#the way the only thing that Snake knows to do when in blinding crippling pain is to call out for Otacon his one light in the darkness

[heartoferebor]

On a scale from 1 to 'has been listening to Violent Ceasefire from the MGS4 OST on a loop for the last hour and sobbing haltlessly whilst baking gingerbread' how well did you cope with that cutscene at the end of MGS4 ACT III?

[kandyrezi]

Offers you some pocket lint and also a bag of chocolate buttons and an actual button or two

Can I get some uhhhhhh Yandere Ziki stuff?

—esurient;

pairing: yandere!ziki x reader

warnings: dismemberment, amputation, blood & gore

(a/n: I have no idea what on earth I’m supposed to do with those assortment of items you just electronically gifted me, but thank you anyway -

- yeah, not me thinking to myself upon seeing this ask ‘who tf is ziki?’ ……. OH, THE MOUTH WITCH. moment of enlightenment after that. (there are some bonus headcanons as well at the bottom of this fic! <3))

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

SHE DIPS HER FINGERS into the crimson stain, placing the blood-stained digits on her tongue, identifying the one it belongs to. Unmistakable, no doubt. Her lover's blood isn't as tasty as some of the others' she's consumed – but it's inconsequential. The taste bears no meaning in comparison to the adoration she feels for the one who brightened up her world like no one else ever has.

(she remembers the look in your eyes – lost and confused – the very look you gazed at her with the first time when she spotted you.)

The blood splatters leave her darling's scent lingering, yet they themselves are nowhere to be found – most likely having somehow wandered off to somewhere. You must have hurt yourself, as she doesn't remember you bleeding when she'd left you on your lonesome.

(she fell in love with you the day she'd met you.)

It's too bad no one in this world will come to your aid, not like she did when she first met you. The other witches are all selfish and only acting in their own self-interest.

(not wanting to lose someone so precious and wanting to consummate your love, she took you back to her little place of residence hidden away in the witch world.)

Finding you is laughably easy when you didn't even make it very far in the first place; you're awfully noisy and the tongues on her body have excellent taste receptors. One of the mouths on her braided hair maims you in the thigh, hardly a challenge at all as you're still drowsy from your escape— rather, your impolite, unannounced departure. As you look up at your pursuer hovering on her broom with your one still-intact eye, instead of ghostly white, her eyes shine a captivating yellow much like the mysterious sphere resting in the skies.

You must have seen her then for who she really was.

A witch of hunger and rage.

She didn't want to inject you with her venom. Weaker creatures such as yourself were easily susceptible to it and would likely die from it ("cardiac arrest" Ptomain had described it as) as opposed to becoming immobilised.

You are not the human who had the prettiest lilac eyes who escaped from the mansion of a vampire lord. You are not the leopard seal girl with broken fangs she came across beached on an island.

But you're you, and that's all she cares about.

. . .

The source of light provided by a stream of orange glow from the skies reflected off of the leaves from the trees yet the bright hues do nothing in ways of giving comfort. It could be pitch black and your heart would threaten to beat out of your chest from terror in equal measure.

You're partially blind due to your missing left eye and your surroundings are alien to you. Never would you have willingly entered a maze of unknown woods, yet at this moment you're desperate. You wish some ghastly beast would emerge from from the underground to devour you right then and there to simply end it so you wouldn't have to endure it – anything at all to avoid the deadly clutches of Ziki.

The soles of your feet no doubt have developed callouses and your toes burn from how long you've been running while avoiding getting your ankle stuck in vines or treading on one of the many-eyed endemic snakes. You momentarily lean your weight onto a (hopefully) harmless tree trunk with your dismembered, two-fingered hand.

The wind blows, howling right next to your ear, causing a tremor of shivers to trail down your spine. You feel like you're being taunted, watched with a calculating gaze – you push yourself upright and are ready to sprint (to your death if you have to), but it only takes you less than a second—

The jolt of sharp pain in your thigh forces you to freeze up like an icicle as the painful sensation rapidly spreads through your body. You fall into the dirt with no way to brace yourself with painful collision. something (but you know it's in fact, a someone) has bitten you in the leg and the juncture above your ankle is maimed next.

Ziki might not be hunting you for the purpose of killing you (—or so she's claimed) yet obviously natural predator-prey instincts kick in when the one being hunted down isn't so keen on allowing the one doing the hunting to sink their sharp, sawtooth-like tusk into your thigh so she can't let you get away. Especially now when one of her twin-tail mouths latch on to and break through muscle and tissue, the stream of red running down your leg creating another warm shade of color to paint the woods with. You're too weak to struggle much due to injuries you've sustained back at the witch's residence and on the run, and the fight ends before it can even begin.

You slip in and out of consciousness many times – the words shifts and moves around you, but you aren't sure where you ended up, not until after you wake up again.

The braided witch is saying something but you can't make out all the words.

"Neither your eye... your fingers... enough."

Were you really taken back...?

"It seems... you still don't... the conjoin of our love, so..."

What is this lunatic saying?!

"...Zi-Ziki..."

Your head barely becomes clearer yet it still hurts, you realize it when you feel the tight hold of belts strapping you to a familiar chair by your ankles and shoulders. It must be her kitchen. Where she keeps her jars and other glass containers full of substances you don't want to know about. The herbs and flowers hanging from the walls can't block out the stench you feel oozing from them. You can't really see her, but a smile on her face was normally her default expression, so it's far from a stretch to assume so.

"But I'm not complaining," Ziki keeps on talking, "Not when the meat from your flesh is so... tender. I've been keeping you well-fed and nourished, you can thank Ptomain for giving me some tips. Not sure how she knows so much about the health of your kind, but..."

She leans forward to hold your hand with farce tenderness, her other fingers stroking the outlines of the veins on your wrist below.

"...it's good that you're here now! After this, you'll tell me how much you feel the same way that I do for you~! Don't worry, I won't let you die. A witch's promise."

All the mouths on her body open to showcase their sharp teeth right in front of you. you vaguely register her biting your arm off from the elbow with the mouth on her face while the rest hold your body still to keep you from struggling. It's not a clean bite – she twists and yanks as your bones crack and shatter while tissues come apart under her immense strength. It all happens in less than a few seconds yet your nerves are on fire and you can't remember screaming or crying or pleading – nothing – as your body forces itself into unconsciousness from shock and agony.

You pray you won't wake up again after this time.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

• Ziki has a desire to consume a part of her lover so they're with her always - probably a body part like fingers, an entire limb, earlobe, or an eye (rarely) - possibly keeps some in a jar as well. She "falls in love" easily but is unable to "keep them"for long because she becomes too overzealous in her treatment of them.

• She hates it when her darling runs away from her. It's enough to make her lose her composure and almost kill them when she finds them again - it's mainly a stroke of luck when she doesn't violently lash out at the moment of seeing them.

• Despite how much of a whacko she is, she is actually strategic when it comes to anatomy and knows best places to injure to keep a darling immobile or crippled.

• Ziki doesn't have any healing abilities like some of the other witches. If her darling were a human, they would most likely end up dying from the injuries which she inflicted.

• She is kept under careful watch of the Great Witch to make sure she doesn't go overboard but will sometimes turn a blind eye if it's some stray, weak human (since they don't usually survive under the harsh conditions of PBW anyway).

• While she will otherwise go for anyone, she has a bit of a fetish for humans in particular because she likes how frail and docile they are.

• Feels lonely since the death of her familiar (not caused by her). This might correlate with her desire to keep a plaything to fill in that void (...or it might not).

• The mouths on her body can open and eat things, but can speak with only the one on her face.

• Ziki is friends with Ptomain and Kagimori. Since they can do types of witchcraft that fundamentally differ from one another, Ptomain has given her tips on medical care and health without the need for magic usage. Kagimori sometimes complains about the mess from blood stains on the hardwood floors of Ziki's cottage when she goes in for a visit.

• Her eyes change color depending on her mood; her pupils are pure white when she's feeling more docile, but they turn yellow when her emotions become intense and she feels them strongly.

• Aside from her appetite for flesh, she also likes mandarin oranges.

- - -

(a/n: ziki is literally a blank slate with just a visual appearance, so I got a little creative with her in ways you normally can't with established characters. I wrote the headcanons while i was trying to figure out her personality for just myself initially, but then decided to share them anyway.)

[stusbunker]

Questions: Who?

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Series

Featuring: Sam Winchester x Wife!Reader

Setting: Starts in Season 12, ends in Season 13

Sixth and Final Chapter of my Questions Series

A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading this through! I really appreciate the support and feedback! xoxo Stu

Warnings: Torture, blood, vomit, hospitals, fate, free will, pregnancy and childbirth, stupid levels of fluff at the end, which I meant to write all along.

You had worn many hats through the years: Daughter, Friend, Orphan, Hunter, Cousin, Fraud, Thief, Prisoner, Girlfriend, and now Wife. But nothing held the power of who you were like looking into his eyes.

This was it, this is what it meant to be insane, possibly feral. It was beyond reason, beyond anger or fear. It was a desperate, frustrating lack of control. The moment she came into the room you snarled at the woman. Prim and proper and utterly infuriating.

God, you wanted to snap her neck. That thought stopped you in your tracks, rank air pulled through your nostrils as you tried to get back to yourself. It would have been easier, if you weren’t still bleeding from the gunshot to your calf.

“We seem to have started off on the wrong foot. Understandably, a woman must defend her home,” she driveled on. “Now, we came to bring in the Winchesters, but you don’t really count.”

She paced in front of you, crisp suit unsullied from the dingy basement. You tried to remember what her partner or partners looked like, they couldn’t be very far. She hadn’t be the one to drag you in, let alone Sam. Sam. Where had they taken him?!

Your mind flitted through the chances of an escape, for either of you, while she prattled on.

“You know those boys stir up trouble wherever they go. We can help you. Give you a fresh start,” Toni attempted to give you a reassuring smile.

“Who do you think you are, lady? If you think I am going to turn on either of them, you are clearly not as smart as you look,” you spat out, chills racking your body, accentuating every aching joint bound by unforgiving knots.

“Give it time, some bacteria growth, and you’ll be crippled. Not much for hunting by then. I wonder what happens to those too weak to keep up?” She eyed you suspiciously. Then continued with breathy exasperation, “I’ll be back. Maybe then we can talk about where your loyalties lie.”

You woke to the sound of Sam’s screams, muffled and haunting. Lips chapped and with barely enough strength to lift your head you called back.

“Sam! Sam! Don’t--- don’t let her win! You hear me?!”

He broke off suddenly, the fear and rage resurfacing as you came back to your surroundings. Your head throbbed and you realized someone must have gagged him or knocked him out. You counted your own shallow breaths waiting for them to do the same to you.

The pain in your leg had changed, slowly you were able to squirm to see that they had sewn you up. The fact that you had been unconscious long enough for them to do any number of things to you made your empty stomach clench. You waited for the British Barbie to return as you worked through your options.

No one had come for you, despite the obvious rounds of torture Sam had endured. You sat and waited, pain and thirst battling for your attention as you tried to undo the ropes at your bleeding wrists. Suddenly a very different sound was pulled from Sam’s throat, a moan so specific that you finally lost the acid that had been building in your gut.

What the hell was going on?

You started to spiral, possibilities of what was to come scaring you more than anything else had ever before. As you slipped into unconsciousness once more, you started to dread waking back up.

Everything blurred, one moment you saw Sam’s face bloody and alarmed then Dean’s barking over the backseat. Cas’s voice was stern, but you couldn’t understand why he was so insistent.

Then there was a woman’s voice, one that was as soothing as it was foreign.

The air around you was clinically comfortable. The morning light slanted as it peeked through the vertical blinds, you were still tied down, but these were very different bindings. The I.V. and heart rate monitor kept you on a short leash. Sam’s snoring at your bedside the only thing that told you this was real. The sight of your husband so mutilated brought tears to your eyes.

The fact that you were in the hospital bed when he wasn’t told you how bad you must have been.

You cleared your throat, mouth sour and voice hoarse. Sam startled awake, wincing as he adjusted in the vinyl chair.

“Hey,” you whispered.

His hand snaked over the rail and grabbed yours, heavy and familiar.

“How you feelin’?” Sam asked, brow pitched.

“Surprisingly not bad. Why am I here, Sam? Couldn’t Cas---,” you started.

Sam cut you off, “He said it was best to bring you in, you were really dehydrated and needed two blood transfusions.”

“What about you?” You tried to sit up, brushing your fingers over the places where you remembered he had been bleeding.

“I’m fine. Cas took care of me. Listen, Baby, the reason Cas insisted you got to the hospital is, well,” Sam cleared his throat and cocked his head, debating on what to say next.

“Because I’m pregnant,” you answered.

“You knew?” Sam gaped, floundering so much that you almost laughed in his face.

You nod. “The world was ending, I wasn’t sure it was going to last. And couldn’t put something else out there to worry about.”

“You still could have told me.” Sam sniffed, the news overtaking him in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” you breathed out, gripping Sam’s forearm as you braced yourself for reality. “Am I still? Did we lose--,”

“Hey, it’s okay, you are. The doctor had strong and steady heartbeats from both of you.” Sam smiled down at you as he leaned forward to kiss your forehead.

“Is it bad that I don’t know how I feel about it yet?” You asked nervously, praying he wouldn’t judge you for your honesty.

He barely even hesitated, bless him.

“Of course not. The lives we lead, this is going to take some adjusting. For all of us. But if you’re in this, I’ll be right there beside you,” Sam gave you a watery smile. “Alright?”

You nodded and leaned in to give him a simple kiss, lingering in the calm of sharing his oxygen.

“Sam?” You asked. He hummed in reply. “Who was the woman in the car with us on the way here? I don’t remember seeing her, just a voice.”

