#what miserable pieces of human filth | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

separatist-apologist · 1 year

Text

Part Time Soulmate, Full Time Problem

Summary: Nesta has been chosen as a sacrifice from her village- to appease the monsters, she's ordered to die.

But what's monster and what's merely humanity are two wholly different things. And on Calanamai, Nesta will learn which is which.

OR WHATEVER THIS IS MONSTER NESSIAN OKAY?

[note: based on this prompt: Calanmai for the fae is a time for celebrating their magic and fucking like rabbits, but to the humans it's time to pick their sacrifice to the demons of the woods to ensure their people and lands prosper and remain safe for a year. Every year the town picks a name of a human female to dress up like a virginal sacrifice in white, bound and gagged, and left at the border of the forest for the demons to take. Girls growing up are told to be kind and pure or else they could be chosen next. This year the name chosen is Nesta Archeron. That night a group of burley and aggressive men show up and force Nesta to comply or she could see her younger sisters taken in her stead. She willing dawns the gown and walks to the edge of the forest. When the men start to gets handsy while they try to tie her up the demons show up early and decide to make a meal of the human filth before taking the tantalizing and feisty human.]

Warning: dubious consent, inappropriate use of tails, human men | 6k words | NSFW | read on ao3

“Don’t tell Elain.”

Nesta didn’t know why it was so important Elain was left out of what was happening. It wasn’t like Elain would try and stop things, nor would Nesta risk her engagement to Graysen by telling the truth.

Even it was Elain’s fiancé who’d sanctioned the entire thing to begin with. Feyre, though, the little snoop, had been listening to the entire thing. Hidden in a nearby tree, Feyre had heard the Senior Nolan approach her.

“Every decade, a maiden is chosen as sacrifice,” he’d begun while his rat faced son had grinned down at her. No doubt, this was their way of absolving themselves of all responsibility to Elain’s family. They’d get the beautiful, submissive one and be rid of obstinate, difficult Nesta.

Still, her heart had raced as they’d continued. “This year, you’ve been chosen, Nesta Archeron. Are you virginal—”

She’d kill them, one day, for forcing her to admit she was. For the way they’d looked her body up and down despite the younger Nolan being pledged to her little sister. She was nothing more than a piece of meat to them, an object to tease and torment and yes, even fuck if they so wanted. She’d been afraid, for a moment, they might drag her behind those terrifying walls where no one would be able to help her.

Instead, Nesta had submitted to their demands. She’d go when the drumming began or they’d drag her and chain her to a tree. If she didn’t, Elain or Feyre—or maybe both—would be sent in her stead. It had been implied that her sisters might meet the same terrible fate as her father. Nesta had swallowed the urge to scream and merely agreed without a smile.

Fuck them.

“You’re not really going to allow this, are you?” Feyre demanded, hands on her hips the moment those men had vanished from sight. “Run away.”

“And let them drag Elain off instead?” Nesta had snapped. She could picture it. Elain, pleading with her betrothed, making him promises he would force her to honor once she was found safe in the morning. And to appease monsters who had long vanished from the world, Graysen would defile her.

And then he’d probably kill her.

Just like they’d done to their father. Nesta wasn’t stupid. Nolan wanted Elain, and the only thing keeping him from getting her had been the Archeron Patriarch. He was a miserable, ugly bastard in every other regard, but when it came to his favorite, he’d protected her as best he could.

And they’d killed him for it. Nesta knew Elain dragged flowers out, mourning and believing it had been monsters who’d killed him. Wholly unaware the monsters were nothing but trees, and it was the men in the village she ought to be afraid of.

“Don’t tell Elain.”

Feyre had sworn not to, though in exchange, Feyre wanted to walk Nesta in. Nesta still thought Feyre believed she could escape out to sea. She didn’t understand what Nesta did the moment she heard the distant drumming. This wasn’t about monsters and it never had been. It wasn’t about appeasing them, nor was it about order. It was merely about fear. Every decade, a young woman was chosen from a council of wrinkly, stupid, small dicked men who decided which woman was too frigid to ever fuck them and punished her—and every other woman in the village—by forcing her into the woods where they hunted her for sport.

And it worked. How many girls Nesta’s age had given themselves up when they didn’t want to simply so they’d never be chosen? Nesta refused. She’d refused both Tomas and his filthy, disgusting father and if she had to guess, the senior Mandray was on that council of assholes.

Feyre’s tryst with Isaac Hale was too well known, and Elain too heavily coveted to be made an example of. That left only Nesta, who had too vocally opposed the match once their father died.

She regretted leaving Elain behind. She wanted to tell her cowering sister not to marry Graysen. To do so was to betray that Nesta knew she wasn’t coming back. They’d lied, told Elain they merely wanted to see what the drumming was about. Elain would never follow.

It gave Nesta a small amount of comfort knowing that Elain would leave her flowers, too. That no matter how the village tried to erase her, Elain would keep her memory alive. The comfort was, however, small, the moment they stepped into the unseasonable warmth. Feyre drew her cloak tight around her, glancing at the bright red clasped around Nesta’s throat.

Why bother making herself hard to find? Better to just get it over with. All Nesta hoped for was whoever came for her, they made it quick and she was able to die on her feet rather than her knees.

Beside her, Feyre’s fingers brushed the back of her hand. It was better that Feyre came—she knew not to reach for Nesta, to try and hold her or offer comfort. The closest they’d ever get to acknowledging how awful things were was that small gesture.

I’m with you, those fingers seemed to say. Nesta balled her hands to fists, marching toward the swaying trees.

Nesta, Nesta, Nesta, they seemed to whisper. Mocking her, just like those distant drums. Who was banging them, she wondered? Was it all part of the ruse? Or a real festival the men in her village took advantage of? Nesta’s heart hammered in time, thudding so loudly she couldn’t hear the rustling wind or her own heavy breathing. The Nolans were waiting at the edge of the trees. And like she’d suspected, the Mandrays were there too, along with the Winchesters, the Bogdens, and the Pattersons.

“You were supposed to come alone,” Nolan said, eyeing Feyre with distaste.

“I’ve come to see her in,” Feyre replied, jutting her chin defiantly. “And make sure everything is done according to protocol.”

Nesta’s throat constricted at Feyre’s bold words. Tomas lunged, grabbing Nesta’s shoulder before she could twist away. Feyre tried to pull her back but Tomas was stronger, pinning Nesta’s back to his chest.

“Or what, baby Archeron?” he asked, his breath fanning over Nesta’s neck while he laughed. “Run back home before we make a game of you, too.”

Feyre’s stamped her foot, drawing a knife she’d hidden in her boot. Graysen stepped forward, perhaps realizing how terrible it was for his future marriage if both his fiancé’s sisters died in one night.

Or, Nesta realized as he stalked closer and closer, he’d done the math and realized Feyre would tell Elain what she’d seen.

“Feyre,” Nesta choked out, struggling against Tomas’s hold. “Feyre, run.”

She could deal with this. Nesta didn’t expect Feyre to sacrifice herself for her, besides. Someone had to take care of Elain.

Forcing herself not to cry, Nesta met Feyre’s starry-eyed stare. “Go,” she whispered. She couldn’t stand it. Let it be me, she thought wildly, trying to make Feyre understand. This is what I deserve.

Feyre stumbled back into the treeline, gobbled up by the darkness. Even Graysen hesitated for a moment, standing still in a silvery patch of moonlight. Nesta understood what had unnerved him.

The forest had stilled. No more crickets, no wind, nothing but those ominous drums in the distance. Everyone who might have been banging them was standing in a semi-circle around her. Tomas’s grip on Nesta’s arms slackened for a moment as a long shadow blotted out the rest of the moonlight.

“Fey?” Nesta whispered.

The creature that emerged was decidedly not Feyre. He was massive, made of golden brown muscle painted with blue and black inked whorls, all of it illuminated by blood red scales edging his skin. The creature towered over Graysen, tall enough to be a juvenile tree and twice as thick. Nesta didn’t know where to look first—at the rounded, black horns jutting from his forehead, the fangs gleaming in his mouth, the talons at his hands or the thick tail swishing with irritation behind him.

He turned to face her, pinning her with hazel eyes more green than brown and behind those muscled shoulders— “Oh, gods,” Nolan whispered as massive, black, membranous wings unfurled.

Where was Feyre?

The smile he offered was anything but friendly. “Is she for me?” he rumbled. No one moved, nor did Tomas release her, though Nesta wished he would.

The creature cocked his head. His dark, chestnut hair tickled against his shoulders while the wind blew the gentle waves against his high cheekbones and full lips. A scar streaked over his eyebrow, while another cut against his nose.

More, still decorated the muscles lining his ribs, his black inked shoulders and biceps, his pectorals. What kind of monster was this man?

“Well?” he intoned in that deep, gravely voice of his. Unlike the high born men surrounding her, Nesta had the sense that this creature was a brute of the highest order. A warrior of his people, the sort who had battled things far worse than the men before her and survived. “Is the maiden for me?”

“And if she isn’t?” Tomas dared to ask.

Nesta looked skyward at the full, silvery moon. Was it hysteria that made her smile? She closed her eyes as the creature said, “Then I’ll kill you for her.”

Hands shoved her at him, flinging her at his booted feet. Nesta gasped, the ground stinging her palms.

“Take her, then,” Tomas spat. “She’s worthless to us, now.”

Clawed fingers gripped her upper arm, pulling her to her feet. She was close enough for the smell of pine trees and snow capped mountains to wash over her.

“Did you touch her?” he asked, eyes never leaving her face. Nesta set her lips in a firm line, jutting her chin in the air just as Feyre had done earlier. She wasn’t his toy, either, and resented how much worth they ascribed to her virginity.

“We broke the bitch in for you,” Tomas laughed, though it sounded hoarse—forced. “You’re welcome.”

The creature’s smile made her shiver. Nesta didn’t move when his tail curled around her calf, squeezing slightly.

“Did you now?” he asked, stepping around Nesta. She skittered back, avoiding touching those massive wings of his. “I don’t recall asking you to do that.”

No one spoke. The creature paused when he reached Tomas, looking over his shoulder at Nesta. “He’s pissed himself,” he told Nesta, still smiling as if the whole thing were funny.

“Is it true he touched you?”

Nesta swallowed, nodding her head.

“And did you ask him to? No lies,” he added, as if Nesta would ever want to protect any of the men now trembling before the beast. She shook her head no.

He ran his tongue over his sharp teeth. “Seems like it’s my lucky day,” he said, advancing on the men. “It’s been a long time since I tasted human flesh.”

Nesta didn’t move—watched as those sharp talons cut through Tomas’s throat. His screams were music to her, silenced in a gurgle of blood. All she could think about was that night in the barn, his hand on her mouth to keep her quiet, his knee between her legs. Nesta didn’t let herself consider what it said about her that she enjoyed the sight of Tomas being ripped to pieces or that she wasn’t afraid.

Not until that winged, horned man turned to look at her, blood dripping from his teeth. He held her gaze for a heartbeat, smiling with a different, darker sort of hunger.

The kind that convinced Nesta she ought to run.

She was looking for Feyre, though it occurred to Nesta that her sister might have seen the monster and turned around and gone home. Nesta wouldn’t have blamed her for that. Not when the distant silence set Nesta’s teeth on edge. Shouldn’t they be screaming loud enough to wake the village?

Nesta’s legs pumped through the underbrush, dragging her closer and closer toward those loud drums. Closer to—

“Hello, Nes,” came that voice. She whirled and there he was. Blood soaked and grinning, his wings tucked tight against his back. “You got further than I thought you would. Not far enough,” he added, glancing around.

“Let me go,” she panted, resting her hands on her knees. “You got what you wanted.”

“Wrong,” he replied with easy amusement. “What I want is you. Killing them was merely a little sport.”

“A little…” Nesta couldn’t catch her breath. “A little sport.”

“I think you liked it,” he added, taking a step toward her.

Nesta shrugged her shoulders. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she said, trying to pretend she wasn’t as afraid as she was. He was massive, was made of pure muscle, of claws and horns and fangs.

“To be hunted?” he asked, his eyes the only light in the darkness. He was close enough she could smell him again. Shouldn’t he smell like fire and brimstone? Like sulfur and death?

She shook her head. “To be powerless.”

Those eyes of his found hers, so reminiscent of the first grasses of spring poking through the winter frost. Nesta blinked just as he lunged just as Tomas had. One moment Nesta was on her feet, still trying to catch her breath and the next he’d jumped, beating those massive wings.

They were skyborne.

“No!” she screamed, twining her arms around his neck. He only laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that reminded her of a cat. “Put me down!”

“I think not,” he replied, taking them higher and higher, until the treetops were mere dots beneath the clouds and Nesta—Nesta couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

“Please,” she whispered, pressing her cheek to his chest in an attempt to slow her frantic heart. “I–”

“Don’t get sweet on me now,” he said, tightening his grip. Nesta meant to snipe. To tell him to get fucked.

“I’m going to kill you,” she whispered. Darkness was encroaching on her vision, and it was, she decided, a mercy to lose consciousness up here.

“I look forward to watching you try,” he replied, lips in her hair.

