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s3thwrit3sstuff · 6 months

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The gojo/m!reader fic is just *chef’s kiss* I fucking love your writing. I know you just posted part 3 and I don’t want to be greedy but can we expect a part 4? 👁️

Lawd, don’t tempt me, nonnie! I have so many headcanons and ideas that I wanted to include but they did not feel relevant to the plot. 😭 Okay - not making any promises! We’ll see how it goes because I have some other fics lined up first! ( ´Д`)y━･~~

Below is the original ending of the fic as a treat! I didn’t write it out originally because I dislike reader-insert endings with a definitive end, I like giving room for the reader to be able to create infinite scenarios with the plot provided (｀_´)ゞ

alternate ending, angst with comfort | not proofread! | wc: 1.5 k

“You gave him a run for your money, huh? I told him it was a cruel idea.”

Air does not inflate your lungs but you inhale anyway, if only to feel your chest rise and fall. He reaches his hand out, and that onyx gaze makes your vision blurry.

“S’guru...?”

Clasping at your cheeks, you try to grasp the reality before you. Nails scratching at your skin as you cast your gaze downwards to your lap. The familiar colour of deep navy blue causes more tears to fall.

“What?” Those vortex-patterned buttons shimmer under the warm lights and Suguru’s hands invade your vision as he gently circles his fingers around your wrist.

“(Y/N), it’s alright. Everything is alright now.” His voice felt like honey, just like before. He’s not decayed or pale or rotten. Suguru is wearing his uniform - like before. Before the Star Plasma incident, before his betrayal, before his death, before your resentment contorted your memory of him into a grotesque spirit.

“You gave it your all. You can rest now.”

The sight past his shoulders is bright and cloudless. The silver beams that hold the glass together meld up and up and up into the roof. The floors are glistening, with not one footprint or stain and the pops of green from the potted plants and the distant forests beyond the glass make your shoulders droop.

“...Where...”

He squeezes your wrist and stands, you have no choice but to do the same.

When you do, he wraps his arms around you. A tight, comforting, squeeze that makes your arms hang awkwardly out with twitching fingers. Your clothes spill from between his hold and you can feel the fine hairs on his cheeks.

“You had every right to hate me, (Y/N). It wasn’t your fault. I don’t hate you, I swear I don’t.”

Tears stream down your face. They feel so cooling, unlike the usual burning that follows.

“I missed you, (Y/N).”

“Suguru...”

“I missed you too. Suguru.”

“(Y/N). Where is he?”

Silence befalls the room. His eyes search and pane from every face to every molecule in the air. As terrifying a thought as it is, Satoru’s six eyes hover unseen over his shoulders. Each pupil looks this way or that way. Some have more than one, long downward-facing lashes fluttering as it darts and consumes the sights before it.

They’re hungrier now. Famished from the timeless chamber that was the Prison Realm.

They’re hungry to lay themselves on you.

Drink in your beauty once more. Drown in your presence and weep when you meet their gaze.

You are not here.

The silence is too familiar.

Satoru feels his chest tighten.

“Mr Gojo,” Yuji steps forward and Shoko purses her lips so Satoru steels his expression. Yuji will tell him you are dead, he will tell him how you perished and if Satoru is lucky (which he hasn’t felt lucky in a long time) Yuji will tell him your body was here.

But Yuji says nothing.

He extends his hand after fishing something out of his pocket and Satoru feels a familiar weight in his palm.

It’s your wedding ring.

The other half to his own that he wore.

He thought you’d melted it down. He’d never seen you wear it after that night.

Were you sentimental too?

Satoru recalls the old books your mother had that left holes in his bookshelves - tracks of their departure shredding through the dust like a stampede of hooves. The drawings that were made in crayon and pens and paint by your children, lining the hallways of home or the fridge (”like the Americans do,” you joked). There were even documents you kept, receipts, of things that held no more value.

You were full of memories just like he was.

He stared at the ring. Delicate, detailed and forlorn without its user.

“He told me he had a plan,” Yuji’s fist shake as he speaks.

“Mr (Y/N) said he’d be alright. He told me to trust him and that everything would be okay. He just told me to get as many comrades out of the area so I did. He - He slipped the ring in my pocket and I didn’t notice.”

You’d been revealed by Sukuna, grasped by the back of your head like a toy. You were decorated like one. Those heavy, patterned, robes and styled hair and painted face. Even with pain contorting your expression you looked as pretty as a doll.

“Lovely sight, isn’t it, my concubine?” Sukuna croons. “You’ve made such an array of allies in my absence. Uruame tells me you’ve even mauled your father, how terrifying.”

Uruame, that bastard. The girl - no. The person that’d been bowing and showing you that horrid swirl pattern on their head - they’d been keeping an eye on you. Ever since you were a child, they’d kept track. To prepare you for Sukuna? Or just to make sure their master's return was celebrated with a feast to please his every desire?

His grip tightens and your yell makes Yuji’s anger simmer under his skin.

‘ I’ll leave the rest to you. ‘ Nanami had told him.

“Sukuna,” he growls out.

The King of Curses, with those lovely eyes Yuji cherished so dearly, smiled like a mad man.

“Oi, brat. Shall I show you how deeper into despair I can take you?”

“Sukuna told Mr (Y/N) to kill us or he’d do it himself. Neither of us expected him to,” Yuji trails off, his nails digging crescent moon shapes into his palms. It’s Yuta who finishes the sentence for him;

“He used Divine Flame to its greatest height. As a way to stop Sukuna from chasing after us and as a way to weaken him.”

“...He had sacrificed himself, is that what you’re saying?” Satoru watches Yuta nod and as Yuji sullenly does the same, Choso comes to his side.

“His flames are still burning. They’re fading but, he did weaken Sukuna considerably,” Shoko says. Satoru knows she’s just taking her time to tell him there is no corpse to be buried. You were gone in the wind and once the remnants of your cursed energy faded there’d be nothing left of you but memories and things; they’d collect dust and grief but none would satisfy Satoru.

He doesn’t mind the way they look at him as he unclasps the silver necklace around his neck to slip your ring. It joins Suguru’s button and he finds himself unable to curse the Gods.

Instead, Satoru closes his eyes to pray.

‘ Watch over me, ‘ he pleads.

It lasts no more than a second. His eyes open but they find themselves searching for hair that shines like vinyl and (E/C) coloured eyes that make heaven weep despite what he’s learned.

The best thing he can hope to do now is free Megumi and Tsumiki of their ailments. Then, then...he’ll bury them.

He’ll bury his family.

“Nanami. Is there a body?”

The furrowing of Yuji’s brows make Satoru’s cheek twitch.

“We’ll bury their things then. Side by side.”

There’s a familiar presence next to him. His scent wafted up Satoru’s nose in a way that made his eyes water. He knows him by the way he breathes, the way he walks, the sound of his hair being tied into a bun.

Suguru is beside him.

He doesn’t know how it’s possible that they’re together once again but a quick glance around and he’s quick to figure it out.

Ah.

He wanted to win so badly.

They talk. They talk like nothing has happened. As if the years were mere footnotes in their story like friends reuniting again after some distance.

Behind him, Yū and Kento are sat. They tease and jest. He yells at Principal Yaga about dying with regret, he sees Riko and Misato talking to each other in their own corner of rhe world.

Kento huffs, Kento smiles.

“If you stop flitting your eyes so wildly you’ll find him, Gojo.” Suguru and Yū chuckle at Satoru’s expression. Kento twists his upper half and points to the windows.

“That woman...” Satoru’s eyes widen.

It’s unmistakably your mother. Her hair, her skin, her posture - youthful and healthy. He sees tiny hands clutching to her shoulder, a head of (H/C) peeking from over it and then your eyes blinking sheepishly up at her.

You’re in your mother's arms, a boy once again as she cradles you close to her.

When your eyes meet him, he sees the bashful way they avert themselves and your mother chuckles as she smooths out your hair. Kento hums and Yū tells him to stand, so Kento does.

Your mother’s smile is as warm as it's always been. Puts the damn sun to shame, really. She presses a kiss to your head then sets you down and with inward facing steps, you walk towards Kento.

With each step, you grow and grow and Satoru thinks of how nice it was that you’re spending your youth with Kento for an eternity now.

Because as you stand in front of Kento in your school uniform, with the bright smile you had in those old photographs, he feels his heart soar. The rings clink softly against each other as he leans back and wraps an arm around Suguru’s shoulder.

Your arms wrap around Kento’s neck and he wraps them around your waist.

“I hope you did not wait long, Ken.” He squeezes you tightly and sighs, “I would wait an eternity for you, my love.”

#s3thwrit3sstuff #s3thwrit3s asks #reader insert #male reader insert #male reader #male!reader #gay reader #nanami kento x male reader #gojo satoru x male reader #satosugu

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ecoamerica · 1 month

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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snootlestheangel · 7 months

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Hear Me Out

Guys, just, hear me out: YouTubers/Streamers AU for COD. There was a series of posts on @cod-dump 's blog about what games are banned for the boys and I've just been thinking about this but with Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Alex where one of them is the actual streamer/gamer dude and the others just almost always play with him (maybe Roach if we went on the path that he's not actually mute, just kinda hates talking)

Retired or discharged for whatever reasons, the 141 are actually kinda happy to be living semi-normal lives. Maybe they're not all entirely civilian now, maybe Price has a position that doesn't require him to be on the field but he's still teaching/being a Captain.

But he's constantly telling the boys to find things to do to keep themselves happy. Especially Gaz and Soap, cause the military is kind of all they know, they've never had to be civilians really as adults.

Ghost is transitioning fine, and he's been a huge help for Soap, but Gaz is still kinda struggling. Eventually something happens and Alex is part of his life, but it's still not really what Gaz needs to feel "normal".

So Soap and Alex convince Gaz to start streaming/recording videos of their gaming sessions. It's a slow start, and Gaz is getting frustrated.

Until one time they play something silly but incredibly rage-inducing. It's a trending game because it's designed to pit you against your friends but is still silly nonetheless. There's one clip in particular that starts trending and becomes the reason Gaz's channel starts to take off.

The clip? Gaz yelling at Soap for something and Soap immediately just cursing him out in straight Scots only for Alex, an American, to scream into his mic as loud as humanly possible "WHAT THE FUCK IS A KILOMETER?!?!" after having been dead silent for the last 2 minutes. Why did he scream this? Not because of Soap's Scots, but because he had secretly just won the round after having lost the entire time they'd been playing.

People eat that shit up! Suddenly everyone's like "damn there's this hella attractive dude that records gameplay with his friends and they're all really funny." Everyone falls in love with Gaz's appearance first, but then they actually hear him and his friends interact and it's just trading insults and stupid jokes, acting like there's no one watching and they're suddenly kids again.

It eventually comes out that Gaz and his friends are all veterans, and despite the air around military not being the best, there's no denying that caring for veterans is a must. People slowly start to support Gaz's channel/streams, and before he knows it, he's actually got quite the following. His whole thing is about "wanting to do something to distract himself and others from the shitty aspects of life with a few laughs and some good games"

Eventually they convince Ghost to start gaming with them. It makes Gaz's popularity grow because now there's this really deep accent in the mix that's completely clueless as to what he's doing like 90% of the time (I just have this gut feeling that '22 Ghost is so fucking awful at video games) that they refer to simply as "Ghost". Suddenly, the chaos Gaz and his friends are known for increases tenfold. Ghost is flirting with all of them, Soap is arguing with him over literal couple things that come with living together, and there's a new element of really dark humor that wasn't there before (there was dark humor, just not this dark)

They're playing The Backrooms one time. They're not even in the game yet, just in the lobby. Gaz is laughing at Alex's tag for the game "MYLEG!" which is a reference to that one fish in Spongebob always yelling "my leg!" after an incident. Gaz is laughing too hard to actually explain to his viewers that, yes, Alex is an amputee. Soap starts making fun of him, as usual, and that's when it happens.

Alex: "I'll take my leg off and hit you with it, Soap, I swear to god." Soap: "I forgot you were already missing one for a second there and got real concerned." Alex: "No, Soap, I planned on removing my other leg. The one that's still attached, yeah. Just like a lil *pop noise*, ya know?" Gaz: *wheezing so hard he almost throws up*

Then they're playing this silly monster/cryptid hunter game called "A Day Out" and there's skeletons every now and then on the map. Gaz walks up to one and just starts freaking out, saying Ghost's name over and over.

Ghost, freaked out: What?? Gaz, pointing at the skeleton: Look, it's you! *cackling* Ghost, after a concerning long pause: *quietly* Nah, I'm not gonna say that Alex: SAY IT COWARD Ghost: No, that's my brother *Gaz making the most horrified face as he tries not to laugh* *Alex and Soap are losing their shit* Gaz: NAH THAT'S NOT OKAY

That clip posts and the internet looses it. I see this being the actual first video Ghost is in, so for this to be the first thing the viewers get of him, it's safe to say he's a hit. It's also never explained that Ghost does have a deceased brother, so there's just an acceptance of Ghost's skeleton brother.

There's several times where they've all gotten together and played silly games like Mario Kart when there's a bunch of them. There's the sober one and there's the drunk one, where there's so many different languages being hurled as curses at each other, Gaz gives up on captioning ANY of it.

OOOOooooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!! WHAT IF! Roach becomes his editor once he gets popular enough so he can spend more time playing games, solo ones when the others are working.

For a while, everyone's going crazy wanting to see what the others all look like, and sometimes (cause we're assuming the world they live in now during all this is a lot better), they're joined by Rudy or Alejandro, or both in one rare instance. Sometimes, for old times's sake, during the drunk gaming sessions, they'll call Laswell only for her to scold them. There are times they'll bully Roach who always, as the editor, changes their words from the insults to compliments. Or he definitely trolls Gaz a lot with some of the editing, and it's all around just a good time. Hence why everyone wants to know what they look like.

Then it's around the holidays after about 2 and a half years of Gaz's channel being as popular as it is. He posts a single picture on his socials with a group of people and the caption: "Love seeing the boys over the holidays."

It's such a nice photo; Alex with an arm wrapped around Gaz's shoulders, Soap and Ghost on his other side with Roach between Soap and Gaz.

And the internet has once again gone crazy. Why? Cause not only are these dudes fucking hilarious, but they're hot and taken.

Except, as they all end up teasing him about, Roach is very much still single XD

I have been watching too much YouTube lately, can y'all tell?? Haha anyways back to my hole I shall crawl

#I don't know what this is #I just kinda threw something up cause the brainworms need to be released regularly #kyle gaz garrick #cod gaz #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #gaz modern warfare #gaz mw2 #gaz is a gamer #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #alex keller #call of duty alex keller #gazalex #au?#civilian au #cod incorrect quotes

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freyito · 22 hours

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Hello! How are you?

I got an idea~

Can I request Boothill with the Vidyadhara reader (male, but if you want, you can use gn) ?The reader is always calm and quiet, but gets very nervous and blushes when Boothill flirts with him or hugs him (Secretly he just loves it) . The reader's tail wags nervously. And he also has sensitive horns.

If you don't like the idea, then feel free to skip my request!! (♥´∀｀)／

✭ pairing(s): boothill x male vidyadhara reader

✧ a/n: THIS IS SO CUTE!!!!!!!!! i got it the night before my job interview i think so i owe it all to you anon for getting hired on the spot. my last fic as an unemployed man... i got this job so i could whale for boothill tho. lol.

🗒 cw: male reader, vidyadhara reader, SMALL 2.2 SPOILERS, itty bit of lore building (made the vidyadhara look a little more like the yan siblings from arknights), just fluff, not proofread

✎ wc: 1.4k

ꜱᴄᴀʟᴇꜱ & ᴍᴇᴛᴀʟ

Being a Galaxy Ranger, Boothill is well-read on the species of the universe. Sorta. Given the lack of his education, a lot of what he learned was through word of mouth or having someone explain it to him, aside from text to speech.

Aside from the Galaxy Rangers and his home world, he is the most versed on the Xianzhou, seeing as they follow Lan, as well. But that doesn’t mean he won’t treat it like it isn’t a spectacle, and the Vidyadhara have always been intriguing to him.

He’s only met a couple, namely Dan Heng, and Lady Bailu, the latter only in passing. He’s sure he’s met another somewhere, and there’s surely a Vidyadhara Ranger as well. But none of them stick out to him like you do.

He’s only visiting the Luofu, there to pick up some information about the IPC from some shady courier. He doesn’t mind this, as long as it’s honest work, and he’s been in contact with this courier for quite a while. The benefit of becoming a cyborg is that when his contacts are long life species, he has a trustworthy ally for quite a while.

The problem was, the courier had told him to get it from a cycrane in Aurum Alley. Which was all fine and dandy, normally, Boothill remembered the Alley to be rundown and quiet, dead, even. But when he’s met with a stream of people like it’s a shopping mall (which it is), he was taken aback. How was he supposed to pick up information when the Alley is so… lively? The courier reassures him that it is okay, to not act suspicious, and boy, does Boothill mess that one up.

For the first time ever, he’s fishing out a letter from the cycrane’s box, sweating with the most guilty look on his face, like a dog that had just stolen some food off the counter. He stuck out like a sore thumb, as opposed to the business owners and recipients who frequented the roost. Paired with his outworlder appearance, it’s no wonder that a couple of concerned citizens came forward, even if it was just to watch.

Now, Boothill didn’t want to be considered wanted by the Xianzhou Alliance. Not at all, his deal was with the IPC and he’d rather not have the cloud knights tailing him whenever he visited. But all thought processes stop when he spots you. Whatever price the Cloud Knights puts on his head for this info is nothing in comparison to just how stunning you look to him.

He does his best to brush this incident off as not being able to find mail, and decides a couple more days on the Loufu wouldn’t be too bad. He spends the next few days attempting to court you, as he says. Really, it’s just over pretentious flirting. You do your best to ignore it at first, you think he’s just some awe-struck outworlder, but each day that goes by, your walls crumble.

You don’t return anything really, simply give him little looks and grin and bear it. But every time he says ‘Ain’t you a pretty thing?’ whenever you simply enter his line of sight, you start to feel your cheeks heat up.

Of course, Boothill notices. And he only increases his antics. You’d be attending to your duties in the skyfaring commission and he shows up to interrupt your shift, throwing all sorts of cheesy one-liners that make your head spin. There are times where you just can’t keep up and you blush so hard you fizzle out, your mind working on auto-pilot and making you turn away on your heels.

He starts to show up on your breaks, too. With food he’d think you’d like, (which is any food he buys on the Xianzhou, essentially) and the gifts start there. It’s… thoughtful, really. When he can, he shows up to Xianzhou with something in hand from wherever he’s been. It can be a rock to the most coat you’ve seen. Which, he learns, clothes aren’t exactly the thing to buy you. Not that you would look bad in them, but he decides that Xianzhou attire really does fit you. It is then that he notices the color that extends from your claws to your bicep, and he realizes that you’re ‘pretty all over’. (His words, which don’t fail to make you red in the face.)

When he starts giving gifts, that’s when your tail starts wagging. You curse your body for betraying your want to be calm and collected, which ultimately leads to a life bound by how easy it is to fluster you. Of course, Boothill notices. He thinks it is just too cute, and good Aeons, it takes him all his strength not to cup your face and say that directly to you, to make sure you hear him. Not that he won’t say it regardless.

With all of these instances, he only becomes more insufferable. And you find yourself falling for his charms. It isn’t so bad that you have someone to eat with on your breaks, and someone who’s so eager to see you when you’re working, (even if it disrupts your work Madame Yukong seems okay with it) even if he’s a very high-profile target.

And boy, he can TELL. You’re still a flustered mess around him, anytime he calls you cute, or handsome, or pretty, any silly little pet name like ‘buttercup’ or even just ‘darlin’’, your tail is wagging furiously. You do your best to hide your sheepish smile and your blushing face, but Boothill always finds a way around it. At some point, he starts grabbing your hands and pulling them away from your face, staring into your eyes. That is the death of you.

From then-on, it seems you two are semi-official. Boothill wants so badly to ask you to be his boyfriend, but he lays back with just how shy you are. He pampers you, takes you out on all sorts of dates, from just shopping to the most romantic little tea dates, where the artificial sun sets and it feels like it’s just you two. He loves it, he revels in your reactions. Ever time your cheeks are dusted pink, to where your tail won’t stop wagging that it feels like a hazard, he’s laughing it off and making it even worse.

He grows bolder with touching, too. He starts to greet you at your work with back-hugs, whispering little compliments in your ear while your tail wags, a distinct ‘wap, wap, wap’ sounding everytime it hits the leather of his chaps. He blows kisses at you when you have to focus on your work, he holds your hand any chance he gets, he plays with your hands, too. Compliments the color of your scales, traces your palm, anything and everything that can and will make you blush more. Doesn’t matter if you two are months into this flirting, he’s got you blushing.

The day Boothill plans to ask you to be his official boyfriend, he gets overly interested in your horns. Standing outside the Skyfaring Commission, he catches you before your shift starts. The artificial sun is just rising, and the streets are empty. He stands in front of the Commission, hat off and held to his chest. It’s like a scene out of a movie, really. He starts off with your name, slowly slipping from his tongue, his twang much heavier now, reaching out to you. It feels like his eyes are sparkling– like the world is sparkling, more like. He’s akin to a…. What's the name… Knight of Beauty. You heard the trailblazer talking about them with Yukong.

Your head spins, and all you can stammer out is a ‘y-yes!’ in the middle of his speech. You can’t tell if you can’t take it anymore with how warm your body is running, or if you’re just… eager. Both feel equally embarrassing. Before he can kiss you to seal the deal, he runs a steel finger against one of your horns. A jolt of electricity runs down your body, making you yelp and whine, and in the middle of that, he kisses you, holding his hat up to shield your faces from the few people out this early. It’s a soft kiss, just as romantic as his silly display of want, and he smiles against your lips. His hand comes down, slightly carding through your hair, to cup your cheek.

You try to walk off your embarrassment as you enter the Commission, taking note to text him later about what just went down. Of course, Yukong notices, but all she gives you is a soft chuckle and a smile. Thank Lan.

DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN, REPOST ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

#⁺◟freyito #boothill x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #boothill hsr x reader #boothill x male reader #hsr x male reader #honkai star rail x male reader #boothill hsr x male reader

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 7: Sundials]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.0k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00 @bellameshipper @coffedraven

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even move.

He just stands there under the arc of the doorframe, half-shadow, half-firelight, dawn and dusk and the Rapture all rolled together into a handful of seconds that stretch on infinitely. He gapes senselessly—dead-eyed like a fish—blinking a few times as if he’s expecting to wake up. Then he spins around and sprints out of your bedchamber.

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses, and again, slamming his fist against the wooden floor: “Fuck!” He scrambles to his feet and pulls on his clothes, his long silver hair disheveled, his skin glistening with your sweat. He’s wearing the evidence of your transgression like chainmail, like rain.

