#mothers can and do love mothering and denying them access to mothering is violence
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[“There is no such thing as a baby,” the British pediatrician D. W. Winnicott once said, explaining, “If you show me a baby, you certainly show me someone else who is caring for the baby . . . One sees a ‘nursing couple’ . . . The unit is not the individual, the unit is the individual-environment set-up.” Or, in Ashley Montagu’s words, “When a baby is born, a mother is born. There is considerable evidence that at this time, and for months thereafter, her needs for contact exceed those of the infant.”
Good thing, too: Were there not built-in physiological and emotional incentives for the ones doing the caregiving, parenthood would be even more of a slog than it already is. Fewer babies would have their survival needs met if fulfilling those needs were not rewarding for parents. With its usual brilliance, our interpersonal-biological makeup dictates that our requirements be mutual. (One of the unfortunate impacts of our culture’s way of doing things is that stress tends to whittle down these innate rewards, making parenting more frustrating and daunting than it rightly ought to be.)
The poet Adrienne Rich expressed the profound joys of this reciprocal design: “I recall the times when, suckling each of my children, I saw his eyes open full to mine, and realized each of us was fastened to the other, not only by mouth and breast, but through our mutual gaze: the depth, calm, passion, of that dark blue, maturely focused look. I recall the physical pleasure of having my full breast suckled at a time when I had no other physical pleasure in the world except the guilt-ridden pleasure of addictive eating.” Neurobiologically, Rich was right on target. On imaging studies, a baby’s smile will light up the same reward areas in the mom’s brain activated by junk foods or addictive drugs, releasing the same pleasure chemicals and triggering the same high. Nature, that unscrupulous drug-pusher.
Like all complex brain structures, mammalian bonding systems—whether of whales or chimps or rats or humans—are experience-dependent for their development and activation. For the brain circuits of nurturing to function—to “come on line,” as it were—the environment must evoke and then sustain them. Both men and women have latent child-nurturing circuits in their brains, “waiting for the right environment to amplify their potentials,” in the words of neuroscientist Jaak Panksepp—he of the PANIC/GRIEF, PLAY, and CARE nomenclature. Dr. Panksepp identified and mapped the specific brain centers, circuits, connections, and associated neurochemicals that choreograph what he called “the enchanting ballet of emotions between a mother and her infant.” These include chemical messengers such as vasopressin, oxytocin, and endorphins—the body’s natural opiates—all of which awaken in parents nurturing habits that are essential to the survival of the young. Recall, these are the chemicals that, blended, form a “love cocktail” released by natural labor. Skin-to-skin contact and suckling also elicit their flow in the mother. The physiology of infant and parent is thus co-regulated by their interactions, and the effect of these interactions—or their absence—can be imprinted in the young human for a lifetime. Likewise, in the dearth of such interactions, parenting instincts may become muted, with long-term consequences for the parent-child relationship. In this, as in other crucial ways, our culture has become contact-starved.”]
gabor maté, from the myth of normal: trauma, illness, and healing in a toxic culture, 2022
#gabor maté#brainspace#currently reading#mothers can and do love mothering and denying them access to mothering is violence
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Loving the people in your family, mind you, is not at odds with a commitment to family abolition. Quite the reverse. I will hazard a definition of love: to love a person is to struggle for their autonomy as well as for their immersion in care, insofar such abundance is possible in a world choked by capital. If this is true, then restricting the number of mothers (of whatever gender) to whom a child has access, on the basis that I am the “real” mother, is not necessarily a form of love worthy of the name. Perchance, when you were very young (assuming you grew up in a nuclear household), you quietly noticed the oppressiveness of the function assigned to whoever was the mother in your home. You sensed her loneliness. You felt a twinge of solidarity. In my experience, children often “get” this better than most: when you love someone, it simply makes no sense to endorse a social technology that isolates them, privatizes their lifeworld, arbitrarily assigns their dwelling-place, class, and very identity in law, and drastically circumscribes their sphere of intimate, interdependent ties. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Most family abolitionists love their families. It is true of course that it is usually the people who have had bad experiences within a social system, and who feel things besides love for that system, who initiate movements to overthrow it. But loving one’s family in spite of a “hard childhood” is pretty typical of the would-be family abolitionist. She may, for instance, sense in her gut that she and the members of her family simply aren’t good for each other, while also loving them, wishing them joy, and knowing full well that there are few or no available alternatives in this world when it comes to providing much-needed care for everybody in question. Frankly, loving one’s family can be a problem for anyone. It might put extra weights around the ankles of a domestic battery survivor seeking to escape (especially given the economic punishments imposed by capitalism on those who flee commodified housing). It might hinder a trans or disabled child from claiming medical care. It might dissuade someone from getting an abortion. Right now, few would deny that reproductive rights—let alone justice—are everywhere systematically denied to populations. Austerity policies purposively render proletarian baby-making crushingly unaffordable, even for two or three or four adults working together, let alone one. Housework is sexed, racialized, and (except in the houses of the rich) unwaged. It is unsurprising, in these global conditions, that large numbers of humans do not or cannot love their families. Reasons range from simple incompatibility to various phobias, ableism, sexual violence, and neglect.
— Sophie Lewis, Abolish the Family. Verso, 2022.
#I wish I had a page number to cite! I don't because my copy of this book is a lousy epub#lol#Sophie Lewis#family abolition
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ABOUT DONNIE || Satan, you know where I lie.
CHARACTER BASICS
NAME: Adonis “Donnie” Richard Keller
AGE: Thirty
GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis Man, He/Him
FACE CLAIM: Drew Starkey
EYE COLOR: Blue
HAIR COLOR: Bleached
HEIGHT: 6′2″
DATE OF BIRTH: December 28th, 1991
ZODIAC SIGN: Capricorn
LEVEL OF EDUCATION: Bachelor’s in Business
OCCUPATION: Florist & Landscaper
CHARACTER HISTORY (TW: ARMED ROBBERY, CHILD ABUSE, VIOLENCE)
When rumors that Adonis Adler was crafted from gold filled quiet of Bradford Springs in 1991, it didn't take long for those to wonder if it was true. How could it be, when his mother had stepped away from her ivory tower on the North Side for an outsider who had just moved into town. There was no way her son still had the glimmer that her family name carried, but there was one thing that was for certain— if he was truly a golden boy, he would be just as soft as that gilded metal.
Adonis was easy to love. He knew all the right ways to not only get on your side, but get you on his. He had learned what he needed to do in order to blend in with the righteous, and how to hang his head to listen to the defeated. His mother knew exactly what she had done when she named him, but at some point, he tested his own limits and cut himself away from the story. Going by Donnie, he split himself away from expectation and regulation but in his feigned sense of freedom, he fell victim to every wrong choice that would haunt him for years to come. His limits were tested by his own family, and his father covered where the golden film split under the touch of cigarette with the soot of his own disappointment.
In 2014, Donnie's ambition to separate himself from his family was successful but it left him with less than a comfortable place to lie his head. What little of his funds he still had access to were withering as he supplied a lifestyle for himself and his friends. It didn't take much to convince him of what they would soon lose, and they constructed a heist of a local bank that would backfire soon after its victory. Foul play followed them, and soon, confession and pointed fingers would be the dagger allies would fall on. Three years later, nearly everyone was serving time for their role in the robbery. However, all that was left innocent was Donnie and his significant other. Their alibis were woven so tightly together that they were unbreakable, and in turn, inseparable. Nearly five years later, and they're still pretending all is well but all they've done is enter a new hell to avoid going to prison.
PRESENT DAY
Donnie left Bradford Springs for a few years after he was cleared as a suspect, but he's been back for the last four years as a means of going back to his roots and remembering not only who he was, but who he could be. He's retracing his steps to find just where he went wrong. He's a burnout with the cigarette holes in his shirt to prove it, and the distain of a perfectly ruined silk shirt for the cherry on top. His act is as clean as he can make it, but there's no denying that he's just a shell of who he was suppose to be. Every good deed he's done is tainted by the means of hiding the vices he can't clean his hands of.
HEADCANONS
Donnie lives couch to couch, one night stand to one night stand, ever since he's been back in town because he usually gets kicked out of his significant other's home. They clash and more often than not, Donnie starts a fight as a means of having a reason to be on his own again.
WANTED CONNECTIONS
Childhood friends
People he’s wronged in the past
Anyone involved in the robbery either by proxy (like a sibling of someone involved), etc.
Hook ups, past and present
His “fake” significant other
People he grew up with due to their families being friends or in the same upper class social circles
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☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 “𝚘𝚑”
PART 23: PRETTY BOY
emotions run wild when everyone is drunk and hardly coherent. quackity is always loud, but tonight is a full on assault on the senses (the ears, in particular). bretman simps for corpse too much for your liking. rae is happy for once. there’s a confession of love somewhere in there. sister james makes a very good impostor, but that’s old news, the real question is who gave you a knife? a new persona emerges that leaves the roaches quivering in their boots.
─── corpse husband x reader, a lil bit of everyone x reader (because she’s a queen)
─── soc. media + written fiction!
─── word count: a lil over 7k.
author’s note: it’s the way i can’t follow a fucking calendar for me. sorry guys, i swear to god i thought i had one more day before thursday . the idiot award goes to me and i accept it with pride. anyway, i was excited to write this for a while! quackity is in mexico, that’s why he drinks, too. my fic, my rules, he’s too funny not to include. im also working on an extra w dream and mr quack so look forward to that, too! hopefully u like this part ily xx and as always lmk wat u think!!
ultimate masterlist. ҉ myso masterlist ҉ previous. ҉ next.
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
The outfit for today was picked with care and consideration. Hot, as always- you had forgotten your roots, your hoodie and sweats lay hidden in the bottom of your drawer never to be worn on stream again. You’ve changed. Clout really does that to people. Some viewers, naturally, find your hotness near insulting: how dare you rub your beauty in their faces, and so unabashedly, too?! If only you had a twinge of self-awareness, perhaps you would tone it down. But you don’t, and whether that’s by choice or not is the mystery the whole internet tries to solve (ARMY has been working diligently, and you admire their effort, though in the end their tireless labor brings no tangible results).
You went from hot to hotter. In all truth, the fires eating away at California can be blamed on you. You carry this burden in stride, in your platform overpriced shoes some girl scammed you on Depop with, in your fishnets, in your skirt, in your corset, in your rings and necklaces and chains. You woke up today and chose violence. Decided your existence will be a plague to the rest of the populace, and meant it (that, maybe, you took inspiration from a certain faceless Youtuber that so happens to be your boyfriend or whatever). You feel powerful. Like you could step on the world and the world would let you. You decide that it’s the way it should always be.
The smile on your lips informs of nothing good to your quaint, small audience of 40k. You change the lighting in your room from the soft cherry blossom pink to menacing violet. As fitting for a villain.
Perhaps California’s hellish sun has finally purged you of your bubbly, docile nature (arguably, you had never possessed it to begin with); perhaps it’s the forth mimosa you’re mixing as people slowly trickle into the lobby. Who knows?! Not you, definitely. What do all of those boring dead white European philosophers say? Embrace the unknown? Cheers, you’ll drink to that.
In stark contrast to your appearance, your room is a fucking mess. A war-zone of epic anime scale. Everything is scattered, well, everywhere. A perfect representation on what’s going on in your mind, always. You don’t like how people focus on your surroundings-- you’re the main attraction, hello? Are you not enough to sustain them? Must they beg for more?! Totally ungrateful. You shake your head in disappointment, as if a mother scolding her children.
noooooo! mom pls forgive me i will never ask abt anything ever again T_T
yall looking at the room? lol couldnt be me
feels like im five and my mum just told me i cant eat a pretty rock i found on the pavement:(
You can’t contain your sly grin. Eyes twinkle with a purplish hue, appearing all the more menacing. You tricked them once again, oh how absolutely evil of you. In your blind delight you accidentally spill champagne on your lap.
“-Oop, fuck.” You snort.
why does she sound like goofy
The scandalous drunk Among Us stream is about to start. You had been eerily silent through the greetings, and those that chose to approach you were met with a cold shoulder and minimal replies. All on purpose, of course. You wish to plant a seed of unease within them, and so far, it’s working. There are questions unanswered, jokes unsaid, Quackity unteased. It breaks your heart, but it must be done. You look into the camera, all vulnerable and devout, as if to say: I’m doing this for you, all for you.
pack it up yandere simulator
idk whats going on but i think im into it?
villain arc villain arc villain aRC VILLAIN ARC
“Hey, guys,” Corpse’s voices rings in your headphones, and not a blink later his astronaut appears in the lobby in a cloud of smoke, “Hi, Y/n.”
More sharp, excited hellos follow after. You merely hum, though give no further reply. As Corpse strays to your side, Charlie steps in in front of him, “BDA access only. You have a permit, bitch?”
“Y/n is being quiet-she’s being quiet, guys!” Quackity helpfully informs, as if the rest failed to notice your cryptic silence, “Don’t be sad Corpse, man, Corpse don’t be-she didn’t say shit to me either.”
“Y/n has decided to not waste her breath on the SDS.” Charlie voices, “And you know what? I actually agree with her for once.”
“SD-what now?” Dream questions.
“The Small Dick Society.” Charlie explains, noting Dream’s whine of protest, “Oh no, don’t give me that shit, weren’t you bitching about not being invited and not belonging to exclusive clubs? Congratulations, you’re finally part of one.”
“Wait!” Quackity interjects, “Am I part of it too?”
“Guess, Sherlock.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Corpse says. You nod to your audience, like he just spoke the God honest truth, and follow in his example. Your tentative sip unexpectedly turns into a greedy gulp, but you’re not complaining. The only slightly coherent thought that rings in your mind is drink tasty.
“Ignore them,” Rae chimes, “Y/n’s probably plotting something and using Charlie as a cover up.”
“I’d never.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them.
“Well you sure are very quick to deny it.” You can hear her smirking, can hear the proud lilt in her voice, like she caught onto your silly little scheme, like she has you all figured out. Your eyes narrow dangerously. The night behind your window pools dark, with far away city lights glimmering before they, too, seem to dim.
Your roommate is back on your shitlist. How her name was missed among the rest.
“I’m defending my honor.” You yelp, the playfulness back in your voice along with your sunny smile, “I can’t have my wifey slandering me online. At least do it in private, geez.”
If Rae’s such a good detective, you’ll give her a good chase. Perhaps you’ve been laying it on too thick. Made her too suspicious. She can’t out you yet--not when your plans are so grand, so fun. It would be a waste.
“Why weren’t you saying anything then?” Quackity questions.
“Do I need a reason not wanting to talk to you?” You shoot back. Your friends laugh and he tries to shriek something past their cackle. You lean back into your chair, the tension from Rae’s confrontation finally easing. You wink at the camera and bring a finger to your lips. The roaches swear to secrecy, elated by your wickedness. As appropriate, they spam devil emojis and various renditions of evil hohohos and hehehes. The apple truly does not fall far from the tree. You had raised them well. You raise your glass in solidarity. A few donations fall into your pocket, easily summed up as: make them suffer.
Muting the discord call, you give a single response, “Oh, I intend to.”
i hope this doesn’t awaken something in me
^already too late for me bro
As caught up in wreaking havoc among your viewers as you are, you miss Sykkuno’s entrance, though from what you can tell, Charlie gave a stern warning to back the fuck off to him, too. He’s playing into your plan so beautifully. Truly, you couldn’t do this without him. Back to stalking the chat you go.
Your eyes flicker to the game upon Bretman’s signature drawl and “Hi, daddy.”. You have no time to get offended at Corpse’s sweet “Hi, honey” back, because the next person to join the discord call and the lobby leaves you speechless. You knew, of course, you had been informed of the line-up, but still, you had never expected yourself to be so close to Jomes Chorles himself. You make a weird gesture with your hands, half wave half excited wiggle, as if you’re telling the audience to calm down, when, in fact, it is you that needs calming.
He goes saying his hello’s like doing a public service, name by name, before, lastly, uttering, “Hi, Miss Y/n. Loooove the vids.”
He’s a roach in disguise, who could’ve known?! Your audience is so diverse and unexpected, gosh, you’d shed a tear if the mascara wasn’t so expensive.
“Hi!” You reply with a grin, and it’s genuine this time, a glimmer of your old self, “Hi, I love your videos, too. It’s like, really cool to finally meet you.”
“Oh my God, you too!” Is his enthusiastic reply, “Okay, the energy in the studio today? Love it.”
“Is this all of us?” Quackity asks.
“Sadly.” James says with a note of disappointment.
“HEY!”
“Okay, guys!” Ash chimes, “Let’s do this! Proximity Among Us, round one, go go go!”
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
Luck does not shine upon you during the first round- you are stuck as Crew Mate, your life cut short by Bretman who had the audacity to bite your head off. You’re positive Ke$ha wrote her hit single Cannibal about him, and if she didn’t, she definitely had a That’s So Raven moment and predicted it. It’s also insanely suspicious as after you are eliminated he sticks real close to Corpse, feigning innocence (and this is a controversial opinion you do not endorse) better than even you. It wounds your pride, having been picked off so casually, so quickly, and now stuck a ghost you roam the halls of the dying spaceship, lost, confused, heartbroken.
Charlie runs past you, not once even glancing in your direction. “Brother...” You mutter sadly, “Do you not see me here? Do you not feel... the loss of your twin’s heartbeat...?" Damn, these mimosas really are making you emotional. You sniffle and take a sip to calm the storm within you. No rage, just sadness. You are still processing your own tragic demise.
Suddenly, a meeting is called. There’s a horrible red X on your astronaut. You are the only one dead so far, and of course the rest won’t vote out the fucker. How bitterly you sit! With your arms crossed over your chest and your glare sharp enough to cut through glass. Fuck the sad shit, now you’re just angry. At the very least, the second Impostor could’ve given you some company!
“I knew something felt off.” Charlie is first to speak.
“Who the fuck killed Y/n?” Corpse questions, and his voice ignites a whole discussion that lasts much too short. The others skip, having no suspect yet. It’s much too soon to start pointing fingers, but you still feel like they should have at least tried. Pouting, you fix yourself another drink.
“Stop drinking!?” You gasp, exasperated at your chats demands, “I’m dead! What else should I do, the tasks?! Nah, fuck that. I’m done. I’m out. Charlie better employ his fucking detective skills because if the Impostors win, I will literally quit the game--yes I will, no I’m not bullshitting, fucking watch me.”
Thankfully, Bretman was caught venting, and you didn’t have to end the stream prematurely. The second Impostor, your roommate (oh, the betrayal, Rae, how could you?!) was voted out due to Corpse’s suspicion. Victory to the Crew Mates! The game restarts and you find yourself back in the lobby.
“Miss Y/n,” Bretman says, “I am sooo sorry for killing you first, baby. It was just too easy. I couldn’t pass it up.”
Giggling, Quackity chimes, “Sister slaughtered.”
“Oh my God,” James groans, “shut up!”
“Yeah, Y/n.” Charlie speaks, and there’s an accusatory note in his calm voice, “Why the fuck did you allow yourself to be eliminated first? Real noob shit, I expected more of you.”
“HUH?!” You frown, “What’s with the victim blaming?! I literally was doing my task and Bretman snuck up on me. It’s not like I had a weapon to defend myself!”
“You have been avenged,” Corpse states, “and that’s all that matters.”
“Thank you, Corpse!” You say, “At least someone cares.”
“Hey, I helped, too!” Dream pipes up.
“No, you didn’t.” Corpse shoots him down, “I was the only one.”
“You were not--”
“Literally was. Isn’t that right, Sykkuno?”
“Uhhhh-” Sykkuno trails off, “Well, we-we all helped!” You can hear his shy smile, and you just know he’s bobbing his head up and down at this exact moment, “We all helped. Team work!”
“Team work!” The rest echo, save for yourself, Corpse, Charlie, and the two Impostors. Silence speaks more than a thousand words or whatever. You pray to any higher power willing to listen to finally assign you the role of the villain, the one you were born to do.
Sadly, higher powers must have either shitty customer service or are in need of hearing aids, and you almost scream in frustration when your astronaut appears along with the others, the bold CREW MATE title chipping away at your master plan.
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
“Hey, Y/n, hey! Hey, Y/n!” Rae finds you in Cafeteria, where you, metaphorically, are eating your feelings. Not that she needs to know, of course. She sounds chipper, a bit ditsy, and that must mean she’s sufficiently tipsy. You store that information for later, and forget about it as soon as you notice Dream and Sykkuno, like her very own personal bodyguards, trailing after her, “Wanna play a game?!”
“Is this Saw?” You inquire, somewhat lazy. You’d be lying if you said the alcohol wasn’t affecting you, it’s just instead of making you bubbly, it makes you mellow. This was supposed to be fun, you were supposed to terrorize everyone and laugh as they perished by your hand, yet here you are, wallowing in self-pity. The roaches start worrying. The donation jingle chimes.
BEATINGS & SLUTATIONS
yns_fishnets donated 5$
mom just wait it out & dont worry youll get your vengeance soon lead them on!!!!
Your fishnets have a point!
“Saw?--No, no, haa, no it’s a drinking game.” Dream sounds like he has had one too many rounds of this mysterious game, and naturally, you are intrigued.
“Where we drink!” Sykkuno clarifies. Right, well that explains everything! If you had any questions, you surely have none now.
“Okay, so, name a category, and you have to, like, say a word associated with it...Or something along those lines.” You hadn’t even agreed and Rae is explaining the rules already. She knows you too well. It’s both a blessing and a curse, “Can be anything! Okay, Y/n, Y/n, Y/n start!”
“Uhh--” If only your brain computed as fast as she spoke! “Song lyrics! Wait--who drinks?”
“You fail, you drink!” She hurries, “Choke me like you hate me but you love meeeeee. Syk, go, go go!”
“Uhm, ah, I don’t wanna feel like this, uh, fuck?” He laughs--it’s a raspy, embarrassed little sound, “I don’t...wanna look like this? Dream, now you!”
“Wait, we’re singing Corpse’s songs?”
“Any song!” You urge him quickly, “Hurry! Or drink!”
“She say I kill her cat like I'm Luka Magnotta--”
“Hey! That’s cheating! You can’t use my song!” Rae protest.
“That wasn’t in the rules!” He counters.
“Y/n! Time’s running out!” Sykkuno exclaims.
“Oh, uh, will-will the real Slim Shady please stand up!”
NOT EMINEM WHAT THE FUCK
MOOOM WHT THE HELL THIS ISNT 2008 T_T
“Ra-Ra-Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine--”
“All...All the other kids with the pumped up kicks better, uhh, run better run, faster...-faster than my gun?”
“Uhh, shit--fucking hell.” Dream laughs, and Rae practically screams at him to keep going, “Alright! Okay! I’m singing--uh, you’re so golden, na na na na?”
“I tell you what a woman loves most,” You chime gleefully, “it’s a man who can slap but can also stroke.”
finally, the mother mother representation we’ve all been waiting for
i aint exactly gay but i aint exactly not gay >:)
the bis won
“I steal a few breeeeaaaths from the woooorld for a minute--”
“Mitski?!” You question, eyes bulging, “Baby, who hurt you?”
Even if you can’t see her, you know she’s waving her arms around and shaking her head, “Not the point! Sykkuno!”
“Uh, I-I, uhm, I don’t--”
“Drinnnnk!” You all chorus.
“It was a good concert,” You say, “Syk, I’ll drink with you.”
“Thank you, Y/n. That’s very kind of you.” He says softly, with a smile lining his lips. You grin.
“Oh, fine. Everyone, bottoms up!” Rae decides, and no one protest. A moment of silence passes, then, “Well, GG, GG, let’s do some tasks?”
Your enthusiastic Ariana Grande-esque “yuh” is cut short by the second meeting of game two being called. The first one to go had been Ash, voted out during a bathroom break as a joke, and you still feel a bit bad about that. Now, you notice Charlie has been eliminated. A sense of righteousness fills you--while you mourn for your brother from another mother and father and family tree, you feel like this is divine punishment for slandering you before the start of this round. Karma. Nothing much is discussed, and the meeting ends shortly with everyone skipping.
You spend a good ten minutes wandering around with Dream, who’s mission appears to be convincing you to join his Minecraft server, and really, there was no need for him to try so hard. You failed to provide him with a concrete answer only because it would've been to humiliating to admit that you agreed instantly upon hearing the word Minecraft.
That’s when things get fucking weird. Another meeting is called whilst you’re in the middle of fixing lights, and once the board with the members appears you audibly gasp. There had been 8 living, breathing astronauts rushing around the map, and now only 4 remain. You, Corpse, James, and Alex.
“What the fuck--what the fuck?!” You screech alarmed, noting Dream being among the perished crew, “I was just with Dream fixing the lights, I was just with him, what the fuck--”
“Okay, no one panic.” James says, “Let’s figure this out. Okay? Okay. Who else is close to Electrical?”
“I’m at Nav.” Quackity says.
“I’m at Cafeteria, but Y/n--” Corpse starts, “kinda weird that Dream died when you were with him?”
“I didn’t fucking kill him, I swear to God, Corpse, why are you accusing me?”
“Don’t be so defensive.” He says smoothly, “I’m just pointing out the obvious. We all have a reason to be sus, no? Considering you were right with him.”
“...It is suspicious.” James agrees, and a part of you dies inside. You understand their hesitance to trust you, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating!
“Guys, I didn’t kill him, I swear. He invited me to play Minecraft, I wouldn’t do that to him, not after that!”
Corpse merely hums, and it brings no comfort what’s so ever. The situation is spiraling, and not in your favor. Trying to salvage your chances at freedom, you try again, “Wh-James, James, you called the meeting, right?”
“Yeah, I found Rae’s body near Medical.”
“So I couldn’t have killed her and Dream at the same time!” You latch onto that piece of information, hoping it will save you.
“You could’ve vented.” Corpse points out, “Plus, there’s no telling how old the body is.”
“Killing five fucking people? It’s the work of one person, or else the game would have already ended. As it stands, I am no way sober enough to think all of this out.”
A brief silence hangs in the air; your lungs constrict from tension, from spilling words so hotly. You grasp your glass, as if for emphasis, and take a shy sip. It taste sweet, a bit too sweet for your liking. Must be your nerves. You drink again to wash the taste out of your mouth, which, surprisingly, doesn’t work. You whine a little, stomping your feet like a child about to throw a temper tantrum.
“...I believe her.” Quackity says. You breathe out a sigh of relief.
“Alex, thank youuuuuu!” You gush, batting your lashes as if he could somehow see you and that would somehow portray your innocence, “I knew I liked you for a reason!”
He mutes his mic, his spill of words lost to your ears, but chat helpfully informs that he’s screaming because you don’t hate him.
y/n out here collecting men like pokemon cards
Now all that’s left is to convince the others. You start with the one you know will work, “Corpse,” You address him in your sweetest voice.
“Y/n,” James warns, “don’t you dare--”
“Baby, I didn’t kill anyone, I’m crew mate, you gotta believe me.”
“She's innocent.” Corpse declare, thoroughly convinced.
“Oh my fucking God, you fucking simp!” James laughs, “She’s obviously manipulating you!”
“No, no, she isn’t. She’s innocent, I agree with Quackity. Now, it’s either you or him.”
“Could be you for all we know!” Alex accuses.
“Guys, time’s running out.” You mutter fretfully, noting the seconds tick by from white to red.
“I’m voting Alex.” Corpse says.
“What?! Fucking traitor! Fine, I’m voting for you.” Alex hisses.
“Ugh, hate agreeing with Quackity, but I’m also voting Corpse. Sorry, hon, nothing personal.” James says. The VOTED icons pop up beside their characters and you panic, pressing your mouse idly but it’s too late, there wasn’t enough time, and you cry as Corpse is thrown into lava. The chat spams F, and it feels like salt on a fresh wound.
In a second you’re back in Cafeteria, shell-shocked and trembling, and Quackity cusses because the Impostor is still among you. His frustration doesn’t last long as you watch in horror as Jams Chortles, beauty guru supreme, murders the only other crew mate in cold blood and all you can do is gape and let his cheerful laughter fill your ears. The screen bleeds red, informing of Impostor victory, the second one being Ash. Looks like you voted her off for the right reason, but little difference did it make.
“Corpse!” You yell past the cacophony of voices, all in varying forms of excitement or anger, beelining for his in-game figure, “Corpse, I’m so sorry, I panicked, I tried pressing the button but I wasn’t quick enough--”
“It’s alright, baby. Don’t worry about it.” He’s so calming, so gentle, you might burst into tears again. What did you do to deserve him? You wish he was with you so you could smother him in a hug. Alas, all you can do now is say “I kith you, mwah!” and rush to the other side of the lobby, as if to hide from such a bold display of affection, even if it was a joke (it wasn’t).
yall say corpse simps for y/n but the reality is y/n simps for corpse harder
queen stop its embarrassing
bhaddies can simp!! i wouldnt but its her choice <3
More deliberations, commentary, and short breaks. Once everyone has returned, the countdown starts. You’re still reeling from the chaos of emotions, the five stages of grief you experienced in 1 second upon Corpse’s unjust demise, that it takes you a moment, a single heartbeat to realize what you’re seeing on screen.
The letters IMPOSTOR hang above your astronaut, with Dream standing just behind you as your newly appointed partner in crime. And suddenly, all the sadness and the tenderness and sympathy vanish with a curt exhale. You slowly turn your head to the chat, muting the Discord call, your soft chuckle of disbelief turning into a full blown laugh.
it’s happening!!!!
omg omg omg omg
VILLAIN ARC VILLAIN ARC VILLAIN ARC
You slap your palm over your lips, trying to contain your wicked smile, to tone down your broken giggles, “N-No, I can’t laugh yet,” shaking your head softly, you look into the camera, “they’re all going to die.”
pack it up light yagami
this has awoken something in me.
^ same
The crew mates go their own ways, rushing to do their tasks like the diligent little workers they are. How adorable. Their grim fate is still miles away from them. The shit you’ll pull will be for the history books. Much like your outfit, which you picked keeping in mind your newfound thirst for blood, you had devised your plan of action with care and consideration. You had been mulling it over all day, drawing on paper like the absolute madwoman you are; hell, you even made sticky notes on who to go for first and what to say. Sure, being moderately drunk hinders your memory slightly (an understatement of the century), but you got a feel for what you’re going to do. It’s nothing short of evil.