“Bastard.”

Her neck hurt. That was the first thought Nesta had when she came to. Her neck and her shoulders ached, stretched in a way that felt unnatural.

“There she is,” came his voice. Nesta opened her eyes, blinking away the remnants of oblivion to look at him.

“You’re naked,” was the only thing she could think to say. She was in a cave illuminated by torches hanging on the four walls, bathing the two of them in a warm, orangey glow.

He’d restrained her, looping her wrists together with rope he’d then suspended to a ring in the ceiling. Nesta was forced to sit on her knees, the purpose of which seemed obvious enough.

He wasn’t aroused, which was a small mercy. That didn’t make her feel much better. Not when she couldn’t keep her eyes off the log hanging between his legs. Nesta had seen penises before—she’d seen Tomas’s pathetic thing when he’d pulled it out, releasing his hold on her just long enough for her to sink her teeth in his ear and escape. There would be no escaping this. Nesta knew he was watching her examine him, practically preening if those splayed out wings were any indication. It was just…she didn’t think they were supposed to be so tapered, and definitely should be scaled…or covered in thick ridges.

Nesta’s eyes returned to his face. “Do I please you?”

“You disgust me,” she returned, breathless and scared. “Untie me right this instant.”

“How will you pretend you hate me if I unbind your hands?” he replied, still smiling. He’d wiped away the blood and the blue paint, leaving nothing but his scarred, brown flesh and the blank inked whorls she was certain foretold her doom.

His wings stretched end to end in the cave, taloned tips hovering over his broad shoulders. He snapped them in close and stepped closer. Behind him, Nesta could see he’d folded up her cloak and dress just beside his pants and boots. Why? If he was going to eat her, too, why bother at all?

“Don’t toy with me,” she told him, letting her desperation color her words. “Just…just make it quickly. I swore I wasn’t going to die on my knees—”

He laughed, jolting her back. “Die? Is that what you think?”

Nesta couldn’t help but look back to his cock, unmoved and yet…he was naked. “Yes?”

He came closer and closer, until he was kneeling, too, on that soft bed of blankets. Nesta could hear the steady thrum of the drums, pounding until her blood jumped, too. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” he whispered, running a callused hand over her cheek. “And I’d untie you if I didn’t think you’d claw my eyes out.”

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, for all the good it did. He was closer still, running his tongue over her collarbone.

“Make a deal with me,” he whispered. Don’t, a voice in her head whispered even as she looked down to meet his gaze.

“What kind of deal?”

He chuckled, lips trailing toward her breasts. Fuck him, and the way her body was warming beneath his touch. It was magic—she’d swear it was. He’d woven some spell, had gotten in her head somehow.

“If I can’t make you feel pleasure with only my mouth, I’ll release you back to your little hamlet before the drums stop.”

Nesta blinked. With just his mouth? A red tinged haze had settled in her mind, clouding her judgment because she thought that was a decent idea. “And if you can?”

“Oh, Nes. I think we both know what happens then.”

She didn’t, but maybe it was better he didn’t spell it out. Besides, Nesta was known for her iron will. If he thought a couple minutes of kissing her was going to be enough to break her, he had another thing coming.

“Fine,” she said. Given he’d already removed her clothes and tied her up, she had little room to bargain. How fun, besides, to wound the monster's pride. “Do you have a name, or shall I call you brute?”

“You can call me whatever you like,” he told her, licking her peaked nipple. Nesta swallowed—she hated it, she hated it, she hated it–-and focused her eyes on the flickering light of one of the torches.

“But most people call me Cassian.”

“Cassian,” he repeated, catching how his breath stuttered. “That’s a rather nice name for a creature like you?”

He shrugged those inked shoulders. “And Nesta seems like the sort of name you’d give your daughter knowing she’d grow up to be a witch.”

Well. Nesta huffed and Cassian licked again, looking up at her as if to ask, did I guess right? Do people think that about you?

She didn’t deign to answer, nor did she need to. He knew he was right, had marked her just as surely as she had the moment he’d seen her.

“Is this your great plan?” she asked, still staring at the flame when his lips sucked around her nipple. Nesta knew how to bring herself to completion and this was not how it was done. Not that Nesta was going to tell him that. Let him waste his time—she’d be back in bed, this whole thing little more than a memory.

“Are you always so impatient?” he murmured, his tongue lavishing praise over her sensitive skin.

“When I’m tied to a ceiling? Strangely, yes, I do find myself impatient. Get on with it, Cassian.”

He grinned, nipping at her neglected nipple gently. “The words every male wants to hear. Get on with it, Cassian,” he mimicked, grinning as he…as he laid himself on the floor.

“What are you doing?” she breathed, squirming when those big, broad hands reached for her waist. Nesta twisted, straining her shoulders in an attempt to keep him from lowering her directly against his face.

“Using my mouth to please you, remember?” he asked, looking up at her through dark lashes.

“That’s not—this isn’t what I meant—Cassian, don’t—”

She hadn’t realized his tongue was forked until it slid from behind his teeth to lick her cunt. Nesta screamed, unsure if it was fear or rage or even the betrayal of her enjoyment that made her do so. Cassian didn’t stop, digging his fingers tighter into her hips to keep her still.

“Cassian,” she panted, thinking she could convince him to stop if she just…if she just what? Begged? When his tongue was swirling over her clit the way her fingers often did, but softer and wetter than anything she could have managed herself? “Cassian, stop. Let’s…lets just talk—”

He sucked her clit between his lips and Nesta bucked into him, unable to help herself. Instinct demanded she rub herself against him while the last remnants of her good sense begged her to fall limp until he grew tired and just killed her.

That was the crux of it for Nesta. She didn’t truly believe he wasn’t going to kill her, that this wasn’t some game in which he wound her up, took everything he could get, and then bathed in her blood, too.

Twisting against her restraints, Nesta could go nowhere and do nothing but submit. There would be no pretending, of that Nesta knew for certain. His mouth was too precise, messy in a way she thought she should have hated and yet secretly she relished it. She liked the smacking noises of his lips, the rumbling moans from his lips.

And when she’d twisted, she’d seen that thing standing at attention between his legs.

“Cassian,” she whispered. It was a test to see if she was right—that saying his name did something to him. Nesta didn’t know what, exactly, but when she said it, he bucked, fingers digging against her flesh hard enough to bruise.

Nesta was nothing if not petty. If Cassian was going to drag every inch of pleasure out of her then she’d do just the same to him. In this battle of wills, she would be the victor. He would regret giving chase in the woods, would rue the day he’d ever chained her up.

She’d leave him here, his own hands suspended over his head and if he begged her really pretty, maybe she wouldn’t kill him—a sweet fantasy given the horned monster was currently licking at her furiously, desperately.

And his tail— “Don’t you dare,” she gasped, her words little more than a moan.

“You’ll like it,” he replied, just as desperate, just as ragged. “Trust me.”

“I don’t—”

He growled, those hazel eyes flashing. It’s not like she could tell him no. Cassian flat out refused to hear her say it. Nesta closed her eyes and took a breath, fighting the urge to scream. She was so close, and it did occur to her his tail might stall her. It was so strange, scaled and fleshy like the rest of him and yet unnatural. She couldn’t pretend he was human, not with the horns and certainly not with the wings and yet when she looked at him, sometimes he looked like a man.

His tail stroked at her inner thigh. Nesta’s head fell to her chest while she tried—and failed—to act like it didn’t feel good.

“Stop,” she tried, clenching tight when she felt the tip tease against her entrance.

Cassian merely sped his tongue, his eyes never leaving her face. Gods, Nesta was going to come all over his face, he was going to get to keep her and she’d failed and—

His tail pushed into her body, maybe an inch. Not more than two. The stretch was enough to set her over the edge. There was no denying what was happening. Even with her teeth clenched so tight she could taste blood on her tongue, Nestas legs shook around his face, clenching so tight she didn’t know if his groan was pleasure or pain.

“That’s enough,” she whispered when he kept pushing in. Nesta hated him for the reaction he drew, for making her come a second time when he began to gently thrust in and out of her, still working her too sensitive clit with that forked tongue of his. “Cassian—”

“I’ll tell you when it’s enough,” he panted, pulling away just long enough to see his glistening lips and shining, bright eyes. And, was it her imagination, or had the drums increased their tempo? Cassian, too, was licking faster, had begun to really work her with his tail and Nesta…well, Nesta was wrecked. She pulled at her restraints, twisting her body not in an attempt to escape him, but because he needed to lay forward.

Secretly, she needed to touch him, too.

“Cassian, please,” she whispered, ignoring the string of words grunted from his throat in a language so old, she had no idea what he was saying. Uxor mea, or something close to it. Nesta, who’d been given a thorough education by their mother before she passed, had no idea what he was trying to say.

“Please, please—Cassian no—!” Nesta came so hard her whole body went taut and slack all at once, jerking around him. She managed to throw herself sideways, kneeing him so hard in the face blood trickled from his already crooked nose.

Cassian snarled, eyes flashing even as he propped himself up on his elbows. “I need a break,” she said, writhing against his tail still buried inside her. “I need to breathe.”

He looked toward the entrance of the cave, the movement so animal it set her on edge. Behind him, his wings flared before tucking tight against his body while his lip curled upward, revealing those sharp teeth. Nesta thought she heard rustling, a dress perhaps slithering over the ground, and soft footsteps walking closer, closer—and then nothing at all.

Cassian waited another heartbeat before those broad shoulders of his relaxed.

“What was that?”

“Not for us,” was all he said in response. “Have you taken a breath?”

He withdrew himself from her entirely, letting Nesta sag to the ground. Arms still held over her head, she wondered what it would take to convince him to untie her. Would he believe her if she said she wasn’t going to claw out his eyes? Not for lack of want, but simply because Nesta lacked the energy.

“What have you planned now?” she asked, delighted there was still bite to her words. Cassian was unaffected in a way no other man in her life ever had been. By now, they’d be bristling, determined to punish her for her smart mouth. Violent, even—hadn’t Tomas done that? Wasn’t that why she was chosen for the monster now rising to his feet before her?

“I’m going to fuck you until you purr like a kitten,” he replied, flashing her a blood tinged smile.

“Am I allowed to use my hands?” she retorted, looking up at her wrists still over her head. He hesitated, once again surprising her. The answer ought to be no. It hurt her and kept her at his feet, and that was what he wanted.

Wasn’t it?

“Are you going to hit me?”

“I think you might like it if I was rough,” she responded silkily. And Cassian didn’t bother to hide how right she was, shuddering as his eyes rolled upward.

“Yes, I think I would,” he agreed. “I’d let you draw blood if you wanted.”

“Untie me,” she urged. Cassian hesitated even as his fingers became tipped with those sharp talons.

“There is nowhere to run,” he said, eyeing that door again. “I’ve warded the entrance, but even if you did manage to incapacitate me and make it out, something far worse would harm you. I wouldn’t be able to help you.”

His words rang in the silence, punctuated by those pounding drums. He stood, muscled and broad—and erect, which she was trying so hard not to stare at despite being eye level with the thick appendage.

Nesta shifted. “What is out there?”

He flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re males, almost like the sort you’re accustomed to. But on Calanmai, we revert back to beasts. We’re driven by instinct,

Nes—and not everything out there will find you as beautiful and charming as I do.”

Nesta’s heart hammered. “Don’t lie to me.”

He strode toward her, reaching up and slashing. She collapsed to the soft bed beneath her, frantically unlooping the rope that had bound her. As she worked, Cassian crouched before her, his tail gently curling around her ankle. Just as it had done when she’d been standing outside the forest, waiting for him to exact his revenge.

Lifting her chin with one gentle finger, Cassian said, “I would never lie to you. Ever.”

The drums drowned everything else out. “What are you going to do with me when this is all over?”

“Take you away,” he whispered, his mouth ghosting over her own. “I think you’d like it. You’d be the most terrifying thing those mountains had ever seen.”

“What about…” Nesta swallowed, because she knew what she’d have to say if he told her no. And Nesta wanted so badly to let him drag her off to the mountains, wherever they were, where she’d never have to see that miserable village ever again. “What about my sisters?”

Cassian’s eyes sparkled. “I thought you were the bravest female I’d ever seen, staring down Death the way you did. You did see him standing in front of you, did you not?”

Nesta reared back. “No. I only saw you.”

“Lucky me,” he replied with a grin. “I would have fought my brother if you’d preferred him. He has your sister—and the other one…the timid, weepy thing—”

“Elain,” Nesta said, waiting to hear Elain was still in bed, still safe.

“She is fine, as well. In the morning, I’ll take you to see them both,” he added. And, she supposed for good measure, he slashed one of those talons over his wrist, letting the blood drip toward his elbow. A promise written in blood.

“I will not harm you,” he whispered, rolling his shoulders as the drums outside increased in tempo. “I swear it.”

She thought all she had to do was shake on it. When she offered him her palm, Cassian curled those claw tipped fingers around it, slashing through her own thin, delicate skin.

Nesta hissed even as he pressed the wounds together. Warmth flooded through her bones, some magic that made Nesta feel settled.

