fuck liquified the soil that smeared along the bricks, he did not expect to see a Peaky boy’s tongue down his little’s sister throat. Even though the eldest Shelby wasn’t in many conversations (there was no need to ponder that all they wanted was Thomas’s cock), he barely noticed the disappearance of the second youngest Shelby, most likely because he was too focused on maintaining the position of his curled fists which were stuffed deep in his coat’s pocket. Despite him yanking out his red, thrumming hand multiple of times, a glare from Thomas was enough to remind him of the lingering eyes.

Feet descending down the wall, Y/N’s eyes didn’t blink once as she stared at the abrupt appearance of her eldest brother. Well, fuck. Fuck the plan. Fuck avoiding. Because the future she didn’t want ever was now, “Arthur.”

Without a word uttered between the two, a distance increased with every shove down their throats. Arthur Shelby was here. Arthur Shelby saw the son of the man he trusted pinned his little sister to the wall. Eyes were lassoed, ropes were thrown around, yanking stammering thoughts. Arthur’s eyes that were popped out of his eye socket did not quiver from Isaiah’s figure. The smear of red against the boy’s lips and his dishevelled waistcoat was enough for Arthur to go mental. Isaiah wasn’t sure how he felt. There was a jolt of inhumane voltage zapping through his heart before a snip of a scissor prevented it to ever be alive again. 

The man whose face oozed of litres of blood was a victim of whatever lurked under Arthur Shelby’s skin. If Isaiah wasn’t there to notice his motionless body, he couldn’t give a fuck, but he was. He saw men struggle to hold Arthur’s thrashing body back. The devil they called it. The plunging noise descending his throat and into the green lake in his gut trickled through Isaiah’s ears. He was dead meat, “Arthur, it’s not what it looks like- I can explain.” 

“Fucking not what it looks like?” Although the eldest Shelby stood at the other end of the hallway, his booming voice was as if he was right in front of them. Wavering the cracked neck of the whiskey glass, furious spit gushed out of his lips. Hair curtained to flare up, the man was beaming with steam. “Fucking explain why you looked like you were about to fuck Isaiah!” 

Speckled soil shivered from its land to rest upon the ground. The ground the building sat upon shook, shaking the glass panes to send raining shards of glass across the marble floor. Thomas stepped down the stairs. Seconds ago, the man was under the ceiling of solid gold, now, he was under dripping tainted water that pecked his shoulders. His face was unreadable although a twitch of his jaw gave away the underlying anger, “One fucking day, Arthur, you couldn’t give me one fucking day of silence?” 

Trailing behind him was John and Finn who were laughing at an obnoxious joke uttered by the youngest himself, something about his boxers ending up on the street. It fell into silence. Despite the warning Thomas had incessantly, stubbornly pressed on his accompanies of the night, a part of him had already predicted this was to happen. There was hope. There was hope that the night might’ve flown pass smoothly without a bump over the road. And then there was reality. Awry reality never resembled the plans in Thomas’s head. However, there was a second he had missed in his life. A second was forgotten, jumped over to the next beat of his heart. He didn’t need many words from the blood gushing out of Arthur’s curled fist and the mussed hair of the pair.

Well, there goes the plan. Out the fucking window it was. With a cigarette sighing on his lips, he gestured, “Go ahead. Talk.”

Maybe Y/N should’ve listened to Ada.

[emptymanuscript]

The breath of life Part 1.

Not really, I just wanted to say something dramatic and I’m looking at breathing systems now.

Humans breathe like so:

You breathe in through the nose, mouth, or both into the trachea. At more or less the same time they contract the diaphragm, a dome-ish shaped muscle that divides your stomach from your chest. By contracting the diaphragm it flattens and so both lowers its top and pushes out its sides, opening the thoracic cage (the ribs) wider, which creates negative pressure on the lungs, causing them to expand. That in turn causes negative pressure inside the lungs which pulls the air from the trachea into the lungs to balance out the pressure. Inside the lungs the 48 million or so Alveolar Sacs bulge with the air and shunt oxygen (and some other stuff) into the blood vessels they’re woven together with, while taking back the Carbon Dioxide (and some other stuff) from them in return. The diaphragm relaxes, squeezing the lungs like they’re bellows, shooting the air back into the trachea which you breathe out through the nose, mouth, or both.

This is called exchange tidal flow. Because it works like the tide of the ocean. Air comes in, air goes out, you make the gas exchange at the peak, where the air is all the way in but hasn’t gone out yet.

Like the tide though, there are inefficiencies in the system. Two of interest. If you’ve ever looked at the tide you’ll have noticed that as one wave comes in, the dregs of the previous wave are still trickling out. There’s an overlap. This happens in breathing as well. Which is why breathing exercises are all about exaggerating the points in the cycle. Breathe in more than you do naturally, hold longer than you do naturally, exhale longer than you do naturally. You are, in essence, controlling the tide to decrease overlap. It’s also part of the reason that when you do all that you breathe in through the nose, the narrower aperture, and out through the mouth, the wider aperture. Because you’re trying to flush as much of the outbreath tide out as possible.

Most bodies are fairly well adapted at getting as much oxygen as they need. And they have a natural enforcement limit. If you can’t get enough, you just can’t keep going. You get tired and you fall over. So the inward tide full of Oxygen is absolutely necessary but it is the tide of lesser concern.

The old truism of death by fire is that the fire’s smoke, the waste product of its chemical reaction, is more likely to kill you than the fire’s flames. Carbon Dioxide is the smoke in this simile. CO2 is one of our bodies’ fundamental waste products and the one we can tolerate the least of. Too much in our system at a given time and it makes it so we can’t get enough oxygen because there isn’t room for the exchange and it poisons us.

CO2 eventually leads to panting for more oxygen that you can’t get, a racing heart rate, arrhythmia so your heart can no longer steadily pump your blood, and “impaired consciousness” like difficulty thinking and being able to move. Concentrations of greater than 10% may cause any or all of convulsions, coma and the big D.

So as important as it is to get Oxygen in, it’s extra important to get that CO2 out. That’s also a part of why long term meditators and conscious breathers tend to feel healthier. They literally do have less toxic material in their bodies.

The second feature of interest for me is dead space.

Not that dead space.

This dead space

Dead space is the amount of space given over to breathing where no gas exchange takes place. Which for us is the trachea, oral cavity, and nasal cavity. If you snorkel, you add in the snorkel because the length of the tube is always used to move the air while having no role in making the breath pay off. It just helps you get the air where it is going. It’s easier to understand with the snorkel because without it, you don’t breathe at all. Necessary, not wasted.

And our natural dead space is much the same. It performs vital functions besides gas exchange. Mostly adjusting the temperature of the air toward our internal body temperature so it’s easier to deal with and the amount of moisture toward where it is easiest to perform a gas exchange.

And another benefit of exaggerating the tide of breath is in there as well. By dividing the air ways, breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth, you can dedicate a short portion of dead space to a particular part of the exchange, allowing for less overlap of the tides and less mixing of CO2 and O2.

But depending on where you put lungs or whatever breathing apparatus they have in a Centaur, there’s the issue of either having a LOT of dead space, too small lungs, or too far to carry the oxygen, or etc. etc. etc.

If there is only one set of lungs. The human lungs are small and there is a lot of body to cover that is very far away from the lungs. So picking that set has issues. The ungulate lungs have a giant dead space though. Way too large. So that’s not great either.

So, is it two sets of lungs that each work that way. I’m not sure that isn’t worse instead of better. Because you would still have the dead space of both. The anterior humanish lungs would have what all mammals do. The posterior ungulate lungs would have what more extreme mammals like giraffe’s have WITH THE ADDITIONAL DIFFICULTY or sharing part of that space with the other lung set. And they’re both using the same set of apertures designed essentially to feed just one set. Unless you do a full redesign and add a second set of intakes for the second lung set. There is apparently a book somewhere out there that has a nose in place of where the humanoid naval would be. Which just doesn’t sit right with me for no particularly good reason. Other than it adds to the pressure problem.

If the lungs aren’t synced right, then you might have the pressures from one set of lungs interfering with the other set. If you modulate the anterior lungs to talk because Centaurs talk like people, then you’re altering the airflow without there necessarily being regard for the posterior lung set, which would up the pressure, forcing an exhale instead of speech. You might get little snippets of talking but unless you exactly sync the lungs will interfere with each other. Worse, if the larger anterior lungs purposely hold their breath because they don’t want to smell some stupid scented perfumery, with it deflated and held, you’ve got a low pressure force pulling on the anterior lungs, keeping them expanded, which is going to make it darn hard to breathe, even once the posterior lungs give up, because the anterior lungs have formed a high pressure block in response, and somehow they would have to force that to deflate before you can rebalance the system. So, all in all, mammalian style lungs just aren’t sounding great to me for Centaurs.

But, thankfully, while mammals are all pretty much the same as people, that’s not the only type of pulmonary system that there is. And some pulmonary systems work much better than ours. So that’s part 2.

Edit: *sigh* respiratory systems. Not pulmonary. RESPIRATORY.

[visual-explorxtion]

Vinylic Taste [Carlos Oliveira x Reader] - One Shot

Summary: You’re trapped and alone in the midst of an outbreak, struggling to survive. In the depths of your despair, Carlos came to the rescue. Through your ups and downs, Carlos soon became your best partner and vice versa. But...you soon realise Carlos isn’t who he appears to be.

A/N: Are you reading this at night time? Good...Wanted to write a Carlos fic but also wanna try and write something different from my usual stuff. But also got super distracted by other ideas and this fic got pushed waaaay further back and kinda took a different turn from my original plan and 11 pages in, I panicked. Still in first person POV.

TW: Graphic depiction of Violence, Blood, Gore, Angst, a bit of horror (idek), prob not as graphic as you think but it’s still graphic, uhh language and bit of a Mind Break.

Words: 6.0k

How did things turn out this way? Blood seeped its way across the vinyl floor, forming a pool around my feet as I sat helplessly with my body shivering in fear. Chest rising and falling rapidly and eyes locked wide open, my blurry gaze fixated onto a man but I could only make an outline of them. Him; on his knees, lays a lifeless corpse in between them, all drenched in venous blood as the deep red colour streams down every rigid and curves of his face. The air is thick combined with the stench of iron and gunpowder. He stares at his hands, covered in liquid but not his own. He laughs- echoes through my soul and pulsated the room- never have I ever heard of something so harrowing and sinister coming from a human. If he even had any sanity left in him. Neck twists abnormally towards my direction, head tilts eerily as if it's only supported by a thin piece of string. A soft gasp left my mouth, throat scorched with fear and lips quivering. My limbs lay still no matter how much I tell myself to run. My sense of self is being sucked into his dark, endless gaze. The light behind his eyes had vanished, all that's left is a soulless carcass I no longer recognise.

"Carlos...What happened to you?"

