#the visceral disgust of the violence and of the feeling of your own body physically decaying and the loss of free will. that's it baby | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alderaani · 3 years

Text

Skies

summary: After a long campaign, Jesse and Hardcase indulge in some well earned TLC. AO3 | Series

Part of my 100-clone centric prompts series, prompt list used is here

wanrings: allusions to canon-typical violence, death mention.

a/n: oof, I’ve been so unmotivated to write recently, so i’m honestly just relieved to have finished something. i’ve been wanting to write this for ages, based off this post by @lilhawkeye3 - it’s such an endearing image.

The ocean didn’t smell anything like Hardcase thought it would.

He slipped his bucket from his head, squinting against the sudden rush of unfiltered light. On either side of him troopers broke free of the tree line, and, feeling sand beneath their boots, took off whooping towards the frothing crest of the sea. The sunset blazed red and orange, bleeding like a punctured egg yolk across the cloudless horizon and into distant water. Hardcase breathed in, wrinkling his nose against the salt-laden tang, so visceral he could taste it.

It wasn’t like Kamino. That was almost the biggest surprise. He’d thought that oceans would be the same everywhere, but this wasn’t a bad way to be proven wrong. It was the salt, he realised after a moment, darting his tongue out to touch his lips. There weren’t really any beaches on Kamino, though he supposed there must be sand under there somewhere. There were no winding strips where ocean met land, where the sun could ferment the pools, rocks and shells left behind. It tasted lighter there, cleaner, more cut through by its brutal winds. He breathed in deep again, wrinkling his nose and grinning at the way the seasoned tang sat on his palate here, briny and thick.

It was the colour too, that really made the difference. It was so pale and clear on this far-flung planet, instead of the angry greyish blue he remembered. The waves were...politer, somehow. Less vengeful, not boiling with ever-falling rain. Several troopers had reached the shore now and were chasing the surf, shouting and laughing when it nipped at their heels.

He decided he rather liked it.

It was something different after weeks spent cowering under cover further inland, coated in showers of dark earth from enemy artillery and rationing out stale water in mouthfuls that were barely enough to coat the back of the throat. Even the air was damp here, and overhead the gulls were crying, sharp against the thundering crash of the waves. He lived for these moments, these breaths between the axel-grind of war. It was true that he loved the spoil of a fight, loved sinking into it and letting his Z6 sing. But there was a different, more intoxicating thrill in these snatched hours or - if they were lucky - days. He’d never voiced it to anyone, but he sometimes thought he might like to do this all the time, one day, trawling the stars and standing beneath unfamiliar skies. For the views, this time, explored under his own rhythm.

Yeah. That sounded pretty good.

“Oi, Hardcase!” Someone bellowed, sticking up a hand and waving at him amidst a far away knot of troopers knee deep in the sea. “You coming?”

He shook himself, setting down his pack and his Z6 with loving care amongst the mountainous piles of gear, before jogging down the dunes, following the trails of discarded armour and the shouts, happy laughter and splashes echoing from the water. The wind was sharp on his face and neck and on the strips of skin at his wrists, intoxicating and too heady to ignore. The sand was strangely weightless beneath him, too. He’d slept on a real feather pillow, once, while they were hunkered down on Ord Sedra and several hundred crates of luxury bedding had gotten damaged in the crossfire. It had felt like floating, and all of them had tossed and turned all night. This was similar, and just as strange...what would it all feel like on his skin?

The thought wouldn’t let him go. Halfway down the beach he sat to strip off his boots, then his plates, then his blacks, until he stood in just his greys, laughing at the feeling of the wind and the spray licking against his body. The way it cut through the stubble sprouting on his scalp after far too long stuck in a bucket-locked zone was...disconcerting. The prickle of just-forming curls felt like phantom fingers on the nape of his neck, and he’d found the way sweat clung to hair under his helmet sort of disgusting - it reminded him of being an under-washed cadet. Frankly, he didn’t plan on letting it stay long enough to get used to it.

The sand though...now that was weird. The way it sat between his toes made him squirm, each grain a bolting pinprick against the soles of his feet. When had he last had his boots off? Back on the Venator in the communal fresher, probably. It was a cruel galaxy when that barren room and its clinical racks of scentless soap started to look like a king’s treasury. He dug his feet into the cold, wet sludge, shivering in disgusted delight as the beach swallowed them whole.

“Hardcase!”

He looked towards the bellowing figure stumbling up the sand towards him, squinting as the sun hit their upturned face. Then he barked a laugh of surprise at the edge of the Republic cog he found there.

“ Jesse? Kriff, vod, barely recognised you.”

It was the first time he’d seen his flesh face in weeks, aside from in hurried moments allocated for gulping down rations. Jesse’s hair had grown in thick and black, much to the consternation of several brothers who were offended he could grow a moustache like that and still chose not to. Right now, he reached up to scratch the offending hair on his cheeks and scowled.

“S’rich comin’ from you. What is that slug on your face?”

Hardcase winced. His own unwilling hair cultivation very much proved that clones were not all made equal.

“It’s a casualty,” he said, feeling the short, patchy bristles on his upper lip. His trainer had always promised it would settle as he came out of puberty. That had been a lie. Hardcase blamed it on the crack in his growth jar, like he did most minor physical inconveniences. “This is why I don’t bother with the stuff.”

Jesse nodded, turning away to rummage through the packs strewn over the sand. “It just won’t stop itchin’.”

“You’re telling me.” Hardcase groaned. “You didn’t get woken up last night because your hair tickled the back of your neck and made you think you were bein’ jumped.”

Jesse snorted, straightening back up with his meagre GAR-standard microfibre towel in hand and a ration bar hanging from his mouth.

“Was that what that was about?” he asked, voice muffled. “We thought we could hear you squirmin’.”

Hardcase kicked lightly at Jesse’s ankle. “Real nice of you to not even ask if I was alright.”

Jesse broke off the ration bar and smirked round his mouthful.

“‘Case, it’s when you go quiet that we start asking questions.”

Hardcase shoved him. Jesse went down with a yelp and a curse, his towel catching under his ass and the loose end flapping like a banner in the wind. Hardcase bellowed a laugh, kicking sand towards him. It was a fatal mistake.

Jesse caught him by the ankle and yanked him down too. He landed on his stomach, still laughing as the wind knocked out of him, and scrambled forward with abandon, yelping with shock as water seeped cold and heavy into his greys. He wasn’t fast enough. A leg slung heavy over Hardcase’s ankles, pinning him, and then Jesse’s weight was pressing down on his back, forcing his face towards the wet sand.

“Get off, you kriffin’ shabiir,” he laughed, groaning as Jesse adjusted his weight and squashed the air out of his lungs.

“I’m not the one startin’ fights they can’t finish,” Jesse retorted, his voice light.

“Who said I was finished?” Hardcase shot back, going limp and then bucking hard. Jesse swore, losing his grip, and then they were scrabbling again, a tangle of limbs and righteous yelling.

The fight ended with them lying side by side on their backs, both covered in muck. Hardcase was sure he had sand in his crotch. The sun was still blazing on the horizon, lower now, deepening from yellow to dark, hazy red. It gleamed like fire on the water, like copper on the sand. This world was so reluctant to let the light go, eking out the daylight drop by drop. An errant touch to his thigh made him look over. Jesse was rummaging around underneath himself, grumbling about something digging into his back.

“You think we’ll get to stay here long?” Hardcase asked eventually.

“Aw, hell,” Jesse said, pulling the squashed, sandy remains of his ration bar from underneath him. “This was my last flavoured one. What’d you say?”

“D’you think we’ll stay long?”

Jesse hummed, flinging the ration bar away up the beach. A gull immediately swooped down to snatch it. “Here? Don’t think so. Heard Rex talking to the General, lots still to do before we can get off this rock.”

Hardcase sighed, letting the disappointment wash over him quietly. He shut his eyes again, just listening for a moment, committing the sounds of the sea to memory. It wouldn’t be goodbye. He’d come back to this place, one day. He’d make sure of it.

“So,” he said, cutting himself off before the longing could get too strong. “We gonna shave or what?”

Jesse scoffed. “What? Now?”

Hardcase shrugged. “Why not? We leave here, we’re gonna be back on water rations, right? You really want that nest growin’ for however the fuck long?”

Jesse sighed. “Course I don’t. But what the hell’re we gonna shave with? You didn’t bring your razor, did you?”

“Not a chance,” Hardcase said. That was only a mistake shinies made.

It wasn’t so bad if you lost one of the Kamino issue ones - those were about as blunt as a butter knife. Better to grow hair on campaign and hack it off later than lose one you’d bartered. He still mourned the first he’d ever owned - he’d never seen another with the same quality Corellian steel, and Uppercut had been so smug to win it over sabaac. Gracious enough to let him keep using it though. Some of Hardcase’s best memories were in front of fresher mirrors with him, taking it in turns and helping catch any stray hairs, paying each other in gossip for their trouble. He still hadn’t forgiven that bastard for dying. The first time he’d had to shave after had left him curled over the sink, his head half lathered and his whole body shaking, so on their next planetfall he’d taken the razor with him and buried it in the nicest spot he could find.

Uppercut had always preferred cities to trees, but Hardcase hoped that, wherever he was, he’d appreciated the effort all the same.

“I do have a vibroblade, though,” he carried on brightly, grinning at the way Jesse’s expression fell.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. It won’t be that bad.”

Jesse pushed up on his elbows, his face scrunched. “If you think I’m gonna let you dry shave my head with a dagger, ‘Case, you’re more stupid than you look. I want a haircut, not a cut head.”

Hardcase rolled his eyes. “Who said anything about dry shaving? I’ve got soap.”

Jesse paused. “You’ve had soap this whole time? Here?”

“What can I say, I’m an optimist,” Hardcase said, peeling his back out of the sand. “You in or not?”

Jesse didn’t answer, just stood, grinned, and offered Hardcase a hand.

The light continued to wane as they made their trips up and down the beach, finding a good spot where the shoreline banked a little, and where it would keep the worst of the wind off while Hardcase lathered Jesse’s head. He stuck his tongue out a little as he worked, trying not to get distracted while the frothy water lapped at his ankles. He felt himself loosen as he scraped the vibroblade over his brother’s head, even just the act making him feel more like himself. It relaxed the jittery edge his thoughts always had, dialling down the almost frantic noise that built in combat and then sat under his skin. Usually it took a good spar to bounce it all back out of him, but this had always worked too…it had just been a long time since he’d had anyone else to go through the ritual with.

When it was his turn, he all but melted under the gentle, smooth touch of the vibroblade on his head, the soapy lather chilling quickly on his skin. He hummed, the feeling of the pads of Jesse’s guiding fingers on his chin almost too much sensation after so long under plastoid. He let his mind drift, watching the ocean and listening to Jesse’s mutters and curses as he concentrated.

When they were done and had rinsed in the freezing water, the sun had almost vanished, leaving only a purple after-bruise on the darkened sky. Most of the battalion had settled much further up the beach near the largest sand dunes, so they drifted there and claimed a patch of sand, pulling on their blacks when the sticky film of drying salt water got too much in the cold night air. After a late meal of ration cubes, and, far more enticing, some dried bantha milk the last villages they’d fortified had gifted them, Hardcase was splayed out on his back again and feeling quite ready to have a nap.

Jesse was lounging beside him, carefully rehydrating his milk with water from his field flask. Hardcase couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a night like this, where the war had felt so far away.

They turned their heads at several loud hoots, a crash, and a cheer, followed by an angry bellow. He squinted his eyes against the sudden flare of bright light.

Several brothers had constructed a modest bonfire out of driftwood - and, Hardcase suspected, several unlucky clones’ blacks - and had just tossed over a spare fuel canister, setting the whole thing ablaze in a column of blue flame. The tense figure stalking towards them looked awfully like Appo.

“D’you think we should help him?” Hardcase murmured, his hands propped comfortably under his head. Plasma always burned fast and hot, and he could already feel it faintly against the side of his freshly exposed head. It was nice; soothing, even.

Jesse hummed, pushed up on one elbow so that he could sip at his drink.

“...Nah,” he said slowly, lowering his cup and scrubbing away the blue moustache left behind. He flopped back down with a boneless huff. “Appo’s a big boy. He’s got this.”

Hardcase turned his head again, in time to see Appo tug futilely at some of the dark fabric being swallowed by flame. He chuckled and shut his eyes, breathing in deep and enjoying the soothing melody of shouting that, for once, was not being directed at him.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a moment, sighing as the heat flared and there were more jubilant whoops. “I think you’re right.”

taglist // @nelba @leias-left-hair-bun @simping-for-fives @missinashkin @iscream4clones @majorshiraharu @dom-i-nic @snippytano @808tsuika @eries45 @whatanoof // list here

#alderwrites #hardcase #clone trooper hardcase #clone trooper jesse #arc trooper jesse #501st legion #star wars #the clone wars #the clone wars fic #jesse #time to hit post before i can decide i hate this loooool

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ladyfawkes · 3 years

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Eugene Appreciation Week | Day 6: Protect and Sacrifice

Desiderium by @Ladyfawkes and @trekkiehood

Current Chapter 10: Never Surrender

Current word count: 18868

Rated T for graphic descriptions of violence, physical torment, events during a POW setting

Chapter Summary: For the first time since being attacked and abducted, Eugene wakes up.

Chapter 10: Never Surrender

The first time Eugene awoke, he had been turned on his side. Someone had placed the tapered part of a large syringe in his mouth. He gagged on the warm stream of saltwater being actively injected and immediately began vomiting, which in turn yanked and pulled and twisted up all of the severed and injured muscles and tissues just below and to the right of his stomach. It felt as if his guts were on fire and actively trying to push themselves out of the wounds that cursed sword had given him. He tried to bring his arms down to fold them around his wound in front but he’d found his wrists were tightly bound with ropes instead.

“It huuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrts,” he howled mournfully, in earshot of whomever was near. Or at least he would’ve howled, had his cry not cut out halfway through. Only then did he realize how stupid he was to have used his voice. Instantly, he became so drained he started shaking. For he not only unwittingly revealed this weakness to his enemy, the action induced Eugene to use the most injured, raw parts of himself. His reaction, however, had at least been visceral, instinctive, and utterly involuntary; he had no control over it. However, if Eugene thought he’d felt nausea and pain before, that was almost nothing compared to how he’d felt in the here and now.

After Eugene had fallen unconscious, he’d clearly and repeatedly aspirated what little stomach contents he possessed into his lungs and sinuses. A pained groan escaped him regardless; His raw throat and sinuses pulsed with a dull throb in the back of his head every time he tried drawing a breath.

“Believe it or not, I am trying to help,” said a tiny voice beside him. “Sometimes, though, it’s gotta get worse before it can feel better,” continued the voice. Gradually, Eugene’s top half was raised at an angle. The old cloth beneath him soaked with blood and vomit was removed and replaced; the fresh one was folded over several times and placed underneath his nose, mouth, chin, and neck. He was still on his side but was given a bolster to put under his ear and top half of his head as further support at this new elevated angle. His shaking slowed slightly. However, in the back of his mind, Eugene still recalled how precarious was his position. Therefore he could not bring himself to trust this mystery medical person. The captain was still bound at the wrists and ankles, after all. He assumed his boots were long gone. There was no way they’d leave footwear accessible for a prisoner -- especially not one they’d have no intention of ever releasing.

Rather than finding any comfort in what had just been said or done by this funny-voiced person, Eugene stiffened as the syringe wielder injected even more saltwater into each nostril. Though Eugene still choked, coughed, and gagged very violently, the entry-and-exit wounds through his midsection were simultaneously given moderate compression from either side until he’d cleared out the last of the salt water. The compression action alone had diminished his pain, nausea, and the nasty sensation that his guts were spilling out by about 30%. And he didn’t throw up again either. For the time being.

“I would cut your bindings, as they’re so useless and even cumbersome,” mumbled the voice, “but Regis would have us both hanged immediately….” Though Eugene struggled valiantly and tried to become an active information-gatherer like his training demanded, nothing proved to him that he was too far out of his element more than the traumas of this particular interaction. Even his own weakness shocked him. Though the name “Regis” had instantaneously provoked distinct emotions from within.

The mystery person again mopped up Eugene’s face from the deluge of saltwater. “I know that was awful,” commiserated the individual, “but I’m betting your throat and sinuses are no longer killing you. That it’s much less painful to breathe, at least from your neck up?”