Almost peaceful, given the circumstances. Maybe as much peace as a person could feel when they were kneeling and naked on a blanket, and their come was still shining on a monster man's lips.

“Come here,” he whispered, tugging at her elbows. Nesta was staring at the wound, teeth gritted against the white hot pain. Blood trailed down her arm in little rivulets, staining her fair skin. And the wound itself…was knitting itself back together. There was no other word for what was happening. Like magical stitches, one moment it was an open line of blood and skin and the next it was unblemished and the pain was gone.

Nesta held it up to her face, ignoring how Cassian had manipulated their bodies so she was perched in his lap, her legs spayed around his massive, muscular thighs. She thought of Feyre, and all the times she’d come home injured from hunting in the woods and how useful this little trick might have been back when they were cutting up dresses to bandage the wounds.

Something tugged in her chest. A muscle Nesta had never been aware of, something glimmering and golden and warm—something she would have noticed before, because that little tug filled her stomach with butterflies.

Cassian’s hand returned to her swollen clit, causing her to jump.

“It’s too much,” she whispered, realizing only right then that his massive, tapered cock was pressed against her wet cunt, glistening with his own arousal.

The sight of him so close to her was obscene.

“You can take it,” he replied roughly, not understanding what she meant. His touch was too much, but his cock…Nesta had the sneaking suspicion it was just enough. It would hurt, and she’d beg him to keep going, to unmake her.

“What is happening?” she asked him, because surely her want, her need—hell, her agreement—was some different sort of magic.

“You are mine, and I am yours,” he replied, his voice dark. Sharp teeth grazed her neck, drawing a shiver from her naked frame. “There will be no others.”

Nesta had a million questions, all forgotten when those big hands of his, devoid of the talons from before, cupped her ass and lifted her ever so slightly. Just enough to sink down on that tapered tip.

“Relax,” he gritted out, as if it pained him to speak. Nesta looked over her shoulder at him, surprised to find those hazel eyes wide and blown out, nearly black with what she assumed was arousal. In the distance, the drums seemed fevered and frantic.

Cassian did, too. He gave her no time to adjust to the sheer size of him, nor did she think it had occurred to him that before his tail, no one and nothing but her own fingers had ever been inside her body. A conversation for another day—though he realized it the moment he seated her fully on him and Nesta doubled over, squeezed so tight around him she didn’t think she could breathe. He was in her lungs, her throat, her—

“Breathe,” he rasped. “Fuck, Nes, I—”

“It’s fine,” she said, because it was. Gods, but it was better than fine, even with the strange pain of the stretch and the invasion, it was good. “It’s fine.”

Why was she comforting the monster? When had that happened?

“Tight,” was all he managed to say. Cassian was unraveling with just one touch—that kind of power was bound to go to her head. “So fucking tight, Nes.”

“Move,” she whispered, writhing her hips. The position required him to do most of the work, not that she cared. He leaned back, gripping the tops of her thighs to lift her just enough—pulling out only to plunge right back in.

They both moaned loud enough for a moment, she heard nothing else. Not the frantic, uneven beating of the drums or the world around them. Just him, groaning softly with each new thrust of his cock. His tail curled over her thigh, teasing the sensitive skin like it had a mind of its own.

Cassian licked the side of her neck, growling at the taste of salt and maybe fear. She would have given anything to have even a fraction of his senses. Nesta wanted to taste what he tasted, wanted to smell what he smelled.

Cassian withdrew himself, snarling not at her but she thought, himself. He hadn’t thought the position through, and now he couldn’t find his own release. She grinned even as he positioned her on her hands and knees like she, too, was an animal. She certainly felt like it.

Watching him over her shoulder, her braided hair slipping from the pins to drape over her slim shoulders, Nesta knew she was in trouble. Wrecked, even, at the sight of that winged, horned man gripping the swell of her ass. He was so handsome despite his monstrosity—he wanted to keep her? Maybe she’d let him.

Cassian slid into her body with another snarl, not of warning, but approval. Of pleasure. Nesta pressed her cheek into the soft blanket beneath her and did as Cassian had said.

Breathe.

Relax.

There was nothing nice or gentle about the thrusting behind her. She didn’t want it, and he didn’t offer it. Nesta suspected he couldn’t. This was the quietest he’d been and she had a feeling it had something to do with the discordant drums in the distance, thudding wildly in some messy culmination she was unaware of. To her, it rang through her chest into that threaded cord, demanding more.

More, more, more.

“Cassian,” she gasped, feeling his tail prod at her backside. He didn’t say a word, growling softly.

“Cassian, you—”

“Take it,” he ordered, spreading her cheeks apart with those big hands of his.

“I can’t,” she said, eyes rolling upward. “It’s too much—”

“It’s enough when I say it’s enough.”

There was nothing else to convince him, not without squirming away to go where, exactly? This was where she wanted to be and Nesta couldn’t deny it. And when his tail pushed into her ass, stretching her beyond what she’d ever imagined she had capacity for, Nesta let him.

Breathe.

Relax.

More, more, more.

It was exactly how she imagined. Pleasure edged in pain, rough and unforgiving. She could feel his tail and cock rubbing between that thin layer of skin, and once Nesta got past her discomfort, the fullness of the fucking felt good.

She felt mindless. Cassian had said the creatures like him were guided by instinct that night, but she felt as if she were, too. All she cared about was chasing pleasure, pushing back and meeting him thrust for thrust. Her fingers curled in the blanket, digging so hard she broke one of her nails in the process.

“Cass,” she panted, her voice muffled by the fur. “Cass, I—”

She came, clenching so tight around that ridged cock and tail that Cassian snarled approvingly. Of course he’d like it. Cassian kept pumping, though his own movements, will still rough, were also out of sync. He’d lost his rhythm just like the drums.

It hadn’t occurred to her that Cassian was waiting. Holding himself back for the exact moment the drums just stopped. Nesta didn’t know, though, and was too tempted to reach for one of the wings draped over them both. Running her finger over it, she found it was soft rather than slimy or tough.

Something yanked viciously in her chest. Nesta came, still worked up, still sensitive from the soft rub of his ridged cock and his overeager tail. Cassian did, too, pouring himself into her with a roar that shuttered the torches on the wall. Nesta could feel it dripping down her legs, could hear him panting in the dark.

His tail withdrew first, and then his cock. She expected him to get up, to leave her laying in a mess of his own making. Maybe dress himself and leave, or say something about how disgusting she was, how he’d broken her, ruined her—

“Nes,” he whispered, his eyes the only light in the dark. “Come here.” Already he was reaching for her, bringing her to his chest still half wrapped in the blanket. Maybe it was all the fucking, and the being bound…and probably the murder, too, but Nesta felt exhausted. Wrung out and barely able to keep her eyes open.

“My dress,” she whispered when he stood.

“I won’t forget,” he told her, his voice hoarse like he’d been screaming. Had he? She barely remembered.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

Cassian chuckled. “You’re my wife, now—I’ve bound us did you bite me Nesta?!”

She had. It was the last thing she remembered before the darkness took her.

Nesta woke with a start. Gone was the oppressive heat of summer, of the humidity that made her hair curl against the back of her neck and her clothes stick to her skin. A chill bit through the air, invading even the warmth of the blankets she lay beneath. Nesta sat against a mountain of pillows to survey the room. A fireplace roared while frost blotted out the sun on the large, wall to ceiling window panes. Dark wood furniture mixed with red and cream walls made Nesta feel safe—at home.

And Cassian was there, lounged naked in a chair. Those big, soft wings were draped behind him, and he’d tied half of his wavy hair off his lovely, rough face.

He grinned when he saw her. “I was starting to think you’d never wake up.”

“Where am I?” she demanded, her heart settling at the sight of him. If Cassian was here, she was safe. Nesta knew that for a fact.

“Home,” he agreed, rubbing absently at a ring of scars on his forearm. Teeth, she realized with no small amount of satisfaction. She’d forgotten she’d bitten him. “In the mountains, just like I promised.”

“And my sisters?” she added, certain he would not honor that promise.

Cassian stretched those long, powerful legs while Nesta ignored the way his cock, once stuck to his thigh, was stirring to life. He sighed.

“Elain,” he said pointedly, and she wondered if he’d forced himself to learn their names or some other creature had forced him to, “Is by the sea.”

She’d love that, Nesta thought ruefully.

“Happy,” Cassian added, like he knew it mattered to her. “And Feyre is in a palace not far from here. We’ll see her first.”

Nesta nodded, pushing the blanket from her body. “Now?”

“Soon,” he agreed, catching her around the waist to haul her into his lap. His wings furled around them, blanketing them in soft darkness. The light from the fire glowed softly through the membranes, beckoning her to touch.

Nesta did, surprised when his cock jumped against her bare stomach. “You like that?” she questioned.

“Yes,” he agreed, sucking in a breath through his sharp teeth. “Do it again.”

“We’ll never get anything done,” she warned him, dragging her finger along the edge all the same.

Cassian only smiled.

“That's fine by me.”

#nessian #nesta x cassian #monster nessian #do you like the simple elegance of my summary #nothing says: ive stopped trying like yelling at potential readers #a humble monster offering

159 notes · View notes

weebnotheree · 8 months

Text

ɪ'ᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ! | 🦇𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑍𝑖𝑛𝑔🦇|𝑀𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑠 𝑥 𝑀!𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 PT.2

Present Day

A cab zooms through the dark and spooky forest. A passageway on the ground opens up.

The driver gets out and places his head on and what do ya know, it's a jack-o-lantern. He opens the door and just as he did a flood of wolf pups came rushing out. And after that, a mamma wolf stepped out slightly tilting the cab along with her. She had a big stomach. She groaned with her hand placed on her stomach. And after, was the husband. He took his wallet out as he said ¨Yeeah, it's a mess back there.¨

A few zombies big and small came to grab the wolf family's luggage. Punching their arm through the side, and from the top of it. So many monsters filled the place. Everyone was happy to be there. Monsters big and small. Some flying, some walking, while some others running. Drac smoothly walked down the first flight of steps as he looked at everyone enjoying themselves. ¨Welcome to Hotel Transylvania!¨

He then started passing out reservations(?)¨Human free since 1898. Your safest destination. Take an itinerary. I have personally designed a spectacular schedule of events, all leading to my daughter's birthday extravaganza tomorrow and her birthday surprise.¨

¨We always look forward to coming every year, Count. We enjoy the safety so much,¨ the husband of a small goblin(?) announced. ¨Of course. That's why we built it. Yes, good evening,¨ he says before a monster comes up to him and babbles for speech. ¨Thank you, Marty. You look pale, as well.¨

Then a suit of armor rushes up to him as he finished passing out the cards. ¨Sir, sir, sir! We have an urgent plumbing issue!¨ ¨Plumbin'? On it. Mr. Ghouligan!¨ Drac called. A zombie came up to him and grumbled. ¨There is a clogged toilet in room 348.¨ the guard finished. A roar came from above. It was bigfoot. ¨It's okay. We all get stomach aches, Mr. Bigfoot.¨ Drac reassured him. The zombie groaned looking at the plunger in his hand as it shook within it.

A lot of wolf pups burst through the spinning doors. They knocked some people over while two jumped on the pianos keys...and..one peed on the side of a chair sighing in relief. ¨Hey, kids, reel it in. You're only supposed to make Mom and Dad miserable,¨ their dad said to them. Then a boy wolf pup was tugging on Dracś cape while growling. That is until Drac picked up his cape along with the wolf pup attached to it. ¨Now, now, is that any way to behave? This is a hotel, not a cemetery,¨ he addressed as he smiled. ¨Sorry, Uncle Drac,¨ he apologized. It was a bit muffled since he had Drac's cape in his mouth. But he let go and scattered away.

The two parents soon walked up to him. ¨Drac! How are ya?¨ Drac exclaimed as he slung an arm around Wayne's neck,¨Wayne, my old friend!¨ ¨Couldn't wait for this weekend. Always great to be out of the shadows for a couple of days.¨ ¨The family looks beautiful. Let me just clean up their filth. Housekeeping!¨ sheesh, nah Drac said your kids are filthy. Nah, he said they need to take a bath. As soon as he called for housekeeping 3 witches came zooming out on their brooms cleaning up the mess, placing everything back how it was. And the last thing...the pee. So the maid placed a sponge in it as the SPONGE SOAKS IT UP WIGGLING AS HE GIGGLED.

A big and skinny zombie came in carrying big and small boxes as a few pups knocked them over and they fell. Out came a Frankin head as it bounced its way(saying ow with each bounce) in the direction of Drac and he caught it. ¨Frankie, my boy! Look at you! Still travelin' by mail, Mr. Cheapo, huh?¨ ¨It's not a money thing. I have a plane phobia, okay? I-i mean, at any moment, those engines could catch...¨ ¨Fire! Yeah, yeah. "Fire bad." We know,¨ Wayne says imitating Frank's voice. Drac then saw two zombies trying to piece franks body together something and quickly gave Frank's head to Wayne.