“Aemond…” you begin, petrified, your knuckles pressed to your face. Is this the end of us? Is this the end of me?

He doesn’t reply. There’s nothing for him to say that could comfort you. Instead, he takes off after Aegon and vanishes through the doorway, his footsteps fading into the entrails of the palace. You untangle the bunched-up layers of your gown and stand, wobbling on bare feet as you straighten the hem, dimly aware—like peering through a fogged window—that you’re whimpering with a helpless sort of dread. You follow after Aemond, pausing every so often to listen for the echoes of his steps.

Westminster Palace is serene like still water as the sun rises over it; the Greens are collapsing after a long night of wedding festivities, the Blacks are solemnly witnessing the final days of King Viserys’ mortal illness. Aegon runs all the way through the castle and then out into the gardens, past the stables, and across the daybreak emerald field to the edge of the forest. You don’t understand what he’s doing until you and Aemond finally catch up to him, until Aegon stops just beyond the tree line and doubles over gasping with both hands on his knees. Until he allows himself to be caught.

He knew he couldn’t shout at us inside the palace, you realize. Not without everyone else hearing. Not without announcing our treason to the court, to the world.

Aemond grabs for his brother, and Aegon shoves him away with a viciousness you’ve never seen from him before, that you didn’t know he was capable of.

“It wasn’t enough for you,” Aegon seethes through bared teeth. His face is a mottled, furious red, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes. “Mother loving you more, Grandsire regarding you as more worthy, being stronger, smarter, more talented, more disciplined. You had to have everything. You had to take her too. She was the only thing that was mine.”

Aemond glances at you miserably. “She didn’t choose you.”

“Since when have I chosen anything?!” Aegon screams, his hands like claws against his own chest. “None of us got to choose what we are or who we marry, I didn’t, you didn’t. Helaena didn’t, Daeron didn’t, Mother didn’t, and I was resigned to that. I didn’t choose her and she didn’t choose me, and I’m sure if she’d ever been asked she wouldn’t have wanted to be burdened with me because who the fuck would? But she was mine.” His eyes drop to your belly, where you are still a month away from beginning to show. “Am I even the father?”

“Yes,” you and Aemond insist simultaneously.

“You’re both goddamn liars. Why would I believe you? How could you possibly know?”

“Because…we haven’t…we’ve never…” You look to Aemond for help.

“Not all the way,” he clarifies. “Only twice and never to…um…completion. My completion, I mean. She…um…well…” Now he’s accidentally said too much and doesn’t know how to reverse course.

“Jesus Christ!” Aegon exclaims, wincing, rubbing his face with his hands. “You think I’m asking for those details? You think I want to hear that?! You know, maybe I’m the honorable Targaryen son after all, because I’ve had my share of scandals but I know exactly where I spent my fucking wedding night.”

You say softly: “Aegon, you had a child with another woman while I lost four of them.”

The rage drains out of him and the childlike shame seeps in, cold drips that slowly fill a bucket. “That’s different.”

“Because you’re a man?” you scoff.

“No, because it didn’t mean anything! That was the whole point, that’s why it was something I wanted, because it was the only thing in my life that wasn’t heavy or obligatory or self-sacrificial. But this…” He points from Aemond to you and then back to his brother again. “This means a lot.”

“It does,” Aemond admits.

“So she was your escape then,” Aegon says with razored bitterness. “I had wine and whores and you had fantasies of fucking my wife, and I suppose that dulled the pain a bit, didn’t it? The pain of being the second son, the pain of forever coveting what’s been forced upon me.”

“No. Loving her is the most painful thing I’ve ever done. I don’t love her because she was given to you. I would love her anywhere and at any cost.”

You watch him in the faint dawn light, higher than clouds, horrified to the bones. He loves me. He said that he loves me. Aemond gazes back at you. He shouldn’t, but he does. He can’t help it.

Everything about Aegon sinks, vertebrae crumbling like ancient ruins, vessels and ligaments folding in on themselves under the weight of your betrayal. His words are venomous. “I’m sorry that I’m standing in the way of everyone’s happiness. It’s what I’m best at, it seems.” And he begins trudging back towards the palace.

Aemond is frantic. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“God, you really do think I’m brainless,” Aegon replies, but he sounds more defeated than vengeful. “As if I have any desire to see her burned at a stake.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Aegon throws over his shoulder. “There’s nowhere else to go. There has never been anywhere else to go.”

He leaves you and Aemond alone in the newborn incandescence of the first day of May, 1485. The moment you shared on the bearskin rug is over now. In the daylight, it is impossible to ignore how risky it is, how unjustifiable, an act of thievery that can only end in heartbreak that swallows up lives far beyond the epicenter. Still, Aemond looks to you, waiting for you to decide what happens next.

After a while—long, burdened minutes punctuated only by birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the wind—you return to your rooms. Aemond retreats to his own. Princess Kunigunde, presumably, waits in vain for him to reappear in her bedchamber, the blankets pulled up to her chin and her clever, immaculate forehead lined with worry. Four people, none of whom should be alone right now, locked away in their own rooms with their own ghosts.

You try to sleep, but you don’t; you just lie there staring up at the canopy of your bed, green roses and gold dragons, shivering despite the warmth of the fireplace, fears clattering in your skull like pieces of porcelain or glass. At last one of your ladies arrives and yanks back the curtains, filling your eyes with daffodil-yellow mid-afternoon sun.

“Good morning, princess!” she says cheerfully, even though it’s long past noon. Throughout the palace the Greens and their supporters are unraveling from slumber and still in good spirits after the dancing and feasting…well, most of them, anyway. “You’ll need to dress straight away. The Duke of Hightower has summoned you.”

You jolt upright. “What? Why? What did he say?”

She offers you a puzzled glance before going to the closet to fetch an emerald-colored gown. “It’s time for lunch, of course. Lunch with the royal family. It’s Princess Kunigunde’s first day as Aemond’s wife. The Duke has had an authentic Austrian meal prepared.”

“Oh. Right.” You remember now; the post-wedding plans had slipped your mind. You consider the prospect of sharing a table with Kunigunde, Aemond, Aegon. “Um, actually Elizabeth, I’m not feeling very well. Nausea. The baby. I don’t think I’ll be able to attend.”

She raises an eyebrow. Your ladies have never exactly been yours. They’re agents of the Duke and the families he considers most loyal, daughters who have not yet married, chess pieces that have not been played. “He’ll be expecting you.”

“I’m sure he will, but under the circumstances…”

“Would you like me to inform the Duke that you are indisposed? I suspect you’ll soon find him here in person to express the importance of this gathering.”

You sigh heavily, swinging your feet to the cool floor. “No, perhaps not.” Of course now he wants me out of bed. Now that we all know my pregnancies weren’t doomed by physical exertion…and now that he wishes to pay every courtesy to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter. “I’ll endure it somehow.”

A table has been brought out into the gardens, and everyone else is already there. Kunigunde wears her characteristically neutral colors, not signifying anything except her own intrinsic worth; her gown is a shimmering cream with gold accents. She smiles politely, regally, as the Duke of Hightower boasts about the trappings of the table—kasespatzle, tiroler knodel, tafelspitz, powidltascherl, other mysterious dishes from her homeland, grapes, pomegranates, pitchers of wine and mead—but the princess is notably subdued. Aemond sits beside her with his hands laced together and pressed to his lips, as if in prayer. Sir Criston Cole has just located Aegon and is heaving him into his chair, eyes glazed and still bloodshot, straw from the stables in his uncombed hair. You are determined not to make eye contact with any of them as you settle into your seat as inconspicuously as possible.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Nico chirps, feeling your cheeks and the back of your neck with a lack of formality that Kunigunde seems perplexed by. Nico and Daeron are the dots of lantern light in metaphorical darkness, vines splitting through frosted earth. They are miraculously untouched by the times they find themselves living in. “You look awful! Didn’t you get any sleep at all?”

You hide your face by slurping your cup of mead. “Not much. The baby’s been making me ill.”

Aegon groans loudly, as if in pain, pushing some sort of potato-and-sausage monstrosity around his plate with a fork. The Duke shoots Aegon a repulsed sort of grimace but otherwise ignores him.

“Would you like to know what I’ve heard?” the Duke of Hightower says merrily.

“No,” Aegon mumbles.

“That the strongest children cause the worst sickness for the mother.”

Queen Alicent nods in agreement. She spends her days with her father and children rather than her dying husband. She has definitively chosen a side. “That’s true in my experience. I was horribly sick when I was pregnant with Aemond. Almost bedbound for the first five months!”

Aegon flinches and guzzles wine until it runs down his throat like blood.

“I remember,” Sir Criston Cole says, with a gentle sort of protectiveness that might strike you as odd if you weren’t already consumed by other anxieties.

“And very soon we should have another Targaryen heir on the way.” The Duke beams at Kunigunde with approval. “I understand that the wedding night proceeded without any hinderances. A spot of red on the sheets, as was required.”

She nods modestly. “Yes, Your Grace. That’s correct.”

You turn to her, startled; and you can see from the short-lived crease that appears in Aemond’s forehead that he is baffled as well. Aegon stares blankly at a thorny tangle of crimson roses. Kunigunde’s stoic face reveals nothing…but after much investigation your eyes find a shallow cut between the ring and middle fingers of her left hand. That was wise of her: a wound that can be concealed with gloves much of the time and easily explained away if glimpsed. Hands are a human’s great asset and yet profound weakness: when they go astray they get bitten, scarred, crushed, burned, carved to ribbons.

But why? Why would she lie for Aemond? A man she barely knows from a family that needs her so much more than she needs them?

And then you understand as you watch Kunigunde take dainty nibbles of her food and thank the Duke graciously for his hospitality.

Because she’s honorable, you realize. Just like Aemond is. She’s married to him, she’s been sent by her father to him, and so she’s doing exactly what a wife is supposed to. To support and safeguard her husband entirely. To protect his reputation. To purge herself of any desires, ambitions, dreams that diverge from his.

There’s a weight in your chest like an anchor. After less than twenty-four hours, she is already a better wife than you could ever hope to be. She really is the sort of woman Aemond should end up with. The kind he would have chosen for himself if he’d never met you.

Kunigunde steals troubled looks at you, questioning, wary. Aemond sips wine and forces down occasional bites of Austrian food. His hair is secured in one thick, rather untidy braid, woven in haste after little sleep. It is something that the Duke might easily mistake for a good omen; you know it’s the opposite.

Nico is chattering joyfully about her own wedding, now only three months away. Daeron smiles at her, warm and fond, every few minutes lifting her hand to touch his lips to her knuckles. “Do you think we could have Milanese food when I’m married? Minestrone and ossobuco and polenta? Panettone for dessert? It’ll be the wrong time of year for it, true, we usually only eat panettone at Christmas, but I do love it so!”

“You could wait to marry until December,” Kunigunde suggests pragmatically.

“December?!” Nico squeals, aghast. “I’m barely going to make it until August! I’d marry him right now if I could, here in the gardens with no ornate ceremony whatsoever, or in the horse stables, or in a dungeon, even! I’d marry him in a tree!”

Kunigunde is disturbed by her unabashed lack of ladylike inhibition. “Nico,” you scold, but you’re grinning. Alicent is laughing, the first time you’ve seen her truly happy in days.

Nico turns to the Duke of Hightower. “Do you think you could write to my parents and convince them to let me and Daeron marry sooner? Perhaps…by the end of May? Oh please, Your Grace, please please please?”

“Unfortunately, as much as I would welcome that, they were quite adamant that Daeron must be at least sixteen and a half before the wedding can take place.”

Nico rocks back in her chair and growls up at the sky. “I’m being tortured. I am a martyr to my parents’ well-intentioned aspirations.”

“Aren’t we all,” Aegon mutters.

“Might I have some more kasespatzle?” Kunigunde asks primly.

The bowl is resting beside Aegon. He pushes it towards Aemond with a balled fist. “Pass that to…” He pauses. He’s forgotten her name. “Uh. Your wife.”

Aemond gives the bowl to Kunigunde. She accepts it and tries to catch his gaze in the process. He peers down at the table instead. Soon he is embroiled in a whispered discussion with Daeron, who looks at him in a way that reminds you of how the Black children once regarded King Viserys: with admiration, trust, awe. You listen as closely as you can as Nico asks you about gown colors and styles, wedding frivolities. In Aemond’s war plans you detect the names of castles along England’s east coast: Norwich, Tattershall, Colchester, Framlingham, Castle Rising. Places for allied armies to meet them. Places to use as footholds against usurpers from the North. Kunigunde is staring at Aemond, and for the first time you see her mask slip, and beneath it is something horrible beyond words: desperation, fragility, despair.

You rise suddenly from the table, your chair shrieking against cobblestones. Everyone looks up at you. Nico is concerned, Aemond alarmed, Aegon sullen and loathing.

“I’m really, really not feeling well,” you say. “I apologize, but I need to go back to my rooms now. Right now.”

Nico begins: “Should I—?”

“No, no, I’ll be better after I rest a while. Please don’t let me ruin lunch for everyone else. I shall see you all tonight for dinner and dancing.” And it might kill me.

Nico frowns anxiously. “Well, okay, if you insist…”

You bolt for the palace. Aemond’s eye follows you all the way to the door. Kunigunde’s eyes stay on him, shiny with delicate longing.

You stumble through the hallways, leaning on the walls to catch your balance and your breath. Nobles pledged to the Greens stop—swarming like flies on a corpse—to ask if they can help you. You have that to thank Daemon for; he’s made you a figure of pity and blamelessness, an idol, a saint. They know nothing about who you truly are. You assure the loyalists that you’re fine and wave them off. There’s nothing they can do to help you. There’s nothing anyone can do.

You wander to the Great Hall, which is presently empty except for a few servants sweeping the floor. And in the quiet, under beams of afternoon light flooding in from the windows, you contemplate the throne. It’s vacant right now, it’s a liminal space like a doorway. The old king will soon be lowered into the earth; a new one is rising. You wonder if there’s a version of this world someplace where things turn out differently. You wonder if in another thread of time—running parallel to yours but never intertwining with it—Aegon was born somewhere else, far away, impossibly far away, and Aemond was the Greens’ heir all along, and you were the woman married to him, no one else, and you never became an adulteress and a traitor and a whore. You touch your belly, where your child is small and weak but growing.

You deserve a better world to be born into. You deserve better parents.

You’ve been standing in the Great Hall for some span of time that doesn’t matter—five minutes, ten, fifteen, twenty—when you hear the tolling of bells from the Tower of London. This is a perfectly ordinary occurrence, except that it isn’t; a new hour hasn’t arrived yet. And the bells don’t stop after a few chimes. They keep ringing, and ringing, and then it pierces you like a stone through a window. Now there are crowds rushing through the halls of the palace. Now there is clamoring, plotting, screaming.

The king is dead. But the war is just beginning.

You rush out of the Great Hall and are intercepted by hordes of cloying Green-affiliated nobles. “Your Majesty!” they cry, bowing to you and kissing your hands and feet. You give them your utmost appreciation—as is required—but your eyes scan the corridors for Aemond.

“Have you seen the prince?” you ask them. “Do you know where he is—?”

But they assume you mean your husband, because that’s who you’re supposed to be thinking of.

“Long live King Aegon II!” they chant, they shout, they will into reality with the brute force of the knowledge that his demise would mean theirs as well. “Long live the king!”

You dodge the crowds and dart through the halls, searching wildly for Aemond. Where will he go now? What does he need from me? Will I ever see him again?

At last, you spy him at the end of a long corridor covered in slanting amber-hued afternoon sunbeams; and the way he races to your side tells you that he was looking for you as well.

“Aemond, what happens now—?”

“Walk with me,” he says. It’s the same thing he told you when you miscarried at five months on Christmas night. And just like then, his arm hooks around your waist to whisk you along with him, his head bent close to yours to murmur secret things.

“My father is dead. The Blacks have already left Westminster Palace. They took their horses and are riding North to raise men to fight and die for Rhaenyra’s claim.” His face goes hard and vicious. “They tried to burn the stables down before they fled. With our horses still inside. Sir Criston and the guards stopped them.”

“Monsters,” you breathe.

“They were in Green territory here and they knew it. They scattered like cowards, like rats. But north of Nottingham, the Blacks have the advantage. They will gather their forces and return to bring fire and blood to our doorstep.”

Aemond is leading you outside towards the stables. Your feet move hurriedly in tandem together over soft spring grass. He’ll have to go to war, you know he will. Between his strategy, his swordsmanship, and Vhagar, he is the greatest asset the Greens have on the battlefield. “When must you leave?”

“Now, Ivy.”

“Now?!”

You’re in the entranceway of the stables; you hear the agitated stomps and huffs of horses who can smell the shift in the winds. “We must ready our own armies and pursue Daemon and Rhaenyra,” Aemond says. “The farther we can keep them from London, the safer you’ll be.”

Aegon—grim and with half of his short hair tied back—strides into the stables. He turns furious when he sees you. “Of course you’re saying goodbye to him. But cheer up, wife, maybe you’ll both get what you most wish for and I’ll be killed in battle.”

“Aegon, I don’t want that—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” he snaps, mere inches from your face. Aemond glares at him savagely and your husband withdraws. He goes to Sunfyre’s stall and leads him outside, where servants are working in a flurry to saddle the Greens’ horses. In the chaos and the sunshine, Daeron and Nico are enmeshed in a needful embrace, weeping and exchanging ardent promises as servants slip Tessarion’s bridle over her massive grey head. The Duke of Hightower is issuing orders in every direction.

“Aemond, what can I do?”

He coaxes Vhagar out of her stall and saddles her; she won’t tolerate anyone else doing it. She’ll kick them until their brains litter the ground like fall leaves. Will I see him again before autumn, before the baby is born? Will I ever see him again at all? “Write another letter to your brother Alonzo. It should be able to reach him before he sets sail. Tell him and his forces to meet us at Castle Rising. Nico and Kunigunde should send the same message to their own kingdoms.”

“I’ll make sure it’s done.”

“Get your sword from under the cedar tree. Keep it with you. You might need it.”

“Alright, but—”

“I have to go now,” he says, fastening Vhagar’s bridle. Then Aemond turns to you. Your left palm presses to his chest; the fingertips of your right hand graze the length of his silver braid. You breathe him in, leather and smoke and greatness, and wonder if it’s for the last time.

“Aemond…” The words snag in your throat. I can’t lose you. I can’t do this without you. I love you, I love you, I’ll never love anyone but you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, laying two fingers against your lips. “Tell me when I see you again.”

“I will,” you swear.

He leads Vhagar—colossal hooves thudding, tail swishing eagerly—out of the stables. Sir Criston Cole is waiting there. He won’t be going with them. He is pledged to Alicent’s service…and he and a small contingent of guards will be the only protection left at Westminster Palace. “Aemond, remember your training—”

Aemond seizes him, pulls him in close, nods to you. “Criston, you stay with her. She is the priority, she carries the heir. If the city falls, Mother can seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. Nico and Kunigunde can seek sanctuary, and I believe it would be honored. But Daemon will not spare Aegon’s wife and child. He will kill her if he gets the chance, but he will make her suffer first. So you stay with her.” He shakes him. “Do you understand me? You stay with her.”

Criston looks terrified. “I understand.”

“Good.” Aemond releases the knight. Alicent and Kunigunde appear, dashing out of the castle just in time to say goodbye. Alicent clings to Aemond, whispering to him, no more able to protect him now than she was years ago when his eye was cut from his skull. He replies in words you can’t decipher. When they finally break apart, Alicent’s face is wet with tears.

“Husband,” Kunigunde says stiffly.

“Wife.” You look away as he kisses her, swift and formal. Even that you cannot bear to witness.

And then they gallop away—Aegon, Daeron, Aemond, a retinue of loyalist noblemen—vanishing into the horizon where the sun is sinking towards the west, away from the Continent, away from every part of the earth that is known to you.

It’s the first week of June, and your belly has just begun to show. You don’t want to get your hopes up. You tell yourself that you’ll love it—if it’s ever born, that is, if it survives—with equal power whether it’s a son or a daughter. But you’ve begun to dream of a little boy: quick feet, a shock of white-blond hair, large blue eyes the same turbulent blue as Aegon’s. He never has a name, but he’s yours. He’s a living heir. He’s your ultimate redemption. But more than that—much, much more—he is the family you have wished for since long before you knew the name of the man who would become your husband.

You spend your days scribbling letters and sewing tunics and trousers for the Greens’ soldiers. There have been skirmishes but no full-scale battles yet. Aemond writes to you, although he is vague and impersonal; the risk of interception is far too great. You write to him about the plants that bloom, about the weather, about the books you are reading, about Midnight. Daeron sends the occasional letter to you too, and he pens ten pages at a time to Nico, who sits in the gardens reading them over and over again until her tears ruin the ink and his sentences become illegible, and then she cries even harder. But you never receive a single word from Aegon.

With Sir Criston’s instruction, you fashioned a belt and scabbard to carry your sword around in. The first time the Duke of Hightower saw it, he raised his eyebrows and then acquiesced without further comment. Perhaps now he finally sees the utility in you having some way to defend yourself should the occasion arise. You practice your sparring in the courtyard with Sir Criston, who can never quite shake his embarrassment about training with a woman, and a pregnant one at that. His swings are pitifully harmless, your skills unremarkable next to his or Aemond’s; but they’re better than nothing. They’re far more than Nico or Alicent or Kunigunde have.

When Nico spots you walking through the halls—one hand on your belly, the other on the hilt of your sword—she bursts out laughing. Sir Criston trots dutifully along beside you, as he always does. “Now you really do look like Boudicca,” Nico says.

“You must stop comparing me to a conquered queen who died by suicide. It’ll turn into a curse.”

“I’m always saying the wrong things. If I had the capacity to curse people, I think we’d know it by now.” Then she gasps, intrigued. “Do you think I could curse the Blacks? If I really, really tried? You don’t look like Boudicca at all. You look like Saint George arriving to slay the dragon, and that’s Rhaenyra and Daemon, an evil beast not fit for the rules of our world. I wish for this series of events to come to pass most zealously.”

“Nico, that sounds an awful lot like witchcraft.”

“Oh.”

“Which is punishable by death, as you know.”

“Well…perhaps you’ll be kind enough not to tell the Duke of Hightower.”

“Bad news! That’s where I’m headed right now. You’ll be in the afterlife by sunset.”

She smiles. “Where are you actually going?”

“To the chapel. It’s my turn to pray with the queen.” You, Nico, and Kunigunde alternate accompanying Alicent; she spends a good part of each day there imploring God to spare her sons on the battlefield. You don’t especially look forward to this ritual. It’s not that you don’t believe in God; but you find action a more natural path to work his will into existence.

“Queen dowager, you mean,” Nico reminds you. “She’s not the queen anymore.”