---------------

The thunderous rain came washing down my face, lowering my field of vision. The moisture trickles down from thick strands of hair and onto the rubble concrete in a light rhythmic pitter-patter. In the span of 24 hours, everything turned from just an average day in this town to be engulfed and corrupted by a fiery shitshow. Humans eating humans, without a hint of remorse. They have no emotions, no pain tolerance. Their sole purpose is to feed on anything that has a heartbeat. It creeps me out. Like somebody playing a joke too far to the point of no return. That's what I'd initially thought. In my struggle to keep myself alive in this godforsaken town, each bullet is scarce but every item you gather is expendable. As the gun recoils, a leftover shell would flicker out with each bullet piercing the head of the undead. A steady hand, steady trigger finger and steady breathing. One by one, I shot them down. The feeling of ambivalence surrounds my mind with every shot I take. This isn't right, they are...were...humans, flesh and blood.

The ringing in my ears grew louder with each squeezing action I take. The heat of adrenaline coursing through under my skin, my peripheral vision gradually disappears until I'm left with the image of head to head. Before I could react, my back was already on the ground. The backside of my head slams against the solid sidewalk with a loud crack, the noise echoed inside for a nanosecond. My self-defence mechanism kicks in- forearm struggle against the zombie's throat, it's jaw hinges wide open with blood oozing out as it frantically pushes it's deadweight onto me. Its skin texture is abnormal, like every part of them is set in stone. Why didn't rigor mortis happen? My fingers tremble, trying to grasp for the handle of my gun that's just out of reach. Muscles burn and ache as my defence is crumbling to its limit, teeth-gritting with every last strength that I have. I refuse to die like this. Not like them.

As my forearm grew tired- inching closer and closer to my face- I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to look Death in its soulless gaze and let it consume me slowly in the space of darkness. The next moment, I felt liquid splatter across my face but the pain never set in. My eyes flew open and watched as the corpse lay limping on my arm and the rest drop dead around my vicinity. I grunt as I discard the corpse aside, inspecting it one more time for any sign of movement. Face frozen in place as blood runs dry from the temple. The sight of this made my stomach churn.

"Hey, are you alright? Can you stand?"

A muscular figure towers over me, fully equipped in tactical gear. One hand armed with an assault rifle and the other extended out towards my direction. His hand is all worn out, even though the gloves I can see his fingers covered in blisters and scratches. They have seen better days.

"Yeah...I'm fine."

I choked out as I accept his assistance. His grip heaved my weight without breaking a sweat but may have overestimated his strength a little. His aid offset my balance and my body crash-landed in his embrace. Even with me standing on my own two feet, he's still almost a foot taller than I am. Our eyes met for a brief moment but I immediately jumped out of his arms as heat flushed up my cheeks and I regain my composure. He chuckles.

"My name is Carlos, I'm with the UBCS and we're here to get you out of here."

The organisation doesn't ring any bells in mind, nevertheless, receiving help from a rescue team is better than trudging through this damned hell alone. I would be lucky if I could even make it out alive. But, this strange rescue encounter sends comfort to my mind and slowly easing off my anxiety, or maybe it's because I'm no longer alone with Carlos's presence next to mine. Either way, I shouldn't let my guard down even with the help I'm getting.

The rest of his team is gathered in the subway station, we've arrived just in time for the last train to bound. Every one of them is tattered and covered in rags, exhausted and in pain. I can't imagine what kind of hell they've fought through, compared to myself, it's nothing but a just a minor scratch. Carlos caught up with his crew while I took a seat as all my energy is drained from my soul. The cool metal sensation seeped through my jeans and triggered goosebumps and hair along my arm, I couldn't care less about the shock as exhaustion washes over my limbs. I've been beaten down mentally and physically enough for me to not realise the train was already in motion. The view from out the window is nothing but a fast pace blur of darkness. All that just happened felt so unreal- the gush of blood, the viscous touch of muscle fibres, so red yet so cold. Getting pinned to the ground by this...thing. Its strength is vicious and animalistic with a face that doesn't resemble a human anymore. And at that moment my mind went blank. What if, at that very second, nobody came to save me? What if, I just gave up? What if, I let its teeth sink into my neck? What if...I just died there and then?

"How are you holding up?"

Carlos appeared before me, interrupting all the trepidatious thoughts. A slow realisation sets in as my hands tremble in my lap. Immediately, I curl my fingers into fists to cover up the jitter from him. "Still holding" I swallowed and smile politely, hoping the lump in my throat won't betray me right now. He returned the smile and positioned himself in the seat next to mine. "You were brave out there. Fighting by yourself...not many people have the balls to do that."

I let out a quiet snort. "No, you saved my ass. I wasn't brave. I was just lucky. If it wasn't for you I would've..." A pause, "I would've become one of them by now." Tears tingled behind my eyes as I blinked several times to keep them at bay. Carlos catches my hands tenderly, unravelling my fingers one by one, releasing all the tension I took a grasp of and crimson liquid came dribbling out the crescent-shaped wound. The fear in my head numbs all my pain; unaware of the shallow cuts, the maroon shade stained the dents of my fingertips. He took out some bandages from one of his pouches and carefully bind them to stop the bleeding. "There. That should do the trick." he grins as I admire his patchwork. "Thank you." I returned the kindness and we sat in comfortable silence. Upon closer inspection, Carlos does look kinda cute. The corner of his eyes crinkles and smile line deepens whenever he laughs, not to mention, his voluminous mane is the centre of attention. It kind of reminds me of an Old English Sheepdog and that image alone made me giggle.

"Carlos, we have a situation." we turn our attention to another team member, dressed in the same gear as Carlos- except his appearance was more well-kept, clean-shaven. Carlos turns, face sombre, knowing the news that comes next won't be any good. "What's the status?"

"Charlie's comms are down. The situation currently unknown."

"And Bravo team's position?"

"They're en route to Charlie, but they've already lost half their men"

He ponders for a moment. "Alright, change of plan. We'll meet up with Bravo and rescue Charlie. Once we get there, see if you can call for extraction out of this city."

His colleague nodded and went off to relay the message to the rest of the squad. Carlos turns back and kneels down, looking at me in the eyes, he softly spoke. "Hey. We're gonna have to take a detour, but I promise you, I'll keep you safe." He paused, reading my reaction. "Are you okay with that?"

My gaze wanders around his nervous expression, but I simply smiled. "Yeah, it's better than being alone out there right now. And besides, I don't doubt your abilities to keep me safe." His face went blank for a few seconds to unexpectedly bursts into laughter as though my answer caught him by surprise. "Okay. We'll be getting off next stop. In the meantime, stock up on some supplies cuz we don't know what's out there. Talk to one of the guys and they can get what you need." Carlos winked before leaving me to psych myself up for what's coming ahead. Knowing the chaos that's happening out there, it's going to be a dirty fight.

Our clattering footsteps relay around the walls of the subway as the lights flicker in a retrospective beat. The place is bare and quiet. Too quiet, even. Not even a single croak or heavy breathing could be perceived. It is deadly silent. Why is it empty? With the city running amok, you'd expect people to be escaping this hell hole; or worst-case scenario, laying dead in this underground. But, nothing. Not a single body insight. That's what worries me. I could say the same for the rest of Carlos's team. Which means, whatever is waiting for us out there is greater than what we could imagine.

My knees are getting weaker by the minute, shuffling closer to Carlos as I grasp my gun tight. Fingers nervously fiddling with the indents of the grip; sucking in a cool breath of air and pulling my shoulders back, we press on.

The layout of the underground is intricate and labyrinthine- reaching an intersection every few minutes, but we haven't let our guard down. Turning the last corner, we finally arrived at the main plaza; still remaining empty but the place was already thrashed. Carlos signalled for everyone to spread out and search the area, while I linger next to him. My heartbeat is racing quick as ever since I stepped off the train with the rapid pulse stuck in the back of my throat. He gently touches my arm, worry flash before his eyes but I shook my head. 'I'm fine' I mouthed. He looked at me for a few seconds, unconvinced, but decided not to force it any further. This place is eerily bleak, what was once lively is now filled with desolation. Somehow there's a slight dread and sadness inside me. The noise of metal clanking took my attention away from my surroundings.

"Damn it. The exits blocked." He gave it another shot but the gate shows no sign of budging. A short, heavy breath escapes his nose. I examined his troubled look and spoke out, "I'll go look for a way to open the gate."

He was stunned. "No. I can't let you do this. It too dangerous-"

"Please, I insist. You've helped me enough so let me do this. Even if I am in trouble, you'll come to save me, right?"

Carlos's expression is tense; I can almost see his thoughts rotating, like clockwork, inside his mind. Considering and reconsidering my offer. At last, my words overthrows him. "Okay, but take this." He hands me a palm-size radio, all tattered and taped. "Anything you see, you radio in. And I mean that. If you see one of those things, do not hesitate to shoot. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," I respond, sloppily saluting as I backed away to complete my new objective, continue to traverse down to the backside of the plaza. By the repetition of office doors, this justifies that I'm going in the right direction, but which one? The fluorescent lights blinked abruptly before returning to normal. Seems like the building is getting more unstable, with time quickly ticking away, I should hurry. And by some miraculous luck, I stumbled upon a door that catches my attention. 'Employees Only', this must be it. The door isn't locked but it took a great amount of energy to push a gap open, just enough for me to squeeze through.

Stacks of documents and brick computers blockade the door and next to it; a dead corpse that was once the employee of this place. He must have been dead for 2 hours- top, by the looks of it. The blood forms into a pool around the body and adheres to the sole of my boots. He took the quick way out. A blow to the head with his own pistol, laying dormant in his hand, now motionless in white. Crimson red liquid and shards depicted the blank wall, chunks frozen in place.

"I'm so sorry..."

Choking back my grief, I resume my search and in front of me is my mission objective. Monochromatic screens all tracking specific places of the building. Right on the bigger screen, displays Carlos and his men searching the perimeter. I radio in, "Carlos, come in. I'm in the control room. Hang on, I'll get the gate open."

"Good job. Hurry back and we'll get out-"

The building fades into darkness, heightening my sense of fear in this unfamiliarity. I draw out my gun and tightening my hold like it's my lifeline. My chest stiffens with each shallow breath I took, the effect of the blackout is developing claustrophobia within me. I heaved and the lack of oxygen in my brain cause me to hallucinate all my nightmares, but the image of Carlos flashed vividly in my mind. I took a deep breath and count to three. One...Two...Three... The emergency lights came on before my eyes and my anxiety reverts back to a sense of tranquillity. Talk about timing.

"Carlos? Carlos! Are you okay?" Please tell me he's okay.

No reply.

"Carlos? Are you there? I can't see you." I bit my lip, searching relentlessly on the screen for a trace of him. Just any sign at all.

"Yeah, we're okay. We've taken cover but it's pitch black out here, but...we could only see so much with our flashlight. See if you can get the power back on from your end"

Frantically, I pressed every button presented on the switchboard, nothing seems to be doing the trick. "Negative. I don't think I can do anything from here." All of a sudden, the floor began to rumble. And gradually it became stronger that shook the whole room, files and objects tumble to the ground until it subsides back down again, just like a tank passing by. "What was that?" I said in dismay.

"I don't know..." Coming from the other side of the line, a low growl and heavy footsteps. "But, whatever the fuck that is...It's definitely in here with us now."