¨Augustus, Porridge Head, come on! Does that look like Frankenstein's head?¨ Drac frustratedly asked. They were putting Frank's wristed head where his head was supposed to be placed. Drac crossed his arms and rolled his eyes sighing. ¨Hey, Drac, buddy, what's going on with your cape there?¨ Wayne asked. ¨What do you mean?¨ he asked confused before he yelp. ¨Who pinched me?!¨ ¨Guilty. You're irresistible.¨

¨Yes, very amusing, Invisible Man. Hello. Great to "see" you,¨ Drac said before the three laughed. ¨Never gets old,¨ Invisible says as he takes off his glass. The three was still laughing but was cut off by Drac getting slapped. Drac pointed his finger moving it in a no no motion as he chuckled. Drac tried getting back at him by clawing around him. But the invisible man just said he missed. ¨Okay, you win. Hold this bacon.¨ ¨Why am I holding bacon... Ahh! No! Get 'em off!¨ Yep..the wolf pups attacked him. They were having a good laugh. But are soon interrupted by a gust of sand. Yeah, it was Murray. He swirled up a big sand hill just to slide down it. ¨Here comes the party!!¨

¨Hello, Murray!¨ he greeted. ¨Drac, what's up, buddy?¨ Drac dodged soon as Murray was about to hug him. ¨The sand, Murray, the sand! Always with the sand,¨ he complained as his two fingers rubbed against each other. The wolf pups were sliding down and playing with the sand. As a pup was sliding down he was hit by a sandball by his brother who chuckled. ¨Wolfie! Wanda! Frank!" Murray greeted as he exclaimed, grabbing his friend's head. Murray roared in Frank's face and Frank roared back. Murray chuckled. ¨I love this guy. He always bringin' it full tilt. You're looking skinny, too. Now that you're just a head.¨ ¨Okay, you'll pay for that,¨ Frank scoffed as he was taken away by a zombie who placed his head where his arm was supposed to be. He was definitely unamused. ¨So what's up, Drac? The hotel is looking off the hook.¨

Frank hoped his body over to the married couple(Wanda & Wayne).¨Hey, guys, watch this.¨

As Murray was talking to Drac about things he made his bottom half slither its way over to Murray. ¨By the way, you were right about those directions,¨ ¨Oh, good, good.¨ ¨Yeah, I took the Tigris through the Nile, and there was absolutely nooo traffic. And I can't wait for the little man himself to show, it's gonna be great!-¨ he explained...his smile turned into a nervous shocked look as a green fart cloud dispersed behind Murray. ¨You're kidding me. Right in my lobby?¨ ¨Drac, I swear, man, I-i don't run like that,¨ he told him. Wanda, Wayne, and Frank snickered. ¨Housekeeping!¨ And they zoomed in. One had a fireplace bellow and sucked it up. She quickly zoomed to the fireplace letting it out into the fore and quickly moved as the fire blew green. Cleopatra watched as it went by her and looked back at Murray. ¨I was not the cause of that.¨ she just huffed and walked away. He was embarrassed.

A spider dangled from its web in front of Drac. ¨We're readyy!¨ it sang with its high voice. Drac smiled as the fiends looked up in an aw(said aw). ¨If only Martha were here to see this..¨ ¨She's always here, Wanda¨ he says placing a hand on his chest.

Soon enough he steps on a small stool of frogs. ¨Okay, friends, I am so glad you are here to celebrate. Another birthday for my sweet little Mavis, and another successful year of refuge FROM THEM!¨ he soon pointed to a blank screen but the zombie flipped a switch showing different pictures of humans.

¨These are recent human images our surveillance has uncovered. They are getting fatter so as to overpower us. And they are wearing less clothing, allowing more movement to strangle us or cut open our heads and put candy in them. But they will never find us here.[monster gasp] Evil villain, you will never win! Okie doke. The fun starts in 30 minutes. Right now, I have to see my little girl.¨he said heading off. ¨She's not so little anymore!¨ Frank pointed out. ¨Yes, she is![Roars!!]¨ Drac said back and everyone was quickly silent. But Drac smiled back again as fast as he roared. He was in the elevator leaving.

¨What's going on out there? Are we at the hotel?¨ Eunice, Frank's wife(gf?), was still in her box. She opened the box with her long fingernails. ¨Frank, did you book us for a tandem massage? Did you get us a table at Hunchback's? Did you do anything?¨ The box ended up being closed on her by the invisible man. ¨You're welcome.¨ ¨ What's going on?!!¨ she yelled, her voice slightly muffled due to the box being closed.

Ahh beautiful Mavis. She was standing in the mirror talking about how she was going to tell her dad what she was thinking. ¨Dad, you said that when I turned 118, I could go out into the world like every other adult that gets to come and go from this hotel.¨ Her impression of her father's answer was ¨But, Mavey Wavey, it's not safe. Bleh, bleh-bleh." She began pacing and walking on the ceiling ¨Dad, 30 years ago, you promised. I remember, the 3 of us were both eating mice, and you specifically said that you gave me your word.¨

[Ding!]

Drac walked out of the elevator passing a lot of doors on his way with voodoo heads(?) hanging from the door knobs.

¨Do not disturb!¨

¨Good morning, Your Eminence. I can't wait to see the lovely prince,¨ a witch said dreamily looking at Drac. ¨Maid, clean up this room!¨ the vd head ordered which caused the witch to frown.

Drac finally reached the door to Mavis's room. He slightly frowned with dominance.

Shrunken head: ¨Oh, it's you. Glad you could make it.¨

Drac: ¨Is she up yet?¨

Shrunken head: ¨Oh, she's up. She's ready to go. And by "go", I mean go. As in, go check the world out. She can't even stop talking about that boy. What you gonna do? What you gonna say?¨

Drac: ¨I got it covered. Please, relax. Just do your job.¨

He opened the door, smiling again. ¨Good morning, Mavey-Wavey! Happy Birthday, my little mouse!¨ he said happily looking around her room. So he smiled calmly. ¨You want to go out into the world. You can.¨

¨Aha! I knew you were gonna say that. But, Dad, you gave me your word, you know that I know that a Dracula's word is sacred. That our trust is the core of our-- Wait, what?¨

¨I said you can go.¨

She crossed her arms not fazed. ¨You're just playin' with me.¨

He put his hands up, ¨No, no, no, no. You're old enough to drive a hearse now, you're old enough to make your own choices. You can go.¨

She smiled widely. ¨Holy Rabies, Holy Rabies!!¨She hugged him, then rushed to the closet and packed her suitcase. She turned into a bat and started to fly out the window. ¨Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop. Wait a second, sweet fangs, where are you going?¨ She stopped to look back at him. ¨Oh, well, I'm going to paradise..to find my zing, and this is just some stuff that I thought I would need.¨

¨Paradise?¨

#hotel transylvania #vampire #comedy #comedy horror #sony pictures #romance #fantasy #monster #x male reader #x reader

12 notes · View notes

wintersandthebeast · 1 year

Text

31. Drowning

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Link to Master List

Ethan had grown so accustomed to Eveline’s ‘attacks’ that he fully anticipated what was coming next. The blond threw up his palms to shield from the strange blasts of energy that accompanied her rage.

Can’t control it, he realized as, surprisingly, his action seemed to throw up a shield to this strange phenomenon. It was the stored minds of the Mold, whoever or whatever they were, explaining the girl. She loses control, pure emotion, like a tornado.

Ethan realized his feet were sticking in the floor. Black bubbles hissed at his shoes, the same shoes he’d worn when originally in Louisiana. He kept his hands up, and though Eveline continued to scream, yell and rant, he spun to meet the Bakers’ eyes. They were standing, tentatively behind him, the tortured expression on their faces a look he’d learned to finally have empathy for.

“If you wanna do this, now’s the time,” Ethan said, trying not to stumble in the muck that now suctioned around his shoes. “I could use the help.”

He hadn’t read every piece of paper Mia wrote, (mostly due to disgust, and maybe a little grief) but Ethan knew by now that this mold in particular absorbed the essence of humans, one way or another. It was how the fungus ate, grew, existed. His hunch (or was it the whisperings of the Black God?) was that he could absorb the Bakers now, within this realm.

Jack and his wife nodded with conviction. If it was as miserable as Jack said, they likely wouldn't hesitate. Jack was the first to put his arm toward Ethan, grasping the man by his shoulder almost forcefully. Marguerite followed, leaning forward and holding Ethan’s other bicep.

Eveline shrieked.

WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? GET AWAY FROM HIM! YOU’RE MY FAMILY, REMEMBER?

Suddenly Ethan could feel…everything. He was still more or less trapped, but Eveline’s wind attacks did nothing. Instead, a thousand memories entered his mind. Childhood in the swamps. Joe Baker returning from Vietnam, a wedding. Hospital visits. Young Lucas and Zoe running around in the backyard. It all entered his mind at once, and Ethan was now also cursing, yelling into the tornado at the intensity of these memories. Tears as well as the black fluid pooled around the whites of his eyes and he blinked furiously.

YOU’RE NOT STRONG ENOUGH. YOU CAN’T TAKE THEIR POWER. IT’LL KILL YOU!

He could feel the black trickle down his nose, closed his eyes. Ethan longed to collapse onto his knees, letting himself fall to the disgusting, muck-covered ground, but his stubbornness once again overrode his desires. He balled his hands into fists and thought of Karl. How did Karl raise and elease his magnetic fields? He just seemed to push the air, and metal would fly. Now the blond snapped his fingers open, feeling a rush of tension leave his body and travel toward the girl.

Eveline wasn’t expecting this and cried out, and Ethan nearly laughed at the unexpected success of his experiment. But just as he thought it might be a celebratory time, he could feel the ever-adding memories turning toward memories of Eveline’s arrival. He felt it all from both parents. Watched them trapped in their own minds, killing outsiders. Rotting away. Living in filth, terror, while their impulses overrode all reason inside their minds. Felt Jack’s rage, and disgust, at killing Ethan. The cop next. At this point, Jack and Marguerite were essentially holding Ethan upright.

All of this pain entered Ethan in rapid waves, and he did the only thing with it he could think of--with open palms, he sent this new energy toward Eveline as well.

She was still on the ground from the previous hit. Ethan wondered if transferring memories in this way even worked, until he heard her begin to sob. The glue around his feet dissipated and he shakily lowered his hands. Now the Bakers’ touch on him was…softer? Gentler? His head snapped back and forth as he looked at each of them. They faded with sad smiles, holding each other's hands, the last glimmers of their existence looking like small golden sparks. This energy coursed toward Ethan’s core and he could actually feel it enter his skin. Or whatever he had.

Now he did drop to one knee, winded, his eyes on the girl while she continued to sob. After several minutes of catching his breath, Ethan scooted toward her cautiously.

“Nobody wanted me, ever,” she supplied, as he made contact. Ethan gingerly moved her hair away, still feeling repulsed, but again attempting empathy he would have never had before. “I’m worthless.”

“No, you’re not,” he said confidently. “Miranda’s the psycho here. Remember?"

“She didn’t want me, and I tried so hard. I could do so many things.”

Unwillingly absorbing the Bakers’ consciousnesses, or even parts of them, seemed to change her ability to communicate, to reason. Ethan exhaled, realizing that he was probably done with fighting. For now. Which was good, because his body felt strange. Painful.

“I know,” Ethan said honestly, stroking her hair more gently now. His aversion to her was fading, as his aversion to the Bakers had. Was he now a villain? It seemed to be the case. He was commiserating with murderers and bioweapons, he was a murderer and a bioweapon, and he was sleeping with yet another murderer bioweapon combo….his daughter was something even more powerful, apparently. Ethan’s inner turmoil at his own existence was silenced by the need to finally once and for all, reach Eveline.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, again surprised at his own honesty. “You never were given the chance to just be a kid.”

“I wish I were Rose,” she said, curling up on the floor in the fetal position. Her eyes closed.

Ethan smirked. “You’d still be on Miranda’s shit list.”

"But not yours," she said in a timid voice, and Ethan's smirk slowly disappeared as he stroked her hair.

More silence.

“I want you to take me back,” Eveline said after the pause, in a voice full of resolve. Now she sat up, the familiar fire burning in her cold eyes--uh oh. Ethan pulled away. “I don’t…”

Her voice was as matter-of-fact as it always was, but less cruel than usual. “You can’t live with those other minds absorbed in your body. Even Miranda can’t do that.”

That explained why he felt so full of…pain. He massaged his shoulder. “So…what do I do?”

Eveline tilted her head. “I could do it, sometimes. But it made me degenerate faster. To absorb people.”

“The Bakers victims?” Ethan guessed, cringing.

Eveline raised her eyebrows with a very chilling smirk. “I was experimenting with how to use my powers. Nobody ever told me. I wanted to live.”

His look of disgust returned. Eveline appeared to actually consider solutions. “You have to put them into crystals, like she does.”

“She who, Miranda?”

“If I help you,” Eveline said with another head tilt, “Give you my power so that you can use it to fight her …will you protect my power, and keep it away from her?”

“I don’t know how to do that, Eveline,” Ethan said with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know how to do any of this. I can’t take you back anywhere from this realm. You mutated and didn’t crystallize the same way we did, due to the…” serum that I injected in you , he thought with a hint of guilt. Still, he’d done what he had to.