You are, according to the Greens anyway. It’s a title that doesn’t yet feel real. “Where are you going?”

“To practice my dancing,” Nico says with a wink. “I’m getting married in two months.” Nothing can convince her otherwise. Maybe she thinks it would be tempting fate to doubt it.

You walk outside into the warm, sunlit morning. Bees circle lazily among kaleidoscopic flowers; birds whistle and call to each other. Daylight chases the strip of shadow around the face of the sundials in the palace gardens. Your shoes click on the cobblestones. The hem of your gown flutters in the golden, roomy breeze. When you reach the chapel, Sir Criston lingers just outside the door to give you and Alicent privacy as you pray. Surely no harm can come to you in God’s house. You step inside—blinking, your eyes adjusting to the low multicolored light—and see Alicent in a pew near the front. It’s not until you’ve already sat down beside her that you realize it isn’t Aemond’s mother at all. It’s his wife.

A stunned little gulp pulses in your throat. You try—badly, you’re sure—to clear the dismayed shock from your face. You spend plenty of time with Kunigunde, of course, but only ever in mixed company. You are never alone with her. You don’t want to be. You’re under the impression that she feels the same way.

“Uh, good morning, princess,” you say, rather awkwardly.

Kunigunde doesn’t reply. She gazes at the wooden cross on the altar as if she’s completely unaware of your arrival. The pigments of the stained glass windows fracture across her skin: emerald, sapphire, amethyst, ruby. Her dress is a dim orange, midway between the flag of her homeland and your own. By now everyone knows she isn’t carrying Aemond’s child, but not even the Duke of Hightower can fault her too much for that. Only one night of supposed wedded bliss is hardly a fair chance to conceive.

You stand, making your escape. “Well, I’ll leave you to your prayers—”

“Does it bother you?” Kunigunde asks, her voice perfectly level. “Does it ever strike you as ironic?”

“What do you mean?” you reply; but the dread is already swelling in your gut like an infection.

“Begging God to save another woman’s husband. The one you’re in love with.”

You glance at the chapel door, willing Alicent to appear, willing Sir Criston to interrupt. You truly have nothing to say in your own defense. You know it’s indefensible; that’s what makes it such an excruciating fucking burden.

“And he loves you too,” Kunigunde says. Her face, harrowingly exquisite and hollow and hateful, turns to you. “I’ve scavenged through every corner of his rooms since he’s been gone. He hung your tapestry on his wall. He struck up a correspondence with your brother and purchased Midnight for you. And the poems. The poems. Hundreds of them, in drawers, in trunks, under his mattress, everywhere. And they’re all about you.”

You look to the door again, desperate. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“They’re dated,” she hisses, like she’s stabbing a blade through the gristle between your ribs. “I’m not stupid. They begin the same month you married Aegon. Almost two years ago. And they’re all about you. So clearly about you. Your hair, your eyes, your voice, your wit, your tenacity, your sorrow, your body, how goddamn badly he wants you.”

What can I say? What the hell is there for me to say? You touch your ivy leaf necklace self-consciously. You wear it every day without fail. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

“I tried to destroy them. To feed them to the fire. But they were too beautiful to burn.” Her hand skims across her cheek, and only now do you realize she’s weeping. “I did not choose my marriage any more than you chose yours. But I have a responsibility to make it successful, to bear its fruit. I have no intention of returning to my homeland a disgrace. My father and brother would blame me. Aemond’s honor is legendary.” She squeezes her eyes shut, flinching. And then the stoic lines of her face collapse and tears pour down her face unimpeded. “Oh God. What am I supposed to do with a husband who won’t lie with me? Who won’t give me a son?”

“But you are determined to stay the course? To protect Aemond?” And his horrible, traitorous secret?

“Yes.”

“Princess…can I ask you something?”

“I suppose. I don’t see what good performative decency can do us now.”

“Why? Why are you still loyal to him?”

She collects herself somewhat. “Men show courage on the battlefield. Women show it in bed. We endure the unimaginable there. Conquest, childbirth, abandonment.”

You stare at her, a little fascinated, a little appalled. “Then I won’t interfere.”

“He’s not mine if you have to give him to me.”

“I’m not capable of giving him to you. I don’t own him. Nobody does.”

Before she can reply, Sir Criston erupts through the chapel door. “Princess!” he shouts, signaling for you to follow him. He’s not so good at remembering that you’re technically the queen now either. “Back to the palace! Now, right now!”

“What? Why?”

“Now!” Criston commands, and half-drags you there, Kunigunde flying on his heels.

Westminster Palace is crawling with bawling women and frantic men. Servants sprint to cower behind curtains and inside closets without any thought for their duties. Your ladies are quaking, hysterical. Nico comes barreling out of a hallway. “What’s going on—?”

“Daemon,” Sir Criston says breathlessly. “He’s here.”

You whirl to him. “What?” And then you hear the commotion just outside the palace walls: the clanging of blades, rallying cries, horse hooves, shrieks.

You run into the Great Hall, Sir Criston, Nico, and Kunigunde close behind you. Alicent and the Duke of Hightower are both there, squeezing together to peer down on the castle entranceway through a window.

“Oh God,” Alicent moans. “Oh God, God help us…”

You look through the glass, murky with Alicent’s handprints. Below you see Daemon leading a small group of soldiers, only ten to fifteen men.

Small enough to slip by the Greens’ armies unnoticed. Small enough that Aemond doesn’t know.

Daemon is on Caraxes and in full armor, terrifying, already wearing blood on his face. His head falls back and he gazes up at you. His eyes find yours through the glass and he grins like a wolf baring its teeth. Jace and Luke are among the soldiers with him. And—you observe with no surprise at all—so is Baela.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sir Criston says. “He can’t take the city with numbers like that. Our guards alone will be a challenge for him. Word will travel and within hours reinforcements will arrive from the nearest encampments. The Southern nobles will rush to our aid. He has nothing to gain from this, he’ll be forced out of London within a day.”

“Oh, Jesus,” the Duke of Hightower exhales in sudden understanding.

“What, Father?” Alicent says, clutching his arm.

“What?” Nico echoes urgently.

“He’s not coming to take the city.” The Duke of Hightower turns towards you, horror rising in his pale eyes like the dead at the Rapture. “He’s coming to take Aegon’s wife.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader

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lazybutsmexy · 1 year

Text

Bird hunting

Ghost x fem!reader x Soap

Chapter 11: Canary

Ch. 10 < Series Masterlist > Ch. 12

Warning: character death, graphic description of injuries, cursing.

Summary: A reunion and an apology.

Do not read this work if you're ander 18. This work contains mature and triggering themes.

Word count: 2300~

The sound of the running water has always been comforting to Canary. It never failed to lull her into a sense of relaxation. Granted, the low adrenaline and the blood loss were also aiding her weakened state. At any other point, she would’ve felt anxious, but there was nothing she could really do at this point. She had already tried to get up, and barely managed to make herself dizzier. Her body kept shivering due to the cold, and she guessed she was about to break into a fever anytime now.

However, she knew now that Ghost was close, and Soap was likely with him. They must have found out where she was, and it would be only a matter of time until they realized she was in the forest. She knew they wouldn’t leave without her. No one fights alone. No one is left behind. She only needed to keep herself awake and press down on her wound until they found her.

She reminisced of a childhood with her grandparents, cooling off during the summer by jumping in the pond, and weekend trips to the river to go fishing. One time, her grandmother had taken her hiking in the mountains in search of blueberries, and they ran into a stream - just like this one. But as they looked towards the other shore, they saw a fox mom and two kits. The mom was drinking water from the stream and the kits were bouncing around, squeaking like fluffy, jumpy toys.

There was a rustle of leaves coming from the opposite shore, and Canary snapped back into the present. She combed the shore with her eyes, hoping to see the familiar skull mask or a mohawk, but instead she saw a figure getting closer to the shore, a bit wobbly and heaving for air.

When Alan finally made it into the clear, her blood froze in her veins. How was he even alive? She was almost certain she had stabbed him in the chest, but in her enraged and adrenaline-fueled frenzy, she may have missed his heart just so. She cursed herself for not further checking if he was truly dead before running from the cabin, though she had to concede that she was not in the same mental state as she usually was in the battlefield. It was not the time to try and analyze her actions, though.

She silently watched him from behind the bushes, as he drawed his eyes carefully along the shore, until he stopped right at the place she had crossed. She followed his gaze and cursed, her heart drumming wildly against her ribcage - he found her footprints in the mud.

Alan approached the trace slowly, his left arm hung limp by his side, covered in blood from the shoulder, and in his right hand he held the gun. He stopped and studied the mud, following with his gaze an imaginary trace to the other side of the stream. Canary held her breath as she saw his eyes light up and he found the continuation of the footprints on her side of the shore.

Although she wasn’t wearing any camo, her running clothes were dark enough to be hidden in the shadows of the forest. If she stayed still, he might look past her. It was no more than wishful thinking though, as Alan raised his right arm, and shakily aimed in her general direction. His crazed, bloodshot eyes were wide open, and his face vaguely resembled one of those japanese demon masks that Oni had given her as a gift and now hung on her living room wall, only much paler from his own blood loss.

She waited for him to shoot at any random direction - maybe even her head -, but instead he stepped into the stream. His steps were slow, almost robotic, and Canary had to remind herself to breathe as every step brought him closer to her. Suddenly, a distant call reached her ears:

“Canary!”

Soap’s voice traveled through the forest and into her ears, washing over her entire body like a cool shower on a hot summer day. Canary opened her mouth to call back, but shut it quickly and bit her lip - if she made the littlest noise, Alan would find her, and he was already here unlike Soap. She began brainstorming for a way to get their attention, her thoughts growing frenzy and more muddled the further Alan got into the water. As he was about to reach the middle of the current, he stopped, a demonic smirk spreading through his lips like poison ivy.

“There you are,” he sneered, and fired the gun.

~~~~~~~

“...So, why do they call you Canary?” Gaz inquired as the post-mission lull fell upon the team as they waited in a safehouse for extraction.

Canary blinked and let a small, playful grin stretch her lips. “Well…”

~~~~~~

As the bullet whistled past her, narrowly missing her shoulder, she braced herself closer to the large tree beside her to use it as a shield.

There was no point in hiding now, she thought with a grimace, they must’ve heard the gunshot.

She gulped down what little saliva she could muster and thought of how to let them know she was still there, waiting for them. She remembered how her voice failed her when she tried to call for Ghost earlier, and decided that it wouldn’t be much different now.

Instead, she wet her lips and took a deep breath, filling her lungs until it hurt to do so and her sight grew hazy from the pain, and let it out in a clear, high-pitched whistle.

~~~~~~

“Canary!” Soap called again, his eyes searching into the forage for any sign of movement. Both him and Ghost knew that, if Canary was being chased by the other man, she probably wouldn’t give away her position, but it would assure her that they were there, about to find her. He looked to his three, finding Ghost sweeping the greenery through the scope. Gaz was on his nine, while Price had chosen to search through the road just in case.

Just as he opened his mouth to call for Canary again, they heard the gunshot. No words needed to be exchanged, as they rushed in its direction. Cold sweat ran down Soap’s back as the thin branches hit his face in his race towards the gunshot.

They were so close, so close. It couldn’t, it wouldn’t end like this when they were this close to Canary.

Abruptly, as bright as the first star in the evening skies, a clear whistle rang through the forest, and both Soap and Ghost knew exactly who it belonged to. Their hearts filled with euphoria as they cleared the distance to the stream, and they saw from the distance a man standing in the middle of the water, his gun pointed to the other side as he shot it once more.

~~~~~~

The second bullet ricocheted on the tree trunk, and Alan resumed his march across the stream. But as he took another step, a searing pain exploded in the back of his leg, making it buckle into the freezing water. Looking at the back of his leg for the origin of the pain, he saw the hilt of a knife sticking out. And as he turned his face to see where it came from, a large shadow with the face of the grim reaper engulfed him

Alan barely had time to gasp in surprise when a gloved hand clutched his throat and dunk him in the icy water. He struggled to keep the air in his lungs as the shock from the cold took hold of his body, but the grip on his throat was so strong that no air would be let in or out anyway.

In a desperate attempt to shrug off the massive and increasing weight on his windpipe, Alan raised his gun, but managed nothing as another knife was stabbed between his ribs. He realized in terror that the air was escaping him, and felt the icy water invade his lung from the open wound.