In search of the monitor, I glue my eyes to the blurry image shown; even if everything doesn't seem out of the ordinary, my gut feeling is telling me otherwise. Still as a statue, they listened in closely to every motion IT makes. The sound is too quiet to be perceived. Out of the corner of the screen, something whoosh by. Its movements are too fast for me to catch but it's inching closer and closer to the lifeforms. With one swift swipe, it took a man down, and then the next. The claw marks on the wall...it stretches 10 feet wide from point to point, even looking through the screen, the blood is so vividly deep in hue. It crawls in close, but the team is still desperately searching.

It strikes! "Get down!" My voice is shaking down to its core.

They duck, but some did not make it. Their limbs severed; corpse dangling in half on the claw of the monstrous being, still clinging and screaming for their lives and then cease all at once. I shrieked out in horror. The size of that thing knocked the air out of my lungs. This being couldn't possibly be a human?! The zombie creation stood ten times its original size. The exposed skeleton is partially bound by its flesh- all swelled up and tainted, its tail bone morphed to a whip carrying a single-edge blade. Claws digging into the shallow pool of blood as the liquid cascade down the cracks of the marble flooring. The remaining squad open fire, bullets fly and ricochet off the wall. In the brief moment of spark, they lost sight of the target again.

"Shit, where is it?" I can hear the frustration in Carlos's tone.

Their flashlight drifts around the room as the tension sets in. You fear what you can't see, even more so if all you could see is darkness. The beast growls and encircles them, but the squad can't pinpoint where the sound is coming from. Intensity fills your gut as you watch the monitor closely, decoding its every move. After a beat, it leaps.

"Carlos, your 4 o'clock!"

He whips around at the speed of sound as he squeezes the trigger. The blast took impact greater than his expectation, every shot penetrated into its fleshy fibres while it screeched with a chalkboard sound. It struggles to keep a hold of itself up on the pillars as it collapses and tumbles to the ground. Without missing a beat, the team executes the behemoth until it turns into a bloody pulp, killing it with brute force. They inspected the pulverized mess further before they could ease off their defences. As if by command, the power's back on. My stomach turns into a knot. This is strange, but I pay no mind to it.

"Carlos, you alright?" I asked.

"Yeah...that was too close. That thing was too quick... We could've been killed here if it wasn't for you. You were our eyes when we couldn't see so...thank you." I could almost hear him blush at the other end of the line.

"Don't sweat it. Alright, I'm gonna get the gate open." I pulled the lever and watch the gate rise and retracted back through the screen.

"Got it. Now get your ass back he-" THUMP! Something's outside the door, trying to crank it open.

THUMP!

"Carlos? Carlos, someone's trying to get in here." my voice shivers.

"What? What do you mean someo-"

BANG! The door flew open. As an instinct, I drew my gun and aimed it towards them. A team of four heavily armed soldiers dressed in black armoury kicked in, almost like a SWAT team, weapons aimed ready. Without a second thought, I opened two shots on their thighs and calves to buy myself some time. They did not flinch, nor did it cause any pain to them. The unit moved in closer and closer towards my position by the time I made the first punch. My right hook collided with one of the soldier's throat and swiftly transitioned my elbow to another one in between the ribs. But all of that did not matter, my attacks took little effect as they soon surround me, putting me in a lock hold position, hands bound behind my back and dragging me away from the room. I can feel my heartbeat pulsating in my throat while I struggle to break free. Who the fuck are these people? What do they want with me? I don't want this. I'm scared.

"CARLOS!"

His name was the last thing that left my lips before the hooded squad inject my system with some form of liquid. My eyelids grew heavy, I fought back to keep myself awake but alas, the shroud of darkness consumes my mind, taking my soul to a distant world. The next time I wake up, the doors to the pandora's box had already open and it's already too late for me to stop it.

The snickering and one-sided conversation waver into my ear. I can't shift my body, still situated in darkness along with the effect of the drug. The icy metal clasp my limbs tight cemented on either side of my body and unable to produce any strength. The noises stopped and I froze like a deer in the headlights.

"Ah...you're awake. Good, good." The man sneered and carry on muttering in an absence. "You know, I was surprised by your...actions. You all exceeded my expectations. With this data you provided, we could improve on the flaws with our last experiment." He chuckled. "For now, my child, sleep. When you wake up, you'll be born anew again." His words became a slur in my brain, lowering into a hushed tone. Phrases repeat and distorting, just like an echo in an ice cave, cold and enchanting before my conscious slips away once more.

------------------------

"WHAT HAPPENED? HEY, COME IN. HEY!" The statics over on the other line holds its place. "FUCK!" Carlos's voice howls, the thunderous boom stunned the remaining of his teammates. His fists clenched in a fit of rage as he smashes the radio onto the bloodied floor. The radio explodes with shards flying across the hall, some splinters still clinging onto his hand.

"Carlos...umph..." Tyrell struggles, limping its way towards him as he compresses his wound. "The mutated monster...the lights and the locked gate...I don't think it's that simple." he sighs, pushing his glasses back up with his forefinger. "There's only one company that would create such a big experiment. Carlos, listen...you need to stop them."

Carlos shifts to look at him. "T, we still have to meet up with Bravo and we've already lost half of our men. There's no prediction of what's roaming out there."

Tyrell shakes his head, a stern look in his eyes. "No...You've seen what they are capable of, there's no saying what Umbrella might do to next. Go rescue them, I'll handle the rest." He waves him away, still clenched in pain but casually shrugs it off. Carlos conflicted for a short period but ultimately chose to listen to Tyrell. Tyrell gave him a quick pat on his shoulder before Carlos turns away.

[Umbrella's research facility]

The eerie sound of silence fills the whole facility. A silence that stayed constant in your ears, just like the tv sign-off tone. The uneasy feeling never left Carlos's mind as soon as he traverses through the isolated building, gun in position. Walls dressed in white, the distinctive chill in the air and corridors that lead to nowhere. Carlos grew impatient by the minute.

There, at the end of the hallway, lays a door just barely visible for the naked eye. 'Security Room, EMPLOYEES ONLY'. He breaches in; a vast space all clustered with fallen chairs and paperwork, the multiple screens project different rooms within the facility, some looked like its the cafeteria and another resembles a cool storage room with weird pieces of machinery scattered around the place. Yet they are all empty, except one. At the top left-hand corner of the display box, it presents various aqua chambers containing partially mutated humans and failed experiments. And in the centre of that screen, he saw his companion positioned upright on a surgical bed, unconscious and all tied up. But getting there might be difficult without putting up a fight as four heavily armed mercs all gathered outside of the laboratory. Carlos unclips his assault rifle and peeks, the ammunition is barely enough to fight four soldiers; hell, not even four zombies. At this point, every shot counts.

The build-up of sweat in his palm loosened his grip. He examines his hand; trembling and numb with uncertainty, what lies between him and his enemies is just one simple electronic door. Beyond that, someone important is there waiting for him, alive and afraid. Or perhaps they...no. That couldn't possibly be the case. He clutches the handle once more, on the count of three breaths, he bursts in. It only took a split second for bullets to fly across the room, landing hits in the enemies' calves and forearms. Carlos moves in closer before they could react, instantly killing a soldier with one shot under the jaw as blood and plasma spew out onto the ceiling. They return fire, only to hit their ex-partner's lifeless corpse. Carlos thrusts the body towards the two henchmen and staggers them to the ground, he flips; locking the remaining guy pressed up the wall with his entire body, they struggle but was immediately executed with a blow to the head. Blood splattered on Carlos's right shoulder but that didn't faze him. The sound of his assault rifle clicks empty as he saw the two crawling back up. "Tch." His tongue snapped as the gun launched across the room at a high velocity, knocking one in the face and stumbling backwards. Like a chain of effect, they’ve sprawled out on the floor once again. Stepping his right foot on their torso, his gaze shows pity as he ponders over them before pulling out his pistol from the holster.

"Hope you got friends on the other side."

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! The aftermath of those four shots lingers in the room. A mixture of gunpowder and blood made Carlos's stomach twist up in a knot, but he got more important things to worry about. The life of his partner was the only thing that occupied his mind. The final door slides open; revealing a skinny, middle-aged looking man in a fresh set of lab coat, stood in front of a worktable and unaware of his presence. Inside, those hydro chambers stood twice his height with flesh substance floating inside the liquid. Some are just a blob of meat and others have fully transformed into somewhat human-shaped, but all are deformed. Upon closer inspection, one mutated monster's eye pop open. Carlos flinched. He examined around and was shocked to find that they are alive, all of them. What kind of sick joke is this? Is this what I've been fighting? He wondered.

"Admiring my creations, I see. Do you like it?" The man asked.

"Is this what's been running the city into a shitshow? What the fuck is this pharmaceutical company hiding?" He looks around. "Where are they?"

"Ah, yes! My precious little plaything. You're just in time to witness the beginning of my newest creation." The man chuckles, he pressed a button and the sound of machinery begins to whir. The glass cell shifts closer into the room, unveiling you in a comatose state, pretty as a picture. "They are sedated, for now. But soon, they will become humanity’s greatest invention and you will be the first one to witness it. Isn't that something?"

The blood inside him boils; the rage within could not be contained, white-hot magma erupting and coating every strain in his system. He pulled the trigger; the shots punctured through both of the man's legs as he knelt on the floor, screaming in agony. Carlos rushed to your side, unclasping any restrictions and carefully let you lean against the wall.

"Heh...what will you achieve by saving them...? The city's gone rogue...everybody's dead...and yet you couldn't save half your men. So...why bother saving them...the end is nigh!" His manic amusement shakes the whole room to the ground. But, the laughter was cut short and soon, it has been replaced by the clinking of a bullet shell against the hard deck and empty clickings. Gun drops as he struts towards the pathetic slob, straggling in the crimson liquid that's supposed to keep him alive. Well, not anymore. Carlos straddles on top of his weakened body, gaze bore into his soul. He wondered. How could someone like him still be alive? As the world burns and he gets to live? The ability to heal given to this monster and yet, he chose destruction. He must be purged.

The sound of his leather gloves creek as it made the first impact. The feeling of bone to bone seems odd to Carlos but...it excites him. With each hit, the pain pushes him even further, numbing and bruising. It felt right. He pants, the blood spews and paints him in a new shade of violence. The man weakly chuckles.

"The man who fights monsters have become a monster himself. Isn't that irony...?" He coughs, blood spilling out on the edge of his lips.

"Killing humans...how does that feel? Still want to play the hero and save them? With the world on fire and all those lives in your hands...you will only taint them. Lemme tell you a story...do you know what kind of flower blooms the brightest even in the harshest weathers?" Carlos looks at him quizzically.

"Snowdrops. They are the first ones to bloom long before spring comes around...the pure and innocent. At the beginning of time, Snow searched for a colour to borrow... The element admired flowers and their vibrant colours. One day, Snow asked and pleaded for one of the colours from the flowers, but the blossoms denied Snow's request; they felt Snow was too cold and undesirable. The snowdrop, however, felt sorry for Snow and offered it its own colour. It accepted the gift and the element itself became as white as an angel's feathers... To show its gratitude, Snow allowed snowdrops to bloom at the end of each winter with their own protection against the blizzard weather. From then on, Snow and snowdrops exist side-by-side as friends."