“You're already doing it, dummy." She rolled her eyes, and then continued "Not my body,” with a clear ‘you idiot’ undertone. “If you can make the crystals the way Miranda does, you can keep me safe. Until you figure out a way to bring me back.”

Ethan stared dubiously at the black-haired girl, realizing how much she reminded him of Mia.

“Uhhh….”

“If you don’t, I won’t help you anyway,” she said in a huff, and hugged her knees. In a low voice she muttered, “I bet once she finds me she’ll take my power anyway. I can fight her, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do it by myself.”

“You’re willing to…sacrifice yourself, put your consciousness and power into a crystal, and have me use your power and call the shots?” Ethan hadn’t expected this conclusion, but Eveline’s next words caused a pang of sorrow to course through his already-pained chest.

“I don’t want to be here alone,” she said, with a sigh, curling back onto the floor in a ball. After a few quiet moments, she said before closing her eyes, “You’d better wake up and figure out how to make those crystals work before absorbing people hurts you the way it hurt me.”

Ethan looked at his hands instinctively. They looked blackened at the tips. Eveline sighed.

Now he felt that it was difficult to breathe, and he inhaled, jerking his white collared shirt open and seeing the blackened liquid seeping from his chest and shoulders. It was worse on the spots of his shoulders where the Bakers had touched him, as well as where the golden sparks had entered his skin.

Ethan panicked, realizing he felt as though he were drowning, not knowing how to wake himself up. He rarely knew how to wake himself during a nightmare--panic simply took over and propelled him away. But it wasn’t happening, and he tried to speak, hearing nothing but ringing in his own ears.

#winters and the beast #eveline re7 #eveline baker #eveline #resident evil 7 #ethan winters

3 notes · View notes

tangerineloom · 1 month

Text

Did the girls already think up new ways to make old American fucks miserable?

He slept with that little girl. God, Dennis you’re such a piece of pedophile filth honey die baby just die

He’s a sick sick old man. That’s likely why humanity keeps going extinct. We have monkeys as governors now

You think that dumb fuck doesn’t know it and cry as his daddies cock slides in his asshole?

And that’s a Kentucky governor

Then they knock them out then we have blind politicians later and almost updated tv like normal life

It won’t make you Aussie Andy. You’re so gross

Your daddy should have raped you likely tbh

And what will you do to be change?

Why is Denny junk even alive Andy? Do you like trashy Kentucky lawyers molesting babies

Kentucky incest proud ain’t that riiiiiight Andy?

Well hopefully they just start killing their offspring

Why aren’t you governor in CA ?

Because you’re stuck in the past

Stuck in the past. Past.

Lady lol. Stuck in the past with your daddies micro weiner up your ass and if he’s so smart, why’s he working in KY?

No, your daddy ain’t much

And your penis is least important in fact

God cursed these people with small packages for raping babies already

Denny obviously must have a small penis but also, why does he feel he owns Dustin and a few others?

Yeah those Dustin types wanna put sticky energy on any. They wanna own women without love. No good.

And Leslie, many there likely needed red. To feel jokey at the expense of another like the unfresh couples do

The 70s were weird. Well… this is not fucking fresh.

The only thing fresh is other Stephanie still doesn’t make me sick

All of it. Everything. I said to myself

Says to myself what’s everything?

Well it doesn’t matter currently. In this time warp, most Americans are feeling it

0 notes

sapphixxx · 3 years

Text

Just finished Lain. Watched the last episode twice, which gently removed my heart from my chest and pulped it into a fine paste in a mortar and pestle. This hit much closer to home than I expected.

In my Lain epistemology post I somewhat flippantly made an aside that the series was only tangentially about Lain the actual character. By which I meant that my read on the series up until that point (around episode 8 or 9) was that each episode was teasing apart different aspects of the ambiguity of truth, knowledge, information, and communication, with the events of Lain's life being almost just a sort of example case study for how these concepts can impact someone on an individual level. Lain was framed in a kind of zoomed out way as an abstract avatar moving through these events without a whole lot of expression of her personal thoughts and feelings.

And then we get to the last three episodes.

It's in this space that Lain the 8th grade age girl with thoughts and feelings and wants and needs and fears comes into painfully sharp focus. The beginning of the final episode sums up and contextualizes what all of this has always been about.

Who am I? What is the real me? How can I tell what's real about me if everyone interprets it differently?

Do I even exist if other people can't see me?

The flippant bravado that I expressed in that post is the same attitude that Lain has been applying to her own very sense of self throughout the series, as just another arbitrary and moldable piece of information subject to interpretation with no inherent truth.

She effectively commits suicide by removing herself from sight, mind, and memory, of everyone around her. After all, if they have no knowledge of her, then she no longer exists. But what is lurking in the subtext of this finale is that she fails to consider that everyone she is cutting off is equally subject to this process. She imagines that without her meddling they are able to be happy. But that's all it is, imagination.

She doesn't exist to them anymore because she erased their knowledge of her, but it goes both ways. In doing this, they cease to exist to her, too. The image of the happy lives of the people she knew don't come from real observation or fact. It is something that she is imposing upon her memory or imagination of those people, which is only possible because she's removed herself from the possibility of being reminded just how complex and occasionally painful their lives will be with her or without her. In those scenes nobody misses her except in these brief fleeting moments where they remember some fond association with her, before moving on to their happy lives.

But this isn't reality. She isn't seeing these people. This is how she comforts herself, by imagining that everything is for the best without her, and nobody has to feel the pain of missing her. But that's not something she can know or control. The pain they feel upon losing her doesn't exist only because she has removed herself from where she might see it and have to acknowledge it.

Do I even exist if other people can't see me?

This phrase is taken to its literal extreme in the finale. But I think it's important to take a step back and really think about what this means on a more human level, especially when it comes to the kinds of struggles that everyone, especially kids that age, are dealing with.

That is to say, even if you literally physically exist and go about the world talking to people going to school eating dinner and so on, if there are parts of you that people don't know about, if there are things inside you that you can't express, you quickly come to the painful realization that to other people, that stuff just doesn't exist. Which means that whole side of you doesn't exist, according to the outside world. And if that side of you encompasses something important about your identity or your experiences, it's hard to not come to the conclusion that the real you, the entirety of your being, doesn't exist to them either. And when you try to tell them about it, or when they notice on their own, but they don't understand or perhaps outright reject it, hasn't some fundamental part of your humanity been erased? In this kind of environment it's easy to start doubting that any of it exists at all. After all, if nobody else will recognize it, you've only got your own word to go on. And that isn't always enough to trust.

And again, keep in mind that this goes both ways. I think Lain's sister is the clearest example which is given by the series. One episode she begins as a character, someone who has thoughts and a personality and so on. By the end of the episode she is reduced to the state that she will stay in for the rest of the series, blank-eyed and senseless. That fully fledged self she had still exists though. Lain just stops being able to see it, so effectively her sister stops existing for her.

Do I even exist if other people can't see me?

When you are isolated you can say anything about yourself. You can say you're nobody, or you're God, or perhaps something even wiser and greater than God. It can feel powerful to start writing your own existence and rationalizing your own isolation, the perceptions of others be damned. You can say well, my parents don't understand me and I stopped being able to connect to my sister, but who cares! Family is just arbitrary biology anyway! What if they aren't even my family at all, and are just plants put in place by a secret organization. I'm not lonely, I'm just seeking a greater truth, a conspiracy that only I can see! I don't make social mistakes, I'm not afraid of hurting anyone, that's the fake me running around out there! But it's not sustainable. Eventually life comes crashing down, whether it be in the form of interference in the material world, or if that mental state with all of its attendant self-spun narratives just finally collapses.

As with most things in this series, Lain's interactions with "God" are written in a very abstract symbolic way. But, the pattern that it follows seems very familiar to me as one of a predatory adult grooming a vulnerable minor. He alternates between gassing Lane up as the most powerful and important being who has ever lived, and then in the next breath saying that she's nothing. In peddling his conspiracy theory narrative of humankind merging with The Wired, of Lain simply being a powerful piece of software meant for Grand Purpose, he feeds into her struggle for identity and the need to be seen and understood by at once validating these feelings and how confusing they are, while reinforcing her isolation and his own dominant grip over defining the shape of the world and society.

When Arisu finds Lain living in filth and comforts her, that is one of the rare moments that the raw, vulnerable, material world Lain, weighed down with no pretenses, pokes her head out. That moment of genuine intimacy that she has been so hungry for this whole time is enough to allow her to retaliate against "God" when he shows up in anger upon being doubted. When Arisu reacts poorly to this sight, though, is when Lain makes her final dive back into her own walled off reality. For as much as she wants to be seen and held and comforted by this girl she loves, it is far more painful for her to have to witness and live with the feeling of rejection and guilt that came from Arisu's fear in the aftermath.

The final image of her father finally expressing the real tenderness she has longed for. The imagined future of Arisu dating her former teacher well into adulthood, because it's the only model of a relationship Lain has ever seen someone want, because her parents certainly don't seem happy, and she herself didn't get anything out of the boy who kissed her. The final statement, "I will always be with you". As with everything in the series, these can be interpreted many ways. But to me it reads unmistakably as the final moments before suicide.

In any case though, after all that, it seems fairly starkly clear why Lain resonates so strongly with trans people. Contrary to the old saying that all happy people are happy the same way, but all miserable people suffer uniquely, this path to despondence is depressingly common. It is the way out that is unique to everyone who finds themselves there. I hate to say it, although I feel very lucky to say that I have survived being in that place many times--which I think is proof that it is possible to get to the other side and make a good life, despite everything-- I think if it had ended any more neatly or more positively, it just wouldn't feel as honest. It captures the depth of that state of being. That's just what it's like. And as heavy as it is to sit with, I get a lot from being able to see something painfully familiar to me reflected in such a raw way. After all that, a happy ending would just feel disingenuous. I mean, that's my life, and any happy ending they could have written just isn't how it went.

#writing #Serial Experiments Lain #Lain

122 notes · View notes

pigeonsatdawn · 3 years

Text

law school ep 15 (and solhwi overall)

gonna put in my two cents for the line that singlehandedly caused the solhwi nation to implode.

(apologies in advanced because my thoughts are too messy for me to neatly put it in a post but i want to say it anyway—also this is just the way i view solhwi so please don't come screaming at me if you disagree!)

i'm a diehard solhwi shipper and i love their relationship, and think they have one of the best relationships out there in the fictional world, and also definitely one of the healthiest. but to me, their relationship extends far beyond the romantic relationships we so often see portrayed in media.

kim beom said in one interview that this relationship between HJH and KS is kin to that of a soulmate relationship that's not necessarily romance, and i find myself agreeing with that notion. while soulmates are typically used to describe romantic partnerships, it doesn't necessarily have to start with romance. (many people have pointed this out in other posts so i won't go further down the fact that HJH x KS's relationship is a friends-to-lovers slow burn but you get me.)

but in fact, this bond between soulmates (or at least how i define it), in my opinion, is far beyond what we usually see in romance. as in, it's not just someone you like, but it's someone whose changed your life in a certain way. i know some may be averse to the idea of having to change for the one you love because loving is the notion of accepting someone in spite of the person's flaws, but what i mean is that when you love someone in this way, you want to change because of them. you see them, and they inspire you, and you grow in your own way. once again—growth is a very subjective idea, and even for HJH and KS we can see them grow in different directions—but we can clearly see how they have impacted each others' lives.

it's quite obvious, imo, how KS's life has been impacted by HJH's. she's,, not the "smartest" out there, and we can't deny that. we know she probably won't make it through law school if not for HJH's help. HJH is always there, a step ahead of KS, but he's not just being proud about it, instead opting to help her understand what the laws are and why they are the way they are, which KS especially needs, being a particularly empathic person. but we've also seen that HJH has helped KS beyond simply academics. he's always been there to protect her—almost all their interactions have proven that (the camera outside her house, the hungover soup, the switching seats—i think literally everything?..?..?.??). maybe she doesn't necessarily need protection, but surely thanks to his protection she's much better than she might've been without, especially knowing her terribly miserable life.

but i often wonder why HJH is so heart-eyes of KS of all people. i mean, i know love is love and sometimes you just catch feelings, but i believe there's more meaning behind their relationship than meets the eye. like you don't just look at someone so lovingly for it to be just a crush, y'know? the first reason that comes to mind is clearly simply KS's amicable personality. she definitely stands out: she's not that intelligent, struggling and barely surviving, but she has insane passion to pull through even despite truth attacks (like SJH saying she should reconsider her life decisions, saying that a chance of passing isn't something to be proud of, etc). she treats everything with such a positive outlook, and, well, KS is just an adorable human, so it's hard not to have a little crush her.

what makes KS stand out most, the core of her personality, is that she has hope, despite everything. she's been through shit because of her circumstances—left by her twin sister without a word, been in juvie, has no money to deal with it—you know, entire backstory. but instead she fights her weakness, even though she feel like it should've been her sister, even though she's not smart enough, because she has to do this. she keeps going, even though things keep turning out for the worse for her, holding hope when circumstances are most dire. but why? because she strives for justice. she doesn't want to be wronged. she wants the law to own up its mistakes, wants to make sure the law gets its own revenge. that's why she wants to work in law, yeah? and so she keeps fighting, even when hope seems lost.

okay but why did i mention this? because i think this is what HJH sees in KS. why? because this is what he needs.