As his mouth fell open in a gargled scream, the darkness invaded his sight from the corners, the face of the grim reaper being the last thing he would ever see.

~~~~~~

Ghost retrieved his knife from the ribs of the man beneath him, and watched as life faded from his terrified eyes. He secretly wished he had had more time to make the bastard pay for what they did to Canary, but this was just as good.

He looked up from the corpse and saw that Soap had finished crossing the stream and was now approaching Canary, and he jumped to his feet to follow him.

Canary stared at Soap’s figure with half-lidded eyes, her breathing growing heavier by the second. The whistle she made earlier had taken all but a portion of the oxygen in her lungs, and she was having a hard time getting it back. Still, a relieved smile lightened up her features, and she raised a shaky hand to meet him.

“J-Johnny,” she panted the moment her fingers met his, “s-sorry about t-the hoodie,” she wanted to say more but was interrupted by soft lips pressing against hers in an urgent, desperate kiss.

Although it was short-lived, it didn’t fail to leave her dazed and wanting more, with warmth spreading to her cheeks as their eyes met.

“Fuck, Tweetie, y’know there are plenty of those for you to steal whenever,” he couldn’t help but grin as his hands engulfed her cheeks, before his eyes roamed down her body to check her injuries, and his features fell into a frown. “Alright, bonnie, let me check these,” his hand inched closer to her bandages, and she whimpered in pain at the touch, her head falling back limply against the tree.

From a distance, they could hear Gaz calling into his radio, and the sloshing water as Ghost ran towards them.

“I-... I lost a lot of blood,” she groaned, and her face paled again much to Soap’s desperation. He pulled away the bandages just as Ghost joined them, and kept himself from gasping at the state of her wound. Simon just made it to their side and Canary’s head lolled to the side to watch him, sending him a sleepy smile.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered as he got closer. His eyes crinkled in a smile as he held her cold hand, pressing a kiss on it through the fabric of the balaclava.

“Of course I would,” he exhaled, trying not to make the knot in his throat choke him up, “I’ve waited two bloody months to see you again.” Canary smiled through her foggy eyes as a stray tear rolled down her cheek.

Simon wiped it away with his thumb and looked at what Johnny was inspecting. His eyes fell on her wound and inwardly panicked - it was much worse than she’d ever let on. Judging by the state of the bandages and the tremor in her limbs, she were close to being in shock - how she had managed to get this far was beyond them.

The radio crackled and they heard Price’s voice, “Evac is coming, stabilize her for the trip.” Simon’s eyes met Johnny’s and he instantly moved to retrieve clean bandages from his kit as Johnny searched for a stim shot. It would only keep her going for so long, perhaps just enough for her to be loaded onto the heli and into the hands of more capable field doctors.

Canary felt the sharp sting of the stim shot in her leg, and was moved back and forth as her wound was cleaned and the bandages changed. Her tongue felt more numb than before, though, and dark spots began clouding her vision. She knew it would be only a matter of time until she finally fainted.

“I-... I’m sorry,” she whimpered, barely loud enough for the other two to hear. She wasn’t quite sure why she wanted to apologize. Maybe for letting herself be taken like this, when she should’ve been stronger, or maybe for letting herself get this hurt. Perhaps for wanting to spend her medical leave off-base, or for going on that run.

Or maybe, it was for all that together, and more things she couldn’t quite remember at the moment.

She knew Johnny was saying something to her, but she couldn’t quite hear him. The ringing in her ears was too loud. The sounds around her felt like mud.

Her eyes were heavy, just like her chest - it was getting hard to even breathe. A nap sounded nice.

She made a sound where she felt the cold ground on her back - was it pain or relief? She wanted to sleep.

A hand was slapping her cheek. Just a nap, a short one.

The smell of her grandma’s cookies. The vintage sound of 80’s rock albums playing on her grandpa’s record player. Dancing in their living room. She should go and visit their graves before her next mission. She knew her parents didn’t, and would probably refuse to visit hers, too.

The stuttering sound of a helicopter’s blades.

Grandma and Grandpa would visit her grave. Simon and Johnny would, too. They would’ve all gotten along, if they had ever met. Grandpa was born in Manchester, like Simon. Grandma knew how to curse like a Scot because of her own parents. A big, noisy family dinner.

It was pretty dark. Just a short nap. The ringing in her ears was constant now, but slowly fading away.

“Canary, wake up!” Simon sounded scared. Why? She was fine.

Just… Just a nap.

“[Name]! Please!”

A/N: ... I-...

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lina-lovebug · 1 year

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You Are Mine, p. 3

Synposis: You and Quaritch are mated but your sister, Neytiri, cannot accept him

Warnings: cussing, Neytiri hating Quaritch

Usually in a situation like this, Miles Quaritch would be yelling and pissed off.

But him falling into a stream because he tried catching a fish with his bare hands and his mate laughing at him only brought him pure joy.

"Oh, you think this is funny?" Miles questioned, grabbing me by my hands and pulling me in.

I gasped as the cold water hit my skin and hit his chest playfully.

"You skxawng!"

Your laughter was heard from miles around. Neytiris' ears flicked downwards, and she growled under her breath.

"What's wrong?" Kiri questioned.

"She should not have mated with him," Neytiri expressed, "He is a bad man. He is the reason your grandfather is dead."

"Nothing could ever change what he did, mom. But I can see he's trying to make amends-"

"Nothing can-!"

"He loves her, mom!" Kiri stopped Neytiri.

"I can see it. There's a reason they met, and why Aunt (Y/N) fell in love with him. You trust your sister, and I know that my aunt would not be tricked like this," Kiri saw the love between them, and it wasn't fake. Miles Quaritch wasn't deceiving her.

But Neytiri wouldn't believe it.

He's a monster and always would be, in her eyes.

He killed their father.

"He regrets it. I can-"

"Kiri, you are young. You cannot fathom what he has done."

"It wasn't just him! I love dad, but he knew. He knew what was coming and you still love him."

"It was different-!"

"Hey, hey, what's going on?" Jake interrupted, hearing the commotion as he came home with Lo'ak and Neteyam.

"Dad, please, you have to give Miles a chance. You were once one of them, you thought like them, you even thought of us as savages," Now that hurt Jake.

"I swear to you on Eywa that he's changed. He loves (Y/N)."

"I can see it," Lo'ak spoke up.

"The way he watches her was weird, but it wasn't in a creepy way. He looks at her like you look at mom," Lo'ak told Jake, who knew the truth but it was Quaritch. He hated the natives more than anyone.

And yet he mated with one of them.

"Hey, is everything alright?"

Neytiri looked back to see him. He was wearing Na'vi clothing, he looked like Na'vi, but she knows hatred when it's infront of her.

"You will never be one of us," Neytiri sneered before walking away, Neteyam and Lo'ak following after their mother.

Miles ears fell back, knowing this wouldn't be easy.

"I don't give a damn what she tells me, but (Y/N) misses her sister. I can't stand seeing her like this," Despite how hard he's tried, he knew that all his mate wanted was for her sister to forgive her and accept him.

And the problem of the humans. They had to have figured out by now that Miles betrayed them and had to be looking.

Fighting his own spaud was going to be a bitch.

"I don't like you all that much right now either, but I know (Y/N), and she wouldn't choose if she didn't know that you've changed," Maybe she was right. Just like Jake, Miles had grown to see the beauty of Pandora and its people.

"Oh, and Miles?"

"Yes?"

Jake had punched him in the face, causing Spider and Tuk to gasp.

"That's for trying to kill me."

"Yeah, I should've seen that coming."

But before anything else, everyone heard a scream. Miles ears folded back, recognizing the voice as his (Y/N).

Him and Jake exchanged a look of worry before running in the direction of the scream.

What happened? Is she okay? Why did I leave her alone?

Thousands of thoughts were racing through his mind, regretting every second he wasn't by your side.

"Tell me who sent you!"

"Let go of me, bitch!"

Only to find (Y/N) holding Corporal Lyle by his queue and with a dagger to his throat. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth, showing that he got a good beat down in the few seconds it took them to get to her.

"Colonel! Tell this bitch to let go of me!" But then he noticed something. . .off. His Corporal wasn't in his gear but instead, he looked like one of them.

"So it's true. You did run off. For what?! Some quick native pussy?!"

Before Miles could beat the living shit out of him, an arrow shot through the brush and into his skull.

That arrow was so fast, and if Neytiri was feeling extra vengeful, she could've easily killed him. She glanced at Miles as she came out of the bush.

"You better be ready to lay down your life for her," Neytiri hissed, and (Y/N) looked towards her mate.

"Always."

#avatar the way of water imagine #avatar imagine #miles quaritch #avatar the way of water #na'vi quaritch #the way of water

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happyk44 · 7 months

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My take has always been Nyx births them in Tartarus but sends them away to the upper world when they're old enough because she has seen the world below from the night sky and thinks it is beautiful and lovable, compared to the dark monstrous and screaming expanse of Tartarus, a chamber, a prison, a place of torture. She loves her children as much as the night sky, a boundless entity can. She would like them to experience the world the way she sees the mortals do, how other gods and spirits do. Running across cool grass as the sun dips and day fades into midnight blue and wine-dark purple. Laughing around a warm fire. Comfortable and safe from the monsters that lurk.

The eldest two are as boundless as she is, as boundless as their father. They take to mortal form more frequently than their parents but were not truly born of it. She remembers the strange sensation of creating a sunrise. Heat and daybreak rising over the murky ocean. The world was dark in the beginning. Then the sun came, Helios and his silly chariot, and so followed the bright of day to truly illuminate the world. The twins had been born hand in hand so entwined in one another she had not realized right away there were two of them. Even in their choice of differentiation, they were so similar - day and the bright upper sky. Hemera and Aether. Glowing light blue air and soft clouds with the sun shimmering nearby.

Then long after Charon came - the oldest of her personified children. Born with skin and bones and a quiet sullen demeanour. Like Hades who lives above. But Hades is reclusive and seems picky about who joins him. He is followed only by the dead. He is far too busy, nonetheless, to handle a child by his side - establishing his kingdom and building his home from the scraps left behind.

Yes, the Underworld is beautiful, cooler than Tartarus, more comforting to those with flesh, but less so than the upper world. That was created for those who breathe with lungs and have beating hearts, so when Charon is spry enough that he walks and runs and snaps at monsters that encroach upon his space, she guides him up and out into the wake of the night.

Shadows lick at his feet. His ever present father will keep watch when the sunrises and Nyx must set. Erebus agrees with her. Charon seems brighter, better up on top than far down below where only the most reviled of persons are chained and burned. The only screams he hears are from the birds chattering. He was born of night and darkness, so he says good night to his sister and his brother, and greets his mother with a cool good morning. He hunts sleeping animals with his father to guide his way. He prefers to fish from the nearby river, sit in the shallow, slower end of the rushing stream. He speaks aloud, knowing his family listens. He expects little response in return.

After him, Moros arrives. Dark and brooding. Where Charon is sullen and withdrawn, Moros is brash and engaging. He dips away from his older brother to bother nearby towns. He tips the scales, adjusts the poles. The way of the world swells and shifts around him. Knives miss the meat to be butchered and sever fingers. Bows slip free of knots and spill collected materials to the ground. The sickly sob. Children recoil in fear.

He is unbothered. He enjoys their detachment, their worries. As he grows, Charon finds him work with the elderly. It's important, he says, that you understand mortals. It is cruel to befit fear upon them all because you have no empathy. Nyx listens closely, Erebus at her side as their son speaks quiet. His monotone voice echoes across the open air. I have no empathy, but I have lived long enough to know that mortals desire compassion. And I have lived long enough to know that being feared becomes tiring in the end.

Moros adjusts. Still he brings doom, but the old are unworried. They know what is to come. The finality of breath. The stop of their hearts. The ceasing of their brains. They know that they will close their eyes and reawaken with Hades' hand outstretched for theirs. Without terror, they tell him stories of their lives. They spill their secrets as he cleans their laundry and cuts their food. He holds their arms as they take feeble steps around the home they wish to die in.

Sometimes he knows they will not and through him they know they will not, but he promises to carry them back and lay them to rest in the ground they own, the earth they cultivated. He is not capable of empathy. He barely understands sympathy. But compassion is there, in faintest amounts, and it is enough.

Thanatos and Hypnos bear witness to the night skies in the months that follow. It is almost amusing the difference between her boundless children and their fleshed out siblings. Daylight and bright skies versus the boy child who digs graves and the boy who bears doom, the boy who finds the dead as easily as he breathes and the boy who sleeps like a cat. the girl who watches battles with hunger and feasts upon the death the daughter who knows only misery and the boy who can only assign blame. She loves them all the same. She sees how mortals exile those who do not fit, who are dark but not cruel, and does not understand. Perhaps it is because she was not born into the world with a beating heart.

Only glittering stars and a spot for the bright moon.

It is quiet with the twins. Instead of bothering mortals, Hypnos spends most of his time attached to his twin's back, dozing off onto strong shoulders. Thanatos carries him like it is his job. Lifts him off from the ground without a word. He follows Charon into the woods each day. The dead come easy to him. More frequently that he had before, Charon carries bodies home to their new graves.

I can feel them, Thanatos says. When they're gone.

Do you hurt? Charon asks. Mangled bodies are not unfamiliar to them. Torn animals picked apart and rotting are commonplace. The state of their corpses indicate pain though. Charon worries.

But Thanatos simply lowers his sleeping brother to the soft grass below and says, No. It's strange. I don't notice them until they're gone. It’s like a call in my head. They could be near me and I would not notice until their end. He turns to his older brother digging another grave. Their souls. Their ghost. Do you see them?

Sometimes, Charon says. But not usually.

Thanatos is comforted by that. Sometimes is better than never. Hypnos never sees ghosts. But he sees other things in the moments he's awake. When they enter mortal towns, he'll gaze with half-lidded eyes upon the mortals that pass by and murmur into Thanatos' ear about their secrets. Their fears. Their days.

Their dreams.

Within the wisps of sleep, Hypnos descends. He coaxes the tired to rest, coaxes babies to calm, settle the elderly and sick down for their final night. Sometimes Oizys reaches out and so he settles inside the soft world of a mortal mind, slipping through their cloud-like subconscious and drawing out what they hold back.

Processing fears is important to living life, he realizes. In waking moments, he speaks with his brother about nightmares. In sleeping dreams, he slips them along. Most dreams are simple days. He likes to watch from the side, a hidden audience. Even the most mundane is entertaining.

Then Ker comes along soon after. She is sharp-toothed and mean. Violent death and bitter disease. There is nothing mundane with her. Only seeking the vicious and cruel. She feasts on the flesh of the dead, hovering near Thanatos as he counts down the seconds to the last beat of a heart.

But she does not join them at meals. Her bloodied mouth is hidden away. The bits of skin dug under her nails are scrubbed after every meal. She knows her nature is unlike the others. That she is worse. She crowds around battles with a hunger for the flesh that will be slain. She brings plague with a single touch.

Maybe she would feel better if she was not looking at her counterpart in all things dying. Thanatos is calm and unbothered. He does not itch for blood. He does not split at the seams and feast on the dead. He is calm and collected, almost a mimicry of Charon's sturdiness. She is only a girl hungering for anguish and devastation. She cannot end a life with her own hands. But she can encourage it, and so thoroughly she does.

Charon settles beside her. Water spills over their feet. Why do you split?

Feels better, she says. There is so much inside me. I need to be more to let it out. Her reflection in the river flickers in twain. Mortals think that there are more of her than there are. The Keres, they call her. But she is just Ker. She separates into many, sloughing off her other selves like old skin, and encircles the bloodied crowd. Is it bad?

No, Charon says. Just new.

I like myself, she says. But others don't. It's annoying. She grimaces. I wish I could be better.

You are what you are. With his nail, he scrapes away a fried bloodied mark across her cheek. Do not be disappointed that others cannot handle you. The ones who can are the ones who matter. We all like you. Why do you think we don’t?

Their bodies do not sever in two, in fourths, in tens, in thousands. They do not drag corpses back home to devour because the food on the table is barely edible to them. They do not force disease on those trying to recover from painful wounds, encouraging them to fail, to suffer, to die. Mortals do not recoil with a terrified immediacy they do not understand when her siblings walk by. Even Moros has more to him than the doom he spreads.

She does not.

Maybe I don’t like myself, she considers. It’s hard being this way. There is no one else.

Charon’s arm is comfortable around her shoulders. Affection always feels so fleeting. Though she recognizes that she pulls away. It feels foreign to her as it is given. Out of step with who she is. But she does not pull away. Instead she leans into him and feels the water rush around her feet. It is cool and forgiving. She is hot and merciless.

It’s true. We will not understand you or the viciousness in your heart, Charon tells her. But we are not unsettled by you. You are why battles end. Without pain, without struggle, there would be no need to speak for peace. If all deaths were as calm as falling asleep, then people would keep fighting. But blood spilled, mortals hacked apart, watching your friends suffer beside you, delivering the dead in pieces back to their homes - that is what forces peace.

She tilts her head up and considers his words. I didn’t think of that.

Nobody does, he says. But it is true. Without death, fighting would never end. And without violence, peace would never be wrung. Whether by compromise or submission. He splashes her ankles with water. Eat with us, Ker. We miss you at the table.

The twins and Ker grow and venture far and wide. They sit beside battles and watch quietly. They walk through towns and villages. Hypnos murmurs sleepy words about dreams of freedom in the beaten and belittled. Ker manufactures suffering and bloody ends, horrible spouses and egregious people falling down stairs. Thanatos brings calm to the old and sick.

Charon disappears in the days they are gone. Months go by in search. Eventually, they find him, guided by their mother and father. He is beneath the earth, beneath their feet. They fly over raging waters and approach the god who has employed him.

He is working, Hades says. So, no, he cannot go free right now. But you are welcome to stay.

Oizys and Momus are born next. Erebus coddles them more than she does. But he is in every nook and cranny. He sees distress trapped in locked closets, follows bare feet as they run from screams and swords. The two fight with bitter words. When they come of age, Charon returns to the upper world. The family home welcomes him with a familiar coolness and wisping darkness.

He is a sharp-tongued mediator for the fighting twins and forces them apart with calloused hands and snarling eyes. They always silence themselves when he snaps. They become accommodating to their brother who drags fallen bodies out from the trees and buries them in plots around the home. When he appears, Momus holds back his bitter blaming screams and Oizys keeps tight her welling eyes and breaking heart.

It is under him that they learn to shift. It is not perfect. Momus is reviled by god and mortals alike for his sharp-tongue. He complains about poorly chosen words, critiques every appearance, laughs at sloppy form. It is helpful to some - those who wish to change. Who are unbothered by his mocking tone. But people are more emotional than he cares for. There are several lives lost to his cruel words. Like the two before him, he has no capacity for empathy. He is unable to learn sympathy and compassion is out of reach.

Who cares, is his most common phrase, spoken every time his sister asks him to become softer, gentler.

Oizys is still pain, she is still distress. Her heart still breaks easy and she cries more often than most. But she becomes kinder to herself for her limited emotional range. It is not her fault that this is how she must be. It is not her fault that this is what she has been chosen to represent in the world. Her tears do not make her weak.

Pain is necessary, she says as she wraps the broken bone of a sobbing child. It teaches us not to jump from trees, and where to draw the line with others.

She finds broken men with battles still screaming in their minds. Their bodies are automated. Every movement is meant to survive, to carry on, but their minds hold memories that keep them from being alive. She finds broken women, broken mothers, broken children. She finds those who hold back the tears and smile as though nothing is wrong. Those who need to let go and breathe. Those who need to cry. Who need to admit to the pain they are in, the anguish they have witnessed, the distress coming from the things they have experienced.

When the emotions release, when the pain flows, she crafts suggestions from the wisp of shadows. Run. Confront. Kill. Talk. Change.

Live.

I believe we are trapped in our natures, Charon had said in the bright of day as he dug a deep hole and she held a shattered girl's hand.

Her body was bloodied, slowly creeping towards utter cold. Her eyes had been glassy, unfocused. The world slowly slid from her view. Oizys held her hand to take the pain because certain things should never have been experienced. Not in anyone, but especially not in children this young.

But that doesn't mean we cannot change what our nature means, her wise older brother had said. I take the dead. I don't know why. I just always have. But I chose to do different than just steal them away from their homes. There are dead out there that will never be claimed. I will claim them. I do not need to claim that which dies at home or in a lover's arms. I will claim the left behind, the slaughtered hunter, the forgotten traveler, and I will give them a grave to rest.

Momus had scowled back rude words but Oizys held tighter the young girl's hand and listened hard.

You both can be better. You do not have to be perfect. You do not have to be nice. Moros certainly is not. Ker as well. But you can be and do more than you think of yourselves right now. He laid his shovel to rest on the ground and reached for the slackened girl. There was no life left in her. It had bled all over Oizys lap. There is more to the world than your base instincts, little ones. Yelling that others are at fault and crying from the distress of being screamed at isn't all you have to do. Look inwards. Think. He laid the girl to rest in the grave he dug. I believe in you.

Charon speaks these words to all his siblings. When Nemesis arrives in a flurry of wild black hair, she tracks across the plains of Tartarus, even in her pudgy youth, and declares pain of those she discovers in chains. She leaves the wasteland far later than any of her other siblings, both older and younger. She is endlessly embittered by the faults of mortals. Reluctance to leave their home cloaks her.

Find your order, Charon says. He has lived long, seen and met many. Dike could help. She loves justice, as much as you crave punishment.

Dike is a beauty on earth. Like her father, the crowned king of sky, she embodies order and justice. Humanity is as far as her range extends. But Nemesis can work with that. Social norms become her focus. Convention and custom are her loves. Remaining steady in tradition is gripped tight in her hand. She offers suggestions with a ruthlessness that Dike sighs through each time. Some are accepted easily. Many mortals need to be struck down by their own hubris. But others are argued about between the two.

Humanity and what it entails holds closer to Dike's heart than Nemesis'. She is capable of seeing what her father, her mother, and what Nemesis cannot. A mortal who kills to be free from pain defies convention, but does not deserve the ruthless retribution Nemesis would befit upon a mortal who kills for enjoyment.

Nemesis is always befuddled by her love's explanations. The logic is sound, she understands the point. But it never quite clicks the way it should. But she remembers Charon holding her hands and telling her that she is bound to what the world had decreed upon her, as are the others.

Hemera and Aether do not understand why their siblings prefer the dark. Moros cannot perceive how it is cruel to tell people of the vicious way they will one day die, nor does he understand why it is not appropriate to bury them in so much doom they drown themselves to escape. Ker does not comprehend that others do not feel overwhelming rage. How calm for mortals in the rest of death and sleep is unwanted by their siblings befuddles Thanatos and Hypnos. Why people repress their pain is something Oizys will never comprehend. And Momus will never understand why Olympus banished him from their golden floors for his various criticisms.

None of them ever understood why Charon chose to bury strangers either. They followed when he ventured out and helped him carry back bodies he found. Animals too rotten to eat, people no one came for. They watched as he dug holes. As he wrapped them in clean cloth and buried them. They did not understand why. But they understood that he had to, and so he did.

You punish because you must. People fear punishment because they fear our sister. If she can continue on despite the pain that being feared brings her, I know that you can. They will never understand why you choose the retribution you choose. And you will never understand why they beg for something smaller. But you do not have to. You just assess their point of view. He laughed quietly and squeezed her hands. Or ask Dike to explain it to you.

In the years that follow Nemesis's final departure from the family home, Apate and Dolos spring out from the shadows with mischievous grins. They spread lies and tall tales in their youth. They find villages and scam, decrying potions and balms in replace of medicine. Death abounds. So Charon settles them into the dirt and tells them they can do more than harm.

There is no demand to stop being cruel. After all, Nemesis still jumps to ruthless violence in her ideas for retribution. Momus does not know how to be kind with his words. By nature, Oizys is cruel to mortals. Moros still approaches strangers with a bitter grin and watches them cry in grief and terror from their ensuing fates. But cruel is not all they must be.

The twins sidle alongside Ares, who knows Charon well. Apate guides spies into enemy lines. Acting becomes a passion of hers. After all, what are elaborate performances if not deceit of the audience? Dolos sits on friendly territory and pushes whispered suggestions from the shadows. Make it seem like you are retreating, he sighs into a general's ears. Draw them out into the open with a subtle trap. Surround them. Destroy them.

It is more enjoyable to them than scamming the masses, than telling them silly lies with elaborate words that make them believe in things that don't exist. There is a sense of accomplishment when their side wins the battle, wins the war. There is a sense of pride when Ares pats their heads with his heavy warm hand. They do not follow him everywhere. They want more than war. So they dabble in politics, in petty family squabbles. They still sell scams and spread rumors. But often they draw back to Ares' side with mischievous grins and help his chosen heroes win wars.