“Well, apparently Amara decided Dean needed something in return for him, I don’t know, reconciling her and Chuck, God, whatever. So she, uh, she brought back my mom.”

Being benched after the Brits kidnapping you was understandable, your body and psyche needed a breather. But now it was getting frustrating.

“Sorry, pregnant chicks don’t get to hunt, not on my cases,” Dean tossed you one of his petulant company smiles.

“You’re being ridiculous! I’m barely showing, no one needs to know,” you argued with your stubborn brother-in-law as Sam and Castiel shared apprehensive looks behind Dean’s back.

“Yeah, well, I know. Look, I get it, you can take care of yourself. But this is big, alright? If Lucifer gets wind that Sam’s got a fresh meat suit on the way,” Dean puffed himself up to unload on you.

“That’s enough, Dean,” Cas chided.

Sam was visibly stunned by Dean’s comment, the possibility of Lucifer using you or your baby made him recoil with disgust.

Of course you hadn’t thought of that. Vessels were linked by bloodlines, you carried a part of the fallen archangel’s true vessel. As you processed the gravity of what Dean was saying, Sam seemed to slump with guilt.

“Oh, god,” he said underneath his breath.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll stay back on this one,” you tried to reassure him.

“I didn’t even think--- you have to be careful. I mean it, until Lucifer is back in the cage or dead, none of us are safe.” His hands latched onto your hips, thumbs rubbing tight circles over your growing belly.

You pulled his jaw up to look him in the eye, the man you trusted beyond all others, the love of your life, your rock.

“We will be fine, Sam. Go do what needs doing and come home safe. All of you.” You looked to Dean whose jaw was set in agreement. You nodded to Cas and leaned up to kiss Sam goodbye.

It hurt to watch them go where you couldn’t help keep them safe. But you had a different job to do now and it just kept getting bigger.

Days turned into weeks and there were no leads on Sam or Dean. Mary and Cas were doing everything they could, but nothing would ease your anguish until you had answers.

Your body continued to grow, the constant reminder that time progressing was just one more thing beyond your control.

The fear of raising your baby alone increased with each passing day.

Jody called out of the blue and a tidal wave of emotions hit you. You had a village, even if they were widespread. You could do this if you had to. You would do whatever it took to keep your family safe, even if it meant eventually having to give up on finding Sam and Dean.

They charged in through the garage on a gray afternoon, gaunt and exhausted. Time, finally seemed to stop as Sam’s face flushed with relief as you ran into his arms.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Kelly Kline’s bright eyes flitted to your matching bump.

You shook your head. “Nope, decided to let it be a surprise, we aren’t really the decorating type. You?”

“Half spawn of Satan, but I feel like it’s a boy,” she teased, you appreciated her snark.

“What’s that like? Do you have to deal with wings in there along with all the kicks and elbows?” You pulled your knee up on the couch in the cabin’s small living room. Getting as comfortable as possible as you got to know Lucifer’s baby mama.

She groaned out a sigh. “Probably? Who knows? He’s growing so fast!”

You caught Castiel’s eye as the unspoken worry passed between you.

“The baby is human shaped, his wings are not corporeal on this plane,” your angel friend explained dully.

“Who needs an ultrasound when you’ve got this guy?!” you broke the awkward silence as Kelly internalized that her son, in fact, had wings.

“I’m sorry, how is it you know Castiel, Y/N?” Kelly tried to change the direction of the conversation.

“Uh, well, I’m a hunter. Do you know what I mean by that?” You offered.

“Like the Winchesters?” Her voice grew tighter as she looked to Cas to ensure she and her baby remained safe in your presence.

“Like the Winchesters. In fact I--,” you tried to ease into it.

“She is Sam’s wife, Kelly. I brought her here for you to understand that though their actions might seem extreme, they are good men,” Cas explained.

“But they’re also idiots,” you broke in. “We all have our baggage, for Sam, a lot of that baggage is Lucifer. Do you know who my husband and his brother are?”

You let your guard down, breathing through your inner defensiveness and spoke to Kelly as a civilian. Because she was still such an innocent, despite everything that had happened since Lucifer jumped into her boyfriend.

Kelly looked to Cas before shaking her head.

“Sam was Lucifer’s power suit, his true vessel. He was destined from the beginning to bring forth the apocalypse. And Dean was Michael’s. Two sets of brothers meant to end the world.”

“I don’t understand, why wasn’t he--,”

“Because Sam, and Dean, chose a different path,” Cas concluded.

“And so, I’m here to let you know that your child will be allowed to chose the right path for himself.” You sighed, feeling the weight of destiny in your words. The offer to bring her child into your family despite his parentage as a sign that the world held more good than chaos.

You didn’t know who you were reassuring more, Kelly or yourself.

It was nothing like you had expected, yet just as horrendous as you had imagined. Your muscles seized as you bore down, again. The clothed faces of the doctor and nurses were a sea of unfamiliarity. You needed Sam.

But he wasn’t there.

You groaned, trying to push harder than ever before. You had to be nearly done. You needed your baby to finally arrive so you could rest. As much as you wanted to meet them; you were exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally depleted.

“And relax,” the doctor coached. “Great job, Mrs. Campbell. Breathe.”

You nodded, mouth closed as you tried not to cry.

You had never felt so alone in your entire life, not in foster care after the wendigo had slaughtered your parents or in the years after losing Rafe. Not even the dank cell that Crowley had left you in, had you felt this terrifyingly and helplessly alone.

You were going to be a mother. And there was no one at your side. No matter how certain you were that Sam wanted to be there; he wasn’t.

Before you were ready, you were pushing through another contraction.

“Big push, keep going, that’s it, don’t stop,” the doctor’s voice was firm and insistent. You wanted to swing your machete. Or a solid baseball bat.

You screamed as your body burned, clenching and pulsing against the child inside you. You needed it out.

“That’s it, you’re doing great,” a voice like heaven broke through your anguish as Sam peeled your hand from the bedside rail.

“You prick!”

“I know,” Sam acquiesced, giving you his determined furrowed brow as the doctor regained your attention.

“Glad you could make it, Dad. Mom? We need another series of big pushes from you. Are you ready?”

“No--- I need a break--- fuck!” You felt the contraction attack your body and you couldn’t help but whimper.

“You can do this, just a few more, Baby,” Sam promised with quiet insistence.

You gave a faltering effort, which the doctor acknowledged.

“Alright, we missed that one, don’t stop again. Let’s go, big finish,” the doctor barked, her voice insanely controlled.

You were not made for the calm approach; you unleashed, grunting and pushing through as you fought with every once of strength you had left. It hurt so much suddenly you had stepped away from the moment, trying to focus on the effort without maintaining a full grasp on your body.

Your hearing muffled as your body resisted.

There was no way around this, but through it. You bucked against the stirrups and bore down one last time.

“We have a head!” The nurse exclaimed, excitement blooming in your chest.

You looked at Sam. Your tears of relief and wonder matched in his eyes. You pushed again, teeth clenched as an unholy growl escaped from deep inside you.

“It’s a boy!” The doctor cried.

You fell limp as they moved to clean up your son. Sam was called over for the cord. Somewhere in the chaos, the doctor got you through the afterbirth. Then, at long last, you were able to hold your baby.

Sam handed him to you as you adjusted to lay him flush to your chest, feeling his clammy skin to yours. He was so tiny, and warm, a wrinkled bruiser, and the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

“Ohhhhh,” you cooed through more tears. “Hey, buddy. It’s good to see you.”

You kissed his downy head, feeling peace float through you. You looked up to Sam, who remained standing, watching you with such reverence in his expression that you laughed at him.

“We did it,” you gushed.

“Nah, this one is all you,” Sam winked before he brushed his thumb over the back of the baby’s head.

“Where’s Dean?”

“He and Jack are in the waiting room,” Sam answered, not looking away from the baby’s face.

You nodded before you looked down to find the baby squirming against your breast. “Let them wait.”

Sam hummed in agreement.

“Alright, little man, this is your first lesson: driver picks the music, while carseat sleeps the whole way home. Ya got it?” Dean crooned down to your son as you snapped the last latch in place.

“That’s cute that you think I am going to let you drive him home,” you teased.

“What?! Come on, you can’t drive; I heard the doctor! You guys can ride with me and my baby! It is only right that his first car ride be in the Impala,” Dean argued. Sam sighed and Dean spun on the spot. “No, not you too.”

“There isn’t really the right kind of hook ups in the backseat, Dean,” Sam reasoned.

“Oh don’t you get all safety patrol on me now,” Dean huffed.

“I mean, we could always install some brackets----,” you started, smirking at Sam.

“I’m not even going to let you finish,” Dean cut you off. “Fine. Take your crappy import back. But Little Bobby is going to ride with me, sooner or later.”

You knew he was right. And you would have bet that Dean was already figuring out what hidden adjustments he could make without “yuppifying” his prized Chevy.

“Little Bobby?” Jack questioned, looking to Sam in confusion. Your husband just shrugged.

“What? You name my nephew Robert and don’t like it when I call him Lil Bobby?” Dean looked between you and Sam with an exasperated dead eye.

“We named him Robert Rafe John Winchester, Dean,” Sam clarified.

“We’re calling him RJ,” you finished.

“That’s nice,” Dean replied before leaning down and fist bumping your son’s little knuckles. “See ya at home, Lil Bobby. Your folks are nuts. Tough break, kid.”

“Right,” Sam chuckled as he picked up the handle on the bucket carseat, following you as the five of you made your way out of the hospital room. You walked behind Jack, who was lost in thought, as he kept up with Dean.

All your boys.

The only person missing was Mary; you felt her absence like a proverbial gray cloud hovering over your heads. There was still work to do, baby or no.

Sam and Dean wouldn’t quit until the world was safe. Their mother’s safety was only the next hurdle.

And you wouldn’t expect any less from your family. You knew your child would be protected; he didn’t need normal to be happy and healthy and neither did you.

You had everything you needed, you had your husband and your son. The hunt was out there waiting for when you were ready to get back to it.

You were complete.

Series tags: @dontshootmespence @ericaprice2008 @chucksnotonanyflatbread @reid-fiction @madlu45 @mogaruke @akshi8278 @mrswhozeewhatsis​

[professor-maka]

Social Cues

Hello and welcome to my 2019 Resbang offering!

Thanks first go to the mods and my first partner @mystery-shrouded, who had to put up with me for two straight years. Huge thanks as well to @guacamoletrash​ and @adonewithyou​, my awesome partners for this year. All of you have been wonderful and encouraging and have put up with my crazy, last minute shenanigans. Please check out their amazing art accompanying this on my tumblr.

Thanks also go to the many amazing betas who lent their eyes and encouragement to my efforts over the long haul, and to the Sinister Sisterhood, who always cheer me up and on.

Love you all. Happy reading.

You can find the amazing pieces Mystie created to go with this fic here.

Or listen to the amazing playlist by Guac here.

Or view the equally awesome art by Adonewithyou here. 

Finally, you can read this fic in full either on AO3 or FFN.

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Prologue 1: Missed Connection

His foot tap tap taps against cheap linoleum from his perch atop the closed toilet as he desperately tries to work towards nerve or calm or just saying fuck it and leaving outright, who the fuck knows? Soul sure as hell doesn't.

Why the hell had he agreed to this again?

She's really cool, Kilik had insisted. She loves jazz, too, maybe you'd hit it off. Couldn't hurt you to get out. Just show up, eh?

His ex-roommate had flashed a picture then, and Soul had said some inane thing while feeling absolutely nothing, and now here he is, hogging the dated, yellow, bachelor pad bathroom in a doomed attempt to get his shit together already.

A knock sounds at the door, the fifth or fiftieth, and a high voice asks, "Everything okay in there?"

"Occupied," he grits out for the dozenth time.

"Oh-kaaaay. Well, I really need to go, do you think you'll be done soon?"

"Gonna be awhile." It's half a grunt. He almost feels bad—she sounds a little desperate—but he can't quite bring himself to brave the perils of a blind date in the midst of a party, his worst nightmare made manifest, and he'd actually agreed to it like the flaming idiot he so clearly 's never even been on a date, yet here he is.

The girl on the other side of the door makes a noise of sheer frustration, but it's followed by heavy footsteps, so at least she's gotten the hint. Now to—do something. Maybe.

Gods, Wes must think he's fallen in. Well, that, or he's already managed to find his hook up of the evening and Soul will be left to his own devices. Not that he'd actually told his brother he's meeting someone, no fucking way. Wes is in town and bringing him had been his only option. He will never, on pain of death, admit that having his brother here is a mild comfort, no no no no no.

It's not like he's interested. He's never been interested. Soul doesn't date because there's never been anyone he's wanted to date. Romance, love, sex—it's all in his book of no thanks. Yeah, he knows he's supposed to want sex, knows the world thinks there's something wrong with him and maybe there is, but he just doesn't care. He flogs the snake when the mood strikes and that's that, no muss, no fuss, no gross spit to be exchanged.

The closest he's ever come to interest had been all of once, last year in a dive bar Kilik and Star had dragged him to. A chick in a short skirt, a long trench, and pigtails of all things had handed some rando his ass for daring to touch hers, then handed the guy's friend his ass in the bargain when he tried to step in. Watching her grind their faces under her combat boots before she was removed by the bouncer had been—well, interesting. Like he'd thought, hey, that's a girl he wouldn't mind talking to, even if she could definitely snap him in half.

Said girl has starred in a handful of dreams of the type he never thought he'd have, and that's that. That's the closest thing he's ever had to interest, a girl he watched kick fuck boi ass.

Maybe he is weird. Or broken. Something. Doesn't matter—right now he just needs a sliver of the type of nerve that girl had to make his way out of the damned shitter.