HJH had lost hope. in an episode (i don't remember which), he mentioned he doesn't trust anyone, and it's obvious why: his uncle. it's the worst kind of betrayal that causes your ideals being burned down. he realized that even people who work in law can be corrupt, people who he thought he could trust above all others, people who seemed utterly good. and then he just begins to regard everyone with baseline amity, and no further. many have pointed out he doesn't have real friends (other than KS), even though he looks outgoing and friendly. it's not quite shown, but it must've been lonely. and a lonely fight, trying to prove that he will be a better prosecutor than his uncle was. and we know that HJH's nature as a person is to be calculating, objective, seeing things through facts and statistics; it's what makes him so intelligent. what that also makes him is realistic, and more often than not, that is almost equal to pessimistic—because reality just... sucks, as has been proven by the betrayal of his uncle. and further into the drama we see only more corrupt people in the business, so we certainly don't get out hopes fueled.

there's scarcely anyone in what we see who's actually pursuing law because they're passionate about the law, or if they are, they're not often very... human in doing it. examples: YJH, SJH, KSB are all very cold and indifferent types, people who really just come and do what they do, focus on studies (in the case of YJH, his teaching), and interactions with others are treated as "lesser". SJH and KSB in particular—they're good at the law, sure, but they seem to prioritize their position in law first and foremost. SJH and KSB don't hesitate to call out their losses, and even would rather not intervene for justice if it meant their position would be compromised. not that they're bad characters, not at all; i mentioned them simply to compare them to KS, who, despite not having the brains to do half the things she's supposed to do and earning herself nosebleeds everytime she tries, still does what she does for justice, passionately, hopefully, all for righteousness.

okay this was longer than i intended WHEW so i'll cut to the chase: long story short, HJH needs KS because KS gives him hope. hope of a humanity where people actually work in law and choose to fight for justice against all odds, even if the system itself is infiltrated by filth and corruption. KS is someone who, in her first lecture, was grilled the fuck out by Yangcrates, yet the first thing she does after she nearly throws her guts out is ask HJH whether he can tutor her. she does not ever lose hope, and that, truly, is what stands out to HJH, what he needs.

and KS needs HJH because he is her hope as well! hope by itself does no good if you can't actually do something about it, and KS knows this. HJH, despite seemingly just being someone to help her in her studies, is someone she needs if she wants to achieve her goals, if she wants to get back on the law the right way. which is why, in the end, KS and HJH are, while independent in their own way, dependent on each other in terms of their growth—KS gives HJH hope in humanity, HJH helps KS realize (make real) her hopes that would have been dreams if not for her.

oh my god i've rambled on this long without stating my point: THE DAMN LINE.

HJH saying he owes her makes sense in this light because, indeed, KS's positive outlook in everything keeps him going. it gives him a reason to keep wanting to work in law, because she is a reason to believe in goodness and justice, that there will be people who keep fighting for justice against all odds. he owes this to her—and perhaps that is why he goes all out to help her achieve that hope, perhaps that's why he goes out of his way to care for her. because they are each other's missing puzzle piece, the other half. soulmates.

sigh ok this was long ONE FINAL POINT. everyone has their own opinion on a solwhi ending, so i might as well chip in mine.

certainly, as a solhwi shipper, i want them to end up together. i believe they're really the best of soulmates, two people who just complement each other so well. but in the current timeline, them having a romantic relationship out of the blue would be,,, simply unnecessary, imo. they're still very much in the stage of friendship, and are both dealing with their own personal baggage, that shoving a romance would just take away the focus from their growth. i personally think even this platonic relationship is already a beautiful one, one that outshines many of the romances i've watched, even without having to flood everything under the romance light—which i think many can agree with me, seeing as how solhwi is shipped so much. i still want to see them end up together, though, so SEASON TWO LAW SCHOOL MANIFESTATION. please please please directors writers make it happen i am begging you. thank you.

sorry for this long ass post, thank you if you do read it and leave any thoughts! again this is just my opinion, you're free to let me know if you think differently or anything, or shoot me a message if you want to scream about solhwi or whatever i'm just solhwi brainrot 24/7 🤸🏻‍♀️

#sorry this was so long i have absolutely no self control when it comes to law school #law school #law school jtbc #law school kdrama #로스쿨 #solhwi #han joon hwi #kang sol a #kang sol #kdrama #kim beom #ryu hye young #mine #analysis #opinion #netflix

119 notes · View notes

thetravelerwrites · 3 years

Text

Rupert and Sanoh (Lemon)

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Female Kobold/Male Human, Female Half-Elf/Male Tielfling Additional Tags: Exophilia, Tiefling, Elf, D&D, Dungeons & Dragons, Kobold, Half-Elf Content Warning: Sex, Rough Sex, Biting, Marking, Group Sex, Dom/Sub, Breath Play Words: 3349

A story with DuMont’s friends, Rupert and Sanoh! Rupert and Sanoh are having sexy fun in a bath when Kharis and DuMont enter the room. Not willing to stop, they try to be stealthy. It doesn't work. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler’s Masterlist

“Why do wererats always have to live in sewers?” Kharis grumped. “Every time we get contracted to kill rodents of any kind, I just know we’re going to have to go somewhere gross.”

Kharis, DuMont, Rupert, Sanoh, and Norman all pulled themselves out of the sewers of one of the larger towns west of the capitol. People had been going missing, and the mayor of the town realized that the rats in town were multiplying at an incredible rate, even with preventative measures. It was a clear indication that wererats were responsible.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Sanoh said. “The humidity down there was good for my scales. They’re so itchy.”

“It may have been good for your scales, but it definitely wasn’t good for your clothes,” Kharis remarked. “That stink isn’t coming out. You might as well burn that shit.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Sanoh said with a sigh. Her dancer’s outfit, which she always wore regardless of the situation, was torn and it’s bright red hue was now dark brown. “I really liked this one, too.”

Rupert seemed even more miserable that Kharis. “Can we please find a bathhouse? I haven’t been this filthy in years.”

“You’re one to talk, look at poor DuMont!” Kharis said, pointing at her giant lover. DuMont, the mountain of a tiefling that he was, was splattered head to toe in muck and grime and rat guts. His large church-bell bludgeon that he had slung over his shoulder was absolutely caked in blood and gore. “He’s not even complaining!”

“That’s because he doesn’t know how to complain,” Sanoh said. “He takes the phrase ‘roll with the punches’ far too literally.”

“Is that wrong?” DuMont asked, his cavernously deep voice echoing through the city streets, causing many who weren’t already staring at the group to spin in surprise.

“Of course not, love,” Kharis said, patting his arm as he walked on all fours. “I much prefer silent temperance to someone who does nothing but complain.” She looked pointedly at Rupert.

“Norman complains more than I do!” Rupert retorted.

“I haven’t said a word!” Norman protested. “Don’t pick on me because you’re a whiner.”

“Oh, my god, everyone shut up!” Sanoh said, rubbing her forehead. “There’s a bathhouse one block over, so will you all just please stop bitching.”

“I’m not bitching,” DuMont said in an undertone. “But I am hungry.”

“I’ll order you a rack of lamb and a sack of potatoes when we get to the inn, hon,” Kharis said. “Get cleaned up first. You don’t want to eat when you’re that dirty or you’ll get sick.”

“I’ve never been sick.” DuMont countered.

“Even still, you should be clean…er. And I don’t want you to drop pieces of food in the bath, either. It’ll feel like we’re all sitting in a stew.”

“You weirdos can sit in the stew, I’m getting a private bath,” Norman said.

“Why do you do that?” Rupert asked. “You always get your own instead of bathing with us, even though private baths are so much more expensive. It’s no wonder why you never have any money.”

“I’m not trying to get head by a paid companion in front of you lot,” He said sniffily.

“Suit yourself, but I bet that’d be fun to watch,” Kharis said playfully.

Norman snorted. “You would think that, you pervert.”

“You’ve become so shy since we started traveling, Norman,” Kharis said. “You used to be a nice, relatable pervert, just like the rest of us.”

“Maybe being with you people has made me see the error in my ways,” Norman remarked.

“Pssh, there isn’t anything wrong with being a pervert. Besides, I think DuMont balances me out. He can be such a prude sometimes.”

“I imagine being raised by a priest in a church will have that effect on a person,” Sanoh said.

“You are a pervert, Kharis,” DuMont said, as if in agreement with Norman.

“Does me being a pervert bother you?” Kharis asked him, grinning.

He looked at her and cocked his head as he walked, considering her, looking like a massively oversized dog, as he always did when thinking.

“No,” He said eventually.

“See? He likes it.”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” He said. His face wasn’t built to smile, but Rupert thought he could hear laughter in his voice, and Rupert grinned.

“We would be the ones to pick brazen, sex-crazed women, wouldn’t be, big guy?” Rupert said, smacking DuMont’s broad shoulder in solidarity.

DuMont grunted in a way that could have been mistaken for a chuckle.

DuMont had been very taciturn since they had met him nearly a year ago, but his personality was slowly beginning to emerge as the five of them spent more time together on the road, doing jobs. Rupert was glad he finally felt comfortable enough with the group to try joking with them.

The bathhouse came into view shortly afterward. It catered to adventuring sorts, so it wasn’t necessarily a high-end place, and the five of them tended to frequent it often. The staff there barely batted an eye at DuMont anymore. The laundresses despised the sight of them, however, since they always arrived splattered with all manner of filth, much of which was hard to wash out.

“Hey, can we get the big tub, please?” Sanoh called out as soon as they entered the place. “We’ll pay extra to reserve the whole thing, though I doubt many people will want to come in after us.”

The woman at the front desk curled up her lip at them as they entered, but said, “Yes, of course. You’re usual packages?”

“Yes,” Norman said. “Private room for me, please. Do you have any companions available?”

“Derek is available.”

“Ugh, no, not him. What about Vincent?”

“Vincent is away visiting family. Connor?”

Norman nodded. “Connor will do. Just make sure he brings the right massage oils this time.”

“That costs extra,” The woman reminded him.

“I’m aware,” Normal said, starting toward the private baths.

“I’m beginning to think Norman is too fancy for us,” Sanoh said. “We can’t afford him.” She walked up to the counter. “Do you have any scale oil?”

“We don’t have any specifically for scales, but there are plenty for skin and hair.”

“Hmm…” Sanoh said. “Give me the hair oil, then. It tends to be thicker. What scents have you got?”

Kharis snorted. “Come on, let’s get these clothes off before they stick to us. She may be at this for a while.”

Dumont and Rupert followed her to one of the larger public baths, one with a door, and closed it behind them. Now that they had been together for a long time, they were less shy about bathing together as they had been. Even DuMont had stopped blushing when he saw them all nude in the same bath.

“Kharis, I’m hungry,” DuMont said insistently. The only time DuMont ever seemed to get grumpy was when he needed a meal.

“Let me at least scrub you down once and we’ll go get some food,” She told him, pushing him into the bath still wearing his loincloth. The robes and towels weren’t nearly large enough to cover him, so they just had taken to washing him in the bath, clothes and all. They usually did him first, drained the bath, and refilled it for the rest of them.

Once Rupert helped Kharis give DuMont a once over, getting him clean enough to go into the tavern, they left to get something to eat and Rupert and Sanoh waited for the tub to be refilled. When that was done, the fresh water was nice and hot, and Sanoh arrived with her purchased oils. They both stripped down and got in with a satisfied sigh.

“Oh, gods, this is nice,” Sanoh said.

“Mmm,” Rupert agreed. “I think this is the first time in a month that my shoulders have relaxed.”

“My scales were starting to get so brittle. Will you get my scale brush and scrub the oils into my back? I can feel them flaking.”

“Sure, just a second,” He said, getting out with a splash and grabbing her back. She had a special boars-hair brush she used to clean and sharpen her scales and horns. Her favorite thing in the world was laying out and letting him groom her tiny body all over. It often got her in a frisky mood.

Sure enough, after only scrubbing her back for fifteen minutes, she started to wiggle in his lap, rutting her hips backward into him. He began to harden immediately. Sanoh seemed to revel in getting him aroused in dangerously public places, but it always caused Rupert anxiety.

“What are you doing?” Rupert said. “Kharis and DuMont will be back any minute.”

“Then let’s be quick,” She said, looking back at him over her shoulder.

She lifted up in the water and slowly sank her swollen lips down onto him. He gripped her hips and groaned, his head falling back, trying to keep his voice down. There really was no arguing when she was in a mood like this. He began to thrust up into her, sloshing the water around them.

She laughed breathlessly. “Good boy.” She thrust back into him as he moved inside her. Before long, he picked her up and lay her over the side of the bath, slamming himself into her hard enough to make her thighs ripple. She began to moan loudly.

“Shh!” He hissed. “You’re going to get us thrown out.”

“But it feels so good,” She whimpered. “Norman has sex in the baths all the time, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t make me gag you,” He said, panting.