Geras is born with wrinkles and frail bones. His skin sags off the muscles that never truly grow. Youth annoys him. Hebe is his sworn enemy long before they ever meet. But Charon holds him as he breathes hard and reminds him of the genius in age.

I was stupid when I was young. I'm older now. Wiser. More mature. He holds his little brother's wizened frame gently. Listen to the stories of the people. Sit with your brother when he visits his dying friends. There is no permanence or perfection in being young. You are a reminder of change, of inevitability, of maturity. I would not be able to tell you this without having lived and grown through so much before me.

Immortals don't age, Geras huffs bitterly. His voice is cracked and gruff, like an older blacksmith who has breathed in too much acrid smoke.

Everyone ages. We simply are not bound by it. Shapeless. Formless. If we want to look young, we can do so. If we want to look strong, we can do so. It is a blessing. He strokes Geras's thin hair. And much like curses, blessings can be taken away.

Geras sighs and sinks into his brother's stable hold. I don't know how to make myself look different.

Then don't, Charon says. You know how, little brother. We all do. But you do not want to look young. It is not who you are.

Then who am I? What am I? Geras cries. I want to be a child, not an ugly old man. I do nothing for the mortals like the others. I don't bring the day, I don't let them know that the end is near and they should prepare. I do not allow them to feel their hurt. I do not enact punishment and I do not win wars. I am just old and tired.

As I said, you are change. People become different over time. They learn and change, they age and grow. And you are inevitable, even to the gods. You are the reason Moros has friends. You are the reason Oizys creates mourning. You are stories told to grandchildren, you are the head of the household, you are the matriarch, you are history. You are a reminder of the end, and you are a goal for the sickly, for the soldiers in battle, for couples so deeply in love. Charon presses his lips dryly to his brother's wrinkled temple. And you are my brother. You have purpose in that alone.

Eris is hardened to the world when she leaves Tartarus. As always, Charon takes leave of the Underworld and guides her hand-in-hand through darkness and grass to the family home. She is a bitter thing. She finds fault in all things. Constant conflict is demanded of her. When he does not fall to her huffing ways, she grows louder and rougher. But Charon has been steady and stable since birth. Her need to sow problems over nothing does not rile him.

Calm down, he says when she slaps food off the table for being too cold, or shouts that he mended her clothes incorrectly. She cannot calm. It is beyond her. Still he holds her shaking hands and guides her down to a seat on the floor. Relax your breathing. Search for what settles you and utilize that.

Like many of the others, Charon brings her to Ares’ side. War does not settle her, not fully. Still, she finds solace in Ares and in Enyo, her preferred companion. Enyo enjoys the bitter sensation of discord, the craft of competition that awakens in Eris’ presence. Eris is no stranger to being cared for despite how she is, but it is odd to see it reflected in the face of someone who is not her family.

They bicker and argue over anything. Eris is always the instigator, but Enyo happily throws the first blow. Hands beat against faces. Blood bleeds into spit on the ground. Bruises bloom against skin. When the fight is done, they grin and breathe and move along. They are often joined by Ker, bringing horror to the soldiers who spot her flying above right before the final blow.

She spreads trouble outside of battle. Apate and Dolos pull her into their lies and trickery. Arguments follow her subtle instigating words. The twins pull strings behind yelling backs. Momus brings blame and she pushes hostility. The ensuing breakdowns are always so fun to watch. Harmony and peace, a sense of calm, does not befit her. But in carefully placed antagonism she finds a settlement, what Charon spoke of with gentle words, and it is enough.

The last to find life on the outside is young Philotes. Her siblings think she is strange. Even from birth, she is unlike any of them. In Tartarus, she befriends monsters, even the cruelest of punished souls. She hugs with abandon, and smiles wider than any of them thought was possible for their faces. She is not sharp-toothed, and she is not mean. She is not relaxed with sturdy sullenness. She is bright and joyful.

Charon does not bury forgotten bodies around her, nor does he hunt creatures as they sleep. Death upsets her. Violence is rejected. Ker and Thanatos find no fault in her eschew of their nature. She does not fault them for being as they are. It is harder with Eris, but only on her side. Trouble and conflict slides off Philotes’ shoulders like rain. It does not make her angry, or have her spit bitter words. Eris finds that vastly annoying. But despite their stark differences, Philotes loves her family without question.

Darkness does not suit her, though she walks through shadows as is her birthright, and does not shy away from the depths below as her companions in the clouds of Olympus do. Making friends is easy for her. She finds her way to the mountaintop from smile to smile, and hug to hug. The Graces adore her joyful nature. Pasithea finds amusement in their traded places - her born of Olympus to descend to the depths, and Philotes born of Tartarus to ascend to the golden skies. She does not join their numbers, but attends to their needs. It is a contented life filled with love, with friends, with good sex.

Charon waits for the call of his mother to let him know that another has joined their ranks but it does not come. He does miss, sometimes, the family home when it was filled with the life of another. He will settle there in his free time. The beds are clean, the pantry clear, cobwebs nonexistent. The passage of time does not encroach upon the home he built for his siblings. It does not rot the stone, nor the cloth. The house remains steady, stable, as he is.

Sometimes he walks down to the river. He will sit in the slow and shallow end under the night sky, feeling shadows wisp at his arms. There is no preference between his old and new homes. The Underworld suits him. Macaria who took him down to the depths and gave him his boat is there, his best friend. Styx rushes by as he floats. They speak casually amongst each other. The world is forever dark in the Underworld. It is cool. It is calm.

While only a few of his siblings live with him among the poplar trees and obsidian stone, the others do visit with annoyed huffs from Hades but nothing else in complaint. They join their mother and father in the heated wasteland of Tartarus. They visit the family home. They did not live there all at once, and they never will. He raised them to be independent, decisive. To be better and do more than they thought they could. Their home was a place to grow, and they have. It is no longer necessary for them. For him.

But it is always nice to walk through familiar doors and find his siblings talking amongst themselves. Lounging on cushions they used to sit on when they were much smaller, much younger. Eating at the table, sneaking bites of each other’s food. Playing the games still left behind on shelves and tables.

He never worried about what it meant to be the oldest made of flesh and bone. When he had followed Macaria down below, he did not mean to leave the three behind. They had ventured out, as Moros did. When days pattered by with no return, he thought they had found their own place in the world. Seeing them standing strong and hard-headed in front of Hades and demanding his return was more than amusing. Warmth cut through his heart.

Ferrying souls is his purpose. Watching the entrance when the Underworld is open is his purpose. It is what he has done from the beginning, carrying corpses home and laying them to rest, finding internal settlement in river water rushing beneath him. He is the ferryman and the gatekeeper. Carrying souls across the rushing river. Keeping eye on the doorway and forcing out those who try to push in without reason.

But as he always said, there is more to them than the base instinct of their nature. Like holding hands with little siblings as he walks them to their home, and guarding them from mortals and monsters and gods who do not understand what beauty exists in the dark.

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xxsp3llb0undxx · 7 months

Text

The Cove

Seth Clearwater x GN Siren!Reader {1.6k+}

Requested - @siriusblacksgf

Summary: Seth defies his Alpha's orders and decides to take a trip to the side of the forest he has never visited, only to be met with a place he never knew existed.

WARNINGS: TWILIGHT AU // MYTHICAL CREATURES // NOT PROOF READ.

Deep, down inside Forks Washington was a forest few had ever seen, there lived two clans apart of the supernatural world. The shifters and Vampires had lived opposite each other for quite sometime now, only a river stream separating them. They knew the other existed but what they didn't know, was somewhere deeper and darker into the forest was a cove, it was magical yet some would also describe it as melancholic, like the air was poisoned with the utmost poignancy. Within that cove, was icy water that looked like it went down into the deepest, darkest abyss. One fateful soul was crazy enough to be enticed by the lack of knowledge he had of this part of Forks, so on a fateful Tuesday night, Seth had strayed away from his pack; Sam howled out to the young wolf hoping he would respond and make his way back to the rest of the shifters but his call was never answered.

Seth Clearwater, the youngest of Harry Clearwater's two children, had come up with the bright idea of walking along the treaty line to the edge of the forest, he was always warned by Paul and Sam to never ever cross pass this specific area - there's something out there that hunts our kind - was something Sam kept telling the young boy, trying to get it into his head but of course - Seth needed to see for himself. Every step he took, dead branches from the once lively trees had crunched under his shoes The young boy was scared, of course he was but he kept reminding himself that he was one of few that possessed the gift of shapeshifting into a big ass wolf. The further he ventured, the more the temperature started to drop but that wasn't the issue, the fog had appeared out of nowhere; a thick layer had covered the ground beneath his feet, absorbing everything in its wake - including Seth's legs.

The rustling of leaves and broken twigs crunching had stirred the creature awake, they had been laying on a ledge beside the water. Their fin now swishing from side to side in the pool below, the mist rising above now sitting just atop the water, batting droplets around the small cove. The creature had pushed themself back into the inlet, their body now covered by the murky air around. The trees whispered all around, gossiping to their fellows about the unwanted guest in their midst. The creature was on high alert, they knew of the other supernatural beings that resided within the gloomy town; they had even befriend some of those that lived within her area of the forest - they were mostly just imps that had inhabited the trees high above and one of the last Kelpie's that were still around, they protected Forks forest and the people who lived peacefully in the small rainy state.

The smell of oak wood and wet logs had filled the air around the cove, he was near. Out of instinct, the fish like creature had honed in on their powers and started singing - it was hauntingly beautiful. Seth had heard the quiet melody not too far from his spot near a creek. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end, the wolf within him on high alert but all his wolfy instincts went out the window when the singing started to get louder - his whole body feeling like it was no longer in his control, his feet having a mind of their own as they took slow steps towards a cave like system in the distance. Seth had followed the creek all the way to the secluded cove, the atmosphere growing more eerie with every step he took. As the singing grew louder, the sky had darkened - trees thrashed around with the heavy winds, a storm was incoming but that wasn't what was unusual, the wailing in the distance was the issue; the sound itself was distorted; like something out of an old horror movie. The wailing had come to a stop when Seth had come face to face with a black horse like creature stood outside the opening of the cove, it's mane was soaked with water; small pieces of moss and tree bark were littered across it's body in a form of camouflage, it was nothing Seth had ever seen.

The black horse had let out a low whine, a signal to whoever was near to let them know the trespasser was found. Ripples in the creek below had formed, something was in the water and Seth was sure he was about to meet his end. Everything in the forest had stilled, the once full of life woods had died down and become silent - enough to hear a pin drop. The young shapeshifter still had his eyes trained on the horse in front of him, it's eyes narrowed at the young boy's figure - a snarl evident on it's face. Before either supernatural could do anything, a body had surfaced from under the murky water. A black fin with yellow and purple flecks had swept under the poor boys feet causing him to fall to the ground. Seth was now eye level with the water creature, they were ethereal to say the least. Their hair was long and wet, skin pale with a blue tint but what caught Seth's eye was their hands - the creature had webbed finger with long pointy nails as black as onyx. "Holy shit.. it's a mermaid. Oh my god it's a freaking mermaid." The young wolf stared at the water person in awe, his eyes blown with wonderment. The creature hissed at him, small razor like teeth gleaming under the moonlight. "I. Am. Not. A. Mermaid." Their voice was velvety, almost intoxicating.

Seth had flinched at the creatures words, he never meant to insult them, he was merely just curious as to how these beings lived in the same forest as him. Seth had squeaked out a tiny "sorry", fearful if he spoke any louder he would offend them even more. The creature glided through the water, closing the distance between the pair. Their long pale arms now crossed and lay upon the edge of the creek, their chin laying gently on the supple flesh. "I'm sorry... I just hate how everyone sees me as a mermaid and not what I really am. I'm Y/n and I'm a siren." Y/n's voice was more cautious now, scared they would make the boy run off. "Why are you here? This is not a place for those outside of the supernatural realm to be, you should go home it's not safe." Seth cocked his head to the side, completely forgetting he wasn't in his wolf form. The boy stood up and took a few deep breaths, focusing on the beating of his heart and then he just shifted. A sandy coloured wolf now stood on all fours in front of the siren, it was now their turn to stare in awe - their eyes wide as a smile grew on their face. "You're a shapeshifter... of course you are, I've seen many just like you." The siren lifted their hand in an attempt to touch the soft fur of the wolf but the shifter had backed away every so slightly.

The siren didn't mind the young wolf's hesitation, they understood how terrifying it was for them to meet another supernatural for the first time. But the black horse, who Seth found out was a Kelpie and was named Oslo, had other feelings about the boy. He didn't particularly like him, not because he was a shifter - no, it was because he had caught the siren's attention. Oslo hated not having Y/n's attention all to himself, he loathed anyone that even looked the siren's way. So, the wise Kelpie had gotten up close to Seth; their snouts barely touching, and then Oslo had attacked him; it had all happened in seconds. The siren had screamed in horror, tears brimming the edges of their eyes as they stared at her new found mystical friend and her protector trying to sink their teeth into one another. The siren had shouted for Oslo to stop but he had ignored all of their protests, and instead decided to use the trick up his sleeve. Now, you may be think - what could Oslo do that would surprise Seth? Well, Kelpie's are known to be water creatures who can shapeshift into any form they desire but they also possess the ability to manipulate water.

So, Oslo being extremely cunning, he had shifted into a water spirit. Y/n knew that trying to manipulate the elements would ultimately turn into something very, very bad. The siren had devised a plan to help Seth to the best of their abilities, so they screamed as loud as they could. Siren's are known to have powerful voices, they could seduce anyone they wanted but what no one knew was Siren's could harm Kelpie's by just using their voice. The scream that erupted out of the siren had caused Oslo to shift back into his natural form, his body now crumpled to the ground withering in pain. "You do not hurt him, we are the protectors of everything supernatural. Your jealousy does not give you the right to hurt one of our own." Malice had dripped from every word spoken, it sent a shiver down Seth's spine without a warning. The siren turned to the shifter, an apologetic smile on their face "I'm sorry on his behalf." They said, pointing to the Kelpie still curled up on the floor "It's best if you go home, your pack must be worried about you." Seth could only nod his head - he didn't want to go just yet, there was still so much to see and learn about this part of the forest but most importantly, he wanted to know Y/n better.

If only the young wolf could actually verbalise his thoughts.

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itsagrimm · 1 year

Text

He Who Comes from under the Water

Chapter 6 - Safekeeping

Monster!König X she/her afab Reader

CN dead fish

Notes for better understanding at the bottom!

Beta-read by @queenquazar. She is a writer as well and does amazing work which you should definitely check out.

2,3 k words

Masterlist

The water ran playfully past your bare feet dangling in the little stream. You had taken off your shoes, sitting at the grass covered bank while watching König fish. It was shallow, but you could not bring yourself to go deeper than this. König of course did not mind the water, hip deep, and comfortably towering as he straightened victoriously like a tree surviving the flood to pass you one sorry little flapping creature after another, asking you with much elation if that sorry thing would do for lunch.

“A Pike? Yummy.”

“No, not the Rodd. Too much bone.”

“Please don’t make me eat a snail.”

“Another Pike! How did you manage to catch a second one so quickly?”

As the caught fish collected in a basket next to you, waiting to be gutted and prepared, you leaned back on your elbows. It had been a… strange morning.

König had come inside your home for breakfast, only to reveal you might die due to the dangers of being his underwater queen. His words had felt like getting pushed back into a dark pit you had barely managed to crawl out of moments ago. Every time you gathered back your strength, something happened, and you were back where you started. But unlike you, König was not as quick to give up and dragged you back up once again from the pit.

In fact, you wondered why he had not given up on you, just leaving you to find himself a better, more suitable, queen? No, König was bent on keeping you alive, jumping up from the kitchen table declaring ‘I have an idea’ and running out, shouting for the Heron. Confused, you had stayed where you were, only for König to run back in again, lifting you up in a surprising hug accompanied with a ‘you will live, you will live’-chant. You had squeaked in surprise, and he nearly dropped you on the floor, mumbling an excuse before running out again and returning what felt like no time with a bit of fresh birch bark, asking you for a knife.

“Why?”

“It is to write a letter.”

Confused, you passed him a kitchen knife and he started scratching symbols into the soft bark with it. The little blade looked so ridiculous in his large hands, like a dainty daisy in a bear’s claw. Despite it all, you laughed. A desperate little laugh fighting its way out of your lungs.

He looked up.

“What is it, Bride?”

“Nothing. Your hands are so big and the knife so small. That is all.”

He leaned back.

“Would you prefer to write yourself with this tiny knife in your tiny human hands?”

“I can’t,” you replied shortly, still giggling. What a stupid question.

“Why? Can you only use a knife to chop fish?”

“Yes,” You dead panned and smiled softly, the easing laughter helping you with your heavy mood, “I can’t read. Women do not read or write. Don’t you know? Only men can and Ivar, the village teacher, never allowed girls, despite my brother being a student of his and practising at this table next to me. I still was never allowed to attend.”

König frowned under all the messy tangled hair.

“We should change that. Downstream in the cities, everyone knows how to read and write - man, woman or whatever you humans can be. It would be good for you to learn it - but not today. The Heron will not be able to guard you. They have to deliver this letter and hopefully give us the help we need for you to stay alive.”

He paused, his eyes shifting from the pragmatic to a soft questioning gaze.

“Would you like to spend the day with me instead, Bride? I promise, I’ll keep you as safe as the Heron.”

And that was how you ended up wandering the forest with König. Watching him search for trees to fall for the palace with his big axe, while you followed collecting berries and harvesting herbs with your little, tiny kitchen knife until you grew tired and rested at this little stream.

A little splash of water to your face made you squeal in surprise, and you opened your eyes.

König stood before you, a huge catfish under his arm struggling to get free and splashing water everywhere.

“Don’t fall asleep in the sun, Bride,” König chided softly. “You will get a headache from it. The old man complained about it all the time.”

You giggled. “Yes, grandfather liked to have naps but never chose a good spot for it.”

You got up to move into the shadows of a willow for a quick nap.

König nodded approvingly, the catfish under his arm joining in in an attempt to get free.

“Can you make a fire before you nap? It is not my strong suit and, unlike me, you don’t eat raw fish.”

Surprised you turned to König. The man who appeared to be able to do anything – scare away Ivar, summon speaking animals and swamp lights, catch fish and lift heavy wood – did not know how to make a fire.

“No fire under the water, remember?”

You paused before nodding.

That made sense.

The catfish nodded too before finally wiggling out of König’s grip and slipping back into the water.

With a curse König dived after it, leaving you to make a fire.

With practised ease you build a little pile before lighting it up and feeding it more air and dried bark until it was big enough to sustain itself.

Casually you grabbed a few sticks, sharpened them with your knife, gutted and cleared the caught fish and skewered the pike meat wrapped in some of the herbs. It would make for a great meal and you felt your body going from tired to awake enough for food and an eventual nap afterward.

König emerged from the stream and stepped on land, his unhuman appearance mostly covered by a dripping cloak except for the shimmery wet skin from the water and the sunlight.

“No catfish?”

He grumbled something in defeat before sitting down next to the fire.

“You need to teach me how to do this fire and cooking thing, Bride. Could be useful.”

“Oh yes, I will,” You promised, “Who else is supposed to make meals while I sleep?”

He chuckled.

“You humans are so delicate – always needing rest, food, shelter, air, water – but only the clear sweet waters and none of the green or salty ones. I wonder how you make it through the day laughing. Your lives are so harsh.”

“It is pretty okay being a human.” A grin spread on your face as you shrugged. “Better than coming from the water and having to munch raw catfish. Oh wait, the catfish got away. Guess you’ll go hungry, love.”

The word slipped out of you before you could think - a little treacherous word telling of little, treacherous dreams in your little, hopeful heart.

Love.

You looked down, pretending to concentrate on the fire and picked up one of the sticks to grill the fish.

“Be kind and do not let me starve, maiden.” König called out playfully and picked up one of the prepared sticks. “How do you do this?”

You showed him how to hold the fish without burning it, reminding him he had to turn it once in a while, so the fish will be cooked from all sides, and explaining how you used the herbs on the meat.

“And no bark?” König asked after your explanations.

“No bark.”

“Hmpf.

You looked up at him, his features hidden by his hair and hood. Except for his mouth with gleaming sharp teeth turned down in an unhappy frown.

Very sharp teeth.

You shivered, the reality of your fiancé’s inhumanness hitting you in the face like water from the struggling catfish desperate for life.

“Humans do not eat bark but if you like it so much, do what you want.” Your voice went thin as you spoke, a strange lump of fear and worry weighted down deep in your gut.

“Say, König,” you started. “What exactly is so dangerous about me becoming your wife?”

There, the words were out.

Hanging in the air like the skewed fish over the fire, slowly burning and sizzling away skin – painful and inevitable, unless doing something to prevent it.

König sighed.

“My brother,” he explained with a defeated tone, “Can be very pessimistic. He said I might accidentally kill you by drowning. But,” He looked at you, his eyes clear as ice piercing through any doubt. “I will not do that. I promise you are safe with me and there might be someone who can help with removing that danger. Also,” He continued as a careful, toothy smile grew on his face. “So far I have at least somewhat succeeded in keeping you safe, right? You are here and not hurt or hidden away in the house. Not saying I’ve done it perfectly but…” His voice rippled off in waves, making your eye brows narrow slightly

“It is good enough for now… right?”

You stared into the fire, thinking about König’s words. Yes, you were afraid. His otherness sometimes confusing you, or making you withdraw from him in fear. But never had he done anything to harm you.

At least not willingly.

Yes, there were accidents and mistakes. But, he tried to keep you safe and looked out for you. You could not remember anyone being so honestly interested in you and your well-being. Not the villagers who dropped you the moment you became uncomfortable for them. Not the boys you had kissed in secret, or girlfriends who had stopped visiting you when you started to cry more than you laughed from all the death and misery in your life. And certainly not your family who loved you, but kept you as their obedient child to help at home and carry any expectations they placed on you without opposition. That included your beloved grandfather who promised you to someone without asking your permission, counting on you to just follow his command. Love was complicated. You missed your family, your friends and old life. But there was bitterness thinking about them now. The old house had become as much a sanctuary as it was a prison.

Being with König was not that different: like an axe to build a new palace or yield as a weapon.

Yes, it was unfortunate how you had come to be the Bride of the King from Under the Water.

And maybe it would be your death.

But so far, your engagement has come with much more grace than you had ever known.

“Do not worry, my love,” You whispered those words with a grim dedication to all that it might include. “I know you are keeping me safe, and I trust you will continue to do so.”

The silence of your words weighed heavy as you stared into the fire without seeing the flames.

A hand touched yours and you jerked up. König had moved closer, carefully lifting your hand with the skewered fish up and away from the heat.

“I am not much of an expert on fire but this looks like you could light yourself up like that,” He declared with a soft ring as if trying not to smile. “You said it yourself - ‘turn it so it does not burn’. I would do a poor job keeping my bride safe if I let you burn your fingers now.”

You blinked in confusion, before adjusting the grip on the stick in your hand under his large right palm.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

He kept his hand around yours - warm, strong, pleasant - and you hummed in approval as his other wandered around your shoulder and pressed you closer to his side.

My bride. My bride.

That’s what he had said.

The words rang pleasantly in your ears as you nuzzled into Königs chest.

XXX

Cultural context notes:

König writes in Old Church Slavonic. Old Church Slavonic is the basis of many the Slavic languages written form. It was ‘created’ by two monks named Methodius and Cyril (That’s why the modern alphabet is now called Cyrillic) who were tasked with helping to convert the Byzantian Slavs in Moravia to Christianity. To do that they translated several religious texts, most importantly the Bible, into Old Church Slavonic which could be understood by the Slavs. Old church Slavonic is really cool and can still be understood by many modern speakers of Slavic languages despite coming from the 9th century. Also, the Polish band Batushka / БАТЮШКА sings in Old Church Slavonic if you want to know what it sounds like.

XXX