He heaves. "Like I said...irony... Their friendship is only a fabrication out of pity. Just like you!" The deathly cackle roams as he chokes on his own spit and blood.

Ears buzzed with white silence, his visions hazed with a red lens filter and heart palpate at an abnormal speed. Carlos felt every ridge of the handle on his knife and takes out his weapon, unhurried. The shiny metal pressed upon the wilting man's oesophagus- with only a little strength, it opened up. Blood spatter across Carlo's face, unflinching. His eyes darkened, tunnel vision focused on the crevice of the wound; there's friction on the thin layer of skin as the sharp edge glides slowly from one end of the neck to another. Carlos finishing him off with a fling of his blade, scattering red all over the wall. Both of his hands grip the handle tight; rising it high above his head, he paused for a moment to look at him one last time, then strikes down into the man's right chest in the speed of light. Pulverising his cardiac organ. He retrieves the knife and repeats over and over again with the red fluid gushes out with each stab until there is nothing left. A monster bathed in his enemy's blood. The man croaks in agony and over a few seconds, it stops. And so does Carlos.

The white noise has been replaced by his own rapid breathing. Thoughts are empty, his gaze quivers yet, he does not fear anything. He felt it...warmth. How did he not notice it? Is this how warm humans feel? He never realised this, this kind of feeling, it's something so different from killing a zombie. He looks down at his own two hands...so red. A smile crept along his face with the feeling of content. In a spark, he burst into a peal of harrowing laughter, vibrating the whole room.

"Carlos...What happened to you?"

------------------------------

In my moments of wake, I find myself bestowing my gaze upon a beast gazing back at me with a musing look in his eyes. They're so dark and dire, almost like someone gouged out a part of him and replaced it with something so sinister. He snaps, now truly looking at me through the eyes of the actual Carlos, as if nothing happened.

"You're awake! Good, I was starting to get worried about you. We should probably leave and catch up with Tyrell. They should've called for the extraction by now." Placing his tarnished knife back into the holster, he made his way towards me. My fear of him vanished, he's just like the Carlos I met a few hours ago. Warm and caring. "Let's go." He said, both his arms shifts under my back and behind my knees, picking my weight up with ease. "Get some rest...I wake you up when went get to the rendezvous point." His voice is hushed and the sound of his heartbeat soothes out all my stress. By the time we left the room, I was already drifting between dreamworld and reality.

The sound of his footstep was kept at a constant pace, his movement rocked me side to side, gently without missing a beat. But the further he tread, the temperature in the air got colder and yet I could not feel the wind brushing against me.

"Stay here. I'm gonna fix something real quick." Carlos's body heat left my side and was replaced by the icy touch of a piece of furniture. The mechanical hum occupied my eardrums and everything sound muffled once again. Eyes weakly opened and the sight wasn't what I was expecting. What greets me was four walls made of glass entrapping my body as he stood and watched.

"Carlos...what are you doing? Let me out. Come on...this isn't funny, Carlos. Let me out of here!" I begged.

He shook his head, resting a hand on the glass in front of me, looking at me longingly. "I can't." His words were breathless.

"Why?"

"I made you a promise. And this is the only way for me to protect you...You would be safer here, nothing can hurt you." His thumb grazes something small in his palm. I looked up and saw a room that was surrounded by pieces of machinery and nitrogen tanks, placed accordingly in rows of four. Then, it hit me.

"Don't do this..." I cried. But, it was too late. His thumb clicked on the small device in his hand and soon, a strain of gas misted out from the tubings and masking the entirety of the glass cell, leaving me dazed and numbed as I crawl back to the shivering nothingness.

"I'm sorry...I promise I'll come back for you." His empty words circulated in my ears and through the air as he walked away, leaving me in the darkest den of Umbrella. Cold, afraid and alone; frozen in time without anybody knowing.

And there I was, still as a landscape; living on top on a snowy mountain at the beginning of Spring, as pale as Death herself. Bidding my farewell to him until next Winter comes; when a blanket of snow tops the upside of the greeneries and then, we shall meet again.

[whumperfly-chaser]

Maurice- ch 1 | A Prologue.

I decided to tweak this story since I liked it so much, and add some chapters to it! I can't guarantee a smooth update schedule, since life is really hectic as of late, but here she is! The original post that sparked all of this was this baby right here!

T/W’s here: (Dehumanization, conditioning, ‘It’ as a pronoun, Burns from holy water, implied gaslighting, torture, poor living conditions, emeto mention (Vague), super fucked-up headspace regarding abuse, starvation, touch starvation, oral trauma, creepy whumper, Person as a pet.)

Next

It’s silent. It’s so, so very silent. The fanged looks across to find the same shut door, held shut with four different locks. It was locked from the outside, it knew, as every close of the door produced several clicks and pops that would echo out into the cold room. That was when its Master had finished his work on it.

It lies in absolute dread, quaking just at the thought that its Master could return at any moment. Fear seeps through its veins- its breath grows stifled, listening frantically for the sound of the door. And yet it can’t wait for him to return. It needs this. It needs someone- anyone to be there. It’s been weeks. Weeks of no blood- of no touch- no contact. Simply remaining in the dark with no other sense of time past the open and close of that very door in front of it.

Sure, on days where it had been particularly disobedient, it was to remain without contact for longer, but that had been ages ago. That is- before Master learned of corporal punishment.

Hunger shook through its frail body. How many days had it been without food? It was wrought with need- yet it had gone through worse before. All it needed to do was tolerate it, yet it couldn’t even do that. It was starting to break in its resolve. Further proving how weak of a pet it was.

Yet... Without blood... Without food, it would continue to feel the same agony of its wounds as though they were freshly made. Its very veins burn for something other than ichor, and yet he swallows down the wretched and empty feeling around him.

It feels everything around it. Yet there’s so little input that it might as well be nothing at all. The most notable feeling is the hot burning of its skin, bubbling and blistering atop its open, weeping cuts and bruises. Any shift is agony, any crying would get it a harsher punishment. And so it wheezes, slouched over itself- only distending the abused tracks, marks and painful rips in its skin, left from the hooked metal prong of its owner’s belt. The painful, reddish-pink nubs on its fingers from sawing the claws down with a metal file, leaving dull, throbbing aches to radiate down its arm.

If it had some blood, it would surely heal these injuries, leaving only scars as a memory of its own insubordination. Perhaps this time, its Master decided it wasn’t deserving of his blood for now. Guilt dripped from its chest like lead- it did something wrong again. Nothing it did would ever be good enough. Nothing would be able to justify its existence. Every mistake only proved its insignificance.

It would need to be extra-good. It would need to be as perfect as possible, even though its very species was flawed and barbaric. It was ungrateful, after all. Ungrateful of the gift. Of the place to stay and inhabit. Ungrateful of its Master’s generosity.

Its thoughts slow upon feeling the input around it.

It’s quiet yet again. Ten feet away, it hears the cool trickle of condensation dripping down from the exposed wood beams of the basement, falling and splashing on the icy concrete below. Plick. Plick. Plick. Its long ears twitch faintly at the sound.

It hears its own shallow breath. Choked and stifled and blissfully uninterrupted. And yet it’s internally clawing at itself- aching for sustenance. Aching for contact- if just to prove it could be good.

It’s so tired. But it’s far too restless to sleep.

All around it is the smell of dust, sweat, mildew and blood. It smells its own blood more than anything else, the ichor as black as tar from its prolonged fast. The warm and tacky liquid flows slowly from the wounds lacing its back. Its filthy scent fills its nose with every breath. Every pant and gasp is nauseating and suffocating.

Despite the amount of time spent here, it never got used to the smell.

Cold drops of water plick against its wounds and it flinches roughly against the restraints that hold its arms skyward. The abrupt movement only exacerbated the frail patchwork of newly-scarring tissue. Thin, angular wrists bruise further and swell underneath the rough, unforgiving metal of the cuffs as it tries to remain still again. Too much rattling of the heavy chains against the bare sheetrock would alert its Master. If that happened… It would most likely starve longer.

Then he would bring the bottle out. Master would spray it with blisteringly the hot liquid, and then deliver a punishment so severe it wouldn’t be able to move for days. So it had to be good. It needed to be good. It must.

A weight held fast onto its still heart. If only it had been better. It always did something wrong. It was never good enough.

It had to be still. It had to be good. It had to be silent. After all, the only reason why it was in this situation in the first place was because of its own actions. It was bad. Master was just trying to teach it that. It was just too dim to get it.

Perhaps that was why it was still here- it believed its Master would come down, angry or not, if it screamed... But its throat only grew peeled and hoarse, and he was nowhere to be found.

It hurts… Wounds rub against themselves with the simple notion of breathing. But it cannot cry. It cannot make a sound. There can’t be any sounds. Sounds make Master angrier. It makes the beatings hurt more. It makes the wait longer and more intolerable.

Its body shivers involuntarily at this point, goosebumps blanketing its bare skin. It was so cold… It already felt sicker from the temperature alone. Its lungs heave and wheeze and thrum wetly, as though there was no more good air to breathe. It faintly knew that was its fault- it only befouled rooms and spaces. This is why it needed to be here. It needed to know its place.

Its place was here. It needed this. It needed to hurt. Perhaps if it repeated it enough times, it would believe it wholly, instead of feeling that minute ounce of pain within its heart upon saying it. Despite it all, it was familiar.

So why?

Why did he get angry when it was doing its best to be good? What was it doing wrong? It made sure not to cry out. To be still. But it only ended up with him grabbing the same bottle and spraying the healing patchwork of cuts with it. Only then, when it was crying and writhing on the ground, ichor seeping out to the concrete, would its Master smile.

Only then would it get the blood it craved- no- the blood it needed. Animal blood would only sicken it, expulsed to the floor like a poison.

Did it need to cry out to be good? Or move? No… Surely there was… Surely there was some way it could stop messing such simple things up. Its Master was kind, hosting filth in his home, providing his blood when it was good. Preserving it- it thought. Its Master was truly benevolent to ever consider feeding it in the first place.

The fanged licks at its torn, dry lips between shallow breaths, then at the rugged, flat edges of its fangs, filed, yet still tender. Just one wrong move sent pain shooting up the nerve from the exposed dentine. That’s how it always was, until the teeth inevitably grew back again post-feeding.

When things got so quiet… immobile… it would think back. Try and grasp the bits and pieces it allows itself to remember. Just to understand what’s happening. But it never goes too far back. Back when it had a name, when it could eat its fill by choice. When it had a voice- a laugh, even. When it had a family.

It doesn’t dare dream of that again. Vampires don’t get to dream. Vampires get to starve and decay so they don’t endanger the others.

At times it wonders if that person was ever real, or just a part of its hallucinations. Its owner says a lot of things aren’t real. This wouldn’t be much of a surprise. Perhaps it was always here, born for pain.

It hears its Master’s footsteps echo down the stairs. Blinding terror and pure elation echoes through its heart when it hears those clear, loud pops and clicks of the locks opening. Its entire body starts to tremble more violently, the blood rushing from its face to the ground. Just stay calm. Just be quiet. Don’t move or make a face. Make him happy. It tries to regress into the little space of its mind again, already preparing for the sight of the little bottle of agony awaiting it.