Soul really shouldn't have agreed to this, he just gets damned sick of his friends trying to hook him up and had thought, stupidly, maybe this would get them off his ass and, hell, he doesn't mind talking Jazz for a night.

Forcing himself off the toilet, he stands and looks in the mirror. The gray beanie is hiding his hair pretty well. Good. He looks relatively unapproachable in the worn band tee and flannel, the air of slacker wafting off his attire. Better. This way, he should be able to find her and then decide what to do next. Great. Perfect. Turning the faintly rusted knob for the faucet, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face as a reality check, wipes his face on his sleeve, and turns around. Time to commence operation what the fuck am I even doing.

Mercifully, no one is waiting outside the door as he opens it, white paint flaking from the worn edges of the doorframe as he pulls. He takes a few steps out and pointedly ignores the girl who charges past him, pigtails swinging in her haste to practically dive into the bathroom, in favor of scanning the room. It's loud, the press of bodies just ahead daunting, but the sooner Soul finds this Liz chick, the sooner he can suggest they maybe get some air. His eyes eyes continue to search the crowd, trying to separate the dizzying array of colors and limbs. Red. She should be in a red dress, her long blonde hair down, that's what Kilik said. Finding his brother is also acceptable, and maybe tall, pale blond in completely out of place designer slacks and a button up will be easier to spot.

Deep breath. Look again. Color, sound, light, smoke, the smell of pot and vomit and cheap booze. It's staggering. Nauseating. Sensory overload on every level. Soul has never been made for parties.

Ah!

His eyes zero in on a tall figure with a pale swath of hair against one wall. He'd recognize that overly neat hairstyle and overpriced shirt anywhere. Wes is pressed to the wall by another person, clearly having found his conquest for the evening. Or the other person's conquest. Whichever.

This time, it's a woman, with long blond hair and a slinky red dress.

Red. Dress.

His eyes scan the side of her face, or as much of it as he can see with her lips glued to his brother's mouth. The feeling of voyeurism is distinctly uncomfortable, but—

Shit. Shit. That is unmistakably the girl from the picture, Liz, who is equally unmistakably making out with his brother.

Fuck. His life. Leave it to his brother to hook up with the one blind date he's actually agreed to. The anger is completely unwarranted; truthfully, Wes is doing him a favor. But just—really?

What the fuck ever. He'd made Wes drive himself, so Soul heads for the door, relief and embarrassment and anger all wound up with the anxiety that cripples him. He doesn't need this shit.

Cool air hits his face and his head clears, relief washing over him. No more sensory overload, no more date, no more brother for the night. Good. Great.

Finding his bike, he gets on and speeds off, glad to leave behind yet another absurd act in the shit show he calls his life.

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

Read more on FFN or AO3

[feferipeixes]

Just one bite

A sequel to this ficlet by Seiya234.

===

The first soul Dipper ever ate tasted like nothing he could have ever imagined.

It went beyond taste, it went beyond feeling. It was as if his very being was being shaken by something sweeter than chocolate, saltier than his favorite potato chips, spicier than that hot pepper Mabel had made him eat when he lost a bet. With just one bite, he felt more alive than he ever had, even before the demonic fire burned the life clean off him. No more than a bite, and he felt like a wholly new person.

And he wanted more. More. M͇͍̘̝̀O̦̜̗̬R̤̙̝̪E-

No. That was enough. He may have become a demon, but that didn’t mean he had to act like it. The stupid dragon was wrong. He wouldn’t become a slave to this. He didn’t like it. He wouldn’t eat any more. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself. He was better than this!

He took another bite.

It wasn't a physical object, but he felt it fracture between his sharp teeth, heard the crunch echo around the cave. And it screamed, louder than he thought something could scream, not when it had neither a mouth nor a voice. Not when it was supposed to have already died in his hands. Yet scream it did -- so anguished and violent that it rippled through his being.

And that just made him hungrier.

He bit down again, and again. Shoved the rest of it in his craw so fast that he barely had time to savor it, because the rush was too great. It slid down his throat, and he never felt it hit the bottom.

More. He needed M͇͍̘̝̀O̦̜̗̬R̤̙̝̪E.

There were crumbs on his fingers. His tongue flitted out automatically to lick them up, and -- he paused. That was new. His tongue was rectangular, with a fork at the end, like a snake. He was sure it hadn't been that way before.

Or... maybe it had been. It was getting hard to think about.

Something other than a crunch echoed off the walls. Something a little more familiar, but at the same time, so so alien. His body shuddered as it passed through him, shaking him to his very core. It almost felt like it was coming out of him.

A strange, golden liquid dripped onto his hand. Someone was crying. Weird.

He folded his legs, and drew his knees up to his chest. Stubby wings popped out from his lower back. They seemed bigger now, and he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to get used to that -- he would though, he would and it would feel so natural that he couldn’t even imagine not having them -- but right now they felt weirdly comforting. As if he could wrap them around him like a tight blanket.

Was he sad? Demons didn’t get sad. So why was he acting like this? He tried to think, but his brain was too fuzzy. He was so, so hungry. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in years, even though he’d just -

Mabel. How was he going to tell Mabel? He couldn’t, he didn’t want her to know what new level he’d sunk to. She’d been so understanding so far, but there had to be a breaking point and then she’d be just like everyone else who’d run screaming away from him and he couldn’t breathe he wasn’t breathing when had he stopped -

He gasped, drawing in more than a lungful of air, and dissolved into a coughing fit. Flecks of golden blood splattered onto the ground. He wiped his mouth and then clutched his stomach in pain. What was he going to do? How was he going to make this stop?

He didn’t want this.

He hadn’t asked for it!

He was just a boy.

He could still remember how he felt only a year ago, looking up at Grunkle Ford and imagining himself all grown up. He was just a boy then too, but at that point his future seemed so bright. Now he wanted anything in the world other than to grow up.

Demons weren’t supposed to worry about things like this.

Somehow, he pushed himself to his feet. He wobbled a bit -- strange, when gravity had no power to shake him anymore -- and reached for the cave wall to steady himself. His hand rested on something wet and gross. He pulled it back and examined the blood on it. Watched but didn’t feel himself thrust his hand to his face so he could lick the blood off.

Ignored as best he could the rumble in his stomach as he took a step forward.

Run away. He’d run away. It was the only option. The only way everyone would be safe. The only way he could avoid seeing the disappointment on Mabel’s face.

She’d tell him it was okay, and he’d slump his shoulders and cry again, because it wasn’t okay, it would never be okay. And from then on, she’d know when he was hugging her that his stomach was rumbling and that he could snap at any moment.

She’d tell him it was okay, and he’d shudder because he’d see it, that glowing orb buried deep within her. He’d see the pearls of life coalescing on it. He’d hear how loud she could scream, the perfect garnish for such a delicious meal. He’d sweat at the prospect of all that power, all that energy. Salivate at the thought of sinking his teeth deep into it.

She’d tell him it was okay, and the rumble would shake through his body, deafening him with hunger. He couldn’t let that happen.

But the stupid dragon was right. He needed more. That soul was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted in his entire life and he’d never rest until he got M̡̭͓͓͇͋̍̋̚O̟̠ͣͫR̴̵̡̲͍̘͕̰̻̂̇ͪȄ̫̜̦̲̩̜ͦ̒̊̅͘.

At the mouth of the cave, he peered up with blinded eyes at the sky. Saw the clouds, and the trees, and the birds. Heard the gentle breeze tickle his form. Felt the burning, crushing guilt. The crippling emptiness in his stomach.

He took a running start and leapt into the air, soaring on bat wings that suddenly stretched wider than he was tall. The ground disappeared far below him, but he could pick out every living being with perfect clarity. They were hi̢͙̱͙̟̳͙s̷̗, after all. And even if they weren’t, it’d be so easy to fix that.

He was falling asleep. He hoped that when he woke up, he’d still remember who he was.

---

Hours later, Mabel came home from school to discover Dipper huddled in the laundry basket, wingless, covered in blood, eyes squeezed shut, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over again.

She reached in, grabbed his hands, and pulled him out. His outfit was a mess. His face was crumpled. He opened his eyes, but seemed to be deliberately avoiding making eye contact with her. She’d seen him do this before. Whatever happened must’ve been pretty bad.

They stayed like that for a couple of minutes. She knew he’d talk when he was ready to. But he didn’t. Instead, he bent over and puked until the floor was covered in golden glitter and little chunks of goodness-knows-what.

She stood frozen in shock for a moment. This... was new. She wasn’t afraid, she was just... worried. Were demons supposed to be able to get sick? She didn’t know what was going on -- neither of them did, these days -- but she wanted him to be okay.

So she sat down beside him. Patted him on the back. Whispered that it was okay.

He leaned into her chest and started to cry.

And underneath his crying, she heard something rumble.

(AO3 link)

[thejackalsden]

Throw Me To The Wolves; I Thought You Were One

    Young love was always the same; foolish and blind. The only daughter of a lower class family, Angela relied more on her wits and determination than anything else, Nora and Liam worked hard to let her have a fitting education, but she always was grateful. She still drove to be the best she could, catching many an eye as she grew into a fine young lady.

     Even the eye of the son of a wealthy family, Empire supporters that swore their money could buy anything they pleased - and that included Angela for their son, so they thought. Angela was foolish, hopelessly in love, so she believed, and she would’ve given him the world, or what she could of it. Even now, coming home from a long day, there’s tell tale signs of how it went - notably, the blood spot suspiciously like a hand print on the lower half of her skirt, and the fact that blonde hair was down around her shoulders for once, hiding her exhausted features. But seeing him - immaculately dressed, as always, in pressed suits and that blank indifference - had a smile curling her features. Perhaps he just hadn’t noticed her, and she could sneak up behind him.

     She certainly tried, arms about to wrap around him from behind, before the low ‘Angela’ caught her off guard. A smile, that didn’t reach blue eyes, as he regarded her, allowing her to wrap her arms around him and press her forehead to the back of a shoulder blade.

     “Ugh, don’t look at me, I need a bath and to forget today happened,” a sigh, leaning into him. The chuckle caught her off guard, as she peered up at him, “Dev?”

     “No worries, I’m to tell you dinner will be soon anyways, and they even invited me to stay this time,” she doesn’t see the smirk, but Angela perks up. Perhaps her father was coming around, and maybe there was a chance. She perks, knowing Devlin felt the house was too small, too cramped, and preferred to stay outside unless absolutely necessary, enjoying her mother’s garden instead. But she leaned up, a hand along his cheek to turn his head and plant a kiss there, “I’ll be back quick then,” she promises, darting into the house to be able to clean up and change for dinner. A glance back before she ducks into the house, quick to be greeted by her mother cooking - her father no doubt hadn’t returned, or was cleaning up himself.

     Dinner was the same as always - with the added tension of her father glaring at Devlin, daring him to make a comment that Nora Ziegler’s food wasn’t quite up to his standards as he picked at it - and Nora was just delighted to chat with Angela over her day. It wasn’t until they had wound down, that the tension broke, and even Angela was worried.

     “You know, Angela, you should come stay with me. Far better lodgings, plus you’d be closer to work,” a glance to the young woman, and that smirk was still there, “Though I don’t see why you even bother,” a shake of his head, “There’s plenty of healers tripping over themselves to go be in the line of fire.”

     A frown, and Angela’s eyes looked to her lap, fiddling with the skirt - dressed in earthern colors like she always did at home, greens and blues - but it was her father, Liam clearing his throat, “Angie has always wanted to help others. She’s almost a grown woman, free to make her own decisions on what she wants to do with her life,” a warning - clear as day - and Nora was busying herself with clearing the table. It left Angela to just sit quietly between them.

     “And she could do much better, that’s all I’m saying,” a shrug from Devlin, and Angela frowned, looking to him, as he reached out to tuck hair behind her ear, a finger under her chin to raise that gaze to his, and he hummed, “It’s why, Mister Ziegler, I’m here to request your permission to marry her,” He offered, that grin tilted towards Liam now, whose lips only set in a line. Angela, while admittedly stunned into silence, eyes wide as she blinked at Devlin, was speechless, fingers reaching out to rest on his arm, as she looked to her father.

     He knew her heart, and knew she wanted to be a healer, to help. Liam knew, without a doubt, that this man would keep her from that. But seeing those blue eyes watching him, and feeling his wife’s hands settle on his shoulders, he looked from Angela to Devlin, and maintained that stony composure, “Like I said, she is almost a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. I will not decide that for her.” A shake of his head, and he pushed himself up, excusing himself as Nora pulled him into the kitchen. Angela was only fifteen, and while the Zieglers were by no means rich, they were happy. They wanted the same for their daughter, and would a marriage so young truly offer that?

     It forced Devlin to be alone with Angela, looking to her as a thumb brushed her cheek, just under her eye and forcing her to meet his gaze, “Well, what do you say, my little songbird? Give up staying here, come be a proper wife and we can find you some better way to spend your time,” he murmured, leaning forward towards her, as if knowing he was going to be able to win her over and convince her. But Angela just frowned. Fidgeting, even.

     “I cannot leave my parents, Devlin, Mama still appreciates the help around the house, and papa doesn’t always get himself patched up before he comes home. Besides, I promised them I’d stay until I was eighteen. It’s the least I can do for them, after all they’ve done for me,” she’s innocent in telling the truth, looking up to him. She adores her parents, still. Even if she had a few years still to go - the modest birthday cake from a few days ago still was covered and on the kitchen counter, they had meant to finish it off tonight as a family, when they wandered into the garden to admire the night sky.