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#monster!könig #monster x human #könig #könig mw2 #könig cod #he who comes from under the water #hwcfudw #grimmwriting #monster romance #monster x reader #monster!ghost #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #call of duty mw2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare ii

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bigkingxl0 · 1 year

Text

NEW FIC: BODYBUILDING

The creaking highlighted his waddling steps into the kitchen. The same path he took every hour or so, hands cradling the warm bulge of his gut, hungry for more. All those years ago, he'd had no soft dough to hold. But that was years ago. He fished two beers out of the fridge and emptied them into his belly, feeling it expand under his pudgy fingertips. He returned with an armful of snacks, but by the time he managed to start his stream, they were gone.

He flexed for his fans, but his arms grew tired from holding up the thick ring of fat sagging where his bicep hid. He smacked his gut and let loose a rolling belch for the camera. He could barely move under the weight of his food, and the more he moved, the gassier he got. Not that he cared.

"It all started in that gym!" Chet slurred, head spinning from the combo of weed, pounds of food, and alcohol. He laughed at the photo.

The Chet in the photo flexed in front of the squat rack. It had been shot on a polaroid in a gym that no longer stood, not far from the CUNY campus where he'd studied Personal Training.

His life had been going perfectly. Right out of college he made a name for himself. Although the gym he worked for was fresh, it showed potential -- and so didn't Chet. He too was fresh, his mind was sharp and he was damn good at his job. By design his only hobby was training hard. Obsessively tracking macros and calories. He ate right, never cheated, and cranked away day and night, exercising his body. Lifting heavy, then heavier. He’d won his fair share of "natural" competitions, his name had value in the right circles. He loved that his body put him in the spotlight: Exactly why he needed the self-gratuitous photo taken.

"Chet's happy place!" His gym rat buddies had joked.

He ended up with his pictures in magazines and on websites. He racked up a social media following. He trained a dozen and one Hollywood stars, and catapulted into fitness fame. Chet found his new happy place -- alongside a well-paying spot as the face of the best new fitness brand.

Now, he looked like a slob, half naked body surrounded by a pile of plates and filth. Lifting weights had become lifting the remote. He tweaked his swollen nipples and flexed again, the effort making him fart. He breathed it in, getting worked up and squeezing another out for good measure.

Embiggn had come to him with an offer he couldn't refuse. He had been getting bored of the rat race. He won often, and made money, but it was dull. For a long time he toyed with the idea of starting his own guru brand, and for no good intentions. The company knew he was perfect for their brand: he was a vain, egocentric meathead that needed to get bigger by any means necessary. He took their sponsorship and ran with it, shilling out Embiggn programs and equipment and gym memberships and sponsored nutritionists. He was the biggest face in fitness, and Embiggn grew to become the best selling fitness brand in the US. Sex sells, but sex appeal sells better. Chet and his brand had millions of fans worldwide, and he was plastered all over their merch.

"And now the new life-changing product from... from my one and only sponsor... Embiggn!" he said, like he didn't know what the words meant.

It was the ultimate fitness device, according to Embiggn. It looked like a large crate-like box, marked with the trendy logo and fitted with a touch screen. All you had to do was open the lid and punch in the serial code. After many brain dead tries, Chet managed to enter the short code, and the device sprang to life. It wasn't terribly loud, but very flashy and overdesigned. It moved mechanically at first, then seamlessly slid under him for his "workout", then dispensed several electrodes and simple instructions.

With a clearer head he would have felt ridiculous, but not then. He'd been the perfect beta tester, watching hours and hours of videos training him to be a mindless pig without even knowing. Hours spent gorging, lounging, and growing while he was convinced nothing had changed.

He leaned back into the couch, feeling the prods of the self-assembling parts. Two cold cups suctioned onto his swollen nipples, six electrodes adhered to his stomach, and two to his temple.

"Ready?" A soft voice asked him.

"Hell yea-mmmmph!” The machine had hardly waited for his confirmation. A tube snaked down his throat and pumped his gut full of lard. He moaned around the tube, feeling his already swollen body swell more with every pump. Chet didn't feel bloated; he just felt hungrier and hungrier. Eagerly he sucked the mix down, and as he sucked, his mind withered more and more.

It had specifically been programmed for his brain — decades of user profiles in their database. They knew more about him than he did. It knew his need to get bigger, and it would help him acquire the level of fitness he wanted. Embiggn hadn't lied. They had formulated each machine to reach into the depths and create perfection. The seat cradled him no matter how much his ballooning body shifted. The machine tugged at his sensitive chest, and milked his cock, all the while pouring pure fat down his throat. Chet realized, dimly, that he'd never felt better in his whole life. And like that, his life was reduced to the machine.

After years of eating up the material on the Embiggn apps, in his mind, he was just as buff as he'd always been. He didn't need an Embiggn brand VR headset to see his body getting stronger instead of fatter, but it had certainly helped. That paired with the spent years eating up the fattening "health supplements" and food around him.

Desperately he sucked at the tube. He needed more. His wide ass blew right through his tarp like shorts. His tight skin glistened with sweat, his breathing quick and shallow. Between his elephantine thighs, the machine quickened its pace. He thought that his overfilling might end at orgasm, but when he finished three containers to no mercy, he truly gave up. Helplessly he sucked down the fattening cocktail--not that he had much choice--and the last shred of humanity he'd had was lost. A bubbling fart slipped from his ass, and he shot his load. The machine deemed this to be enough pleasure, and relinquished him. The machinery repackaged itself to charge, leaving Chet propped on a couch too fragile to support his weight. It splintered beneath him in pieces, but he was too dazed to notice.

It was quite a feat of engineering they had managed. As long as he streamed on an Embiggn platform, his image would be one of yesteryear. The Embiggn AI generated a perfect likeness of him, only with his beefy tanned body, and not his hoggish form. When he flexed his cellulite, his digital muscles bulged. Instead of his gut hanging out of his custom Embiggn Personal Trainer tee, his shredded muscles filled it out. Any dopamine spike detected by the program would beef up his digital self even bigger, and bigger they had grown.

It was a new age. The program had changed his life for sure. If he hadn't glossed over his contracts, he'd have known what he signed up for. But no one ever read the contract, the suits at Embiggn knew that. They marketed their ultra fattening, brain melting products as uber-healthy supplements decorated with fitness gods, while the fitness gods that took it became uncontrollably obese, and Chet was no different. Then they provided them with the ultimate distraction, a fantasy world of fame that kept the pigs docile, distracted, and addicted.

And like sheep, the masses would follow. More people would pick up Embiggn -- through word of mouth, through flashy advertisement, through the millions of bots pumping out positive info. Then it wouldn't just be gym bros made to be massive hogs. In fact, according to the spreadsheets, nearly 45% of all traditional gym goers had given up a physical location for an Embiggn package. That number climbed exponentially every single quarter, and with the release of their New Year's Resolution package, the future looked even fatter.

Chet ended his stream in which his viewers had watched a massively strong man reach his new personal best. In some way, he really had. Three tubs of Embiggn Gainer pumped into his ruined body, three pounds of pure fat gained in one session. He sighed, content with his crippling obesity. After all, he could see he was still the shredded muscle God of his dreams. He smiled for the camera, sluggishly flexing and farting.

His cock ached from overstimulation, but he teased his nipples anyway, drool spilling out of his mouth. He liked being dumb and fat, even if he had no idea that he was. It made his tiny cock hard, and made him cum. And he liked that a lot. Too bad he was too wide to reach the little chub hidden under his massive fat pad. And even if he were to try, all that lard wobbling would tire him right out. Chet needed the Embiggn machine.

Dependency. That was the future too.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

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#wg fic #my writing #sara2444 #gainer fiction #bhm #slob #gas #linktree

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a-lonely-dragon · 9 months

Text

Strike! - Chapter 2

Montgomery Gator x F!Reader

CW: mentions of gross food and a small amount of blood

AO3

Navigation: Chapter 1

The following week passes much like molasses, with each day a new slog of navigating the course and its back hallways while trying to keep up with Rodney’s demands and hellish lists.

At the very least, you’re grateful you haven’t come face to face with one Montgomery Gator. While you find it strange that the attraction’s mascot doesn’t seem to have many scheduled appearances, you can’t help but feel relief that you haven’t had to navigate those turbulent waters just yet.

Instead, you’re able to fully focus on your oh-so-important tasks to keep the mini golf course running smoothly. Or, well, running at the very least.

The man-made stream gurgles along beside you, the partially submerged alligator heads lunging up to hiss and grumble and spray you with tepid water (you do your best to keep your mouth firmly shut).

Kneeling on the rough carpet, skimmer in hand, you swipe at the stream’s surface, earning three neon golf balls and a chunky, waterlogged fried slice of pizza, the worst prizes to a terrible carnival game. The golf balls go into a plastic tub, clanking against dozens of others. The pizza crumbles in your gloved hands as you scrape it out of the netting and you gag at the revolting stench of rotting fish that punches you straight in the face. Anchovies. Of course, you think. It isn’t the first time you’ve dredged up nasty pizza in this building, but boy do you never get used to the smell.

It lingers even after you’ve tossed it into the garbage bag behind you, and a line Bonnie loved to use comes to mind.

“You look like you want to give someone a pizza your mind!”

Your lips twitch despite yourself, but the amusement is fleeting in the face of the monumental task ahead of you. Rodney wanted the entire course cleaned tonight, and so here you were, scooping mounds of discarded food, merch, and equipment from every nook and cranny, inch by painful inch.

For once, you found yourself grateful for the dead-eyed STAFF bots pattering about. They bumble about like dutiful worker bees, vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, and wiping down the surfaces they could reach. At least that only left dealing with all the garbage, water hazards, and sand traps were left to lucky, lucky you. Rodney had dipped not long after you arrived for your shift, claiming an important meeting had come up and you would be fine on your own for a while, right?

“I’ll be back to help you after the meeting,” Rodney had claimed about four hours ago.

You hadn’t held your breath, thankfully.

Sweat collects against your back as you work, the fabric of your shirt sticking uncomfortably to your skin as you work. You’re starting to slow down a bit, but you’re putting off your break until the middle of your shift. It was easier to make it through the rest of the hours that way.

And, despite your sour first impression, the Gator Golf course did hold a certain charm when it wasn’t overrun with screaming kids and parents. If you closed your eyes and plugged your nose, you might be able to pretend you were somewhere else entirely. On vacation in a bayou, maybe, dozing off as fireflies dance over the water like stars. It was actually kind of cool, all of the little designs here and there that gave the eyes a feast no matter where you look.

You catch another armful of golf balls, a Chica plush with its face details peeling from the water damage, and a novelty Roxy-talkie before you decide you move on. As you gather your tools and trash bag, an ominous groan from above stops you in your tracks.

You pause, craning your neck and straining to hear past the thumping bass and robotic noise, hoping you weren’t about to meet the catwalks in a violent and sudden way. If you stare up long enough, you can just barely make out the crisscrossing platforms above.

A heavy minute passes, in which STAFF bots roll past either unaware or uncaring of possible disasters when there’s work to be done, but when no more sounds out of the ordinary meet your ears, you shake off your worry and make for the next section of the course. Unless the ceiling actually comes down, there wouldn’t be any excuse for slacking off.

Shuffling alongside the meandering path, a flickering just above eye level catches your attention, hidden among the foliage draped over the stream.

You squint, trying to parse through the lights and fog, but it isn’t until you’re right next to a small wooden bridge that you’re able to see it fully. Just an abandoned Monty balloon, its string tangled in the vines, its grinning face swaying in the current of air being blasted from somewhere overhead. You set down everything except the pool skimmer and purse your lips, tilting your head this way and that, trying to figure out the best way to reach it.

Stepping onto the bridge, you grip the wooden railing and give it a shake. It wobbles a tiny bit, but it seems sturdy enough so you extend the pool skimmer to its longest length.

You stretch over the railing, two hands gripping the pool skimmer tightly as you bat at Monty’s shimmery snout. It bumps back and forth, mocking. With a huff, you press farther forward, the wood biting into your stomach as you swat at the vines that hold tight to the balloon’s string like a child. If you could just loosen it—

There’s a telltale creak that you don’t even have a second to register before the steadying weight of the railing gives way and your body follows, stomach swooping as you plunge forward. A yelp escapes your lips as you pinwheel your arms, the skimmer slipping from your grip as you desperately try and grab something, only managing to scrape the back of your hand against a sharp edge. You barely register a heavy whump somewhere off to your right and then you’re wrenched back by your collar like a kitten held by its scruff, and you flail a bit in protest by instinct, before being unceremoniously dropped back onto solid ground, where you land painfully on your ass.

Gasping, you press a hand to your chest as your heart tries to slow back down, but that notion is quickly recanted as you realize who had saved you from a soggy and miserable rest of the night.

Montgomery fucking Gator. The very same animatronic that’d taken Bonnie’s place.

The ambient lights give Monty a strange, otherworldly glow as he looms over you. Your gaze snags on the rows of fangs jutting from his jaws, each tooth as long as your finger, and it takes a concentrated effort to look away from them. Red optics flash from behind Bonnie’s star-shaped shades, scanning over you—and you’re suddenly aware of how the mouse must feel when faced with the cat. His silhouette is gargoyle-like, and it’s an effort to breathe normally until he leans back.

The gator stands as tall as the rest of his bandmates, but like Freddy is on the wider, bulkier side. His crimson mohawk is in slight disarray, as if it hadn’t been maintained in a while. His purple shoulder pads, which should look ridiculous, just add to his angular, intimidating appearance.

You scramble back to your feet, anxiety skyrocketing as Monty’s optics track you with a predator’s intent.

His jaw parts, and his voice comes out blanketed in irritation. “Can’t you read signs, lady?”

He points a claw over to a painted sign that reads, Please don’t lean on the railings! Your mouth pops open to defend yourself, a flush of embarrassment at the fact that no, you actually hadn’t noticed that sign the entire time you’d been here. You swallow, unable to unglue your tongue from the roof of your mouth as you stare up at this behemoth of an animatronic.

“Well?”

You cross your arms and swallow down the trepidation clogging your throat. He was just an animatronic, and despite the amount of spikes and sharp bits attached to him, he couldn’t hurt a fly. But even as you tell yourself that, you remember the pronged batons that security carries around regularly and withhold a shudder.

“I was just—” You wince as your voice cracks and turn your head to focus back on the balloon still hovering just out of reach, but the weight of Monty’s attention is as heavy as a weighted blanket. “I was trying to get that.”

Monty arches a brow over his—Bonnie’s—sunglasses and follows your gaze.

With a huff, Monty snaps out a hand, his height allowing him to snatch the string at the very base of the balloon, and with a sharp snap that shakes the plastic plants and sends a few leaves spiraling down to the sluggish water below, he pulls it free. You flinch as he shoves his fist towards you, that silly, grinning balloon bouncing to and fro.

You reach out to take it, palms sweating, only to freeze as his head jerks down and his optics zero in on your hand. Panic bubbles up in your chest and you recoil, attention pulled back to those deadly teeth.

“You’re hurt,” he says sharply.

Flexing your hand, you eye the bloodied scratch that runs across the back with a twist of your lips. It didn’t look deep, but it did sting like hell. A few specks of wood dot the wound. “It’s, uh, fine. Sorry.”

He stares at you, narrowing his eyes and setting his free hand on his hip. “You’re bleeding. There’s a first aid station nearby, c’mon.”

You stare at him blankly. Montgomery was not helpful. According to Rodney, he was a “million-dollar pain in the ass” who skipped out on scheduled practices and parties more often than not. And yet, here he was, ordering you to get fixed up after saving you from an impromptu dip in Fazbear-infected waters. He certainly didn’t sound happy about it, his programming likely forcing him to insist on taking care of an injury, but this whole situation was just weird.

“Hey!” he snaps after taking a few steps and you still haven’t moved. “What’s the hold up?”

You cradle your stinging hand and stammer out, “The, uh, the balloon—I should—"

He blinks at it, as if he’d forgotten he was still holding it. Then, quicker than you can think, he grips the balloon and punctures his own face with such swiftness and efficiency that it makes you squeak, a sound that’s swallowed by the loud POP. His eyes flicker towards you, but he doesn’t speak, only tosses the deflated husk into the nearest trash can. “Good? Now, let’s go.”

Unable to dredge up any excuses, you take a slow breath and then trail after him. The quicker you get to the first aid station, the sooner you can get back to work and be out of Monty’s synthetic hair.

As you walk, keeping a few feet behind, a question nags at you.

Where the fuck did he come from?

You would’ve heard him approach long before you saw him, the animatronics couldn’t be quiet if they tried thanks to the heavy endoskeleton beneath their casings, and you sure as hell hadn’t seen him anywhere while you cleaned. Goosebumps run up your arms at the thought of him hiding, watching, somehow being so close yet you hadn’t had a clue—

He leads you to Gator Grub where a STAFF bot blocks the door, wet floor bots in a ring around it as it mops. The bot lifts its head as Monty approaches but doesn’t react as he shoulders past it. As you go to step through, however, it beeps and shoos you back with its arms, pointing at the wet floor bots.

A growl reverberates from Monty’s chest and he uses his arm to shove the STAFF bot aside, throwing you an impatient look. The STAFF bot’s beeps become more insistent as you step over the streaks of dirty soap on the floor, and Monty gnashes his teeth, grumbling, “I’m right here you stupid hunk of—quit hollerin’!”

You watch the interaction with an uneasy frown, letting out a small sigh of relief when Monty finally lets the bot go and lopes in after you. You skitter back a couple steps as he fills the space normally meant for humans and STAFF bots.

Through a side door, you find yourself back in the hallway where the security office is. Was Nathan on duty tonight? He’d said most days it’d be him, so maybe not, but regardless you can’t help but hope maybe Nathan would just happen to step out of the office and save you from this forced escort farther into the back rooms.

The door remains firmly shut as you pass by, ignoring your pleading eyes to please please open.

“Quit draggin’ your feet, would ya?” Monty snaps over his shoulder.

You grit your teeth and bite back a retort, not wanting to annoy him further, but if he kept ordering you around like a child . . .

Finally, at the end of the hall there’s a room with a mess of pipes and a large control panel that you assume is for the stage set up in the course. Steam sprays from various corners of the room and one of the hanging lights lets out a shower of sparks every so often. Tucked between to massive pipes is a first aid station the size of a small changing room, complete with a red curtain that screeches as Monty yanks it to the side. He looks expectantly at you.

The inside of the station consists of a single plastic chair with Monty plastered on the seat and a slim red box sitting on a shelf beside what appear to be old cans of paint and a candy bar. You have to squeeze past Monty to get in the station, and you’re beginning to think he thrives off your discomfort because there’s no way he can’t read your body language, he was programmed to interact with kids, for God’s sake.

Popping open the kit, you paw through a few half-empty tubes of various ointments and gels until you find some packaged gauze. Band-aids would’ve been easier to deal with, but it appears that the contents were first come first serve, so you’ll just have to make do.

It’s a nerve-wracking process, bandaging up your hand while Monty waits. What should take only a few seconds feels like it takes an age, your hands unsteady as you weave the gauze around your palm. Every time you peek from the corner of your eye, he’s just watching. Not saying a goddamn word. Was this some kind of hazing? Were you overreacting? Sweat drips down your back and the air feels too warm and thick around you. Your stomach starts to churn. His optics follow your hand’s movements, and then, just as you tie off the gauze with a small knot, he grunts.

“That ain’t gonna hold.”

You jolt, head whipping up at his comment and back down to the gauze. You flex your hand experimentally, and sure enough it feels loose already. But you can’t stand being in this claustrophobic back room with the gator for one more second, so you find your courage to say, “It’ll do for now. I have a job to do.”

For a moment, you fear he’s going to insist on redoing it himself—you can’t imagine those clawed hands being gentle about it—but with a huff that’s all too human, he turns and heads for the door at the opposite side of the room and pushes it open, green ambient light washing through the gloom.

It’s all you can do not to sprint out of there, murmuring a small thanks to Monty for holding the door, and step back onto the course near hole 12. Instantly it feels easier to breathe, and you wipe sweat from your forehead with your uninjured hand. Checking your watch, you find only a few minutes have actually passed.

Monty’s heavy footfalls start behind you, and you whirl around on instinct, but he passes you without a second glance, free from his obligation. “Try not to break anything else in my course,” he says, and stalks off through the passageway.

Fuck it, you’re taking your break now.

#montgomery gator x reader #dragon writes #monster boyfriend #animatronic boyfriend #five nights at freddy's #fnaf security breach #security breach #fic

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denimbex1986 · 3 months

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'With three years of theatre in Dublin under his belt, the actor Paul Mescal only came to mainstream attention in April 2020 when he made his television debut in the hit Lenny Abrahamson-directed adaptation of Normal People, the best-selling novel by Sally Rooney. It was the most-streamed series on the BBC that year and made Mescal a household name – his role as awkward, school-age Connell earned him an Emmy nomination and a Bafta for best leading actor. In the four years since, a series of impressive parts has followed: his first feature, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s critically acclaimed directorial debut, The Lost Daughter, premiered in 2021. The next spring, he was in Cannes promoting two lead roles: in Anna Rose Holmer and Saela Davis’s indie flick God’s Creatures, set in a bleak oyster-fishing town in rural Ireland, and Charlotte Wells’s devastating Aftersun. A beautifully constructed tale of a loving but stricken young father, the latter underscored Mescal as a powerful talent with the ability to both charm and break the hearts of viewers with one downward glance – the film also earned him a nomination for an Academy Award. In 2022 he returned to theatre for the Almeida’s production of A Streetcar Named Desire, going on to win an Olivier last year for his portrayal of Stanley Kowalski.

More recently, two new films have been released: Garth Davis’s Foe, a sci-fi romance in which Mescal performs opposite Saoirse Ronan, and the gut-punching All of Us Strangers. Directed by Andrew Haigh, All of Us Strangers tells the story of Adam (played by Andrew Scott) who, upon falling for Mescal’s Harry, begins to explore a tragedy that has cast a long shadow over his life. A dizzying dance ensues between the imaginary and the corporeal, as Adam flits between dreamlike visits to his dead parents and the very visceral beginnings of a new sexual relationship – viewers leave haunted and moved.

The British filmmaker Haigh is known for his works’ intimate scale and emotional heft. There’s Weekend, which dug at real and tender spots in gay male sex and relationships; 45 Years, starring Tom Courtenay and Charlotte Rampling, who depict a couple on their sapphire wedding anniversary processing an earth-shattering secret; and Lean on Pete, a coming-of-age tale of a motherless runaway boy with Chloë Sevigny and Steve Buscemi. In each quietly vigorous work, Haigh’s incredible casting and spare dialogue enable truly believable characters to wrestle with past trauma, belonging and love.

On set for his latest lead, in Ridley Scott’s Gladiator II, Mescal Zooms from a candelabra-filled room in a sandstone palace in Malta with Haigh, who’s at home in London. Here, the pair discuss the radical tenderness of their new film and what it takes to express inner conflict with the delicate restraint they are both known for. It’s the first time the collaborators have had the chance to talk together in public about the award-winning film.

Paul Mescal: I was just hanging out with the Searchlight crew in LA and they were saying that you were taking two weeks’ respite, having gone to every state in the US for this film.

Andrew Haigh: Yes, but I have to remind myself that sometimes you make a film and nobody is very interested at all. When people do care enough to want to talk about it, then you can’t be too grumpy. It’s why we made the film in the first place, to connect with people.

PM: But it’s that weird transition, isn’t it? I imagine there are many transitions for you – the writing process into the shooting, which feels like a private experience, but then you’re making this for an audience, so once you finish filming it, it’s for public consumption. Which is the most frightening part of it. But yes, when something feels like it registers with an audience, you’ve got to run with it because it doesn’t happen all the time.

AH: It’s definitely frightening releasing the film into the world. I try very hard during the actual making of the film to forget about all the stuff that comes afterwards. It’s almost too much pressure, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s the same for actors.

PM: You almost do forget. You get into a shooting rhythm but then the hardest bit for an actor is once you’ve handed it over. I kept bumping into you in Soho during the editing and I felt like I’d given you a version of my own child and you would be like, “Yes, that was really good.” The number one rule is try to avoid your director while they’re in the edit because they’re never going to give you any information that’s going to satiate you at all.

AH: Sorry about that. [Laughs.] In truth, it’s because I’m always so nervous about what an actor is going to think of the film.

PM: Did you feel nervous with All of Us Strangers? Because from a performance side of things, I feel like it’s really strong across the four of us [including Claire Foy and Jamie Bell, who play Adam’s parents].

AH: I was never worried about the quality of the performances. You are all incredible. It’s just when you’ve made something together, trusted each other and worked so hard on something I don’t want you to be disappointed. It matters to me that you like the film. You get offered lots of roles and I always want an actor to feel like they’ve made the right choice. How did you know you wanted to do this and not do something else?