“You can try,” She said, laughing, before crying out against the tile. He put his hand over her mouth, but she bit him. He let go, inspecting his hand, and when he found she hadn’t broken the skin, he instead grabbed her throat, squeezing.

“Oh, fuck,” She wheezed, her eyes going glassy. As bossy as she was, she loved it when he was rough and took charge.

“Shut up!” He snarled in her ear. “You started it. Be quiet and take it.”

“I will,” She simpered, and he squeezed harder.

“I said, shut up!” He slammed hard into her, and she squeaked against his grip on her neck, her body trembling in excitement. She came suddenly, gushing down her legs, but he didn’t relent, crushing his body against hers, breathing down her neck and spine, moving at a frenzied pace.

“Fuck, I’m going to cum,” He said through his gritted teeth. “Stand still, don’t fucking move.”

Before he got the chance, however, he heard the far door open and Kharis’s voice drift through.

“Shit!” He exclaimed, pulling out suddenly and ducking under the water to hide himself. His cock was throbbing with the unfulfilled promise of climax, but there was little he could do about it now. He was just going to have to sit there and suffer in silence.

Until Sanoh sat back down onto him, spearing him inside her, her inner walls still quivering from the orgasm.

“Now what are you doing?!” He asked frantically.

“Just act natural,” She replied in an undertone.

“They’re going to know!”

“Not if you don’t make a big deal about it! Lay your head back and pretend you’re sleeping!

“Sanoh!”

“Just do it!”

Rupert lay his head back against the tile on the edge of the bath with Sanoh in his lap just as Kharis and DuMont re-entered the bathing area, stripping down to join them.

“Well, DuMont cleaned out the tavern, so if you want food, you’re going to have to find a vendor somewhere,” Kharis said.

“Not surprising,” Sanoh said, stealthily riding Rupert’s cock under the water, pretending to be washing her arms to cover the movement.

“What’s with him?” Kharis asked, nodding at Rupert.

“He conked out almost immediately after you left. I’m just keeping his lap warm,” She said smoothly.

Kharis snorted and said, “I wish I could fall asleep as easily as he can. DuMont’s like that too,” She reclined on the large red tiefling. “He can fall asleep mid-sentence.”

“A gift and a curse,” Sanoh said in agreement. She squeezed Rupert’s length with her inner muscles, and it took all his effort not to grunt or move. He dug his fingers into the skin of her hips as a warning. Sanoh snorted. She moved under the pretense of adjusting herself and nearly made Rupert jump out of his skin with how deep she’d push him into her. He couldn’t help but make a small sound.

Kharis noticed. “What are you doing?” She asked Sanoh, her eyes narrowing.

“What are you talking about?” Sanoh asked innocently.

Kharis gave Sanoh a sardonic look. “You don’t have to pretend to be asleep anymore, Rupert, I know what’s going on. I’m a pervert, after all.”

Rupert sighed and lifted his head. “The jig is up, I guess. Sanoh, hop off.”

“I didn’t say you had to stop,” Kharis said. “Far be it from me to interrupt your fun.”

“What about DuMont?” Rupert asked skeptically.

“What about him?” Kharis replied, reaching over in the water and placing her hand in DuMont’s lap.

“Wha…” DuMont said, startled. “What are you doing?”

“Having fun,” Kharis said. “Don’t you want to have fun?”

“But…” He looked at Sanoh and Rupert.

“They’re already having fun,” Kharis said. “They started before us.”

“They are?” DuMont asked in surprise, squinting at the pair.

As if to answer, Sanoh let Rupert’s organ fall out of her and spun in Rupert’s lap. Now that she didn’t have to worry about stealthing, she rocked on him and moaned.

“Oh,” DuMont replied, and then sucked in his breath when Kharis squeezed him.

“Are you okay with this, buddy?” Rupert asked over Sanoh’s shoulder, though he was beginning to lose speech. “We’ll stop if you aren’t comfortable with it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sanoh said with a snort.

“We’ll stop if you aren’t comfortable, DuMont,” Rupert repeated, giving Sanoh a warning look. Sanoh rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“I’m fine, it’s okay,” DuMont replied, playing with Kharis’s hair and she fondled him under the water.

“See? He’s fine, don’t be such a baby,” Sanoh said, pushing him into her deeper. He grunted and stopped speaking.

Kharis held her breath and ducked her head under water, and DuMont tensed and groaned, his hands balling into fists on the side of the tub. From then on, there was little talk, just moans, grunts, groans, and breathy whimpering.

Kharis came up and went to the edge of the bath, bending over and presenting her rear. DuMont followed her and knelt down, pressing his cock into her and thrusting in hard, pushing her forward and down onto the tile. She laughed breathlessly.

“That looks like fun,” Sanoh said, going over to bend over next to Kharis, wiggling her butt at Rupert and moving her tail out of the way, so he could see her dripping between her legs. Rupert followed DuMont and rammed back into her, thrusting fast and hard.

“Wanna see something really fun?” Sanoh said to Kharis. Kharis nodded, and Sanoh leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

The reaction was instantaneous. Rupert grabbed Sanoh by the throat again and pulled her up against his body.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, his voice hard and angry. He sped up, fucking her roughly as he held her in place. “You belong to me. Don’t you dare do that again without my permission.”

Sanoh’s face went slack and she nodded, whimpering, completely at his mercy.

DuMont’s reaction was also immediate. He grabbed Kharis up and vaulted out of the bath, throwing her to the floor. He pinned down her arms and legs and put his face inches from hers. He didn’t say anything, but a low, guttural snarl issued from his throat, his brows furrowed as he stared at her with the intensity of a predator looking at prey.

“What’s the matter, big guy?” She said with a grin. “Are you jealous?”

“Mine,” He growled lowly, almost indistinguishable from the threatening, thunderous rumble of his voice.

“Prove it,” She challenged.

He opened his mouth and sank his front canine teeth into her shoulder, drawing blood. He thrust himself back into her without letting go, his jaws locked, and he lifted her off the ground and just railed her.

There was no hope of keeping their voices down now. If they got kicked out, they got kicked out. Sanoh and Kharis screamed, shouted, howled, and swore in pleasure as their lovers used their bodies to climax.

At some point, there was a knock on the door.

“Is everything okay?”

“Go away!” Sanoh and Kharis shouted in unison.

Kharis and Sanoh came several times before the boys were done with them. While Kharis had as much stamina as DuMont did and was just as active, at some point Sanoh’s legs gave out and she simply lay there on the floor in a perpetual orgasm trance as Rupert pumped her full of his warmth and kept going like a machine, finally collapsing on top of her, breathing as if he’d run five miles in a minute.

DuMont was the last to reach his peak, gushing into Kharis, his seed pooching her stomach and dripping out of her, down his legs, and splattering onto the floor. For a solid minute, the room was quiet, safe for a lot of heavy breathing.

Finally, as they all caught their breath, the re-entered the bath to wash each other.

“Kharis, you’re bleeding,” Sanoh said, pointing. There was a very large bite in her shoulder, and it was rather deep.

“Oh,” DuMont said, flustered by worry. “I… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, big guy,” She reassured him. “I wanted you to do it. It’s proof.”

“Proof?” He echoed, his brow furrowed.

“That I belong to you,” She said simply. “Help me wash it.”

As rough as DuMont had been, his gentleness in tending the wound was a mirror opposite. Rupert and Sanoh sat cuddled together and watched fondly as DuMont lovingly treated and bandaged Kharis’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, DuMont,” Rupert said. “Sanoh marked me, too.” He turned and showed DuMont a bite on his left shoulder blade. “And Sanoh’s bites can be venomous. I was sick for a week.”

“I said I was sorry,” She said reproachfully. “It was the heat of the moment, I couldn’t help it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He said, hugging her in close and kissing her forehead.

“Does it hurt?” DuMont asked Kharis.

“Not really,” She said. “I’m sure it will tomorrow when the sex high has worn off, but I feel great right now. And it’ll scar up nicely, I think.”

“I’m sorry!” DuMont said, hiding his face.

“Honey, it’s okay!” She said, pulling his hands down. “I like it! It lets everyone who sees it know that I’m yours. Don’t you want people to know that you and I are in love?”

“Well… yes…” He said, frowning.

“There, see? It’s all fine.” She went up and hugged his neck. “Don’t fuss so much. I’m fine.”

He pulled her back and fixed her with a glare. “No kissing other people.”

She grinned at him. “I won’t, I promise. It was just an experiment.” She winked at Sanoh, who stuck her tongue between her teeth as she smirked. “And I’d say it was successful.”

DuMont grumbled. “I didn’t like it.”

She patted his face and kissed his exposed jaw. “I won’t do it again.”

“Okay,” He said, seemingly satisfied, and he pulled her into an embrace, careful of her shoulder.

The wound healed up really quickly, and Kharis took to wearing asymmetrical shirts, so that she could show it off. Most assumed that it was a grievous injury from a wild beast, and Kharis would laugh and say that was partly right.

Sanoh and Rupert didn’t engage in sex around the two of them again, but it was definitely something they kept in the back of their mind. For a rainy day, maybe.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience!To help me continue creating, please consider buying me a Kofi, becoming a Patron, or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

#D&D Fanfiction #Tiefling #Kobold #Half-Elf

68 notes · View notes

lankygeralt · 4 years

Text

Patreon Reward for Y N (link in bio)

Mega shoutout to my beta @geraskier-hell <3 and to @choulatte for helping me figure out the ending!

The universe really wasn’t on his side, Jaskier thought. Maybe Geralt had been right, he really did always find himself in the most ridiculous circumstances. This time around, he was on his knees, back pressed against a brick wall with his hands tied in front of his chest, in a dungeon deep below the actual village.

He had traveled to Mariakerke on the premise of capturing the little creature that had been pestering Geralt’s existence to no end. He didn’t know what he was up against, all he knew was that the creature was fond of music. Thinking that had been a sign, Jaskier had taken it upon himself to lure the little minx into a bag and deliver it to Geralt himself. Instead, he had been the one to be captured.

The villagers hadn’t been exactly fond of his musings, and he had apparently caught more attention than what he had presumed. The glint in their eyes when they had realized he indeed was the bard who sang about the white wolf of Rivia, had been beyond stomach-turning. The hunger, the famine for gold had hit Jaskier harder than the tree branch they had swung his way.

The moonlight dimly illuminated the cell they had thrown him in, and the wound on his chin stung as he went to lick his awfully dry lips. He had to think of a plan, a way out. For as far as he could see, there were two ways out of this shithole. Through the bars at the top of the cell, or through the actual cell door.

Could he take on a guard? Maybe. Could he take on two or more guards? As much as his pride liked to tell him he could easily overpower them, he had to admit that they would beat the ever-living crap out of him if he as much as dared to make a run for it. Besides, why on earth would they untie his wrists? Bollocks.

He peeked up at the small opening at the top right. A cat could probably fit through that small gap, not a bard, Jaskier thought in frustration. On top of that, his knees had started to ache and his head began pounding once he heard loud footsteps echoing through the dark corridors.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” a deep voice croaked, sounding as if he had been smoking for years on end. “You found yourself in quite the tricky situation, didn’t you?”

Jaskier huffed, shoulders shrugging, not being able to stop his mouth from running. “It will give me enough inspiration for at least three entire ballads.”

He heard the man choke out a laugh before he started coughing. Filthy, Jaskier thought, scrunching up his nose in disgust. He didn’t even have to see the pig’s face to know he looked like the lowest scum that roamed the lands. Unkept beard, missing teeth, sour stench around him, he probably had it all.

It was easier to focus on the sad excuse of a human being in front of him than on the miserable situation he was in. Plus, Jaskier was aware he was known for being a blabbermouth, annoying certain folk to no end. If he could get under the skin of this pig, he could potentially worm his way out of this. After talking the man’s ear off for what felt like an hour, finally, Jaskier heard a set of keys jingle and the iron door creek. Now was the time to take action, he just had to find an opening to kick the piece of filth in the nuts.

The man stepped in the ray of moonlight, he looked exactly like Jaskier had imagined, and the pig almost doubled over when another coughing fit began. Disgusting.

“Do you ever-”

“Keep that up,” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes for effect.

“Shut up, or I’ll-” The man wheezed, cough starting to sound more like he was choking on a lump in his throat until he doubled over and had to cling onto the metal bars for leverage.

Jaskier watched the balding guard’s grip loosen, strength depleting until eventually, he fell on his side with a loud thump.

That was easier than expected, Jaskier shrugged, promptly getting up from his knees to steal the keys from the man. He was still breathing for as far as he could tell, almost as if he had fallen into a deep slumber.

Furrowing his brows, Jaskier shook his head and cut the rope around his wrists with the guard’s sword. The rest of the dungeon was dark, and he couldn’t make out where the way back up was. Squinting as he tried to focus in the darkness, his eyes bulged wide open as he heard a wooden door break, followed by footsteps echoing through the dungeon.

Heart pounding loudly in his chest, threatening to break out of its ribcage, he quickly drew the guard’s sword and held it upright. Praise the gods, he couldn’t get a break.

With a determined stance, he held the sword in front of his face, ready to take on the big, broad shadow that was looming closer.