     But instead, Devlin just rolls his eyes, that disgust there as he moves to stand with a sigh, “You’ll come around, little girl,” a pat to her head, and she just offers a quiet smile, “You could still visit them, you just wouldn’t have to stay here all the time. Free to come and go, almost,” though it was a lie. Devlin merely wanted the trophy of an attractive wife, and Angela certainly fit the bill. Naive enough to trust him, and follow him blindly. He just...could see the obstacles in his way now. And it was a quiet murmur of parting, insisting he would see her again before they knew it. Parting with a kiss, he was quick to duck outside, and head back towards home. It had Angela watching him go, before turning to see her parents there, waiting. It was a simple matter of stepping back inside, enjoying their company as Nora insisted on cake for dessert, anything to see Angela’s smile come back.

     It wasn’t until later that night, however, when she had settled in for the evening with her favorite book, that the chaos had truly begun. 

     The shattering of glass, and Angela was already moving to her feet, poking her head out of the door. She can see her parents’ door already open, and the room empty - so surely they were downstairs and she could just go back to bed, but there’s something about how quiet it is afterwards, and no sooner is her hand on the banister to head downstairs, is she stunned into silence.

     Blood seeps into the floor, the carpet ruined, and her father is clutching at a gaping wound on his throat, front coated with his own blood, and he’s so very pale. She knows it’s a lost cause - her mother is curled on the floor in the kitchen, so very still, and still laying in a puddle of her own blood, and Angela sees the source of shattering glass. The kitchen window is gone, an Imp perched upon the edge of it, watching her, even as she grabs a towel to kneel - soaking that night gown with her father’s blood as she tries to press a cloth to his neck, to try anything she can think of, though her mind goes blank. This is stress she isn’t accustomed to. Strangers she doesn’t know? She can heal that, bumps and bruises? Sure. Wounds more suited in torture and war? She’s frozen. 

     Liam is mouthing something, and it’s a weak attempt to push her away, trying to urge her to flee, to run, to save herself. He can’t bear to see when the tears start, when she wraps arms around him and sobs - it’s the last thing before his vision and conscious fade, that Angela has him in her lap, stunned, and uselessly trying to clean him up.

     But the front door is all but kicked open, imperial infantry seen there - and she’s grateful, gesturing to the imp upon the windowsill, where it screeches and tries to flee. But when she’s the one yanked to her feet, forced to stand and pulled from her parents, she’s back to confusion. She’s too stunned to notice when she’s handed off, and it isn’t until she feels arms around her - that first instinct to flinch and cry out - before recognizing Devlin, and she turns to hide against him, sobbing. Incoherent sobs, drowning out whatever he’s said to the infantry that tried to grab her, dismissing them, or at least getting them to stand down.

     “Darling songbird,” a hum, and he’s fighting that smirk, “I was merely making a choice for you, so you can be free from your cage,” he murmured, and while it took a moment for his comment to sink in, when it did, she froze. Horror is on her features as she tries to back up from him, shaking her head, “Now, don’t be like that, you deserve a better, bigger cage, gilded and pretty just like you,” that snake like grin is back, and he goes to reach for her only for Angela to lash out. Hands lash, a smack connecting as she flees back towards the house, cut off by a group of the imps now. She’s stuck in the garden, soaked by her father’s blood, horrified by what had happened, and the rest was nothing more than a blur. A rage settling deep in her chest, and blanking out the pain, the anguish, as movements became automatic.

     Later, when she’d come down from her rage - and the crippling pain radiating from her spine, from where an Imp had sliced her back open - she’d realize she had torn him apart for the demons. A garden spade - small and conveniently tucked into a flowerbed her mother had tended just hours before - had been her weapon of choice, and even now, collapsed on the ground like she was...She was numb. Skin crawled, and she was sagged on her side, unable even to roll, as tears fell freely from closed eyes.

     It only makes it worse when she feels hands on her - wanting to scream, to lash out and rip them apart for daring to try and touch her, but she can’t move. There’s no response and her limbs feel so very heavy, unresponsive. Is this what it felt like to die? Or was it something the Imperials had done? Angela couldn’t even fight when they unceremoniously scooped her up, the words nothing but a heavy, dull roar in her ears as they moved about. All she heard was something about tests and something being promising. 

     All Angela Ziegler knew, as her world went dark, and quiet, was she’d been betrayed, and while her limbs were heavy, and she couldn’t move, nothing compared to the hollowness in her chest where her heart had shattered, at the first bitter taste of betrayal and heartbreak.

[lovemissmini]

Set me free

Pairing: yoongi x Reader

Warnings: suggested smut?, character death. Car crash.

Length: 1K+

Genre: Angst

Summary: Love was never something you could set someone free of, always haunting with the never fading scars it left behind. Be it the first time or the last, it was in its unforgiving nature that love was a curse. But everything would will be alright as he holds you in his embrace.

A/N: First time angst. The ending is a bit meh... But I tried. 

You bask in the comfort of his presence, sheltering yourself in the heaviness of his embrace, cloaking in the familiar scent that belonged only to him. You wish upon the stars that once filled the dark galaxy of his eyes, praying to each and every one of them for the moment to last, for time to fall into itself, for the present to collapse into eternity as the fabric of time stretches at the seams. You pray that you could drift asleep in the peace his arms brought over you. Pray for time to dilate the very moment your eyes close shut, knowing he was there with you as you dreamt of him, and so you do not wake for a long long time.

But fate, despite all its beauty, was as cruel and wicked as it was crippling. You knew that seconds, the minutes, the hours you had were limited- just like the fine grains of sand that filled a timer. You knew his eternity, unlike yours, had long past. Had fallen out of sync with your steps.

Even so, you choose denial. You choose to ignore all this and luxuriate in his presence. Lifting your eyes, you take in his gentle sleeping form- the wonderful translucent quality of his pale skin, the slight parting of his pink petal lips, soft exhales escaping to fan over you, inky locks of hair that spiked wildly from last night’s abuse. And so, your hand moves over to cradle the sharpness of his jaw, thumb reaching to smooth over the highs of his sculptured cheek bones. Your gentle affection slowly luring him out of sleep’s clutches as his long eye flutter open, dark chocolate eyes adjusting to the golden rays that filtered in the room, showering the room in a warm hue.

You watch his lips pull into a small smile when his eyes connect with yours once again. Taking the opportunity, you close the distance between you, lips colliding into his, hands gripping his worn-out shirt, keeping him from escaping. You explore the pillow-y softness of his lips, plush from sleep and swollen from your continuous attack. Your tongue darts out to lick the velvet flesh, devouring a groan that reverberated deep from his throat- threatening to escape into silent room.

Mind hazy, you break away, gasping for air like a fish out of water, desperate to recover and continue the blatant act of affection. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer as he leaned into small grove at the base of your neck.

“Good Morning to you too.” Voice thick with sleep and hoarse from the wildness of last night, smiling against a small bruise of love.

You hand smoothed the rebellious mop of raven hair that stood untamed, you carded your fingers through the silky fibres in hope to calm the chaotic result of your heated passion.

“I have to go now.” His tone was soft and light, barely a whisper as it brought reality crashing back through the walls of happiness and content. No longer could you indulge in the comfort of him- like a sunbather relishing the warm of the sun. Your body freezes, soul plummeting into the cold waters of Antarctica as panic sets into your still form.

A a gentle hand caresses your face as a thumb wiped away the tear that had fell unnoticed by you.

“One last night.” You plead, hands gripping tightly onto the soft fabric of his well-worn shirt, clutching it like a lifeline, like he would escape and fade away into nothingness if you held only slightly looser- because you knew he would.

The determination in his feline eyes faltered, softening instantly as they took in your weakening state.

He lifts one of your hands to cup his face, covering your smaller one with his own larger one, thumb drawing nameless shapes onto its back, relishing the comfort of your touch before turning his face to leave a quick kiss on your palm.

“You said that last night.” He said, firmer with new found intent. “and the nights before. It’s not healthy.”

Tears began to prickle your vision again, threatening to fall. You try to work you throat to form words, to promise it was the last, but air seemed to constrict as overwhelming emotions forced a strangled whine out instead. So, you moved to bury yourself in the crook of his neck, inhale the scent that belong only to him, allowing it to comfort your shattered heart.

Yoongi kissed your forehead, just like the countless times he had done so before, just like he did every morning.

You remember the day he called you out. The day you felt the first stab of love, like a sunset, a glorious burst of colours- vibrant oranges, pastel pinks and bursts of purples. It was so blinding you had to shield yourself from the intensity that washed over, letting it drown out all the dull greys and frozen blues of your world.

You remember his distaste in PDA, but always finding more subtle ways to assure you of his affections. Be it a simple wordless passing of a bottle of water, silent appearances of things you never knew you needed until you saw them, or the occasional breakfast the next day after a tiring day of work. It was all the tiny gestures, fulfilling of small needs that only he would notice. It was the gentle trickling stream of comfort and ever-present care he provided that was enough, that showed his love; for gentle rivers carved out mountains.

But even the most beautiful of things were destined to wither and wilt, and that day just happened to arrive so early, so… unexpected. All it took was being at the wrong place at the wrong time, a drink one too many, a flash of lights, a heavy push and a screech of tires. That was all it took for fate to take him away- leaving you behind.

You could never forgive the man behind the wheels. Your friends and family tried to comfort you, ease the pain that spread like wildfire. The scorching agony that was burning everything in its heated fury, rendering all attempts to futile. The damage was done. You were broken. Heart shattering into a thousand pieces like a mirror, no matter how much they tried to glue you back together, your smile would never reflect the same happiness; pain forever tainting the cracks.

But now, with him back in your arms, you couldn’t, wouldn’t let him slip away again. You could relive a fraction of the life you had with him in the comfort of your home. As long as he was here, with you, you could stay here forever. As long as he was here, nothing else mattered. Fate could have its way, tearing apart all else and you wouldn’t care. You didn’t care. As long as he was here.

But deny as you may, he could not. He remembered what had happened that day. Remembered finding you seven days after with hollow lifeless eyes filled with desperation in a room he did not recognise. Remembered the room filled with charms and candles, the eerie chanting of an elderly woman in the background. Remembered the ancient scripts painted onto every inch of his skin in a sickening red.

And he knew, he saw how you fell off the ship of sanity, like a pirate walking the plank, into the storming ocean. How you drowned in its raging waves of hate and sorrow, let it consume you in the depths of anguish. How you were too intoxicated with his presence, addicted to the euphoric passion of his love to care that he lacked warmth, lacked a heartbeat. He watched as dark veins spread over time- like spiderwebs across your chest. He watched as its inky tendrils snaked deeper and further across your skin with every touch of his. The way life he was leeching out the very life from within you.

Leaning forward, his cold lips connect lightly with yours. Lingering as he bathed in your warmth one last time. Echoing words of affection with muted moans- wordlessly he loved you, the silent ‘now and forever’s.

He whispers against you mouth as he breaks away; and he was gone. Only the soft shadow of his words hovered in air.

Set me free

[firehrt]

           SHE  knew exactly where her ‘copy’ would be. There was no thought necessary, no useless glancing at the bizarre electronic device they’d shoved into her hand the first eve of her arrival. She had heard whispers of the new areas that had opened up, and whispers were all she needed --- all her copy needed, too. Because whether that copy recalled what had really happened in her life or not, there was no doubt in her mind that the comfort she’d found as a child remained the same. 

           Whenever she’d been scolded for letting her fire run loose again, whenever she became harshly aware that the presence of family couldn’t make up for the presence of friends she’d never had, the wilds of Terrasen had been her sole comfort. As she neared the outskirts of Mistwood, a light fog licking at her heels and the familiar sounds of woodland life enveloping her like a bubble, her stomach sank down to her toes. It wasn’t the same --- the scent was off. That familiar, elusive scent of pine and snow... 

           Aelin took off at a sprint, steps muffled beyond what seemed to be human capacity. There was no time to worry about what would happen if she were too late, if ‘her’ sanity had been crippled beyond repair; there was no time to entertain the notion that this duplicate likely had no killing calm, no deadened emotion to keep herself sane; there was no time to entertain the pang of jealousy that caused, knowing good and well this ‘duplicate’ had the benefit of a comfortable childhood. It made her no less deadly, of course... Terrasen had once been the military power of its day, and it hadn’t earned that right overnight. As she slipped in and out of dense foliage and its shadows, bounding over rocks and avoiding thick roots that snaked across the forest floor, Aelin assured herself she was prepared for anything. She was not. 

          Her duplicate didn’t stir when she skidded to a stop mere feet away, giving no outward sign of even hearing her approach. She was curled in a ball, body racked with sobs that were barely muffled by the sleeves she’d buried her face in. Those sobs were far more than grief --- they were an automatic response to stress and panic, frustration, anger; her crying had once emerged at so much as a loud noise, something that ceased to exist after being molded by the King of the Assassins. Aelin had assumed that position more times than she’d care to admit, and as she looked upon... Herself... She felt as if she were glimpsing into the past. Mistwood was gone, and in its place was the biting cold of Endovier. 

          The salt mines were always frigid, the weather always overcast and grey --- and the salt deep below the surface. She’d nearly frozen on the way there, but she’d take that uncomfortable cold over the searing pain she felt arcing constantly along her back. They’d whipped her almost immediately after her arrival; cut off the long hair she’d been so proud of, stripped her of the clothes she’d been wearing the day the love of her life died, and strung her up for everyone to see. Each crack of the barbed whip had sunk deeper than her skin, a calculated attempt to chip away at her dignity, her willpower --- the only things that were still her own. 