Eugene said nothing….and only scowled until he did gingerly test breathing…. and it was indeed far easier and less painful now that the aspirated stomach acid had been cleared away. Buuuuuut he had this permanent stitch now, this ache below his right lung….Eugene seriously wondered whether he would ever breathe deeply again.

“Well, that’s all right, playin’ possum,” said the voice. Can’t say as I blame you, nosiree, captain in the enemy camp and all….” and the person bustled about, chattering aloud to Eugene but mostly to himself. “Oh, and my name is Clarence, my designation here is ‘apothecary’, although my duties compass a great deal more.” Was it just Eugene, or did ‘Clarence’ sound a little bitter? Could this be a rift Eugene could press to his advantage? “This possum skill is good,” the Clarence person rejoined, “because the more ill and unconscious you are, the more put-off Regis will be…..I know since he already walked away once due to being so disgusted by the state of you. You were supposed to have been brought whole and unharmed….and Javeen, Regis’s 2nd, truly learned to regret his actions.”

Eugene’s shivering persisted and worsened although it was clearly a warm day outside. He had no earthly idea how much time had passed since he was first abducted nor how long it had been that he’d worn anything from the waist up due to being stripped down by...Javeen, was it? He guesstimated it had been at least two days since he’d eaten or drank anything...but it felt more like 6 or 7 days because of his injuries. As an orphan, Eugene knew well the ravages of starvation. He’d faced it many times as a child and youth and young adult. And this was….not like that. At all. It was infinitely worse.

Though this small apothecary minding Eugene clearly couldn’t match him in size, he removed and shared his tunic nonetheless. Or at least he attempted to share. “I’ve got on several layers,” mumbled the little man….

“Curse it,” the apothecary finished, as he realized Eugene couldn’t possibly be dressed in normal clothing while still bound at the wrists. And a few seconds later, very abruptly, Eugene’s wrists were blissfully cut free of the ropes that had bound him.

In another wholly involuntary action, Eugene automatically turned from his side to his back, his arms fully separating so his chest could expand and he could breathe in the air his oxygen-deprived body so desperately needed.

The apothecary seemed to have anticipated his needs and again gave Eugene compression so as to minimize the sensation his guts were falling out as he greedily sucked in more and more shuddering lungfuls of air. “Oh deary dear, no wonder that was so difficult for you,” the little apothecary fretted. “Broad chests and large arms do not do well for one’s lung capacity when they’re all mashed together. I can’t imagine Adonais himself could handle his wrists being bound in such a way….”

Breathing in as if it were going out of style was exquisitely painful but this pain was also infinitely worth it. Then Eugene coughed and….it was chunky style, i.e. some of the leftover goodies the syringe hadn’t been able to remove earlier. He turned his head to the side and spat it out. “Good!” said the apothecary. “That’s even better than you getting more air. We need you to cough up all of that junk. And breathe as deep as you can, at all times, even when it hurts.”

Unexpectedly Clarence seized Eugene’s hand and placed it around the cushion he’d been using. “Anytime you need to sneeze, cough, or what-have-you, press the cushion against your midsection. It will help a little. Regis’ll just have to hang me then, he can’t very well have me heal you if you’re gonna go off and die of aspiration pneumonia, nosiree…..”

Heal me in order to hurt me, ugh, thought Eugene. Talk about mixed signals. Now that he was laying on his back, Eugene’s head near the base of his skull started throbbing with the renewed pressure. In spite of himself, Eugene reached up with his left hand and felt the back of his scalp.

Clarence continued bustling about. It was registering through Eugene’s pain-haze that this is the same apothecary that had just given him full use of his hands. Even handed him a projectile. Maybe this guy isn’t what he seems? Eugene considered. Nope. NO. Don’t get lulled by a false sense of security. Considering his wounds and the fact his ankles were still bound, Eugene was basically still immobile anyway, even with full use of his hands and arms. Well, almost full use. If he moved his right arm in a certain way, it tugged all the way down to his worst wound and made him see twinkly pain stars in front of his vision. He determined to keep that arm closer toward him at all times to avoid triggering that horrible lightning twinge. And this meant he couldn’t reach down far enough to slip the ropes off his ankles even if he’d tried. Eugene realized the physician knew exactly what he was talking about by deeming the binds “useless”. His prisoner was going nowhere and this little man knew it.

The physician (Eugene had already substituted ‘apothecary’ in his mind) took note of Eugene’s movements. “Ah yes, I see you’ve discovered the other little 'present' Javeen and his men left for you: that nasty goose egg on the back of your head. I advise against making any more sudden movements? I’d hate to see you vomit again.” Fanfriggentastic. Here was yet another thing that explained to Eugene why he was in such rough shape….Javeen’s men had brained him earlier. Although he couldn’t recall when it happened along with why he’d felt so beat-up and bruised all over, everywhere….those things were still a mystery to him.

The physician did his best to dress Eugene in the too-small tunic of his. Again, he apologized -- APOLOGIZED!! -- for it having been all he’d had on-hand. Ill-fitting though it was, Eugene had finally stopped shivering. Once again, Eugene found second thoughts about this strange little man creeping into his consciousness. Next, the physician had grabbed what looked like a Coronian saddle blanket and draped it around Eugene’s shoulders, offering another layer of warmth. It finally caught up to him regarding what that meant; the physician had handily kept him from slipping fully into shock.

He’d also made dang sure that Eugene could breathe as well as could be expected…..by cutting his binds….and whatever that syringe debacle was…..although the process itself was nightmare-ish, it couldn't be denied that everything had worked as intended. Sometimes things have to get worse before they can feel better. Not to mention the man had gone out of his way to ease Eugene’s pain with that cushion compression trick. Already Clarence had engaged in at least two things that were probably directly against protocol by doing just a tiny bit more than the bare minimum.

Clarence steepled his hands and considered Eugene’s positioning. “I’m gonna need better access to that wound on your back,” he said. “Don’t use any of your own power to help me turn you; I’ll do all of the work. Is that clear?”

Eugene shrank a little at such intense scrutiny paired with the direct order….yet said nothing. It was the most demanding Clarence had been thus far. The apothecary sighed shortly, clearly not taking silence for an answer this time.

“I mean it, Mr. Tough Guy. This is one instance where you must be like a living ragdoll and let me do all the rest. Do you think you can handle that?” Clarence paused briefly, appearing to consider something. Eugene simply stared at him. “You can communicate by whispering. Actual whispering, not sotto voce style. It requires far less lung capacity and is unlikely to cause much pain. I say again, do you think you can trust me? Because if you try to ‘help’ even a little, you could cause those wounds to push outside what’s meant to remain inside.”

“Yes,” Eugene whispered without hesitation. He didn’t know exactly what it was about this interesting apothecary that elicited his trust. And then it occurred to him as Clarence very slowly turned his patient's legs to his left side, encouraging Eugene to breathe through the pain: Clarence cares.

Not to mention….Clarence was right; whispering barely hurt Eugene at all….in complete opposition to when he’d shouted earlier upon first waking.

When Clarence went to turn Eugene from right to left by grabbing his right arm, however, they ran into a semi-unexpected snag. This arm, it appeared, could not be pulled...lest it trigger that nasty stitch Eugene had experienced earlier. So the apothecary took the saddle blanket and refashioned it into a type of jacket-sling so Eugene’s right arm was held secure against his chest; now his patient didn’t have to worry about his right arm being at the mercy of whatever gravity felt like doing with it.

With his free arm, Eugene lightly held the cushion against his gut. Then Clarence managed to carefully and successfully roll Eugene’s upper half onto his left side without any additional complications. Eugene was allowed to rest after all the additional activity. His side without the wounds was naturally far more stable and for the first time since awakening, the mere act of breathing didn’t make him wanna pass out from too much pain. Although it was still comparably arduous and taxing by trying to breathe deeply as instructed. The last time Eugene could recall feeling this helpless was when he had a nasty case of typhus around age 5 or 6 that had nearly killed him.

“Right now, I’m preparing an anesthetic for that wound in your back,” murmured Clarence. The apothecary was using medical terms that until that point in time for which Eugene had had very little use. It made Eugene wish he’d read and paid more attention like Rapunzel.

And mentally conjuring his beloved sweetheart so easily within such a natural context suddenly sent unbidden shockwaves of loneliness, hopelessness, and despair crashing through him. Regis would never release him and Eugene knew it. He’d gone to far too much trouble convincing others that Eugene no longer existed amongst the living. Past the end of his needfulness for this prisoner, the mad king might eventually attempt to use Eugene as bait at a later date. But until then, Eugene was still being secretly held here, wherever ‘here’ was...which had to mean that it was becoming more likely with each passing hour that Javeen’s decoy ruse had worked. That whatever was left after the fire the enemy troops had started, and after Corona’s soldiers watched their own captain get struck down, it was practically a given that nobody from his kingdom was out searching for Eugene right now.

In spite of himself, the back of his still-raw sinuses welled up and started dripping with these instant pent up emotions. He sniffled softly at first but when Eugene pictured himself back in the nursery, rocking Kleisonne and singing their special song….considering that Rapunzel has to sing it now….it was more than he could take. It had already been over two months since the last time he had left them to take up arms at New Old Corona and even though he could see Corona Island from the top of the mountain pass, as captain, Eugene felt as if he might as well have been a million miles away. With so few fighting men, with so few soldiers who’d actually experienced prior sustained combat much less led through it, such inexperienced leadership, and only a rather ancient stockpile of weaponry….(Corona had been at peace for hundreds of years, after all...) Eugene simply could not leave his station under any circumstances….not even to see his family. The kingdom’s needs had been too great….still are too great. Had his father’s battalions arrived yet from the Dark Kingdom? Probably not. Eugene had a feeling he’d be hearing all about it from the apothecary, chatty as he was. But then….but then -- one shining light of realization cut through the pain haze and fear fog….piercing its way through his overwrought mind and body. Rapunzel was actually queen now and thus not at the mercy and whims of what others thought or felt anymore. Not really. And Eugene could sense with absolute certainty that Rapunzel would not rest until she had found identifiable remains by means of incontrovertible proof. And once they found the only clue Eugene had managed to leave behind, Rapunzel’s resolve in finding him would become dang near indestructible. He’d just have to try and find a way to escape -- or more practically, considering his woeful state of being, somehow get word out ASAP so that Corona would still be performing a rescue, not a recovery.

Eugene hissed rather loudly at the sudden harsh stinging sensation emanating from around the wound in his back. The sharp intake of breath had in turn disturbed everything else within Eugene’s predicament. “My apologies,” Clarence spoke out, “I’m usually accustomed to patients who are already unconscious by the time I get to them,” he explained with a hint of nervousness.

Aaaand he’s apologizing again. For unintentionally hurting me. Truly this guy was proving over and over he really wasn’t Regis’s mad scientist henchman. After Clarence was finished with the stinging stuff, he grabbed some type of salve that Eugene was sure he already knew pretty well. Tallow, the same stuff used as a base for candles, also made a great healing and moisturization agent. It sealed the wound away from everything else including dirt and further abrasions.

It was basically how Eugene had avoided having too many scars for so many years, and the one main reason why he appeared completely unscathed, despite all of the bar fights he had been swept up in, and the smaller now invisible wounds he’s had. Although he currently rolled his eyes at his own past vanity by trying to achieve physical perfection with flawless skin. Eugene was certainly gonna have some gnarly scars after this….provided he lived long enough to actually heal from his open wounds and captivity….Eugene inwardly admonished himself to stop thinking morbidly. And to instead be grateful for Clarence and his incomprehensible kindness in such a morbid setting. And if Eugene weren’t already laying down, he would’ve been bowled over by what the apothecary did next. Clarence not only carefully cleaned and applied tallow to every inch of the abrasions those ropes had caused, he covered the red welts on Eugene’s wrists with long knotted-off strips of floursack cloth. It was such an unexpectedly….kind thing to do, to tend to wounds caused by a prisoner’s restraints…..Eugene was momentarily taken aback….and currently lost in thought. And this is when Clarence figured he’d had as good a time as any to crank up the hallucination juice.

Somewhere behind Eugene, something that smelled vaguely of incense and oil started burning nearby and he started coughing. Clarence reminded him about the cushion trick and the coughing sensation eased off and Eugene began to feel oddly and unexpectedly relaxed. His cognitive body functions had largely gone dormant and he was floating in a soft white haze. He felt….groovy. Every once in awhile, lightning streaks of pain might interrupt his dreaming as Clarence, who was not only a good apothecary but a well trained surgeon, worked on sewing up Eugene’s wounds.

Clarence couldn’t have Eugene eat or drink anything prior to surgery so that effectively eliminated anything taken by mouth when it came to easing his patient’s pain at this time. So the apothecary took the one safest route left to him; the psychoactive one. The main problem was that psychoactives didn’t technically knock you out….at least not the ones of which he was in possession.

The surgeon was distinctly worried that even if Eugene had tried to ingest any medicine or even water, it very well would have triggered pain so agonizingly distressful that he wouldn’t be able to stop screaming once it got started. Based on the prior blood and reflux content he’d seen so far, (as well as how his patient had reacted during his first few seconds upon waking) Clarence strongly suspected part of Eugene’s problem was a nasty duodenal tear and that meant high-intensity stomach acid was busy slowly seeping itself out everywhere it wasn’t intended to be, both inside and outside of his patient. Unneutralized stomach acid pouring itself into one’s abdominal cavity was indeed Not Good at All, especially since that includes everything else that regularly accompanies stomach acid. Clarence's plan was to be as hands-off as possible. He'd witnessed far too many patients die of resulting infection directly caused by a surgeon's brash (and yes, stupid) tendency to just dig around in open wounds. Clarence still didn't know if his patient needed to be sewn up all the way or if drainage sites needed to be packed as he healed.

All things considered, this “enemy” captain shouldn’t even be conscious. Eugene had to be practically dying of thirst and yet he wasn’t complaining. Here he was, on this makeshift exam/surgery platform, high as a kite, tripping aloud about fluffy purple bunnies wearing watermelon hats. Or was it purple watermelons wearing pink bunny hats? Whatever that meant, thought Clarence, with some amusement.

Clarence seemed to have an internal immunity against the “incense oil” he was burning for his patient’s sake. He was both annoyed and grateful for said immunity. He also fervently hoped this patient would stay distracted long enough with pleasant hallucinations in order for Clarence to do what he needed. It wasn’t like him to operate on a patient without explaining everything thoroughly, but he was hoping against hope that by subtracting another layer of self-awareness, it might somehow help Eugene stay distracted even longer. Besides, you can’t rightly swallow much of anything when it’s just going to…..leak back out such a nasty hole in your vital organs. Above all else, the young captain needed that tear repaired as quickly as possible.

Real things about world history discovers/innovations: When 'syringe' is mentioned here, it's not like a hypodermic needle or even an oral medication syringe. The size of syringes in the 18th century were more the size range of a can of spray deodorant on up to a large can of hair spray.

“Okay, Captain Fitz-Humpty-Dumpty, let’s try and put you back together again, shall we?” murmured the surgeon to himself, as he took one last glance at his overstocked supply of incense oil.

@gleamful-lanterns @kingreywrites @autumn-ravenclaw

A/N: In order to keep this an element of realism in this historical setting, you can imagine the amount of research that went into building this single chapter. Medicine was taking some monumental strides starting in 16th century (1500s) onward.

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snkpolls · 3 years

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SnK Episodes 73 & 74 Poll Results (for Manga Readers)

The poll closed with 135 responses. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Please note that these are the results for the Manga Readers’ poll. If you wish to see the results for the Anime Only Watchers’ poll, click here.

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RATE EPISODE 73: SAVAGERY 129 responses

As expected, this highly anticipated episode didn’t fail to deliver and fans absolutely loved it, with over 95% giving it a 4-5 star rating.

I loved the episode 73. The fight between Levi and Zeke was spectacular! The animation was 10/10, definitely worth watching. Good, old Kenny's theme brought memories back. I have to admit that Mappa made Levi look hundred times better and definitely more masculine.

RATE EPISODE 74: SOLE SALVATION 128 responses

While episode 74 generated slightly less enthusiasm across the board, it still managed to garner a high rating from respondents.

when i read the manga version, i wasn't that much moved by zeke's backstory. but with the music, voice and color additions... it's fucking heartbreaking. mappa did an outstanding job. and the tension when he activated the thunder spear???? the animation? we were blessed. ALSO! the movement of the bodies when they threw the ball looked so realistic! it's a tiny detail that i loved.