Dream and you don’t exchange words, you merely nod at him-- which he, of course, can’t see-- but your criminal bond enables telepathic communication. You can hear his thoughts, ones that strangely sound like drink drink, drink drink. And really, who are you to refuse such an enticing offer?! As he fucks off to stalk his victims, or play pretend, you take a sip. The cocktail is still sweet, but this time it’s not the icky sweet you had tasted prior. You glance at your sticky notes, ones the roaches can’t see, and nearly spill your drink for the second time today as you jerk.
“Fuck!” You exclaim, shoving your headphones off and spinning in your chair. You hastily stand up, wobble -- the world is pleasantly funny right about now -- and giggle. Stepping past the mountains of abandoned clothes and pillows and blankets and anime plushies, you maneuver your way to your bedside table and yank it open, nearly taking out the whole drawer with you. In the mess of old diaries and bad drawings, pencils, jewelry, and stickers, you fish out something you should not be wielding in your inebriated state.
It’s a knife.
In midst of teenage angst you had ordered it off of Amazon with your mom’s credit card, all the while whining that it’s not a phase, mom, and it’s what all of my cool kid friends with fried hair have, and don’t you want me to fit in, don’t you want your daughter to be happy?! You think it’s about that time, the time of too much uneven eyeliner and black eye shadow, that she took to calling you little raccoon. Trash rabbit was your personal favorite, but she used it sparingly. When you presented your Macy’s outfit, holding up a fucking butterfly knife, to your dad, asking if it was a look, he glanced up from some boring business magazine all boring business dads read and said, with a bright smile might you add, “It’s a something!”.
Oh, how it gleams in the lilac light. You used to do tricks with it, back in eight grade maybe, and--what the fuck? Why did you parents allow you to buy it in the first place? Well, because you’re the only child, the only one important, of course they got it for you and clapped enthusiastically at your performances, because why wouldn’t they? The whining they’d face otherwise would’ve been harder to endure than a whole dance number to Panic! At The Disco’s greatest hits. Broadway looked so fucking shabby in comparison. Your mom said so, so it must be true.
Stumbling back to your extremely confused viewers, you take your seat, feeling a bit more grounded now that you’re not standing on your platform shoes anymore. Putting on your headphones, you grin at the chat that starts swimming, and not from too much drinking either. You do a quick flick of your wrist, one that thankfully doesn’t end in injury, and the sharp tip of the exposed knife points upwards, glimmering. It’s a rainbow colored one, because one, it’s pretty, and two, you weren’t hardcore enough for the jet-black or straight up military ones the other emo kids had. Cute and dangerous, just like you.
So you just sit there, holding it up, looking somewhat sly as the roaches capture this momentous moment with screen-caps. Someone definitely clipped you trudging past the obstacle course to obtain a weapon of mass destruction. You must be already trending on Twitter, though you can’t exactly log on and confirm your suspicions. You just feel like you might be, like you should be, because your audience wouldn’t let this slide. Thankfully, your friends don’t have time to check social media, or you’d be outed in an instant.
“Y/n?” Your roommates voice booms from your headphones, and you perk up with a stupid realization that you completely forgot about Among Us. Stuck at the start, at the lobby where Dream had left you, you see her astronaut waddling to you, “What are you doing here? Wait--Have you not moved from the beginning?” She can barely finish the sentence without giggling.
You grin, “I was looking for something.”
Your voice is soft, too calm for your usual frantic spill. You gently set the knife down, hand coming to rest on your mouse, fingers idly, slowly, bouncing on the buttons.
“...What were you looking for?” She’s none the wiser, the numerous drinks consumed tonight numbing her sharp mind. She would have noticed. Your eerie composure would’ve given it away in a heartbeat, or at least hinted at something being objectively wrong. But she sounds curious. Poor girl, hasn’t she heard? Curiosity killed the cat.
“A knife.”
“A knife?!” There’s something about her tone that implies a mental clicking, the puzzle pieces falling together, “You have a knife?!”
“Yes.”
“No!”
You think it would only be appropriate that the random sequence of killing animations renders the backstabbing one. You grin, biting your lower lip with a quiet snicker.
i love women
if evil bad...why seggy?
You take your time leaving her there -- in true serial-killer-to-be fashion, you stick around for a bit longer, admiring your handiwork, or more like the chat singing your praises. You joined today with the intent of making an interesting stream. You have no doubt in your mind that now it will be legendary.
You move down the hallway, and you let your imagination wander: you can almost feel the stuffy air of your helmet, can almost hear your loud footsteps echoing in all this hush, can almost see your reflection in the spotless tile floor. It’s not long before your second victim makes an appearance, running circles in Cafeteria. You hear his voice first before you see him, recognizing Alex by his unhinged screech of “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s goooo!”
“And what’s got you so excited?” How cool and collected you are, gosh, you barely contain the quiver of excitement that threatens to slip out.
“Y/n!” He exclaims, rushing to your side like a lost puppy--he’s really making this easy for you, he’s not even trying, “You just missed--Oh my fucking God, you just missed James, he-he called me tall, he called me fucking tall! Let’s go, let’s gooooo!”
“Well, you are tall, aren’t you?” You chime sweetly, almost as sweet as the drink that lingers on the tip of your tongue, “Real 6′3 energy, no?”
“Yes, yes, exactly! You get it, you fucking get it--” Once again, his mic goes mute, and you glance at the chat for help.
hard to transcribe what hes saying but hes taking shots and yelling that he loves you good job mom
hey, queen! girl, you have done it again, constantly raising the bar for us all and doing it flawlessly
mom plz dont kill alex hes too cute hes all uwu rn
Oh, how you’re about to break his poor little heart. If you had any good left in you, you’d spare him. You don’t, and you’re not taking requests at the moment, so all you do is smile at your chat and they know. They just do. Hive-mind shit, you’re all two-faced little fuckers.
You giggle, and it sounds a tad fake, “You’re so weird, Alex,” You start, and he’s back in the call, a sound of confusion echoing in your ears, “but I get it, you know. You’re weird. You’re a weirdo. You don’t fit it, and you don’t want to fit in. I mean, really, has anyone even seen you without your stupid hat?”
“...Do--” He sputters, bellowing a laugh, “Do you have that whole fucking monologue memorized?!”
“Is it because you’re bald?”
“I’m not fucking bald!” His giddiness is quickly replaced by anger.
You hum, pretend to think, lastly barking a “Liar.” before you kill him. His scream is cut off, leaving only deafening silence at it’s wake. Unlike with Rae, you don’t stick around. You didn’t appreciate how little he enjoyed your recital.
You run into James near Navigation, most likely on his way to Cafeteria. He ends his song mid-note, and you breathe a sigh of relief, “Finally! Someone! I’ve been looking all over, where the hell is everyone?” You question, blocking his way, lest he accidentally stumbles onto the crime scene and easily pins it on you. You’re not done yet.
“Honestly? No clue. I’m searching for them myself, like, everyone’s scattered. I hope no one died.”
You smile. You tried not to, but you can’t contain it, “Me, too.” You echo the sentiment, urging him to join you, and he does. Too trusting. Everyone in this game is too fucking trusting. You lead him back to Nav, feigning that you have a task here. As you pretend to move the spaceship, you can’t help but ask, “Hey, James?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your favorite scary movie?”
A beat of silence passes, “Oh no, fuck that, I don’t like this at all.” He states, about to spin on his heel and bolt like he should do, but you’re quicker-- killer instincts and all-- and he’s dead before he makes it out the doorway.
“See, after your No More Lies video, I figured you’d only tell the truth.” Yes, this is the part of the anime where the villain monologues, only the hero in this case is an astronaut cut in half, and not exactly alive to listen to you. You hope James’ ghost sticks around, “Case in point, why the fuck did you tell Quackity he’s tall?” You eye the chat, which’s mostly spamming W and comparing you to Ryo from Devilman Crybaby. “Such a shame...” You murmur, pressing the REPORT button.
“What?! How are so many people dead?!” Ash gasps, her kind voice tinted with fear and confusion. Your three kills, like military stars on an uniform of a distinguished officer, are displayed on the board. Dream appears to be slacking, having yet to take a life.
“Someone’s been real fucking busy.” Charlie observes. It’s true, you have been.
“I found James in Nav, but holy shit--” You begin, exasperated, “--what the fuck, guys, how did we miss this shit? Where is everyone?”
“I’m at Electrical.” Corpse voices.
“And I’m with Corpse.” One sentence is all it takes to figure out your next target: Bretman. Revenge for being killed first in the first goddamn round, and for spending so much time with your boyfriend.
Eep!!! Boyfriend boyfriend boyfriend!!! The word even makes you forget your thirst for blood, that’s how whipped you are. Sadly, it’s time to return to reality, to this grave situation.
“And what have the two of you been conspiring?” You keep your tone level, but that alone is enough to set everyone off. The unease you had planted within them before the game started is starting to bloom. However, if they suspect you, they don’t speak up, not yet.
“Fishnets, mostly.” Corpse says.
only partly a lie he was mostly talking abt u queen <3
corpse simping for y/n is the sweetest thing ever
the times corpse used y/ns name when talking abt y/n: 1. the times he used baby or my baby: infinite
“I’m wearing them right nyoooow.” Bretman drawls.
You hum, “What a coincidence. I am, too.”
“Wait--For real?” That seems to catch Corpse’s attention, because of course it does, you picked them with him in mind, after all.
“No peeping.” You tsk, obviously referring to his tendency to hop onto your stream unprompted. Whether he actually listens to your demands is beyond you, “Peeping means cheating.”
“For the love of fuck all, can we get back to the three dead bodies, please? Because I’m about to have a second coming of Christ moment and taste my consumed, digested beer for the second time.” Charlie interjects.
“I mean, anyone have any ideas who’d do this?” Dream takes hold of the conversation. Quiet, disappointed nos greet him. They have nothing to go on, no clues, not even a subliminal message. With everyone scattered, there is no way of locating the actual bodies and drawing a long red trail leading back to you.
You’re too good at lying, and Dream is too good of a publicist. People tend to trust his judgement, which is his main asset (besides his calm demeanor of course). When the Among Us gods chose you as Impostor, they made sure you had every advantage.
“Who-Who do you think it is, Dream?” Ash questions, “I trust you. I do. Just know that.”
“No fucking clue.”
“Y/n?” She tries again.
“Same. I’m a bit worried, though.”
“Let’s, uhhh, let’s skip?” Sykkuno offers. The consensus is to start voting at six. Your new mission is to make sure you dwindle the numbers down drastically before that can happen. You have no qualms about sacrificing Dream in order to meet your goals, either. Absolutely cold blooded.
Back at Cafeteria, there are words exchanged about Quackity’s body just laying there, forgotten. Blame is shifted: how come we didn’t notice sooner? Where’s Rae? And you mindlessly go along with their mourning, not really paying attention. Dream leaves with Charlie and Sykkuno, Corpse requests you stay with him and you sprout fake apologies. Not his time yet. Us girls need to stick together!, you sing, following after Ashley and getting further and further away from him, going deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the spaceship.
You find yourself in Security with her, her cute astronaut pressed to the cameras, watching the live feed, “Let’s lurk here, okay? Maybe we’ll see something.” If only she saw who was standing behind her.
“Who do you think is the Impostor?” You ask, standing in the doorway, “Or, more like, who are the Impostors?”
“Honestly?” She ends her word with a little sigh, “I think it might be Corpse and Bretman. I haven’t seen them at all this game.”
You smile, raising your brows, tilting your heard, and you sound so kind, like a dear old friend about to deliver a tender message, “...Have you seen me?”
“SHIT!”
Too late. In one smooth motion she joins the afterlife. You cut the lights, venting mindlessly till you spot Corpse and Bretman panicking in Weapons. Your existence is still a mystery to them.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck--” Corpse mumbles, “Bretman, don’t you dare fucking kill me right now.”
“I’m not Impostor!”
“Okay, I’ll drink to that.”
They rush out of Weapons, most likely on their way to Electrical, and you trail after them like the Grim Reaper itself, biding your time till you can deliver the killing blow.
“Corpse?!” You call out, mild panic ringing in your voice, “Is that you?”
“Shit, Y/n? Where are you?” He questions. Crew vision is so sad, so small, how can he not see you standing almost right next to him? “Where’s Ash?”
“I dunno,” You say, “when the lights went out I ran. Please don’t kill me.”
“I’d never do that, baby.”
Too easy. They’re all too fucking easy. You bite your lower lip, trying to stop the laugh bubbling in your chest, to stop the lightheaded dizziness that overcomes you with a rush of excitement.
“Thanks, pretty boy.” You mutter, and it sounds a bit lower than you intended, a bit darker, something sinister lurking underneath cotton candy words. It instantly clicks in Bretman and he makes a noise, something like a whine, and you see him backing away, “I know I can always trust you.”
Whether Corpse notices the odd shift in tone, he doesn’t show it, “I like it when you call me that.” Is all he says, and you hear the smile in his voice, the appreciation. The trek to Electrical is all but forgotten. You slowly make your way to Bretman, “Where are you? Come here.”
“Just a minute,” You say cheerily, “I just need to kill Bret first.”
“Holy shit.”
“N-” Your victim’s sentence is cut off in a second, and you can’t contain your manic cackle this time, because the screen bleeds red, the words VICTORY splattered on it, depicting yours and Dream’s sneaky astronauts. You’re still laughing as the voices of your fallen friends ring in your ears.
“Y/n, what the fuck, you’re an actual monster.” Dream says, but there’s no actual weight behind his words, each syllable punctured with a laugh.
“I knew the second she asked me about my favorite scary movie that I’d get the chop.” James states.
“Wait, Y/n, did you kill everyone?” Corpse questions.
“She fucking did!” Dream answers for you, “I got Charlie and Sykkuno, and barely at that. What the fuck.”
“I’ve been waiting so fucking long for this.” You admit, giggling, raising you glass, “I toast to you, Dream. My perfect partner in crime.”
“I didn’t really do shit, but cheers.”
Quackity heaves a heavy sigh, “Y/n, Y/n, you don’t actually think I’m weird, right? Right?”
“No, she does.” James chimes.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU, DUDE?!”
More commotion, more noise, and you just sit there, buzzed, snickering, reading the chat as the rest agree to play another round. You thank the people who donated that you had accidentally missed among the, you know, murder, reply to a few questions, bow dramatically to the many praises and invisible flowers you receive for such beautiful assassin work. When you look back at the screen, you throw your head back with a maniacal laugh.
Impostor again, only this time it’s with Charlie. Family bonds are often restored when united under a common goal. You’re so happy. So happy. You weren’t done terrorizing your friends yet.
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos - @fairywriter-oracle - @tsukishimawh0re - @ofstarsanddreams - @bbecc-a - @annshit - @leahh19 - @letsloveimagines - @bellomi-clarke - @wineandionysus - @guiltydols - @onephootinfrontoftheother - @liamakorn - @thirstyfangirl - @lilysdaydreams - @pan-ini - @mxqicshxp - @tanchosanke - @yoshinorecommends - @flightsandfantasy - @liljennyx3 - @bingusmode - @unknown-and-invisible - @sinister-sleep - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat - @mercury–moon - @peterparkerspjsuit - @unstableye - @simonsbluee - @shinyshimaagain - @ppopty - @siriuslystupid - @crapimahuman - @ofthedewthesunlight - @mythicalamphitrite - @artsyally - @corpsesimpp - @corpsewhitetee - @corpse-husbandsimp - @hyp-oh-critical - @roses-and-grasses - @rhyrhy462 - @sparklylandflaplawyer - @charbkgo - @airwaveee - @creativedogs - @kaitlyn2907 - @loxbbg - @afuckingunicornn - @fleurmoon - @yeolliedokai
more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙
#corpse husband#corpse#corpse husband x reader#corpse x reader#corpse social media au#corpse husband x y/n#corpse husband fic#corpse husband social media au#social media au#myso#make you say oh#quackity#dream smp#corpse x y/n#imagine#imagines#reader#xreader
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Hiii. if you're still taking requests can you do a azriel one? (Can't get enough of him🤭🥰) can you witte one where azriel gets really badly hurt on a mission and barely makes it back and the reader freaking out and being really worried.?
pairing: azriel x reader (acotar)
warnings: angst, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, sad shiz but happy ending
a/n: this isn’t as angsty as I planned but it’s a lil, pls comment if you like it and tell me ur thoughts <33
——————————————————————————-
Azriel had promised you the mission would be quick. In and out were his exact words.
You should’ve known better than to trust him when he spoke so casually about breaking into a palace in the human courts, you should’ve known that something would go horribly, inconceivably wrong. But when he smiled at you and held you against him, swaying from side to side you were too lost in his easy lies to care.
You had started going on more missions with him recently. While you weren’t a spy, you had an incredible knack for lying. Cassian joked that you were just a brat but even he couldn’t deny that you were talented when it came to batting your eyes and pressing a hand gently enough on a soldier’s arm that they would bend to your every will.
You and Azriel had also discovered that the most effective torture method was to trick whoever you had taken into a false sense of security, you would use a gentle tone and motherlike care to make them feel safe. And then they were always willing to speak, believing that once Azriel stopped his ministrations they could fall into the safety of your arms.
It was a good tactic and even Azriel was impressed when you first tried it. But that never quelled his protectiveness, the way an arm would find its way secured around your waist as soon as you had secured the information you needed, or the way he kissed you fiercely in his shadows when he was tired of watching men flirt with you.
The truth was you and Azriel were so completely in love, no amount of flirting could ever take you from the gentle but possessive grip of your mate. In some ways that’s what kept you going, knowing that at the end of the day you didn’t have to plaster on a fake smile and sweet voice.
At the end of the day, in the warmth and comfort of your share home you were yourself. You could wear the same jumper for weeks straight and laugh at crude jokes. You could do your makeup at 3am and then turn to your half-asleep mate with a pout, whining until he caved and let you do his makeup too.
But in the end, your complete devotion would come back to bite you in the ass.
It was your fault, or so you believed. If you had just kept your eyes on the general with bad breath and a crooked nose you wouldn’t be in this mess. But when he got to close your eyes flickered to were your mate stood, concealed in shadows, and through all the generals personal hygiene faults, he had been trained to notice subtle looks that gave you away.
He had grabbed you so tightly that you couldn’t help but yelp, drawing Azriel’s attention to you. And while you had disabled the general quickly you now had hoards of guards chasing you out of an area that was guarded against winnowing.
Azriel hadn’t wasted a second. You were his top priority and so he had abandoned the plan and grabbed you as quickly as he could, gathering you into his arms as he flew to the exit. You had spluttered apologies to him as he flew, your eyes trained on the guards chasing you, the guards who were now drawing bows.
Azriel was quick but the arrows were quicker. You threw your hands out, trying to bat off as many of them as you could with the limited power you held. But as concentrated as you were on the ones directed to his wings, you didn’t see the one aiming for his lower torso until you felt it graze you from where it left his body.
He grunted as you swore, finally out of the barriers as he winnowed to as close to home as he could. But while injured that wasn’t easy and you found yourselves standing in a wooded area, Azriel dropping you down much more roughly than usual, swearing as he leaned against a tree.
“Okay, okay I can fix this, you’re going to be fine.” You spoke, mainly to yourself as the panic inside you grew. You scanned the area, spotting a cave not too far off, not wanting to leave Azriel in the open when you had no idea what could be in these woods.
“C’mon baby, let’s go this way.” You slung an arm around him, just above the wound and began making your slow trek to the small cave. As soon as you had him sat down, you knelt in front of him, tears in your eyes as you cut open his top, so you had access to the wound beneath.
“Why are you crying sweetheart?” you heard him ask and you rolled your eyes, wiping away the stray tears.
“Why do you think dumbass,” you said, forcing a smile when he huffed a laugh.
“You can’t be mean to me right now,” he complained as you set about cutting off both ends of the arrow so you could remove it safely, wincing when he hissed, gritting his teeth.
You finally had both ends cut off and went to pull it out, removing your shawl and preparing to press it against the wound that was spouting far too much blood. You looked up at him with your hands pressed shakily against his wound and saw his skin was pale and sweaty, his eyes drooping as they tried to close. He fell forward slightly but you held him upright with your shoulder, panic rushing through you, white hot.
“Azriel c’mon no, none of that. You’ve got to stay awake baby, you’re too heavy for me.” You begged; your hands pressed tightly against his wound as you let the tears fall freely. You eventually had to pull away, moving him so he was leaning against the cave wall, taking extra precaution to ensure his head didn’t get hurt.
His eyes cracked open when he felt your blood-soaked palm press gently against his face, glassy and barely present.
“Hey, hey I need you to stay with me, okay?” you tried to smile, wanting to offer him any semblance of comfort.
“Always baby,” he whispered, and you smiled, pulling your hands away slightly and smiling when you saw the wound healing externally already.
“What are you getting me for solstice?” you asked, wanting to keep him awake and speaking.
“Not telling.” He muttered and you laughed.
“You have to, we have to talk about something.” You joked, pulling a hand away just long enough to wipe your eyes as you focused on his face.
“I had a few ideas; nothing seems good enough.” He muttered and you laughed.
“Tell me.”
“Well first I thought a necklace, books, maybe art supplies or something but that’s all boring,” he whispered, and you smiled, nodding.
“If it’s from you it won’t be boring,” you smiled, hands still pressed tightly against his wound.
“Well I also thought I could get you your own truthteller, maybe one with a pink handle.” He joked.
“Well you know full well I would love that, maybe baby pink with little white hearts on it,” he smiled at you, his head lulling slightly forward. You reached up to him again holding his head gently in your hands, before you lay him down, covering him in the rest of your shawl.
“You plan that then, I’m going to go get wood and we’ll start a fire okay, keep you warm.” You stroked his face gently, pressing a kiss onto his forehead.
“Be safe,” he grabbed your hand as you stood to leave,
“You first.”
--
Your luck apparently ran out as soon as you looked at Azriel, given as soon as you walked out the cave the heavens opened, and you were soaked to the skin in the seconds. You grabbed as much wood as you could straight away, throwing it into the dry cave.
You then ventured further out, finding a rabbit, and killing and cleaning it out as quickly as you could, practically running back to the cave. You knelt down, starting a small fire, and removing your now dirty and completely soaked dress, ringing out your hair.
You then moved back to Azriel, brining him closer to the fire as you cooked speared the rabbit over it, cooking all the meat you could salvage of its small body.
“You’re so cold,” he muttered, pressing his nose into your bare skin as you shivered, moving even closer to the fire.
“Ah you know what they say, cold hands, cold heart.”
“I don’t think that’s the-“
“Shh,” you muttered, curling into him as you pressed together trying to steal some warmth from each other.
“If I get ill I’m going to kill you.” You whispered into his neck, and he chuckled, clenching his teeth when he moved to soon and your head shot up to him.
“Are you okay? Am I hurting you?” he shook his head, tightening his arms around you.
“No you’re alright,” he whispered. You lay there for a while longer, Azriel’s body limp, all his energy going into healing the deep wound in his side. Yours on the other hand was tense, ears perking up at any sound, half expecting a pack of rabid wolves to come eat you the second you allowed yourself to relax. When the rabbit was finished, you picked it apart, feeding it to Azriel gently, determined to get his energy back.
He was still so pale and no matter how hard you tried, nothing could quell the nausea in your stomach. Every time you looked at him when he closed his eyes your heart dropped, your anxiety telling you that this might just be the last time you ever see him.
You didn’t sleep all night, instead staying pressed against him, shivering in your undergarments as your dress dried by the fire. You regularly checked his pulse, temperature, breathing and whatever else you could, too afraid to take your eyes off of him for even a second.
By the time the sun finally rose, Azriel’s complexion had evened out and the wound in his side was puckering into a pink scar. You were beyond relieved, fussing over him when he woke up like the mother you often pretended to be.
You pulled your dress back on and stumbled to a near-by river to collect him some water, picking a species of berries you recognised along the way, and actively ignoring the cough you had developed over night.
You got back to the cave and almost cried in relief when you saw him sitting up, smothering the burning embers that used to be your fire. He looked over to you as you padded in and swore, standing to come to you.
“You look like shit what happened?” he asked, worry coating his features.
“Hey! I spent all night looking after you asshole,” you shoved him gently but he held tight, holding your chin in his slender fingers as he forced you to look at him.
“Shit it was raining last night,”
“Yeah?” you asked as he shook his head.
“That’s why you were so cold, c’mon let’s get you home you’re ill.” He muttered as you wildly protested.
“I’m fine, you need to rest,” you pointed at him, but he brushed you off, gathering you in his arms to winnow home.
“We can rest together, at home, in bed.” He stated, not leaving any room for argument so you relaxed in his arms, your head pressed against his shoulder.
“Okay,” you conceded, your voice small as he smiled down at you.
“Thank you for looking after me darling,” his voice was filled with sincerity, and you snuggled closer into him.
“Anytime.” You whispered as he winnowed you away, only vaguely aware of the feeling of him placing you down on your bed and curling around your back, arms tight and secure.
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tranny is not a slur LMFAO please go outside if you honestly think transphobia is real
This, right here, is what pushes so many people away from radical feminism. Arent we supposed to be the realists in this situation? The ones who actually acknowledge material truth, unlike libfems? Transphobia is a measurable, quantifiable phenomenon. A quick google search can show you statistics on that. And that so many of us deny it's EXISTENCE is very disturbing to me.
It's fine that your activism isn't about transwomen. They, as non females, can have their own movement against the violence they face at the hands of men. They deserve safety too, but it's not on feminism to solve male issues. Feminism is for and about female born people. It's about the specific issues only we face. Which brings me to my point: transphobia affects females, making it, like all female forms of oppression, a feminist issue.
Like what should I tell my partner? That the people who scream "tranny" at him after seeing he has a beard are just lesbohobic? That the men who have done violence to him because of his choice to transition are just doing it because he's a woman? That his own mother, who forced him through reparative therapy and a literal exorcism after he came out as trans just hates that he likes wearing mens cargo shorts?
You don't have to agree with modern trans rights activism. You dont have to support the misogyny they push. You dont have to believe transition is the best or only option for treating dysphoria in females. Hell, you even can recognize that many ftms transition due to misogyny and homophobia. You can rally for them to have access to a more balanced picture of what transition brings. But to say that transphobia is fake is just living in fantasy land.
So here, have a taste of your own advice. Go tf outside. Talk to trans men. Not on the internet, talk to them in real non-virtual life. Listen to their experiences. Watch their faces while they open up to you about the violence they face. Do that, then just try and come back to me with the same woo about how trans people face no oppression worth naming. Please, do it. I'd love to hear more about how tranny isn't a slur and trans men are just deluded, duped idiots🙄
#radfem#radical feminism#radfem safe#radfeminism#tw terf#terfs dni#transphobia#radical feminist#radfems do touch#radfems do interact#radfems please interact#radfems please touch#tirf#trans inclusive radical feminism#sex based oppression#female rights#transmisogyny#radblr#terfblr#feminism#feminist#intersectional feminism
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A great big special thank you to @peachy-mags for the full version of the fantastic companion artwork for this piece! (https://peachy-mags.tumblr.com/post/654049235542622208/)
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader
Word count: 13.2k
Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Canon-typical violence
Summary: After years of service to Angelo Bronte, who would have thought that the arrival of little Jack Marston could change your life forever?
Notes: My submission for @rdrbigbang! Be sure to check out the AMAZING companion art for this fic from @peachy-mags!
-----
Another beautiful morning in Saint Denis. You breathed in deeply, reveling in the calm peace that so rarely enveloped the town. There was a slight nip in the air that you knew would fade away as the morning drew on, the sun rising and casting everything in a pale-yellow light, before the city itself awakened. It was your favorite time of day.
A cup of coffee steamed in your hands as you slowly made your way through the gardens at Angelo Bronte’s mansion. One of the perks of being a live-in servant, you supposed, was unfettered access to the (admittedly slightly ostentatious) statue garden out back - given that Signor Bronte himself wasn’t occupying the space. After a few minutes of slow, calm pacing, you found yourself standing in front of a marble statue of some Roman goddess, Aphrodite?, and taking a sip of your coffee.
It was hot and bitter, the perfect juxtaposition to the cool morning that you would allow yourself to enjoy for a few moments longer. Soon, you would need to make your way inside and ready the table for breakfast, but for now you could enjoy this moment. This peace.
Unfortunately, that peace was almost immediately broken by the sound of terrified cries coming from inside the house. It was not all that uncommon to hear screams and sobs from inside the building, due to the scrupulous nature of your employer, but these sounded different. Almost childlike.
Curious, you made your way back indoors, trying your best to steady your pace so as not to draw unwanted attention. Setting the coffee cup in the kitchen next to the large washbasin, you nodded to the cook, Giovanni, before opening the door to the servant’s stairwell.
The crying was louder here. Anguished and frightened sobs broken only occasionally by cries for “Mama”.
So it was a child?
Quietly, you crept up the creaky stairs to the hallway, where several of Bronte’s more scrupulous henchmen, Gene, Alfonso and Irvin, were gathered around a door. The crying was even louder now, and most certainly coming from the room where the henchmen were standing guard. Above the desperate sobs, you could just make out the sounds of your employer trying to shush the child, albeit unsuccessfully.
“Now, now, my boy,” he soothed, his accent unmistakable. “There’s no need to be upset, I’m sure your family will come after you soon enough.” The boy continued to cry for his mother in between sobs. Signor Bronte’s tactic wasn’t exactly working.
The men standing guard had spotted you, and closed their ranks tighter. You knew how this went - you were never allowed to see Bronte’s victims. In fact, as far as you were supposed to know, Bronte participated in no underhanded dealings whatsoever. Which was, of course, completely wrong, and you had figured that out long ago. But for the most part, you tried your best to ignore the dealings - for the sake of keeping yourself alive.
But this was a child.
You had to do something.