         Celaena had done her best to prepare herself on the ride to Endovier, but now there was no need. She remained curled in a ball long after they’d finished rubbing salt into her wounds --- quite literally. The salt the prisoners had mined themselves; next time it would be her own salt they rubbed, according to the warden. She’d been through plenty in her time with Arobynn, but it had never prepared her for the searing pain she felt now; blinding, constant, a relentless sting that simultaneously felt as if it were constantly ripping her skin apart at the seams. Her frame was racked with sobs, and the pain from that simple motion only made her sob harder. The only thing that made her stop was the sheer surprise at the sudden relief against her skin --- a gentle touch, a wordless gesture. Fellow prisoners murmured amongst themselves in a language she couldn’t understand ( and after some time, it occurred to her that it must be Eyllwe ). It took some effort, but when she lifted her head, a young woman met her gaze as she continued to rub a salve gingerly along Celaena’s wounds. Her face wasn’t sunken from malnutrition yet, although she seemed frail by comparison --- and she still had the energy to smile, albeit strained, her motions steady despite the intense shivers that now racked the assassin’s body. 

           That salve had saved her life, Aelin recalled, lips pressed into a grim line. That woman’s death not long afterward, brutalized by the same men that had whipped her, was one of many, many things that had pushed her over the edge the day she almost touched the wall. Even now, that despair was lodged deeply in her psyche --- burrowed somewhere just behind her eyes, clawing at her throat as she abruptly found herself back in the present. 

                 ❝   Get up.   ❞   Her voice was hoarse, but steady.   ❝   Why do you cry ?   ❞

           A chill darted down her spine as she realized the familiarity of that question --- and it ran right back up it as her duplicate sobbed her reply into the earth.  ❝   Because I am lost... And I do not know the way.   ❞

          It seemed some things were destined to be. Among them, she was beginning to realize, was her suffering. Even in this place, where her duplicate had been given the chance at a happy life, someone saw fit to tarnish it ( and it was undoubtedly some-one, as it was always some-one ). Her knees quaked as she squatted down toward the ground, fingers planted against the firm soil.  ❝   I have been lost, too... Trust me, you know the way.   ❞  She suddenly felt a surge of confidence, recalling who had gotten through to her when all else failed --- when she’d been ready to let fate take her. Her hand slid out to grasp ‘her’ own, squeezing until it hurt; her voice was soft and pleading, betraying the urgency she knew they both felt.   ❝   Get up.   ❞

          She rose. 

          Just like before, she rose at Aelin’s own behest --- even as tears still blurred her vision, even as snot still caked her nose in an utterly unattractive display of dismay. Her duplicate clenched her fist even as her body quaked, lacing her fingers with the original’s own. Even as her lower lip trembled --- another annoying habit from her younger years that Arobynn had eradicated rather quickly --- that glimmer in her eyes... The indignation, the resolve, the anger at having to be in this position at all --- that was Aelin Galathynius. There was nothing else to say; her duplicate gave her a stiff nod, and Aelin could only wonder if they had enough rational thought to even know what the original intended. She seemed disappointed when the original pulled out her phone, utilizing the application as she’d been instructed --- the clone had clearly been expecting a more gruesome end. Perhaps a fight to the death. That, too, was most definitely Aelin Galathynius. 

          There was nothing dramatic or ceremonious about the process. One moment there were two of her --- the next, the warmth had left her fingers ( although the dirt that caked her duplicate’s palm had now transferred to hers, proof it --- she... Had really existed ). As soon as she was alone, the quaking in Aelin’s body reached a fever pitch. She braced herself against a thick tree for support, clenching her eyes shut and jaw tight as she forcibly swallowed down the rising memories. She couldn’t do this now; she couldn’t skim back over Sam’s horrific final hours, Nehemia’s mutilated body, her parents --- 

          There was no stopping the bile, and she didn’t bother. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d retched at the thought. Aelin supposed there was nothing quite as close to reliving the experience --- next to actually, physically reliving it --- as being confronted with herself. Predictably, a calm washed over her immediately after wiping her mouth with the back of her hand; a numbness, an outright refusal of feeling even as she struggled to breathe. With quick, measured steps, she considered her business here done. 

[edennohebi]

the haze had proven itself to live up to the often applied nickname of hell time & time again; & yet, you had adjusted. you had found a way to exist here, if only by the skin of your teeth. though the serpents were cruel & monstrous, & some of those around you were less than stable -- maybe, just maybe, you could survive & things would go on without too much disturbance.

for that, saeru would laugh & call you an ill-bred fool: a prisoner who had grown far too comfortable in their prison, & needed to be reminded of their place.

it seemed that this would serve as your wake up call to their reality. things had carried on as they usually had in the haze -- up until all of the television sets had begun to flicker alive. previously they had been filled to the brim with nothing more than static: the wash of scrambling grey & the scratching-like noise had been enough fuel to make the ears wary & your sense of intuition slightly unsettled. but it had been nothing more than fuzz, right? it could have been easily ignored; but today, the snakes would not allow such. 

their only use was for that of the snakes & they had never been a good sign. immediate apprehension twists in your core, & your hands feel clammier -- your eyes had no choice: it was not a matter of wanting or not wanting to, the hushed whispers in your ears of the snakes would force you to focus on it until they decided you could stop. every passing second in this never-moving world was torturous, but soon, the screen would twist & shift into focus. however, it was not one of the lesser snakes who appeared on the screen, but the queen & 'king' themselves seated upon their respective thrones.

though neutral in demeanor at first, once the camera locks onto clearing eyes himself his expression tears into a grin: whatever hope that had sat in your heart would soon be torn to shreds.

“my my -- what a magnificent sight to behold ! nothing pleases me more than to see you all stricken with such lost & hopeless expressions: like meager lambs, led along to their untimely massacre. ” he breathes a chuckle, & a sickening tremble teeters into his words -- ‘enjoying it’ was an understatement. “ wonderful, wonderful ! ”

he hums to himself, lids lowered coquettishly. “ of course, your curiosity must be maddening, hm? how you must be starving for answers -- wondering to yourselves, 'what’s this all about?', or perhaps, 'is this the end?' aahh -- please, do continue on with your endless queries ! after all, only i can grant you the knowledge you so seek. you have wandered into a garden, & i shall bestow-- ”

from the background, a voice belonging to none other than the jackal rings higher than saeru’s, excited & growing louder, much to his displeasure. ‘ papa! i wanna do it -- i wanna do it!!! ’ 

before she can be denied, the camera angle is pulled, &. the demonic canine now stares directly into the lens.

‘ what papa was saying is that things are going to really start picking up! everybody seemed to be getting kinda relaxed about the idea of dying, & i guess it’s because you all got used to the idea that mama could just bring you back, all nice & pretty, right? unfortunately for you, that’s starting to get a little annoying, now, so it won’t be happening anymore. you stupid humans shouldn’t forget that even though mama was gracious enough to give, she can just as easily take away. since all of you seem to need a lesson, in it, consider this chapter one! ’

‘ because everyone is just fine with losing their lives all the time, every one of you is going to start losing your senses, too -- some of you won’t be able to see in front of you, or hear who’s approaching from behind. some of you won’t be able to feel it when someone touches you, or have the pleasure of smelling or tasting your next meal. for some of you, that might be easier, & you can live without it. for someone else, though, maybe they’ll be bothered enough that they’ll finally kill someone on their own terms & stop waiting for it to be something as small as a dare? ’

‘ either way, it’s going to get worse the longer you make us wait for someone to kill somebody else, & if you keep doing it in those little games to make sure mama can bring you back, maybe she’ll just stop making everything work right, on your body? i sure hope you’ll be okay trying to run away from your next killer with a clubbed foot, or hold a weapon with fingers that won’t close around the hilt! ’

‘ & for the first person who doesn’t keep us waiting, if you’d like to stir up the pot some more, & make everyone really hate & fear you, we wanna offer a little reward. if you really want to get back to your happy little lives, or to your friends & families, make it a point to come straight to us, so we can go ahead & let everyone know who decided they couldn’t take it, anymore! ’

‘ kekeke..that said, you should probably hurry. someone else might have the same ideas as you, now, & that just means the clock is ticking. ’

before the jackal can continue on further with her rambling, a hand is quick to grab a fistful of her shirt. off the ground she goes, akin to a cat picked up by it’s scruff, & is soon deposited into the queen’s lap with a hiss of "children should only speak when told to, brat."

‘ ppft ... ’

there’s a distinct click of the tongue as clearing eyes comes back into view, expression marginally soured. but he’ll continue: such is his job.

“ what a tragedy, ” there’s a false lament in his tone, uncaring entirely, “ for you to have been fed false information. the child only speaks in half-truths: error laces itself so easily into the words of the unknowing & the idiotic. you see, to assume her Majesty holds any mercy for your pitiful lives at all is rather bold -- stupidly so. gorge yourself on the rush of blood lust & adrenaline if you so wish. it’s quite the spectacle, but ah -- do not expect things to continue on as they had. ”

a hint of a smirk plays on his lips.

“ after all, you had killed so ruthlessly with security, had you not? the assurance that death here was not permanent, that your fates lied at the Queen’s fingertips, & so long as someone died, they would return. ” a snorted ‘how stupid’ follows suit, “ it would be no fun at all, right? imagine: suffering the consequences for your actions & facing the throes of guilt! ”

he laughs.

“ imagination is a useless thing. a pitiful realm of fantasy holds no weight here; instead, you must face your reality. allow me to explain: if you are harmed, our hands will no longer heal. survival is something you must fight tooth & nail for: not something simply handed over. further more, if you are to kill, i advise you be aware of the consequences. prophets once spoke of a belief -- ‘an eye for an eye’, was it? those who kill unashamedly before a crowd will be killed in return -- by my hand. understand?  ”

“ ah, & one more thing. i'm sure none of you wish to be without your most valued of senses. animals who are crippled, after all, are nothing more than easy prey. " he hums. " if you desire them once more, then you must commit murder: & get away with it effortlessly. pure & simple. if you cover your tracks, then you shall be guided towards the gates of freedom: but if you are to fail, then you must pay for your foolishness & mistakes as aforementioned. but the risk is well worth a chance of livelihood again," his head tilts, eyes narrowing in tease. " isn't it? ”

he sits back, though his hand seems to stay within immediate eye-shot. the Queen & Ellen are within view, too: though the Queen’s gaze is fixated upon the screen, her hand runs idly through ellen’s hair, perhaps in pacification. even so, all of their smiles hint at sadism, & the unison in their ‘farewell’ fails to bode well. a moment passes, & the screen becomes void of their image; only leaving you with your thoughts & the mind numbing sound of static on the televisions once more. they have thrown you to the dogs, & now they will serve as spectators in your suffering.

                          WELCOME TO THE NEXT TRAGEDY                                                                   ( The Story of Eyes Rendered Sightless )

UPDATES :

✘ welcome to the first chapter! this one is considerably longer than all the future ones to both get players used to the format and accommodate for upcoming holidays.  ✘ as allured to, characters will lose one of their five senses as result of the queen’s power. we've used RNG to decide what muses lose what sense, and you can find that under the READ MORE below. please note that these senses will be returned once someone is killed and a body drop post is made . ✘ for reference, characters who lost SIGHT are completely blind and extremely vulnerable as potential victims, characters who lost TASTE have a constant taste of lead in their mouth that will not go away as they cannot taste other flavors, characters who lost TOUCH are completely numb and can not feel ANYTHING -- including pain, characters who lost their HEARING are completely deaf and easy to sneak up on, and characters who lost their SMELL just simply cannot take in any aromas. there is a sixth handicap, but such is reserved for the Old Master as you’ll see below. if FOR SOME REASON your muse’s name is not in the list, let a mod know and we’ll add it. ✘ this ALSO means that WE ARE NOW ACCEPTING MURDERER / VICTIM VOLUNTEERS . please message a mod or send an ask if you wish to volunteer, and do not tell ANYONE if you did and whether you were or were not accepted. ✘ you may no longer kill each other in games of truth or dare, kings game, etc. if you do, the murderer WILL be killed by saeru. you MAY injure each other to your heart’s content without punishment, however, but if you go too far and someone dies, your muse will be held accountable. ✘ further, wounds attained from truth or dare will NO LONGER BE HEALED. you may only buy a medkit or hope to god you get medical supplies from the raffle, otherwise you’re on your own.

Shintaro Kisaragi | TOUCH

Toko Fukawa | SMELL

Hiyori “Ice Queen” Asahina | HEARING

Hiyori “Hiyo” Asahina | SIGHT

Samael | SMELL

Tsubomi Kido | SIGHT

Shuuya Kano | SMELL

Elodie Masters | SIGHT

Satou Matsuzaka | TOUCH

Marry Kozakura |  THE ABILITY TO SPEAK

Katherine Baker | HEARING

Henry "Stein" Dobbs | SMELL

Ayano “Charlatan” Tateyama | SIGHT

Kousuke "Amata" Seto | HEARING

Haruka "Pompompurin" Kokonose | TASTE

Vincent Nightray | TOUCH

Ayano “Aya-nee” Tateyama | SMELL

Korekiyo Shinguji | TOUCH

Magdalena Parks | HEARING

Meredith Dacosta | TOUCH

Rachel Devore | SMELL

Uta | TASTE

Rantaro “Ran” Amami | HEARING

Momo Kisaragi | TOUCH

Hisashi "Usagi" Yoshida | SIGHT

Tempo | SMELL

Rosaline Viviani  | TOUCH

Ayano "Nee-Nee"Tateyama | SMELL

Azami | THE ABILITY TO SPEAK

Tsukihiko Kozakura | SIGHT

Shion Kozakura | HEARING

Tomoyo Daidouji | SIGHT

Valentine Damis | TOUCH

Kousuke “Kose” Seto | SIGHT

Momoka Oginome | HEARING

Satou’s Aunt | SMELL

Kitaumekawa Daichi | TOUCH

Charlotte Wiltshire | TOUCH

Kurogane | HEARING

Yue | SIGHT

Touma Kozakura | HEARING

Rin Kido | SIGHT

Garven | HEARING

Frisk | SMELL

Renji Yomo | TASTE

Ian Ortega | SIGHT

[imagine-it-ouran]

Secrets

Rating: PG13

Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club

Trigger Warning: Self-harm, self-hatred, depression, anxiety.