Zook

WHICH WAS THE MOST MEMORABLE MOMENT OF EPISODE 73? 128 responses

Levi vs. Zeke 2.0 got the largest piece of the pie, getting 23.4% of the vote. Behind that was the moment when Levi had to kill his comrades in titan form (14.8%), Armin punching Eren in the face (14.1%), Eren disparaging Armin and Mikasa (11.7%), and at 8.6%, that one screenshot of Armin the entire fandom was thirsting over. Shoutout to the person in the comments who wanted Mikasa to pin them down (the pollster writing this feels the same!).

💥🐒 mOnKe and Lebi 🍄and Jean go BOOM 🐎💥

For me, the real gem of EMA talk isn't that one Armin frame that everyone's going crazy about. It's the frame before it, that low angle of Mikasa half sitting on the table holding Armin down. Holy...I wanted to be Armin so bad right at that moment.

WHICH WAS THE MOST MEMORABLE MOMENT OF EPISODE 74? 127 responses

35.4% felt the most memorable scene from this episode was the ending scene where Zeke triggers the thunderspear and sends Levi flying. Behind that was the moment where Zeke listens to Grisha yelling through the door (18.1%), Zeke and Ksaver coming up with the euthenasia plan together (8.7%) and Ksaver telling Zeke to sell out his parents (7.9%).

EPISODE 73 IS TITLED, “SAVAGERY.” OF THE OPTIONS BELOW, WHICH CHARACTER DO YOU THINK BEST EXEMPLIFIED THIS WORD? 128 responses

In an episode filled with both verbal and physical violence, we asked which character you thought best exemplified the episode’s title. 35.2% felt that Eren was the worst offender with his words and actions against Armin and Mikasa. 29.7% felt that Levi’s violent acts against Zeke were deserving of the title “savagery.” Only 22.7% felt that Floch most suited the episode title, while just a small handful, 12.5%, felt that Zeke is the one most deserving of the term.

HOW BADLY DID YOU FEEL ABOUT LEVI HAVING TO KILL HIS OWN SQUAD? 127 responses

The majority felt, on at least some level, sorrow for what Levi had to do in order to survive and catch up to Zeke. Though a small handful didn’t feel too bad for our Captain.

ON A SCALE OF 1-5, HOW WOULD YOU RATE LEVI VS. ZEKE 2.0? 127 responses

In general, the fight received positive reception. Though it wasn’t all hype, as the highest ranking was actually a 4 and not a 5. It was hype, but not quite hype enough for us manga readers.

I loved Levi vs Zeke 2.0 but they really should have used the instrumental version instead of K21, I laughed out loud when I heard that beacuse I felt like it took all the seriousness from the scene

levi and zeke goat

WHY DO YOU THINK FLOCH MADE THE RECRUITS BATTER INSTRUCTOR SHADIS? 128 responses

The majority of respondents feel that Floch’s motivations are a mix of factors. For those who did think there was a more specific reason, though, 16.4% felt it’s simply a matter of Floch having a massive ego trip. 10.2% feel that Floch truly believes what he says about taking out the old and bringing in the new, and 7.8% believe Floch simply wanted to make an example out of Shadis (presumably alluding to the fate of those who resist the Yeagerists).

He was testing if the recruits can go this far

He wants to intimidate people into joining his cause by using violence and threats of arrest and also make them feel empowered by his ideals.

Standard protocol when there's a change of regime, you'd want to eliminate the old guards' influence ASAP.

That's how fascism works

All of the above and the fact that he's a fascist.

HOW CUTE WAS BITTY ZEKE? 130 responses

After a long time waiting, we finally got to see child Zeke in animated form. The vast majority think he was cute as a button, ready to pinch his little baby cheeks! Only a small handful think bby Zeke is anything but cute.

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT GRISHA’S TREATMENT OF ZEKE? 130 responses

This chapter created more controversy surrounding Grisha after it’s publication. In general, fans still aren’t particularly proud of Grisha’s behavior. 36.9% felt that Zeke didn’t deserve any of the treatment he got from his father, and 24.6% outright want to give Grisha the award for worst parent in the entire series. 24.6% don’t approve of Grisha’s behavior, but they do empathize with the way Grisha must have felt. 10.8% feel that while he could have treated Zeke better, he also could have been much worse.

Zeke was a sweet child but no child deserves to be treated like that regardless of how nice or well behaved they are. Grisha is disgusting.

Grisha was a large dick and asshole and he deserved the all punishment he got.

Grisha is a terrible father but such a well written character

it's crazy to me how people really thought grisha wasn't that in the wrong in terms of how he raised zeke.

DO YOU FEEL THAT ZEKE WOULD HAVE GROWN INTO AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT KIND OF PERSON IF GRISHA HAD TREATED HIM BETTER? 129 responses

Just over half of respondents think it’s possible Zeke could have become a different kind of person if he’d had a brighter and happier childhood, though they didn’t want to say for sure as they feel that Grisha’s treatment wasn’t the sole reason why Zeke sees the world the way he does. 41.9% believe that the outcome of Zeke’s mindset would have been completely different. Only a few think that he would have come to the same conclusions about the world either way.

Unless Grisha gives up being a restorationist I don't see it as better treatment, if he does then yes

Yes. The whole point for the euthanasia plan was that Eldian children don't have to go through what he went through.

WHO DO YOU THINK HAD A BIGGER IMPACT IN SHAPING ZEKE’S WORLDVIEW? 126 responses

When it comes to “father figures” in Zeke’s life, 65.1% believe that Ksaver holds much more responsibility than Grisha does when it comes to the way Zeke views the world.

WHO TURNED OUT MORE LIKE GRISHA, IN YOUR OPINION? 128 responses

Between Grisha’s two sons, 68% of respondents feel that Eren is the brother who turned out much more similarly to Grisha, leaving only 32% who feel the opposite and think Zeke ultimately turned out more like Grisha in the end (For those who are curious, 81% of anime-only fans feel that Eren is the one who turned out more like Grisha).

WHO WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO PUNCH IN THE FACE AFTER THESE EPISODES? 129 responses

There was a lot that happened in these episodes that could have bred resentment from fans. From the options provided, 35.7% of respondents would most like to punch Floch in the face. 22.5% wish to channel their inner Armin and give Eren a sock to the face. 14.7% felt more visceral toward Grisha. 11.6% don’t want to punch anyone at all. For those who wanna punch the pollsters, meet us out back at 16:00 hours.

Floch sucks

HOW DO YOU FEEL FINALLY GETTING TO SEE THE PAINFUL EMA CONVERSATION IN ANIME FORM? 127 responses

A lot has happened since chapter 112 published, but the chapter still continues to stick with us and spark conversation. With such a highly anticipated scene finally being animated, we wanted to know how you felt seeing the scene reimagined with music, voice acting and color. 29.9% just felt that the chapter hits much differently now after the contents of chapter 138. 25.2% had a much harder time watching the scene in anime form than they felt reading the manga. 12.6% felt even more strongly, expressing extreme heartbreak over E/MA’s breakup. Only a handful of respondents felt the scene hit much harder in the manga.

I'm over it, I felt nothing. Props to Yuki Kaji though, his voice acting is as amazing as ever.

I liked both manga and anime versions, but hearing Armin's sharp intakes of breath from being hit ;~; MY POOR BABY!

M M G H, boi

mmgh

There is no pain, only support for whatever horny animator drew that shot of Armin.

I love EMA emotionally destroying each other and Mappa made it SO FUCKING GOOD, I watched this scene like 100 times

Eren = me | Armin's fist = EMA scene punching me across my expressionless face | Mikasa = my anime-only gf

BEFORE THE FINAL CHAPTER HITS, WHAT DO YOU THINK WAS EREN’S “TRAIN OF THOUGHT” IN REGARDS TO HIS WORDS IN THIS CONVERSATION? 126 responses

With the last chapter just over a week away, we’re hoping to finally get some closure in terms of Eren’s characterization and the choices he’s made. 42.9% believe that Eren chose to be cruel to his friends in the hope it would drive them to be willing to put an end to Eren’s life. 24.6% felt the opposite, hoping that Eren would push them into a corner where they wouldn’t interfere with his plan at all. 18.3% still aren’t sure what to think. Will we get answers, Isayama?!

He wants to "free" Mikasa and armin from himself because he knew he was gonna die

Probably the first option but there might be some truth to what he was saying.

He definitely wanted to push them away and antagonize them but I'm still not completely sure why. I don't feel we've gotten a satisfying explanation.

He chose to be cruel to Mikasa and Armin in an attempt to make it so they wouldn't mourn him when he was dead and could be free of him entirely.

Eren still has heart warming feelings to Mikasa and - by being cruel - he wanted her to let him go (and most likely) kill him. His feelings to Armin however are much colder and they don't seem to like each other anymore. They are way too different. Armin and Eren are like two deities who will always fight each other.

Like he said in 138, he wanted to push them away so they would move on from his death and live happily without him.

SOME DIALOGUE FROM THE EMA CONVERSATION WAS CUT OR SHORTENED. WHICH PART(S) DID YOU MISS THE MOST? 125 responses

Due to time constraints, the EMA conversation took a big hit in terms of how much content was cut from it. Of the cuts we noticed, the dialogue snippets that were most missed by manga readers were; Eren bringing up Armin’s good judgement when they were younger, Eren telling Mikasa that the “real her” disappeared in the mountain cabin, the mention of Ackermans being a “byproduct” of titan science, and the mention that Ackermans manifest the power of titans in human form.

OVERALL, HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE AFOREMENTIONED CUTS? 123 responses

When it comes to how manga readers actually felt about the cuts in the EMA conversation, 35% agreed that they felt bitter about them, while still understanding that there was probably little other choice. 22% think it was just too watered down and cut down the impact significantly. 14.6% didn’t care, 11.4% felt the cuts were actually a positive thing, and 10.6% feel that the manga is simply just the superior medium for this series.

I find it interesting that the titan science stuff was cut and wonder if maybe Isayama agreed to those cuts bc he knows he won't have time to really explain in the last chapter of the manga.

Oof, too many important informations have been cut.

I'm okay either way!

Although I would've loved to see all of those aforementioned cuts animated, I understand why they had to be cut in the first place, so I'm not bitter by it at all. I still think the conversation still had the impact it was intended to have.

I kind of understand why some dialogues would have to be cut but it lessened the impact of how Eren tried to hurt his friends which I personally think is too much even if he might have good intentions in doing so. I also like how MAPPA rearranges scenes to better fit the airtime limitation of each episode.

MAPPA CHANGED EREN’S EXPRESSION AFTER HE WAS CALLED OUT BY ARMIN. THOUGHTS? 127 responses

A small change can impact a lot… or perhaps not. 34.6% felt let down by the change in Eren’s facial expression after Armin calls him out for hurting Mikasa, feeling that his original expression spoke volumes about his true feelings about what he’d done. 28.3% didn’t notice any change at all and so are unaffected. 15.7% are on a similar page and feel that there really wasn’t enough of a difference to gripe about anything, and 9.4% actually preferred the way MAPPA handled Eren in this snippet.

as they did when mikasa calls him out in liberio, they harden his expressionstry to make him look like a heartless monster with no empathy for his friends. this expression hinted that he was hurt by telling all of that to his friends, so his self sacrifice motivations can be misunderstood by anime onlies, or worse: they may even think it comes out of nowhere.

The manga was just superior here, from his expression to the fact that Armin did manage to make him bleed. It was disappointing.

I read this chapter way too long ago, I don't remember this stuff

He looks a lot more hurt and regretful in the Manga. Anime just looks annoyed.

Not a big deal to me. Manga is definitely superior though.

In the manga Eren was more human, while here we can clearly see his anger towards Armin's words.

THE ANIME ADAPTATION CUT OUT A BIT OF CONTEXT IN REGARDS TO LEVI STATING THAT THEY WILL FEED A YEAGERIST TO HISTORIA AFTER SHE GIVES BIRTH. DO YOU THINK THIS MAKES THINGS CONFUSING FOR THE ANIME-ONLIES? 123 responses

Historia’s pregnancy plot continues to get the shaft (for better or for worse), with the mention of her eventually eating the Yeagerist that eats Zeke being cut out entirely. 39% of respondents felt that this was a poor choice on MAPPA’s part, feeling that it will make things confusing for anime only fans (“why would they feed Zeke to a Yeagerist?”). 26% feel the opposite, and think anime only fans should be able to put 2 and 2 together to realize where Levi was going with his idea. 22% aren’t sure if it actually makes things confusing, and 10.6% just don’t care.

I'm not sure how confusing this makes it for anime-onlies but them cutting out mentions of her pregnancy makes it seem even less important than it already does.

That plan was shut down so quickly it doesn't matter

I don't/didn't really understand this. None of the Yeagerist have royal blood... maybe I'm missing something. I figured he was just joking? Bc, tactically, what does Historia eating a Yeagerist do or have to do with anything?

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE ADAPTATION OF THE ZEKE RUNNING PANEL? 124 responses

When Zeke ran from Levi in the manga, the scene was memed to death. 46.8% of respondents weren’t disappointed in MAPPA’s adaptation and felt it was just as enjoyable as it was in the manga. 29.8% felt even more strongly, thinking MAPPA did an even better job than Isayama had done. 17.7% still prefer the manga version.

It was funny in the manga but not in the anime and that's probably for the best given the weight of what's about to happen.

I honestly don't remember the running panel lmao

Funny monke

HOW WELL WAS ZEKE’S BACKSTORY ADAPTED, IN YOUR OPINION? 126 responses

60.3% felt that MAPPA did an incredible job with executing Zeke’s backstory in the anime, with the impact feeling even greater than it did in the original manga. 37.3% agree to a lesser degree, simply being pleased that it was faithful to the source material and feel thankful enough for that. Only a sliver of the pie felt that MAPPA didn’t deliver well on this or didn’t care.

Made him too sympathetic/made grisha look even worse

MAPPA REPLACED THE MONKEY PLUSHIE WITH A RAM PLUSHIE IN KSAVER’S VISION. THOUGHTS? 125 responses

We got a couple of Easter Eggs in this episode, with one of them being the inclusion of a ram plushie in place of the monkey doll that was in the manga. Knowing now that Ksaver’s Beast Titan was a ram, we were curious how many of you caught this. 55.2% absolutely loved the easter egg, and 31.2% just felt that it was neat. A few were confused, missed monke, or wanted to squish the adorable plushie. Baa!

I jumped out of my seat seeing that little fecker. I was literally like "...!!!! THE RAM!!! WE KNOW KSAVER'S TITAN NOW SO THEY PUT IN A RAM!! YOU..!!! ISAYAMAAAAA!!" It was hilarious XD

THE DOLLS IN KSAVER’S VISION APPEAR TO RESEMBLE ARMIN, MIKASA AND HISTORIA. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS? 121 responses

Aside from the ram plushie were also dolls that some thought seemed to resemble Armin, Mikasa and Historia. We got very mixed responses on this question. 20.7% felt that it was simply just a fun easter egg and didn’t hold any kind of narrative meaning. 19% were unsure what to think at all. 16.5% think the third doll actually represents Ymir Fritz and not Historia. 15.7% felt it was meant to represent the three people Eren is working hardest to protect, and 9.1% didn’t think they represented anything.

i thought that was ymir fritz, zeke, and either eren or levi

I think the two dolls inside the box look more like Gabi and Falco but I'm not sure who the doll with the pink dress is, Ymir Fritz maybe?

I didn't even notice this, lmao. I'm bored of overthinking things like this, there's one chapter left y'all.

Oh, I thought it was Eren, Zeke and Ymir lol.

Reminds me of the Eren doll in the Lost Girls OVA.

The box represents those who we will see in the final chapter. Sorry Historia :'(

All of the above xD

The doll isn't Historia - It's Ymir Frtiz - and her position under the wagon means that Eren values Mikasa and Eren more than Ymir/anything else. I think the wagon is also significant to that bit where Eren confessed to the squad that they were the most important people in his life, and that he doesn't want anything bad to happen to them.