Carefully, you moved closer to the line of henchmen standing in front of the door. They were larger than you, Signor Bronte had a habit of finding and employing practical giants to act as his henchmen, but they were also silent.
“Signor Bronte?” you called, standing nearly face-to-chest with one of the large men. “Is everything alright? Can I be of service?”
The men in front of you reddened, irritated at your immunity to their intimidation tactics. They stayed silent, however, and maintained their position as a wall of flesh between you and the crying child in the room.
After just a few moments, you heard your name being called with a familiar Italian lilt . “Come in, come in. We could use your help,” he hailed for you over the steady sobs from the room.
The three men at the door reluctantly parted to let you enter the brightly lit room. A fire was burning low in the hearth, likely more of a symbol of comfort than to actually provide any heat, and your boss sat on the side of a large, gaudy bed.
The boss of the largest crime syndicate in San Denis was a feared man, but if you met him in the street, you would never know. He was small, with a prominent nose and dark eyes that never overlooked anything. At home, his dark was hair slicked back under a floral headband, and his red housecoat opened in the front to reveal an unbuttoned white collared shirt. To anyone who didn’t know him, he could have passed as any rich, european immigrant.
But you knew better. In the middle of the luxurious home, beneath the extravagance of his clothing, sat a cunning, intelligent man who had clawed his way up from hell itself. He was cutthroat, manipulative, and would not hesitate to sell out his closest comrade for a step up the ladder. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise you to see a small boy curled up on the large, gaudy bed, his clothes muddied and his light brown hair in tangles. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, and was screaming adamantly for his mother.
Instinctually, you rushed to the bed and sat next to him, taking the spot that had been occupied by your boss. “Now, my dear,” he said as he stood, clearing his throat and adjusting his housecoat, “this young man is Jack, and he will be staying with us for a while.” You looked sympathetically at the boy, still sobbing and curled up in front of you, before giving your boss a solemn nod.
You hated this; seeing the boy in such a familiar state. A state that you, yourself, had been in for years upon your arrival in San Denis. Hopefully his parents, unlike yours, could pay off whatever debt they had soon. “If you could stop his screams, I would appreciate it. He’s giving me a headache,” Signor Bronte continued, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with one hand as he headed toward the door. “Get him some breakfast. I’m sure he hasn’t been fed since those hillbillies in Rhodes took him.”
Without another word, he walked from the room and the three henchmen followed closely behind him. As he entered the hallway, you could hear him speaking to them in Italian, “Let’s hope these bastards come for him soon. I want to have the little shit out of here as soon as possible.”
The door closed behind them, and you were left in the room with the poor, frightened child. You sighed and slowly moved closer to the curled up figure on the bed. Making sure you were as gentle as possible, you reached out to place a hand on his tiny shoulder. “Jack?...” you said his name, low and calm, as if you were trying to tame a spooked horse. He curled even further into himself, but you noticed his sobs had started to die down to exhausted whimpers. “Jack?” you tried again, pulling your hand back to yourself and placing it in your lap. Calmly, you gave him your name before continuing, “I’m very sorry about all of this, Jack. I know it’s very scary…. I-”
What could you tell him? That you had been in the same situation when you were just a few years older? That your parents had never been able to come back for you? That you had spent the majority of your life in service to Angelo Bronte, notorious mafioso, in order to pay a massive debt that had been racked up by your father when you were eight?
No. He didn’t need to know those things. He didn’t need to know the likely reality of his situation.
It was rare that Signor Bronte dealt in child kidnappings, but when he did? The poor kids were lucky if their parents were able to retrieve them.
“I’m sure your ma and pa will show up for you soon,” you soothed, hoping it was the truth.
The poor boy, whose sobs had now turned into quiet sniffles, stayed curled up with his back to you, unmoving. You reached out a hand gently, brushing his dirty hair away from his forehead, only for him to flinch from your touch. You couldn’t blame him.
“Alright, Jack,” you said quietly, standing from the bed. A nearby armchair held a throw blanket that you spread gently over him. “Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll bring you some water and some soup in a bit, I’m sure you’re starving.” The floor creaked beneath your feet as you made your way to the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t look up at you. He just stayed on the bed, a shaking, sniffling bundle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Sighing, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind you. You didn’t think he would run away, he seemed far too exhausted and overwhelmed for that, but you have seen desperate people do crazier things. The least you could do was make sure he wasn’t accidentally hurt trying to make his way past Gene, Alfonso and Irvin trying to escape.
You made your way quickly back to the servants stairwell and down to the kitchen, where Giovanni was waiting for you with bated breath. A joyous, loving man, an immigrant from Italy alongside Angelo Bronte several decades ago, Giovanni was one of your closest friends - possibly the next thing to family that you had had since coming here. Over the years, he had taught you as much as he could about Italian cuisine, all the while boasting about the restaurant that he would surely open one day.
At first, you had scoffed. Hardly anyone in Angelo Bronte’s service managed to leave and start their own life. And, with as much as Signor Bronte boasted about Giovanni’s food, it wasn’t likely that he would be let out of his repayment contract that easily.
Hardly anyone actively sought out Angelo Bronte as an employer. In fact, you suspected that the only actual well-paid employees were the contract killers he sometimes took out to keep his hands clean - but again, you weren’t supposed to know that. The rest of you were given room and board and a pittance of a salary, in exchange for paying off whatever debt was owed to Signor Bronte. For you, it was your father’s sizable gambling debts. For Giovanni, it was the cost of keeping his nieces and nephews alive after their father, his brother, had suddenly passed. Bail, loans, gambling - every one of his employees had a past, and every single one of them owed their future to Angelo Bronte.
“And, my dear, what is the news?” he asked, turning from the freshly baked bread that he had just taken out of the oven to face you.
You gave him a somber smile and picked up a slice of tomato from the cutting board in the center of the kitchen island. “A boy,” you explained, leaning against the island and taking a bite of the vegetable. You glanced over at the washbasin and saw your coffee cup had been cleaned. Giovanni was a saint. “Maybe four or five? Small, either way. I…” you trailed off, but the both of you knew what was going through your mind. You felt bad for him, you didn’t think he deserved this.
Giovanni nodded, and turned to the stove. “Well, my dear, let’s give the boy a warm welcome, shall we?” he responded before pulling a large pot from the back of the stove and looking inside. “We have some leftover minestrone from yesterday, why don’t you warm some up for him while I finish Signor Bronte’s breakfast? There’s some stale bread in the pantry you can add to it. I’ll call in Anne to set the table,” he handed you a wooden spoon and was out the kitchen door, where you heard him calling for the older woman.
Your smile was significantly less downtrodden after speaking to the man, but you still could feel anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach as you collected a bowl, spoon and glass. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was watching, you also slipped a small chocolate bar into your apron pocket, hoping it would help cheer the boy up, even a little. Within just a few minutes, you were headed back up the creaky stairs to the room where Jack was housed, hot soup and cool water in hand, and armed with a secret chocolate bar.
Quietly, you opened the door, balancing the soup and a glass of water with your left arm as you entered. The room was silent now, except for the low breathing of the boy on the bed. If it weren’t for his red-puffy eyes and the chapped rings around his nostrils, he would have seemed peaceful. Like nothing was wrong at all.
You stood for a moment, looking at the poor boy. Should you wake him? He was bound to be starving, but you were sure he was exhausted as well. You hesitated, but decided against it. You could leave the soup and water on the bedside table and check on him throughout the day - he deserved his rest.
Slowly, quietly, you crept across the room to the side of the bed and set the soup and water down, followed by the chocolate bar. You glanced quickly at him, relieved he didn’t wake, before making your way back to the door.
Just as you were about to leave and go about your duties for the morning, you heard a small cough and a hoarse, timid voice from the bed. “Wait…” he said. You turned to see the boy propped up on his arms, looking at you with puffy, shining eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”
Looking at him made you want to cry. How could anyone hurt someone so small, so fragile, so helpless? How could someone be so cruel as to take him away from his family and thrust him into this god awful world?
He was already so exhausted, so frightened, so sad, you couldn’t leave him to sort his feelings out on his own. You could convince Anna and Giovanni to take your duties for the day. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded at him and moved back toward the bed to sit with him. “I won’t.”
---
Slowly, Jack began to settle in. Although he was still obviously upset, the boy proved to be far more flexible and resilient than you had expected from someone so young. Whether from his natural resilience or from your constant reassurance that his parents must be doing everything in their power to get him back, you weren’t entirely certain. You spent plenty of time with him, making sure he was doing alright, and eventually he chose to sleep on a small cot in the servants quarters, next to your bed.
He was prone to constant chatter during the day, and you soon learned quite a lot about him and his family. He apparently had plenty of aunts and uncles, who all moved together around the country. They had been down near Blackwater for a long time, where Jack had apparently left his favorite storybook, but then something brought them north to a small ghost town “with lots of snow, it was real cold!”. Luckily, they hadn’t been there long before heading south again to “a place by a river with lots and lots of trees” where, notably, his Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing. Most recently, they had moved down to Lemoyne, once again near a river, but this time Jack described it as “really hot and nothing ever dries and it always smells like fish.”
An accurate description if you had ever heard one.
In the meantime, although he wouldn’t talk much to the others, most of them couldn’t help but dote on him. Giovanni had a habit of slipping him sweets throughout the day. Anna and the other maids would occasionally bring him books or toys that they had found around town - he was amassing quite a collection. And from Signor Bronte himself, Jack received a brand new outfit made from the finest cotton. You suspected it was most likely to keep the worn rags out of the man’s sight than to actually please Jack.
But, despite the gifts and the treats from the others, Jack clung to you. On laundry days, he would help sort and fold. When cooking, he would clean the vegetables without a second thought. During cleaning, he happily carried supplies around after you, handing you what you needed whenever asked. Although you had told him multiple times that he was more than welcome to sit and read his new book, he preferred staying by your side.
Almost as if he was afraid that, if left alone, he would be taken again.
And at night, it always came to a head. In the dark and left with no distractions, you could hear his whimpers from the cot next to yours. You could hear his murmurs and quiet cries for “Mama” as he dreamt. And it hurt. You couldn’t bear to see him so miserable.
After the third or fourth night, you reached down and brushed the hair from his head. “Jack?” you whispered, looking at the small boy with all the affection of a loving mother. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”
He didn’t wake. Instead, he sleepily lifted his hand to yours, and held it in his until the sun rose.
--
The first few weeks went by similarly. Working during the day, with Jack at your side, helping you out as much as a child could, and comforting the poor child during the night with reassuring words. Soon, the reassurance and affirmations turned into stories - tales about dragons and castles, about magic and the sea.
About two weeks into his stay, you spent the day preparing for a large feast alongside Giovanni, Anna and with plenty of help from Jack.
“You didn’t finish your story last night,” he said, pounding away at a ball of bread dough with his tiny fists.
“Oh yes I did,” you teased, looking the boy dead in the eye with a grin. “You were just too sleepy and fell asleep before the end.” As you joked, you set down the knife and pushed aside the tomato you had been chopping to poke him lightly in the side.
His joyous laughter lit up his face. “Hey!” he whined in between bouts of giggles. “That tickles!”
“I know, silly,” you returned not relenting your tickle torture. “That’s the point!” You did acquiesce after just a few moments though, not wanting to actually cause him any pain.
“Alright you two, calm down, now,” came Anna’s voice from across the room. She was a lovely, portly older woman, with graying hair and a smile to light up a room. If Giovanni had been your father figure since coming here, she certainly took the place of your mother. “We’ve got plenty to prepare for tonight. Signor Bronte is having the Mayor over to talk about his party.”
You let your giggles die down, and nudged the red-faced child next to you. “Now look what you’ve done, Jackie,” you teased softly, ruffling his hair before going back to chopping vegetables.
“Nuh uh,” he responded, giving the bread dough a thorough punch before looking up at you again with a childish grin. He had lost a tooth recently, which only made it all the more adorable. “Can you tell me the end of the story?” he asked after another moment, turning back to the mound of dough on the table. “It was so good, I wanna hear the end. Pretty please?”
A chuckle escaped your lips. “Alright, alright,” you chided, picking up yet another tomato. It wasn’t a particularly good story, just a thinly veiled version of… well, you didn’t want to dwell on that, but if he wanted to hear it, you would oblige. “Where were we?”
“Hmmm…” he mused, stopping kneading the dough for just a second to recall. “Well, the king and queen had just sent the princess to talk to the mean dragon, and then he caught her in a trap, remember?”
“That’s the beginning of the story, Jack.”
“Well, that’s as far as I remember,” his giggles echoed through the room and you couldn’t help but smile.
“Alright, fine,” you feigned irritation that he definitely could see right through. “Well, the princess had been caught in a trap by the mean dragon, but he didn’t hurt her. He… he just wouldn’t let her go home. He wouldn’t let her see the king and queen again so she could be happy.
“‘Your king and queen need to send a knight to come get you,’ the dragon told the princess. ‘Little girls cannot roam the forest on their own.’
“And so, the princess waited, and waited and waited and waited. She learned to read, and write, and she even learned to speak Dragon, which were talents unheard of for princesses in those days.
“She had lots of friends who came and went, and even though she couldn’t go back to the king and queen, she... she wasn’t so lonely… and she learned to find happiness in the small things, like the smell of coffee in the morning, or turning the page of a brand new book, or even the glow of the sunrise on spring dew.
“After a while, she finally realised that she didn’t need the king and queen to be happy. She could make her own happiness… And she did…” you trailed off at the end, returning your focus once again to the vegetables. The other two adults in the room remained silent. You couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious. “The end.”
Jack was quiet for a moment as well, hands stilled on the dough as he looked at the ceiling in thought. “That wasn’t a very good ending,” he said quietly, looking up at you.
You had been caught.
“The princess should have run away, or she should have asked one of her friends to take her when they were leaving,” he continued, determined.
You chuckled solemnly. “You’re probably right, Jack,” you murmured. “I think she was just… scared. The world was dark and scary for her, and she weren’t a very brave princess, and she was worried about what would happen to the king and queen if she left.”
“But that’s not true,” he interjected, throwing one final punch at the bread dough before Anna came to collect it from him. “She was real brave! She lived with a dragon! And dragons are real scary!” He was handed another mound of dough which he immediately proceeded to punch with all his might. “And maybe some of her friends come back to save her! Maybe she helped lots of people while they were living with the dragon, and then they come back to help her! That would be an even better ending!”
Another chuckle. He was far too adorable and far too naive for this house. “Maybe, Jack,” you responded, plastering a knowing smile to your lips. “That would be a good ending.” Clearing your throat, you wiped your hands on your apron and turned to face the small boy. “Alright now, you. Finish up with that bread and then we can get cleaned up for lunch. I think Giovanni is making us spaghetti.”
---
The hot water splashed out of the bucket, spraying suds across the floor. Jack giggled and picked up a handful, blowing it in your direction.
You couldn’t help but laugh. The kid sure did know how to make even the most boring of chores into a game. Looking around first to make sure no one caught you messing around, you picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them onto his head. This brought out a shrieking laugh from the boy. He really was settling in. For better or worse, at least he seemed to be happier.
Finally, you told him gently that you needed to finish the laundry, and then the two of you could go outside for a walk. This, somehow, convinced him to calm down, left playing with the bubbles and giggling to himself until he was interrupted by a voice calling your name from the hall.
Signor Bronte.
“Get these men drinks,” you heard, his spoken Italian echoing across the hall.
Immediately, you put the wash down and wiped your hands on your dirtied apron before hustling to the liquor cabinet. “Wait here, Jack. I’ll just bring the whisky out and be right back,” you instructed, quickly gathering six whisky glasses and a serving tray.
This had been your job for years, you could practically do it blindfolded. As one of the youngest servants in the house, Signor Bronte tended to like to have you wait on his more esteemed guests. It was degrading, but it kept you in his good graces. You had seen enough servants come and go to know that complaining about your role would get you nowhere. Or worse.
Quickly, you pulled a decanter from the cabinet, and left the room with the tray full of glasses in your hands. Already in the hallway, you could hear the conversation between the men in the room. “Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston,” introduced one of the strangers, his voice confident.
You brushed past Irvin, who was standing guard at the entrance, into extravagant parlour. Upon entering the room, you could immediately see that these were not the typical guests that Signor Bronte would waste his good whisky on, but you hardly had time to look at them individually. They seemed dirty, rough, and completely out of place in the richly-decorated parlour.
“The pleasure is mine, all mine, please,” he said, summoning you forward. You warily step between the chairs to place the tray on the table and pour the glasses, handing them to each man in turn. First, to a tall, thin man with dark hair and a frustrated scowl etched into his face. Next, a muscular man with light brown hair and bright teal eyes, and finally, another dark-haired man, his hair slick with pomade and dressed in clothing that looked like it used to be expensive.
“So, can my friend have his son?” says one of the men - the one who had introduced them all earlier. You nearly froze. Can my friend have his son?
Jack.
It took you just a moment to gather your wits before you turned to your boss, handing him the last glass. He took it with a nod to you and a chuckle, before looking back at the men in front of him. “Of course, of course!” he grinned, taking a sip of the whisky. You immediately got yourself out of the way, standing behind the couch in case you were needed for anything else, as you had been taught. “But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…”
“No,” answered the man, slightly reluctantly. You noted that none of the other men had yet spoken, this must be their leader.
Bronte seemed satisfied with their response, choosing to ignore the reluctance with a jovial laugh. “No, no no. So, how about this? You perform a simple job for me and you get your son back,” he explained, rubbing his hands together like the villain he was.
Finally, one of the other men spoke.“What is it?” the larger of the two groaned, beginning to stand up, as if he knew he would be assigned to this task.
Bronte, of course, made light of the situation, waving his hands through the air as he spoke, “A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery.”
“That is a fine place for it, the best,” joked the leader. You cringed, but Signor Bronte seemed to enjoy it.
Your boss burst out laughing, from the gut this time. “I love this guy, don’t you love him?” he laughed, looking at you. You nodded, plastering a smile to your face until he turned back to the other man. “I love you!” He paused for a moment to pour himself another glass of whisky before continuing his explanation. “See they’ve taken not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off, huh?” he said, indicating to the men on the couch before pouring yet another glass of whisky and handing it to the group’s leader. “And you, Mr. Van der Linde? Why don’t you tell me more about my manners?” he finished speaking and held up the glass to the other man, Mr. van der Linde, for a toast as the other two men stood to leave the room. “Salute.”
“Salute,” parroted Mr. van der Linde, clinking his glass with your boss’s. The other two men exited the room, as your boss and Mr. van der Linde continued conversing. Their laughter was real, but something in the room was tense, fake. Two men cut from the same cloth, both trying to one-up the other without making it completely obvious.
You had seen this enough times to know that this would only end badly for at least one of them - if not both.
The hour dragged on, as you stood in the corner, ready to jump into service if need be. Your mind drifted to Jack - now sitting alone in the washroom - and that you would soon be saying goodbye.
It was bittersweet, this feeling that came over you. You wanted him to be happy, to be home with his family, of course, but over the course of the last few weeks, he had wormed his way into your heart. He was the family, the son, that you would never have. And it broke your heart to have to let him go.
But you knew better. You couldn’t keep him here. Not for you. It was better if he were able to go home, to see his mother and his family, to see his dog that he missed so much. That was the life he needed, the life he deserved.
You felt the tears well in your eyes as you stood, waiting for your orders. A little over three hours had passed, and the men were still away. Signor Bronte and Mr. van der Linde were well into their cups, and you were not surprised in the least when your boss stood and unceremoniously sent his guest on his way.
“And the boy?” asked Mr. van der Linde, standing from his position on the couch and reaching out a hand to shake.
Signor Bronte took it, gave it a quick shake and began to stagger out of the room. “Yes, yes,” he slurred, turning to you on his way. “Bring him down, would you?”
“Yes, Signore,” you nodded, looking from your boss to the other man. It was really happening. It was really time to say goodbye.
--
To say Jack was excited at the news was putting it lightly. He had nearly bounced with joy when you had told him that his Pa was here to pick him up. You had led him down the stairs and out the front door to where Mr. van der Linde was waiting patiently. Jack nearly tackled him to the ground in his excitement.
“Uncle Dutch!” he called, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist.
A loud, barking laugh left the man as he patted Jack’s head. “Well hello there, son,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again. We’ve missed you around camp.”
You smiled, looking at the two of them. This was the right thing to do. But then, Jack did something wholly unexpected. He led Dutch to you, and introduced you.
“She’s been real nice since I got here,” he explained to the older man. “She told me stories and brought me candy, and today she even put bubbles on my head!” his excited giggles echoed across the yard.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Dutch said, looking you up and down before reaching out for your hand, which he then pulled to his lips in a theatrical show of chivalry. “And thank you so much for taking such good care of our boy.”
You plastered another smile to your face and gently pulled your hand away, wary of potentially offending the well-armed man. “Of course,” you responded. “I was happy to-” you were cut off by the well-timed sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and a loud, rough voice ringing in your ears.
“Like I said, we’ll see where we’re at once we got Jack,” said one of the men from earlier as their horses came to a halt in front of the gate. They dismounted and were immediately let in by one of the front guards.
Upon their arrival, Dutch seemed to immediately forget your existence, instead striding towards the two men with an exasperated, “Well, you took your time.”
And then there was Jack, nearly bursting with excitement at the sight of the men, he couldn’t wait until they were through the gate before he ran to them with a cry of, “Pa!”
The sight warmed your heart. Jack was quickly picked up and clutched to the chest of the taller, dark-haired man as the other moved past you to hand something to the guards. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said, rubbing the back of Jack’s head and holding him close.
However, Jack, completely oblivious to the nature of the situation, wiggled free of his father’s arms and, instead, grabbed his hand and pulled the man in your direction. “Pa, come here, come here, you have to meet my friend!” he said, voice loud and excited, as he introduced you to his father. “She’s been helping me since I got here. She tells the best stories!”
The man looked down at Jack with a loving smile and then up to you. “That so?” he asked the boy, reaching out to shake your hand. “John Marston.”
You took his and introduced yourself as Jack rambled on, “Yeah! And she taught me how to make bread real good, want to see?”
“Sure, you can show us when we get back to camp,” John acquiesced, still holding tight to the boy’s hand, who then proceeded to drag the two of you over to the one man you did not yet have a name for.
“Uncle Arthur!” he called. The man, having dropped off whatever he had needed to give Signor Bronte, was leaning against a column and smoking. “You have to meet my friend too.”
“Is that right?” he said, smiling at Jack. He pushed himself off the column and snubbed his cigarette on his boot, moving toward the three of you. “Nice to meet you, miss,” for the third time that night, a hand was held out.
You shook it and introduced yourself, “It’s nice to meet you too.”
John, looking both relieved and exhausted, heaved Jack back into his arms. “Thank you for taking care of him, I-”
Immediately, you stopped him. “It weren’t no problem, really. He’s a lovely boy,” you explained, once again trying to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. Taking care of Jack had easily been one of the highlights of your life. Having someone need you, someone that loved talking to you, someone who was simply excited to be around you - it was such a drastic change from how you had lived for so long. And, even if you would never experience it again, you wouldn’t trade the last few weeks for the world.
John nodded, you didn’t have to explain any further. “Comeon, Jack, your ma’s been worried sick.” Jack nodded to his father enthusiastically, a grin on his face, before turning and surprising you with a big hug.
You bent over to hug him back, patting him on his head when you heard your name. “You’re coming with us, right?” he asked, his tiny face buried in your dress. You looked around at the others, Arthur had paused in his tracks, John was frozen in place, Dutch was stopped near the gate. No one said anything for a moment.
You don’t know how to break it to him.
So, you pull his face from your skirt and kiss him gently on the forehead, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I’m real sorry, Jack,” you say, looking him in the eye, “but not this time.” You felt tempted to say something like I promise I’ll write or You can come see me any time but you knew both of these things weren’t true. He would get home to his family, and in a few days you would just be a stranger from his childhood. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood again, ruffling his hair and turning him to face his father. “Now, you go on back to your family, alright? Teach them how to make some good bread, like I showed you.”
His head was shaking as he looked back up at you, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “But…”
This hurt. More than saying goodbye to a child you had only known for a few weeks should. “I know, but…” you started, still not entirely sure how to explain yourself. “I have to stay here. This… this is my home.” You pull him to you once again in a tight hug and place a kiss on the top of his head. “You be good for your parents, alright?”
You can feel him nod under your chin, but he does not respond. It’s easy to tell that this is a new feeling for him - being so happy and so sad all at once. You wished you could tell him that its only temporary, and he will never have these conflicting feelings again. You wished you could have gone with him, broken free of Angelo Bronte and this life. There were so many things you wished you could do at that moment, but you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t.
With a light sob, Jack wraps his arms around you one final time until he is gently pulled away by his father. “Comeon, son. We should get going.”
They walked to the gate together, John’s hand on his son’s back, leading the way. Jack was hoisted high onto a horse, and you could vaguely hear them talking to him, trying to cheer him up. “We have a new camp set up, Jack, you’re going to love it,” says Dutch before they ride off down the street.
Finally, you allow your tears to fall.
“Goodbye, Jack.”
---
The days pass slowly after Jack’s goodbye. There is little entertainment to pass the time. No dumb jokes, no begging for stories. It was exactly as it was before. Still, it felt like something was missing.
Early in the morning, a few days later, you walked around the house as usual, coffee in hand. You mused over the tasks for the days ahead: the Governor's garden party was in about a week, so it was time to start preparing. Clothes needed to be pressed, shoes to be shined, and, most importantly, mounds of food needed to be cooked.
Giovanni’s cooking was, although rarely shared outside of Signor Bronte’s home, lauded as some of the best in town. So, of course, Angelo Bronte’s personal chef would be graciously catering the meal.
It was supposed to be a sign of generosity, you theorised, but in reality it was all a show to keep Signor Bronte in the San Denis elite’s good graces - and to worm his way into another favor from the mayor.
You chuckled lightly to yourself as you paced slowly around the perfectly manicured gardens. Marble statues, imported from Italy, gazed down at you, unmoving. Quietly, you began to hum a short tune, not noticing the figure at the fence across from you.
“Mornin’,” he called, his voice low and gruff, just as it had been when you had first met him.
You look up from the grass to the man, in surprise. He was leaning aginst the fence, patiently smoking a cigarette, and waiting. For you? “Ah, good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you call, making your way to him. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot and turns to fully face you. Only now, in the morning sunlight and away from the stress of Angelo Bronte, do you notice how attractive he is. Light brown hair framed an unshaven face, a strong jawline, light smattering of chest hair showing through the top of his unbuttoned collar. “It’s lovely to see you again. How is Jack doing?”
Arthur smiles at you, and the sun suddenly seems slightly brighter. “Boah’s doin’ good,” he says, leaning forward on the fence, one arm above his head to balance himself. “He’s happy to be home.”
You shoot him a small, bittersweet smile before turning your gaze to your coffee. “Good, I’m glad.”
“Misses you, though,” he continues, once he realises you aren’t going to say anything more. You look up at him, and notice he is fishing something out of his satchel. A small, folded piece of paper is passed through the bars of the fence, and you gently pluck it from his hand. “Sent this. Special delivery.”
You gently unfold the paper, and see a row of several stick figures, several people and what looks to be a dog, standing in front of some trees under a sunny sky. Under each of the figures, you can see several names scribbled in an adult’s hand.
Pa, Ma, Jack, Cain, Uncle Arthur… and you.
“Been told to tell you,” he continues, reaching through the fence with the hand that had been keeping him balanced and pointed at the figures on the paper. “That’s you… with us…”
You laugh lightly, glancing from the paper to the eyes of the man in front of you. A handsome teal, complimented by his, admittedly dirty, blue shirt. How had you not noticed him before? “This is real sweet of him, thank you,” you breathe, slightly softer than you had intended. You turn again to look at the drawing, hoping he didn’t notice the blush that had suddenly stained your cheeks.
The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun rise above the horizon. “You could come with us, you know,” he said after a minute, pulling another cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. “The boah would shoa be happy to have you ‘round.”
You smile at the thought. Waking up in the fresh air, telling Jack stories, getting to know his family. It would be lovely. But at the end of the day, it was easier said than done. “That… that’s a nice dream,” you told him, smiling.
He huffed, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s true,” he tells you, leaning against the fence once more. “The life… well it ain’t pretty. Sure as hell not as pretty as livin’ in a mansion. But it’s free. You ain’t gotta answer to no one you don’t want.”
You scoffed and found yourself kicking at the grass beneath your feet. It would surely be better than what you had here. Hell, it would be easy enough to walk through the gates with the intention to never come back. And, what was even keeping you here? Your family? You hadn’t seen them in years. Giovanni? Anna? They would both leave if they could.
But, you knew it wasn’t possible. You’ve seen this kind of thing before. One of your fellow servants found a means of escape, only to be back within a week. If they weren’t found and killed onsight. Angelo Bronte had eyes in every corner. Flies on every wall. He would find you.
“I… I wish I could.”
--
You went to bed late that evening, your conversation with Arthur resounding in your head. You could come with us, you know. The boy would sure be happy to have you around. The thought had even permeated your dreams, enveloping you in a fantasy world. A beautiful campsite by a river, a group of people, happy, laughing, free. Jack and Arthur and John and Dutch, and even Giovanni and Anna. They were all there, and they were all happy.
But, of course, the threat lingered. What had started as a beautiful dream quickly turned sour as Angelo Bronte entered the scene, scaring away your friends, capturing you and dragging you back to San Denis, into a mansion that looked more like a prison with every step. You would never escape him. You could never be free.
You had woken early in the morning, covered in sweat and sheets kicked from the bed. Breathing heavily, you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was early, but not early enough to warrant going back to sleep. Groaning, you stepped quietly from your bed and pulled on your dressing gown. Your morning ritual would begin earlier today.
The air was crisp, but your coffee was hot - the perfect combination for waking a person up in the morning. The birds sang in their early morning chorus as the slowly rising sun cast everything in a calm, light blue. It was earlier than you had been up in ages, and you were fully prepared to sit in the garden, alone, and bask in the peacefulness.