Summary:  Kaoru knew what those wounds were from. How had he not been caught sooner? Why had it been Kaoru to find this out and not someone else? It might have hurt less if it had been anyone else. “Kaoru...”

Finally, a day off from school had come around. Kyoya could lay in bed all day and revert back to his usual state away from the public. He could sleep all day and blame it on being exhausted from a hard week in school and not from this crippling depression telling him there was no point in doing anything. The only thing that got him out of bed during the week was the overwhelming anxiety telling him he will never succeed and will amount to nothing if he didn’t just get out of bed and do his work in school. Of course, the anxiety still affected him during his days off, but he pushed it back into his brain and tried to just deal with it. Sometimes it was possible. Other times, not so much.

Today, however, the sun shone in through the blinds on his sliding glass door right next to his bed. He didn’t need the anxiety and stress to shake him awake. But whether he needed it or not, it still came around and poked at him like kids trying to wake an angry bear with a stick. A date had been scheduled today; a date between himself and his boyfriend, Kaoru. The one day he’d get to stay in bed and he couldn’t do that.

This always happened.

He’d make plans with someone and be happy with them. He would be excited, even, to go through with this plans later. But, no matter who it was these appointments were made with, Kyoya would dread them when the day came. It was like the eerie voice in his sick brain would tell him it would all go to shit and he might as well cancel. He might as well play like he was sick. But he couldn’t do that today. He couldn’t do that to this boy who seemed to be helping him a little. Kaoru was so good for him and he had no right to let Kaoru down like that.

So he sucked it up. Kyoya pulled himself out of bed, no matter how badly he just wanted to avoid everything by curling up under the sheets again. He had already woken up later than he was supposed to. It was already half past eleven and he had yet to shower and brush his teeth. Kyoya pulled it together, though, and he stalked down the steps in his room and to the dressers on the first level. The outfit he chose was blindly picked from the drawers, not much thought was given to them. Black pants with a casual button-up shirt. It was grey. Neutral and faded, even his clothes seemed to reflect the way he felt about the world. Indifferent and foggy.

After a hot shower and a poor attempt at making his hair look neater than the bedhead he had earlier, Kyoya grabbed his phone to see if he had gotten anything. Not surprisingly, he had. Texts from Tamaki, mostly, but one text from Kaoru that was sent at nine. It was simple; a good morning text similar to every other good morning text he had received from this new love of his. If you could even call it that. Their date was set for one in the afternoon at Kyoya’s home. Nothing too extravagant. It could hardly be called a date, really, they were just lounging around with each other. They had just wanted a lazy day together.

He texted back; another good morning text only this was sent a quarter past twelve. Kyoya wondered if it was too late to cancel. That gnawing urge in his brain made it hard not to just send something about feeling sick. He put his phone down, though. He felt empty and unmotivated to do anything.

There was always a way to cope with that deadening feeling. Sure, it wasn’t healthy, but it worked. The pain was a better feeling than feeling nothing at all and he could do anything to bring this feeling unto himself. Digging his nails into his skin, dragging a blade across his flesh in all sorts of places, punching into his leg when frustrated. There were little things he could do and he’d done them. It had become an addiction. How was it he had never been found out at this point? He didn’t have time to think about that, though. If Kyoya let his mind wander, he’d find himself too deep in thought over it to be able to focus on the younger twin. He couldn’t let himself get like that with Kaoru over. He couldn’t, he couldn’t he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Kyoya had to focus on something, anything, to keep from falling down the rabbit hole. In order to keep from tipping over an edge he’d been inching closer to day by day, he decided he’d try and pick up his already clean room. His brain was fuzzy as he made his way back into his room, floaty as he picked up any trash around the room. Empty water bottles that sat by his bed were tossed in the trash and any dust was wiped away until he heard knocking at his door. Before he knew it, it was fifteen past one and Kaoru was coming over. That floaty and tired feeling slowly lifting as he went and opened the door.

A smile and a chaste kiss on the lips brought Kyoya back down to Earth. They sat on the couch and Kaoru leaned on the elder teen. His rested on Kyoya’s shoulder and Kyoya swore he could breathe again.

“I like this,” Kaoru muttered after several minutes of suffocating silence. “I like being here with you. It’s so quiet and calming. Don’t you think?” Calming to Kaoru, a space for anxious overthinking to Kyoya.

The red-headed boy glanced up at Kyoya, golden hazel meeting glassy silver-tones eyes. Those amber eyes pulled the oxygen out of Kyoya’s lungs and all he could think about was how they could comfort him. He nodded slowly, unable to find the words to speak but fully able to find enough sense to lean in for another kiss. This one was longer, sweeter. This kiss was a thank you that was understood by both of the boys.

Small kisses like these showed each boy how grateful they were for each other. Kisses, hand holding, gentle touches on faces and shoulders; they were all little signs to tell they loved each other without actually saying it. They didn’t need to say it.

Their kiss soon separated and Kaoru went back to resting his head on Kyoya’s shoulder. His and Kaoru’s fingers were laced together and he watched as the younger male’s thumb ran over his knuckles. That calming feeling Kaoru had spoken about just moments earlier washed over Kyoya in this relieving wave. Numbness morphed into contentment. He may not have been fully happy but at least he felt something other than nothing or pain. He felt free. He felt free with his boyfriend as silence filled the room again. They were comfortable on the couch together, sat in quietness as the Earth felt still. Everything felt calm and okay.

After a while, Kaoru shifted. His hand slithered from Kyoya’s but the elder hadn’t thought of it. He hadn’t thought of it until his hand snaked around his waist, brushing a few bruises and new marks. Pain and soreness were two different things, two different reactions from Kyoya. Regrettably, Kyoya felt relief with pain. It was truly addictive for him. Soreness caused him to flinch, however. That flinch caught Kaoru’s attention, brought those amber eyes back to steel. Instead of admiration, Kyoya saw a strong hint of concern. “You okay?” He asked. So simple and short but the weight in his voice was heavy.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Kyoya found his voice, as collected as always. It was eerily easy for him to lie like that to Kaoru. But it didn’t go undetected. Whether Kyoya was relieved by the fact or worried, he wasn’t sure.

It was obvious in those fiery eyes that Kaoru didn’t believe it. The way his lips turned down in an unconvinced frown and his brows knit together, Kyoya just knew he didn’t believe him. Anything more that Kyoya could do simply felt as if he was challenging Kaoru and he couldn’t do that. “No, you’re not.”

The words cut through brief silence while also cutting through Kyoya like a knife.

“Seriously, what’s up? Are you hurt?” All Kyoya could do was shake his head, once again having the words stolen from his mouth. “Then you won’t mind if I check? After seeing your dad slap you in front of an entire party, I don’t want to just gloss over something like this.”

It was getting aggravating, frustrating, really. The way Kaoru was pressing this, it was almost like he was trying to rip the mask off of Kyoya’s face. It felt as if he was forcing that facade that no one else was allowed to see through away. That vexation showed as Kyoya rolled his eyes at the request. “No. Trust me, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, show me.” Kaoru wasn’t letting up and it became even more apparent as he reached for Kyoya’s shirt. He had grabbed a hold of the fabric and the action had Kyoya’s heart beating so fast, he thought it’d burst in his chest. The elder tried grabbing at the smaller wrists but he could only do so much as his skin was shown. Fleshy pink scars that formed little hills on his skin and some new marks creating craters could be seen. It was like Kyoya was underwater. He felt like the wind was knocked out of him.

Those eyes, so happy and bright moments ago, were darkened and disappointed. Kaoru clearly knew what those wounds were from. How had he not been caught sooner? Why had it been Kaoru to find this out and not someone else? It might have hurt less if it had been anyone else. “Kaoru-” He tried to say something but he didn’t know what he was trying to say. An apology, maybe?

Kaoru sighed softly and Kyoya was sure he was going to get an ear-full. Instead, he was met with one question. “When did this start?”

He shrugged in response, still unsure of what to say. Kyoya opened his mouth to try and say something but struggled. It was as if he couldn’t breathe and Kaoru seemingly understood just how scary this had become for Kyoya. He felt Kaoru’s arms wrap around his waist again, a little more gentle this time. He felt the younger twin’s face buried into his neck and heard him sigh. They stayed like that for a while, just holding each other tightly.

“I love you, okay,” Kaoru muttered. Kyoya didn’t feel much but he registered a bit of shock. “You shouldn’t be doing this to yourself, you don’t deserve it. And it hurts me to see this from you.” His voice was soft and soothing and Kyoya closed his eyes. He just needed this right now.

Kaoru was really good for Kyoya.

[katsitting]

Requesting Harrymort With Prolapsing

AN: I never thought I would get a request of this sort. I also never thought that I would even consider filling it. I will warn you now that this is not for the faint of heart, and that you should be mindful of all the warnings I will be tagging for this work. The fact that this story is inordinately long is also a surprise for me, so bear with me on this. This is only Part I out of IV. I will be posting the rest on AO3 as they come, and a link will be provided below for your use.

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Body Horror, Psychological Torture, Non-Con elements, Dubious Consent, Anal Prolapse, Pain play, Overstimulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Nightmares, Graphic depictions of Corpses, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationship, Torture, Gore, Snakefaced!Voldemort, Minor Character Death, and Hemipenis!Voldemort, Canon-divergence around Deathly Hallows book.

Rating: EAO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12760815/chapters/29111844

White.

Harry closed his eyes quickly, blinded by the flash of light that suddenly exploded within the small, dark room. He couldn’t help the way he jolted from the source, how his mouth parted before releasing a soft hiss when his eyes watered from the intensity.

It wasn’t often that he had visitors. Merlin knows how long it’d been since the last time one of the Dark Lord’s bootlickers had forced upon him their unpleasant company. They rarely ever bothered to open his cell, choosing instead to have the house elves deliver his meals and magic away his waste when he was forced to use the bucket in the furthest corner in the room.

It was a small mercy he was all too grateful for. He doubted he could handle the smell of his own shite on top of the stench of death that clung to the stone walls at either side of him.

Harry blinked away the spots dancing along his vision before casting the entrance a wary glance, expecting the worst out of the situation. He couldn’t quite make out just who it was standing in front of the light. He had lost his glasses long ago, abandoned somewhere in the chaos when he had tried to escape once. It had possibly been the angriest he had ever seen the Dark Lord, and the results had certainly not been pretty.

Harry had lost more than his glasses in the scuffle, that was for certain.

His ability to walk, for one.

The snake-faced bastard had broken his legs, and they had never quite recovered since then, but Harry doubted they ever would. He had no access to a healer to fix them, and not even his piss poor attempts to make a splint out of the broken dinner table in the cell could really resolve much of that issue.

It was just another way for the Dark Lord to clip his wings, to make it near impossible to escape now that he could not run. It was a good thing, at least, that the pain had long since passed, his legs rendered useless.

Though, that was not much a good thing, considering the circumstances.

“Harry.”

Harry froze, all the air in his lungs escaping his chest.

He had not expected for him to be the one to come. He never thought that he would face Voldemort in the flesh again—he had expected Bellatrix, hell, even Lucius—but he never thought  that he’d be seeing the true horrific image of this man after only seeing him for weeks in his head.

Absent in body, but always present like a buzzing fly in the back of his mind.

Harry had assumed that after his first and only attempt at escape months prior that Voldemort would never come into his cell again—with the exception of putting him out of his misery. It was what the monster had said before departing, his words somehow cutting through the haze of agony after his legs had been broken.

Was Voldemort here to kill him then?

Harry narrowed his eyes to try to clear some of the fuzziness in his vision. He knew that it would not make the man any clearer, would not magically render Voldemort’s face visible beneath the shadows of the entrance, but Harry had to try. Doing something was better than doing absolutely nothing at all. This was better than simply resigning himself to his shitty situation.

“C-come to finish me off then?”

Harry did not bother with the pleasantries, unfazed by the scorn thick in his voice. He twisted his lips into a wry smile, listening for the sound of Voldemort’s footsteps, for the slithering hiss of his robes sliding on the floor as he slipped further into the cell.

But the sound never came. Voldemort’s shadow lingered by the open doorway, undisturbed.

Harry watched, waiting for Voldemort to make a move. It would only be a matter of time before he did. Voldemort would not have come if he did not have a reason. What that reason could be anyone’s guess, but for the moment, Harry would wait.

His legs were broken, it wasn’t as though Harry had many options to begin with.

Harry shifted his body, deciding that he may as well get more comfortable if Voldemort preferred to do nothing for the moment. The stone wall at his back felt cold even through the thin, dirty shirt he wore. Still, Harry pushed against the floor with his hands to compensate for the uselessness of his legs, straightening his back to look more put together than he was.

Just because Harry was helpless did not mean that he had to look the part, after all.

“I have learned something that may interest you,” Voldemort said.

His flat tone, devoid of any emotion, echoed through the near empty cell as if the syllables had been uttered by a thousand men, the reverberations making Harry’s teeth vibrate with discomfort.

Harry ignored the strange sensation before he shifted once more and tilted his head questioningly at the Dark Lord. It was a subtle gesture, but Harry knew that Voldemort would see it.

It was rare for Voldemort to string more than a few words without a threat woven in the utterance. Rarer still, to be visited by the man without a curse being thrown in Harry’s direction. It piqued Harry’s interest in spite of himself. Because really, what could the man possibly want to tell him? Something that might interest him? Unless Voldemort planned to let him see a healer, Harry doubted anything the man said would be of much importance.