EREN TELLS ZEKE, “I’LL PUT AN END TO 2,000 YEARS OF TITAN DOMINATION.” EVEN AFTER EVERYTHING, DO YOU BELIEVE IT’S POSSIBLE THAT THIS WAS HIS TRUE INTENTION, AND THAT HE CAN STILL BE THE ONE TO MAKE IT HAPPEN? 122 responses

Will there be a final twist in the series finale? 34.4% seem to think so, hoping that Eren’s words will ring true and he will somehow abolish titans from the world. 23% feel similarly, though they think he knew his actions would lead to the catalyst to rid titans from the world, rather than him doing it himself. 12.3% feel the opposite, and think Eren was simply just lying to Zeke about bringing an end to the titan power, and 9.8% think he’s just too dead at this point to accomplish anything. 19.7% aren’t sure what to predict.

Yes, ending the era of titans and setting Eldians free is one of Eren's goals.

GIVEN THAT ZEKE’S FLASHBACK ELEMENTS FROM 115 WERE ALSO ADAPTED IN THIS CHAPTER, DO YOU THINK THE FINAL EPISODE WILL HAVE ANY ANIME-ONLY SCENES? 124 responses

The episode has already aired and we can now confirm that there were no additional scenes. 41.9% were correct in their hunch that the remaining contents would be enough to fill an entire episode - in fact, they didn't even end up animating all of it! What about Levi and Hange?!

Since we won't reach Ch. 121 or 122 I don't really care.

Since Mappa took over, not anymore :(

What tou MEAN ”the final episode”?!

HOW DO YOU FEEL KNOWING THAT ANIME ONLY FANS WON’T HAVE A SOLID ANSWER ON LEVI’S FATE FOR MONTHS? 127 responses

We didn’t expect this question to come off as cruel as it now feels after MAPPA didn’t even throw us a bone in episode 75 about Levi’s fate. That being said, 29.1% are ready to snack on their popcorn while they watch anime onlies worry and theorize over Levi’s fate. 21.3% are simply feeling mischievous. 9.4% think it’s cruel to take any delight in anime watchers’ woes, as we also had to experience the same thing for several months. 33.9% think it will be next to impossible for anime only fans to avoid being spoiled about Levi’s fate.

It should be fairly obvious he's alive when they show Hange jumping in the river with him next episode.

Good. I think most of them will assume he's not dead yet though.

Maybe it will inspire some of them to read the manga to find out.

Ugh, I hope they won't be complaining as much as the manga readers did even though it was obvious he's not dead.

THE PREVIEW ONLY REVEALED ONE SCENE TO US. SO INSTEAD, WHICH MOMENT FROM CHAPTER 115/116 ARE YOU MOST ANTICIPATING? 126 responses

31% of respondents were most looking forward to the moment where Pieck declared Eren as the enemy. 23% had most anticipated seeing Ymir revive Zeke (rip) and 19.8% were most looking forward to seeing Hange dive into the river with Levi’s injured body (double rip). 10.3% were most anticipating the scene with Eren, Pieck and Gabi in the jail room, and 7.1% were most hyped about Marley’s airships showing up onto the scene.

WE’VE ONLY GOT ONE EPISODE LEFT FOR THIS RUN! HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABOUT IT? 125 responses

59.2% were feeling hyped to get an announcement about a part 2 of the season. 24%, on the other hand, are bummed out and have a new void to fill in their heart while they wait. 11.2% feel similarly and on a greater level… the seasons between the SnK anime seasons are just the worst anime seasons of all!

Too distracted by manga-ending-anxiety to feel much about it

Disappointed. It's not actually the final season.

I'm ready for this season of heartbreak to be over thank you just put me out of my misery and stop dragging me along behind the car

I can't believe it's near ending already

DO YOU THINK WE WILL GET AN ANNOUNCEMENT ABOUT THE NEXT ANIME INSTALLMENT NEXT WEEK? 122 responses

54.1% of respondents were hopeful for a part 2 announcement and the good news is that MAPPA didn’t let them down. 19.7% were right on the nose with this one!

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS ON THE EPISODES?

GOAT

The scene with Levi's comrades turning into Titans was one of the most visually stunning moments for me; the whole panning out throughout as they all started turning sort of gave me chills. Levi's reaction to it all, and ultimately having to kill them too was heartbreaking. Honestly that entire scene was quite gripping. I hate to admit that watching it in anime form has sort of solidified me resonating with Zeke in regards to his relationship with Grisha. Dude just wanted to spend time with his freaking dad and instead went through all of that, I don't blame him for the resentment at all. Still a douche for some of the stuff he's done. And ersonally I prefer him over Eren. Eren never went through that kind of treatment from Grisha and ended up... like that. Also!!!!!! Love me some Bertholdt crumbs, thank you Mappa! God, I miss him. :(

The removal of mostly anything mentioning titan scientists/research and Ackermans being a byproduct of titan science makes me wonder if Isayama regretted introducing that. I was already disappointed the manga didn't expand on that and the anime made it worse. Almost nonexistent tbh. Loved seeing Zeke's backstory, like all the other children in this series, he deserved better.

The ost during Floch's speech was brilliant. Young Zeke and Grisha VAs also. Makes me want to adopt Zeke right there. Not sure if Pieck and Porco already appeared as background characters (in ep 13&14) there were some figures that looked like them so I can't wait for the next episode!

Nah, I just loved them

These were one of the best of the season!

i just want more, also i loved MAPPA's style so far

In those episodes, the emotions weren't as strong as in the manga. I didn't feel much. And for the EMA talk... well, I liked Eren's neutral expression in the manga better, it was more fitted. And the animation of his "fight" with Armin was absolutely terrible, and it's sad to say that when you know that Mappa can do so much better.

*points at Zeke* WITNESSED!!

MAPPA stans Armin, it shows, and I am 100% here for it.

Being aware if latest chapters, I see young Zeke with different eyes

Mappa has done a fabulous job so far. The only thing I hoped for is that they should not have made the face difference so obvious from previous seasons to the last one, for the benefit of anime-only people. Yes, they stayed true to the manga, but their animators had to have control over it, which is what happened in S1 where girls had some sort of gloss on their lips and Yams requested for them to be removed in succeeding episodes.. that tells me that the animators/mappa have some semblance of control over how the characters look

I think MAPPA is doing a good job with the episodes.

Feels. That is all.

I really loved how Mappa executed that scene wint Ksaver's wife's murder/suicide. In the manga, they just outright depict it happening in the room. In the anime, they blended it in with the present surroundings. It literally gave me the chills. I do worry that the missing dialogue from the EMA scene, especially Eren explaining how Mikasa's dedication to him is nothing but science. I also worry about him not mentioning the slave/freedom thing, bc afaik the dialogue in the leaked panel of 139 says ""you are free"", and I always thought it was gonna be related to that.

WHERE DO YOU PRIMARILY DISCUSS THE SERIES? 118 responses

Thanks again to everyone who participated! We will post the poll for episode 75 soon!

In the meantime, please feel free to send us up to 5 of your favorite characters via ask or submission for our ongoing popularity poll - that poll will close on the 10th of April! :D

#snk poll #snk polls #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #snk #aot #snk spoilers #snk s4

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leviathan-dee · 4 years

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DMC Week 2020: Day 7: An Enticing Outcome

(An AU day! I’ve recently watched Van Helsing and had the need for masquerade Vergil and vampires. I’ve also never written smut before, so there is a small debut of spice at the end of this story lmao) (Vergil x Reader) (NSFW, sexual content, mentions of alcohol, canon typical blood and violence).

Thrown amidst an exsanguinous masquerade, you were left to fend for yourself, until a handsome and very much animated young noble graced you with his presence in hopes to rescue you from your predicament.

Word Count: 4,682

Characters: Vergil, Dante, Fem!Reader

Read On AO3

A starless night stretched outside the arched windows, an abyssal blanket shrouding the supposed ‘jovial’ celebration. It appeared as though the evening was overbearingly cold, albeit the vermilion glow of candles and chandeliers that peppered the ball. You should be warm. In fact, you should be sweating. However the facade of extravagant foods and fabricated smiles couldn’t possibly hope to mask the cold reception.

You brushed your goosebumps away, before observing the patrons of the masquerade evening. Mulberry silk and crushed velvet fabrics draped over bodies dragged on the tiles, the sound resonating almost deafeningly. These strangers waltzed amongst the golden halls, frozen limbs rigid in their movements. Even the gentle lul of acoustics, violins and pianos, appeared tuneless. Lifeless.

Naturally, the perfume thick air became colder with these observations. You coiled your tense fingers around the wineglass, the liquid within thickly sloshing at the movement. You eyed your drink with curiosity, sniffing the rim of the crystalline glass, before a sickly scent overwhelmed your senses. It was oddly metallic for a wine. You silently took note that the aristocrat your father wanted you to marry had peculiar tastes.

You assumed a doleful smile. Admittedly, you never expected yourself to be handed away to some noble, body and soul, for a fleeting promise of wealth and power. For a mere title, your flesh and blood threw you away like some bleating lamb, ready for the cut. Sad, truly. And yet, here you were, wearing the finest satin gown with an amethyst encrusted mask, preparing to don the title of Countess of Redgrave alongside your future husband.

For one final time, you attempted to swig a gulp of the obscure alcohol, instead gagging at the smell as it hit the back of your throat. You made a wheezing sound, forcing the bile down before it projectiled onto the polished surface of the ballroom. The mask wearing passersby began to eye you with stares that seemed oddly vacant; Perhaps even hungry? You averted your gaze, attempting to keep to yourself, as a morbidity so indescribably visceral, pierced through you at the thought.

Your prayers appeared to have been answered, a towering man with a gaze that gleamed with life graced your presence. The subtle flint hue in his irises was a welcome change to the usual cadaverous stares from the guests. Though their colour was cold, his eyes radiated a fervid warmth.

Tentatively, he approached you, seeking silent permission to close the gap. Your tranquil manner confirmed his wordless request. As he drifted across the polished tiles, you noted he was of highborn descendancy, his frame draped in exquisite brocade, the colour of Siberian delphiniums cascading from his chest in lacy frills. The man’s chiseled jaw was framed by a Venetian mask of vivid golds, whilst his silver locks sat subserviently slicked back. His tailcoat settled on the broad shoulders with nary a sign of creasing on the fabric. You took note that the air of sovereignty appeared to move behind him like an obedient wind.

Undoubtedly, he intrigued you.

A sweet scent of spiced apple and cinnamon gently wafted through the labyrinth of expensive perfumes, as the man finished his approach. It was as if he eclipsed the entire world with his presence. Though his height was intimidating, you felt safe knowing that the rose tint of his plush lips seemed more alive than the population within the hall tonight.

"You do not belong, my lady." The slight adenoidal, yet husky tone of the voice caught you off guard, alongside the strangely insulting statement. Though the sentence was forward and harsh, it was oddly true. You inhaled a quick breath before responding.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forgive me for my brashness, your courtesy, but I fear a lady of your stature and health must not reside in such establishments, no matter how tempting it may be.” The cordial hum that followed his explanation somehow warmed your chilled core. Becoming aware of the titles he rained upon you, your cheeks began to blaze with a feverish life. You chuckled bashfully in turn, tracing the lip of your wine glass with your fingertips. His eyes followed the movement eagerly.

“I have yet to marry the Count. You need not address me as such.”

“It would be inappropriate of me to address you as anything but your future title, your ladyship.” The man’s tone stayed low yet soft spoken. Falling into deep thought, your fingers continued to circle the rim of your crystalline glass, a sweet melodic sound resonating between the two of you.

“I see. May I ask the gentleman his name, my lord?” As you finished your request, the noble beckoned your hand.

“You may, my lady,” swooping down to a low bow, he palmed your fingers, cradling them close to his face to plant a chaste kiss upon the knuckles, “Vergil Sparda, at your service.”

This noble, Vergil Sparda, kept his gaze on yours with every inch of your knuckles he pecked. A bashful expression spread across your face, the man sighing contentedly at your blazing cheeks. For the first time tonight, you felt welcomed. Welcomed by someone that appeared animated, as opposed to the cold-blooded patrons of the evening.

You took your hand back, already missing the feeling of his velvety lips upon your skin.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Feeling somewhat embarrassed at your sudden schoolgirl attitude, one certainly not befit of a future Countess, you averted your gaze in order to regain your composure. It was not a successful endeavour.

“The pleasure is mine, your ladyship.” Vergil seemed to enjoy your abrupt change in posture, dragging out the vowels of every word with his honeyed voice to get another coy response. You wanted to return his teasing with your own coquettish mannerisms, however the exchange took a turn in your stomach, your abdomen becoming a breeding ground for rabid, carnal butterflies.

Trying to keep whatever dignity you had left from your burning cheeks, you proceeded to ponder the man’s goals. He appeared as though he did not belong here.

Come to think of it, neither did you.

“May I inquire as to what your affair with the masquerade is tonight?” Your question appeared to have caused his hand to reach for his silver hair, slicking the loose tendrils back into their place. Vergil fell deep in thought, before reaching for your glass of obscure scarlet liquid. He beckoned the wineglass onto his palm.

“I have business with the Count. A personal matter. In fact…” As he spoke, you obeyed his request for the glass, reaching forward dangerously close. Your fingers brushed past his, the warmth of foreign flesh feeling utterly scandalous.

Calculating his movements, his eyes kept burrowing into your soul, your stomach continuing its somersaults. Albeit the flirtatious moment, he examined the liquid within the glass with a disgusted snarl. Even through the Venetian mask, you could easily distinguish the slipping facade of stoicism, revealing a repulsed frown.

“My lady, have you ingested anything this fine evening? This drink included?” He swished the sanguine liquid, as an almost noxious, metallic odour began veering itself into your lungs once more. You tried not to gag, attempting to retain your poise. You kept your mouth shut in fears of suddenly emptying your stomach onto your ball-gown, instead opting for a vigorous shake of the head. Vergil nodded approvingly, before tossing the crystalline container aside, letting the macabre smelling swill pour in torrential floods down the polished surface of the ballroom. The ghoulish crowd reacted disapprovingly at the shattering sound of the glass.

“Very good. Now, follow me.”

Cradling your hand, the young noble pulled you in like a singularity, both mentally and physically. He seemed hasty, albeit his cool exterior of unwavering stoicism. You both weaved through crowds of marbled velvet, avoiding the dragging gowns and spilled wine . Each patron’s mortiferous faces contorted at the sight of your apprehension and worry. It appeared as though the whites of their eyes were a ghastly porcelain, so unbearably white that they gave off a luminous glow. Even their smiles seemed pernicious in nature, each tooth a sharp rapier ready to gnaw at whatever fell beneath their gaze.

Something felt off.

Sudden panic spread within your frame, your fingertips going numb, alongside an anxiety induced lump of phlegm forming in your throat. Your legs carried you beside Vergil, yet the seductive noble provided you with not a sliver of information to suggest why there was such a rush.

What was his business with your future husband?

What putrid liquid was in the glass?

Why did these guests appear so necrotic in nature?

With each step, your calves seemed to burn with a sweet ache of exhaustion. Undoubtedly, you had enough.

“Stop!” Your plea went ignored, the ultramarine draped noble with eyes of silver continuing on his cascade down the stairs towards the exit of the masquerade.

“Please?!”

“Not now, your ladyship.” Pausing in his surge out of the doors, Vergil turned to you, his arctic eyes pinning you down with an unwavering stare. It appeared as though it was a warning, yet not for you personally.

“Stop calling me that. I am no Countess. And unhand me, at once.” You inhaled a shuddering breath, unsure whether the surging unease was from your nefarious surroundings or the noble’s frigorific stare. You continued, nevertheless, once more attempting to break the silence of Vergil’s gaze.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away. It is not safe here.”

“Why?” You continued to wriggle your wrist under his iron albeit somewhat tender grip. Firm, yet not once feeling uncomfortable. He wordlessly sighed, tugging at your wrist, beckoning you to follow him. You felt safe in his presence, however each step felt like pulling teeth, your lack of knowledge in the situation filling you with dread. Giving up in your endless tirade of defiance, you followed the noble, his mood improving dramatically.

Each stranger became a grotesque amalgamation of lucid terrors, their teeth lengthening with every inch of the gap you closed between yourself and the exit. Their skin grew rubicund scales, their pupils morphing into sharp slits.

The golden arches of the entrance called to you, Vergil’s steadfast resolve forcing you away from danger, and certain demise.

It all occurred so incredibly swiftly.

One moment you were being protectively held against the silver hair’s chest, feeling his proud melodic drumming of the heart. The next, an ancient, ethereal weapon of foreign lands materialised within Vergil’s hands, flooding your vision with phosphorescent cerulean sparkles.