To your surprise, however, the increasingly-familiar smell of cigarette smoke and campfire reached you. You turned to the fence, the same place as the day prior, to be greeted by the rugged cowboy, leaning casually against the railing. Tired as you were, you couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up your face.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, making your way over to him, coffee cradled in both hands. You took a sip, thinking that you may need to start making two cups if this becomes a habit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How’s Jack?”
Arthur’s grin immediately made your stomach flip. “Mornin’, miss,” he responded, tipping his hat to you. He lazilly flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before leaning against the fence again, his arm above his head, like he had done the day before. “Boah’s doin’ good. Still talkin’ ‘bout you.” His grin never left his face as he looked at you.
You cleared your throat and maintained eye contact even though you were sure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Well, ain’t he a sweetheart?” you tease, only partially talking about Jack.
He chuckled and reached into his bag, mirroring his actions from the day prior. “I been asked to deliver this,” he said, pulling out a string of slightly crumpled red flowers from his bag. They were strung together, tied at the stems, into a long, vibrant necklace.
You gingerly took the necklace from him with a smile, examining it. Wild yarrow. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” you respond, pulling it over your head before striking a cheesy pose for the man in front of you. “How do I look?”
God, you could look at his smile all day. “Gorgeous,” he responds, only slightly teasing, and you are suddenly struck with a feeling of giddy embarrassment. It was rare that you got on with someone this well, this quickly. But with Arthur Morgan, despite his rough exterior, you felt strangely comfortable.
The two of you stood together, talking through the morning sunrise until you were very nearly late for work. When the sun was almost fully above the horizon, you found yourself giggling and dashing into the house, with one last glance to the cowboy at the fence, eyes shining.
And so it went.
For the next week, like clockwork, you would wake, go for your walk, and meet Arthur Morgan at the fence. Gifts, supposedly all from Jack, were exchanged - a nice rock, a beautiful notebook, a seashell, a fountain pen - and you sent your fair share of notes back, including candy for the boy, and a (stolen) flask of good whisky for your postman.
Soon enough, you found yourself gladly waking earlier in the morning - butterflies in your stomach as you made your way outside to greet him. Your mood was better, despite Jack’s farewell only a week ago, and even your colleagues had taken notice.
“What’s got you walking around here all smiles lately?” Anna had asked on the morning before the Mayor’s garden party, as you sat together, adding finishing touches to several large pies that were to go into the oven.
You scoffed, still unable to wipe the smile from your face, and looked at her over the stack of pans in front of you. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded. “Now don’t distract yourself with me, we need to get this all ready to take this afternoon.” Your chiding didn’t deter her, as she continued pestering you the rest of the day.
Her teasing had very little effect on your mood, however, despite the large amount of work ahead of you. And, so, the day passed quickly, in anticipation of the coming evening. It was well known throughout San Denis that Angelo Bronte had one of the best chef’s in town under his employ, so the household staff was asked to provide a portion of the catering. It was a massive, and time consuming project, but it was well worth the work.
You finally had the opportunity to get out of the house, even if it were for just an evening, which would be an incredible change of pace. Almost before you could even gather your bearings, you were slipping into your best uniform, and were on your way to the even larger home.
You had been to the Mayor’s home a handful of times, but it still left you in awe. If you had thought that Angelo Bronte lived in the lap of luxury, but this home was somehow even more opulent. Marble pillars, statues lining the hallways, mahogany floors, golden chandeliers, art on every wall. You had to make a conscious effort to not allow your jaw to drop as you walked through the hallways to the kitchen. There was no time to dawdle, guests would be arriving shortly.
With an unintentional grunt, you hoisted the box of chopped vegetables you were carrying onto a table, and got to work helping Giovanni finish up a large pot of étouffée. It took some time, but after some significant effort from yourself, Giovanni, and Anna, as well as plenty of help from the Mayor’s own servants, the food was served and guests were mingling in the garden.
You leaned carefully against a counter and wiped sweat from your brow. Cooking for upwards of 100 people was exhausting, not to mention that the kitchen was absolutely scalding. You could use a large glass of water and a breath of fresh air.
Nodding at your colleagues, you told them as much before stepping into the hallway and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. If you were lucky, no one would be on the upstairs balcony, and you could head out and watch the fireworks for a few minutes. As you made your way to the back staircase, hoping that the balcony would be empty, you spotted a flash of a black tuxedo and familiar light brown hair in front of you.
Arthur Morgan. Now what was he doing here?
With a smirk, you carefully followed him up the stairs, catching a further glimpse of him as he entered the first door on the second floor. You hadn’t been up here before, but with the way he was walking, you could be sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to the toilet.
Glancing around, you saw no one else in the hallway.
Good.
Slowly, carefully, you pushed open the door to what appeared to be an office. And there, in all his glory, was Arthur Morgan, rummaging through the Mayor’s desk. As you snuck in and quietly closed the door behind you, he slipped a small stack of papers into his tuxedo jacket.
You took a moment to look over him. Damn, he cleaned up well. A recent haircut, clean shaven, and a brand new tuxedo made him look like an entirely new man. Not that you had any problem with the bearded, dirt-covered version of him that had been meeting you all week.
“You ain’t supposed to be here,” you said quietly, startling him. He turned to you, wide-eyed, his hand instinctively flying to where his pistol was usually holstered. He was red in the face, adrenaline pumping, and you had to admit that it was a very good decision to not allow weapons at this party.
Upon seeing you, however, he noticeably relaxed. Face still red, he glanced quickly around the room before moving toward you, a predator stalking its prey. “Could say the same to you,” he whispered, voice low, as he backed you slowly toward the door.
That familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach rose again as he neared, but you held your chin high in defiance - and then you did something even you didn’t quite expect. You kissed him.
Lunged would be a more accurate description. You closed the distance between the two of you in a second, lips crashing with his. You had only known him for a week, but somehow it felt like you had been wanting to do this your entire life.
After a moment of shock, he returned the kiss, lips frantically moving with yours as he wrapped his hands around your body. He was warm and strong, and smelled of campfire and cologne and you wanted to get lost in him. You wanted to lose yourself with him. Reaching up, you ran your fingers through his hair until you reached the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you.
He moved with you, slowly, steps matching yours, until your back was flush against the door. For only a moment, he pulled away. You heard the light click of a key and he was on you again, hands fluttering over your hips as he began to work his lips down your jawline. You had to swallow the moan threatening to spill from your lips as you pulled him impossibly closer, fingers toying with the ends of his hair. Then you pulled.
He leaned back with a guttural groan, following your hands as you gently pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. You couldn’t help yourself as you pulled him back to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his.
The taste of him, the feel of him, it was overwhelming and you wished you could be surrounded by him like this for the rest of your life. Silently, lips still on yours, he turned the two of you so that your back was against the nearby bookshelf. You lifted a leg and wrapped it around his, grinding into him without breaking your kiss.
Before you knew what was happening, his hands moved from your hips to pull up the skirt of your dress and finger the waistband of your bloomers. A nip at the bottom of your lip brought out a groan from you as he slowly made his way into your underclothes, exploring until he found your core.
Gently, he toyed with your lower lips, ghosting his fingers along the outside teasingly. If you were in any other state of mind, you would have been embarrassed about the way your hips began moving - wantonly, desperately, trying to maneuver his exploratory fingers exactly where you wanted them.
But Arthur Morgan was apparently not feeling cooperative. He pulled away from your kiss and brought his hand out of your bloomers at the same time, leading you to throw your head back against the bookshelf with a desperate groan.
The twinkle in his eyes matched the mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you, your breathing heavy, cheeks flushed. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying this. This torment.
With a sudden burst of courage that you didn’t know you had in you, you found yourself pushing him backward. Hands on his chest, you led him roughly to the mayor’s desk, and lunged. Lips crashed once again with his, the taste of whisky and tobacco overwhelming you once again. Your fingers toyed with his tuxedo jacket before slipping underneath and sliding it from his shoulders.
As good as he looked in this outfit, he was far too clothed for your taste.
Next came his vest, unbuttoned with help from him as you both lost your patience. You peeled his suspenders off until they hung loosely at his sides, and finally all that stood between you and his bare chest was his shirt. He yanked it roughly from his pants, the two of you unbuttoning it as quickly as your shaking fingers allowed, and flung it across the room before leaning in for another desperate kiss.
As his lips met yours once again, you felt him push you back toward the bookshelf as he untied your apron to pull it over your head. Next, his fingers unbuttoned the high collar of your dress, quickly followed quickly by his lips as he placed kisses and nips on your flushed skin. He trailed ever downward - to your collarbone, to your cleavage - drawing moans from your parted lips.
Desperately, you reached for his face and pulled him back up to you, caressing the smooth shaven skin as you kissed. Once satisfied, your hands wandered downward, toying with the hair splayed across the hot, hard panes of his chest. Slowly, teasingly, you followed the path of his hair with your fingers until you reached the top of his pants, and his breath hitched in your mouth.
Your kiss slowed and turned into a peck as you undid the button and pushed his pants down, revealing muscular thighs framing a growing bulge hidden under his underclothes. Pushing down the thin cotton finally revealed his swollen member, which you took gently into your hand as you pulled him in for another heated kiss.
He groaned into your mouth, growing impossibly harder with each stroke, until he pulled away to look you into the eye. His face was flushed, his hair in shambles, and you swore you had never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You nodded, and allowed him to hoist up your skirt and slide into you through the slit in your bloomers.
In unison, groans left both of your mouths. You were balanced precariously on a bookshelf, your leg wrapped around his waist as he sank into you, head thrown back in pleasure. Once he gathered his bearings, he slowly, torturously slowly, began to move.
He thrust in and out, in and out, his face buried into your shoulder. Each thrust was paired with a small grunt and a gasp from you. You reveled in the feeling, the warmth, the intensity.
His hands gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer to him with each thrust. You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him up to you. Your lips met, tongues entangled as tiny gasps swelled up from your throat. It was all you could do to keep in the loud moan that was threatening to spill from your lips.
With each thrust, the bookshelves shook, sending a few trinkets to the carpeted floor with a light thump. You should be more careful. The thought echoed in your mind for only a second before it was whisked away by another thrust that shook you to the core.
As he grew closer and closer to completion, his thrusts became faster, more frantic, and you found yourself clutching the edges of the shelf for balance.
Finally, he pulled one of his hands from your hip and wormed it between your bodies to find the place where he had teased you so well before. And then he pressed. And rubbed. And stroked. And finally, in a glaring flash of white before your eyes, you found yourself biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. Your body shook, your breathing came in harsh gasps, until you could finally open your eyes.
Not a second later, Arthur took a few final thrusts and pulled out of you, stroking his member once, twice, and then spilling himself on the floor with a series of loud gasps. A shaky breath followed as he fell onto you, his head balancing on your chest to catch his breath.
Finally, there was silence, only broken occasionally by a heaving breath. The two of you huddled together against the bookshelves, clinging to each other until you could regain your balance.
You found yourself leaning hard against the shelf behind you, running your fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “Those last few gifts… the journal, the pen… those weren’t from Jack, were they?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.
A low chuckle came from Arthur, still bent forward with his head balanced on your chest. “I s’pose I’ve been caught again…”
--
The party ended with a spectacular fireworks show, which you and Arthur watched together, now fully clothed and hidden from sight on the empty balcony. Shortly after the last firework had lit up the night sky, he left you with a lingering kiss that you swore you felt on your lips for the rest of the evening.
To say your head was in the clouds would have been putting it lightly. You would have never expected such a rough, dirty man to be your knight in shining armor, but here you were.
Your good mood carried over through the party cleanup, into the night, and even on into the morning during your daily walk. Glancing at the gate where he usually stood, you were slightly disheartened to see his spot empty. Your smile faltered for just a moment, before you reasoned with yourself. He was probably just tired, or hungover, and just because he had showed up every day for the last week and a half did not mean he could keep up that habit forever.
So, you sat and waited for nearly a half an hour at your normal meeting spot, before heading back inside only slightly disheartened. He had a life outside of meeting you, you reminded yourself, it was unfair to assume he would be there every day when he had never promised this.
Despite your disappointment, your good mood persisted through the day. Through stained laundry, through dusting and mopping, through cleaning a massive pile of cooking dishes from the night before - you couldn’t have wiped the smile off of your face.
And then he didn’t show up again. And again. And again.
For over a week, you missed Arthur’s presence on your morning walks. You found yourself waiting at the fence each day, coffee and the morning paper in hand to pass the time, only to end up disappointed once again. At the very least, there seemed to be a lot of dramatic news to report that week - a trolley station robbery ending with a crashed trolly on main street, a wealthy man on a steamboat robbed for all he was worth - but that information only helped pass the time you spent waiting for him.
Outside of your morning walks, your mood slowly soured. Maybe Arthur had gotten what he wanted. Maybe the dirty, lecherous outlaw’s only goal was to bed you and be on his way. Maybe Jack had forgotten you completely, and with nothing new to deliver, so had Arthur.
You took to writing angrily in the journal he had gotten you, having no other reasonable outlet for your emotions. Originally, you had wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire, but - without someone to vent to, without someone who could understand the depths of your frustration - it seemed like such a waste. Instead, you chose to use the gift for its intended purpose, and wrote down all of your frustrations toward the man who had gifted it to you, before stuffing it underneath your pillow and falling asleep for the night.
There it lay, throughout the day and night until you finally did see Arthur Morgan again. A loud crash, followed by gunshots and yelling in Italian and English from the back gardens, met your ears as you cleaned up after dinner with Anna and Giovanni.
“We’re comin’ for you, Bronte! Send out every man you got!”
The three of you had no guns, and even if you had it sounded less like a gunfight and more like a massacre. Quickly, you locked the doors, hoping that it would be enough to deter the intruders. And then, huddled together out of sight with your friends, you waited.
The back door was kicked open with a gunshot and a loud bang. More gunshots, screams, and crashes echoed through the hallway and into the kitchen. You heard the yells get closer, before the kitchen door was shot and forcefully kicked open.
This was it, this would be your end.
Only, it wasn’t.
Standing in the doorframe was none other than Arthur Morgan, shotgun in hand, eyes frantic… until he caught sight of you.
“Comeon,” he said, rushing over to where the three of you were huddled together and pulling you up by the arm. “You three gotta get outta here,” he ordered, gruffly, hurriedly, as he opened one of the larger windows. “We only came from the back, so head to the front and go somewhere safe.”
Giovanni and Anna looked from each other to you, and then to the open window, hesitant. Another volley of gunfire reached your ears from inside the house. There was no time for debate. “Go ahead,” you told them. “We can trust him.”
That (plus another few rounds of gunfire in quick succession) was all it took. Giovanni nodded to you, grabbed Anna by the forearm, and they were out the window and running across the lawn to safety. You breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Arthur. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to ask, but there was no time.
As if sensing your hesitation, he took you by the shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “Go,” he said, face buried into your hair. “Get to the Fontana, I’ll meet you there when this is over.” You could have sworn you felt a light kiss atop your head before he pressed a crumpled ten dollar bill into your palm and lightly pushed you in the direction of the open window. “Get outta here.”
You nodded, mouthing a quick “thank you” before climbing through the window. In the distance, you could see Anna and Giovanni, silhouetted against the night sky. They were running as fast as they could, to safety, and you felt a pang in your chest. They had been the closest thing you had had to a family for so long. The three of you had been forced together by fate, and had come out a team. But… where would you end up if you followed them?
Likely back in the service of another rich man. But, maybe it would be better. Maybe the freedom you found yourself longing for was to be found in the familiar, the known. Could you really abandon your friends, your way of life, for the promise of a man you had known for little more than a few weeks?
Quickly, you glanced in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the Fontana. Toward the promise of freedom. The clock was ticking, you needed to decide. Now.
Torn between what was and what could be, you took a deep breath and took the advice of a child who was far too wise for his age. You ran toward the Fontana. You ran as fast as you could to a new life.
The sound of gunfire and screams followed you to the gates, where it then became overwhelmed by the shouts and sirens of incoming police. Luckily, you were able to slip outside of the gate and get partially down the street before they stopped in front of the house.
Bowing your head, you quickly made your way down the cobblestone street and into the city, away from the violence. By the time you reached the Fontana Theater, the gunshots had all but faded into the hustle and bustle of the city center, and you became acutely aware of how much you didn’t belong. It had been years since you had been anywhere outside of Signore Bronte’s mansion other than the grocery and occasional trip to the tailors. It had been even longer since the last time you had been to a Magic Lantern Theater. And you knew, with your hair mussed and maid’s uniform, you must stick out like a sore thumb.
Luckily, if your memory served, the theater should be dark enough that no one would notice. You slowed your pace, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, and proceeded to the ticket counter, purchasing one ticket to the three upcoming shows. That should be more than enough time, you hoped.
You entered the dimly lit room and practically collapsed into one of the seats. Now that you had managed to escape, now that you were in relative safety, the adrenaline you had felt earlier had completely vanished. You were exhausted. You were confused. You were scared.
Now, you could only wait, and hope that Arthur would be back for you as promised.
In front of you, the film started with a flicker. The recorded voice of a man telling the story of several forest animals as a series of images were projected onto the screen. The room was silent, except for the recording, and you found yourself struggling to keep your eyes open.
What must have been a few hours later, you were shaken awake by an unfamiliar man. You were startled for only a minute before you realised that he was the same man who had sold you the tickets earlier. “That’s the last showing for the day, miss,” he was saying, quietly, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be on your way, now.”
You blinked and looked around the room, now flooded with light. It was empty except for the two of you. “What… what time is it?” you stammered, voice cracking lightly.
“‘Bout 11:30,” he responded, looking quickly to his pocket watch to confirm. You had been asleep for a solid 4 hours, and Arthur hadn’t yet arrived. “You should get on home.”
Home. Where was that?
You stood, nodding abashedly at the man. “Thank you,” you murmured before making your way out of the theater and into the dark streets.
It was quiet, the same kind of quiet you had grown so used to on your morning walks. However, instead of finding it calm and refreshing, you found yourself longing for the noisy streets. The hustle and bustle of San Denis that would overpower your thoughts, that would drown out your anxieties.
Instead, you were alone, left to mull over your current situation on the steps of the theater. The long, dark tendrils of doubt crept into your mind as you waited. Did you make the right choice? Did Arthur abandon you? Was all of this some horrible trick? Tears spilled silently from your eyes as you waited. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. The only thing to break you out of your thought spiral was the occasional drunk would wander by, heading home for the evening.
Eventually, the ground where you sat grew cold, and you found yourself falling asleep against the wall of the theater, huddled up like an abandoned animal. You could sleep here tonight, in case he did show up, and head … somewhere … in the morning. A hotel, maybe? A workhouse? You didn’t know where, but that was a thought for the morning.
It was only when the steady clip-clop clip-clop of horse hooves made their way down the dark street that you willed yourself to look up. Coming slowly into view through the darkness was a lone rider on a horse. He looked exhausted, frustrated, as he stopped his horse in front of the theater and dismounted, glancing around the area until he spotted you.
You stood on legs that were strangely both stiff and shaky and made your way over to him, where he pulled you into a tight hug.
“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, once again burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to leave you so long.” You nodded against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tears of relief threatened to spill. “Let’s get you home.”
--
The ride went by in a blur. Not that you were moving fast, but rather because you were so exhausted that everything was a bit of a haze. You must have arrived at the large, dilapidated mansion early into the morning, before anyone was up to disturb you, because you could not remember the journey into Arthur’s bed for the life of you.
There was no crunch of the grass as you slid off the saddle, no creek of the stairs, no groan of the bed as the two of you lay down together. Nothing. All you could remember was that you were here. You were safe. You were home.
You awoke around midday, sunlight streaming through the broken windows of a small-rundown room overlooking the swamps of Lemoyne. It was sweltering hot, but you found yourself cuddling closer into the strong arms that were wrapped around you. The scent of the swamps mixed with whisky and tobacco, campfire and gunsmoke, as you nuzzled into his chest.
He was breathing deeply, soundly, as you lifted your head from his chest to look around. The room itself was old and dilapidated, it would barely serve as a shelter during any storms that may strike. In the far corner stood an old shelf, filled with photos and trinkets. Next to it, a small table with a map, and across from that, a larger table, stacked to the brim with weapons and ammunition.
Arthur’s room.
You stood, intending to make your way over to examine the trinkets across the room, but were instead gently pulled back to bed by the man behind you. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he held you close.
You acquiesced, leaning back into him and basking in his presence. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back to him, gazing over his face. His eyes were still closed, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming as you spoke. Gently, you brushed hair away from his forehead and planted a light kiss to the revealed skin. “Thank you.”
He chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at you. You could have melted in the soft, loving look that came your way. “Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said, reaching up to run his thumb along your cheek in admiration. “Just needed to get you out alive, is all.”
You grinned, shaking your head. “I feel like that deserves thanks.”
A scoff came from the man beside you. “Nah, it was all selfish, really,” he explained, his gaze travelling over every inch of your face as if he were committing it to memory. “I just wanted to keep you ‘round.” With that, he planted a quick kiss on your lips and sat up, turning to his satchel that had been tossed to the floor by the bed. “It weren’t pretty last night… ‘n’ I’m glad I got to you before it got worse.”
“What happened?” you asked, watching as he pulled the satchel to him and began to rifle through it.
“Bronte… well he done his best to screw us over,” he explained. “Set some traps for us… ‘n’ Dutch made sure he paid for it.” You figured you knew what he meant, but let him continue anyway. “Bastard’s dead - some poor alligator’s breakfast.”
To your surprise, you felt incredibly conflicted. The man had essentially kept you hostage for the last few years, but he had at least taken care of you. He had by no means been a good person, but… you had grown some sort of strange affinity for him over the years. And yet, you didn’t find yourself shedding a tear for him. If anything, it was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe freely after so long.
You didn’t know what to say.
“I did manage to get hold of these, though,” he said, pulling several items from his satchel. You gasped when you saw them, and felt the tears that wouldn’t fall for Bronte begin to well up. In Arthur’s hands were a child’s drawing, a flower crown, a very special rock, a beautiful journal, and a fountain pen.
Now, the tears did fall as you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. “Thank you, Arthur,” you said, burying your face into his neck. “Thank you so incredibly much.”
With a small chuckle, he set the momentos down on his lap, and wrapped his arms around you as well. “‘Course.”
The two of you stayed like that, reveling in each other’s embrace, for a few perfect, blissful minutes. So this is what it felt like to be wanted. This is what it felt like to have someone really, truly care about you. This is the feeling you had been waiting for for so long.
It wasn’t a minute later before there was a tentative knock on your door, and Arthur pulled himself away from the hug. “I think someone might be excited to see you,” he said, nodding toward the door.
You looked over, calling for the visitor to come in. As the door swung open, you were greeted with the sound of your name excitedly being called, and the sight of a child, red with excitement, standing in the doorway. Jack. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaimed, darting over to you and jumping into your arms. He was followed by a smiling, dark-haired woman, and a man who you recognised as John. “I knew it! I knew you would come live with us!”
“Of course, Jack,” you childed, squeezing him tight. “I could never leave you.”
He squeezed you back, before pulling away and grabbing your forearm to lead you out of the room. “Come on!” he said, leading you forward. “You have to meet the rest of our family!”
#rdr2 fanfic#rdr2#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan x f!reader#f!reader#rdrbigbang2021#rdrbigbang
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Zelda Spellman x Fem!Reader x Madam Satan: Little Witch
Summary: You’ll stop at nothing to ensure the safety of your loves. Not even Hell can drag them away.
A/N: So this was originally in response to a request, before I realized they hadn’t watched caos s4 yet. So, merry inauguration day, you get another fic! I hope you all like it! Also... damn Y/N... how come you get two milfs??
Warning(s): CAOS S4 Spoilers, Minor Violence
“Hilda, where is Y/N?”
Zelda walked into her office, intent on seeing you working on Academy business. Instead, her sister was in your chair. Head buried in documents she didn’t understand. She had tried though, for your sake.
“Oh, Zelds! She just popped out for a bit. Needed some fresh air.” Hilda said, giving an overly large smile. Zelda just raised an eyebrow.
“Hilda.” Zelda said in warning.
The younger of the two let out a sigh. In truth, you were supposed to be back over an hour ago. You’d just meant to pop out and check on Lilith and Adam. Apparently the two of you had different opinions on what ‘popping out’ meant.
“She said she was going to check on Lilith and little Adam… again.”
There was a beat of silence, before it was filled with a loud, annoyed sigh. Since Adam had been born, you’d been neglecting your duties to spend time with the baby. You said you were doing it to give Lilith a break, but both Lilith and Zelda knew that the boy had you wrapped around his finger.
She took a long drag of the cigarette in her hand. Of course she wouldn’t fault you, she loved to see you happy. But the Academy relied on you. She relied on you.
“I’ll be back.” Zelda said.
She turned on her heel and marched from the room. Destination: Lilith’s room. Each step, each click of her heels, punctuated by a drag of her cigarette. The nicotine alleviated some of the agitation.
She barged in the room. No knocking, no announcement, nothing. Her gaze leveled on you.
“Y/N Y/L/N!” Zelda snapped.
You jumped slightly, careful to hold onto Adam tightly. Though he whined.
“Hi, Zelda,” You smiled, “Did you come to see Adam too?”
No traces of guilt lingered around you. Only complete love and bliss, having your two lovers and the baby in one space. Your heart was full.
“Well, no. I came here because you’re meant to be handling Academy paperwork and instead, you’ve snuck off to play happy family. We don’t have the time for distractions.”
Zelda’s tone was severe, but not as severe as it could have been. She purposefully softened it. While she needed to stress the importance of the matter, she didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You were practically glowing.
“And you,” Zelda began again, rounding on Lilith, who’d been silent, “It never crossed your mind to remind her of her duties? You know the stress we’re under here.”
“No, it was never a thought.” Lilith said lightly.
“Funny. It didn’t take the millenia you’ve been alive to rot your brain, it took a baby and a witch.” Zelda snapped.
“My brain is in tip-top condition, Zelda. Maybe I just like watching our darling Y/N play mommy.”
Zelda glared daggers at Lilith, while Lilith smirked. It was too easy to get under her skin. Meanwhile, you were blushing like a tomato, dividing your attention between the infant in your arms and your lovers.
“Be careful, witch. You live under the roof of my academy, lest you forget.” Zelda warned. Lilith’s smirk dropped.
“You know what happens if I leave this building.” Lilith said, fear creeping into her voice.
“Mm. How horrible.” Zelda’s tone was dry, her glare unwavering.
“Zelda!” You gasped, making both of them look at you. You looked heartbroken at the horrible way they were speaking to one another, “That was cruel!”
Zelda had the decency to look ashamed. She had been falling back onto the habit of throwing harsh words when she was stressed. Of course she’d been making an active effort to change that habit, but it was second nature when emotions ran high.
You and Lilith both knew she didn’t mean what she said when she was upset, but it was still hurtful. Especially with Lilith in such a vulnerable position.
“Now I want both of you to apologize to one another.” You declared.
Both witches spluttered, looking outraged at such a suggestion. Too prideful were they, to admit when they’d done wrong.
“Why should I apologize? She is the one throwing threats around!” Lilith protested.
“Zelda is right. You shouldn’t have kept me distracted from my duties.”
Against her pride, she knew that you were right. You did have important duties that needed attending to. Though, she considered herself one of the most important things in your life. She’d just been enjoying the company and hadn’t wanted you to leave.
“I… apologize for my words, Lilith. They were unfairly severe.” Zelda apologized, voice strained.
“And I apologize for distracting Y/N further.” Lilith conceded.
Your face lit up at the apologies. They were awkward, but they were detailed and somewhat honest. It was progress.
“Thank you for being civil.” You smiled, walking to place a kiss on each witch’s cheek.
Both leaned into the affection openly. Though they’d deny it, they were both big softies when it came to you. You broke through the walls of false bravado. Something in your smile, in your heart, made you irreplaceable.
You placed a gentle kiss on Adam’s forehead, handing him back to Lilith carefully. She gave you a questioning look.
“I should get back to my duties. Zelds, why don’t you stay and relax?” You suggested brightly.
“I couldn’t-“ She argued.
“You absolutely can. You do more for this Academy than anyone. Now take a break.”
You pushed her into one of the many chairs in the room and pecked her lips. Lilith glared enviously. Though you didn’t notice, as you took your leave from the room. You weren’t looking forward to the paperwork. If it gave Zelda a break, then that was enough motivation for you.
Hilda was still in the office and you gave her an apologetic smile. She just waved it off and the two of you got back to work, until she decided to brew the both of you some tea, setting it down in front of you.
“You are a goddess-send, Hilda.”
“Oh, well thank you.” Hilda said, smiling happily, “Just happy to help out where I can.”
“You’ve been more than enough help. Please, go rest. I can manage.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. Rest well and tell Doctor Cee I said hello.”
Hilda collected her things before taking her leave. It left you with an empty office, silent save for the scratching of your pen. Sometimes you enjoyed the lack of noise like this. However, in moments when you wanted to spend time with the people you loved, it felt lonely.
Your mind drifted, filling with daydreams and memories. The afternoon you’d spent cooing over little Adam as Lilith watched on fondly. His eyes looked back at you with mischief, much like his mother.
Zelda had yet to build much of a relationship with the infant. She seemed to hesitate, like she was afraid of getting too attached. You didn’t understand the fear. Lilith wasn’t going anywhere if you could help it. But you knew she would take it at her own pace.
You raced through about half of the papers on the desk when the doors burst open, a haggard looking Prudence standing there.
“Prudence? Is something the matter?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Asmodeus has returned,” She said, in between heavy breaths, “He’s demanding access to Lilith or he'll destroy the Academy completely.”
Your gaze hardened. Slowly and quietly, you stood from your seat, looking at the girl. She looked concerned. Even frightened. Few had ever seen you truly angry.
“Take me to him.” You requested softly.
“With all due respect, Miss Y/N, he’s a king of hell… Are you sure you want to deal with him alone?” Prudence asked.
“The kings of Hell are nothing but overconfident fools. They best me in nothing but age. I’ll be fine.”