PM: Because it was the best script. It sounds basic but it goes a long way – it was the best thing I’d read in the longest time. And that’s both a testament to your talent as a screenwriter but it’s also that it just becomes immovable in my brain. Something else can come in and it might be stretching a different muscle, or it might pay more money, or it might be to work with a director I like. But this had all those things. Ultimately it was the story, and the character felt both in my wheelhouse and a perfect stretch at the same time.

AH: When I knew that you were interested in the role of Harry, I was a little bit flabbergasted.

PM: I’ve heard you say this in interviews and I’m so curious as to why because I don’t know any actor worth their salt who wouldn’t be – I’d love to know how many actors you sent it to who didn’t respond to it.

AH: Only a few. And they said no.

PM: They said no?

AH: [Laughs.] I’m not going to name any names.

PM: Did you get a flavour of why they said no?

PM: That’s why I love that part so much – because ultimately it’s a supporting part in terms of the script and what the central story is, but he’s also a supporting human being to Adam. It’s like his whole function is to put the scaffolding up around Adam to protect him.

AH: That’s a beautiful way to put it – putting up the scaffolding to help him rebuild.

PM: And then you give such amazing clues into Harry’s own world – just drip-feeding them in tiny moments. You really see that there’s almost another film to be written about Harry that mirrors Adam’s, but you have the restraint to give enough of that without taking the focus off Adam.

In general you write such actor-friendly scripts, which is why if there were a part that size in another screenwriter or director’s hands, I probably wouldn’t take it. But there was nothing about that part that felt small to me. That character has had the same impact on me as other leading roles I’ve played. That’s about the imaginative space that you allow the actor to create – it allows the audience to project.

AH: And he is so important – he’s fundamental to Adam’s change. Still, in the hands of an actor who can’t embody that character, truly understand it, then none of it works. You have this amazing ability to deepen characters – to allow us to understand that a backstory might exist, even if we don’t know what that backstory is. The minute we see you at Adam’s door I can understand the pain, the longing, the need that Harry has, all lurking between your words and gestures. That’s a rare skill. I’m not entirely sure how you do it, honestly.

PM: Andrew, it’s all there in the script. I didn’t invent anything other than the normal actor work – you gave me all the tools I needed and with such economy. Can I say that that scene is one of my favourite scenes that I’ve ever got to play in my entire life. I remember reading it and thinking that you could spend a week on that scene – there are endless alleys it could go down. And I’m so happy with how it felt – it’s the perfect blend of dangerous and sexy and sad, but it’s unclear which part of the Venn diagram it’s sitting in.

AH: And it’s such an important scene too. The film does not work without that scene landing. Although you could say that about so many of the scenes in the film. Every scene asked us all to go to some emotional places. Every scene had its challenges. Some for personal reasons and others in terms of story. When you’re working as a director, a writer or an actor, you are emotionally exposed sometimes.

I struggled a lot with that – even in the writing – how much do I reveal and how much do I hold back? There’s this Nina Simone song, Who Knows Where the Time Goes – she talks at the beginning about a quote by Faye Dunaway, who said she tried to give the audience what they wanted [in Bonnie and Clyde]. And Nina Simone says, that’s a mistake because “you use up everything you’ve got, trying to give everybody what they want”. And I think it is about trying to find that balance, isn’t it? Of, “OK, I’m prepared to give this, but I don’t want to give this.”

PM: I would forget sometimes that you conjured up these people and it is scary, in the most exciting way, to be in your company and thinking, “I know he’s hiding stuff.” Through the writing process, the shoot, the edit, were you thinking about what your lines in the sand were when it came to talking about the movie? Or is that something that came in the weeks before the press run?

AH: Yes, I tried not to think about it too much while I was doing it because it’s really dangerous when you’re making the film to think too much about how the world is going to take it and what people are going to end up asking, because I think I would close up and become afraid. But one of the things I’ve tried to understand is why do I even want to make films?

PM: Why do you want to make films?

AH: I don’t know. Most of the time it’s so painful – the stress and anxiety. But I think for anybody that works in film, there’s part of you that is probably doing it because you just want to be loved by the world. [Laughs.] And the problem is it’s an appalling industry to work in if that’s what you’re wanting.

PM: Yes, because you’ll get it one second and then you’ll lose it.

AH: I always find that fascinating because sometimes things go well and sometimes they don’t and you often can’t even understand why.

PM: What scenes did you find particularly difficult to film? One that jumps to my mind is the scene in Harry’s …

AH: ... apartment.

PM: Yes, that was one that took us ... We had to climb a couple of steps to get there. I had performance anxiety – I’d seen how beautiful your work with Andrew had been and I was like, “We’re entering the final couple of minutes of the film and if I fuck it up, it’s my fucking fault.” But it’s one of those few moments when Harry does become the focus of the film for a second.

AH: You certainly hid that anxiety well. And you nailed the scene. It’s heartbreaking. I also adore the scene between you and Andrew in the bed halfway through the film. I can’t tell you how beautiful you both are in that scene. I feel like I’ve tried to capture intimacy a lot, but there is something special going on here, the way we see you opening up to each other. It is so delicate and tender, the way you hide and reveal.

PM: But that’s what I love about the writing as well. You’ve seen versions of those scenes in films where you see a character repress or hide what he’s feeling through a smile. But the thing that is different about this scene is that there’s somebody on the other side of the bed who loves him and tells him that it’s not OK to do that. And the thing I find so upsetting about that scene is that Harry says, “I’m marginalised by my family et cetera ... but it’s fine.” And the line that devastates me is when Adam says, “But why is that OK?” It’s such a simple line.

AH: Agreed. It’s about knowing that someone cares enough about you to push a little deeper. There’s an exhalation you do in response to that question, a giggle, a gesture and then you stretch. It’s one of my favourite moments in the film. We’re so close to your face, close enough to see Harry’s mind working, asking himself if he can fall deeper into this relationship. It’s those moments I am obsessed with trying to capture. Do you plan for those moments?

PM: That’s not something I think you can prepare for as an actor. You can’t go home and do your homework and be like, “And when he says this, I’m going to stretch and make a little noise.” You just can’t.

AH: One thing that always surprises me is how you can find and sustain that feeling of intimacy with all the trappings of a film set around you. Men in shorts. Cameras in your face. I’m always amazed when actors can ignore what is going on around them.

PM: It’s because we want to be adored. [Laughs.]

AH: That’s what it is.

PM: I feel like sometimes, though, it’s blind panic. Because I think acting has the capacity to be the most embarrassing thing that any of us ever do. And it can be in an instant. I’ve seen actors that I really admire do bad, embarrassing things. When you’re in a scene where that’s heightened – say, if your body is on show or there’s an emotional weight to a scene – weirdly, if you’re working with good actors, you can just throw a bubble around yourselves and white-knuckle it. Andrew Scott is just outrageously good.

AH: And you are outrageously good together. We see you fall in love on screen. We believe every moment of it. It feels so genuine.

PM: When you feel close with an actor like that, like with Andrew, it allows a real-life intimacy and a trust that I’ve only had a couple of times – obviously with Daisy [Edgar-Jones] in Normal People, and Andrew, and Saoirse in Foe. It has nothing to do with talent. Saoirse and Andrew are actually quite similar. They’ve got this well of emotionality where all you have to do when you’re in scenes with them is sit there and listen to what they’re saying. Normally they’ll find a way to unlock you.

It sounds reductive but you don’t have to do anything when you’re working with brilliant actors like that. I would say the size of the performance in Foe is much more robust than Strangers, which is big but it’s also restrained and subdued. In Foe, me and Saoirse just had to plant our feet and really go from the gut.

AH: That’s the skill of it, isn’t it? Because you have to understand what the film needs.

PM: I’d say that there’s a similar performance style across all of your films – and that’s the one thing I love about my job, that you get to go into different jobs with different actors, like Saoirse and Andrew, and you put on different hats and you figure it out. Would you say there’s a performance style that you’re interested in generally?

AH: I’d say there is a tone to my films to which a performance style is integral. Although I’m not very good at being able to articulate what that style is. I guess actors will have watched my films before they want to work with me, so instinctually understand the timbre of the performance I like. We usually don’t need to talk about it.

PM: We never actually spoke about it.

AH: But I think that’s the joy of when you’ve made a few films. You can have a reference of what you like. That’s why our choices are important. The choices we make define the kind of person we are. That’s why I wanted to work with you so much. The projects you choose are always interesting. And you’ve had a crazy few years. How does that feel?

PM: It’s a hard question ... Because I never expected this to happen. I had ambitions, of course, but I could never have expected that this would be where I was going to land. Being in drama school, I remember teachers telling me the statistic was something like “only 16 to 20 per cent of you will ever work as an actor”. So I remember getting my first job in theatre and thinking, “That’s it. Somebody has decided to pay me to do the thing that I love.” And then fast forward five years – it’s the thing that I love most in the world and I’m getting to do it with directors that I admire greatly.

I’m learning, though, that there’s only so long I can continue going at this rate before it starts to take away from my life – but right now is the time to put the foot down and really work hard.

AH: And now you’re doing your first huge movie.

PM: Gladiator comes across your desk and there’s no way you say no to it. But with this scale of film, and to work with Ridley Scott, it’s a no-brainer. Up until this point there have been very few larger films that remotely interested me.

AH: But this is Gladiator. This is not your average blockbuster.

PM: It feels really right. And also there’s the capacity to learn. It’s the first time that I’ve felt a pressure of, “God, I’m worried about box office receipts.” It’s a different metric. But Ridley shoots at a very different rhythm – he’s quick and it’s kinetic and wonderful. He knows exactly what he wants. It honestly reminds me of sport in a way that is really satisfying.

AH: Plus you get to dress up as a gladiator.

PM: We left that point out. That’s the best bit.

AH: You’re going to make a lot of people very happy!'

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levmada · 2 years

Text

Untouchable

summary: A picture of Levi's childhood, and how Kenny taught him to be strong—as well as how he'd never be strong enough.

content/warnings: lots of physical/verbal abuse against a child (Levi), hurt/no comfort, self-hatred, Ackerman powers, complicated relationship, poor poor kid!Levi, canonverse, brief description of starvation, canon-typical violence, insomnia, descriptions of death, mostly a whump, underage drinking (for one scene), injuries

wc: 8.6k

If Levi had learned anything while living with Kenny—well, everything was an opportunity to learn. He learned that as soon as he ate his second-ever meal after meeting Kenny. He had been sat down in front of him at a table in a real kitchen in a real dilapidated little hideout, but that first time Levi stuffed his face with bread at that bar was the only time Kenny ever fed him.

During that second meal, Kenny suddenly reached across the table and smacked him, making him flinch. Levi quit chewing and stared at Kenny, confused and a little scared.

“Levi. Lesson one: Don’t stuff food down your throat. First”—Kenny held up a long finger—“You’ll choke. Second”—he raised another—“You’re fucking tiny, skin n’ bones, and pale as a damn ghost. You look dead already, but you don’t want ‘em to know you’re starvin’, too. Act like you got your shit together.”

Levi was starving—he was still so hungry, even though he met Kenny yesterday—that the speech almost entirely went over his head. He chewed slowly, peering up at Kenny across the table through a thick veil of bangs.

He pondered the ‘them’ he had to make sure didn’t know he was starving. The bumbling pig of a man who always told Momma what to do, whose talking voice he never heard because he was always yelling, who he learned to hide from after… who…

Levi didn’t want to think about her.

“Like a man?” he asked.

Kenny leaned back in his seat with his arm thrown over the chair back. Levi thought he looked pretty cool. “Like anybody.”

As young as he was, he already knew too well that nobody cared about anybody down here. But still: Even you? Levi wanted to ask, but had Kenny saved him, so of course the answer was no.

Instead he quietly asked, “...Am I holding it wrong too?”

Levi was holding a brick-hard loaf of bread.

Kenny blinked blandly at him. “If you were on the Surface, yeah people’d point and laugh at ya. Down here, protect your food, Levi.”

People Above must’ve had access to plenty of food, then, which was such a strange concept that Levi stopped chewing. They sounded so alien to him. Just how he pictured a living fish swimming through some water Above (lakes or streams or ponds… which he didn't know the difference between) compared to the fleshy rotted ones he saw once being sold at the markets he used to go to.

Levi felt other to Above people then, and he always would. Kenny never let him forget that they’d always look down on someone like Levi—unless he proved them wrong.

“How?” He’d one day ask.

“Idiot. By kickin’ their asses. Make ‘em piss themselves. With power… you can get anything you want in this world.”

That conversation would come later. For now he put the idea of being pointed and laughed at out of his mind. He’d never go Above to have that happen to him.

Kenny spoke again. “Lesson two, while I’m at it: Don’t give me that shitty look when I discipline you for doin’ somethin’ stupid. Don’t be a brat. In fact, don’t flinch like you just did.”

He was confused. “But I… couldn’t help it.”

Opening his mouth was a mistake. Kenny knocked him upside the head, so hard—or maybe Levi being so weak—that he rocked in his chair, his hand flying up to his ear. It felt numb and weirdly hot.

“Don’t back talk me, you brat. You don’t know shit about shit yet, so lemme tell ya: You can, and you will.”

Kenny was never more lenient with his lessons than he’d been from the start. There were many of all kinds, because Kenny took it upon himself to teach him how to survive: How to tell who was a threat, if he was being followed, whether food had rotted or was poisoned, how to haggle a deal to get exactly what he wanted (which Levi failed at consistently, no matter how hard he tried; he didn’t know what to say or how to make his tone sound convincing, thus Kenny put twice as much pressure on him to wield his knife), how to walk and how to carry himself—but Kenny’s main goal was always to make Levi strong.

He even made Levi cut his hair on his own. He finds it disturbing now how much that shocked him then. “Brat,” Kenny muttered as he fished some sheers out of a drawer in the bathroom. “Kuchel must’ve spoiled you rotten.”

Levi kept quiet and his head down, his fists curled by his sides. His bangs flopped pitifully over his eyes, long enough to tickle his nose. The more he was reminded of Momma, the less he wanted to think about her. It hurt, all the time, and he blamed himself. It was his fault for being too reliant on her not to leave their room, and too weak to make someone help. If he’d just been strong enough, he could have done something—at least to ease her pain.

Not that Kenny talked about her much. He stopped talking about her at all when Levi once pointed out a hunched figure at the building stoop and asked what was wrong with her legs. They were atrophied to the bone, and trembling all over.

“There’s a chance somethin’ goes wrong with yer legs if you go all yer life without seein’ the sun.”

Levi, at this point used to the sight of bodies, evenly faced ahead again. “Oh. Okay.”

“Is that how yer mom went? Tell me takin’ your scrawny ass in wasn’t a waste of time if yer legs are gonna give out anyway.”

Levi hastened to put together a worthy answer. It wouldn’t kill him if he didn’t want to answer that question, but he wanted to please Kenny, especially in case he talked more about what she was like before Levi was born.

“No,” Levi answered haltingly. “I actually coulda done something. If I was like you.”

Kenny stopped walking, so Levi stopped too. His face was twisted in a disgusted grimace. “Tch. Well you didn’t, and you aren’t. You oughta not turn into a guy like me anyway. You’d be one annoying bastard.”

Oh. Levi grasped for information about Momma instead. “Did she not like you?”

“Ha…” Kenny looked wistful for a second. “Forget it. She’s dead, kid. End of story.”

It was time to keep moving. Kenny surprised Levi by briefly ruffling his hair before pushing him to get a move-on.

Which came with the expectation of being able to keep up with Kenny when Levi only reached as tall as his waist. Naturally this earned him names. Mostly 'shorty’, and Kenny’s laughter when Levi insisted he’d get taller if Kenny just gave him a fucking chance. By the last time Levi ever saw his retreating back, his height had stagnated at around Kenny’s stomach.

Some lessons were harsher than others. The most pain Levi had ever experienced was at Kenny’s expense, but he learned so brutally well because Kenny was brutal—not that he was capable of being gentle.

And Levi never doubted his intentions. Kenny must’ve picked him up when Levi was inches from death’s door for some reason.

Even sleep was a lesson which Levi would learn.

After Kenny took him in, it was strange. Levi slept more restlessly than he’d ever had in his short life. When he woke up, he’d sometimes be crying and not know why, swiftly wiping the tears away, angry at his body for betraying him. He mused that he had slept better when his body was physically struggling to function, after those countless days with desert-like saliva caked in his mouth, and dozing, not eating.

Kenny didn’t afford him any luxury whatsoever, but Levi had a mattress to sleep on with a pretty thick cotton blanket. He was once breaking over the edge of sleep when he was ripped to wakefulness by being snatched around his middle, pinned on his stomach, and below him appeared a blade that glinted in the darkness, reflected off the faint glow of streetlamps outside.

Gasping, Levi elbowed his assailant in the stomach—like he’d been taught to do if someone ever got his back. He’d never been so relieved to hurt Kenny, though when he was dropped, it seemed much more like Kenny letting him than Levi genuinely catching him off guard.

“You’re too damn slow.”

Levi whirled around, kicked the blanket away and backed up against the wall, staring at him wide-eyed. Blood spotted Kenny’s trenchcoat, where he crouched evenly, staring back like Levi was an idiot.

“Huh?”

Kenny punctured the mattress with his blade, making him jump. “Don’t be stupid, Levi. You think someone’s gonna wait to attack you just 'cause you’re asleep? When your guard’s down is the best chance anyone’s got of killin’ you.

"Don’t gimme that look. I’m teachin’ you a lesson, here.”

Levi was fully awake now. He thought of defending himself by saying he kept his knife under his pillow, but either way, Kenny had gotten the drop on him. Levi would’ve died if he was anyone else, and he probably wouldn’t even know who killed him.

“So what do I do?” he spat, glaring defiantly. “Don’t fucking sleep?”

Kenny ignored him. At some point, because of Kenny or not, Levi stopped shrinking down when he was spoken down to. One day, his shitty attitude would be stuck to him all the time, even if he didn’t mean it. For twenty-some years, it didn’t benefit him to act polite.

“Be ready to defend yerself just like if you were awake.”

So Levi… exercised his rampant sleeplessness in a way. Even before his voice dropped he had had it hammered into him to be disciplined, and so he could discipline himself just as well.

Whenever he slept on the mattress, he tended to sleep deeply, and so he kept getting reprimanded for reacting too slowly after Kenny cut, kicked, or slapped him awake.

So came him sleeping sitting up in the back corner of his small room so he had full view of his surroundings. He figured out if he stopped using the blanket, he’d sleep lighter, and he did—but there was also something about sitting up against the wall.

He’d withstood her… decomposing for as long as possible, clinging to her. It had never even occurred to Levi to get up, because who else did he have in this world, back then? Everyone he could go to despised that he’d been born in a place like that, and the women looked after themselves, in the end. There was nothing they could do for him.

But her skin became cold and thin, stretched over her bones. Losing all color and luster, even her hair so she finally blended in with the dirty corners and damp walls. Smells started to rise, besides the stench of death he’d never forget, and little living things squirmed and began to eat her, and so Levi crawled out of the bed.

He can’t remember if he apologized or not for leaving her. He hopes he did.

Now sitting sat up in that same way, even though the place and time was different, made him constantly alert. He replaced his blanket with his knife, clasped in his hand at all times.

Night by night, Levi figured out how much sleep he needed in order to function. It was always hard to tell time of day in the Underground, so he tuned into his surroundings, and based starting the day on the people he could hear around outside when the day seemed to begin, at “dawn”—earlier than when Kenny gets him up. Over time, whenever Kenny tested him again, he would snap awake to him feet away, his knife instinctively raised.

Kenny laughed thickly. “You even look like I’m here to kill ya. Keep it up,” he said.

That was the last of Kenny’s lessons on sleep.

But Levi wouldn’t understand until later what lengths Kenny would really go to to make him strong. With the knowledge that Kenny was the strongest and most talked-about person in the Underground, Levi first tried to imitate him.

Levi didn’t often get to join Kenny to do… whatever he did when he was on his own. Only as far as Levi knew, Kenny spilled a lot of blood. One night when he’d came back, more blood than normal stained his coat, especially red near his shoulder.

But he seemed to be in a good mood while he drank from a tankard on the threadbare sofa, his booted feet kicked up on a stool. The rooms were connected in such a way that the room was open from there to the kitchen, so Levi watched him while he ate dinner, which was a mushy apple and a couple shreds of dried meat.

Even if Levi didn’t know all about what a drunk person looked, acted, and especially smelled like, the high, bitter stink of the alcohol was all over him. He was smiling to himself bitterly, and mumbled things between swigs that Levi couldn’t make out.

Silently, Levi took his tin cup of water, and placed it on the seat of an adjacent chair.

“Are you gonna drink all that, or what? I’m tired of smelling it.”

Kenny peeled his eyes open. Pushing his bangs back, he grinned drunkenly at him. “Hah? Oh, I see. You thirsty?”

“...Maybe.”

Levi was fairly confident that since he couldn’t draw the kind of respect from his strength that Kenny did, yet, if he copied him more then that got him one step closer. Plus, Levi wasn’t used to seeing someone drunk and happy at the same time, either. It was pleasantly strange.

Kenny leveled him with a lazy smirk, then hefted himself to his feet with another scoff. It didn’t seem like he was too drunk. He didn’t stumble on the way over, and firmly planted the tankard down in front of Levi, so hard a few drops flew out.

“Alright, boy. Try it. Maybe you’ll like it.”

It was filled with a bubbly-looking glazed liquid just under halfway, but it was a large tankard just the same.

Levi raised himself up and sat on his knees to be taller, and sniffed it warily.

Kenny leaned on the table, smiling lopsidedly. “Hurry up. You wanna act grown up, right?—You wanna be like me? Then drink it, Levi. If you don’t, that’ll really hurt my feelings,” he drawled.

This thinly-veiled threat didn’t go over Levi’s head, and especially not next to Kenny sniffing out Levi’s real intentions.

But it was unthinkable to back out now. He put on a straight face as he took it up by the sides, tilted it back, and then jolted as Kenny overturned it completely, dousing Levi’s nostrils and eyes.

It was disgusting. Cruelly sour but somehow tangy, suffocatingly thick. Beer stung his eyes, he coughed so hard his gag reflex started to flex, all the while Kenny laughed his ass off in the background. He flung the tankard at the wall, where it knocked off and rolled around sadly on the floor, like it was disappointed in Levi for not drinking it.

"Still wanna be like ol’ Kenny?” Kenny shambled forward and kicked Levi’s chair out, but this time he reacted in time. He dropped down just in time and took on a defensive stance, still coughing. “What about it? You wanna another drink?”

“Fuck off!” Levi rasped. “This is… a shitty lesson.”

Kenny looked over curiously, as if just noticing the damage he had caused. “Nah. This is a lesson in peer pressure. And also not bein’ a fucking idiot.”

Levi focused on his training after that. Day and night, cuts and bandages, blades and flesh.

Levi’s hardest lesson would be the most rewarding in the end. One day, Kenny told him to get dressed, and he followed without any idea of where they were going.

So he asked: “Are we just gonna walk around all day and wait to get robbed?”

Kenny grinned down at him, the one that spread wide enough so that Levi could almost see his canines. “I’m gonna make you strong, rat. I think it's time.”

Levi frowned, but he felt a rare blip of excitement, too. He’d never been so direct, even though for these past few years, he’s always been teaching Levi to survive. This, for the first time, felt like it was leading up to something.

In the lower Underground districts, Levi felt confident walking alongside the strongest—and most intimidating—person in the whole world, or what might as well be. That underlying wet stink of blood, sewage, all things suffering that he could never get used to felt less suffocating then.

Especially in the lower districts where they were, where it hung much thicker, where the denizens were a lot more dangerous. This way was abandoned. Garbage lined the broken streets.

Levi had no idea where they were going, so he closed his hand on the knife in his pocket.

He counted the corners they turned. Left… right, right…….left…right…

The biggest man Levi had ever seen burst out from behind an abandoned cart—he knew this based solely on the sheer size of him, and it wasn’t in the fat way. One of his biceps was as big as Levi’s head.

The attacker charged at them—no, him! Levi easily used his height to his advance to dodge, but he did it so his back was towards the cart. A lithe woman with a face like a crow’s appeared from behind him and swept her leg out, meaning to trip him. He dodged once again, flipping backwards and landing easily on his feet.

“KENNY!” Levi snapped his head towards Kenny for support, but while the big man set his sights on Levi like a bull, Kenny leaned casually against the brick on the other side of the street, watching as if judging an apple to see if it was rotten.

The attackers didn’t even speak. One look was in their distant eyes, and it was dangerous. They meant to kill him.

The woman ripped out a knife and went for him again, but he was ready. This was no time to hesitate. He pulled her arm, yanked her down to his level, and kneed her in the chest. She made a noise like popping a paper bag before Levi sunk his blade into the side of her throat.

This was no time to hesitate.

He didn’t rip it out in time. With the ease of kicking a ragdoll, the big man kicked him. When the dirty cobblestone hit Levi, he actually bounced off it at first before landing.

Down came the man’s knuckles. For a split-second he could wonder how weird it was that his knuckles looked covered in armor when metal, brass, smashed his cheek. Pain exploded and gripped his head.