He stormed at the diabolical crowd, gently pushing you behind him to safety. Within a sliver of a second, the patrons of this nightmarish evening metamorphosed to what you can only explain as vampires from stories your dear mother told you, in order to scare you, and make you obey her orders. Your noble protector, however, made short work of them, parrying each swing of their hungry claws. Lifeblood flowed in rivers. Flesh was torn, and bones were fractured. These fissures within the vampiric patrons’ bodies were endless, Vergil showing no benevolent mercy as he summoned a cyclone of blades to sever body from limb.

Slashing with an unmatched speed, Vergil was a tempest. None could stand in his way. With every attempt at his flesh, the monsters were tossed aside, their teeth still baring and searching for a chalice to drink off. It was inevitable that one exsanguinous guest was lucky enough to swipe at your protector. Swirling on his heel, Vergil barely dodged a gnarly claw, his Venetian veil dropping to the bloodied floor. It was then, that you finally earned a glimpse of the noble’s face.

He was an incredibly concentrated man, the wrinkles upon his visage indicating a permanent grimace. A small, albeit deep, crinkle took residence between his brows. You could not help but become entranced with his features. Even his silver locks had come undone from their usual position, swaying in the wind with effortless ease, framing his sharp jaw. Every aspect of his face was bedecked in grace and grandiose elegance; Expressions of harsh focus, yet features of tender origins.

This fixation was cut short, Vergil Sparda calling forth Geryon, a horse of sublime magnificence. Its sleek surface appeared to reflect the vermillion lights of the ball inside, the horse’s shadowy appearance seeming like a void of pure black.

Snapping his fingers, Vergil ordered you forward beside him, whilst fending off hordes of ravenous predators. Undoubtedly, you obeyed. Hiding behind him, Vergil inhaled deeply before crouching, drawing his sword only a minuscule sliver to reveal the radiating power within its sheath. You observed the peeking metal. It appeared as though it was a pure mirror, reflecting the nobles devious visage in all of its glory.

The ground shook violently, forcing you to steady yourself on the man’s shoulders. As the necrotic beings approached, cerulean energy swirled around the two of you, the air becoming thick with tension and the smell of smoke.

And then… Silence.

Silence that was followed by pained groans and the cacophonous sounds of sliced flesh. The display of severed dimensions, refractions of light dancing around your vision, materialised without a single movement from Vergil Sparda. Your jaw sat ajar at the sudden majestic view. The air seemed to become sliced into many tiny slivers, like paper-cuts in reality.

As the quiet resumed once more, the noble closed the gap between his hilt and the sheath with an achingly slow snap. His lips curled mischievously upon seeing your expression of shock.

“That was- What was that?” Your query went ignored, the noble wordlessly hooking his arm around your waist to prop you upon the horse. Letting out a tiny squeak, you complied, grabbing onto the braided mane of the creature. The noble effortlessly sat upon the steed’s spine in front of you.

“Hold on.” His voice was steady. Husky and low. Whether it was from the battle, or your closeness to him, the sudden change in character concerned you. Nevertheless, you once again complied, coiling your arms around his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat pound against your palm. The scent of cinnamon would have been overwhelming, if not for the splatters of blood that blended with the sweet spice.

It was a tranquil ride, the stillness of the Redgrave forest forcing you to adopt a reticent manner. Though your physical closeness to the man was evident, you still had barriers to uphold. Your head seemed to nod against his broad back, the warmth calming you into the realm of slumber. No words were spoken between the two of you.

Thus, the horse continued with utmost haste.

Away from the masquerade.

Away from the Count.

Away from your title.

…

“My lady. We have arrived.”

The noble hopped off of the horse, his ultramarine shirt ruffles soaked in tar-like blood. Tentative in his movements, he offered you his hand in order to help you reach the floor to safety. Your toes touched ground with a less-than elegant huff resonating from your lungs, with you accidentally stumbling into the towering noble’s chest. An apologetic expression graced your visage. Before speaking, you yawned widely, a small giggle bubbling from your chest.

“Thank you,” keeping your fingers laced around his own, you squeezed reassuringly before craning your neck up to observe the scratches upon his face, “how are you faring? You’re injured, my lord.”

“I’m fine.” Although his voice was firm, his expression was grave. It seemed to soften whilst his eyes lingered on yours. Your own vision appeared to trail around his features, the glimmer of intrigue never dwindling. The curiosity was overwhelming. You wondered how his velvety lips would feel upon your own plush mouth. Would the sensation be the same as the chaste kiss he placed on your knuckles? Or would it be so much more-

Unfortunately, your trail of thought was cut short. The tender, yet focused gaze of the man morphed into one of annoyance, as a boisterous noble sprung forth from a gold embellished carriage, his horse neighing in defiance.

You attempted to wave off your bashful and warming complexion; However, to no avail.

The man appeared identical to Vergil, noting that the noble may be a less stoic twin to your saviour. He was draped in matching brocade, except for the scarlet hues that peppered his frame. His locks also appeared to match Vergil’s current state, cascading to the sides of his jaw, framing the chiseled features elegantly. A broad, genuine smile spread across the man’s lips as you approached beside your saviour, continuing to subconsciously lace your fingers with Vergil’s.

“Welcome back brother, you finally made it. And ahh, Lady Y/N, it is an honour to finally make your acquaintance. I am at a disadvantage.” You attempted a warm smile, your curling lips appearing disingenuous. You instead opted for a curtsy, the scarlet clad man bowing in turn.

“We must leave at once, the Lamiae demons are close behind, Dante.” Vergil ran his fingers through his silver hair to fix its positioning, furthering the differences between him and his brother.

“I beg your pardon? Demons? My lord, explain yourself! Demons?!” A small ghost of a smirk tugged at Vergil’s lips, leaving you perplexed as to why he derived such pleasure from your fright. Holding on to your delicate fingers, he pulled your figure towards the carriage, beckoning you to enter to safety.

“Come on. We need to press on.” Vergil’s brother, Dante, assumed a serious tone which somewhat bewildered you. He returned to the carriage, placing his posterior back into the rider’s seat, whilst whistling to draw the attention of Geryon. To your surprise, the black horse emigrated in front of the carriage. Dante’s arms began to glow with a royal violet magic, a bridle morphing in his palms, connecting him to Geryon and the carriage.

You watched in complete awe. Vergil Sparda noted your wide-eyed stare.

“I will explain everything when we’re moving towards safety, my lady.”

Nodding in agreement with your features still morphed through perplexion, you followed the towering man. The inside of the carriage was a luxurious change to the forest outside. Countless silk fabrics were draped over the seats, swaying with embellished fleur de lis symbols. Vergil gently fixed a section of the silk, letting you relax from the recent life-threatening events.

You sighed as you landed amongst the cushioning fabrics.

Vergil sighed with contentment in turn.

“Me and my brother were to exterminate the threat within the masquerade tonight, the Lamiae. We did not anticipate that their depraved rituals would involve an innocent bystander such as yourself, until recently...” Sitting beside you, Vergil’s fingers laced around yours, gently stroking your skin with his thumb. It was a harmless act of absent-minded tenderness and comfort, yet it felt so much more than a simple gesture. Something amorous began to broil in your stomach.

“I… apologise if I was too abrasive, my lord. You saved me from certain demise, and I should thank you for that.” As you spoke, the noble kept his softened gaze upon yours, drawing your hand to his lips, to place more ardent pecks on the skin. That same feeling of wanton curiosity overwhelmed you as it once did at your first meeting with the enticing man.

“No need to apologise, Lady Y/N. It would be a shame if a woman of your stature was overly submissive.”

For the first time this evening, your name rolled off his tongue. It sent countless lascivious shivers down your spine, your grip on his fingers tightening at the mention. He seemed to note the reaction with his own returning squeeze of your delicate hand.

“Besides, I could not allow a creature of such extraordinary beauty to fall into the hands of that vile Count.” The atmosphere within the chamber appeared to drift into one of attraction, the two of you being pulled in by pure inquisitiveness. Your eyes danced between his own, whilst the blaze within your abdomen and cheeks began anew.

“I- Thank you, Vergil.” You decided to grace his ears with your own utterance of his name. He gave a small smirk, reaching up to a stray lock on your cheek, which he deftly pushed aside to have a better view of your embarrassed visage.

Sitting quietly, the carriage began its journey, Dante whistling a tune to himself, occasionally talking to the horses. You let out some giggles upon hearing the noble’s less stoic twin make conversation with the creatures, and hearing Vergil’s exasperated scoffs at the comments.

Pondering your predicament and the sudden appearance of your timely rescuer, a question bounced to the forefront of your mind.

“Was I to become one of them?” Though the question was harmless enough, Vergil’s brow wrinkle made a comeback.

“Your ladyship, you were no future wife to the Count, but a sacrifice. These demons are vampiric by nature, and rarely ‘recruit’ into their ranks. The Count simply found you worthy enough to… drain.” As the words cascaded from his lips, your nausea returned in full force. Vergil noticed your anxious demeanour, cradling your chin to meet his gaze. Your head spun like a silk throwing machine, the world becoming a hazy mess of subdued hues.

“I am sorry to say this, but your father knew this all along.” His low, yet tender tone flowed through the air. Though tears were meant to escape your vision, your sorrow and grief was as dry as a desert. Nothing could hurt as much as the mention of your own father wanting your death in exchange for a title.

Vergil continued to cradle your face, stroking small circles upon your skin to ease the sting of such news. He seemed to understand this burning feeling. Your eyes met with his again, searching for answers that were not there. Perhaps you were not searching for answers? Searching for comfort instead? Perhaps a friend?

“Truly, Vergil. Thank you for this. How can I possibly repay you?”

“There is no need, my lady. Your company is enough.”

The comment rolled off as a request, rather than as a statement. Your company was his desire,

and you wanted to comply.

For what monstrous contessa would deny this pulchritudinous hunter their reward?

Certainly not you.

As the smell of cinnamon and spiced apple graced your lungs, the thrill of supple lips brushing against yours overpowered the senses. His fingers carded through your hair, mirroring your own movements of trailing fingers through his arctic locks. Your shivers seemed to come in endless waves. His tongue delved curiously at the entrance of your lips, asking silent permission to explore further. You complied once more, parting your mouth, and sighing into his warmth. Tiny mewls escaped your throat, the noble reacting positively to your noises with the nestle of his palm against your thigh, and a possessive, almost hungry, pull towards his hips. Eager to sate your wanton curiosity, you plunged into each others’ embrace in unison, sharing this moment of voluptuous desire.

You hadn’t even noticed the speed at which your clothes were discarded. Vergil’s hands moved along your naked thigh, enjoying the shifting muscle, to meet the folds of your slicked petals. His hands began to travel miles upon the shivering skin of your loins, his fingers tracing your exposed core, finally pushing to the apex of your pleasures with repetitive yet decisive movements. Pump after pump of his fingers against your satin centre, your gaze shifted towards his lustful eyes, his expression reflecting the sheer pleasure he experienced watching your flower unfold beneath him. The mischievous smirk that formed on Vergil’s visage appeared to have pushed you even further into the blissful euphoria he was so easily able to thrust upon you with nothing but his hands.

The feverish yearning for his full glory inside of you was unbearable. You began to plead him, as his honeyed sighs and low growl resonated against your neck, his velvety lips promising release, brushing soft kisses against the flesh. He did not give in, however. His delicate, yet strong digits continued their tirade at your core, pushing you to your limits as you sighed out his name in a delectable, yet hushed voice.

Oh how scandalous this union was. To be stolen away on the night of the masquerade, which your fiance gifted you for the consolidation of two families. How scandalous was it to spend the night with a stranger you barely knew, no matter how tempting it was. You continued mewling into his ear, gracing your saviour and conqueror with euphoria, whilst pondering these vulgar acts.

Impatience appeared to overtake the silver haired noble. His facade of stoicism and composure slipping into one of fervent need for your sweat slicked body against his. Before your very eyes, his skin was exposed to the fervid warm air of the carriage. Unable to control your own carnal need for the man, your fingers laced around his member, his seed beading at your satin touch. A small, almost cautious exhale of gratification escaped Vergil’s lungs. Achingly slowly, your thumb traced the tip of his cock, coating his seed across the silken skin. His eyes darkened with an insatiable hunger, pushing your back against the cool silk of the carriage. It was then that your thighs shivered with an expectant welcome.

As his frame fit against yours, like a finishing piece of the puzzle, the sensation of his decadent skin propelled you to a realm of exhilaration. He pushed your folds to the sides, revelling in the display of your glazed over eyes and your slicked petals opening up only for him. Tentatively, he lavished your core with his length. The noble closed the gap between your hips, relishing in the sensation of your satin walls, whilst observing the blooming lethargy his body caused in your own. With each slow pump, the quiet groans that escaped Vergil’s lips poured out in unison with your own.

An abrupt thrust into your core caused an overbearing moan to escape your lungs, Vergil’s eyes widening in fears of alerting the oblivious driver. He placed his palm against your mouth to quieten your fragmented voice. The danger of being found out only quickened your arousal, your silken walls closing around Vergil’s cock. This caused his pupils to completely blow out, quickening the pace to chase his pleasure with yours.

Vergil’s racing heartbeat unified with yours, and the marks he left upon your skin with his longing bites, seemed to push you to your limits. Your thighs closed around the noble’s hips, welcoming a vigorous ecstasy to bloom within your frame. He followed suit, prolonging his euphoria with feverish thrusts into your core. Amidst each pump, you breathed in his scent, kissing the frame of his jaw with worshipping pecks after pushing his palm away from your mouth. You let your voice fill his ears, his own husky groans gracing your skin as a delectable orgasm spread within his body.

This maelstrom of pleasure pushed all of your worries aside, forgetting the predicament of betrayal and the discovery of the existence of demons. The view of the panting, undone hunter above you, his muscles rippling alongside the intoxicating feeling within his loins, was grandiose to say the least. You admired his sweat slicked skin, running your fingers across the Herculean build of his abdomen.

A victorious, as well as dangerous, smirk formed on his lips.

He appeared to enjoy your cherishing gaze.

Reaching down to knead the skin on your buttocks, he drew you in for another round, his craving for your silken walls not yet sated.

You expected this evening to be dull and monotonous. And yet, your heart beat faster than it had its entire existence from carnal pleasures. Was this your way of saying thanks? With both your bodies interlocking, causing saccharine friction between silk sheets?

It appears so. But you didn’t mind.

And neither did Vergil.

Here’s hoping Dante wouldn’t hear the events of this hedonistic night as it continued until the end of your long journey.

#dmcweek #dmcweek2020 #devil may cry #vergil x reader #vergil #dante #vampire #masquerade #leviathan-writes

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aydriis · 4 years

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Mortala

'It didn’t have to be this way, you know.’

The stagnant darkness, always muddling visions and caressing ears with thoughtless whispers was a familiar sight. Despite having none to look into endless depths that swirled and convulsed mindlessly.

There was no solidity to brace on, yet she found herself standing all the same in what felt to be the center in the shadowscape that her body currently resided in. Dim eyes flickered against the darkness in a knowing manner; she had to endure. She always did.

‘Why do you not return?’

An almost mournful whisper hissed against the lobe of Aydri’s ear, curling around in a leeching way. There was no physical presence other than her apparent body, but she knew better. It could still feel. It could still cause damage if it desired. Her hand moved to brush it away like a fly, swatting aimlessly towards her shoulder with a disgusted curl of her lips.

“Don’t ask questions that you know the answers of, Kaz’fi.”

The words echoed throughout the endless chamber, spite resonating in each word that passed through her lips as her legs willed themselves to move forward. There was no destination, there never was here, but still she moved. Restlessness began to creep along her spine and give way to the paranoia that was valiantly fought against. It seemed the Kaz’fi was almost bemused, a feeling giving way to a more sinister hiss of laughter.

‘Always so turbulent, yet never welcoming. You wound me.’

Dark teal tresses almost floated in the action of Aydri’s head twisting around, glaring at nothing in particular but with intent. “If I could inflict the fantasies of ending your pathetic existence, maybe I’d finally have a good fucking night of sleep.” Teeth ground out the words, non-existent patience giving way as her footsteps echoed heavier, thudding against the murkiness that surrounded.

Suddenly, everything froze.