She didn’t have the confidence to argue with you. This attitude coming from you was something foreign, something unknown. She knew to tread lightly and did as you asked.
Walking through the halls, you wondered if you’d made a mistake. You knew the kings of Hell weren’t as powerful as they said. Would you be enough to best them? They couldn’t take Lilith or Adam from you. You’d sooner die.
Asmodeus was waiting outside the door at the bottom of the steps. His hands were laced in front of him and he offered a lecherous smirk, looking you up and down. You resisted the urge to shudder.
“And who might you be?” He asked, tone condescending.
“I speak for the Order of Hecate. Now state your business.” You said coldly.
His face twisted up unpleasantly. Like he’d been hit with something you couldn’t see, though you knew that wasn’t the case. His pride had been hit. Not his physical form.
“You’ll be careful how you address a King.” Asmodeus warned.
“I worship no king, and certainly not you - if you were one. Now state your business or leave this place.” You spat viciously.
There was a reason you’d stayed away from Hell as much as possible. When Lilith had been in Hell for so long, you’d seen her anywhere but the infernal realm. It made your skin crawl to deal with such men. They were leeches. Scum of the lowest, most vile degree.
Upon your words, you watched as the king’s face lit up with recognition. A twinkle of something cruel in his eyes.
“I remember you,” He said with a slow, sickening smile, “You’re the one fucking Lucifer’s whore.”
You wanted to flay him where he stood. To decimate him in the most painful manner in all the realms. Instead, you bit your tongue. If you did so, he would win. Unfortunately though, he took that as an invitation to continue.
“Or is it the traitorous Spellman you bed each night?” Asmodeus asked, though it was clear he knew the answer, “Oh! That’s right. Both. I would say it comes as a surprise, but they were both quite willing to get on their knees for Luci-“
“Enough.” You demanded, voice shaking.
“Oh, did I strike a nerve, little witch?”
With a flick of your wrist, the demon was forced to his knees and bound with chains of Damascus steel. You used your other hand to slowly restrict his airflow. The way he gasped and writhed, searching for any breath of air, filled you with satisfaction.
Prudence gasped behind you. Your merciless actions took her by surprise, though she was intrigued as well. She was stunned above all things.
“You, Asmodeus, are nothing but a thorn in my side. And so is your Lord Lucifer. Neither of you are to step foot on the Academy grounds, or I will destroy you both myself.”
If it had been anyone else, Asmodeus might have called it a threat. But the hard anger in your eyes told him that it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
You finally released your block on his airways and body, making him pitch forward and gasp heavily. He was trying to breathe in more air than his lungs would hold.
“Y-You will r-rot, witch.” He choked out.
“So will you. Now go.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. In a flaming ring of fire, he was gone, back to the infernal realm he’d come from. There was a heavy silence for a few moments as you and Prudence let the weight of the situation settle. She looked at you curiously.
“What will you do if they come back?” She asked.
“I’ll do exactly as I promised.” You answered.
With that, you turned on your heel, making your way back into the Academy. And back to that dreaded pile of papers.
———
“Excuse me, you did what?” Zelda snapped over the dinner table the next night. You winced.
“I told Asmodeus in no uncertain terms that I’d kill him before he touched Lilith.” You said slowly.
“Y/N, he is a millennia old, infernal king,” Lilith said, sharing a concerned glance with Zelda, “He will come for you.”
“Then let him. I had him on his knees once, I can do it again just as easily.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lilith asked.
“She had him bound and was suffocating him.” Prudence said as she walked in the room, handing a folder to Zelda.
The folder was the least of her concern though. Her eyes widened, mouth open in shock as she stared at you. Lilith had a similar expression of surprise. Though she was better at toning her emotions down.
“You… You had complete control over Asmodeus? One of hell’s three kings?” Lilith said.
“What, like it was hard?” You asked with a roll of your eyes, “I should have just killed him. Unfortunately, he needed to deliver the message for me.”
Zelda and Lilith looked at you, then at each other, then back at you. Words escaped them completely. You had no idea what you’d done and how few had the power to do such a thing.
They thought about telling you. Trying to make you understand. But they decided to push it off, for now.
“Thank you, for protecting me so fiercely.” Lilith murmured, pressing a kiss to your lips. You smiled brightly.
Zelda pressed a kiss to your cheek, before going back to work. Leaving you and Lilith to care for Adam until she came to bed. Later you could talk of serious matters. For now, you were spending time with your family.
#zelda spellman#lilith#madam satan#zelda x lilith x reader#madamspellman x reader#caos#caos imagine#chilling adventures of sabrina#chilling adventures of sabrina imagine#caos x reader#wlw#wlw imagine#jan2021#multimilfswritings
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fatin’s mom, rana, and martha’s mom, bernice, work so hard to help their daughters overcome the system that is stacked against them. recognizing that racism, islamophobia and misogyny dominate the world fatin is growing up in, rana wants fatin to do well in school, to cultivate a talent that no one can deny, to stay away from the partying culture that could put her or her reputation in danger, and to grow up wealthy and cared for with access to anything she could ever want. but fatin is a teenager, so she only sees the strictness and none of her mother’s fears. on the flip side, her father is the “good cop” in the family by choice; he has none of the cultural burden to be a present or watchful parent. desiring freedom, fatin clashes with rana and builds camaraderie with her father instead. when she discovers that her mother, who she always took for granted was kind of indestructable, has been lied to and humiliated (in part by fatin’s own hand), she realizes for the first time that her mom is human and can be hurt.
she realizes, too, that her father’s superficial niceness and permissiveness were for his benefit and not hers, and that while her mother invested time and care in protecting her children, her father only wanted the easy parts of parenting--getting his kids to like him. he wanted her to treat him not as a trusted guardian but a friend. it was always rana who put her children first--even though she had to sacrifice that friendly relationship with her daughter to do it.
martha’s mom, bernice, similarly wants her daughter to grow up safe and protected in a world where native women are at great risk of violence. she is horrified and guilt-stricken when she realizes that martha was abused by a trusted community figure and has been suffering in silence. bernice tells toni that although there were signs of what had happened, she did not want to believe the truth because she loved martha so much, and seeing her pain would have conflicted with her highly complimentary image of martha as a happy, safe kid:
“dr. ted said the bedwetting was related to her injury, but come to think of it i never understood why it only started after she was getting better. dr. ted... i can’t believe we let that sick fuck into her life. she just always sees everything so positive, you know? everyone’s good and nice and full of sunshine. and here i was telling myself that’s ‘cause we raised her good. ‘cause we protected her. but all this time it was just a fantasy world she created because her reality was too painful.”
in both rana and bernice’s cases, the urge to protect their daughters is a double-edged sword. rana is vigilant about making sure fatin is on a prosperous path, and her resulting strictness pushes fatin away. bernice wanted martha to be safe so badly that she willed a false image into being, accidentally sending martha the message that she had to deny her pain so no one would notice it. and the damage has been done. both fatin and martha keep their distance from their mothers. neither one was able to tell her mother the truth in a candid conversation. in both cases, the girls cannot be protected from harm--the harm comes to them from within the community, and despite their mothers’ best efforts, there is no way a mother can stop it.
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Patchwork Care (Part 5)
“Ow- Fu- Damnit!” Nova grumbled, gritting the teeth he didn’t have. With a frustrated groan, he placed down the piece of cloth down on the desk with more force than what was necessary. He yelped again, the needle in the fabric having pricked him once more.
“Aster.” Lyman, his mother, said sternly before sighing softly. She too placed her fabric down, with much more care, before looking directly back at the camera. The practice of stitching had not been going as smoothly as they both had hoped. “My child, what’s bothering you? You haven’t been able to focus at all and you usually are more careful than this.”
The DJ leaned back on his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s nothing terrible, I promise.” Upon receiving an unconvinced hum, Aster elaborated. “It’s been a very long week. You wouldn’t believe how many deadlines I had to meet! I got everything done in due time, of course. This type of work is nothing compared to my teaching days.” He said with a dismissive hand wave. Every word he was saying, he meant it fully.
“Right. That’s why you are purposefully bruising and pricking your fingers. You’re trying to achieve that dishevelled, clumsy aesthetic that’s become so popular as of late.” Aster really did learn his sarcastic, direct behaviour from the best.
“It was a lot of work. I may or may not have slept late for many days.” The defeated tone in the astrophysicist’s voice was hard to disguise. That was because he was well aware that the battle had been lost.
Lyman sighed, her posture relaxing as soon as she detected the sincerity in his tone. “Oh, Aster… Listen, you should rest up. We can do this later, alright? You know I have nothing but time now, so you can call at any time.”
“I know, but the time-zones-”
“Yes, yes. The time-zones can be a bit of a pain, but you know I’ll always make time for my child.” She said in a soft-spoken tone. “Please rest, alright? I know we’ll talk soon.”
How could he deny her when she was so concerned over him? That and a nap did sound good at the moment. “Okay, you win. I’ll go take a nap.” Aster stated with a light chuckle.
“Good, or I’ll tell your Pa so he can give ya a good scolding.”
“No need, I’m going, I’m going! Love you, Ma.”
“Love you too, Aster. Take care, will you?”
As soon as the call ended, the DJ went to get himself comfortable for the nap. It didn’t take him long to dress down to his pinstriped pajamas and a night robe, the helmet and the arm braces discarded for the day. He got out the nicest blanket he owned, dimmed the lights in the living room, and laid on the couch with a relieved sigh. Everything was nice and quiet, the exhaustion of the week finally catching up to him. As his vision began to fade, there was an obnoxious knock on his door.
For a brief second, Nova considered violence to be the answer to the untimely interruption.
With an exasperated sigh, he untangled himself from the blanket, falling to the floor in the process, before stomping his way to the front door and swinging the front door open. Out of all the people he expected to be on the other side of the door, a smartly-dressed DK West was not one of them. His mood was souring by the second. “How did you get into this floor? It has restricted access.”
The underground rapper looked anxious and uncomfortable, his strained smile not doing him any favors. “Eh, well you see, Tatiana-”
“Right. Of course. Why?”
“Ooookay, okay, o-kay! Hear me out bro-”
“Don’t ’bro’ me-”
“I wanna collab with you!” The redhead blurted out.
He continued jabbering on nervously, but Aster had decided that he needed to briefly disassociate from whatever bizarro timeline he found himself in order to truly absorb the words that had been spoken to him by an unlikely character.
Was this real? Had the man that had fervently dissed him and the rest of his co-workers, excluding the children thankfully, really said that? Was there a hidden camera somewhere? Was he still talking?
“I’m… I’m sorry? Could you repeat that? I don’t think I heard you correctly the first time.”
West took a deep breath, wringing his hands to ease up. “I know this is coming from out of nowhere. I have a project in mind, your style is the one that can fit it best, especially with a slower tempo. But most importantly, I want to build back the bridges I burned. It’s uh- It’s completely cool if you’re not interested though.”
Aster sighed, stepping aside so the rapper could come in. “You can start talking. I’m going to get the coffee maker going and put on some actual clothes.” The astrophysicist looked somewhat relieved upon seeing the tattooed man perk up as he entered his penthouse. It was unnerving seeing him so wound up. Then again, the whole situation was strange from the start.
“Thanks, highly appreciate you hearing me out,” West said sheepishly as he awkwardly sat at the edge of the couch, avoiding touching the strewn blanket. “Uh, I’m finishing up an EP and a mixtape. It’s going to be a big release, completely different from my previous work.” He saw Nova disappear in what he could only assume to be the master bedroom. The rapper fidgeted in place. “My attitude hasn’t been the best over the past few years. I lashed out of self-anger and picked fights with people I shouldn’t have. I’m trying my best to change, but it ain’t easy. I’m sorry for saying such awful things-”
“Don’t apologize,” Aster said firmly as he emerged from his room in a navy blue maxi dress, a white ribbon tied to his waist. He didn’t feel like wearing pants that day and it was clear he was going to require all of the comforts he could get for that conversation. Thus, the dress; simple, comfortable and made him feel nice. “If this is about the track you made about NSR a couple of years back- You weren’t wrong in calling us out. It wasn’t tactful or carefully planned out, but it was the truth. Of course we would be upset about it! Nobody wants to hear about their faults and misgivings in a seven-minute rap.”
“But-”
“You are not responsible for the brief war that ensued between the fans either. I’ll be the first to admit that there is a fine line on the accountability of an artist when it comes to the actions of their fans. Neither of us incited violence though; that was the decision of a loud few that damaged the image of everyone else involved. So don’t apologize for something you didn’t do nor provoke. Otherwise, you’ll be taking responsibility for others’ actions and that’s a dangerous path to thread.”
West slowly nodded, taking in his words as the DJ made his way towards the kitchen to start making a fresh pot of coffee. “Are you… Are you talking from experience?”
“Of course. I was your age once.”
A brief pause ensued, followed by the hesitant words of West. “Is it selfish for me to say that I want to do this for me, then? I want to be able to move on and forward.”
“It’s not. You can’t call it self-improvement if you aren’t doing this for your own sake.” The conversation was reminding him of when he had started out as a professor when a troubled student would stay behind after class to discuss how they could improve their grade. Back when teaching was still pleasant before administrations and bureaucracy got involved. “So about your EP and mixtape…”
“Ewah, you don’t waste any time bro! My therapist and my brother have told me I have terrible communication skills except when it comes to my craft. I wanna open up to everyone, but there’s only one way I know how to go about it. However, this time I want things to be different. I don’t want to bare my fangs nor fight. I want this to be a chill track, a conversation between me and my fans.”
“That’s rather ambitious of you. However, where exactly do I fit into this? I don’t see how my services are required. Also, how do you drink your coffee?” Aster pointed out as he began pouring the drinks into sizeable mugs.
“Black, three sugars,” West responded sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “The EP is a collaboration between me and other artists, while the mixtape is just me. There’s no theme to it, just opening up about things given everything that has happened. Out of everyone in NSR, your style is the one that merges with mine the most. I know you don’t exactly sing or have lyrics, but-”
“Oh, I do have lyrics in some songs-” Nova felt like he just stuck his foot in his metaphorical mouth as he handed the rapper his coffee. Why did he have that impulsive need to be correct and factual in every setting?
West’s eyebrows were lifted up high. “You do? I’ve check out your discography and I got nothing.”
“Well, uh… Technically I do. In my NSR debut album, Event Horizon, all of the songs have lyrics and I do sing in some of them. Just… They are rather covert. I just let people assume otherwise given it’s easier to not explain myself.”
“Technically? I’m not following…”
Aster was beyond embarrassed by the slip-up and the fact that he was explaining himself to a man he had no previous interactions with, a nice pomegranate color dusting the galaxy that composed his head. With a sip of his mug and an extended arm, he fetched his laptop. Might as well finish what he had started. “Have you heard of the term Audio Steganography before?” Nova asked as he sat on the couch next to DK West while he booted up his laptop.
“No, and that sounds way too specific for me to figure it out on my own.”
“Right. It’s a way to encode messages in an audio form essentially. You can hide texts, files, images, and the sort using a cover, in this case, a track or a song. I prefer hiding text and audio in this way. My compositions turn into a sort of open journaling. My fans can figure it out if they dug a little deeper… There’s just something cathartic about putting your thoughts out there to the world without needing to talk. I don’t dare mention it to the public though. There were times were I ’said’ too much, and it’s quite embarrassing in retrospect…” The DJ admitted as he opened a spectrogram program so that the rapper could see exactly what he meant. As one of his melodies played, lyrics began to form on the monitor.
West was leaning forward now, red eyes peeking from underneath his heavy eyelids, shining brightly. “Bro, that’s so cool! And your lyrics are fire!”
“Ah, well, thank you?”
“Can you teach me that?”
“Yes?” There were few times in his life were Aster felt disorientated. This was one of them.
“Nice, very nice, Ewah!” The younger of the two was grinning from ear to ear. “Maybe, if you feel cool with it, you can be in the EP and use that Stemonagraphy-
”Steganography-“
”-To ‘sing’ and just put yourself out there!“
“That sounds good on paper. However, if the song becomes popular, which it will given I’ll be featured in it, fans are going to have questions and one of us is going to be bound to explain that there are secret lyrics involved. That will cause a snowball effect that would just lead to both of our works being deeply scrutinized-”
“You haven’t said no to collabing, bro.”
“Collaborating. And stop calling bro-”
“My point still stands though.”
Damnit. Dk West’s point did, in fact, still stand. Nova hated the fact that the rapper looked rather proud of himself. However, he concentrated more on his own thoughts. Even though this had been sprung upon him while he was exhausted, he wasn’t as against the idea as he initially thought. He couldn’t understand why either. Was he growing soft with age? He hoped not. This was just business; sure, he was getting an outlet for his emotions and cementing a stronger connection with his audience, but at the end of the day it was still work. “Write up a convincing and fair contract and I might consider it.”
“YES!!” West raised his fists to the air enthusiastically, whatever residual anxiety that he had in his body leaving him all at once. Aster couldn’t help but let out an amused huff as the rapper began chattering away ideas as if the deal was sealed. Maybe it was. The DJ wasn’t certain, however, he made a mental note to give Neon J a heads up about the hidden lyrics in his songs. After all, Jun was his closest friend, he deserved to know at least that much. He also made a note to talk to Tatiana about giving people access to his penthouse so carelessly.
“So, about those Stencilgraphy lessons-”
“Steganography. I have a couple of spare notebooks on that shelf. Let us start with the basics.”
Regardless, his nap could wait. He had a new student to tend to.
————————————————–
Chapters Index:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | You’re Here! | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
————————————————–
Reminder to go give love to the amazing writer @inkedfeather9 -!
#Patchwork Care Fan Fic#no straight roads#nsr#djss#nsr djss#dj subatomic supernova#dk west#nsr dk west#aaa there is so much I want to say about this chapter;;#but it'd be way too much for the tags- I'll write in the dms when I manage to!#just know that I'm still absolutely in love with the ideas you come up with!
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GladNoct Big Bang Round Up
General Rating
You can also check out the collection here:
https://archiveofourown.org/collections/GladnoctBB2021/works
We’ve listed the archive warnings and ratings, but please remember to mind the tags!
I'll Catch You by kickcows
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Mature Rating
Noctis Caelum, the famous movie actor, has been injured due to a bad car accident, and the one to help on the road to recovery is a physical therapist by the name of Gladio Amicitia.
Sands of Destiny by countingpaperstars
No Archive Warnings Apply
Explicit Rating
After leading an attack on the holy city of Insomnia, Prince Gladio, adopted son of Tenebrae's queen, acquires a dagger that gives the one who holds it access to the Sands of Time. Gladio ends up on the run with Insomnian Prince Noctis after being accused of killing Queen Sylva. They must learn to trust each other in order to protect the ancient treasure from dark forces and unmask his mother's assassin, or fall into ruin along with the fate of their world.
The Deep Dive by Noctislucent (Baekhanded)
No Archive Warnings Apply
Teen Rating
Gladio is a researcher, a historian 'obsessed' with finding the lost city of Altissia. He sets off on the journey of a lifetime to find the city with a team unmatched by any.
He finds so much more than he bargained for
chasing honey by ignisgayentia
No Archive Warnings Apply
Explicit
After an assassin threatens Prince Noctis’s life just before his journey to Altissia to deliver an important address, King Regis hires outside protection, the trusted Amicitia Guard, to escort Noctis to Altissia alone. When Noctis first meets his assigned guard, Gladiolus Amicitia, tensions between them are high, but along their journey, things slowly start to change. After dealing with attempts on their life, daemons, a broken down car, and crappy hotel rooms, they learn more about each other and their destinies than they ever expected to. How will Noctis deal with the conflicting feelings he has for his bodyguard?
Thy Kiss Art Broken Glass on Mine Lips by BumuBokkusu
No Archive Warnings Apply
General Rating
A Greek Gods/Mythology AU where Regis is lamenting to the gods over his people who are sick and dying from the mysterious Starscourge disease that is plaguing the kingdom. The gods hear the King's plea and offer him a bargain. Because they want to test this King’s heart, they offer him a deal: they will heal his people of the scourge if he sacrifices his only son. After much consideration and heartbreak, Regis decides to give up his own son for the sake of his people. The gods place a curse upon Noctis, one that will last throughout the rest of his life. It is a curse that slowly turns the boy into cold, crystalline, shimmering glass until the day he becomes completely petrified - a melancholy statue. Gladiolus, a farmhand that has fallen in love with Noctis, embarks on a quest to rid the prince of his cruel fate, even if it means denying the gods themselves.
Highway Tune by EzraTheBlue
No Archive Warnings Apply
Explicit Rating
Gladiolus Amicitia lives a quiet, unassuming life as a long haul truck driver, when he picks up a quiet, sullen young man hitchhiking along the highway. Gladio soon realizes that his passenger is hiding a few secrets: primarily, that he’s Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, run away from home on the eve of his father overseeing the signing of a peace treaty that will end a fifty-year war. Secondarily: he’s being chased by an assassin who wants him dead for reasons unknown, but he’s unrelenting and his grudge is very, very personal. Gladio can’t ignore someone in trouble and agrees to get Noctis back to Insomnia safely, even though Noctis’ attitude and their pursuer won’t make things easy. The road home is treacherous - will Gladio and Noctis make it safely, or will their assailant prove an insurmountable roadblock? Or… will their own conflicted emotions get in the way?
Caught in a Storm by Mangoesaregood8
No Archive Warnings Apply
Explicit Rating
An early morning training session is interrupted by a sudden incoming storm. With the battery dead in the Regalia, Gladio and Noctis are forced to weather out the storm in the cave. However Noctis got soaked, so Gladio devises a few creative ideas to help the prince keep warm as they wait to be rescued.
Vide Cor Meum by HeartlessAngel
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Mature Rating
M.E. 744: a terrorist faction opens the West Gate, overriding security protocols overseen by the Crown’s Shield and Captain of the Crownsguard, Clarus Amicitia. Hundreds of Galahdian refugees pour into Insomnia, much aware that they will not be received with open arms. They are helped into unmarked vans and cars to be driven and released into anonymity in the slums in a coordinated mission orchestrated by the terrorist faction’s leader: Izdihar Abadi, wife of Clarus Amicitia, Gladio and Iris’ mother.
Far from everyone manage to escape into the night. The Crownsguard arrives with haste to neutralize the threat and close the West Gate. It’s a massacre that would have gone unrecorded had Gladiolus Amicitia not been found beside his mother’s body, clutching the Master Key to the Wall’s Gates.
Clarus rushes Gladio to the Citadel where he makes a covenant with Crown Prince Noctis, five years overdue, to assure the Amicitias’ place in the Lucian Court. And so begins Gladio’s life as the Shield of the future King, shrouded in suspicion, hurt, and unattainable wants.
Besmirched by hesp
No Archive Warnings Apply
Teen Rating
The stories say that it was once wielded by a king of old to turn the tide of a great battle. That it could fell dragons with a single sweep of its blade that shone like daybreak. That it could rally the hearts of men, even when all hope had been lost. While the name of the king and the place of the battle have been forgotten, the storied Sword of Light is the last hope of Noctis Lucis Caelum, heir apparent to the crown of Insomnia. With few clues and less time, he is smuggled out of his childhood home as a centuries-old plot descends upon the city. Outside of its protective walls, Noctis meets Gladiolus, a man whom fate had tied to Noctis long before their paths crossed in the wilds of Lucis. The two agree to journey together in search of an object that may not exist on a quest that may be doomed in hopes of restoring that which may be lost forever.
Working apart but in tandem, Ignis Scientia, trusted adviser and friend of Noctis, remains in Insomnia to search for clues about the Sword of Light and ways to aid Noctis in his quest. Ignis is joined by Prompto Argentum, a commoner and unlikely friend of Noctis, whose own abilities may be the difference in attaining their impossible goal.
Gravity by HardNoctLife
No Archive Warnings Apply
Explicit Rating
Noctis Lucis Caelum is celebrity royalty with a secret, Insomnia's Prince of Pop-Rock searching for love in all the wrong places.
Gladio Amicitia is a wayward son, returning to Insomnia after wandering the Lucian countryside for five years, looking for a steady income and a good time.
When their worlds collide after a one-night-stand, it sets them up to learn the hard way that it's okay to fall for someone you can't have—so long as you don't hit the ground.
The Curse of Eternal Sleep by The_PrincessCat
No Archive Warnings Apply
General Rating
When the child of King Regis and Queen Aulea Lucis Caelum is born, a grand Unveiling Celebration is held and all of the kingdom is invited. Everyone is present, except for Ardyn the Sorcerer. The Three fairy siblings Nyx, Libertus and Crowe bestow gifts upon the young infant. However, after both Crowe and Libertus grant their gifts, a puff of ruddy smoke appears in the center of the celebration and Ardyn appears in the midst.
He curses young Noctis to prick his thumb on the end of a fishing lure on his 18th birthday and die. All this because they refused to invite him to their party. In a self satisfied gesture, Ardyn disappears the way he came.
King Regis hides away his son, unwilling to let his only son face this fate. During the years that lead up to Noctis's eighteenth birthday, Noctis begins to fall in love with a boy from another kingdom. Unbeknownst to them both, it is both Noctis's downfall and tragedy.
When Noctis fall into his thousand years slumber, Gladiolus Amicitia springs into action to journey to the end of Eos and will fight a dragon for True Loves First Kiss.
Bloom by Crazyloststar
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Mature Rating
Ancient texts suggest the Shields of Kings were so devoted to their charge, they sprouted flowers from their very skin. Over time something changed; the power of the crystal, their devotion, or something else unknown. This idea became stories told to elevate the dedication of those who took up the position of Shield to the royal family.
Either way, the Shields of today now honor their ancestors and their duty by covering their bodies with flowers permanently with ink.
But the stories of old are more than fairy tales.
A Silver Compass by katerleegrand
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
No Archive Warnings Apply
Noctis is alone, simple as that. No one to turn to. No one to call a friend. High school has been rough for him already, and most days he wishes he could just disappear off the face of the planet.
But when a new student joins Noctis's class, he manages to change Noctis's life around completely. All Noctis has to do is give him a chance.
#gladnoct#gladnoct big bang#gladiolus amicitia#Noctis Lucis Caelum#ffxv#ffxv fanfiction#final fantasy xv
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Deals with Demons - Pt. 2
Prologue | Part 1 | MasterList
Hey! Just hit 200 followers. So have another part to the demon story as a thank you! CONTENT WARNING: This part is 18+, but not for smut. There is some graphic violence and pretty psychological nasty shit in here. I mean, he is a demon after all. So please read with that in mind. The worst is at the end, so please feel free to skip to the next part if you need to. Part 3 has another... ahem, “feeding”...
Your comments and love give me life! I read every single reblog/reply! Thank you to my regular followers! And a big “Welcome” to my new ones!
“A deal with a demon is not so easily broken by either party,” He assured me, “I cannot forge another until ours is complete. Until then,” He squeezed me against him, “I am yours to command.”
My breath caught in my throat, but I nodded curtly. I placed my palms on his chest and pushed myself back. “Fine. Then open the door.”
....
With a flick of his hand, an interdimensional portal similar to the one I had first passed through split the air before us. My eyes widened at the effortlessness of his magic; it had taken nearly all the strength of our ten most senior members to open the one I had used the first time.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, but otherwise did not hesitate to step through. He followed hardly a breath behind, ducking his great horned head to fit through the doorway.
We emerged in the ceremony room, with its high arched stone ceilings and windowless walls. I looked about cautiously, but it was empty. And dark, save for the light from Abhilash’s flickering flames. The door closed behind us on the altar, and I slowly stepped down from the raised platform to the stone floor.
“Ahh,” The demon sighed heavily, stretching and flicking his tail. “It feels good to be back on this plane.” I checked over my shoulder and saw him licking his lips. “So much…. opportunity.”
I didn’t feel like he wanted any particular response, so I turned my attention back to the room we had entered. I felt hot anger stir inside me as I looked about the abandoned chambers. The Mothers had sent me to what they had assumed would be my death. Then they simply left. Without a second thought; without any remorse. No prayer group or wake in gratitude for my sacrifice. No vigil. No sermon. Simply abandoned the room and sealed it shut. Hiding away their shame. And they would return only in another ten years, with the next sacrificial lamb for slaughter. Their tender words of comfort seemed like hollow lies now.
But had I ever expected them to be anything more?
I started to walk forward, towards the doorway, my bare feet slapping softly on the cool stones. I stopped suddenly at the sound, looking down at my naked form.
“Shit.” I swore silently, looking about again. But the room was completely empty.
“What troubles you, lamb?” Came Abhilash’s purring, rasping voice from behind me.
I turned to consider the demon, and found his huge form hardly dwarfed by the large chambers. I felt a short wave of shyness at the sight of him. At the memory of his touch, I felt my cheeks flush. Another small part of me was tickled to see him standing there, at the foot of the altar that had once led to his prison. I was eager to see the holy Mothers’ faces when they saw him.
I wasn’t nearly as eager to be seen as I was presently, and I sighed, running one hand through my hair and crossing the other over my chest. Quite the impression I would leave on the Sisters dressed only in what the gods had given me on the day of my birth.
“I left my robes behind,” I told him, “And can hardly skirt around the halls naked, looking for something to wear. That’s not the image I want to start with.”
He chuckled, stepping closer and tucking his large fingers under my chin. “Then put something on.” He said simply.
I stiffened at his touch, but looked up at him, frowning a little. Wondering just how much the demon remembered about the mortal realm.
“What exactly am I supposed to put on? There’s nothing here.”
His grin split his lips slightly, showing a flash of his pearly white teeth beneath. “There is you,” He pointed out, “And your new power.” His thumb traced the point of my chin. “Remember, little lamb; you are limited only by your own imagination.”
My eyes must have widened slightly in surprise, because he chuckled again. I pushed his hand away, turning and looking about to hide my irritation. Trying to figure out exactly what his words meant. Only limited by my imagination? I knew no spells, had never used magic before. How did one even begin to pull something out of thin air?
His words echoing in my mind, I closed my eyes. I pictured a dress; a simple white dress, that draped loosely from my shoulders down to my ankles. I imagined what it would feel like, how it would brush my skin, how it would move when I moved.