Harry wanted his legs back; he wanted to stand, to roam, to pace. He wanted some measly sense of control in this cramped dark cell that’s as stifling as a coffin. He couldn’t very much do that as crippled as he was.

But more than anything else, he wanted his freedom.

Harry was meant for the skies and clouds, the moment he touched a flying broom. He was not meant for this dark, dilapidated cell, divorced from a part that made him whole.

And that was impossible without functioning limbs. It was probably why Voldemort had not bothered healing him after his last escape attempt in the first place. He couldn’t plan for escape without legs to carry him off. It made sense that Voldemort would deny him such a thing.

Harry’s last attempt had nearly gotten him killed.

But it had certainly been worth to see the Dark Lord pushed into a fit of rage. It was funny how the Dark Lord spent most of his life deceiving others, but Harry’s deception had resulted in a violent reaction—as if he never expected Harry to leave his side.

Hypocrite, really. Harry supposed that only the Dark Lord was permitted to deceive. Any such attempt from Harry’s end would simply be deemed as betrayal.

Harry nearly snorted from the absurdity of such a thing.

Bloody ridiculous.

“Unless you plan to fix me or get me out of here, nothing you tell me will interest me one bit.” Harry said, his remark more scathing than he had intended it.

He had no energy for forced politeness; that ship had long since sailed. Playing the part of the cooperative captive would get him nowhere now.

Voldemort didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he almost smiled.

“Not even the fact that I have won the war?”

His breath nearly stopped with dread.

No.

“Not even the fact that the light has lost and you are the only one standing on the losing side?” Voldemort inquired, and Harry swallowed, shocked to the core.

Had it really been so long that he missed the entire bloody war? Harry could not believe him. No, he refused to believe him. The man had to be lying. Harry couldn’t have been trapped that long in this shithole. Until he failed to end a bloody war he was supposed to finish.

But what if you were? A sinister voice whispered in the back of Harry’s head. What if you have been here for months, almost a whole year rather than the days you had first assumed?

Harry felt his insides churn. His throat seized up with dread. His fingers clenched into tight fists, blunt nails digging harshly into the skin, but Harry hardly paid the sting any mind when his world felt as though it had been tilted on its axis.

No, it couldn’t have been that long. It just couldn’t be true.

“You’re lying,” Harry said after a pause, watching as Voldemort’s shadow wavered for a moment in the white light. It looked as though he were flickering in and out of existence, like the times the Dursley’s telly lost reception while in the middle of a horror picture show. It was a sinister flicker, one that made a cold sweat gather along the back of Harry’s neck.

“I have never lied to you, Harry,” Voldemort said, voice far too amused. It made Harry’s stomach churn, nausea creeping up his dry throat.

Harry tried to swallow it down to stop himself from choking.

“The war is over. The Light has fallen, and all that remains is you—”

“Shut up,” Harry choked out, eyes fierce as he glared in Voldemort’s direction. His shoulders shook with anger, his breaths coming too quickly as he tried to settle the panic pumping through his veins.

It just wasn’t possible.

Harry could not have been trapped here for that long. He refused to just accept that. Sure, he had lost most feeling in his legs after rotting in that cell, but that did not mean that so much time could have elapsed in between.

...If the Light really had lost, if his friends really had been defeated, then why was Harry still alive? For what purpose could Voldemort keep him here? Harry was still the prophesied enemy. It simply wasn’t possible that Voldemort could have won when he still remained standing in the man’s way.

Neither can live while the other survives.

Those were the words of the prophecy. The words that had echoed in the back of his mind for a solid year after Sirius had been killed during Fifth year.

“Such a pity, indeed,” Voldemort uttered. “That the world you have known, that the allies you have made are no more. Defiance still burns in your blood, the thirst for escape still flickering behind those eyes like a lit pyre. But there is nothing for you to return to, no one who will aid you in your plight.”

Then the darkened shadow grew larger, the edges melting into the blackened corners of Harry’s cell, to the smudges along Harry’s vision.

No, not larger, Harry amended quickly. The shadow was not growing larger. Voldemort was coming closer, Harry realized. Dread squeezed his heart like a vice, and he wondered faintly if his might even fail on him with how rapidly his heart beat.

It took everything for him to not shrink away from the looming presence in spite of his fear. But Harry refused to yield. He would not allow himself to cowed, even if he was wandless and completely powerless. Weak and so very helpless.

Harry heard the soft sound of slithering robes, of bare feet slapping against stone as Voldemort bridged the space between them. It’s a striking contrast from the darkness he’s used to, and it swallowed all thought and reason, easily dominating Harry’s small world.

Voldemort was a force that could not be contained, a presence that not even the stone walls at either side of them could halt.

Harry craned his head to keep a fixed look on the man, unafraid to meet the man’s oppressive gaze. He would not show weakness. He would not yield. He had thus far held onto his tenacity and will to fight. He would not let his fire be dampened now.

Harry would fight to the very end.

And then Voldemort stood before him, the darkness and Harry’s poor vision making it impossible to discern the monster’s features. Harry could make out the bright glow of red. Nothing just how the muddy color contrasted with the black of his cell, and the way the shadow cast by the light emanating from the cell door at Voldemort’s back swallowed him whole.

It made the situation more sinister, made the isolation heavier on Harry’s bones. But still, Harry paid little mind to the sheer size of the man or the thick taste of bitterness in the back of his throat when Voldemort’s magic began to undulate and writhe with the shadows.

Voldemort’s magic clung to him like a second skin. He could feel Voldemort like a presence that refused to leave, a parasite that fed on his hopes and dreams. Worse than a dementor, and significantly worse than the gut-wrenching horror he had felt when his soul had nearly been eaten away many years ago...

“I shall show you just how far you’ve fallen,” Voldemort whispered, breaking the thick silence that had settled between them.

Harry wanted to laugh, to bare his teeth at the man like the wounded lion that he was.There was nothing for him to do but snark and snarl at the man that had hidden him away from all prying eyes...save for those he trusted most. His legs were useless, his body weak.

“I’d like to see you try,” Harry goaded.

Voldemort’s magic froze before exploding outwardly as if angered. Harry shuddered when the thick tendrils pressed against the skin of his cheeks.The weight settled on his shoulders and pressed tightly against his ribs that his breaths became high-pitched wheezes—

Harry’s throat burned and he coughed, the sound echoing from within the near empty cell as though he had coughed more than once, as if Harry were hacking up a lung.

It was unnerving. He sounded so weak, so desperate, so bloody fragile...

Harry grimaced, hating his own vulnerability in that moment. He decided that he would never cough again. At least, never again in front of the Dark Lord.

“I do not need to try, it has already begun. Your fall from grace has been ensured, and you, dearest Harry—”

Harry shuddered at the endearment, the mockery and the pleased lilt in Voldemort’s voice making his stomach twist unpleasantly.

“—have yet to even fathom just how far along you have come...”

Voldemort paused, and considered Harry from his uptilted chin, looking far too amused at the subtle attempts of rebellion from someone who’s already so thoroughly defeated.

“Hermione Jean Granger...Ronald Bilius Weasley...I wonder what your friends would say if they could see you now,” Voldemort said. “If they could witness for themselves how their precious champion has been broken to such an extent that he cannot recognize the end when it is shown to him.”

A sudden wave of rage overcame him, the emotion noxious as it slid across his skin like a leather coat, the feeling making his shoulders quiver. “D-don’t you dare speak their names!” he spat.

For a sliver of a second, Harry took comfort in his anger. It ate away at the cold biting across his fingers, at the numbness eating away at his legs. It felt real and welcome, the way the hate flickered to life a comforting warmth that melted away the ice coursing through his veins.

“Foolish boy...”

And then, just as quickly as the rage had come, it was snuffed out. The candle that had suddenly been lit from inside was doused by the frigid touch of water—of cruel reality. Harry felt his body slump against the wall, his limbs shaking with exhaustion.

What was that? Harry thought, unsure and confused.

He had never felt something as powerful as that before. A foreign emotion. It was as if he’d tapped into an unknown power he did not know he had. It was toxic, the rage familiar enough to make panic twist in his belly.

It was dense, like wading through mud and thick jelly. It was a hatred that not even Bellatrix could stoke. It was a fury that not even witnessing Sirius’s death could have lit... It was so unlike the madness Harry recalled licking at his skin when he had chased after Bellatrix all those years ago...the torture curse on the tip of his tongue.

Harry remembered that rage and fearing what it symbolized then. He had assumed that nothing could have compared to that fierce explosion of emotion. But now, Harry was uncertain.

That feeling that had ruptured in his belly, the one that had overridden his senses with the cloying feeling of loathing just seconds ago...it made his anger all those years ago look like a lit match…

Harry had never felt more afraid in his life.

Perturbed and unsettled by the fact that he had experienced something like that.

“I believe it is time that we have a change of scenery...don’t you agree?”

Harry released a shuddering breath, confusion overtaking the fear that buzzed like static in the back of his mind. He did not know what to make Voldemort’s words at all, of what the man’s intentions were. Voldemort had never removed him from this cell before. He had made it perfectly clear that Harry would rot in that cell...but now, Voldemort wanted him out?

It just didn’t make sense. It made about as much sense as the hatred that had suddenly overcome him those seconds before—

But Harry was given no opportunity to voice his concerns, no opportunity to open his mouth and ask him just what Voldemort meant. There was no time to even cry out before darkness descended upon him, the red and white of Voldemort’s face swallowed by the black.

Harry felt his mouth part to release a gut-wrenching scream, to give voice to his terror at being plunged into a black abyss, but no words came.

No sound, no smells, and no white.

Just nothing.

And then felt himself fall.

[swiftkick404]

Appx II  Be What You Be

(i/iv)

(ii/iv)

(iii/iv)

o o o

Sakura ran her eyes over her newly reformed hand, a few minutes old, and waited. She had broken her last record and the medical ninjutsu she was using with her good hand appeared to be noticeably more effective at containing – ah, nope, there it was! Orochimaru's chakra broke through her defenses and its invasion was as potent as ever.

Disappointed but not entirely shocked, she grumbled a mildly bothered sound and cut off her treacherous hand. Again. It had been weeks and she still hadn't resolved how to regenerate her hand without the foreign chakra of the Snake Sannin. He persisted like a venomous fang long lost from the mouth.

“Complete ass,” Sakura said of the man as she destroyed her severed appendage. She concentrated her chakra into a temporary set of digits stretching out from the fresh tissue at the end of her arm. She could hold the shape and use it for certain tasks, namely picking things up, but it was a work in progress. More functional than the single protrusion or the clawed shapes with which she had started.

Her other tasks had gone better.

After the battle against Konan of Akatsuki and the invasion forces of Sound and Cloud, she had made her way to Otogakure and started her infiltration. The goal was to find those with the Curse Mark and to destroy any remaining chakra and influence from Orochimaru. He had found a means to immortality with the technique, but now that she knew of it, Sakura made it her personal mission to cleanse the land of his lingering presence.

All she had to do was discover the location of his bases and eliminate the results of his experiments. Every Curse Mark had to go, but finding those affected had been more difficult than she first thought. When not activated, the chakra Orochimaru hid in his Curse Seals was impossible to track.

Sakura had sought a different means of honing in on the labs, and with the revelation of her most recent 'bug's' location, she now had a likely location for her first target. Three of the people she had tagged had returned to the same point before she lost their signatures, and she had an idea it could be a base of operation.

From her hollowed out hiding spot in a tall hardwood, Sakura could see a distant mountain peak in between the leafs and boughs of the canopy. As she had approached the landmark earlier the day, she had finally started to discern uniquely shinobi chakra signatures. It was there she would get some answers and begin her real work.

After some rest, of course; activating her seal and regrowing a limb wasn't the best precursor to breaking into an enemy compound.

Sleep had been difficult for her. It might have started back in Iwagakure after the incident at the opium den, but lately her body's reaction in her sleep had become more visceral. It wasn't nightmares plaguing her. Instead she would wake up from a black sleep, chest heaving and her ribs aching from a shadow of a mortal injury. It seemed like she would only have just shut her eyes before it was like the Chidori was ripping out from her again.

She'd feel it –that ghostly spear of an arm pierced through her chest– she'd feel it and it would jolt her physically from her sleep. Blind in a moment of white panic and the birdsong cries echoing in her head.

Not very enjoyable nor very good for recuperating energy, but she was learning to cope and recover from the attack.

There were very few things she actually had to be anxious about. She had fought and defeated so many powerful people – she was finally a capable kunoichi. Sakura could handle things.

She slept and the phantom attack hit her. Sakura caught herself at the edge of her makeshift shelter and gasped two breaths, told herself it was only a dream – before being knocked again through her back and rocked clear from her perch in the tree.

'An actual attack.'

She thought frantically, from whom? And how? No one was near her.

Sakura twisted in her fall in order to catch herself on a lower hanging branch, swung herself right-side up and immediately made for cover on another tree. She couldn't see very well and nothing in her field of vision caught her attention, but she listened. She breathed deep and tried to pick up any telling scent. She sharpened her awareness of any chakra in the area that felt out of place.

And then she promptly stopped because it hurt. Something in her middle throbbed, bowed her inward and to her knees, and kept her from trying to focus on sensing chakra. Her hand groped at her front and back, trying to find an injury that wasn't there.

“The hell,” she cursed, the words stinging and hoarse. She couldn't see anything wrong, either, but she'd been struck by something. Something was crippling her system.

White movement in her peripheral vision and Sakura snapped her arm up to block what looked like a hit aimed to slam into the crown of her head.