An all too familiar cold shiver ran through her core, and it took everything to keep a straight glower into the mirror image of herself that appeared, keeping her in place and curling maliciously with a few clicks and jolts of its wispy form. Eyes that belonged to her peered at Aydri unnervingly and too wide to be natural, jaw almost unhinging with how dislocated it became as the Kaz’fi wheezed out.

‘You worked so hard to receive your blessings, and yet you threw them away. How can you hold a candle to me when you refuse to even see into the depths of your soul?’

Still held in place, she stayed. Unrelenting and determined with a glint in her eyes. They always played this game when she faltered, let herself truly rest. It was the way the Kaz’fi worked, and it surely lived up to its masters wishes. A deep exhale was almost snorted through her nostrils, focusing on breaking the invisible bonds that held her in place. This caused the mirror of herself to completely unhinge its jaw, a shrieking and hair standing cackle resonating around the chamber that held them. A finger rose in a chastising manner towards Aydri, tutting.

‘I always have to remind you, don’t I? Even the most devoted shall be executed through His will. It is the way.’

The words had a cold simplicity, as if merely whispering facts that a child would know. Words that made her want to shut her eyes and block it all out, yet wide open they stayed. The Kaz’fi shifted, the form of Aydri no longer in front of her, but rather a large reflective pool of water suspended above. Tendrils of dark liquid crept towards the ground and around her body, wrapping with frost biting touches that burned her skin. Small wisps circled around her head and struck themselves into the temples, leeching on as a soundless cry emitted from her throat against closed lips.

A plethora of images and sensations came rushing through, overstimulating even the strongest of minds.

(TW: blood, violence)

...Cries of anguish as the wet slaps of spiked whips flayed the skins of the tributes; men, women, and children dressed in the purity of white that was stained with the devotion to the gods they were meant for. Scales of cobras wrapped around the necks with a hiss, glowing eyes peering right at her.

‘You did this to them.’

....The taste of blood poured out from her lips to let past devotions flow down her chin and onto her chest, coughing and choking as the imagery of a Darkspear woman began to carve and stab into her skin. Mutterings of Zandali echoed throughout, reverbing and shaking the darkness into a cacophony of suffering--of power to be obtained.

‘You achieved this through them.’

...Ceremonial robes with chiming footsteps passed on either side, gliding along to meet at an altar. Carved masks of bone and sinew let no expressions be known as heads all tilted to stare. A large basilisk slowly rose from the shadows, scales glimmering with wisps of shadows that curled around the apostles that knelt before its form. Sharp eyes seemed to stab her, her own beginning to bleed and create markings on her cheeks that flowed over her scar.

‘You were blessed by them.’

...The tendrils moved about, destroying the shapes created and slowly forming into something more. From the depths rose a tall figure of authority. One of charm and promised wishes, lips curled into a deceitful smirk that accented the glow of eyes underneath the skull mask that shrouded his face from obscurity.

‘You betrayed them.’

...His hand reached out to cusp her cheek, caressing before it plunged into her chest and gripped her heart with the burn of retribution. A choked gasp sounded from the cavity of her chest, unable to sound out past blocked lips of blood that accompanied the rigor mortis running through her limbs slowly. The hand was retracted, bloodied and holding the visceral organ that it had sought to claim. With a dark chuckle, the shadows consumed it. Aydri’s body then convulsed and shook, twisting this way and that with unnatural jerks that made her grit her teeth and groan. Eyes stayed trained on the figure, contempt of the purest nature running deep in her hues.

‘You will face consequences.’

...The figure waved his arm, revealing a scenery of utter destruction and death. Buildings were torn down and bodies littered the streets, ships were sunk and many familiar faces were twisted in the cold grips of death. A trail of blood led to a large gathering of ceremonial robes and the devoted with flames licking along the outskirts of a ritualistic circle, multiple bodies crucified against stone pillars and mutilated.

‘You will be found.’

...They made her hurt to look at, and all made tears glimmer against the corners of her eyes. Dreadful feelings of failure and guilt came in waves, threatening to drown her very being as her lips so desperately wanted to part in protest.

...Then, he was there. Strapped upon a table and struggling to break free. Her eyes met that gaze, one that was usually so full of life now shrouded in fear and pain made her want to collapse. The familiar glint of a dagger was all that was given before the screams of agony rang through her ears. Fury and affliction ran through her body, willing herself to bite her lip and twist herself forward from the tortuous noise.

‘You will be the harbinger of death to them.’

“NO!”

Gasps of oxygen starved lungs heaved her chest, hands almost shredding the sheets that were twisted in her grasp as paranoia stricken hues stared open to the ceiling above. They soon darted around the room, muscles tensed and frozen in place as a sense of dread washed through her very core.

After a few long minutes of heaving breaths and cold sweat running down her spine, the haze lifted. A thick swallow was allowed, and a hand came up to rest against her scalp, running through knotted strands shakily.

It was getting more bold, and Aydri couldn’t help but wonder if she was getting more weak. A thought that was quickly pushed down; locked away to prevent the seeds of doubt that threatened to take root.

She wouldn’t let it happen.

It couldn’t.

#writing #aydri #halloween special #:eyes:

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iameverysparklywoman · 7 years

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wait so will you share the Mulholland drive #truth with ur loyal fans

god ok so it sounds a lot less exciting when im not high but I’ve been meaning to answer this when I’m high and then i lose my motor functions so im just answering it now, while drinking a palm bay:

most theories about mulholland drive have Betty as the projection of Diane’s self-conscious: that betty is like this ideal version of Diane that gets everything she wants, etc. But imo Betty’s actually much more complex and realistic than Diane- the fact that she’s both a girl-next-door AND a lesbian is huge and overall she has probably the most unique view of her own sexuality of any gay female character like…ever. Beyond that she seems to have like…no sense of boundaries or how a normal person is meant to behave. She’s completely fine with breaking into people’s houses or impersonating other people and just lets this weird woman off the street stay in her house. But I think what’s most telling for me is how she reacts to the audition scene: It’s basically assault, in that a situation she had no idea was going to be sexual suddenly becomes extremely sexual without any warning or way for her to back out. I think the fact that she adapts so incredibly quickly to the situation and is able to snap out of it immediately after is incredibly telling about her character. She’s very clearly someone used to pleasing other people, and someone incredibly comfortable with social transgression, to the point where her attraction to women-which as we all know, is an extreme taboo (and if she’s supposed to be the same age as Naomi she literally lived through the Aids crisis)- is literally a nonissue for her. All of this points to reading Betty as a character with very definite childhood trauma that is almost certainly related to sex. Like…her character is written like a child, more or less, but she has this very comprehensive knowledge and understanding of sex and sexual attraction. Imo Betty is one of if not THE most interesting lesbian character because she’s presented as really pure and innocent, but her physical attraction to women is so transparently clear, even more than characters in a lot of Gay™ movies where the attraction reads as very cerebral. (Which is also why I think Naomi is like…indisputably gay: she looks at women in a way I as a lesbian recognize and straight actresses very clearly do not know how to fake.)

So the way I read it, Betty is a childhood sexual abuse survivor who’s life finally starts like…actually getting good. Her career is going well, she’s being supported and praised by other people, and she’s able to explore her attraction to women and relationship to sex in a way that isn’t painful or traumatizing but freeing. And, because she’s an abuse survivor, her mind doesn’t know how to process that she’s valuable to other people and rejects it. I think for this reason Diane is a projection of Betty’s self image: she’s this kind of filthy, disgusting creature, who’s basically used by people she cares about for sex and then abandoned…her character seems like she’s in a perpetual state of disassociation when she’s not swinging between states of like…hypersexuality and fascination with violence. And most importantly, I think, she’s someone who’s very clearly in some kind of intense pain, and everyone around her is completely indifferent. In short, she’s like…exactly how someone with childhood sexual trauma would view themselves.

I geniunely think the key to understanding Mulholland Drive is reading Betty as a csa survivor and reading Diane as her self-image. Diane appears after Betty has had consensual sex for what may be the first time in her life, after being forced into an unexpectedly sexual situation only HOURS before that. I see the club silencio scene as maybe an attempt to process that, when her mind is kind of beginning to process her trauma- the club Silencio scene feels very much like a metaphor for dissociation, especially because Betty is clearly affected while Rita just seems kind of confused- it’s talking about something personal to Betty that Rita may or may not have experienced.

I think viewing Diane rather than Betty as a projection of the subconscious also lets us read Mulholland Drive as an incredibly hopeful film, especially in the context of David Lynch’s other works. Incest and sexual assault, especially childhood sexual assault are like…very common themes within Lynch’s ouvre, and so is a general visceral disgust and fear of the body especially as it pertains to sex. Mulholland Drive has been called a spiritual successor to Eraserhead, but in comparison with the protagonist of Eraserhead, Betty AND Diane both have a much higher degree of agency and capacity to influence the world around them. I think in general, in comparison to other female protagonists in David Lynch movies (because David Lynch hates women), Betty and Diane are much more complex and self-actualized and have an extreme degree of agency, because they’re the protagonists of their narrative arcs, rather than just some girl in the life of the male protagonist.

I think for that reason, Mulholland Drive could actually be relatively optimistic. Because there’s the same shot that appears at the beginning and the end, I think Diane’s portion of the film (including the suicide) can be read as a kind of rebirth. I know David Lynch has put a high degree of value on the viewer feeling their way through the film and I think that’s necessary for both understanding Betty as a victim of csa, because you can truly only intuit that, you can’t piece it together from the plot points, and also for reading the film as an attempt at spiritual catharsis. Like…personally…the way the film was structured…when I was processing my trauma around sex it felt exactly the same. There was this kind of like…experience of going through a valley, where i had to kind of lean in and just barrel through all of the sickness and fear and shame…and then when I got through that there was this feeling of intense lightness, almost like I was floating, or like this weight had been removed from my body, because I realized the way I saw myself wasn’t because of some sickness that was inherent to me. Watching Diane’s scenes, from her waking up to those double exposures of Betty and Rita together over the city, felt EXACTLY like that. And, because Lynch puts such an intense degree of focus on FEELING or intuiting your way through the film, AND because sex-related trauma is such a common theme in his work, I’m like… almost entirely confident that that’s what Mulholland Drive is actually expressing.

#csa |#rape |#incest |#mulholland

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isabellaflynns · 6 years

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The Iceberg Lounge | Chatzy

Summary: Isabella visits the Iceberg Lounge, like the Riddler told her to, and Oswald is waiting Trigger warnings: Blood, gore, guns, violence Written by: @stillpenguinking and @isabellaflynns

Oswald: Oswald was beyond on edge as he paced back and forth in his office. Ever since that weirdo who controlled his mind left he couldn't rest. What if he was only acting board but really gathering enough followers to take his position in the underworld? At the thought of that, a certain blond hair woman flashed in his mind. Isabella had been his actual labeled that by Edward. Why hadn't she shown up here yet? what was she planning? Was she going to try and kidnap him like she did Ed?

Oswald took shuttering breaths to attempt to calm down when he heard a crash outside his door. " Who's there?" He yelled out knowing he'd sent everyone home for the late night. Not bothering to wait for a response he hobbled over to his desk grabbing his gun making sure it was loaded. He could feel his hands shaking as the footsteps grew louder as they approached the door. He fired without any warning right at the face of the silhouette that flashed in the darkened halls of his club.

Isabella: Isabella didn't need to be armed. She could have taken Oswald apart with her bare hands. But slipping a gun into her handbag made her feel better, somehow. It was more visceral. She had no real plan to shoot Oswald -- she didn't know what Edward wanted her to do. Did he want her to hurt Oswald? The letter hadn't been clear. She'd reread it again and again since receiving his voicemail, but she couldn't glean anything more from it. Edward said Oswald had treated him badly and, for Eddie to admit something like that, it must have been bad. She'd clutched the letter gently against her chest again, just wanting to be close to his words, and then she'd packed her handbag and left Harley's house, heading straight for the Iceberg Lounge.

It was dark, and closed, but that wasn't a problem. Isabella twisted the door handle with one hand and walked inside. The lights were dim, but she could make out the shapes of the Lounge -- the bar, the stools, and empty tables. Oswald wasn't anywhere in sight. His office. He would be inside his office. She walked quietly, aware that he might have been alerted to her presence from the sound of the door being broken open. And yet, she was completely calm. Let him know she was coming. She could take him easily. Edward had sent her. She was here on a mission. She was doing the Riddler's work –

Bang. Isabella heard it a split second before she felt it. Something pierced her cheek. She came to a halt, and felt warm liquid trickle down her jaw, dripping down her chin thickly. Her muscles had been torn apart -- she felt them flapping against the whole part of her face as she opened her mouth in shock. "Oh my," she murmured to herself. Everything felt very distant and quiet and dim. She'd been shot. Someone had shot her in the face. She raised her fingertips to the wound, and touched it gently. There was a several inches thick diameter hole in her cheek, and her skin was ripped open.

"You shot me," she said. She felt very calm. And, as always, she felt no pain at all. Only mild surprise and confusion. How could Oswald have been prepared? How did he know she was coming? She just stood there, blood pouring down her face and onto her dress. It was a shame. She liked this dress very much.

Oswald: All the time around them seems to freeze as Oswald stared at a now bleeding Isabella. He'd been so sure she was going to kill, get revenge on all the wrong he'd done her throughout their lives together only to get shocked that he'd actually done it. Last time he had her killed he wasn't the one who cut her breaks. No, he'd paid his henchmen to kill her to rob her of her life. He looked from her to the gun shaking within his grip before he looked once again at her face. Isabella's wound seeping down her chin to drop on the floor now. Never had Oswald felt the need to throw up as he watched her nonreaction to a sudden hole in her face.

He could feel his heart rate pick up as fear began to prickle within his spin. He'd shot Isabella and she'd just stood there looking at him. It was something out of a horror movie the way she just watched him answering only with a 'you shot me'. He kept his gun trained on her even if the pure site was enough to make his stomach turn. " Yes and I'll do it again if you come near me Isabella...No henchmen this time you'd die by my hands if you advance" He managed to finally get out. Why would she have taken such a direct approach if she meant to end him? surely she didn't believe him to be completely unprepared for an attack?

He reached behind him grabbing a rag to toss at her " cover your face it's disgusting and while you're at it tell me why you thought this stupid plan would work"

Isabella: The blood was warm on her fingertips, and Isabella pulled her hand away and studied it. As always when she was gravely injured, she felt no concern for her body. It would heal. She felt no pain. She could feel the physical sensation of the gunshot wound, and what it had done to her face, but she was completely calm. Oswald was holding the gun, and his hand was shaking. Had he been aiming for her head? she wondered, in a purely speculative way. He kept the gun pointed at her, and she tilted her head to the side a little, and felt her skin flap open against her cheek, and blood spurt out.

Oswald looked sick. She recognised that expression from when Edward had stabbed her. But she didn't care what he thought of her. Her gaze landed on the muzzle of the gun as he said he would shoot her again. Slowly, she raised her hands up in a parody of surrender, and felt her sticky blood on her fingers. "I'm not going to advance," she told him. She had no intention of being shot again. But how had he known she was coming? How had he known? She didn't understand.

He grabbed a rag, and threw it to her, and she caught it deftly. She made no comment when he said her face was disgusting, and instead said, "It wasn't a stupid plan." How could it have been stupid? The Riddler told her to come. Calmly, Isabella met his gaze. "Edward told me to come here. He left a clue in his letter to me. I don't understand." For the first time, there was a slight inflection in her hollow voice, something like worry. "How did you know I would be here?"

Oswald: The longer Oswald stared at her bleeding cheek the more he felt himself growing sicker. Her complete lack of care when dealing with such a wound not only struck fear in his heart but also unsettled him to no end. With each move of her mouth, the piece of skin seemed to flap like it had a mind of its own now that it was gone from its owner.

He was grateful she'd kept her distance if not for just his pure repulsion to her face now. His gun never leaving its place pointed at her head for another shot if need be. " That's smart...But this time there will be no hesitation" He uttered out attempting to keep up his tough exterior.

He watched her with great rage as she seemly refused to cover her mouth. He chuckled softly " Really? then why is there a hole in your oh so perfect face?" He fired back not really in the state to be talking. He froze at the mention of their shared Ex...Edward told her to come here? Edward sent her a letter telling her to come here? He could feel his rage taking hold as he began shaking with fury " EDWARD DID WHAT?!!! THAT STUPID GREEN BASTARD" He yelled out in typical penguin fashion. " I know because that little snake told me you were coming!"