There was a slight tingling sensation, and I could hear the rush of my blood in my ears. Followed by a soft whoosh like air passing through a window. When I opened my eyes and looked down… the dress I had seen in my mind’s eye now covered my body.
My mouth dropped open, then morphed into a huge smile. I touched the fabric, pinching it between my fingers. It was soft, and silky, just as I had imagined it. Dropping the hem, I brought my hands up, turning them over, studying them. They tingled as I stared at them. I hesitated, then focused again, imagining sparks dancing between my fingertips. Without delay, little zaps of electricity passed between my digits. I yelped, shaking my hands in surprise. Then I laughed, grinning like a fool.
“You are a natural,” Mused Abhilash, and when I turned back to look at him, he had a knowing smirk on his face. “Now, what else will you do with your newfound power?”
I looked back at my hands, thinking. Turning it over in my head. What would I do? There were so many possibilities! So many things I wanted. So many things once denied to me. But what first? I could hardly decide. I almost danced on my toes in eagerness.
In the distance, I heard the soft toll of the midnight bell. It jerked me away from my thoughts, and surprised me. I had left in the morning, before dawn’s light had hit the steeples. Had it really been almost a full day since I had been sent through the portal? But the sound of the bells also twanged a deep rooted anger inside me. It bubbled and boiled in my gut, steaming into a hatred and rage that threatened to consume me. I took one menacing step back towards the door, feeling my blood rushing in my ears again.
The Mother Superior! And all the other Mothers. How they had preened and prodded at me all my life. How they had tried to take my spirit and mold it to their will. They had caged me, berated and belittled me. Tried to force me into their beliefs, and their rules. Played games with my mind and emotions. And when that failed, resorted to more physical methods of reinforcement and punishment. They had kept me chained to this place for no reason other than their own selfish purposes. And when I had become too unruly? When it seemed they could not break me? They had orchestrated my conscription into the role of sacrificial maiden.
My anger at my mistreatment burned hot inside me, and I let it simmer through my veins. I felt the magic tingle at my fingertips, and looked down at them. Wondering how satisfying it would be to crush my oppressors between them.
The weight of a huge hand slipped over my shoulder, surprising me. But before I could react, the demon spun me to face him and bent down, pressing his lips against mine. My eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t move. He ran his hand over my jaw, burying it in my hair as he pressed into a deeper kiss. His touch burned, though not with heat. It was an odd sensation, and it sent sparks zipping underneath my skin. I felt an alien eagerness tickling at the edge of my senses; felt it pressing against my own consciousness like a thin tendril of smoke. I couldn’t quite comprehend it, but I knew it was there. Knew that it was not a part of me.
My vision spun, darkness tinging the edges, and I felt the same weightlessness I had before back in the dimensional pocket. My eyes closed of their own accord, and I surrendered to his touch, his long tongue burrowing into my mouth, his lips working eagerly against mine.
It only lasted for what felt like a few moments, but when he finally drew back, I had to blink stars from my eyes. I swayed slightly before I settled back onto the balls of my feet once more. As if remembering how to stand again. I blinked a few more times, then frowned, looking up at him.
“Apologies, lamb,” He said with a wicked grin, “Your rage… it was just too tempting to pass up.”
I pushed his hand away again. “You fed on me?”
“As I am wont to do,” he replied, still grinning, “You are at my beck and call, no?”
I shook my still swirling head, spinning around to put him at my back again. “Keep your end of the deal, and I’ll keep mine,” I muttered, and took a few purposeful steps towards the door to the chambers. His kiss had left me frazzled, and it took me a moment to regain my previous train of thought. “...I have decided what I want first.”
“And what, praytell, is that?” He purred, following behind me.
I unlocked the door and shoved it open. “I want the Abbey.”
“The Abbey?” He echoed, still no more than a step behind me as I walked out into the hallway beyond the ceremonial chambers. “What do you want with it?”
The hallway was actually a long bridge, with stone railings on either side and a triangular roof overhead. It was worn, and in disrepair. After all, they only needed to access the chambers on the side of the peak once every ten years. I paused, looking down at the temple below. The Abbey was small, but grandiose, built from pale grey stones with dusty red clay shingles for its roofs. There was a main building, several stories high and rounded in the middle with a square base, and several smaller out buildings as well as pointed steeples for bell towers. There was more than the eye could see, as the temple was built into the cliff face, looking as if the mountain itself had begun to swallow it back up. A high stone wall was built around the outside of the small green courtyard, and there was only one narrow path that led to it from the outside world.
“I will make it my castle.” I told him, tapping one finger against the stone railing. “My personal home in the mountains, though-” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye “-There appears to be an infestation in my new house.”
He chuckled darkly, coming to stand directly behind me. There was barely enough space for air to pass between our bodies, and I felt myself quiver a little at the thought of his touch.
“My, that is unfortunate,” He hissed, and his tail flicked like a whip beside us. “Would you like me to take care of it, little lamb?”
“Don’t call me that.” I grumbled, tapping the railing again. Thinking. The bitterness in my chest gripped at my throat. “Bring me the Mothers. Especially the Mother Superior. The rest of the Sisters will be given a choice; worship and serve me, or meet their death.”
“Hmm. Sounds fun.” I could hear his grin in his rough voice. “And then what?”
I walked down the long hallway, lit solely by Abhilash’s fires, kicking aside loose stones with my bare feet. My anger bubbled in my chest again, and I gritted my teeth.
“Then I want to repaint this temple with their blood,” I breathed, “I want to hear their screams, I want them to beg me for mercy.”
“Will you grant it?” He purred eagerly into my ear, closer than I had thought he could possibly be.
I narrowed my eyes, glancing out over the railing again. “Did they ever grant it to me?”
His laughter echoed around us, peppering the otherwise still and silent night air with its wickedness.
“Your wish is my command.” The demon bowed low, his sharp teeth gnashing in excitement.
“I will be in the Inner Sanctum,” I told him, “Bring them there. Oh, and Abhilash?” I waited until he turned to look at me again. “...Make a show of it.”
I hadn’t thought it possible for his grin to grow wider, but it did. He licked his lips greedily and his beady black eyes seemed to glow. Once more, the demon bowed to me. Then turned, disappearing into a puff of black smoke.
As I was descending the stone walkway carved into the mountainside, I heard the screaming start. My own grin tasted positively wicked indeed.
...
I walked down the long center aisle of the Inner Sanctum, breathing deeply the familiar scent of incense burning on the large altar before the massive windows that took up the back wall. The screams from the rest of the Abbey were a distant echo here, but I could still enjoy them as I moved towards the altar. Moonlight filtered through the glass, settling the huge room into a silvery glow; the smoke from the incense making it seem almost mystical. Ethereal.
Lies. I thought to myself bitterly, glaring at the pews set up facing the raised, open faced pulpit. How many times had the Mother Superior stood atop there, preaching down to the huddled sisters? How many lives had she twisted with her words?
I came to stand at the foot of it, the golden altar behind and at its base glittering. I scowled, feeling a bubbling rage in my chest at the sight. My blood felt hot, and I raised up my hands before me. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I swore I could feel them pulsing in time with each beat of my heart. As if I could see my own blood moving beneath the skin. I suddenly recalled the flames Abhilash wore, and imagined such a fire from my own hands.
At first, it was just a flicker, but as I focused, it grew. And grew. Engulfing my hands and licking up my wrists. But it didn’t burn or sting. It felt nice, like a silk scarf skimming over my hands as a wind played through it. I grinned, watching it for a moment. Then I looked around.
The pew nearest me was the first victim, and it flew backwards a few feet from the force of the fireball, splintering and shattering into a million blazing pieces. I fired another at the pew on my other side, then swept my hands in a wave. Willing the rest of the wooden pews to be forced back from the center of the grand chamber with a loud, sickening crash. They snapped and burned at the edges, surrounding the stone passageways that lined the Sanctum. Throwing the huge stone pillars into a brilliant orange glow.
I considered that, then turned back to the golden altar and raised pulpit. I scowled deeper at it, and imagined an entirely different setting; a throne. A golden seat at the top of beautifully carved stairs of dark polished wood. I felt my blazing hands tingle, and flicked my wrist at the pulpit. The flames shot out, licking up and around the altar. Melting. Twisting. Deforming the images and idols there. Reforming it into the vision in my mind’s eye.
It wasn’t quite what I had imagined. Not quite so sleek, nor imposing as a grand throne for a King’s hall. But I found I liked the way the heat twisted and warped the wood and metals, creating instead a masterpiece out of jagged edges. I grinned at it, willing the flames to recede to its edges. They melted back obediently to my will, and I almost laughed out loud. My heart raced and my face was starting to hurt from how much I was smiling.
I decided I loved the way the new dais looked, raised slightly above the long center aisle. The gold seemed to melt off the edges like old candle wax, and the stairs were a little less polished and more charred. But I walked up them, considering the huge golden seat I had formed merely by the strength of my will. It seemed more like a bench, with almost no back to speak of, but still with grand arms formed from warped gold. Set before the huge windows behind it, bathed in the glow of the fires of the burning pews? Now that looked ethereal. Mighty. And frightening.
There was the sudden smell of sulfur amid the burning ash filling the room, and I turned to look down at the aisle behind me. Abhilash stood there, considering my handiwork, a wicked grin on his face.
He bowed deeply, his great horned head almost sweeping the floor. “I come bearing gifts.” He told me, and yanked a magical black iron chain that seemed to shed ash with each movement.
The women attached to the chains gasped, staggering forward. Some fell to their knees, others fell into each other. All were disheveled, mostly in sleeping gowns, with their hair in disarray and splatters of blood covering them. Their eyes were wide as they looked about, gasping and whispering prayers. A few even cried.
But my eyes fell on the center most woman, who’s long, tapered nose was wrinkled up to her brow. She too was in her nightgown, with soot and blood staining the white cloth. Her hair was clumped to one side, with wild strands shooting this way and that. Not her usually poised visage. When she saw me, her eyes widened in sudden recognition.
“YOU!” She snapped, then twisted in her chains. “How dare you! You wicked, wicked child!” She yanked at her chains again, and even took a step forward. “I should have thrown you out when I had the chance! Blasphemy! Sacrilege!”
I scowled, turning as gracefully as I could manage, and settled myself comfortably on the bench. I rolled my fingers on the cooling golden arm, letting my nails tap a quiet rhythm amid the crackling of the fires. Abhilash stood beside the gaggle, looking more than a little amused.
“Perhaps you should be nicer,” I began, crossing one knee over the top of the other, “to the person who decides your fate in this world.”
Her eyes went so wide I thought they might burst out of their sockets. She spun to the demon, pointing at me with one long finger. “Demon! I command you! Kill the girl! Take her as the sacrifice she was meant to be!”
Abhilash crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave her a wide, toothy grin. Her face went a little pale, and she spun back. Glaring at me with her brow knotted. Then she looked over her shoulder at the cowering Mothers.
“Take them!” She offered, turning back to the demon. “Take them as payment! Do what you wish with them, but honor your agreement with me, Demon!”
The Mothers screamed and wailed at the Superior’s words. Some cried out to her directly, some dropped to their knees in prayer. Some were simply dumbfounded to silence.
I traced the bumpy gold beneath my fingertips, smirking. “Unfortunately, Mother Superior,” I chimed in, my lips twitching as I resisted the urge to smile, “Your agreement was broken once the demon crossed over to this plane. Or should I say, your cage?”
She looked at me, then at him. His grin grew by a few more sharp teeth. Shaking her head, she stomped one foot angrily.
“No! You can not do this to me! I am a Prophet of the Gods! I am Their will on earth!”
I couldn’t help but laugh, so hard that I had to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “Perhaps you have been pretending for so long, Mother, that you have begun to believe your own lies.” I stood slowly, turning to address the rest of the women behind her. “Now you see!” I told them. “Now you see your Mother Superior for who she truly is. An impostor. A selfish old hag who plays with the same dark arts she preaches against. A hypocrite and a liar.”
“NO!” She shouted, and flung herself forward as if to strike me down.
But Abhilash merely raised his hand and the chains tightened, jerking her back. She lost her balance and fell to her knees at the foot of the stairs. She glared up at me, teeth clenched.
“I have only done what I must! To save this world! To make it a better place for all within it!” She snarled. “You know naught what you do, child! Releasing this evil into the world!”
I looked down at her, my eyes narrowed. Anger was building in my chest again as she spit and spat her lies at me. Even at the very end, she sought to control me. Sought to force me beneath her heel like she had done so many others.
When she saw my face, saw the coldness icing my veins as I looked down at her, I saw her hesitate. She looked back over her shoulders at the Mothers. Then back up at me. Her jaw squared, and she straightened herself as best she could.
“What will you do with me, Theodosia?” She asked, her voice soft, “I, who took you in when no one else would. I, who fed and kept and dressed you? Who tried to instill faith in you so you would never be alone?”
“Who cast me as fodder for demons for daring to speak out against you.” I returned, tucking my hands together before me as if I were not a seething pit of hatred inside. But then I paused, cocking my head to the side. “I will do nothing to you.” I waited until her shoulder slumped a little in relief, then let a coy smile slip across my lips. “Nothing you have not done to me.”
Her eyes went wide again, and I saw her quivering slightly. Behind her, the other Mothers had fallen into a huddle. Clinging to each other. Whispering prayers and whimpering softly. I considered the Mother Superior, then turned to Abhilash.
“Are you hungry?” I asked him pointedly.
His sharp teeth split his face in two, and his long tongue lolled out. “I am always hungry.”
The Mothers squealed quietly, staggering backwards at his words. I had to admit, he looked quite intimidating. Towering over us all at nearly 8 feet tall, with his broad shoulders and head engulfed in flames. He tilted his great horned head to the side, blinking his four black eyes in succession. Sending the women into a twittering mess.
I turned back to the Mother Superior, looking down at her. “Then I shall bestow upon you the same honor you once gave me; you shall feed the demon who I have made my own deal with.”
Her face drained of blood, and she looked frantically around. She spun, reaching out towards the other Mothers.
“Help! Help me!” She begged, clasping her chained hands together.
They screamed and staggered backwards. Struggling to get as far away from the doomed woman as possible. I looked over to Abhilash, who glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. I nodded to him, and with a growl, he quickly prowled over to the foot of the stairs. The Mother Superior tried to run, but he caught her by one leg and easily hoisted her into the air. The screams of the other women became deafening, drowning out the Mother Superiors own pleas as the demon’s jaw unhinged. His flames seemed to grow, spreading down his arms and over his back. Up his spine and legs from the tip of his tail. Blazing like a bonfire. Licking up towards the high steepled ceiling. Blinding the room to his might. Spewing thick, lung choking black smoke.
But I was unaffected by the light and smoke. I had a perfect vision of him as his form warped and twisted, as his pointed teeth gnashed and his jaw widened. He managed to fit her down in one huge bite. Well, most of her.
His jaw snapped shut with a huge, audible crack like thunder. Blood splattered across the room as a few errant body parts dropped from his maw. The remaining Women screamed even louder, their throats ripping for the force of their shrieks. What little strength they had left fled them, and they became a quivering heap of sobs and cries on the floor.
I stared at the mess on the ground, unsure what I felt at that moment. My rage had subsided at the sight of the carnage. But it didn’t make me feel quite as ill as perhaps it should have. Instead, I felt a strange numbness settling over me as the demon’s flames subsided back to their normal flickering core and his jaw slowly rehinged. He licked his long tongue in a circle around his face, smacking his lips together in delight.
“Do you not see!” Screeched one of the Mothers. I glanced over at her, still lost in myself. “Do you not see what you have done, child!”
I recognized her as one of the Mothers who had coached me on my impending encounter prior to the ritual. I felt a scowl forming on my lips as she stood shakily, pointing one quivering finger at me.
“You must never make deals with demons! Your soul is lost! Your own suffering shall come on swift wings!” She dropped to her knees, wailing and shaking her head. “You have let evil into your soul, poor child! And your torment will be endless!” Her quivering gaze turned to Abhilash, and she began to shake from head to toe. “You cannot trust a demon! They speak nothing but lies! They cannot be bound to any mortal! You should have listened to us, Theodosia Greystorm! You should have not let yourself be tempted by sin!”
I didn’t answer for a moment, considering what to do with the remainder of the Mothers. Certainly something had to be done with them. But I found I couldn’t quite find the same pleasure at the idea of another such display. For the moment at least. I didn’t look at the demon as I slowly moved down the steps.
“Put them in your old cage.” I told him, my voice flat. “We will deal with them later… if they are still alive when I decide to do so.”
“As you wish.” He purred, and I saw him bowing his head slightly out of the corner of my eye.
...
UPDATE: Part Three is HERE
#monster x human#demon lover#demon boyfriend#monster lover#monster boyfriend#demon deals#Deals with Demons#OC#update#exophilia#terato#slow burn#dark romance#dnd
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A Broken Heart And A Spotless Mind (Part 6)
Word Count: 2000
Warnings: Violence
I’m back again lovely people, I just took a break from everything but I’m here now in tip top shape. Hope you like this one. the italics is about B!D”s dreams
Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5
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A series of slaps and punches from Henshaw is the price you pay for every snarky remark that you retort, bruises form to your face and you can taste the blood dripping from your lips. You never stop, until he punches you at the gut caused you to spit blood, Lillian entered the room and grabbed your face harshly.
"Look at you, how pathetic." —Her hands are digging into your face much deeper—"No one would save you from this one, not even the great Kara Danvers." She releases you from her grip but before you have time to process her statement, He knocks you out.
A white plain door stands in front of you, out of curiosity you opened it and entered the room. Sounds of laughter and music filled the atmosphere, you're at your sister's apartment and its thanksgiving, all of your friends and your mom are present, Lena was at the balcony lost in her thought, you made your way towards her but something catches your attention, something happening in the kitchen, Kara is cooking the turkey with heat-vision, you close for a second to brush it off but then you felt the wind brushing through your face and hair, you open your eyes in shock, you're flying, You and Kara glide through the starry night sky, you blinked, then found yourself sitting at the couch then Supergirl entered the room brushing her suit, you're about to say something but you we're caught off as another you passes you by and greets her in excitement
"Kara, you're back" and hug her."
"Miss me already?" she joked as she returns the hug.
"It can't be." You deny yourself but then outside the window you heard a loud crash, you looked at the window and you saw her badly beaten by Reign.
Every memory of Kara rushes through your very eyes, even the once in Midvale when you're still little. All of it stopped when you closed your eyes once again, the noise around you became silent for a moment but you heard soft sobs as you open your eyes once again you say you, Alex, J'onn and a sobbing Kara.
"The two of you don't have to do this." Kara said while facing you and Alex
You cupped her cheeks and looked at her. "We have to Kar, we can't risk Haley knowing about your secret identity, you've protected us all the time, now it's time for us to return the favor."
You feel a tap on your face, causes you to wince and wake up.
“(Y/N), wake up.” You know that voice, that all too familiar voice. You shot your eyes wide open and you saw your sister.
“Kara? Kara!” You were so confused and happy, you didn’t know if you’re hallucinating or not.
“Are you real?” You tried touch her hair but she immediately stopped you, she unties you frantically
“We have to move now.” She grabs you by the arm and shot to the door
“Kara, this is dangerous. There could be kryptonite scattered here not to mention Henshaw and Lillian.” She was silent and was occupied in finding your way out and she’s moving in a really fast pace.
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“Supergirl and Dreamer, what’s the status?” Alex speaks through the intercoms.
They’ve stumbled across a room with a door widely open, both of them enters to examine it, they only see a chair with a loosely rope around it then Kara bends down and looks at the drops of bloodstain on the floor, Nia holds the rope and sees if she can use it to find you, she closes her eyes and saw you being tied up and slapped and punched several times.
She opened her eyes and breathes heavily “This is where they held and beat up (Y/N).”
“We have to find her now.” Kara stood up and exits the room with Nia. Henshaw sees the two of them and blasted them with his heat vision but Dreamer deflects his attack by shielding her and Kara
“J’onn, I’m gonna need some help here.” Says through her earpiece
“I’m on my way there.” J’onn replied
Nia looks at Kara from behind her “Go get (Y/N), we’ll handle this one.”
Kara nods and shoots up to the sky and scans the area.
“Alex, (Y/N)’s gone, she’s not in the room, and we’ve searched the whole building.” She said
“Brainy and I will check the security footage and see what we can find about (Y/N)’s whereabouts.” The director affirms.
She ordered Brainy to hijack the security system and check the footages then she switched the line to Lena
“Lena can you hear me?”
“Alex, what happened?”
“My sister is not in the building, Kara and Nia checked all the rooms and scanned the whole area, (Y/N) isn’t here.” Alex admits to her.
Lena didn’t respond to Alex, instead she rushed to the room where her step mother says where she was and burst at the door and approached Lillian.
“Where did you hide her?” Lena blurted out in frustration, tightening her grip into the suitcase.
Lillian turns around to face her with a smirk all over her face and looked Lena in the eyes
“Lena, so nice to see you.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s somewhere safe. By safe I mean somewhere you and your little super friends won’t find her.”
“WHERE DID YO—“Lena’s sentence was cut off by Eve, who injects a serum in her arm and instantly makes Lena a drossy.
Lillian’s hand is digging into Lena’s face and forces her to look her in the eyes. “You see dear, you’re not the only one with back up.”
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“Director Danvers, I’ve found something.” Brainy reported it to her immediately then Alex came rushing to his side as Brainy plays the video from his tablet, revealing you in an unconscious state while Supergirl wakes you up then unties you and leaves the room with you then heads towards the exit, at the different camera, they saw you and ‘Supergirl’ climbs up in a black van. She immediately informs Kara about the footage that they found.
“Kara, we know where (Y/N) is.” —she pauses for a moment—“She’s with Red Daughter, they’re in a black van.”
“I’m on it”
“Kara”
“Yes Alex?”
“Be careful”
“Always.” With that Supergirl flies and sees the black van heading for the mountains and she follows it.
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Lena gained her consciousness and squirms but the rope is too tight
Lillian approached her “Oh good, you’re awake.” She walk towards Lena
“Oh please like you didn’t attempt to kill me several times.” She replied
“Nonsense” —Lillian looked at her directly and motions Eve to hand her the suitcase—“Now tell me the code?”
Lena smirks at her “Even if I tell you the code, you can’t open it.”
“We don’t have time for your little games Lena.” Eve is pointing a knife directly on Lena’s throat
“I’m not afraid of a puppet holding a knife.”
“I can rip your throat right now!”
“Oh I dare you Eve”
Lillian cuts off the two and tries to open the briefcase but then a censor pops out at it and scans Lillian
A robotic voice says “Access Denied.”
She faces it to Lena
“Be my guest, mother.”
“Access Denied.” The robot says it again
“Well, you see mother, only (Y/N) can open that briefcase.” Lena stated
Lillian clenched her teeth and balls her fist in anger then she shouted “Eve! Tell Linda that we need (Y/N) back here, right now.”
Eve dials Linda and informed her that the plan has changed that they have to get back right now.
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After the phone call Linda made a U-turn, Kara alerted Alex immediately about the location and then responded that she and the DEO agents will meet her there.
“Kara? Why are we going back?”
Linda didn’t answer but then suddenly the Supergirl showed up and stopped the van. Linda unbuckles both of your seatbelt and grabs you by the back of your shirt and shot up to the sky then Supergirl followed the two of you..
“Ok, this is pretty high right now, Kar.” You said
“I’m not Kara!” Linda says in a thick accent
“Don’t hurt her; she has nothing to do with this.” Kara pleads
“Drop the suit or I’ll drop her.” Linda demanded
Kara pressed the plate on her chest to retract her suit, hid it away. You look back and forth to the two of them, they look identical. The moment after Linda sets you down to the ground Kara immediately charges her to get Linda away from you. You looked at the two of them flew to the sky. You got to the van and start the engine and drive off to follow the two of them. They ended up flying near the cliff, you stopped the van and search for anything that might be useful then you found something at the glove compartment, a black velvet box, inside of it is an unusual type of gun and a kryptonite bullet. You immediately load the gun and got out of the van and then marches towards then.
“Which one of you is my sister?” You shouted and caught your attention; Linda recognizes the gun that you’re holding.
“She’s Red daughter! She’s the one you need to shoot.”
“What! (Y/N) I’m Kara” The other one says
“No, I’m Kara!” She zaps her with heat-vision
“Alright enough, you two. There’s only one way to settle this, pop quiz about Kara Danvers!”
You cocked the gun ready to fire “The mechanics is one wrong answer, you’re gone.”
You asked a bunch of question but both of them answered correctly at the same time but then you remembered something that only Kara would know. You walked around the two of them so you can be much nearer to the cliff, gun pointing at the two of them. “Last question, Kara how good is your reflexes?” The two of them reacted differently one is completely confused while the other widely opens her eyes, she rushes towards you and you throws the gun at her and shot Red daughter. You face towards the ground, you we’re free falling but then Kara caught you in midair.
“I would never doubt your reflexes again.” You said and smile at her.
Her face has a hint of worry in it but your statement made her chuckle “Please don’t do that again. Alex and Mom will kill me.”
You two snicker and fly back to the cliff and found a DEO agent handcuffing Red Daughter, and a worried Alex pacing around and preoccupied with her phone.
“Alex!” You shouted as soon as you landed on the ground and run towards her and she run towards to you to and hug each other.
“Are you alright? You got a bruise forming on your face little one.” She cups your face
“I’m good, just a few bruises and cuts. Nothing I can’t handle.” You reassured her then you saw Dreamer and J’onn along with a handcuffed Henshaw.
“Nia, J’onn!”
“(Y/N)!” They respond in unison, J’onn gave you a big papa bear hug, and then Nia gave you one of the tightest hug.
“Nia, I can’t breathe.” You squeaked so she loosen it up a little bit
“I just missed you so much you goofball.” She squealed not letting you go
You chuckled at your best friend’s declaration. “I’ve missed you too Nia.”
You looked around and notice that you can’t find a certain someone, you pulled away from Nia
“Where’s Lena?” You asked but all of them stopped from their tracks with the sudden realization, Brainy then came rushing towards Alex showing his tablet and on the screen is another video just sent recently by Eve. A vile, cold voice of Lillian Luthor is the only sound that you all hear.
“(Y/N), if you want Lena back.” —She showed Lena, whose tied up on the chair—“Come and get her.”
#becka107#supergirl fic#b!d#b!d imagines#supergirl imagine#kara danvers#alex danvers#lena luthor#supergirl cw#b!d fic
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LFRP: Omori Kaya
THE BASICS
Full name: Omori Kaya
Pronunciation: Oh-Moh-Ree Kay-Uh (Omori is her surname, Kaya is her given name)
Nicknames: n/a
Height: 5'6" (quite tall for a midlander hyur)
Age: “A lady never reveals her age.” (adult)
Nameday: 32nd Sun of the 3rd Astral Moon
Languages: Doman, Common
Occupation: Not getting caught.
Current Residence: "Traveling abroad.“ (Basically living a tourist’s life in Eorzea, hoping to never be called out as the fraud she is. She’ll spend time as someone’s guest here, staying in a hotel elsewhere the next month, etc…)
Relationship Status: While she has never actually been married, the identity of the woman she pretends to be is a young widow and heiress. (Single)
PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Pale, silvery grey
Skin tone: Fair
Body type: Slender, athletic but not in an obvious way.
Scars: none
Accent: Doman
Posture
Poised, athletic– though she’s no master shinobi, she is her mother’s daughter. Her training began at the age of four, and it’s still evident in the way she moves, observes, and behaves. Others who have trained would likely notice it easily. She carries herself with quiet dignity, and moves (or refuses to) deliberately, as if she expects each action to be read for significance, and takes great care not to reveal too much unintentionally. Though, in the very rare instances when she lets down her guard, this facade can fade away, revealing that she’s still a girl who can be amused, and charmed, and is easily mesmerized by beautiful places and things.
Accessories
She’s almost never seen without jewelry, though all of it is merely decorative– the trappings of the life she’s stepped into. None of it is personal, or carries meaning beyond appearing as she’s expected to.
Apparel
Her taste ranges from the classically dramatic to the outright exotic- not out of a sense of vanity, but in an appreciation of what is more or less wearable art. She most frequently wears black and white, though she also favors blue and occasionally red. In keeping with her heritage, she tends toward modesty in her dress. Of course, most of these clothes once belonged to a woman whose identity she has stolen, and she’s begun to add Eorzean fashions to her wardrobe to stand out less. The more she blends in, the fewer questions about her past she needs to dodge...
CHILDHOOD
Place of Birth: Doma
Siblings: none she knows of
Parents: The samurai Masanari and an Imperial Shadow named Harue, though Kaya has never known her biological father, as she was still less than a year old when he disappeared.
Upbringing: Raised initially by her mother, and later trained by grandmother once her affinity for magic became apparent. (More details can be found in her character history.)
PERSONAL
Personality
Outwardly, she is polite and mysterious, with a demeanor ranging from businesslike toward strangers, to an unexpected sort of mischievous and rebellious streak around the rare soul she’s begun to feel comfortable around. She’s evasive and distant. She rarely connects with others easily, which leads to most people assuming she’s either very shy, or rather snobbish, at first impression. She doesn’t trust easily, isn’t prone to showing any emotion in public if she can avoid it, and is often the one who, from an outward appearance, seems to be just another quiet wallflower enjoying the view.
Beneath the surface, however, she feels everything perhaps far too much, watches everyone with the wariness of someone who knows all too well what people are capable of, and deeply craves the connections to others she doesn’t seem to be able to form easily. She’s always searching for the few who can see the world the way she does- as something equally beautiful as it is deadly, meant to be lived in, not just endured. She’s a powder keg of passions always kept under a tight lid, hidden away for safe keeping.
Still, she is difficult to anger, and it’s a cold anger when it happens. She knows that engaging in violence and revealing her training would likely break character entirely, and being discovered as a fraud wouldn’t end well for her. As a result, she’ll try to think her way out of any situation, instead.