The door opens a lot faster than usual, but…

The person gazing back at it isn’t its Master at all. It’s a new face, rounded and wrought with worry, along with two more faces that appear in the distance.

Somehow, this is far more terrifying than any other punishment that could be dealt.

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 2

Prompt: “I can’t take it anymore”

Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence and torture

read on AO3

Business and Pleasure

He's lost track of how long he'd been here. By the numbness in his chain-tied arms and the hollow ache of his belly, he'd guess a few days. The chamber she is keeping him in has no windows, no way to judge whether the beatings he endures are ten minutes or ten hours.

And without the Force, Obi-Wan truly feels like he is merely floating through some sort of boundless wasteland.

A week ago (two weeks? a month?) he wasn't chained in a torture chamber with a Force suppressant entrapping his body and mind. Obi-Wan was enduring the already-horrific Battle of Jabiim.

They weren't ready for such a difficult trial so early in the war. Not only did the Separatists have the upper hand strategically, but they had the support of the Jabiimi rebels who were acclimated to the constant rain and random deadly mudslides.

Plain and simple, the battle was a blood bath before Asajj Ventress pulled him out of the burning walker. Now, he has no idea of the outcome.

He has no idea if Anakin is okay. No way of reaching through their bond to tug at his Force presence with reassurance. The damned Sith torture mask not only prevents him from using the Force, but it chokes him with the icy fist of the Dark Side. All he can feel is the constant stream of anger, pain, and death that seems to have amplified through the galaxy since the Clone Wars began.

No wonder Ventress is so irritable all the time. She has to feel this stream of darkness on a constant basis.

Speaking of Ventress, the door to the far side of the chamber opens, and in walks his captor. She walks with her usual long strides and slight sway of her toned body as though she is strutting into a cantina and not her prisoner's keep. When she notices he is awake, her lips turn in a sinister smile that morphs the vertical tattoos at the corners of her mouth.

"Kenobi, how lucky of you that I don't have to beat you awake."

The torture mask only has eyeholes, which makes speaking difficult-- but not impossible. He forces a smile, even though she can't see it anyway, but it makes him feel better.

"If there were such a thing as luck, I would agree."

She saunters over, an electroblade she likes to use when he mouths off just a little too much hanging menacingly in her hand. With his hands and feet chained so that he hangs in midair, Obi-Wan is entirely at Ventress's mercy. He has no way to strike back. No way to use the Force to unchain him. All he can do is try to figure out why in Sith's hell she is continuing this ruthless song and dance.

"Your disbelief of luck is ignorant. How else would you end up here with me?" she says as she runs the deactivated electroblade tip down the center of his chest.

"I do believe that was a deliberately set trap," he eyes her. "Nothing to do with having bad luck."

"Oh right. It is a shame that so many others had to die for me to get my hands on you. A shame for you at least."

He swallows hard, trying to keep his emotions at bay. Trying to prevent her from seeing how the brutal death of his comrades affects him.

"I'd think you'd resent this task. To be pulled off the battlefield for the sheer purpose of having to deal with me? And to what importance am I anyway?"

She rolls her eyes. "You really are denser than durasteel, Kenobi, you know that?"

"And you'd prefer to be back on Jabiim raising the death toll."

A sharp jab at his ribs and Obi-Wan's body seizes as a sharp volt of electricity courses through him. He sags against his restraints, breathing hard through the residual shocks that pulsate through his fingers and toes.

"Don't get me wrong, my duty is to be an assassin, but this--" she hits him again with the electroblade. "this mixes business and pleasure."

Ventress says this, but when Obi-Wan looks at her he can see the glint in her eye fade at her own words. She claims to enjoy this-- perhaps she does in some ways-- but he can also tell the weeks of torture may be taking a toll on her as well.

"I didn't realize business was also being conducted here," he says cooly.

"Oh, you thought I was simply a masochist then?"

"That would be one explanation."

"And other explanations?"

He tries to shrug, but with his arms restrained he just kind of bobs in place. "Orders."

Ventress crosses her arms. "I don't take orders from anyone, Kenobi."

"Not even your Master?"

The uncharged electroblade slams across his face, snapping his head to the side. He can feel the warm ooze of blood trickle down his cheek from where she struck him.

"What do you think you know of me?"

If he could grin, he would. Ventress has kept the truth of her allegiances held tight. Her story was that she was a Separatist spy, and his torture was for Republic information-- except, Obi-Wan quickly realized she asked him no questions about the secrets of the Republic or the Jedi. She only inflicted pain.

"Don't you think the Sith torture mask gave it away, Ventress?"

She glares at him. "My eyes aren't yellow, Kenobi. I'm no Sith."

"But you do work for the Sith. Tell me, how is Count Dooku these days?"

It's a shot in the dark, but from the way her eyes widen ever so slightly he can tell he has figured it out. It wouldn't be the first time Dooku has captured him, but the torture is certainly new. Even on Geonosis, his aim wasn't for pain, but for partnership. At least, initially.

A blast of electricity radiates out from his ribs again. This time, she holds it a few seconds longer to truly demonstrate her displeasure at his deductions. When she finally pulls away, dots are swimming around his vision and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

"You know nothing."

"Or maybe..." he huffs through the lasting effects of the electrocution. "these aren't... Dooku's orders. Certainly... isn't his style." Obi-Wan forces his head up so he can look her in the eyes. She hovers the electroblade above his abdomen, but her icy stare is trained on him. "So am I standing in your way?"

"Of what?" she growls.

"Becoming his apprentice."

There is a moment of silence, and Obi-Wan expects the electroblade to dig into his chest once again.

Instead, Ventress lowers it. Sets it back on the tray.

And picks up a paddle.

"He is a fool," she says venomously as the paddle makes contact with his left side. "to think you'd join him." Another strike to his other side. Obi-Wan twists painfully in his restraints, screwing his eyes shut tighter with every blunt contact with his aching body. "So I decided to take matters," the paddle smacks into his kneecap. "into my own hands." She grabs him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. He blinks through the dizziness to try and focus on her pale outline. "I will break you, Kenobi, so my Master may see your uselessness once and for all."

She pushes him away, forcing his wrists and ankles to catch on the shackles and reopen the wounds that seem to never get the chance to close. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to cough to force the air from his lungs. All he can taste is blood and sweat; he feels it dripping down his chin and hears drop, drop, dropping rhythmically onto the ground.

Every second seems to pull him closer to unconsciousness. A part of him welcomes the respite. At least for a little bit.

"I can't take this anymore," Obi-Wan shakes his head, causing drops of blood to fling off the ends of his hair.

"Is the pain becoming too much, Kenobi?"

And he smiles.

"Oh no, that's fairly tolerable so far. I meant your pathetic lamenting."

Ventress stares at him incredulously before lashing out with her bare hand to strike the side of his head. Obi-Wan sees stars.

She's yelling at him now. Threats of even more horrible and painful tortures she is ready to try on him. And yet, he is invigorated with a new feeling of satisfaction. His body feels as though it is crumbling, but it will be worth it. Dark Siders use their anger for strength, it also feeds a fatal weakness. Ventress's impulsivity and inability to control her fury has revealed the root of her plan-- to watch him break.

By no means will he let that happen.

[epicstuckyficrecs]

Weekly recap | July 29th-August 4th

Here’s what I read in the last week! 💙 

You can find my other Weekly Recaps here!

~

Complete

This Has Already Happened by Mollyamory (Molly), Speranza/ @cesperanza (canon divergence | 8K | Not rated): "There are absolutely no circumstances in which I give the Time Stone to you," the Wizard gasps. "None. Nada. Zip. Choke on that, you sonofabitch."

Not Broken, Just Bent by amethystkrystal/ @amethystkrystal, goodmanperfectsoldier (ABO AU | 3K | Teen): Steve teaches a prenatal yoga class, and though he has a soft spot for all his students, he can't help being especially drawn to Bucky Barnes, the soft-spoken — and unmated — omega who just joined the studio.

💙 Ill With Want by thedoubteriswise/ @thedoubteriswise (Pre-war | 27K | Mature): Bucky pretends to be asleep when Steve crawls into bed, too tired to feel guilty over the quivery pleasure that settles in his belly when Steve’s arm brushes his. Bucky doesn’t move him. He drifts to sleep in a comfortable haze and tries not to wonder where this feeling was two hours ago when he had Marie in his lap.

💙 you are the future (series) by greyhavensking/ @greyhavensking (canon divergent, post-Avengers | 6 works, series marked not complete | 33K | Teen): Sweat trickles down from his hairline into his eyes and he irritably swipes it away, a little convinced that the gesture will also serve to wipe away what he’s seeing. But no, that’s definitely a man -- at least judging by the breadth of his shoulders and general body shape -- single-handedly facing off against a trio of enraged aliens.

It's possible that he wants you too by belovedmuerto/ @belovedmuerto (Post-WS | 4K | Teen): “Bucky kissed me this morning,” Steve says, not quite believing the words even as they’re coming out of his mouth. “Wait,” Sam replies. “Back up.”

14-Inch Cock and a Few Hundred Bimbos by verzacefatale/ @verzacefatale (PWP | 3K | Explicit): There are some things in life, Steve muses as he stares down at his crotch, that nothing can prepare you for. Sure, becoming a super soldier was, at the time, the most wild thing he could think of, and sure, his tolerance for ridiculous, catastrophic and immeasurably weird situations has very much grown since then, but this? His dick suddenly growing six inches in length and another two in girth, just because he opened a box in a Hydra dug out that maybe he should have read the instructions on before he did? How was he to know it was literally magic that would make his cock grow huge? 

Hic sunt dracones by stevergrsno (noxlunate)/ @stevergrsno (Medieval Fantasy, Dragon Steve | 5K | Teen): There are stories: Stories of knights and the dragons they slayed. Stories of princes who conquered the great fire-breathing beasts terrorizing their kingdoms. Stories of how they saved their lands and won the hand of fair princesses in battle. This is not one of those stories. At least not in the strictest sense.

To Eat from the Tree by AidaRonan (30′s AU | 6K | Explicit): There is a story they tell in Collinwood, NY. A story of two priests-in-training who fell off the path of righteousness and into each other.

💙 As long as I have a face, you'll always have somewhere to sit by Avaaricious (Modern AU, meet-cute | 5K | Mature): AKA the "My friends bet that I couldn't pick up someone using the worst lines I know, but I actually like you and don't want to screw up" AU

Proud by dixons_mama (TFA | 2K | Teen): While trapped in Azzano, Bucky accidentally confesses to Steve that he loves him. Bucky is sure this will be the end of their friendship.

WIP

Solitary by exclamation/ @jessicameats (Canon divergent | 35/? | 87K | Mature): The Winter Soldier has been a prisoner of SHIELD for about a year and a half, placed in solitary confinement under strict security when it was clear he wasn’t going to respond to the best interrogators and deprogrammers SHIELD had available. When Fury asks a newly awakened Steve Rogers to assist, Steve is hesitant. He doesn’t understand why Fury thinks he would have a better chance of getting through to this guy than all the people who have tried and failed.