Isabella: Edward had told him she was coming? Isabella frowned, and that information slowly settled into her mind like a fog, breaking through the serenity she always felt after being physically damaged. Edward had told Oswald she was coming here. Why would he send her, if Oswald knew? Hadn't he wanted her to go on his behalf? She didn't understand.

Absentmindedly, she dabbed the cloth against her ripped-open cheek, trying to cover the wound, if only because the sensation of blood pooling on her face was unpleasant. It didn't make sense. It was too confusing to think about.

Oswald's tantrum didn't bother her. Isabella was used to his childish outbursts. And besides, she hardly felt like herself. "Why would he send me here, if you knew I was coming?" she asked, almost to herself, like it was a puzzle she had to solve. She blinked slowly, and pressed the rag against her wound hard, feeling her muscles and shattered bone against her fingers. "He must have known something bad would happen. Unless he didn't think you would attack me? He wouldn't send me in here just to get damaged. He loves me. He said so."

That was the one thing she could cling to, the only thing that felt genuine and real in the aftermath of being shot in the face. Edward loved her. She thought of his kind, gentle, words in the letter, how much he wanted her to be by his side. But he'd wanted to keep her safe, so he hadn't let her join him with his game. He loved her. Isabella stared at Oswald. "There's no need to get angry," she said emptily. "I'm sure there's an explanation. We just have to figure it out."

Oswald: Oswald mind was reeling, connecting all the dots that didn't seem to fit before. He'd sent Isabella after him then told him about it? He was playing with them both and his rage only seems to heighten with that knowledge. This was what the Riddler did play games with people he thought were completely unworthy of his time. From experience, Oswald realized that if this was the distraction The Riddler was planning something, and that gave him a rather horrible feeling.

Oswald scoffed at the women, this was the girl Edward tried to kill him for? The girl who claimed to be smarter than him? " Really? don't you get it? The Riddler played you...played us used our love for him against us. he wanted us to either kill each other Isabella. He even told me in my Letter to use my gun on you. didn't his letter to you say harm me?" He lowered his gun to his side in silent anger, this was a game Oswald was getting tired of playing with the green-suited moron. " He wanted me to shoot you he doesn't love anyone but himself and we are the idiots who keep falling for his crap"

He growled a bit, thinking of a plan of action he wasn't going to let this go. No, the submissive Oswald was gone, died the night Edward broke him with his words before days later when he'd actually ended their relationship. This new Oswald wanted blood, his blood to be exact. He smirked at Isabella " You know for once I agree completely, I shouldn't get angry...I should get even, He has taunted me for the last time. You know the truth Isabella you're just too stupid to admit it out loud. You got played"

Isabella: It didn't make any sense. Isabella shook her head, and felt her skin give beneath the rag. The Riddler played you. Edward wouldn't. She desperately held onto the belief that she just had to understand, she just had to figure something out. Or maybe Oswald was right, and she did have to get shot, but there was a logical reason behind it. There had to be. It had to be part of a larger scheme, something that she didn't know about yet. Oswald kept talking, and she wanted him to stop. The comforting dissonance she'd felt was fading now, and leaving her with a kind of screaming terror inside her chest. Edward had sent her here in the hope that she and Oswald would kill each other. That couldn't be true.

"No," she whispered weakly. "No, you're wrong! His letter didn't tell me to hurt you! He just... He implied... I didn't understand all of it!" She snapped. She couldn't think when she was like this. When she felt sick. Wasn't that what Edward had called her? Sick. He'd said she was too unwell to help him, too obsessed to be allowed near him. Her head felt foggy, and she lowered the rag from her face, not caring if it disgusted Oswald. She clutched her stomach, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. "You're wrong. Stop saying that!"

But Oswald didn't stop. He doesn't love anyone but himself. Isabella thought of the anger in the Riddler's voicemail message, so disappointed in her that she hadn't figured out his riddle, she'd missed his clue. Didn't she believe that too, sometimes? That he only loved himself. But he'd said. He'd said he loved her. She closed her eyes tightly, as if blocking out the sight of Oswald would stop his awful words. He wanted to get even? He wanted to get revenge on Edward? She didn't even have the strength to argue with him. She just stood there, trying to fight off the wave of betrayal that was threatening to drown her.

"I didn't get played! You just don't understand!" she insisted, but it felt like begging, like she was begging Oswald to stop tearing away her belief. It was like he was ripping the carpet out from underneath her, taking away a fundamental truth. She had to get out of here. She had to go to the Riddler, to let him explain himself, to give him a chance to justify his actions. He would explain. He would give her the answer, and this would make sense. But, even as she thought that, Isabella knew she couldn't go to him. Because what if Oswald was right?

She opened her eyes and stared at him, though he was blurry now, as tears filled her eyes. The blood was still pumping from the wound in her face, and she ignored it completely. "I love him, Oswald. You can get even if you want, but I have faith. I'm loyal." Her voice shook, and she felt like she was lying to herself.

Oswald: Oswald didn't know why he wanted her to understand just how cruel the Riddler had been. Not to just one person but two, chalking it up to a moment of weakness Oswald didn't want Isabella to suffer at the hands of someone who couldn't see beyond himself. He listens to her try and rationalize the betray done to her by him and he shook his head making his voice softer " Isabella...He played you.. he played me. He used what he knew about us from our times together knowing just what buttons to push at the right moment. He treated us like nothing more than puppets for his enjoyment"

Oswald watched her cruel with no amusement at all, it hurt to be betrayed it hurt to be used. Edward couldn't get away with the pain he caused here. Once again Isabella and he were placed at odds all over someone who couldn't be bothered enough to care for either of them. He felt his own heart start to tear itself apart at the pain caused by his ex. He'd never had used him in this way, it was one path Oswald would never stoop to.

He looked at her as her voice turned almost begging as he continued to tell her the truth. " Isabella...Everything is there for you to see, all the proof that Edward lied to us...I'm not letting him get away with this, look at yourself looking at what he's done to you. You've become obsessed with him once again." He looked at her pleading with her to see reason or at least hide somewhere until he could take him down.

He stared back at her with his eye starting to water as well " I loved him too and he used us...this can not go unanswered Isabella...Be loyal to him if you are foolish enough to still believe him. but I promise you this should he put it in your mind to come after me to stop what's coming...I will end you, no free pass this time"

Isabella: Oswald didn't stop talking. Did he want her to break down? Was that it? Isabella kept her eyes closed as he talked. He didn't sound spiteful, like he normally did. In fact, he sounded uncharacteristically kind, as if he was in pain too. If he'd been else, she would have said he felt sorry for her. He used her full name, and she couldn't remember the last time he'd done that, but, for some reason, it made the ache in her heart even worse. Why was he trying to tear away everything she believed in? Edward loved her again. He'd written to her, and it was such a beautiful letter. It didn't matter he'd let her get shot. He loved her.

"I'm not obsessed!" she said, but her voice sounded shrill even to her own ears. She knew she was. She could feel it inside her head. Ever since she'd seen that newspaper article about the Riddler's return. It was like a heat inside her brain, like a dull warmth that just hung around her every thought like a fog. She couldn't think of anything except Edward. All she wanted was to please him. She'd threatened to rip out a stranger's heart because he'd insulted the Riddler. You've become obsessed with him once again. If Oswald could see it, surely there had to be some truth to it?

She opened her eyes and blinked rapidly at him, and saw that his eyes were glinting too. Oswald didn't understand. It wasn't foolish of her to believe him. It felt necessary. What else did she have, if she didn't have her love for Edward? It was the one thing she knew was true, the thing she was made to believe, the reason she existed at all. Oswald could never understand something like that. She didn't know what to say, how to explain it. Where was the urge to stop him? Oswald had just admitted that he was going to 'get even' with Edward, but she felt no desire to warn Eddie, or protect him. She just felt so tired.

"I understand," she whispered. "I won't get in your way. I'm not going to see him. He doesn't want to see me." That fact made her feel nauseous, and she swayed a little. "I should want to stop you," she said. "I should want to. I love him so much. But I --" She cut herself off. It made no sense, and she felt so odd. "You do what you think you must, Oswald. I promise I won't get in your way." She swallowed thickly, and tasted the metal from the wound in her face as she swallowed blood. "I am very tired," she said simply. "I can't think." And that was all she could manage to say.

Oswald: Oswald watched as she seemly crumbled down before him, in a typical isabella fashion. Never one to show just how broken she really was. He chose the kinder route as She was just as much a victim as he had been. This feud between them would always exist yet he couldn't allow her to feel this way again because of him. Matters of the heart they were joined together, if she was too tired then he'd take it on, he'd prove the point that you shouldn't mess with people's hearts just for a game.

He heard her shrill, thinking better than to answer as he was sure she could see it even herself. He looked at her with more pain in his heart. He had to be tough, that was the only way to bring down The Riddler. "You don't need him, Isabella...You are...able to get through this" He looked at her with nothing but kindness " I know...Go to Harley..Don't be alone it's so much worse that way" He whispered as the other walked out.

Isabella: Apparently, it had taken shooting her for Oswald to show some empathy. Isabella stared at him, and she saw only understanding in his expression. It should have been infuriating -- she should have seen it as patronising -- but all she could do was look at him blankly. She wasn't angry or resentful. Even as the blood kept dripping from the gunshot wound in her face, she felt no rage or hatred for the man who had caused it. She would have given anything to return to that blank place, where she'd felt nothing but mild irritation and worry that she'd been shot. It was so much easier when she felt disconnected from everything.

But the agony of what Oswald was saying, the betrayal he was implying, hurt as much as anything could hurt her. How could Oswald say that she didn't need him? She needed him. He was her everything. She pressed her lips together and tried to stop herself from crying. Something about the kindness in his face -- him, of all people -- was breaking her inside. Like he understood so much more than she did. Like he understood how much she was warring with herself, to love the Riddler, to ignore what she knew he had done. To cling to the hope that he felt it back, that he adored her, the way she adored him. If anyone could understand what it was like to love Edward Nygma, it was Oswald. She'd always told herself that his love paled in comparison to hers, that it was weak and pathetic. But she knew now, that wasn't true. He loved Edward too. But he wasn't trapped by his love.

He told her to go to Harley, and that was the only place Isabella wanted to be. At home, with Harls, curled up on the couch. Harls could stitch up her face to help it heal faster, and make her tea. With Harley, she felt safe from the sickening confusion in her skull, the screaming, contradicting, thoughts about the Riddler and love and worship and hatred. Slowly, stiffly, she nodded. "Yes, I'll go to Harley," she murmured, for once, agreeing with Oswald Cobblepot. And she lifted the cloth to her gunshot-obliterated cheek again, and stumbled out of the Iceberg Lounge, not giving Oswald a second glance.

#[it's been a while since i did one of these!]#chatzy #oswald #blood tw #gore tw #guns tw #violence tw

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yeoldontknow · 7 years

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Hero: 8

Author’s Note: here we go! finally getting to the beating heart of the story! i’m so glad i was able to finish this before i leave for vacation lmao. i’m working very hard on getting part 9 completed for next week, and it will likely be written/edited on the plane. if this does un-updated for a bit, please forgive me! i promise it will come back with a vengeance. enjoy!! Song for this chapter: Amen - Daimon Genre: Vampire!Chanyeol; horror; thriller; suspense; drama; eventual smut Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Rating (this chapter): R Warnings (this chapter): graphic violence; explicit language; guns; Word Count: 4,929

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The first thing you notice is the smell.

Chanyeol told you the walls had been coated in petroleum, but now, without him here to distract and infuriate you, your nose is burning with the stench. After so long in a cage filled with animal feces and the aroma of wet fur, you thought your nose was immune to the foreboding smells of death and decay. They surround you, taking on the scent of bubbling flesh, and you think perhaps this was done on purpose - a visceral sort of symbolism to keep you submissive and obedient.

Alone in your new room, you stand for several minutes in stillness and silence with shallow breaths. It takes a mighty effort, slowing your breathing without opening your mouth to taste the air on your tongue. Your fingers are poised over your right wrist where you had been massaging the skin and you lower your gaze to study your hands. They've been absent from your view for so long, part of you thinks the blood along and beneath your fingernails has always been there. They've been absent so long, you've started to think of them as claws.

Alone in your room, you are still and you are quiet, and you are absolutely, incomprehensibly murderous.

Now with your hands free, the rage boiling in your heart finally has somewhere to go. It's coursing and circulating through you, pooling and collecting in your fingers and you feel a vindictive sort of relief take shape behind your violence. Trapped elsewhere in your body by the strength of the rope, its release suddenly feels like it's gushing and makes your joints throb with the onslaught.

You want to punch and break this world apart, rip the metal of these walls in half between your fingers and claw your way to absolution. Nothing has ever seemed as beautiful to you as the smooth and clean tearing of flesh at this moment. There's a yearning in your chest for the sight and sound of it, so strong you come to think of it as poetic. You've wanted this for days, and now, with your fingers flexing subconsciously from the rush of blood, your daydreams finally take the ruddy shade of tangible realism.

Deciding to move you walk around the perimeter of the room with outstretched arms and hands, curious to touch and feel everything in your new surroundings. This was denied you in the cage, the kinetic learning that comes with touch. The grooves of your fingertips are hungry for something other than ropes and knots. Your footsteps are slow and careful, as you revel in the sensation of walking on your own. Finally, time is your own. Finally, the world has erupted into a plethora of choices and you have to consciously stop yourself from picking everything all at once.

Against your fingers, the walls feel slick and slippery as though they are leaking; oversaturated with fear and disgust, they are starting to sweat. The thin coating of petroleum makes them feel this way, though you can’t help but think the walls are breathing, humming against your hands as you bring them to life.

You drag for fingers against them as you walk, over to the right side of the room where your bed rests and you bring your hand down to graze the sheets. The cotton of the bedding is thick and rough, enough to keep you warm and enough to keep you cool, completely at the mercy of the atmosphere. You don’t let yourself sit on the bed. Regardless if it’s hard or soft, feathers or a chained link of nails, you haven’t truly slept in days and you know that the bed itself is the only thing that could make you vulnerable. You’re tired, tired in a way that makes you finally consider sleep as a kind of death, and, while you crave it, you refuse to surrender when you’ve only just started to taste freedom.

The water basin rests neglected in the corner, and you let it remain so. Something tells you it’s been touched by too many hands, handled in a way you don’t have to acknowledge because you don’t want to, and you almost feel glad for its presence. It’s offered you a choice, as small as it may be.

What does capture your attention is the wardrobe in the corner. Carved from a similar wood as in the chapel, this too is ornate and extravagant in its construction. It rises tall and imposing over you as an omniscient presence, feet grasping the floor with talons and a dragon resting atop as though pouring over it's gold.

You find it perplexing such an item should be found here, particularly in a room with you who has so little. Instinct tells you something is amiss, that this wardrobe represents a sort of paradox. Contradictory in nature, you feel as though the dragon is your guard, there to watch over and protect you, but what the wardrobe contains will only bring you despair. It’s instinct that makes you view the object as one of trauma and grief, but it is choice that raises your hand to pull open its doors.

What you find should bring you comfort. What you find should make you feel a sort of happiness or delight at the idea of feeling whole, if only for the sake of your vanity.

Instead, your hand clamps over your mouth to stop you from screaming.

The wardrobe is filled with your clothes. None of these are replicas, none of these are guesses as to your size or style, they are yours. The moment the door to the wardrobe opened, you could smell yourself on them, saw the missing button on your favourite blazer and the red shoelaces of your favourite boots. These belong to you. They were selected by your hand, for yourself, at some point in your life, and now they are here.

Your skin starts to crawl at the inherent intrusion of privacy and secrecy. This was not an invasion against your person, but still you feel it all over your body as though you are sticky with it. You feel their hands grabbing at you all over again, pulling at things that don’t belong to them because they want them and they know how to get them. Somehow, this feels more intrusive and intimate than Yixing entering your mind to fix you, fix parts of you that you couldn’t even see. Somehow, this makes you understand a deeper level of horror: your life belongs to them, now and until the sun turns black.

In the back of your mind, Yixing’s voice floats through your consciousness.

‘Any questions you may have are best directed at Sire.’

You have a lot of questions, too many questions burning through your mind and chest, and you simply don't have the patience to wait for answers. Men are trying to assume authority over your mind, body, and blood; men are trying to make you theirs and prove their strength by force feeding images of your dead body, defiles like christmas wrapping; men are trying to make you theirs and keep you.