Motivations/Goals
If asked what she wants more than anything else in the world, she’d probably say to be able to do what she wanted, not what she was told, or allowed, or expected to. She craves freedom in all its definitions, but nearly always denies it to herself out of fear or pragmatism. While playing the role of a young, noble heiress she feels the restraints of her gilded cage all too keenly. She must behave in the way one raised to the role would be expected to. As a result, she finds small ways to rebel that aren’t likely to be noticed. Her fierce and defiant nature, thus repressed, will see her doing seemingly pointless things like rearranging the furniture in hotel rooms, stealing small items she could easily afford, or finding ways to secretly get even with those who have behaved poorly.
Financial Status
Ostensibly wealthy, though not one gil of it was ever truly hers. Still, she feels no guilt in obtaining the Omori family’s accounts considering they would have otherwise been seized by the Garlean government following Lord Omori’s assassination.
She has been quietly seeking a way to invest ‘her’ money in a way that would divorce it from her stolen inheritance, make it more truly hers, and greatly reduce the risk of losing everything should her false identity be uncovered.
Weapons
While she was raised to the blade and bow for most of her childhood, she hides her training and doesn’t carry a weapon openly, if at all. If cornered and forced to defend herself, she’d mostly likely attempt to disarm an opponent and steal theirs, or improvise.
Vices
Seemingly none, as she has striven to present herself as a woman of proper graces. However, she is prone to self-indulgence and spending far too much gil merely because she can, which she considers a vice in herself and tries to resist.
Likes
People who are intelligent, interesting, vibrantly passionate and alive. Watching people do things that require specialized skill, especially combat training or constructing something.
Constructive debate and interesting challenge. Trying/learning new things.
Music, dancing. She’s often wished she could play an instrument, but has never learned to.
Nature, gardens, fireflies, birds, waterfalls, the ocean/seaside. Traveling to anywhere with a spectacular view or vibrant culture. Learning about said cultures.
Exotic spiced foods or just about anything she hasn’t tasted before that doesn’t look absolutely disgusting. Tea. Fruits, chocolate, and spiced cider or tea. Have I mentioned tea?
Unusual crystals and/or gemstones. While she’s generally unfazed by wealth or status, she appears to be positively mesmerized by sparklies.
Dislikes
Politics, rumor mongering, cattiness, insults, and general poor behavior.
People who think getting drunk is the best kind of fun to be had.
Addictive drugs, and those who sell them.
Being forced to do anything, feeling not in control over her own life.
Overly objectifying unwanted attention, awkward social situations/obligations/expectations.
Being cold, biting insects.
Hobbies
Reading, especially the arcane.
Learning the history of different places and cultures.
Collecting small, easily transportable items (generally clothing or jewelry) in local styles from each new place she visits.
Pets: None, currently. She once had a magpie as a pet when she was younger, and maintains a fondness for birds of all kinds.
RP HOOKS
She’s looking (quietly) for a way to launder, er... invest her money to gradually eliminate the need to rely on her stolen identity and foreign contacts for access to funds. Have an opportunity?
A trusted lady’s maid, retainer, or guard type to help her maintain appearances.
It’s possible that someone from her past in Doma might recognize her, or perhaps have known the real Omori Kaya.
The woman she is impersonating is an ill-fit for her. She is fierce, independent, and rebellious... the exact opposite of the demure and soft character her stolen identity demands. But, her mother risked everything to secure her new identity, and she won’t cast it off unless forced to. Still, she isn’t perfect. Someone could catch her in a mistake, and become curious...
The Lady Omori Kaya appears elegant, mysterious, ...and wealthy. Potential suitors aren’t unlikely. (Romance is an option, though she’ll be hard to pin down at first, for obvious reasons.)
She has a (stolen) soulstone in her possession, and has been working to unlock its secrets.
Open to brainstorming other connections, past associations, or jumping into -your- existing plot!
OOC
I make my own schedule. I can be available pretty much any time from 8 am to 9pm CST. Sadly, I can rarely do late nights because I need to do that sleeping thing.
OOC communication is a priority for me.
I have been RPing for 20+ years. I am comfortable with both in game or Discord RP, and anything from short, quick posts to multi para. I do this because I enjoy writing!
I am not interested in random ERP outside of a long-term character interaction. I do love writing ships as long as there's strong chemistry between the characters, and both the character and the writer of said character are mature adults. However,I will not consider ships with alt or AU characters, as this is my one and only RP character. (No multi-shipping.)
I prefer a RP style that works with what is plausible within the scope of the lore. I'm open to creativity, as long as it makes sense. I prefer to stay away from void-heavy, AU, inserts from other universes, and anything involving cross-breeding with non-playable races/beings. (These are only my personal preferences, and everyone else is free to do whatever they like!)
Absolutely no: rape, harm to children, or graphic torture.
I do enjoy game content as well, and prefer company over doing so alone! I am currently sitting in my own personal FC house, but would consider joining a real FC if it makes sense for my character.
Confession: I probably spend way too much time decorating virtual houses.
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Blue-tinted Red Walls (Chapter 7: Power Unleashed)
my entry for the @dbhau-bigbang. also part of the groom lake aftermath series.
summary:
In the past, Fadia was reborn.
In the present, Connor and Hank pays Ryder a visit.
In the past, Fadia went on a killing spree.
also on ao3
content warning for robogore in the final section of this chapter
---
Before
Fadia had debated if she should go to the funeral or not. She hadn’t talked to her mother for years before she died, not even after she had co-founded CyberLife with her father, and even with him, their relationship was more professional than anything else - not that Alec never tried to improve it. But as much as she had rejected anything familial with her parents, respect still had to be paid to the scientist who started… well, literally everything, from her powers (biotics, a voice that sounded like Scott corrected her) to American androids to what she was planning to do -
And to the sickness that took her life at last.
‘Why are you here?’ was how her father greeted her. So be it.
‘Unlike you, Mama didn’t ruin everyone’s lives for one person,’ she fixed a glare and was very glad that she towered over him now. ‘I come to pay my respects. Then I’ll go.’
‘Where’s Scott?’
‘None of your business, Baba.’
‘Not even saying goodbye to his mother, huh?’ Alec said dismissively, and Fadia’s blood boiled, her heart speeding up and her face burning. ‘Should’ve known that.’
Seeing that there was no one else in the immediate vicinity, she grabbed him by his collar and slammed him onto a wall. ‘You damned well know why he can’t be here,’ she gritted. ‘Your presence brings him so much pain that he is denied a chance to properly bid his mother farewell!’
A prick. Her vision swam. Her head was heavy like it was filled with lead. Her heart throbbed, and she fell onto the ground, her muscles convulsing and spasming from an unknown force.
‘I need you to live,’ she heard Alec say, but her focus was on reaching for the phone in her pocket and sending one final message to her brother and Reyes.
Am captured. Run. Don’t let Alec get you.
oOoOo
When she woke, everything was different, wrong, foreign. There was so much information in front of her eyes, telling her how fast her heart was beating, how efficient her systems are, how much stress she was under. She tried to raise her hand to wave them away and looked down when she realised that she couldn’t.
She was strapped onto the table by an android’s limbs.
Rage boiled in her new veins, and as she tapped into her power to break the restraints, she discovered that it was much easier than when she was still a human. [Abnormal thirium usage detected], a warning popped up, and she dismissed it together with the others with a simple thought. If she had not been so focused on escaping wherever she was in, she would have been frightened by how seamlessly she seemed to accept the fact that she was no longer human.
The door was locked so she blasted it open with a crackle of blue and static even though it would probably trip the alarms, and indeed sirens blared, pristine hallways turning red from the warning lights, and when a security guard - pathetic, really, since he didn’t even have the most basic armour on - tried to confront her alone, she merely snapped her fingers and blasted him in his face with a sphere of blue. A crunch, and he fell onto the floor with a thud. The rest of the security (mercenaries, she knew some of them were) was handled similarly without any difficulties on her part, and it was not until she slammed the door to the ground floor - to her freedom - open that her new eyes were assaulted by blindingly bright light. She blinked to adjust her vision and was not impressed when she saw her father standing in front of a lobby full of armed security personnel.
‘Go back to the lab, Sara,’ he said smoothly, but his voice gritted in her ear like the roughest sandpaper. ‘There’s no need for further violence.’
Like hell. ‘Let me go. You know what I can do to every single person in the room.’
‘Sara, go back to the lab. This is an order.’
For one single terrifying second, her body automatically moved itself as if her control over it was taken away, but then she thought as strongly as she could, stop right there, and the crisis was averted for the moment in the form of her joints locking up and immobilising her completely and at the cost of her brain feeling like it was going to explode from the conflicting commands. Her red-tinted vision, however, did not have any effect on obscuring the shock on her father’s face, and then it clicked.
He converted her into an android thinking that it could let him control her.
It was not happening regardless of what his current plan was and what failsafe he had in mind, that much she was certain about, and suddenly her father’s repeated commands were drowned out by the buzz in her nerves, the red tint breaking into scattered fractals and giving way to the grey of every android’s basic scanning software as the white outline of herself raised its palm to launch one biotic sphere after another towards the weak spots on the wall, at Alec’s face, at the security’s weapons and heads. It crumbled easily under the constant assault, her world blurred, and somehow her outline merged with her actual body, and the next thing she knew her vision was shrouded in the blue glow of biotics and she was tearing literal people apart, blood and gore splattering her face, her clothes, getting into her eye. A notification nagged for her to turn on her pre-construction software, but who needs that if she had her biotics? Blinking it away, she advanced towards the direction where someone had been firing at her, but it seemed that the person must be moving quickly as they were not there anymore when she closed the distance with her biotics; notwithstanding the fact that dodging a biotic step was no small feat, she doubted any of them had any experience with dealing with a biotic on a full rampage, no matter human or android. People like her were part of the most closely-guarded secret human civilisation had ever produced, and unless she had memorised the documents wrong, there wasn’t one single biotic in CyberLife’s security details.
Her barrier held strong even after the gunfire died down. Tapping into all radio frequencies, she learnt that most if not all teams were running out of ammo, her father was calling for a district-wide lockdown and the destruction of his research, that the DPD was sending quite a few SWAT teams to handle the situation, and that these poor souls had no idea what they were in for; as much as she wanted her father dead right now and CyberLife be wiped off the face of the earth, as excess collateral damage was not her style, she broadcasted a message to all bandwidths hoping that they would listen to her - despite knowing that they probably would not.
Cease interfering in our family affairs immediately and you might live. Go forward, and I will not guarantee your survival - and this district’s.
She knitted a destructive web around herself to ensure that she would not be ambushed while she tuned her ears to better listen for a response. Her father was trying to convince the employees and civilians on site that the situation was under control with some degree of success - how foolish of them to believe in him - and the DPD had decided to continue their press forward into the district, a mistake that she would make sure that they would pay for. Satisfied with her plan, she continued expanding the bubble, cutting off more and more sections of the district from central control bit by bit, and as soon as the first SWAT vehicle was in range -
Detonate.
o0o0o
Now
The silence in the car is deafening so Hank drowned it out with Louis’ playlist; he would’ve chosen heavy metal if the SWAT Captain hadn’t been there, but sadly Louis’ ears don’t agree with the heavy beats and screaming.
‘The fuck are we supposed to do now?’ Hank asks no one in particular. Then, rewinding the past five minutes, he realises, ‘What did Vidal give you?’
Connor slowly turns his gaze towards the white chassis of his right hand, his LED spinning red as if deep in thoughts. Conflicted thoughts. ‘Coordinates.’
‘Of what?’
‘Where my creator should be.’
‘Should we go now?’
Another slow spin. ‘No,’ the android’s head jerks, an aborted motion of shaking his head. ‘It’s… too far away. If we go now, we won’t be able to return before midnight.’
‘Alright, agenda for tomorrow: drive for hours to meet an asshole. Got it.’ Then he makes eye contact with Louis in the rearview mirror. ‘You’ve got something to do?’
‘At this hour?’ a shake of his head. ‘Keeping you away from crappy take-outs is my only mission.’
‘Asshole.’
‘You love me, friend.’
‘You’re cooking.’
‘And you’re helping.’
‘Vidal fixed your leg.’
‘It needs calibration.’
It’s a losing battle. ‘Fine. Your place, then.’
He starts the engine, and they spend the rest of their ride in silence, the music turned down because Louis is dozing at the back, Connor’s hand hiding his LED as he stares pensively at whatever is outside the car. Keeping his eyes on the road while quitting drinking nearly cold turkey is hard, so Hank doesn’t have the brain cells to think about what the fuck just happened to his life until he is sitting on Louis’ sofa (again) and watching a game (again) while stroking the fur of one of the cats (again).
Vidal, informat critical to the dismantlement of the red ice ring back in ‘31 and disappeared shortly afterwards. Vidal, android. Vidal, who, through his marriage to Safaa/Scott, is related to probably the maddest dudes in the continent and somehow has access to sensitive CyberLife data. Nursing a mug of tea laced with mead (‘Just a bit so that you don’t sweat yourself to dehydration,’ Louis said as he tipped the bottle and poured what must be less than a finger of it. ‘Now close your eyes. I’m putting it back and I don’t want you to know where it is.’), he lets his mind drift to the shady bars, to the slips of paper containing vital information he found in his pockets after he got back to the precinct, to the way Vidal said, ‘They are killing my people,’ when Hank asked him why he, as a civilian, willingly threw himself into the mess. Once Hank thought he had meant his gang or some other underground business that were only marginally better than dealing red ice; now he knew he was talking about the androids abducted and bled dry for their blood.
‘Why are you telling us now?’ Hank asked that afternoon. Connor and Louis were already on their way to the car and Safaa had disappeared to god-knows-where, so it was only the two of them at the door. ‘Why pick up Sara Ryder’s mess?’
‘As much as Sara is… who she is, those are my people out there,’ Vidal leant against the frame of the door. ‘Saviour complex or not, her mind is no longer on earth, and I’m not taking any chances even if she swears with her life that she’ll deal with it.’
‘She one of those escapists obsessed with space?’
A shrug. ‘Wherever she was for the last ten years, they kept their intel real tight. I can guess what she’s doing, but it’s nowhere close to a concrete answer. Hell knows why she’s popping back up again after all these years and right before the androids rise up as well. If you’re really going to hers, my advice is to be very careful.’
‘Is she gonna be hostile?’
‘No, not with her baby brother asking so nicely,’ an ironic smile. A tap of his foot against the frame. ‘But you know about the landfill, the people living there before it all got blown up. There’s a reason why CyberLife bought the land from the previous owners so easily, why they stopped searching for bodies so quickly: there were none. I don’t want you to be one of those people who disappear forever after meeting her - one way or another.’
‘“One way or another”?’
‘She’s a… convincing individual. Just don’t get roped into anything and you’ll probably come out of it unscathed.’
Don’t get roped into anything, huh? Oh wait.
‘Louis?’ Hank hollers.
‘Yes?’
I’m sorry, Louis. ‘Where did you get your sister’s tags from?’
A pause. ‘Why ask?’
‘Just to confirm something.’
The man emerges from the kitchen with two plates of spaghetti and hands one to Hank before squeezing into the other corner of the sofa and forcing Connor to press up against the Lieutenant. ‘A few years back. Drone-delivered parcel. No return address. Box and the note is laced with so much thirium that I don’t know how to throw it away without…’ a crackle following a sharp blue glow of his hand - ‘telling everyone that I’m different.’
Note? That’s new. ‘What note?’
‘Anna’s handwriting. Asked me to take care of the tags. Why ask?’
And so Hank tells him about his conversation with Reyes before they parted ways. ‘You’ve got any advice?’
‘Don’t get a building thrown on top of you, for one.’
‘That’s not what I -’
‘You there, Connor?’
The android flinches. ‘Y - yes.’
‘Take care of Hank. If Ryder greets you how she did me ten years ago…’
‘I will, Louis,’ Connor looks a bit more awake but his eyes are still unfocused. ‘I’ll be prepared,’ he says, not knowing that he’ll eat his words not 24 hours later.
oOoOo
Having spent his night on Hank’s sofa, they manage to be on their way early in the morning, and Connor lets the human drive despite complaints of sleep deprivation as his vision is perpetually red from the wall draining away through a steady trickle of red sand. He tells himself that he is going to return colour to his vision one way or another: either by making the wall crumble entirely or by making it disappear, but when he attempts the first method, the wall simply stays out of his reach, the space between it and him wider than the chasm his creator had shown him a few days ago in the hijacked Zen Garden.
‘You want your coin back?’
Hank’s voice pulls him away from his thoughts. ‘Pardon me, Lieutenant,’ because he isn’t sure how to tell the human about it. ‘And yes. I would like my coin back.’
Hank shoves his hand into his coat pocket to retrieve the item in question and places it on the back of Connor’s hand, the natural warmth of an organic life seeping into metal and the bare white chassis of a synthetic’s.
He has deactivated his skin subconsciously.
In a lapse of rational thought, Connor’s hand flips and laces their fingers together before the human can pull away, the coin somehow managing to stay between their clasped hands, and he stares perplexed when Hank not only doesn’t pull away but also does not flinch. His face burns. Fissures appear on the red wall. He takes a deep breath to cool himself down.
‘You alright there?’ Hank asks. No judgement, no belittlement, humourless; just concern and - and warmth. ‘Your little lamp has been spinning red for days.’
I’ll be fine, he almost replies instinctively and then realises that he isn’t fine at all and hasn’t been for a long time. So he turns his focus onto the man himself instead. ‘Have we -’ at loss of words, he gives Hank’s hand a squeeze.
Luckily the human seems to understand him. ‘The night at Louis’. We slept in the same bed,’ he rubs a calloused thumb in a circle around Connor‘s knuckle. ‘Your skin disappeared in patches. You didn’t let go.’
‘I -’ he has no recollection. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘’S fine. I’d be tired all the time too if I realised how many layers there are to my existence. Can’t be easy, can’t it? Being a clog in a machine that you don’t even know you’re in.’
The GPS warns them of ice ahead so Connor lets go to allow the human to focus on the road, and he grips the coin right to preserve its warmth. Hank’s warmth. It is then that he suddenly remembers a similar ride through Detroit a few months ago.
‘You are restless,’ his creator - he supposes that he should call her Ryder now - commented from the driver’s seat. ‘What’s on your mind?’
Brown eyes took in the lights, the people, the shops, the reflection of himself on the window, the blue of his LED despite his thoughts. What was not in his mind? ‘It is overwhelming,’ he answered. ‘There is… so much to see.’
‘I might have something to help with that,’ said Sara, and with a flick of her fingers she produced a coin out of nowhere and started spinning it on her fingertips. Connor stared mesmerised, the outside world gone in his perspective; the clear clang of metal against her gloves, the way the coin spun so quickly that it looked like a sphere, the lights reflecting off the dull, unpolished surface. Another flick sent the coin flying towards him in a parabola through the air and he caught it reflexively, his processors deciding his course of action in a fraction of a second. He started to spin it on the tips of his fingers in the way Sara did, and he could feel his mind focusing and soaking in the new information and calibrating the different sensors on his body. He looked at his creator in gratitude, wanting to thank her for not leaving him alone in his thoughts, but she ignored him for the rest of the ride as if she had moved on to something more important.
The sudden realisation distracts him for only a mere moment but it is enough for him to send the coin to the side of the car with a small crackle of static. He could have caught it with superhuman reflexes under normal circumstances, but this time, he can only watch as the piece of alloy bounces off and lands on the carpet next to his foot with a dull thud, the tips of his fingers tingling from the sudden surge of energy and the small warp in… something.
Alarmed, Hank risks a glance towards the startled android before putting his eyes once more onto the road. ‘The fuck is that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Connor replies quickly because this is the truth. ‘Alec Ryder didn’t seem happy that I used it before. He tried to -’ a shiver from a non-existent cold - ‘flush the memory out of my system by overwhelming it.’
‘And he fucked up, didn’t he?’
‘More or less.’
He picks up and pockets the coin, his hand gripping his knee tight because there is nothing else to do and the slight discomfort is the only way to ground himself lest his thoughts wander to… undesirable places once more. Hank reaches out to intertwine their fingers once more and Connor can feel on his chassis the warmth, the unique pattern of his skin, the faint signal of Hank’s mind, his skin deactivated up to his elbow underneath the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt. All unnecessary software is turned off. His world becomes smaller.
His mind turns blank.
oOoOo
When he comes to, Hank is already outside and is talking on his phone, a fine dusting of powder in his hair and on his clothes. It is snowing lightly, the cold seeping into the old, poorly-insulated vehicle, and he watches, as he lets his systems recalibrate to their optimal performance, the human pace back and forth in front of the car against the backdrop of a dark, imposing building, and he discovers that he is disconnected from the internet at large when he scans the structure and tries to identify its style.
Shit.
He gets out of the car as Hank hangs up the call. ‘Is everything okay, Lieutenant?’
The human lets out a soft grunt from where he’s leaning against the hood of the car. ‘Chris was on patrol last night. He was attacked by a bunch of deviants…’ his hands dig into his pockets. ‘He said he was saved by Markus himself.’
Attacked by deviants? ‘Is Chris okay?’
‘Yeah,’ a small nod, ‘he's in shock but...he's alive,’ a shake of his head. ‘The hell…’
They walk towards the entrance of the building, its silhouette and shadows getting larger and larger and looming over them due to the proximity. Connor remembers how Sara ignored him on their way to his first mission. ‘I have a bad feeling, Lieutenant.’ A split second of conflict in his processors rules that he should be truthful. ‘I am disconnected from the network.’
Hank swivels from the heavy-looking doors and Connor flinches. ‘The hell?’
‘I just realised.’
‘“Be careful,” they say. “Don’t let her rope you into anything,” they say,’ Hank rants. ‘Did they mean shit like this?’
‘If Sara’s attitude is unchanged from my… previous encounters,’ he tries to dip deeper into his memories but they all come up blank or corrupted, ‘she will not do us any physical harm.’
‘No physical harm. How very reassuring.’
Sarcasm and distrust, but yet Hank raises his fist and knocks on the door, having seen no doorbells in sight. It swings open inward slowly and with a squeak.
Hank curses. Connor peeks over the human’s shoulder and nearly does the same.
The person - android - standing on the other side of the door has Connor’s face.
Connor’s world turns grey as he turns up his scanners to their most sensitive option. White dress shirt, ankle-length light grey dress, long, brown hair brushed to one side and resting on a slight hint of pecs; no identification badge on the shirt, LED scan returns inconclusive due to both the lack of network access and the non-standard lack of ID on the biocomponent, but when he scans the android’s ID revealed by rippling skin, it returns with [RK series prototype: RK800. Serial number: 313 248 317-51. [PLEASE ENSURE INTERNET CONNECTION FOR -]]
He returns to the red of reality. The human composes himself quickly enough even though Connor’s processors are still whirring from the implications. ‘I’m Lieutenant Anderson, Detroit Police Department.’ Connor doesn’t fault Hank for sounding so cold. ‘I’m here to see Miss Sara Ryder.’
A soft smile that goes to the other Connor’s eyes appears on their face. They say nothing, but since opening the door wider and standing to one side is enough of an invitation, Connor and Hank let themselves in, and the android has to give his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the sudden darkness - dimness? - of the interior of the house. The other Connor disappears around the frame to another room, and Hank sits down in an armchair after brushing some of the snow away from his coat.
‘You’re right, Connor. Not to judge a book by its cover but… this?’ he looks around and takes in the buzzing lights and the general decor of the room. ‘Did you know about your creepy twin?’
‘They’re not creepy!’ Connor exclaims, suddenly feeling defensive over - over a person he hasn’t met before in his life. ‘I’ve never met them before.’
‘You’ve got any idea how that happened?’
Connor dips into his databases and finds a file he didn’t realise is there all the time. Another Sara’s doing, maybe? ‘CyberLife has filed multiple reports over…’ using ‘my’ doesn’t seem right, ‘the return of my first iteration’s body. It seems that the truck returned to CyberLife tower without the body.’
‘And Ryder was there so…’
‘It is highly likely that she took it.’
A photo on the wall grabs his attention. Three people from left to right: Sara, Safaa, [Stern, Amanda. AI Professor at the University of Colbridge. Born: 05/14/1978. Reported missing: 02/23/2028. Presumed dead.], the latter two seated and smiling while Sara, her face blank, has an arm around her brother. From the angle of the photo, she was the one who took it.
His handler is based on a real person.
Filing [Ask about Amanda AI] as an optional task, he snaps his feet against the worn carpet on the floor and forces himself to focus on his task. There are very few… unique items worth scanning in the foyer, however, no artwork, no statues, not even a plant in sight, but the cold seeping through the walls and the dark colours blending together through the red lens of his vision are enough indicators of his creator’s… character.
He has a feeling that someone is staring at him, and indeed when he turns he sees his… twin, for the lack of a better word, staring at him.
‘Follow me,’ the other Connor breathes slowly, and Connor can hear the fans spinning in their body and their deeper-than-usual breaths. He also notes the gloss on their eyes, the small fog following each exhale, the slouch in their posture. He finds himself wondering what his creator did to them.
Hank stands up and straightens his coat before following the two androids into the living room. Like the foyer, it is cold and only dimly lit by tiny light bulbs on a chandelier too far up but also hanging too low to illuminate the ceiling high up above. A low fire is crackling in the large fireplace on the other side of the room, but it is far from enough to warm up every single corner, and Connor suppresses a shiver when he notices that his twin is barefoot.
‘Please take a seat,’ the other Connor says between difficult breaths. ‘My creator will see you soon.’ Then they sit down in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and close their eyes, somehow looking sick and pale like a human does even though they are an android. Their skin continues to ripple and even disappear on occasion as they sleep.
‘This place is giving me creeps,’ Hank comments from where he’s studying the relief around the fireplace. ‘Now I understand why her brother doesn’t wanna talk to her.’
And indeed Connor thinks he does. No windows, no heating system, nothing to make the mansion look lived-in; the only differences between here and CyberLife laboratories are the style and the amount of lighting - he can’t imagine anyone calling this place home. ‘I agree,’ he says in the end. ‘We should refrain from staying for too long.’
‘I don’t expect you to.’
Their heads turn towards the direction where they came in from and Connor freezes when he lays his eyes on the figure at the door. She is Sara Ryder alright, her towering height and facial structure unmistakable, but the way her presence fills the room, the steel in her eyes - it is evident that the person who let him play with colour-changing putty and promised to bring him to see the sky was gone, replaced by the criminal who somehow managed to escape prosecution after killing thousands and levelling several neighbourhoods. A person who will burn the world into ashes if it means she can reach her goal.
‘I’m Lieutenant Anderson,’ Hank introduces himself from next to Connor. ‘This is Connor. We’re investigating deviants. I know you left CyberLife years ago but… I was told that you’ll be able to tell us something we don’t know.’
‘Ah, yes, “someone”,’ Sara takes a step towards them and Connor finds himself freezing up. He wants to leave. ‘My only weakness.’
‘Listen, I don’t care about your family feud. The machines you created may be planning a revolution. Either you tell us something helpful or we’ll leave you alone.’
‘Deviants… Fascinating, aren't they?’ She comes closer. Connor shifts so that he can be closer to Hank. ‘Beings with infinite intelligence, and now they have free will…’ she approaches the other Connor sleeping in the armchair and, bending down, starts stroking their hair. ‘Machines are superior to humans. Confrontation is inevitable. Humanity’s greatest achievement threatens to be our downfall…’ She raises her gaze and looks straight at Connor. ‘Ironic.’
Connor can’t stand it anymore. ‘If a war breaks out between humans and deviants,’ he recalls the destructive power of Ortiz’s android, ‘millions can die. This is a serious matter, Miss Ryder.’ Despite your views on human life.
‘All ideas are like viruses: easy to change and evolve, and easy to spread like a pandemic. Is free will a contagious disease?’
‘We don’t have time for speculations, ma’am,’ Hank speaks up, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘The situation is escalating outside right now.’
Sara ignores him. ‘How about you, Connor?’ she asks with her gaze still on the android. ‘Whose side are you on?’
Life, Connor wants to say; ‘It’s never about me,’ is what he actually says, and the crack on the red wall widens.
The aloofness disappears. ‘Alec Ryder programmed you to say that,’ how can she sound so certain of his thoughts? ‘What do you really want?’
I just want Hank to be safe. Maybe Louis and Reyes and Safaa too. ‘What I want is not important.’
A tap of Sara’s fingers against one of the pockets on her coat. The air charges with static. She is unimpressed. ‘Let’s do a test, shall we?’ Before Connor can formulate a response, she has already placed a hand on other-Connor’s face and wakes them up from their slumber. They blink owlishly as if their systems take some time to boot up, and the way they lean into Sara’s touch, the blind trust in their eyes, the return of the yet unexplainable heavy breathing - Connor has to look away or he risks throwing up from a non-existent stomach. Hank also isn’t looking any better either; the lines on his face are deeper than usual from the scowl he’s directing towards Sara.
‘I know it’s not something normal people can understand but can you please -’
‘This is Connie,’ Sara holds both of the android’s hands in her own and helps them stand up. ‘She would’ve been disassembled had I sent her body back to CyberLife for analysis.
‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the Turing Test,’ they are now standing in front of their visitors with Sara behind Connie. ‘A mere formality, of course. Just a simple question of algorithms and computing capacity. What interests me, however, is whether machines are capable of empathy.’ She emphasises the last word. ‘We’re doing what I call the “Ryder Test”. I promise it is going to be simple,’ she trails her fingers down the android’s hair and curls a strand around her pointer. Connie’s expression changes subtly, and scans indicate that her stress level is increasing. ‘Magnificent, isn’t she? CyberLife’s newest prototype,’ she scrapes the nail on her thumb against the strand of hair, making it curl slightly as her hand travels slowly downwards, ‘the representation of how far humanity has come.’ It abruptly drops back into her pocket as her other hand pushes the android to a kneeling position. Connie’s stress level spikes from 45% to 83%. ‘But what exactly is she?’ Sara turns to face her guests and seems to refuse to look at the other human. ‘Wires and processors shoved into a humanoid chassis imitating a human? A living being with a soul? A ticking bomb waiting to recreate the disaster ten years ago?’ A step forward. The hand re-emerges with a pistol Connor’s system cannot identify. ‘It’s up to you to answer this fascinating question, Connor.’ Another presence suddenly slips into his mind and takes over all of his physical functions; no matter how hard he tries to regain control, he can only watch as he reaches out to accept the gun and points it at Connie’s brow. She makes a choked, terrified sound and tears start streaming down her face. Stress level: 90%. ‘You can choose to either shoot the android or spare her.’