Nothing. The blurring image passed through her arm, snapped down her body and her insides rattled with bubbling pain. She lost her the wind in her chest from the shock of the pain, stumbled in her kneeled stance despite being certain nothing physical had hit her.

Her chakra responded well even with the pain, and Sakura tried a genjutsu to obfuscate her location as she retreated to the base of the tree.

“That won't work on me.” The voice was almost beside her, and Sakura's response was quick and precise. The hit would have shattered most things, but her arm didn't connect as it swept through the figure next to her.

Sakura followed her momentum and tucked into a roll before jumping to her feet to spin around and face her opponent.

“Those hits won't work, either,” the girl said. At least it was an image of girl –glowing light and barely opaque, a strange and empty three dimensional tracing of a person. Nothing about her told of an Oto affinity, but the vague hint of her expression was less than friendly.

“Ghost,” Sakura yelped, and like the accomplished, fearsome kunoichi she had become, she pivoted and fled. If she couldn't block the girl, couldn't hit her, and genjutsu didn't work, then evasion and escape was the best course of action.

Sakura was fast – not the fastest, but she was pretty good.

She was slower than her ghost enemy, who caught her immediately from her pivot in a jab straight through her lower ribs. The intangible arm reaching into her body stuck there like hot tar seeped into her veins and slowed everything to a standstill. Sakura could still breathe, could move her eyes, twitch some of her limbs with enough effort, but she was stuck. Deep inside, as if the roots and the core of her energy were under siege.

“Where?” The girl demanded, and then tacked on for good measure, “you unwashed, wool-eared, degenerate heathen.”

Nothing of that really made any logical sense to Sakura, so she ignored it in favor of figuring a way to spring from the girl's hold. ...If she could just first figure out what the technique was and how the hell it worked. The girl wasn't a chakra entity or illusion – she was something like that but...different.

Shaking Sakura enough to make her want to get ill, the girl asked again, more pointedly, “where is she?”

Which finally allowed for some clarity in their situation, Sakura thought. After a short groan, and stuttered some with pain, she said, “I don't know what you're talking about...”

A long answer to stall the girl as Sakura pieced together observations and stubborn memories, but a possibility finally came to her.

“...and if you're looking for someone,” she continued saying, “the last person I even spoke with is about two countries south of us right now...”

Not chakra, but rather more than that – life energy. The girl was a projection of her life energy and she was trapping Sakura by the very same thing. Holding her in place by the soul.

Hell, if she weren't just a bit impressed. And curious...

'Two streams of executive function in the brain does not equate to separate souls, so, no. I can't help you.'

Well, that was disappointing; the dead man in her head only looked the ghost of soul of a departed.

“...He's a bit of an ...overeager artist ...with loner tendencies, so I doubt you're looking ...for him...” Sakura couldn't speak very easily and her words left her with the grace of rusted gears ground together.

She needed another way out.

“Someone from Otogakure took who you're looking for,” Sakura prodded, hopeful to employ one of her tried and true tactics.

“I've tracked the person who took my master to this country. And I had felt that same energy from you earlier. But now...I can't seem to feel it any more...”

Choking out a small laugh, which was a very sore thing to do, Sakura was almost relieved. “Right. That. Yeah. That's the energy of a dead man trying to steal my body, I'm pretty sure.”

And if the girl were looking for that same energy, then she was definitely after a person with a similar amount of Orochimaru chakra-injection.

“The man you're looking for is Kabuto. Good news for you, I'm here to kill him.”

o o o

[childofmyth-art]

A LeafGreen Myth - Chapter 2: Blue Attacks

Mild Violence Warning

We arrived at Viridian City again, and after a quick visit to the Poke Center, we headed straight for Route 22, upon rumors that it leads to Victory Road.

I released my team, now back in their Pokémon forms, and clapped my hands together, an eager look upon my face.

"Let's get another member!" I declared. We spread out and walked through the tall grass in different sections. I searched extensively but found nothing. I was beginning to feel it again. Deep in my chest the sensation of--

"ARAHH!"

My head whipped up at the scream and I dashed in its direction. It sounded like a Pidgey, might even be Nicole. I pushed through a bush frantically, weaving along the grass to find Nicole roosting on an extremely annoyed Mankey's head.

The Mankey turned to look at me, but did nothing. If he would have gotten up he would have disturbed Nicole and for some reason he didn't seem peeved enough to chase off the one annoying him. That is adorable. I tossed a Poke ball and caught him with no problem, Nicole fluttering back into the air as he was sucked into the device.

I let the Mankey back out and smiled. "Listen, I'm about to do something, and Nicole will explain. I have to go find John." I put my hands on both of my Pokémon and after they turned, I quickly looked the Mankey over before leaving.

His hair jutted out in all directions in brown spikes, and his Pokémon ears, also fuzzy and brown, stuck out of the mess. He had an equally unkempt brown fur vest that exposed his chiseled abdomen with tan pants and black boots. Hung around his neck was his Pokémon snout as a necklace. It was fake, to my relief. A tan, brown-tipped tail whipped behind him.

I turned and ran off, calling for John. After I was a few yards away arms grabbed me from behind. A hand clapped over my mouth as I let out a surprised squeak, muffled by the palm covering the lower half of my face. I twisted defiantly, granting me a glance to see who was holding me. Blue was there, a crazed look in his eyes as he held me tightly, painfully.

He flung me to the ground and stood over my body. "I saw what you did." My old friend hissed in a hushed tone that I almost missed.

"You touched them and-- and they changed ..." He continued, waving his arms and looking crazily mystified. I was scared, too frightened to move. I knew what Blue was capable of, even back then. He used to bully me, violently, back in Pallet Town after he changed.

Blue looked down at me and smiled. "I want my Pokémon to change, too."

I shook my head furiously. "No, no, Blue, you can't. Only I ca--" I was silenced by a stinging pain before I finished my stammering when he slapped me out of nowhere.

"Don't lie to me!” he shouted, “I've read about people like you. There’s one of you born every hundred years. They have your eyes, black and white. They change their Pokémon into humans and... they can share this power." Blue paused, his eyes boring disdain and a seething fury into my very form.

"...but I never thought it would actually be you ."

My eyes widened in terror, a crippling fear that reared its ugly head from the recesses of my mind, displaying itself on my face at the realization that he knew.

"No Blue, Pokémon are to stay as creatures… that is the natural way. People can't just turn Pokémon into humans. It's wrong. You can't do this, Blue!" Against everything my mind was screaming, my voice stayed calm and orderly.

Blue reached into his pocket and pulled out a rectangular object clutched idly within his hand. He tightened his grip on it for a moment, and in a quick display, a dangerous gleam reflected upon the sharp metal that appeared. There were no words, only a firm pressure as he pressed the knife’s edge on my neck, too frozen to try and shake him away.

"Give me the power," he simply said, his tone demanding as he knew of the advantage and control that he had over me.

I gulped, feeling the cold sharpness of the blade as the lump on my throat passed through. "O-okay..."

I raised my hand to his temple, fingers visibly shaking as I hesitantly placed my palm upon his person. My eyes glowed a blinding white, and power surged through my arm. Blue caught his breath, seemingly dazed, squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lower lip akin to experiencing pain.

I felt my strength waning, energy from my body quickly draining as the transfer happened in a span of a short moment, even though it seemed to stretch on for longer. By the time it was done, I grew dizzy, my breaths ragged, exhaustion ticking as my eyes returned to its previous, non-magical state.

Blue blinked his eyes open and flexed his fingers experimentally as he felt something coursing through him. A mysterious smile crept upon his features as he did, that manic gaze trailing back towards me. The knife jammed closer to my throat then, and my breath hitched at the more forceful pressure. He wasn’t laughing, but I could see that gleefully psychotic expression dancing within his eyes, a swirl of darkness I couldn’t even begin to understand.

"Now that I have this power, I no longer need you."

Bound to fear I was, I could only cower in place and look on, paralyzed. It was the only thing that ran through my mind, nothing I could do seemed to make any sense at that point. I was ready to accept my fate, tears pricking my eyes at the thought of losing my life, when a roar resounded somewhere around us. Blue turned around to discern what it was, just to get tackled in the face by a green blur. He cried out in surprise, and I took my chance to escape, crawling away from under that maniac in a frantic frame of time. I looked back, panting over my shoulder as I watched the scene that was unfolding.

John, using Blue's face as a launch pad, leaped away and stood in front of me, growling at my attacker.

Blue stood and brandished his weapon menacingly, unafraid. "You wanna go, Poke-freak?"

John stomped his foot, eager for action, ready for an attack.  My first thought was to scramble across the ground to put my hand on John's forehead before anything could happen. He was enveloped in a green light once again as Blue rushed him. Johnathon, now in his human form, leaped out of the glow and kicked Blue in the stomach, sending him flying back. John turned back and stood in a defensive stance in front of me.

Blue smirked and charged again, but this time at the last second he leaped and jumped over Johnathon. He landed smoothly on the ground in front of me, his hand clenched on his knife as he raised it up, aiming for my head. The moment was too fast for my still reeling mind, I couldn't even flinch.

Without turning, Johnathon reached a hand over his shoulder and latched onto Blue's wrist, halting his blade. He used both hands and bent down as he used his strength to fling Blue over himself and into the ground, face first.

Blue didn't even seem fazed as he rolled away and leapt onto his feet. He dashed towards John, knife held tightly as he flailed it about in the air.

With amazing precision, John caught both of Blue's wrists, and that's when the fight turned into a battle of strength. The boys pushed against each other, trying to injure one another while avoiding the steel’s cold edge. Sweat began to dot John's skin at the effort he put in, and he grimaced at the struggle and the boy in front of him.

I sat in silence, frozen in fear of failure. I should help, I should get up, I should do something at least... but I didn't know what to do, what to say. So I just sat there and watched, in a state of paralysis, looking on as my attempt to start over was straining and losing, as if it was never meant to happen.

John tightened his grip, arms flexed and slowly giving out as he made a low wheezing noise. His eyes squeezed shut as the knife drew ever closer.

Suddenly, a blinding light sprouted between John's shoulder blades, and green vines snaked out of his back. One struck Blue across the face while the other yanked the knife out of his hand. A wound opened up on Blue's cheek and he cried out in pain.

John pushed him down and stomped a foot onto his chest, "LEAVE!" he roared at a terrified Blue. The smug visage of my childhood friend seemed to have disappeared, and it was a surprise to see.

Blue nodded hurriedly and scurried away once John released him. Like a vengeful animal, he turned back and pointed a finger at me in an attempt to pick up what fragments remained of his pride.

"I'll see you again, Mythica. And trust me, I'll get rid of you one of these days." He spoke of finality, a dangerous threat that he planned to carry out, but then he ran before John or I could do anything else.

I curled up onto myself, wincing at his death threat and the painful weight in the pit of my stomach. Just like that I had almost lost everything again. I had almost failed, was almost left alone again with this crippling feeling eating me up from within. John probably couldn't even look at me. I knew it. I knew he’d want to leave me, I had almost let him die. I did nothing but watch. He hated me. Just like Blue… just like everyone.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as the dark thoughts in my head consumed me, yet I made no sound.

They hated me.

Footsteps approached me and I shook my head.

He hated me. Why didn’t he leave already?

"Master?"

Please leave.

Don't put me through this.

Johnathon crouched down beside me and his arms wrapped around me firmly, yet tenderly. He turned me around and pressed me against his chest.

"Please don't cry, Master. I'll protect you..." I desperately grabbed handfuls of his robe in my hands, holding onto something solid.

What? Didn’t he hate me?

"You don't.... want to leave? You don't hate me?" I was shocked as my voice came out timidly, a crack that broke my calmness, for once displaying any kind of emotion.

John's embrace became tighter and he shook his head. "No, never. It's my duty to stay and protect you, Master. That's just what I'm going to do." He didn't even question why I thought he would hate me. Somehow he knew not to ask, because I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell anyone. Not... yet.

I felt a heaviness weighing my chest, and I wretch out a sob from my throat, pressing my face against John's neck as I began to cry in earnest. I never made a sound when I cried, but there was something in Johnathon that seemed to calm me and bring something out that no one else could.

"H-Help…" My voice choked out before I could process what I had said. John pulled me back and wiped away my tears with a tender thumb. I looked up at John's face to find him close to mine, his gaze unreadable yet comforting all the same. A red flush spread across my cheeks, yet he seemed unfazed.

"Let me try," was all he said in a breathy whisper. I gulped but did stay still, and he moved closer. I instinctively closed my eyes, listening to his breathing, as his hand moved up to cradle the back of my head. The soft air stopped momentarily, when a pressure pushed against my lips. I inhaled sharply, shock overtaking me for a second, before relaxing to the sensation and pushing back against his lips. We moved together, perfectly synchronized. My first kiss was gentle and beautiful.

And wrong.

We broke away for air and I noticed that I was lying flat on the ground, John hovering over me. We gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment, red meeting white, before his cheeks lit up brightly at the realization of our closeness. He quickly and clumsily shuffled away from me, sitting up a few paces as he fumbled with his words.

"I-I was just trying to make you happy…” he stammered, clearly confused. “I'm not sure what overcame me, Master."

I stayed on the ground, staring at the sky as I calmed down. This was wrong. I knew it was, it went against nature. It wasn't supposed to happen. Pokémon and people can't be together in this way.

"Master?" Johnathon asked, a nervous hesitance present in his tone when he called for me. He must be as afraid as I was, then.

My eyes shifted to his face, and slowly, I smiled. I didn’t care what nature said. I'm a freak. I'd go against nature as I please, for it abandoned me just like my parents. I'd do what I want. I wanted help, and John's the one to do it, so in turn I wanted John.

I climbed to my feet. "Let's go find the others."

Mankey | Male | George | Timid | Ability: Vital Spirit | Lv.3