And you've had enough.

When you tug at the door to your bunker, you're surprised to find it unlocked. Part of you expected this door to lock from the outside. Part of you expected this to take work and strategy, but you remember knowing that if something looks easy it's likely impossible. Chanyeol had told you it wasn't in your best interest to run, as if your wellbeing actually mattered to him, and you bite back a laugh at the arrogance of the move. He left your door unlocked to test you and to prove a point.

A venomous satisfaction erupts in the center of your chest the moment you rip the door open, the pleasure of disobedience and autonomous self action almost making you feel giddy. In the wake of such a thrill, you find it easy to choose which direction to take. Trapped in the cage, you'd poured over going left or right out of the room because you didn't know what lied beyond. You approached this room from the right, so you take a left, craving something new and different and far from the memory of slit throats.

Walking with quick, sure steps, you reach a hand out to the walls again to feel for vibrations or echos of voices. You don't know why you do this, you can see and hear, and the dim fluorescent ceiling lights provide enough of a glow for you to see several feet in front and behind you. But there's a joy in using your hands now, they're eager to learn and hold after so long of being deprived.

Again the walls feel like they are breathing, the coven building humming with a life that feels unprecedented. Filled to the brim with dead and bleeding things, you find it odd that the building feels so alive.

As you turn a corner, you feel a pull take over your body. If it had a physical form, you imagine it would have looked like silver chains coming to wrap around your neck, your hands, and your heart, tugging you in the direction from whence it came. You want to break free from the hold, your instincts screaming that this is wrong, this will upset you, this will hurt, but it's far too strong.

The closer you get, the colder you start to feel. The air around you becomes thick and heavy with a chill, causing your lungs to ache and burn with the effort of breathing. Something about the pull is compelling, like a finger beckoning you forward with the voice of a child. It's asking you for help. It's asking you to be saved.

It's asking you to die in its place.

You're faintly aware of voices in rooms as you pass, and the shuffle of footsteps echoing off the walls you makes you think you're being followed. They could be your own; they could belong to someone else. Acutely you're aware of all of these things, but your focus is solely on the icicle threads in the air and how you need to touch and hold and heal them.

They lead you to a steel door that's rusting in some places, though it's lock looks brand new. It's been undone, by who or what you can't be sure, but you think this was done on purpose. Everything about the coven has been calculated and strategized, even down to who you interact with and when. This door is ajar and undone for a reason, and you pray the reason is not payment with your life.

As you walk in, it takes several seconds for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. The shift from fluorescent light to one, cold red light in the ceiling is abrupt and confusing, and your head becomes heavy with disorientation. But as your mind and vision clear, as your senses start to align themselves after the relief of following the pull through to the end, you see your destination and have to stop yourself from vomiting.

In the center of the room, beneath the red light, is a cage. Different from your previous home, this one is tall, almost reaching the ceiling, and nearly as wide as the room itself. Two padlocks are draped across the door and inside are women.

Some are slumped against the bars, eyes glazed over in hunger. Others are standing perfectly still, heads cocked back towards the ceiling, mouths agape in despair, hollows of their cheeks turning their faces to skulls. Others, the most emaciated, are pacing in slow circles, jaws hanging loose and joints bent in painful angles as though they are caving in on themselves. All of them appear to be melting, skin hanging loose on their bones where blood or fat or muscle used to live. Even from your position in the entry, several feet away, you can count the bones of their ribs and see the bruises peppering their skin in dark, purple-black marks.

The smell of piss and drool lingers in the air, and you cough loudly as your nose and lungs begin to sting. This simple action sends every pair of eyes directly to you, and suddenly they are alert. They’re silent in their desire for you, all turning or crawling or walking to the bars to study and reach for you. Hands, so many hands, are reaching out to you, begging for your hair, your teeth, your flesh. Hands are reaching for you and you are forced to oblige their touch, unable to keep yourself away from them.

Their fingers appear to you as works of art, bones of their fingers long and slender with the elegance of death and nails elongated to points like knives. Instinct tells you this is how you will die, that this is your future. Instinct tells you they mean to consume all the fleshy parts of you, the sticky bits of your humanity trickling down their throats like treacle, and all that will remain is your shell, inedible and grotesque.

Instinct tells you to leave and to run, but choice tells you there is humanity here. Their irises are a sea of crimson, filled with a bloodthirst so visceral you want to cower away from the strength of it, but a sadness lives in the black void of their pupils. Flickers of fear and hope are all colliding behind their gaze, and you don’t have it in you to be cruel or ignorant of it. Their humanity is pleading for you, pleading for you to end their misery.

And as you step close, step within reach, you feel a pale hand reach for your cheek with a soft, almost tender caress. You let them stroke your skin, your breath nothing more than a whimper as you finally understand they are reaching for what was once theirs and what they can never have again. But all at once, you feel yourself falling, tumbling into their eyes and into their mind and your spine becomes rigid.

You’ve never heard screaming so loud. You’ve never heard screaming so somber, melancholic, and savage all at the same time. Everything is red. Red and red and red, and you’ve walked into a fight between a monster and a woman and you can’t tell which is which. The demonic screaming is in harmony with the wailing of the woman, the song of a banshee, and your head is filled with thoughts.

Blood and meat and the juice of humanity on your tongue.

Bones shattering beneath your hands like brittle wood.

Mouth full of men and women, all of them strangers and all of them food and you at the head of a glorious feast.

They are screaming in your mind. You are screaming from the center of your chest. They are hungry and you are theirs and there is nothing left of them for your to save.

All at once, it’s over. A large, strong hand is clamped over your mouth, muffling your screams as it tugs you backwards, away from the cage and against a hard chest. An arm reaches over your right shoulder, gun cocked in its hand and the trigger is pulled. The bullet penetrates the center of the woman’s skull, and she immediately falls to a heap as her black blood sprays over your face. You’re familiar with this, the ringing in your ears after a gunshot, and this time it echoes around you in neat vibrations. This time, it doesn’t hurt or surprise you. You truly don’t think anything could anymore.

You’re stoic this time, still as stone, as you are pushed back to your bunker. Your head is empty, vacant now from everything you’ve seen and everything you’ve yet to process. You’re pushed forward into your room and immediately you break from the hold to vomit in the basin.

When you’re finished heaving, you run your wrist along your lips and turn to face your captor, your savior.

Chanyeol is standing with his back pressed against the door, and he looks like too many things, far too many things for you to discern. He’s furious and he’s sad, alarmed and amazed and murderous, and you know each of these emotions are directed at you.

You feel it again, the fire blooming in your chest and you hate that it’s back. It’s back and it’s uncontrollable, and it turns your thoughts into spit that drips from your mouth as you speak.

Yixing had said you would have questions and now you are demanding answers.

‘How many women?’ you rasp.

Chanyeol looks at you, brow furrowed and fangs drawn. You don’t know why you didn’t notice them before, and you have the sudden passing memory of him hissing against your ear as he pulled the trigger.

‘How many fucking women?’ you repeat.

He launches himself from the door and approaches you with incredible speed, forcing you back against the wall with his hand at your throat.

‘You want to call those things “women?” How about a fucking thank you for saving your goddamn, useless life.’ His tone is low and deep, and it cascades over you in waves that carry the whispers of torture.

‘I never - I never asked you to save me,’ you choke out beneath his grip.

‘No, you didn’t,’ comes his hiss, ‘but you serve a purpose and so I will keep you so long as you prove useful.’ At this, he releases your neck and your head falls back against the wall as you gasp for breath.

He stalks away from you, flexing the fingers of his hand as though your skin as burned him, as if he was the victim of his violence. Now that you are able to stand before him, free and unbound, you realize how very tall he is. How very tall and conversely how very fragile he is. He’s lean and almost looks young, but when he rounds on you his jaw his clenched and set, and you see him suddenly as a man older than time.

‘So that’s why you gave me this room?’ you grate out as you catch your breath. ‘Took me from the cage, showed me all this shit, just so you could what...use me? Turn me into those women?’

‘Those were not created by me -’ he begins, but you cut him off.

‘So you’re collecting?’

‘No, I’m protecting!’ he shouts, patience suddenly lost. ‘I’m protecting you, my men, this coven, our way of life. They are a threat to us and to your precious humanity.’

Pushing yourself from the wall, you stomp towards him until you are close enough to smell him. ‘They’re women!’

‘They are haflings,’ he corrects with a sneer. ‘Learn the difference.’

He says the word as if you should know what it means, as if your ignorance is your fault and you should be blamed and guilty for asking such an insipid question.

‘What is a halfling?’ is your exasperated sigh.

Chanyeol turns from you at this, raking a hand through his hair as he releases an annoyed breath.

‘You want me to trust you?’ you demand. ‘Tell me what a halfling is.’

Turning back to you, he approaches and suddenly takes you in his arms, strong like iron. You fight against his hold, but his strength is extraordinary and you are trapped, his hands roaming over your until one fists in your hair to tilt your neck. With your ear exposed to him, you feel his hot breath as it slithers down your neck.

‘It’s what happens when you are drunk, fed on so completely that the only thing left of you is your mind as it dies,’ he whispers, and you find yourself shivering. You can feel his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear and you bite your lip to keep yourself silent. ‘Then, only when you are very near passing, you are given the taste of a new life - a life that could turn and change you and keep you alive. But you only get a taste.’ As he finishes his explanation, his lips graze your ear and your eyes roll slightly back.

He shoves you away from him then, giving you whiplash with the change of his mood. Released from his arms, you find your body screaming for his touch to return while your mind rages at the passing violation of your body.

‘That is a halfling,’ he says, fiercely. ‘Something trapped between life and death, between human and vampire. A halfling is a curse. If that is what you wish your fate to be, then all you have to do is ask.’

You ignore the threat that finishes his statement, focusing only on the true definition of a halfling. They are trapped, perpetually, between death and dying and living. Their thoughts are toiling over who they were and what they are now, and all they can equate this existence to is woe.

‘That’s why their minds...were so sad,’ you whisper to yourself, looking at your hands, though you can’t imagine why. You think perhaps it is because they touched you and, in some way, you touched and held them.

‘Their what?’

Chanyeol’s shocked and almost quiet voice disrupts your thoughts, and when you look at him he is staring at you with wide, almost terrified eyes.

‘In their heads,’ you clarify, though your voice wavers a bit. ‘In their heads it was just screaming.’

He shakes his head slowly, lips moving for several seconds before a quiet murmur even escapes into the atmosphere. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘Well, it is because I saw it,’ you say, suddenly indignant. ‘Don’t invalidate it just because you can’t see it.’

Chanyeol pulls himself back together, though he doesn’t harden as you expect him to. Somehow, he looks at you as though you are made of glass. ‘No, it’s impossible for you to see their minds. They have no nature, consumed only by death. You shouldn’t be able to…’

His hand reaches out towards you, and your body yearns to accept it, though you can’t place why. You’re at war with yourself, for no reason, though Chanyeol seems to sense this and completes the distance on his own. Everything about this upsets you, upsets and terrifies you because, in some way, you want him near you and in every other way, he’s looking at you as though you are a gift presented unto him and he is craving you.

His outstretched hand gently caresses the same cheek the halfling touched, and your skin feels like fire. It’s fire, Chanyeol’s fire, enveloping your body now because you are letting it. Now do you truly, finally see him. He is a phoenix, and you are his ash, and he is starting to learn absolutely every piece of you. You think this could be beautiful. You think this could be special, but deep in your heart you know this is so much more than simplistic awe.

He sees you as something far more valuable than blood.

‘You cannot be,’ he whispers, eyes devouring you with a hungry, eager stare.

‘Don’t touch me,’ you mutter, though it comes out far weaker than you intended.

‘How could I have missed it,’ he continues, ignoring you.

You gather yourself, shaking yourself away from his hand. ‘Stop touching me,’ you hiss, ‘and tell me what’s going on.’

For some reason, he smiles.

‘You’re a Reader.’

Again, he says the word as if you should know exactly what this means, and you’re tired of his riddles.

‘My weapon…’

He reaches for you again and this time you back up with angry steps.

‘No!’ you shout. ‘Tell me what the fuck is going on.’

This time, he’s remarkably forthcoming with his explanation.

‘A Reader is something truly magnificent,’ he says, voice filled with wonder. ‘They come about once every several hundred centuries during times of great upheaval and change. Your people, humans, would call it clairvoyant or something like an Oracle, though those hardly do the term justice.’

‘I can’t see the future. I’m not a psychic.’ You’re adamant about this, because never have you had any premonitions, you can hardly find your way out of this hell. Surely, if you were what he thinks you are, you would have already made your escape. You would have seen all of this coming.

‘That’s not the purpose of a Reader,’ he says with a dark chuckle. ‘They can see the true nature and intent of all things. They see what is, was, and could be. You are the strongest weapon of all.’

And now you see why he’s awestruck by you, why he looks at you like you’re the key to every war he could ever fight. Because that is precisely what you are.

‘I’m...I’m not,’ you stammer, trying to convince him there is no use for you. ‘I’m human.’

‘What you are is remarkable,’ he states, plainly. ‘Your instinct even as a human is unprecedented. If you were to be turned to my kind, you’d be worshiped as a goddess.’

When he says the word, it hits you, it hits you and it hurts. Instinct. It’s been following you your whole life and you thought it was just because you trusted yourself. Instinct has guided and lead you down every path you’ve chosen. Instinct has saved you, helped you, and shown you everything about the world, and these men, that you could ever need to know.

Instinct has always been your gift from the universe and has been serving its purpose from the moment you sat in the truck with D.O.

‘I’m human,’ you whisper, though even you don’t believe it anymore.

‘You are a reader,’ he says, reaching to firmly grasp your shoulders. There are embers of pride behind his eyes, though you don’t know if it’s of you or himself. ‘You are a weapon. You have the power to persuade men to their deaths.’

The way the words fall from his lips leads you to believe he thinks you belong to him now, that you are his weapon, his war strategy. Any magic that could have been built from this revelation, from the way he looks at you as though you are something to be revered, dissolves, and you step out of his hold with a scowl.

‘I will not stay by your side to be your personal machine!’

‘I couldn’t force you to stay if I tried,’ he says with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Forcing your will would block your sight, and you are immune to anything that could do so. It’s why D.O. has no power over you.’

You cock an eyebrow at him, ignoring the placation of his mention of D.O. ‘Then you will let me go.’

He snorts. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Isn’t that forcing my will?’

‘No, that’s keeping you as my captive,’ he chides. ‘I am not forcing you into helping me.’

‘I’ll run.’

‘Hero, I know you think you are being brave but you need to remember how many men have seen your face. Your captivity here is for your safety as much as it is mine.’

‘If you want my trust, why not let me go.’ You think this almost sounds like whining, almost sounds like you’re pleading like a child, but you don’t really care. This entire conversation has been entirely too much for you to handle, and you want no part of his war or his schemes. ‘I promise I will say nothing.’

‘As persuasive as you think you are,’ he says, voice dark once again, ‘you have given me no reason to believe your word. You are not in a position to negotiate.’

‘I didn’t know this was a negotiation,’ you spit.

‘Trust me when I say you have been spoiled, Hero,’ he growls and comes to loom over you. You’re face to face with him, gazing up into his eyes and you can see that he’s boiling with an undercurrent of something akin to passion, though you don’t know which shape it will take. You know he will not hurt you, but you test him to his limits and frustrate him, and you find this to be rewarding. ‘I have yet to see any whim of trust returned from you.’

‘This isn’t about trust!’ you shout. ‘You’re keeping me here because you need something from me, and you’re biding your time to get it. You don’t have it in you to be kind or spoiling in nature.’

‘Is that an insult to my character?’ he says with contempt.

‘If you wish.’ You echo his words from the last time you argued and fought like this, when you were trapped in the cage deciding what to call him. Only this time, it is you with the power to let him choose.

‘Will it always be this way with you?’ he asks, though his voice takes on an air of soft humour.

‘Yes,’ you snap, not wanting to give in.

And then you see it, in front of you and belonging to only you for the first time: he smiles. Full and wide and beautiful, and you find yourself melting against your better judgement.

He leans down then to rest his forehead against yours, eyes flashing crimson.

‘Good,’ he whispers, before turning on his heels to stalk out of the room, and leaving you more confused than ever before.

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