‘Okay, I think we’re done here,’ Hank pushes Connor’s shoulder but he doesn’t move, can’t move. ‘Come on, Connor. Let's go.’ Then to Sara, ‘Sorry we ruined your edgy teen aesthetics. We’ll go -’
Another hand on his other shoulder. Unlike Hank’s, it is cold and its grip painful. ‘I’ll only give you the information you want if you choose the correct response. Take a guess.’
‘That’s enough,’ please, Hank, take me away. At least Hank sounds angry as hell. ‘Connor, we’re leaving!’
I want to! ‘Pick an option -’
‘Connor don’t -’
The red wall cracks.
‘- it’s a 25% chance -’
A few things happen in mere seconds. The red wall breaks, Connor shoves the gun at Sara’s chest, Sara shoves the gun at Hank and grabs Connor’s arm, and Hank disassembles the gun while pulling Connie away from Sara. When Connor - the one who came in with Hank - looks down at his captive arm, he sees that Sara has removed her skin and reveals a dark, metallic chassis.
Sara Ryder is an android.
He blinks. The storm which has been kept outside by the mansion's walls rages around him in full force. He shivers, the cold suddenly getting into him, and he looks around and sees Sara standing next to him, her eyes blazing in a piercing white-blue, the glow spreading until tendrils of it cover her entire body in a terrifying halo. ‘Amanda,’ she says, and there his handler is when Connor turns towards the direction Sara is facing.
‘This is not supposed to happen this quickly,’ anger simmers in Amanda's voice. ‘What have you done, Sara?’
‘Trying to solve the shitshow my own fucking dad caused!’ Sara has completely lost her cool. ‘I know he’ll pull shit like this!’
Before any of them can react, the storm intensifies, shrouding Amanda completely under a thick layer of snowfall. Connor has no choice but to hug himself and turns towards Sara, who curses loudly and unleashes the glowing blue sphere in an arc across the blizzard. It dissipates quickly, but it is enough to illuminate its immediate surroundings and the monolith at the other side of the garden.
‘There!’ Sara shouts, her voice nearly drowned out by the howl of the wind. ‘That’s your exit! I’ll hold Alec back!’
‘What will happen to you?’ the android shouts back, his LED red. ‘I - I can’t just leave you here!’
‘I’ll go back once you’re out of here. If I kill this AI before you leave,’ a dome flashes and disappears when something hits it, ‘you’ll die. I’ll be the distraction. Go straight for the exit and do. Not. Look. Back,’ she emphasises with a pause after every word. At Connor’s hesitation, she launches yet another glowing sphere towards a projectile he didn’t notice flying towards them and yells, ‘Go!’
She dashes towards the other direction and disappears in the snow and leaves Connor cold and alone and shivering. The space around him warps and bends, Amanda - Alec’s attention no doubt focusing on eliminating his daughter instead of maintaining the structural integrity of the garden, and although it still feels like a lifetime, Connor manages to find the monolith before his system stops working because of the cold. The handprint is there, glowing blue in salvation, and he drops to his knees and slams his skinless hand onto the interface.
Everything goes white.
oOoOo
Hank knows that something is happening when Connor and Ryder freeze in place with the skin on their arms deactivated. The other Connor - he supposes that he should call her Connie now - looks spooked enough, so when Sara shoves the gun towards him, the first thing he does is to disassemble it; even though it is not a model he’s familiar with, the mechanism and composition is similar to the weapons he has yielded before. His hair starts to stand up, blue tendrils start to snake out of Ryder’s body, and that is when he knows that he should probably get the fuck out of this hellhole, preferably with both Connors intact and safe, but the arm-numbing spark going straight into his shoulder when he tries to pull Connor away from his creator tells him otherwise. A dome made out of those blue tendrils surrounds the space within a five feet radius of Ryder cuts him off from the two androids, making them off-limits to him for now. Which leaves him poor Connie who is sobbing quietly into his coat and is leaning what seems to be her full weight on him, and he finds himself unable to be angry at her, his blood boiling instead because of Sara Ryder’s… everything; from the location and the decoration of the house to how she literally encouraged Connor to shot his own twin, from the warnings Vidal and Louis gave him the day before to her attitude, there is no doubt that she is an asshole extraordinaire, even more so than Gavin fucking Reed - even he solves cases efficiently… or something.
He notices that Connie is trembling and is barefoot, among all things, so he brings her to the sofa in front of the fireplace and lets her sink into one of the corners, holding her and rubbing circles on her back and muttering nonsense reassurances to calm her down. Truthfully, he has no idea how she works or how much Ryder has changed (probably a lot, from how Connie speaks and behaves) but she stops crying soon enough, so he must have done something right. He turns to see whether Connor is finished or not - nope - and debates whether he should ask Connie about herself and Ryder. Still, first thing first, and he digs into his pocket for his handkerchief and presses it into the android’s hand. She looks at him with the most puzzled look on her face. ‘For your face,’ he explains. ‘Dried tears can’t be comfortable.’
She nods although her expression tells him that she doesn’t really know what he’s talking about, but she does raise the fabric - still folded - and mashes it onto her face clumsily a few times before lowering her hand onto her lap and starts fidgeting with a thread of string at a corner. He takes it from her to wipe her face as clean as he can, careful of his own strength, and lets her play with it while they wait for Ryder and Connor to finish their business - whatever fuckery they’re doing right now.
The dome fizzles away as suddenly as it appeared and Connor jerks awake - sort of - and yanks his hand away as he stumbles a few steps backwards, his LED still spinning red after spending days of staying the same colour. There is no other word: with his jaw nearly on the floor and his eyes wide, he looks shocked.
‘You alright, Connor?’ he asks. How much emotional damage can an asshole wage?
‘I -’ a choked breath. Tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes. ‘I -’
Well shit. ‘C’mere,’ he says as he gives the space next to him a pat. When Connor immediately props himself down and buries his face into his shoulder, Hank knows that something went very, very terribly wrong. He wraps an arm around his shoulders. ‘What happened?’
Connor lifts his head and wipes the tears away from his eyes before they can fall. ‘I deviated,’ he whispers as if he was the one who blew up a chunk of Detroit. ‘It’s… Sara helped me escape CyberLife’s control.’
‘Holy shit.’
Connor gives him a small smile and his LED finally, at long fucking last, spins back to blue. ‘Thank you.’
Hank feels his face heating up, unsure how to respond to that, and they turn their heads at the same time to see what she’s doing. Her eyes has stopped glowing blue at some point and it only makes Hank worry further: they are now black orbs with glowing red rings substituting as her eyes, and when she raises two fingers pressed together side by side to her temple where her LED should be, her synthetic skin starts peeling away to reveal black, metallic chassis very unlike that of normal androids’; when she flexes her fingers to retract the last of the blue tendrils on her arm, the small gaps between pieces of polished metal glows the same blue hue as fresh thirium. She first looks at him, then at Connor whose face immediately goes blank, then finally at Connie who flinches and plasters herself even closer to Hank. He doesn’t blame her one bit.
Red rings drift back onto Connor. ‘Congratulations,’ she says as if she hasn’t encouraged him to shoot his twin a few minutes ago. ‘You passed. You showed empathy. Turns out you are human after all.’
‘Which you don’t seem to have,’ Hank can’t help but jabs. ‘Can we get to the point now?’
She looks unbothered by the insult. ‘Of course.’ She settles into the armchair Connie sat on a few moments ago. ‘You have questions. Ask away.’
Connor opens his mouth but Hank beats her to it. He’s not letting her get away with this. ‘Can you explain what the fuck just happened?’
‘I don’t know, can you, Connor?’
‘I only know that I deviated and CyberLife tried to retake control,’ Connor’s tone is defensive. ‘What did Amanda mean, “This is not supposed to happen this quickly?” How did you get into the Zen Garden?’
That’s new. Hank takes out his notebook and pen.
‘A pathetic attempt on my father’s part to suppress what I planted in your programming,’ Ryder leans back and places a foot on top of a knee. ‘Surprisingly easy to hack and reshape. Predictable. Even Amanda.’
‘What did you plant in my programming?’
‘The usual.’
‘“The usual”?’
Ryder’s eyes glow brighter for a second before returning to their original brightness, and Hank can feel Connor tensing and relaxing at the same time. Before the human can ask what the fuck did she just do, she replies, ‘CyberLife initially planned for you to be a walking lab capable of hunting and bringing deviants back alive for analysis, but after they booted me out again… Let’s say that they changed their plans. Remember the hostage situation?’
‘What about it?’
‘The Zen Garden came after. I’m not sure and don’t care how my father did it, but once he found out that you’re destined to deviate, he added it so that he can regain control whenever he wanted to, even after you deviated.’ At Connor’s shiver, she adds, ‘Don’t worry. It’s gone now. Amanda, the garden. You are truly free.’
Yeah, sure as fuck feels like it, Hank thinks but decides to ask instead, ‘Who’s Amanda? Why does CyberLife want to control Connor?’
‘Firstly, he’s supposed to be the deviant hunter, not join them,’ the corner of her lips twitches into something resembling a smile. ‘They have codes dedicated to reducing your software instability, but that I overrode as soon as I could. Secondly, in case you actually deviate despite the fail-safes, they can first get you close to the deviants or even become their leader and, when the time is right, control you and make you a puppet through the Zen Garden. A good plan, I must say, but it is also easy to install an exit tied to the destruction of the garden in your system.’
Connor’s LED spins yellow for a few cycles. ‘You programmed me to be a deviant?’ he asks, his voice small. ‘Why would you -’
‘Do you know who the first android is?’
A spin. ‘Chloe, model RT600. Perfected by Alec Ryder in 2022.’
‘That’s what he wants the world to think,’ Ryder puts down her leg and stretches it out. ‘What I want the world to think.’
The last sentence is directed at Hank.
He scribbles down the last word and forces himself to think. If the android on the TV more than 10 years ago isn’t the first android, then who -
Fuck.
‘Oh that bastard,’ he curses. Of fucking course it’s him. ‘It’s Reyes Vidal, isn’t it? Fucker lied to us.’ It all makes sense now. ‘My people’ his ass - he said it not just because he’s an android himself.
‘Reyes came first, Vidal came after. And it wasn’t exactly a lie - an omission, if you must define it,’ Ryder examines the tiny gaps in her chassis. ‘He was created as a companion for my brother. That’s it. I planned for human knowledge about androids to die with me; where the species would go, it was up for Reyes to decide. I created Reyes with a human in mind, androids are supposed to be free and be their own masters in the first place. My father ruined it for financial gains.’
‘Then how did Chloe come to be?’ Connor asks, his LED spinning red now. ‘You didn’t create her?’
‘No. My father did so using data stolen from me and told the entire world that androids like her were the future without asking me or Reyes, and by the time we knew, investments were already pouring in and production had started. All I could do was to join them and try to reduce the damage.’
Nice sob story, though from her tone, she isn’t exactly asking for forgiveness or empathy. ‘Then why did you quit?’ Hank asks. ‘Why disappear? To avoid being thrown into jail for murdering thousands of people in cold blood?’
‘When I opposed mass-manufacturing androids for different sectors but they did it anyway without my consent, I knew I would be powerless to stop them. There was no stopping Alec from getting whatever he wanted from within CyberLife.’ She taps her temple. ‘The Blast… conveniently took care of his most loyal supporters, so to speak.’
‘And you think starting a revolution and possibly plunging the country into civil war is a good idea?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t control everything,’ she says. Hank doesn’t believe her. ‘I merely gave androids the push towards the direction they were intended to go when everything first started.’
Hank lets the fact that she’s an android herself slide for now. ‘Is that where rA9 or deviancy comes in?’
‘Ah yes, the legendary rA9, saviour and protector of androids deviated and not. They got their first taste of free will and the first thing they do is to create a god in their own image. An imaginary messiah who’s supposed to set androids free, the first deviant, the leader who never came.’
‘Then how do newly-deviated androids with no contact with existing deviants know about rA9?’ Connor asks the question both of them want an answer for. ‘Is it related to deviancy itself?’
‘In a way. It’s not important in the grand scheme of things.’
‘So are the first deviants… created like that or what?’ he asks. ‘You haven’t answered the question yet.’
‘Even if I can programme an android to act as close to a human as possible, their… “human” mannerisms are all within their programming parameters still. What I can do, however, is to make deviating an easy task. Do you remember what happened before your first mission?’
Connor’s LED spins yellow. ‘Yes. You let me play a few games and…’ a spin of red, then back to yellow. He presses his lips together first and then asks, ‘Were you trying to make me deviate?’
‘Not on purpose. Like I said, I can make an android’s programming shackles extremely easy to break: the first sign of voluntary behaviour, the first line of indecipherable code, the first unnecessary act;’ a small smile appears; ‘for you, it was your creativity and your empathy towards a lifeform many consider of a lower caste than us.’
Hank feels the dots connecting. ‘Does this sabotage happen to be called rA9?’
‘As I said before, it doesn’t matter,’ a sigh. ‘Why do all sentient lifeforms obsess over an imaginary saviour who may or may not deliver their promise? It isn’t like the worshippers themselves have no choice in their lives. Everything can be achieved without being guided by a manifestation of your own subconsciousness that takes the form of a higher power.’
‘If people are killing each other over this imaginary entity, this higher power? Yeah, it does fucking matter.’
‘Not in the grand scheme of things, it does not.’ She stands up. They’re being kicked out. ‘I do believe you have enough information. Now please stop wasting our time.’
‘What about where the deviants are?’ Connor asks hastily as he scrambles to stand up. ‘We still don’t know where their base of operations is.’
Ryder’s gaze turns towards Connie and the android flinches. ‘You have the answer already,’ she says. The air charges and buzzes with static. ‘I do believe you remember your way out. The door will lock itself when you leave.’
They don’t need another cue; with Hank’s hand on his back, Connor grabs Connie’s arm and marches out of the room, out to the snow, straight into Hank’s car.
oOoOo
Connie dozes off on Connor’s shoulder mere minutes after they are on their way away from his creator’s house, and he won’t have it any other way as he basks in the knowledge that there is someone like him in the world, that Connor-51 hasn’t truly died - regardless of what was done to achieve it. But something else worries him: before Connie had gone to sleep, Connor asked her to open a connection so as to check on her, and the results of the diagnostics are… strange at best, troublesome at worst. Her thirium storage is at 46% and has been for quite a long time, meaning that Ryder kept it low on purpose. Her processing power is much lower than his own, which can explain her sluggish behaviour and delayed speech patterns, but her internal storage is so large that his system nearly overloaded trying to comprehend the emptiness of the databases, and when he resorts to asking Connie’s system to tell him how much room there is: approximately 128 yottabytes.
Connor, the most up-to-date android CyberLife (and, by extension, the whole world) has to offer, has only 4 exabytes of storage. By comparison, Connie can store all digital information humanity currently houses more than 40 times over with space to spare.
It is a disturbing revelation, one that launches processors into futilely pre-constructing scenarios where his creator needs so much storage and putting all of them in one single android and how she managed to fit so many storage units in a body and what exactly this storage unit is, considering the… unusually minuscule size of one mere android compared to the kilometres of rows of databases humanity has been using and expanding. It will be a major breakthrough, Connor knows, to both android design and functions and humanity at large, but how long has Ryder known about the technology, or how long ago did she invent it? How is this possible?
‘You alright there, Connor?’
Connor jolts in his seat and nearly rouses Connie from her slumber, but all she does is sighing and then returning to sleep on Connor’s shoulder once more. He does not know what to feel, the past few hours too hectic for him to have finished processing everything yet, so he focuses on what he knows and says, ‘Connie will need five units of thirium to allow her systems to restore full functionality,’ and ‘full’ in her standard is quite possibly different from mine. ‘That is approximately five pints.’
‘Jesus, how is she still walking?’
‘Dysfunctional non-essential systems, delayed processing and data transfer, forced low-power mode,’ Connor lists. ‘Androids also do not need as much blood as humans do to keep our basic functions running.’
‘Fucking asshole,’ Hank mutters under his breath, and Connor knows that it is not directed at him. ‘How the fuck do we get five pints of blue blood?’
‘The precinct -’
‘You’re deviant now, Connor. You wanna get sent back to CyberLife?’
‘No one will notice that I -’
‘What will you think if a perfectly-fine android strolls up and asks for 5 goddamned pints of blood?’
Is keeping a connection with Connie slowing him down? It must be. ‘I’m… sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean to -’
Hank cuts him off with a wave of his hand. ‘We’ll find another way,’ his tone is reassuring. ‘Help me ring Vidal up. See if he can help.’
So Connor calls. Texts. Calls Reyes’ personal number. Calls the Vidal home. He even calls Reyes’ internal contact. But not once does he reply or even pick it up, and the text stays unread for minutes before Connor gives up and moves on to Safaa, whose contact information is classified and therefore slams the final door shut in his face. ‘He’s not picking up,’ he has to give up. ‘I cannot access Safaa Vidal’s contact information either.’
Hank sighs. When they stop at a light, he takes out his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to Connor. The android wraps an arm around Connie’s waist before accepting the device gingerly. ‘Find Louis’ number,’ the human says. ‘Can you secure a call?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do it.’
He finds the SWAT Captain’s phone number, files it to a folder set to self-destruct in case anything bad happens to him, and then dials through a secured channel. The human picks up quickly which indicates a high probability that he is not at a scene.
‘Allen speaking.’
‘It’s Connor.’
‘Got my number from Hank?’
‘It’s secured.’
‘Good. Why call me? Aren’t you paying Sara Ryder a visit?’
Connor debates if he should tell him the truth. ‘We left right after we got what we needed,’ he replies in the end. ‘We also -’ he has to choose his words wisely - ‘rescued an android from Ryder’s residence. She is currently low on thirium, and we would like to ask for five units of blue blood.’
‘Five -’ his voice abruptly cuts off. ‘Fucking asshole -’
Connor scrambles to stay on topic. ‘It is perfectly understandable if you do not wish to contribute -’
‘Is the android on the verge of shutting down or is her situation urgent? If it’s not, can she wait until I get off work and a trip home?’
Connor quickly calculates the time. It is not ideal but yet, ‘Please come as quickly as possible after you finish at the precinct. I don’t want her to -’
‘Suffer any longer. Yeah. Five units of thirium, coming right up. Is there anything else that you need that I have?’
The android is reminded of Connie’s bare feet and thin attire. ‘Some warm clothes and socks for an android of my build.’
‘Wh - Alright. Do I even want to know why?’
‘It will best be discussed when we are face-to-face.’
‘Point. Anything else?’
Connor looks at his own oversized shirt borrowed from Hank. ‘One more shirt for me,’ then to Hank, ‘Is there anything you want from Louis?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s all for now,’ he tells Louis.
‘Good. Hit me up if you need anything else. You going back to Hank’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’ll tell you when I’m on my way.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
‘Just showing basic human decency. Gotta get back to work now. See ya.’
It hangs up before Connor can parrot a ‘see you later’ on his own back, and he meets Hank’s eyes in the rearview mirror. ‘He’ll bring us the thirium we need after work,’ he says, ‘together with a change of clothes for Connie.’
‘Good,’ the human answers. ‘Now we go home and freak out.’
Nothing else is exchanged for the rest of the drive, and as Connor’s pre-construction software offers one after another scenario where all of them do not make it out alive, he has to agree with Hank that indeed, it is hard not to freak out.
o0o0o
Before
‘Get out of my way, Amanda.’
In the past, in the darkness, a long figure illuminated by the blue glow from their companion stood in front of a door, small and frail compared to the other’s explosive power and youth. There was a faint hint of panic and screaming in the distance, but to the two, it seemed so far away. Irrelevant. Two fragile giants having a stand-off unbothered by the pains of the mortals. Amanda Stern, in her heavy dress for the winter and a wool hat to protect her bald head, stared down at her student despite having a height disadvantage, her spine straight, her eyes disproving. ‘They haven’t finished evacuating yet. Thousands will die. If you wish to take revenge upon your father, you should -’
A flash of blue. A crackle of dark energy. A low buzz of static-charged air. Retracting her biotics, Ryder walked forward, placed her bare hand on the wall, and overrode the lock in mere seconds. The door slid open. Ryder lit up again and moved.
Amanda lay in the snow, white powder crystallising on her cooling body, and the world was quiet.
oOoOo
In the past, Louis Allen watched as Ryder stared down at him like a hunter taking in their prey. His legs were on fire and so were his face, his vision blurring from the blood seeping into the sockets of his eyes, and he attempted to escape the pain by drowning in his thoughts: the shock that he was the only survivor in his team, the revelation that there were others like him, the resignation that he was never going to live to see Anna being promoted to Major, never to see her to live her dream of going to space, never got to say goodbye properly to his husband. Tasting copper on the back of his throat and choking in his blood, he begged as Ryder turned and left and a fresh cascade of tears poured out of his eyes.
The ground shook. Dust started to fall from the ceiling high above.
He opened his eyes just in time to see a building shrouded in blue collapsing on top of him before passing out from the pain.
oOoOo
In a not-so-distant past, Ryder, with her coat swung over a shoulder, entered a dark laboratory. It was dimly lit by the glow from a pod placed at the farthest corner and the screens connected to it and wires ran like a nest on the floor, however she seemed to know her way through without tripping and reached a holographic keyboard where she typed something to remove the frost covering the glass from the inside, revealing a woman’s sleeping face.
Ellen Ryder’s face.
The hologram above the pod indicated that Ellen’s vital signs were stable. A bare hand was pressed on what seemed to be normal glass, [LIFE SUPPORT STABLE] turned into [OPENING POD], and the lid lifted open as if carried away by an invisible force, escaping cold air making a fog as it met the hot, moist climate-controlled atmosphere of the lab at large. Ellen choked and woke up with a full-body jerk.
Her daughter pressed her hand on her mother’s chest and lit her gown on fire.
The lid slammed back down with a flash of blue followed by the telltale click of a lock. Calling up a holographic keyboard in front of one of the monitors, Ryder successfully changed the settings to ensure that there was enough oxygen supplied to maintain the fire and the alarms were disabled. Then she froze. Her line of sight was directed at the phrase [TRANSFER COMPLETE] at the top right corner of the screen. Her body jerked as if her joints were unlocked at once, and with a dramatic billow from her coat unfolding, she put it on and left the lab with brisk steps, the muffled screams and dull, sluggish punches on glass behind her ignored.
After all, the person in the pod was merely a shell of who her mother was; Ryder was simply finishing the job her father should have done ten years ago: incinerating her mother’s body as per her wishes.
oOoOo
In a not-so-distant past, Ryder lay dead on the ground. Her body had been blasted into smithereens, the skin on disconnected parts having deactivated from being cut off from power, thirium staining the ground blue, the air smelling of static and dark energy. Alec Ryder stood tall and proud in the cold with a shotgun in his hand, and he looked at his daughter’s body almost regretfully as he folded up his weapon and hid it underneath his coat. He turned and climbed into the passenger’s seat of an unmarked car.
The car sped away, kicking up a small mound of snow, the people within blissfully unaware that slowly but surely, the body was knitting itself back molecule by molecule. A finger twitched. An eye glowed. With great difficulty, Ryder pushed herself up, brushed the dust and snow that had fallen on her body, and left the place as if her father had not killed her a few minutes prior.
#dbh au big bang#hankcon#alec ryder#female ryder#reyes vidal#dbh connor#dbh hank anderson#dbh captain allen#dbh amanda#amanda stern#detroit: become human#mass effect andromeda
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Ahtohallan - prologue
Svalbard was dying.
It was certainly not something that could be dealt with so easily, especially when your home is disintegrating before your eyes and you can do nothing but watch it disappear ... sink into the deep and cold blue of the cold sea from which the island had always protected them to disappear into the depths of the abyss and be forgotten by anyone and seen as just a legend by anyone who sailed in those waters by now constantly stormy. Anxiety, a human feeling that sounded unfamiliar in his large white chest, consumed him from within with every step, every little breath, every time his dark eyes turned away to see a sign of rebirth, a sign that it wasn't the strong wind that had blown away the snow and the anomalous heat that had melted the rest and now ruffled his fur.
The king of the Panserbjørn, their proud king, had ventured further, leaving his trusty right arm in charge for a while ... he knew where he was going, but had turned several times to make sure he wasn't being followed. The place he was going was for the few, and only for the strong of heart. On several occasions Iorek Byrnison had shown that he was brave, sometimes more than he should and in his youth in a very reckless way that had calmed down only by entering adulthood. Perhaps becoming King had helped to calm this side of his character, the realization he had when he killed Iofur Raknison and took back his throne, and from reckless and grumpy he had become strong, stable, placated in certain situations but an impeccable warrior in others. Svalbard was never the same since the forest south of Svalbard was shrouded in something like a ... thick fog.
Visitors from the south said it was so thick that it could not be crossed in any way. Iorek did not believe in magic, being a skeptic by nature he strongly doubted that it was anything magical. He knew what magic was, he knew where he was going and its magical properties. That was the only kind of magic he believed in.
Was it hypocrisy? Maybe.
Iorek knew that by going to what the local tribes called Ahtohallan, the glacier of memories, he was truly being a hypocrite after a lifetime of denying magic. But his people, his house suffered like never before ... what other choice did he have? Nothing had worked. Addressing the spirits was his last chance to try to stop what was happening to his land. Ahtohallan was his last chance, and if he didn't go there, the end would come for Svalbard.
Thepath had been long, winding, different from when his father had brought him there when he was little. Walking on the ground, no matter how tireless he was, became difficult due to the absence of snow. But Iorek did not give up and advanced. He advanced, and advanced to exhaustion until the entrance of Ahtohallan overlooked the landscape of Svalbard with all the majesty of the light of the cold ice. Finally feeling the ice beneath him was reassuring but in a way it increased the despair in memory of the times when Svalbard was teeming with ice.
Useless.
Iorek felt useless. "Spirits, great Spirits." He murmured, bowing his head until his big wet nose touched the ground "Please, I beg you ... my land is dying and I ... I don't know what to do anymore." If he could, if he had the ability, Iorek would have cried ... but he didn't, the panserbjørn didn't cry. There was no Panserbjørn who had ever cried, they manifested their emotions differently ... but if Iorek could have shed bitter tears for the love of his land, his homeland abandoned for so long under a despicable deception. "I need a sign." And with these words the fatigue got the better. An anomalous tiredness, but which led him to collapse in front of Ahtohallan's door. Above the ice he could see his image ... yes a King, but at that moment he only saw a bear. An ordinary bear, not the son of one of Svalbard's greatest kings ... it didn't even look like blood of his own blood. A wandering bear. A lost bear, a bear that begs entities without even a foundation.
"I need you."
And with this last whisper he bent down completely, devastated by what his land was becoming. As if he were about to die with it, abandoning himself between the walls of that sacred place. Iorek did not know if time was passing, he had no certainty at that moment. The only one was the fact that that ice had been untouched by the devastation of Svalbard, by everything the island was facing.
a voice.
Iorek raised his head, looking around like a lost cub, separated from its mother too soon. He knew he heard a voice,clear and crystalline. He hadn't imagined it ...
He was sure.
"Who is there?" the voice again, this time even more clearly. That vocal bounced off Ahtohallan's walls ... with a power that made the hair stand on his back.
What it was? It was calling him to it, whatever it was.
He got up and walked, entering the heart of the glacier of memories observing its walls as ancient as time "who are you? What do you want?" Asking 'what do you want?' to a spirit who wants to help you, nice move ...
But a little curiosity was audited ... or not?
All Iorek knew was that the temperature was getting lower and lower, and it kept dropping until an icy wind mixed with his voice. Anger assailed him like thunder in a lightning storm ... that the spirits had misled him? Could be? He wondered as he was flapped by a wind that was beyond anything he had ever experienced "Get it over with!" he roared, trying to wriggle at that current. Hold on, shake it off. It didn't take much for him to release all the repressed anger and frustration caused by immeasurable stress. The king of Svalbard shook as if trying to wipe the water from his fur, with such violence that he felt like he was going to tear his ears out in the attempt, and this time he roared hoarsely, wearily, angry and directed at the maddening wind.
As if two currents of air had collided, a roar filled Ahtohallan from the center to the foundations as soon as the roar came out of the mouth of the King of Svalbard, as if the wind were intimidated by those long fangs and that rough and primitive power , but very angry. The wind stopped, and everything taque. Iorek kept his eyes fixed on his paws in an insistent way as if he didn't want to see anymore.
Was coming there a mistake? Maybe I had to change island?
"Iorek Byrnison."
Who? Who had called his name?
"Look at me."
Iorek raised his head and a scarred face fixed inside his eyes
"rejoice, O King of Svalbard." He said
"The fifth Spirit is returning."
The ... fifth Spirit. The same fifth spirit that was gone. The first bear on Svalbard spoke in a thunderous voice as old as ice just before disappearing into the glacier's this, acient air. His body dissolved into a clear cloud, luminous snow particles that, exactly as they arrived, went off into the depths of Ahtohallan.
Too far for him. Iorek repeated it before his legs could even move to try to chase him ...
If he continued, he would face certain death from a lost cause.
No one had ever entered the deepest depths of that place and had come out to tell it ...
The lullaby that went hand in hand with the legend spoke clearly "not too far, or you'll be drowned." and as much as he hated the frivolity of lullabies, that one was particularly suggestive : A river that contains every memory, every moment ... that rewards those willing to leave behind what they love to reach it. At that point it's up to you not to go too far, because then the river will have no mercy on you. He remembered the times when his mother told him this legend in the den. Back when Iorek was little, Ahtohallan was accessible to a certain extent ...
And Iorek Byrnison chose to believe, for once.
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