💙 This Side of the Blue by notlucy/ @notlucy (Mermaid AU | 23/44 | 83K | Explicit): Tucked against a set of crumbling, stone steps was a tank made of metal and glass, filled to the brim with greenish water, distorted sunlight filtering through and casting strange shadows. Playing tricks on the eye. A trick was the only explanation for what Steve saw floating there. This figment of his childhood. This myth. This legend. Within the tank, the siren bared its teeth.

💙 Latte Art and Slow Dancing in the Dark by deadonarrival (Modern AU with powers, Daddy kink | 15/20 | 77K | Explicit): Bucky is a somewhat well-adjusted former army sniper that got his shoulder blown out. He took his discharge and went home to finish school and is working on his international relations masters. His best friends and roommates (Nat & Clint) are CIA agents and tip him off that their local Sbux is hiring. He gets a job there and meets none other than the hottest guy on earth. So how does one get a date in the most top secret government location in the US? What happens when that guy is more than just a hot dorito and wants to give Bucky everything he wants? Bucky is going to have to figure out his shit and fast. 

💙 Like Real People Do by 2bestfriends (Shrunkyclunks, canon divergent post-Avengers | 31K | 5/10 | Explicit): Seven years into an isolated retirement after the Battle of New York, Steve has carved out a place for himself in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. He has a best friend (his dog, Lady), a frenemy (a local black bear named Rufus), and a cabin in the middle of the woods, an hour’s drive from the nearest town. As November comes to a close, he heads into town to pick up supplies and ends up with a stowaway.

💙 Cakes & Balances by mambo/ @whtaft (POTUS Steve | 14K | 7/? | Teen): It’s kind of hard to date the cute baker from down the street when you’re the President of the United States of America. But Steve Rogers will make it work.

Bucky Barnes and the Embarrassment of Spidermen by AggressiveWhenStartled (Multiverse, Peter-centric(ish) | 4/5 | 15K | Mature): “Peter,” Steve said into the table. “Please tell me you didn’t bring home someone from Tony’s alternate dimension.” “Of course I didn’t,” Peter said, looking indignant. “I wouldn’t do that. I brought him to your place.”

Re-read

💙 All's fair in [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] (series) by redcigar (canon-divergent, post-WS | 3 works, series marked not complete | 10K | Mature): AU wherein Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers never met, Steve somehow manages to rescue the Winter Soldier anyway, and Avengers Tower ends up with the world’s angriest duckling and a whole new brand of entertainment.

💙 honey don't feed it, it will come back by ellebeesknees (umetnica), thedoubteriswise/ @thedoubteriswise (canon compliant, TFA | 18K | Mature): He lets out a long sigh and watches Bucky. Back home he was always too vain to let more than a day’s worth of stubble build up, but now he’s got about three days of scruff on his chin. He shouldn’t look handsome like this. His eyes are shut, but Steve can tell by his breathing that he’s still awake. The cat is curled up on his stomach and purring like an idling motor.

Learning To Say Hello by heartsdesire456/ @heartsdesire456 (Post-WS, Clint POV | 11K | Mature): In which Hawkeye befriends the Winter Soldier and discovers the Epic Love Story of Steve and Bucky nobody knows about)

Howl Home (Shift for Me) by Menatiera/ @menatiera (canon divergent, wolf Steve, Bucky Cap | 13K | Teen): As Captain America, Bucky Barnes rescued a hyper-intelligent wolf from HYDRA during the war. He makes a good fit with the Howling Commandos - and later, with the Avengers.

💙 The Sweetest Spark by deadto27 (Modern AU, age difference | 73K | Explicit): Steve Rogers runs a successful business. He has great friends and a great life. It seems like he has it all. So why is he sitting in a diner on a Friday night alone? Maybe he's just a little lonely. Maybe Bucky Barnes can help with that.

[lokisgame]

A Generous Donation [12]

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9] [part 10] [part 11]

The food looked and smelled as delicious as always, but when Charlie took his place at the table, looking around the faces gathered there, it all felt wrong, he didn't feel grateful at all. Dana and Will's absence gaped like a black hole, a fearful reminder sucking up all cheer. Even young Mathew kept his head down, bending under pressure of being the only child present. Him, Bill and Tara, lived their lives in California where Bill was stationed, making them rare guests at the table. That however didn't stop the eldest Scully son from taking place of honour and carving the turkey. After short and meaningless grace, he started handing out thick slices, leaving the best and most tender for himself. "Dana isn't coming?" He asked, finally sitting down. "She's at the hospital," Maggie said, "with Will." 

Charlie noticed disproval on his brother's face and glared, ready for the sermon, Bill Jr. was about to deliver. "I always knew that pride would be her fall." He said apropos of nothing, around a mouthful of turkey. "Like you said mom, back in the day, IVF was for people who can't have kids, not to satisfy her whims, and now God is making her see it." He stuffed his face while others looked at him in disbelief. "She should accept his will, letting the boy spend last days with his family and not keep poking and prodding him, if it was clearly never meant to be." Bill loaded his fork with stuffing and peas and Charlie snapped, pushing his chair back so hard it almost fell back. His fists were clenched, knuckles white, but he said nothing. Instead he rounded the table and took Bill's mostly full plate away from him. "What the hell!" "Shut up Bill," he said, "just shut up." "What do you think you're doing?" Bill yelled, while the rest of the family sat frozen in their places. "I'm taking this to Dana," Charlie said not bothering to stop, his voice thick with rage. "She needs this more than you do." "Charles, please." Maggie said, finally finding her voice among tears and shame. "No, mom, I'm not sharing table with him, not tonight." He said and went to the kitchen. Doors and drawers began slamming and Emily got up, taking her plate with her. "I'm going with him." "Emily, don't." Missy said with a hint of plea and warning. "Don't what? Tolerate this kind of talk?" Emily looked at her mother, cold fury burning behind her blue eyes, then around the table, at all the food and family, growing colder by the second. Charlie came back with boxes, handing one to her, and they began loading them up with turkey, mashed potatoes, salads and stuffing, while the rest watched in stunned silence for a few excruciatingly long minutes. "I'll get you the pie," Maggie said, finally getting up and wiping tears from her eyes. "Thanks mom." Charlie said, and started loading another box. "Now listen, Charles," Bill tried to get up, but Tara caught the sleeve go his jacket and pulled him down. By the time Maggie was back, they had all four boxes filled and packed, along with their own plates. Somewhere in the middle, Missy and Tara began to help, while Bill sat with his arms crossed, in stubborn silence. "I should go with you," Maggie said, walking Charlie and Emily to the door. "No point, they won't let all of us through the quarantine zone." "Right, right," she sighed, resigned, and Charlie let go of some of his rage, putting his arm around her. "I'll call you once I know how Will is doing, okay?" "Thank you, give them my best." "Will do," Charlie said and followed Emily out.

They did the best they could to blow out his spark, reducing him to a tiny blue flame, a tea-light with one last drop of paraffin keeping it alive. She held his hand, stroking its' back with her thumb, while life trickled down the line, back into his veins. She should have asked Mulder about that vampire joke. "Why does Mulder call you Scully?" Will spoke suddenly, his voice barely audible, head turning on the pillow with tremendous effort. "It's an FBI thing." She said and his brow furrowed. "He did some consulting for the bureau in the 90's and it turned into a habit. I don't mind really. Do you?" Will's head twitched sideways. "Rest honey," Scully said, pressing her lips to his hand, ignoring the sterile mask, "save your strength." Her phone chirped in its' ziplock bag and she glanced anxiously at the ID. It was her second favourite caller.   "Hi sis," said a cheerful voice, "come out for a minute, we brought you something." Scully looked up and through the glass to the corridor beyond, and saw Charlie and Emily waving at her just outside the airlock doors. "I'll be right with you." She said and hung up. "Who is it?" Will mumbled half awake. "Charlie and Em are here," she said, patting his hand and he opened his eyes, managing a faint smile. He lifted his head and waved at the couple outside. Emily grinned and made a face, crossing eyes and sticking out her tongue and Will smiled back, a little wider this time. "Tell them hi," he said and fell back down. "I'll be right back."

"Hi," Scully grinned, hugging her brother and niece, "did mom send you?""We sent ourselves," Emily said, handing her a paper bag, "but grandma cooked." "We figured you could use some real food." "Thanks," she said, opening the box, "how bad was the dinner?" "I hate Bill," Emily said, staying by the window, her eyes never leaving Will. "He's been a royal asshole." "Charlie." "Good thing you weren't there to hear it." "That bad?" She looked up from her cold turkey, fork half way up to her mouth. "I wanted to kill him," Charlie said, gritting his teeth, "self-righteous prick. You know, sometimes I think he's been switched in his crib and he's some kind of half-troll changeling." "His neck is short enough for it," Emily said, grin in her voice. "You're both so mean," Scully said, but smiled as well. Mocking Bill behind his back was a long-standing tradition of theirs. "How's Will doing?" Charlie asked. "He got the marrow around 3pm, so now we wait. He's stable, no sign of immediate rejection." "That's good, right?" "It's too soon to tell, but it's definitely not bad." "When will we be able to see him?" "Give it a couple of days, it will all depend on his progress." "I hate waiting." Emily said. "I know Em," Scully said and got up, standing by the window with her arm around her, "I'll make sure he calls you, once he's lucid enough." "Okay," Em nodded, locking her eyes with Will, and putting her hand to the glass. She never saw him this fragile, even when he was a child and she filled her with dread. "We'll let you go back to him," Charlie said, joining them, "unless you want to feed him turkey as well." "Can't, hospital food only." "Rain check then, you need anything else?" "No, I think I'm good now," she said, feeling a little more human. Few days ago she wouldn't be able to swallow home cooking without bursting into tears, but she ate it all and talked to her family and finally had a feeling, that life would go back to normal. "You know," she said remembering the calls she made earlier, "I tried to reach Mulder but he didn't answer, could you?" "Sure," Charlie said, "just give me the address." "Thanks."

Mulder slept through the day. His aching back chained him to the couch, making anything beyond a bathroom trip, not worth the pain or the nausea. He ate toast for breakfast and canned soup for lunch, and slept with the tv on low for background. It was easier to handle the stress that way. If the transplant wouldn't work and the kid forfeited his life, the pain Scully would feel was impossible for him to imagine. So when the doorbell rang somewhere around seven, his heart began to pound, filling his head with worst images possible. He forced himself to get up, bracing for tears, fists and knives in his heart, then turned the lock and his jaw dropped. "Good evening," said Charlie Scully, accompanied by willowy, short-haired girl, who looked like something between him and Scully. "It's too soon for carolling," Mulder said, trying to read the news from their faces. "We're the Thanksgiving committee." The girl grinned and relief washed over him, making his knees weak. "Easy man, Will's okay," Charlie said catching him and stepping through the threshold, guiding Mulder back to the couch. The girl closed the doors behind them from the inside. "They did it?" "Yeah, this afternoon, he's sleeping it off." Charlie eased Mulder to the seat, lifting his face up for a second, glancing at his eyes and checking pulse. "You feel dizzy? Faint?" "You a doctor too?" "No, but I had first aid training." "EMT?" "Cop," Charlie smiled, and moved back. "This is my niece, Emily." "Hi," Emily said, smiling. Mulder looked at the girl, who looked like a punk who raided Scully's closet for her business casual. She showed him the paper bag. "We brought dinner." Mulder laughed and leaned back. "Sure you did." "May I?" Emily asked and nodded towards the kitchen. "Go ahead." "We brought more, mind if we join you?" "Not at all." Mulder said and looked at Charlie again. "How's Scully," "We fed her too, don't worry, she asked us to come check up on you, said you didn't return her calls." "She called?" Mulder picked up his phone from the coffee table and found three unanswered calls and the switch on the side set on mute. "Frohike must have turned it off so no one would wake me. Excuse me." "Sure, I'll go help Emily."