He cried out and tossed his head to the side. He couldn’t use his arms—his hands were pinned under his attacker’s knees.

Levi went with his leg. If he got it behind the man to kick him in the kidney, it would hurt like a bitch enough to for Levi to get an advantage—but the man was too big. He was like a monster.

Surprisingly, the next punch landed on Levi’s side, then his gut, coughing up all the air from his lungs. Instinctively his body bowed back, trying to get away, but he was trapped.

Levi tossed his head back for the woman’s corpse and his knife, but she was slumped over, his blade too far out of reach.

And as quickly as he looked, his attention was yanked back as the attacker nailed him in the chest, making him shout. Pain dense and dull shook his ribcage.

Out of options, Levi wrenched his head to the side. The man’s arm was braced beside his head. He sunk in his teeth, and ripped out a chunk of flesh.

Howling, the man punched him again. And again. And again. Until even the mind-numbing pain felt far away.

“Kenny, help…” Levi whimpered. Did he say that? Or just think it?

Two gunshots in quick succession split the air above, though it felt blocks away, and then Levi was being smothered by dead weight that had crashed on top of him.

He groaned miserably, heaving, and wiggled free with all the strength he had left, crawling like a worm. Somehow he succeeded, and lay on his side, coughing violently and smearing stinging blood from his eyes.

“Get up, Levi.”

Kenny’s voice sounded like it came from far away, too.

“Are you dead, or what? My friend there didn’t punch you in the legs.”

Kenny sighed, and disappointment was heavy in it. “By the way, you failed.”

The pain. The pain ate into Levi’s bones like a sickness, it was all he could think about. He had never hurt this bad. He didn’t think it was possible to fit this much pain into his body.

He forced himself to pull in deep breaths. Still. The knowledge that this had been the test, and that he’d failed somehow made it all hurt worse.

“Get up, rat,” Kenny ordered.

Kenny never repeated himself.

Levi slowly heaved himself to his hands and knees. Beads of sweat dripped off his forehead and landed on the cobblestone between his hands, and this sight was somehow more shameful than if—

No, he was bleeding too, bleeding from all over his face. He wasn’t just ashamed—he was totally fucking useless.

He shoved himself to his feet, swayed, then looked up at Kenny, who looked completely ambivalent to Levi’s blood and the two corpses some feet away.

“Don’t look at me. Get yer knife, you idiot,” he retorted.

“Right.” His voice was small, but firm. He straightened up, his fists curled tightly by his sides, and shuffled over to the corpse of the woman. When he crouched, he almost fell over.

Taking back his knife was easy, but it was as disgusting as the rest of him.

He wiped the blood off on her shirt in two simple strokes. If he didn’t keep himself looking as neat as possible, Kenny would discipline him. If his knife rusted because of the blood, Kenny would discipline him.

Levi, his heart clenching with guilt, just had to tell himself that it didn’t matter. Dead was dead.

He somehow rose to his feet again.

Silent, Kenny stuffed his gun back on his belt, and turned around. Levi followed.

Breathing in felt like fire. Breathing out worsened the stitch in his side. Moving one foot in front of another felt more like pushing boulders, and like a haze, this all hung around his mind. This pain was dreamy. A dream where his whole world meant staying on his feet—despite his hearing screeching in and out, despite his surroundings outside Kenny turning fuzzy at the edges—with Kenny in his sights. To march and march at Kenny’s back forever. The destination meant nothing, because Kenny knew where they were going. Because Kenny would never not be leading the way…

The dream abruptly ended when Kenny’s face suddenly appeared again, and he reared his leg back.

Levi hit the ground on his bad side. The pain was too loud to hear himself, but he thought he screamed. The white-hot shock of it was, for a second, his whole entire life.

He started getting a handle on his surroundings just in time to see the sole of Kenny’s boot when he kicked him in the side again.

“I’m gonna keep goin’ until you quit whining! Bitchin’ and moanin’ ain’t ever gonna help you, Levi!”

But he couldn’t help it.

The pain was too loud. Right now it blocked out everything. Kenny’s voice faded in and out as though through water.

Levi cried out wetly as he was kicked in the back, and involuntarily, he rolled onto his other side, facing Kenny. He curled up into the most protective position possible, with his arms shielding his head, still moaning. “Kenny! KENNY!—Fucking, stop! It hurts…”

When Kenny didn’t stop, didn’t even respond but to nail him in the shoulder, Levi knew he had no choice but to do what Kenny said. If Kenny said he had to do something, then Levi had to. Not even his human nature was immune to Kenny’s teaching.

Levi couldn’t tell when or where a hit was coming to promptly muffle himself—all he could feasibly do was shut up, or shut up and get up, and his legs felt like strings. The pain screamed through his mind.

Be strong…

Kenny kicked him a couple more times, but besides a grunt, Levi bit his tongue and tensed up every muscle in his body. That way didn’t feel so much like getting kicked with a hammer, which was really Kenny’s boot.

"Does it still hurt, kid?” Kenny didn’t even sound winded.

Levi swallowed thickly, panting. He tasted blood on his tongue and inhaled wetly. His nose was bleeding. But coughing counted as bitching and moaning, didn’t it? Stuttering or rasping. Weak. Whining or whimpering and especially crying, weak.

“No,” Levi said, voice firm.

The scrape of dirt could be heard as Kenny stepped back. Levi stared ahead at his tall black leather boots. Somehow, Kenny never scuffed them while he was beating the shit out of him.

Levi thought almost deliriously, that whenever he'd find himself in Kenny’s shoes, then he’d learn how to do that too. How could Kenny not only be so strong, but so… untouchable?

His boot charged again. Levi’s stomach. He tensed and squeezed his fists, but he was silent. It didn’t happen again.

“Good job,” Kenny said, like he expected that of Levi all along.

Good job? Levi squeezed his eyes shut. Good job good job good job good

“Yeah, you look like a beat dog, n’ I bet you feel like one, too, but whoever’s beating you won’t know that. No matter what… you still got some advantage.”

Kenny stepped forward. Levi braced himself for the moment he’s kicked in the face, but Kenny merely slid his boot forward, and lifted Levi’s chin up to look at him. From this angle, he looked miles above him.

“You understand why I’m finally teachin’ you this. That’s cuz it’s a hard-ass lesson. At least you succeeded in somethin’ today. You aren’t so scared since you made yourself quit that shit, huh. It’s called keepin’ yourself together. And you’re stronger for it. Don’t let anybody ever know your weaknesses, Levi. Do ya understand your teacher?”

“I understand,” Levi croaked.

Satisfied, Kenny let his chin drop. “Good, kid. Now you’re gettin’ the hang of this. Let’s get back.”

Levi blinked. He was still processing the way he’d been praised—so rare a thing with Kenny’s lessons.

The pain meant less when Levi both buried it somewhere so deep he couldn't feel it, and did well because of that. With the words still heating his face, he pushed himself to his feet, giving himself no time to register the way moving felt like blows of their own.

Yeah, it hurt, but that was the point, wasn’t it? He understood what Kenny was teaching him. When it came to his lessons, Kenny was never cruel for no reason.

This lesson hurt like hell, but Levi had overcome his very human nature because of it. An enemy could never fully take advantage of him, and Underground, an enemy could be found in anyone.

He was beginning to be strong.

Good, kid.

It was a few weeks later when the worst thing that could’ve happened, happened.

Levi had been frustrated, to say the least, after another failure at Kenny’s test. He could never seem to overpower his enemies before Kenny’s gun rang off, ending the test. To be fair, Kenny put him up against enemies bigger, stronger, and faster than even Levi, but he didn’t even feel like he was improving. The most he’d gleaned from these fights were injuries.

He made his breathing short and tight and balanced his weight evenly on both his feet—he’d diagnosed himself with a bruised rib and something wrong with his ankle.

Levi always took care of his own injuries. The challenge right now was not seeming weak in front of Kenny.

But Kenny could tell, he felt. A cold sweat had broken out on the back of his neck from his constant stare as Levi went about taking account of what food they had stored.

The afternoon was no time to rest, and there was never a time to be useless.

Don’t be weak. Don’t, Levi repeated internally, especially as his midsection screamed when he crouched down, in search of something—a can of broth maybe. He had to eat enough to fuel his body.

At the table behind Levi was where Kenny sat, arms crossed with both his legs kicked up on the table. Levi didn’t understand why he was lingering, unless Kenny felt like taking a day off from killing Military Police.

All that sat on shelves and cupboards taller than Levi were cobwebs (if he had gone too long without cleaning them). Seeing how Kenny hardly ate here, Levi got to organize his way, which he was grateful for. He was grateful for any leniency Kenny showed him, but he tried not to be, and focused on his lessons. If Kenny wasn’t harsh, it would’ve been easier for Levi to be robbed, or murdered, or starve to death.

If only he could rise to the occasion and be strong. He didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he was sure he’d understand when he passed Kenny’s test.

A dented can of sardines.

Before he ate, Levi washed his hands in the basin of water that he had pumped this morning. It was disgusting, so he reminded himself to retrieve the cleanest water possible later, after Kenny was gone. Levi never felt like he could relax, but around Kenny, he especially felt the pressure to meet a certain standard.

Not that he particularly looked forward to Kenny leaving. It would hurt like hell to try and bathe and clean up around the place, but he was determined to. If there was nothing else he could help, he could help his hygiene, and the hygiene of his surroundings. He was scared of getting sick, like her, but other than that, the feeling was hard to describe. He would just… feel better.

Cleanliness didn’t matter to Kenny as far as anything other than appearances went, but living Underground didn’t mean he had to be dirty… like before. He wouldn’t be able to calm down and feel any ease until then.

He had his work cut out for him. Blood had scabbed on his throat, and pasted the collar of his shirt to his chest in an odd, itchy way. He felt bruises forming on his legs, his chest, but if he looked now, he knew they’d only hurt more. He’d want to rest. But this was not the time.

Don’t don’t don’t, he thought.

Levi sat down, straight-faced. He was almost tall enough now for his feet to touch the floor when he sat in this chair. There was more than one, but he preferred to sit in the same one every time, the one facing the door.

He peeled open the can and kept that expression even when the oily fish smell rose up. It was a disgusting stench that bore into his nostrils, but the way saliva pooled in his mouth at the idea of food, any food, felt otherwise. He was hungry, so he’d eat. He protected the can with his arm and stuffed his face with a fork. It felt and tasted like grey slimy mush on his tongue.

In his peripheral sat Kenny, whose expression was unreadable. Levi could speak whenever he wanted and not get reprimanded as long as it wasn’t a stupid question, so he asked, "When do I get to try again?”

Kenny grunted. “Who knows? You know what to expect when an enemy is face-to-face with ya Levi, but yer never gonna know who’s comin’ when unless you get good enough to predict it.”

It would be a mystery, then. He wasn’t good enough yet.

Levi swallowed the fish, and raised his head. It felt like he was being watched.

A brick shattered the window to his left, followed by shouts. Eyes wide, he instinctively ducked down and dropped to a crouch, gritting his teeth as his breath automatically started coming out in gasps. Something was wrong with his rib, for sure.

He dodged out of the way of a young man swinging a dagger, which made a whistling sound as it cut through the air, and juked around the side of the table so the man missed him and ran into the wooden kitchen counter instead. This, just as another man, a more gaunt one, hopped in through the jagged remains of the window.

Levi’s knife was outstretched as they circled each other briefly.

Of course, his teacher hadn’t moved. His arms were still crossed but his leg was now balanced on his knee, slouched with his hat pulled over his eyes, like he was pretending to be asleep. In the middle of all this shit.

The table almost went crashing down on Levi as it was heaved up in his direction. He slid out of the way just nearly, and used his size to his advantage to leap forward and slice the hell out of the gaunt attacker’s achilles heel, and then he plunged the blade into his stomach. The man howled and fell to his knees.

He nearly got out of the way of the other. He was snagged back by his shirt into the attacker’s arms. He tried wrenching around, but his chest injury made his movements stiff and too slight.

He was pushed down to the unforgiving floor. A boot stomped him on the chest, making Levi shout, now shaking all over from the pain. The world twisted and twirled. It looked like there were two of the men again.

And then he didn’t roll in time. He was wrenched up by his hair with cold steel on his throat when the grip went slack as quickly as it came. The thick choking smell of gunpowder clouded the air as Kenny ended the test.

Levi fell down on his side, totally limp, followed by something huge and heavy. The corpse of the man. His face had landed in Levi’s neck, and blood poured out of the gaping gunshot wound in that throat. He was still in his death throes, convulsing, sputtering and croaking.

He gasped, tears of exertion sticking on his lashes as he kicked, then kicked again to get the leverage enough to roll onto his stomach, freed. His whole chest felt like it was stapled together, his heartbeat like a drumline. With every thrum, the sides of his vision pounded.

He needed to get up. He tried to get up, but his hands and knees felt like twigs, burning and devoid. Physically unable, he dropped back down with a groan, but at least he wasn’t crying.

In the background, wood scraped the floor. Levi silently curled into a tighter ball and protected his head. Hot blood like a sheet had ran down his neck, staining his shirt, and—did his throat get cut? Unlike earlier, had he somehow fucked up that badly? All he could think about, if he was going to die, was how much his and Kenny’s efforts would have been for nothing if he bled out on this floor.

But Kenny wouldn’t let that happen in the first place, Levi believed that. They weren’t close, they weren’t even friends, but he could rely on Kenny. Even when Levi failed, Kenny wouldn’t abandon him…

Darkness ate Levi’s vision, and awareness floated away from him rapidly, like a cut balloon.

When he woke up, the pain had completely transformed. His skull pounded like too much cotton had been stuffed in his head, and every inhale felt like wire tightening, gripping his chest. Something must’ve been broken.

He felt used-up. But at least he was laying down.

Wait. He was laying on a mattress? He saw a faint glow behind his eyelids, which meant light. The amount of light meant it had to be a lantern.

For a moment, he kept still, listening for any sounds, any clues to what was happening and where he was. He heard some kind of button snapping shut. Something metal clattered.

Opening his eyes into slits, he spotted Kenny crouched and pulling cans of what appeared to be food out of a paper bag, scrutinizing them closely, and then letting some drop. Loudly. It seemed like Kenny had carried him to his room, and even mended his injuries. Under the old blanket he never slept with anymore, Levi was shirtless. Leaned up against the base of the lantern was some kind of small satchel.

Grunting softly, he forced his arms behind him to lift himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain, until he was sat up against the wall.

Kenny didn’t acknowledge him with his eyes. “You’re pretty damn useless, kid, you know that?”

Levi stared at his lap. Instead of answering a rhetorical question, he felt his side, sensing a tightness that hadn’t been there before. It was indeed bandaged. Even worse, at the foot of the bed his ankle was also wrapped, and propped up on a pillow. His cheeks glowed hot with embarrassment.

“Pitiful, too. But I ain’t gonna be the one to pity you. I jus’ wanna see what happens if you stay alive.”

“You didn’t have to do this… I wasn’t gonna die.” His voice grated from disuse, and he wondered how much time he’d wasted being asleep. He was even shaking, he was so humiliated. Kenny never bandaged him. Never so much as gave him the bandages.

Kenny paused. “I know. You’re not like your mother.”

Levi froze, but Kenny’s face gave nothing away. He looked as clean and put-together as always, just missing his hat and his coat. “This is a loan. Doin’ what I did just now was stupid of me for what I’m about to tell ya, but I’m tired of seein’ you fail.”

Levi grit his teeth and dropped his eyes again, silent.

“I get it now. You think cuz of all I’ve done, I’m gonna be there to save your scrawny ass no matter what. But guess what?—Look at me, Levi!”

When Kenny took his shoulder, he looked up, his face carefully neutral. He didn’t know what to think, except that this shame was so immense he wished Kenny had just left him there on the floor.

Kenny’s eyes were heavy and grave. “No one’s ever gonna look after you.” He huffed in amusement. “With that shitty look on yer face all the time, yer probably not gonna make any friends anyway, but even if you do, no one’s gonna keep you alive other than you.

"This world don’t give a shit if you live or die, and it especially don’t want ya. Livin’ or dyin’s a choice you’re gonna make on your own. D’you understand me?”

“…I understand,” Levi breathed, locking his throat. For some reason, he could never stamp down his emotions completely. He wanted to cry.

Kenny pushed him away. “Don’t gimme that look. You look the same way you did when we met. It’s pathetic.”

Feeling repulsed, Levi faced ahead, but he definitely still looked as tired as he felt.

“You’ve gotten too comfortable clingin’ to me. And ain’t no one clings to Kenny the Ripper but women" —he laughed— "so I’m leavin’ you for awhile. You’re no good to me weak. By then, you better be ready to try again.

“And the rules are gonna be a little different next time. Try not to die.”

Would the enemies be even stronger?—Would Kenny intervene to help instead of kill them at the end? Levi assumed both would be the case.

He wondered where Kenny was going, and for how long. But maybe it’d be safer for him to assume he didn’t plan on coming back anytime soon—that was his whole point.

"Got it,” Levi muttered.

He wouldn’t see Kenny again for a whole month, but Levi trained every day like he was going to come back tomorrow. Nursing his own wounds was obnoxious, since they never seemed to heal fast enough. He constantly felt like an easy target whenever he left the hideout for supplies.

The front door being knocked open startled him from the kitchen table. He’d been a good hour into sharpening his knife back into a point when Kenny appeared, looking the same as ever.

Unsurprisingly, he gave no indication of when he’d test Levi next, and as he had learned, it could happen where he slept. He watched his back all the time, even through Kenny’s other lessons, but Levi made sure his performance didn’t suffer because of it.

Some weeks later. He was carrying a bag of food back from the nearby market when three people in plainclothes split off from a spot where they’d been smoking, and started towards him.

Levi didn’t know what Kenny was paying them to potentially forfeit their lives for Levi’s training, but he had learned that it was easier to think of them as obstacles instead. Levi didn’t take after killing like Kenny did, but Kenny had advised him not to be like him, anyway.

This time they were all men. One had a pistol that he aimed down at Levi off the bat, so he threw up the bag as a distraction, ran and leaped on the nearest one’s back as he shot frantically, so this man became like a human shield.

“Shit!”

Levi grunted as he was tossed about. The bullet had hit the human shield in the arm and shoulder, so he could only use one to try and shake Levi off.

Levi stabbed the man in the throat before this could happen and jumped back down, still on his feet.

The one with the gun was a blond man. He aimed like a blind man, making it easy for Levi to cut his hand, forcing the gun to drop, which Levi kicked away. Then he plunged his knife into the blond's thigh, who dropped to his knees moaning. But still alive.

This time he didn’t get it back. He elbowed the other coming up behind him in the gut, but this wasn’t enough to phase a grown man, and so Levi found himself being hefted up, his back pinned to the man’s chest. The blond rose on weary legs, now wielding a knife of his own, and bracing his bloody thigh with his other hand.

This was fucking humiliating.

“LET ME GO! Fucker, die!” Levi screamed. He kicked wildly, gave it more thought, and struck back at the knee of the enemy holding him. Then he kicked at his knife still lodged in the thigh of the blond, dislodging it so he flopped down like a fish on his side, wailing.

“Stop it… Stop it, gods,” the blond moaned.

Levi got away from the fatter man when he stumbled. Brute force worked in his favor this time, so he managed to kick and wiggle free.

He landed on his knees, rolled, snatched his knife back, and tore the blade across the blond’s throat.

Levi had no illusions that he was in good shape, even though it was one against one now. Hot blood kept trying to trickle into his vision, and his knee felt somehow twisted from where he had just landed.

But he had a chance.

The bigger man had eyes so dark they looked nearly black. He stood and widened his stance, silently goading him, Well? Fight me.

Levi threw his dagger, and it landed off its target, in the man’s shoulder. Apparently, he wasn’t too big that he couldn’t dodge.

He grunted, then surged forward like a steamroller.

There was no way Levi could fight him using brute force here. He was outmatched.

Once he was almost right on top of him, Levi ducked between his legs, hooked his elbows around his shins and shoved, but the man only stumbled. He didn’t fall down, and so he whirled around, shoving Levi down into the stone by his shoulders, face-first.

Levi grunted as one of his arms landed behind his back, held by such a hand that could’ve easily closed around both his arms instead of one.

One of Levi’s shoulders dug into the dirt, so that arm was pinned, too—underneath him. A hand closed on his throat.

No! Shit no no—

He didn’t want to hear another gunshot. He couldn’t fail again. He gagged and choked, and tried to thrash as he felt the pressure on his windpipe all the way up to his eyes. Black dots swam around his vision.

Another gunshot, he worried, but was Kenny even around this time?—Levi never got the feeling he was being watched.

Did Kenny tell the man to stop whenever Levi passed out?

As if to answer his question, the man growled, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

Levi felt his neck bruising even as he choked him. Tears of exertion fell down his cheeks. And still no gunshots.

To get strong, he’d always thought that all he had to do was win.

“And the rules are gonna be a little different next time. Try not to die.”

Levi’s enemies weren’t just stronger. This was real.

“…No one’s gonna keep you alive other than you.”

“You’re no good to me weak.”

“When your guard’s down is the best chance anyone’s got of killin’ you.”

No matter how strong Levi became, he’d been weak this whole time because he put his trust in Kenny—not only to keep him alive, but not to kill him. It seemed so obvious now. Kenny was the type of person to do anything if it suited him, and Levi was no good to him weak.

So if he couldn’t win this, that was it, unless Levi wanted to survive. He was on his own.

A great revelation struck him on the edge of unconsciousness. It wasn’t a question if he could anymore. He wanted to… so he would. Nothing mattered more besides keeping this thing in his chest beating.

It’d been a long time since he thought about Momma. “She’s dead. End of story.” But he felt no more comfort in joining her. He would be strong, like him.

And suddenly, Levi knew what he had to do. It seemed so obvious and so within reach, this well of strength. All he had to do was let it flow into him.

He jerked his arm free where it was pinned, and grabbed the handle of the blade sticking out of his enemy’s shoulder. Gravity helped it jerk free, but then came the harder part.

It was still wildly easy. Levi jerked his upper body backwards, with the blade pointed at his enemy’s forehead.

He immediately felt the resistance of hard bone, but like a knife through butter, he just did it. It was almost laughable, how he’d failed all those times.

The hand on his throat loosened, gave way, but before the body could fall, he barrel-rolled out of the way, and immediately rose onto one knee, panting. After a quick look around, Levi crawled back to the body, and yanked his knife back.

Reflexively, he looked at the damage done to his bloody blade, and opened his hand. The wooden handle. Jerky cracks littered all up and down it. That had never happened before.

Blinking stupidly, Levi got up, and looked around. He was shaking like crazy, but not out of fear, or pain—It felt like he could take on every gang of enemies Kenny had sicced on him at once. He could smash a barrel with just his fists. It was just so… easy.

He felt like he was being watched, and looked instinctively where he felt it was coming from. That was what it was. Instinct.

Kenny strolled out from between two buildings, his hands deep in his coat pockets, looking almost sickeningly happy with him. Suddenly Levi’s knees felt weak again.

��That’s what I’ve been talkin’ about. Haha!—Idiots! You should see your fuckin’ face.”

Because he was smiling. It felt a little insane to smile after nearly dying, but he’d done it!—And he felt so powerful! After so much strife, he’d gotten Kenny’s praise. Even his approval.

“How’s it feel now that you’re not a useless rat anymore? Now you’re a powerful rat!”

Even though he had insulted him, Levi couldn’t stop smiling. He was good enough. Finally good enough. “Kenny…”

“Does it hurt? Well don’t have a shit over it, you’ll feel better in no time.”

Levi was so beside himself, Kenny managed to surprise him by picking him up and lifting him over his shoulder. For a split-second, he prepared for one final tussle, probably to see what he could still do after all that, but Kenny merely kept laughing crazily as he walked. He sounded fucking giddy, which was a laugh he had never heard out of Kenny. Behind his back, Levi saw the carnage he'd left behind, but this time he wouldn't let it dampen his exhilarated mood.

What did he think would happen after that?

For things to keep on the way they are, he would’ve answered back then, if someone asked. Now that he was good enough, and powerful, powerful beyond ways Levi had only imagined, then it probably wouldn’t have been asking a lot for Kenny to look at him less like a weakling, but still a student.

And that happened. For a while, things did keep on. Levi went on showing his strength, since that was the only thing that made Kenny happy with him, or at least satisfied. That was the thing they bonded over. His new talent for violence, and Kenny, was all Levi had.

But he again let his guard down, only not physically. That day hurt worse than any blow Kenny could’ve given him.

Kenny had been watching Levi fight as he usually did, and as always, Levi had had a grown man flat on his back. He beat on him loudly, yanking him up by his collar, yelling in his face since he’d felt disrespected and a crowd had formed, and they too had to know that despite his age and size (Kenny never quit pointing out how short he was), he was no one to fuck with.

And yet out of the corner of his eye, Levi’s gaze always kept flickering to Kenny’s for approval.

I’ve got the hang of this. I’m good enough, right?

One time, he looked up, only to then see Kenny’s retreating back, disappearing into the crowd.

After the scene was over, Levi wandered off to find him. He didn’t find him. He went back to the hideout. He waited, but he wasn’t naive. He assumed Kenny didn’t plan on coming back anytime soon.

And he never did.

Neither did Levi go looking. If Kenny didn't want to be found, it would've been impossible to go looking, and besides. Levi had already learned that begging not to be left alone did nothing. Begging did nothing. He was once again on his own.

Despite the day Levi had finally become strong, and the string of welcome victories after that, Kenny still had no use for him. What other reason could there possibly be, besides that he was still weak?

He was not strong enough. He was never strong enough for Kenny. Levi had the strength to keep himself alive, but not enough to earn Kenny’s companionship. He was a disgrace.

You will never be strong enough.

And he would never forget that. In fact, he would take each and every one of Kenny’s lessons along with him, for the rest of his life.

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