Scully picked up on the fourth ring. "Hi." "Hi, it's me, sorry I didn't call back, a bee stung me, had to sleep it off." She laughed. "It's okay, how are you feeling?" "Weak and aching, but I'll live. Will's better?" "He's not worse." She said cautiously. "Afraid you'll jinx it?" "Something like that. Charlie’s there?" "Yeah, I guess feeding people runs in the family." "We're old fashioned, if we feed you, you're part of the family." "In that case, I'll have seconds." "Knowing my brother, you'll have enough for it and probably lunch tomorrow." "We'll see, smells good." Mulder paused, then added softly. "You're not bailing on me, are you?" "Wouldn't dream of it," she said and the warmth in her tone was all the assurance he needed. Someone tapped his shoulder and he looked up to see Emily. "Dinner's ready." "Thanks," he said to the girl, then to the phone. "Food's here, wanna know what I'm thankful for?" "You'll tell me when I see you." "Why?" "Because I want to tell you too, in person." "Then, I'll see you." "Take care of yourself." "Ha, I've got people for that now." "Right, go eat, we'll talk later." "Bye." Mulder hung up and dragged himself off the couch. “Who wants to say grace?” Asked Charlie, reaching hands across the table, palms up. “I’m half jewish,” Mulder said, but took Emily’s hand. “No problem,” Charlie grinned and closed the circle, pausing, before he began speaking in a low voice. “We’re thankful for this year, with all its’ graces and trials, ones we've overcome and the ones we’re still facing. We’re thankful for our family and friends, old and new, and all the kindness we received, hoping that we can be there for them too, in time of need.” Both hands tightened around Mulder’s fingers and when he looked up, he couldn’t speak. “Amen,” said Emily, smiling at him. “Amen,” Charlie echoed and Mulder nodded, touched to his core. “We should have brought some gravy,” Emily said, breaking the moment as she reached for potatoes. “I’m hungry.” “There’s wine,” Mulder said, clearing his throat, “I shouldn’t, but you’re welcome to it.” “Got beer?” Charlie asked. “Yeah,” he chuckled, “there’s beer too.” “Perfect.” “I’ll have one too.” Mulder stared to get up, but Charlie stopped him. “Fridge?” He nodded and Charlie retrieved two bottles and glasses from the cupboard. “Glass, classy,” Emily grinned. “It’s Thanksgiving, you can behave like a human for one evening.” “Do I have to?” She looked at Mulder and hit him with a pout that would befit a five year-old, if it wasn’t for all the piercing. He couldn’t stop the laugh. “You brought food, do what you want.” “Thank you!” She sang and took the bottle from Charlie, who too, gladly skipped the glass. “Less dishes,” he chuckled and sat back down. “Try the turkey,” Emily told Mulder, “it’s the only reason I dress up for grandmas’ dinners.” “I had your aunts’ lasagna, was that where Scully learned to cook?” “Mostly,” Charlie said, finally tasting the turkey. Even reheated, it was great. "Don’t get your hopes too high though, lasagna is her specialty, watch out for the meatloaf.” “Okay.” “I like Dana’s meatloaf," said Emily. “Because you’re still practically a student, if it’s free, you’ll eat anything.” “It’s not a money thing, I work too much,” she bristled, “I get distracted, and things just...” “Burn.” Charlie finished for her. “Is that a challenge?” “Yup, when you’re staying with me, you cook once a week.” “Sure,” she said, unfazed. “But if you burn it, it doesn’t count.” “Fine.” She mixed the potatoes with stuffing, her interest fading. “And it can’t be takeout,” Charlie insisted. “I said fine!” Emily mumbled around mouthful of turkey. “Mulder heard you, so you can’t back out” Charlie grinned, then turning to Mulder said in a stage whisper, “I’m joking, she only burned one pie.” “And I’ll never live it down.” Emily said, taking a swig from her bottle to wash down the food. “So what do you do Emily?” Mulder asked, changing subject politely. “I’m a programer," she replied, before taking another bite, "I spent some time in Silicon Valley, but I’m moving back here, to finish my thesis at MIT.” “I have friends there, what's the thesis about?” “Statistical analysis of data shared through social media and potential applications. But let's not talk about work, or at least not my work, Charlie catching bad guys is so much more interesting." "Yeah, like I can ever talk about it." He chuckled, deflecting, "Mulder, Will showed me your book." "He did?" "You wrote about this former FBI guy, who though he was abducted by aliens." "Duane Barry, yes." "Any truth to that? He was injured in the line of duty, wasn't that just the brain damage talking?" "He did have pieces of metal in various places inside his body." "So you believed him?" "Every story of alien abduction is different, touching different people, coming from different backgrounds. Some accept it, feeling chosen, and some break under the pressure of constantly looking over their shoulder. Ask yourself, why would you make up a story, that would make everyone think you've gone crazy?" "Attention?" Emily asked, sipping her beer. "It's usually negative, where's the pay off?" "You're the psychologist," Charlie said, "you tell me." "I can't, that's my point, some of these people are lying, that's just people, but some of them have gone through crazy things, and they didn't do it to themselves. Someone had to seek out and target these specific individuals, using them for their experiments without their consent, and since it's all so crazy and no one really takes it seriously, these people end up marginalised, ridiculed and never see justice, so the circle of exclusion closes. There are private groups and societies that provide support and connect people with similar experiences, but like I said, it's all very us against them." "I know what you mean," Emily sighed, chasing peas around her plate, "try being a math geek in a hippy home. Mom was supportive, but she never really understood me." "Good thing you're a Scully," Charlie said, "we're a stubborn lot." "And thank God for that." Mulder smiled and raised his glass of water, for lack of a better toast. "To stubborn Scully's, who never give up without a fight." Emily glanced up and met Mulder's eyes, his warm smile oddly familiar, and a thought dawned on her. "Never," she grinned and raised her beer, looking at Charlie. "We don't mind some help, though." He said, raising his bottle. Glass clinked. "And that's probably the core of your strength."

They left Mulder's place around nine, full and happy, the Bill incident all but forgotten. Emily looked out the windshield at the rain that started drizzling, waking up the wipers to squeak lazily. The streets were almost empty, carb coma took over the city. "Does Will know?" She said, moving her gaze to Charlie. "Know what?" "No Will," she let her breath wheeze, "I am your father." "What?" "Search your feelings," she kept up the poor Darth Vader impression, "you know it to be true." "Stop that." "C'mon Charlie," she grinned, sensing she was onto something, "the smile, the jaw, the matching DNA!" Charlie kept his eyes on the road. "You really are a Scully." "Holly shit!" "Language!" "So it is true." "Dana's going to kill me," he sighed, "yeah, Mulder is Will's dad." "How does that work?" "Listen kid," he said, emotions flaring, "it was a long time ago. You were just a toddler, rambling with your mother when it happened. What Bill said tonight, was just a shadow of how it was back then and none of us want to go back. If you have the guts, ask Dana about it. All I can say, is that it ended when Will was born and everybody loved him ever since, he's ours. And even if Dana's reasons might have been childish, she loved him the most and she's a great mom." "Easy there, uncle Charlie," she said, teasing but only slightly, "I won't tell anyone, if that's what you mean." "Don't tell Will," Charlie took a deep breath, reining in his temper, "or Mulder. Let Dana do it, when she's ready." "Okay, I promise." She said, smiling slightly. "But you have to admit, it's cute as hell." "Em, Will is going to live," he sighed, "that's all I care about." "What are the odds." She mused, laugh still in her voice. Charlie smiled and said, "Apparently, one in five billion."

[sashaslytherin13]

We are a pack - Chapter 3

Remus wakes in a cell and grunts. He quickly gets up to his feet and looks around, feeling his shoulder to find his wound poorly healed but at least healed. He takes in his surroundings and notices that all the bars around him are silver. Idiotic scum, he thinks as he taps one bar with his nail. While it burned most werewolves he oddly had a tolerance for it. Fenrir chuckles from the cell across Remus.

“Pup? You alive?” he asks the smirk clear in his voice.

“Yeah, across from you. Damn Blacks” Remus replies. He snarls when the silver touches his arm as he reaches through the bars to fiddle with the lock with his nails. He is close to getting it when Fenrir chuckles again.

“Anyone else awake?”

“Nah, they are all light weights when it comes to magic. You know that” Remus gets the lock and pushes the door open before going to Fenrir’s lock and starts working on it. Fenrir stands and waits by the door.

“They are going to turn us into pets. Try and break us of any information we know. You have to be strong Pup. Got it?” Remus nods and gets Fenrir’s gate unlocked. Fenrir runs a nail over the bite mark that turned Remus on his shoulder.

“We are the only ones who know where all the packs are. The rest only know about one or two others. If I die Remus, you need to get out. No matter what. Play nice, play the obedient little pup and play stupid about the packs. You need to live pup” Fenrir sinks his teeth into the side of Remus’s neck and he shivers and arches into it. They hear footsteps coming and Fenrir shoves Remus back towards his cell. Remus locks Fenrir back into his cell and then gets into his own, locking himself back in. Remus keeps his eyes on Fenrir as the guards come and unlock his cell. Remus’s eyes change color and his fangs come out as he gets ready to fight but he sees there are too many. They wait for him to step out of his cell, wands all on him as he does so. They circle around him and he lunges at one of them but stops short as a silver collar is slapped around his throat. He snarls but gets yanked to his knees by the throat. Chains and handcuffs go on and around him as he feels the slight burn of silver. He glances at Fenrir who just smirks and nods ever so slightly. Remus allows himself to be hauled off. He memorizes how to get back to the cells as they go, keeping an eye on everything around him. The walls of the castle are smooth; clearly it took a long time to make them so even. There is silver and green everywhere around them. Two guards open the doors to a large set of chambers and Remus is once again shoved to his knees. He doesn’t make a sound as his knees bite into the stone. He looks up instantly at the pompous arse that is sitting in his chair sipping wine from a silver goblet adorned with emeralds. Can these people really not get over their stupid house colors? Remus notices the Black Family Crest ring on the man’s finger was also silver. Remus looks him over, his eyes roaming just as the foolish man’s eyes are roaming him. He stands and approaches Remus. His long black hair is tied back, his eyes pure grey and piercing. He has high cheekbones and well defined features. It’s clear he is nothing more than a palace drone as his skin is flawless and smooth. He looks to be about the same age as Remus but has clearly never seen a hard day in his life. The guards are waved off and the, boy, Remus decides, sits back down sipping his wine. Remus is tense under the silver, feeling the slight irritation everywhere it touches. The boy flicks his wand and the silver falls off Remus except for the collar. Remus flexes his muscles but stays on his knees, eyes pierced on the boy in front of him.

“The name is Sirius Black. You have been gifted to me by my mother, Walburga the Queen. I am their Heir, but my younger brother Regulus Black is also an option to them. Now you probably haven’t eaten or drank for a bit. I would like to remedy that, however I cannot feed you human flesh so please tell me what is best to fetch you” he says calmly. Remus stares at him and sniffs at the air. Not even the scent of fear, there is however a slight smell of arousal and Remus is aware he can exploit that.

“Deer, ideally bloody would work. It’s actually what we eat the most and water” Remus says plainly. He catches the young Black staring at his shoulder where his bite mark is and tilts his head. Sirius flicks his wand and the doors open and a servant enters.

“Get the mutt some bloody deer and water. Be quick about it” he snaps and the servant bows then exits quickly. Remus can hear that once the doors closed again the servant is running. Remus looks back at the boy.

“So your name is Remus Lupin, you were Fenrir Greybacks second in command, but alas that is all I know about you. Surely you had other things you could have done besides be a play thing to him?” the boy sips his wine. Remus feels his fangs slide out and his eyes flash gold.

“Ta, surely you have other things you could do than be a puppet for your mother?” Remus rebuts with a harsh smirk. Sirius flinches, it’s clear to Remus then that he wasn’t used to people being so harsh with him. Sirius flicks his wand and Remus feels the collar tighten some but he shows no signs of it bothering him except a slight tremor through his body.

“Try again Lupin. When were you turned and taken from your family?” Sirius spits harshly.

“5” Remus says, voice steady despite the lack of air in his lungs. Sirius loosens the collar again.

“Lupin is not your family name is it?” Sirius continues to ask questions with an air of curiosity but also an air of superiority. Stay alive pup Fenrir’s voice plays in Remus’s head.

“It is not. Remus is the name I was given at birth but Lupin is the name I chose” he says plainly, in a bored tone.

“You’ve been with Fenrir for how long?”

“20 years” Remus smirks and runs his tongue over his fang. Sirius’s eyes are drawn to that motion.

“How long have you been by his side for?”

“I was always his pup, but I wasn’t allowed out of my pack until 15. Been by his side ever since with no pack to call my own. Just him” Remus starts growing tired of this game. Hunger and thirst driving him mad.

“Why pup? Fenrir turns every werewolf himself, so you weren’t anything new. Why are you the one he calls pup?” Sirius leans forward in his chair. Remus laughs darkly.

“I cannot speak for Fenrir. He does what he wants when he wants. He takes what he can’t readily have and shows no shame in it. I am just another one of those things for him. I do as my alpha says, obey as he orders, listen to what he says and follow it to death” Remus says darkly, some light reflecting off his eyes as he tilts his head further. Sirius’s eyes go to Fenrir’s fresh bite mark on his neck. Before Sirius can ask another question there is a gentle knock on the door. Sirius flicks his wand and the doors open showing 4 servants carrying a whole freshly killed deer and another two carrying large pitchers of water. Remus can smell the fresh blood and his nostrils flare. He fights with himself to stay kneeling on the damn stone. Sirius orders them to put it down in front of Remus, which happens to be exactly halfway between Sirius and Remus. The water pitchers are put down beside the deer and the servants all leave, shutting the doors themselves. Remus’s mouth is watering as he stares at the food but not daring to move.

“Answer these questions honestly and I will let you eat. Is it true a werewolf was seen running away before the fight started? Did they get away? When and how did you get that set of teeth marks, because it appears very fresh but you were in cells before coming here” Sirius leans over, elbows leaning on his knees, eyes piercing in a stare at Remus, daring him to lie. Remus feels a spell trickle over him and recognizes it as a simple lie detection charm. Remus lifts his eyes from the food.

“Yes some wolves most likely got away but I cannot say for sure as I was preparing to fight. I unlocked the cells you see so Fenrir and I could speak and potentially say our goodbyes. He gave me the mark shortly before the guards showed up to bring me here. May I eat now or do you feel like playing more truth games?” Remus snaps, growing impatient. The smell of blood driving him mad but he refuses to look away from Sirius who is tapping his wand against his chin.

“Silver doesn’t burn you like it does other wolves” he remarks. Remus shrugs but keeps his attention on Sirius.

“Lots of things are different about me from other wolves. Silver doesn’t burn me, full moons are painful for me but I keep my entire mind during them. I can take most spells wizards throw with little reaction, can throw off others easily. I am stronger and faster than any wolf I have yet to meet. It can’t be explained but it is how it is” he says and watches for Black’s reaction. There, over the smell of blood, is a clear smell of arousal. Remus smirks and licks his fang again, drawing Black’s attention to his mouth. Sirius motions for him to eat and Remus does.

[thecatwhogrins]

To Be Human (part 2)

Here’s part 2 of the song challenge! Please enjoy! 

(Part 1)

The years passed by, and even after Shirayuki’s grandparents’ deaths, she still went to the shrine every day after work because the ritual held meaning to her, even more than before, as she felt like she was honoring her grandma’s memory.

Everyday she came, and everyday Obi waited for her.

She told him how her day had gone, and he told her what good deeds he had done. Obi had refused Shirayuki’s offer to let him sleep in her house, as he seemed to prefer to sleep in trees, because he detested the feeling of being trapped. He’d help people passing through the forest whenever he could but seemed to have a hard time understanding what was right and was wrong, so Shirayuki tried to guide him.

“So, you’re saying I can’t take the food in the old lady’s bag? But I saved her life and went up against thieves!” he exclaimed, perplexed.

“Well yes, you did, but she didn’t give you that food herself. What if that was all she had to eat for a while? That means you’ve stolen her only means to live,” Shirayuki explained while she set out the dishes in front of the shrine.

“What should I do to then?” he asked.

“How about we give the food I usually cook for you to the old lady? I think she’ll be grateful,” Shirayuki smiled, confident that this would count as a good deed. Once she saw the disappointment on Obi’s face, she sputtered and laughed.

“I don’t want to give her the food you made me, I like it,” he whined.

“Well next time, you’ll think twice before stealing someone’s food,” Shirayuki said triumphantly.

Obi grumbled a little at this but did as he had been told. He desperately wanted to become a Tengu again.

*

As time passed, Shirayuki’s childhood was left behind, her red hair becoming brighter, more vibrant, like her smile. Everyone in the village knew her and were very proud of her for keeping her grandparents’ tavern afloat. But the more she grew, the more she attracted unwanted attention, especially from Lord Raji and his men. They skulked in her tavern, lascivious gazes on her body and red hair. Shirayuki never let them get too close, though.

Obi seemed to age too, like Shirayuki. His lanky body became more lean, stronger, his boyish features becoming sharper, making him look even more intimidating. The scars he collected throughout the years also added to the overall daunting impression he carried wherever he went. Rumors of a friendly forest sprite spread throughout the village and its surroundings. Friendly, but also mischievous and always eager to eat.

Shirayuki’s daily visits were now something Obi looked forward to. Obi was proud to tell her what good deeds he had done.

But one day, she did not come.

*

Obi waited till the moon was high in the sky, surprised and to his own dismay, worried.

At first, he had been slightly annoyed by the red headed girl who kept visiting him every day. But as time passed, and his heart opened up, his annoyance grew to tolerance, then amusement and slowly but surely, against his better judgment, he realized with horror that he cared.

So, with a trepidating heart, he went to go look for her. He knew that she worked at the bar, so he headed in that direction.

He skid to a halt when he saw Shirayuki on the outskirts of town, her platter of offerings spilled on the floor, along with her outstretched body lying on the floor, unconscious, on her forehead an open gash, her hair like a puddle of fire upon the dusty ground. Retreating in the distance, a gaggle of men boisterously laughing. Obi was about to run after them but decided that Shirayuki needed his help more.

“Little miss!” he knelt by her side, trying to assess what to do. Shirayuki had taught him a few things about medicinal herbs and treating ailments. He checked if she was still breathing, holding his own breath. He heard a rasping, rattling breath come from her and the tension in his body snapped like a string on a bow.

He could tell she had been hurt by some blunt weapon, he had had a wound similar to this one a few years back, and Shirayuki had cured him with herbs and by watching over him, mopping his brow and feeding him broth, nursing him back to health. She had done so for him till dawn broke.

He would do the same for her.

*

Shirayuki woke up in a cave, confusion and fear gripping her heart.

“You’re awake” a voice full of relief sounded in the darkness, accompanied by glowing eyes. It felt surreal, like something out of a dream.

“O…Obi?” she tried sitting up but her whole body shivered. A wet cloth that had been placed upon her forehead fell to the ground.

“Hi there, miss, I think you were hit with a club,” Obi explained, unsure, “but who would do such a thing?” his visible anger was a surprise to Shirayuki. She had never seen Obi this angry, he was usually always so aloof.

“It’s lord Raji. It seems I’ve angered him by refusing his advances too many times,” Shirayuki smiled ruefully, “so he sent a few men to intimidate me.”

Obi felt his ire rise again, like a wave ready to wipe everything away in its passage. It had been a while since he had felt this bloodlust. If he saw the man who had done this, he knew he would tear his limbs off. But Obi then remembered that the monk had told him that if he killed anyone, he would disintegrate, and his soul would not reincarnate.

Obi felt disgruntled.  

“Obi?” Shirayuki’s voice was small, raspy, “You know, you’ve never told me what bad deed you committed to become human…” she didn’t continue, waiting for his answer. The only sound in the cave was the trickling of water from stalactites and the sound of their mingled breaths.

Obi had seen his fair share of fights. The amount of blood he had seen spilled would have appalled anyone. During his Tengu days, he had been known as a terror, a bloodthirsty winged monster. Back then, it had been a source of pride. Now, before the little miss, Obi suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.

She wanted him to tell her his story, unveil his terrible past. But once she knew, would she shun him? Be afraid of him? The possibility of it frightened him. To shatter her image of him took a lot of courage and faith, something Obi wasn’t sure he possessed.

But he did trust her.

“I killed a lot of men, during my day. So many, in fact, that the humans on this mountain started to try to appease me with offerings. Many were innocent, many were not. It did not matter to me.”  

Obi spoke softly, so unlike his usual self that Shirayuki made sure to listen, to be open, to show him she was there.

“One day, I killed a local lord’s son who had been hunting on my mountain. The lord called upon a famous monk to stop me once and for all. The monk, upon seeing me, decided to give me one last chance, to make me human,” he said.

“I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done,” it was barely over a whisper, but the regret was palpable.  

The silence was heavy. Obi’s heart was racing in anticipation.

“It is true you have done bad deeds in the past, I will not pretend that they do not exist,” Shirayuki whispered.

“Obi, look at me,” Obi looked up, feeling shame permeate every corner of his body. Shirayuki touched his shoulder lightly.

“What you’ve done in the past does not define who you are now. I’ve seen you struggle everyday to become better. That is enough for me,” she smiled, “doing good deeds now is more important as ever, prove to yourself that you are who you want to be.”

Shirayuki embraced him softly, muffling his crying into her shoulder.