“Really, bard?”

Jaskier perked up at that, he would always be able to recognize that deep voice rumbling from deep inside the man’s chest.

“Oh, fancy seeing you here, Geralt,” he said, lowering his sword, smiling widely as he caught a glimpse of Geralt’s wolf-like eyes. “I found myself in quite the pickle.”

“I’m aware.” Geralt pointed at the guard. “Luckily for you, the poison started working right on time.”

Jaskier looked back at the man who was puffing loudly. “Oh, that was you?”

Despite the darkness, Jaskier could almost feel Geralt’s eye-roll.

“Yes. Now, let’s get moving,” Geralt said, patting Jaskier on the shoulder. “Unless you’d like to spend another night here?”

“Oh lord, no.” Jaskier jumped up, dropping the sword at his feet. He nudged Geralt in the side as they started making their way out of the dungeon. “I’d gladly take a night with you over this madness.”

Geralt’s brows furrowed at that, a bemused look briefly crossing over his features before they were set back into their usual scowl. “Just move.”

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #geraskier fanfic #mywriting

77 notes · View notes

an-ambivalent · 4 years

Text

Wrongly Convicted

This is my late post for day 2 for MadaSaku weekend hosted by @madasakuweek

Pairings: Madara & Sakura

Prompts: Yandere AU & “you belong to me.”

Word Count: 1.6K

Warnings: As this contains yandere themes, this work contains behaviours and actions that can be triggering and uncomfortable to read. Specifically, manipulating behaviour, death, and brief mentions of other dark themes. Read at your own risk. Lastly, I do not condone this behaviour.

If there are any other trigger warnings you think needs to be included, please let me know and I will change it. Also, fair warning, I’ve never written for MadaSaku before, and I usually don’t write character x character pairings so this might be kinda shitty?

Synopsis: For eons, souls who end up in the Bad Place get tortured for eternity through the classic old-fashioned ways: being burned, having tiny spiders crawl out of their eyes, maggots ingesting their internal organs, and so on. Madara, the devil who reigns at the top of the hierarchy of the Bad Place, decided to try a new way to torture few subject souls who end up in the Bad Place. His plan was to pose a facade of the Bad Place as the Good Place and let the foolish humans believe they had ended up in what they believed to be heaven, and then proceeding to torture them emotionally for the next one thousand years. What he did not expect was that one of his so foolish subjects had been placed in the Bad Place accidentally, and for her goodness to sweep him off his feet.

This work is inspired from the show The Good Place.

Soft jade hue eyes stared into a pair of onyx eyes, that offered a false sense of comfort and reassurance, and scrutinized her with a certain inkling, promising to deliver her personalised version of hell.

“Sakura Haruno,” he voiced louder than necessary, as he flicked through her file. As he did so, Sakura shifted nervously in her seat and gave him a strained smile.

“My name is Madara Uchiha, I’m your neighbourhood creator. Congratulations for being one of the saints on Earth, you’ve ended up in the Good Place,” Madara said, grinning at her.

Sakura took a few moments to ponder over the implication of his words while she examined him. Her gaze lingered on his canine teeth that were visible due to his wide grin; they appeared to be larger than what one would imagine on a heavenly being -- almost as if they were fangs and their purpose was to devour living beings. She felt goosebumps rise at the nape of her neck for a strange reason.

It suddenly dawned upon Sakura that she was in an unknown place, in front of an unknown being. So, she chose her words carefully, and opted to just question, rather than respond.

“The Good Place?”

“It’s where those who were good during their time on Earth end up. See, there’s a point system; each action of yours has a consequence. By the end of your time, if you get enough positive points you end up here, in the Good Place. If not, then you know you go to the bad place.” A pause, as Madara waited for Sakura to digest his explanation.

Sakura reflected on his words carefully, and realised that it did make sense. She never leaned strongly towards one religion’s belief, and as far as afterlife shenanigans went, she did not think about them often either. Sure, there was that once in a while curiousity of life after death, heaven vs hell, or just death itself being the ultimate end, but nothing more. She tended to focus in the present, and made decisions that aligned with her values. She had studied and worked hard to become a doctor because she wanted to save lives and help others as much as she could. She did have her mean moments, but overall, she knew she was a nice enough person who cared genuinely. So it was not that surprising she did end up in this Good Place.

She nodded to signal Madara to continue with what he was going to say.

“Do you remember how you died?”

“I recall the events briefly, but not much of it. Can you tell me?” That was a lie; she did recall, but she simply wanted to make sure.

Madara shrugged before he opened up her file to enlighten her.

“You were bitten by a Sydney funnel-web spider during your sleep, and since they couldn’t you get you to the hospital in time, you died,” he stated.

“Ah, I recall that,” Sakura replied, while in fact she did not recall that. She practically lived in the hospital, so how they did not get her to the hospital in the time was baffling. More so, that a spider was written to be the cause of her death, when spiders were not a threat in the area she had resided in.

“Yes, it’s a shame since you were so close to finally closing in on the deal for that $1 million house, and having a breakthrough in your real estate agent career,” Madara said in pity.

“It is,” Sakura agreed. The temptation for her eyebrow to twitch was strong, but she held back whatever expressions she wanted to make out of annoyance. Sakura was a doctor, one who worked in public services and volunteered more than what her body could handle at times; she was not a lying real estate agent who thieved people off their money, and each other, more than what they were worth.

And that was the first time Sakura realised that she had been mistaken for someone else who shared her same name, and she was in fact not, in the Good Place.

****

So far in regards to his experiment, Madara was having the time of his life. Posing the Bad Place as the Good Place, and leading his experimental human subjects to believe they were in heaven, when in fact, everything was going wrong for them which tormented and agonised them, was incredibly entertaining for him to experience. The distressful expressions, the anxiety and stress they radiated off as their mental health eventually deteriorated, it left a delicious taste of human misery lingering in his mouth.

Everything was going smoothly, except there was one enigma: Sakura Haruno.

Madara had taken extra caution to cultivate an environment that would lead the deceased humans to believe they were in their own heaven, but it would hold elements of things they absolutely despised and feared.

From Sakura’s profile, the real estate agent, she was claustrophobic, loathed reading and feared needles. So, he had made sure that in her dream small home, the rooms in the house would have less space -- almost with a suffocating feeling to it, by having many rows of shelves that held books. And not just any books, medical books to remind her of her failure of not becoming a doctor like her parents wanted her to be, and then they had ridiculed her for failures by cutting all ties with her. There were various sizes of needles displayed as a decorative piece across the walls of her living room.

Every time he visited her, he expected her to be breaking out in sweat, and feel the sensation of her nerves knotting her stomach and feeding on it, and relishing in whatever emotional turmoil she would be experiencing. Instead of that expected outcome, he was always greeted with the sight of the doctor Sakura grinning at him in genuine joy, and raving about all the medical books that surrounded her home. She would welcome him warmly and happily, with a little joyful jump in her step, while passionately ranting about new things she learned, and how it fit in with the knowledge she already had. And unlike the other humans, she always went out of her way to give him a sincere welcome that was not accompanied by a fake smile which concealed her true emotions. Whatever he did to try and make her miserable in regards to the information on her profile, it seemed to have the opposite effect. It was concerning for him because that was not supposed to happen; she was supposed to be suffering and beginning to lose her sanity, not greet him in excitement and thank him, and leave him feeling flustered due to her gratitude.

It was not long before Madara figured that something was wrong with the Sakura Haruno in his grasp. So, in order to appease his curiosity about her, and figure out how he could make her miserable, he began to spend more time with her, and watch her.

He wasn’t the only one.

On the days and nights, and the times in between, when Madara watched Sakura, he learned many things about her. One, she was opposite to what her personality was described as on her profile. Instead of being self-centred and greedy of her possessions, she was selfless and giving. She, unfortunately, reached out to the other suffering humans and listened to them, cared for them, and made them feel better. He learned that she was opposing him by lessening their suffering, instead of letting it worsen which was the purpose when someone ended up in the Bad Place. Second, rather than feeling uncomfortable with the little space in her home and being bothered by the needles and the books, she found comfort in them -- she found comfort in the home provided for her, which was not how it was meant to be. Third, he realised he wasn’t the only one who watched her.

After enough observation, it did not take a genius to realise that the Sakura he had come to claim as his soul to torture, was in fact the wrong Sakura. The one he was given, evidently belonged to the Good Place, because there was no chance that someone with her personality would end up as his. She was simply too pure, too beautiful, too perfect -- any filth from the Bad Place could easily taint her.

Madara was the only one who could protect her. And so, he did just that.

One of his other assigned humans had been a harassor. Each time a woman showed him an ounce of kindness, he would take that as a welcoming sign. Given the support he had received from his angel Sakura, it was no surprise he repeated his shitty behaviour. He had broken into her home in the middle of the night, except, instead of getting the chance to do something to Sakura, he was greeted by Madara. Instead of his usual appearance which consisted of shorter hair, more humane features, and in a tux that made him look -- well not the devil that he was to not scare humans, he had unleashed his authentic demon. His hair was messy and long, making him look bigger and more intimidating; his horns that sprouted out his head were visible and black. His eyes glistened a dangerous crimson in the darkness of the night. The last thing that the guy saw before he his inevitable demise, were Madara’s long claws that swiped down at him, and scooped out his soul from his body.

As Madara clutched the struggling and pathetic soul of the harassor in his hands tightly, he glanced back to see Sakura staring at him with wide eyes etched with fear, and trembling and gripping her sheets tightly. She was covering her mouth with her hand, feeling horrified due to the scene she had just witnessed, and how easily Madara had just killed someone.

He turned to her fully, and stared at her with a possessive gaze.

“You belong to me,” Madara voiced, as he loomed over her. “I won’t let anyone else hurt what belongs to me.”

#madasakuweekend2019 #madasaku #yandere naruto #yandere madara #naruto fanfiction #yandere akatsuki #madara x sakura #naruto imagines #naruto scenarios #dark themes #manupilation #character death #ambivalent writes #madara uchiha #sakura haruno #yandere #yandere imagines

303 notes · View notes

yamisnuffles · 4 years

Text

Dig Down

Part 9 of Too Much of a Good Thing

Hell comes to congratulate Crowley on the Spanish Inquisition. When Crowley's curiosity gets the better of him, he ends of shaken to the core.

Read on Ao3

“You, my friend, are a terrible model.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at Leonardo. “What? How can anyone be a terrible model? All I have to do is sit about. Maybe you’re just a terrible artist.”

“Maybe so.” Leonardo laughed and set his sketch aside. “But I would hardly call what you do sitting.”

Crowley had one foot tucked underneath him and the other thrown over the arm of the chair. He was reasonably certain he hadn’t started in this position. He’d done his best to channel Aziraphale, back straight and hands folded neatly on his lap, when first Leonardo had started his drawing. He flung both of his legs out and used the momentum to stand. His floor length braid swung pendulously behind him.

“Can’t help it,” he said with an easy shrug. “Sitting around that long is unnatural.”

Leonardo gave him an appraising look. “What’s unnatural is the way you walk.”

Crowley stilled instantly. “What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

“I didn’t say it was wrong. Really, it’s quite pleasant to watch but it does make me long to see the muscle and bone beneath. There is certainly something intriguing going on there.”

Aziraphale had commented a few times on the way he walked. Then again, Aziraphale had also commented on his hands, his nose, his hair, his eye, his freckles, his knees, his teeth, and everything else about him. To hear it from another, he worried he didn’t look as convincingly human as he hoped. It made him conscious of every step to a degree that very nearly caused him to trip. He saved himself by leaning against the table where Leonardo’s sketch had been cast aside.

He plucked the red chalk drawing up between long, spindly, ostensibly human fingers and examined it with eyes he knew were not a color found amongst mortal men. The face was cleverly rendered but everything from the shoulders down was decidedly more gestural.

“Mind if I take this?”

Leonardo dismissed the image with a wave. “Go right ahead. I can hardly use it for anything, though perhaps you can repay me by sitting for a portrait. Your face makes for a good study, even if the rest of you refuses to behave. You’d make an interesting angel, I think.” When Crowley sputtered incoherently in response, Leonardo laughed again. “A piece I was commissioned for,” he explained. “Or, part of one, anyway. For now, I have other work to do and I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your angel.”

Crowley felt his cheeks burn. Rather than try for a reply he knew would only come out as a garbled mess, he carefully rolled up the drawing and bobbed his head in thanks. “Well, whenever you want to get that portrait done, you know where to find me,” he said as he hastily made his exit from the studio. He could only take so much embarrassment in one day and he was sure Aziraphale had stored some up for him back at their villa.

Once he was out of the busy streets of Milan, he snapped his fingers. A note appeared, tucked into the drawing. A gift from our mutual friend, it read, to help you anticipate my return home. A grin and another snap sent it ahead. He could have gone with it but he enjoyed walking the Italian countryside. It put him in mind of breathless, startled confessions of love and kisses under the stars that added a spring to his step. He couldn’t bring himself to worry if that walk was passably human or not. He was all but skipping down the sun baked road when the smell of something putrid wafted through the summer air. He skidded to a halt just in time to avoid tripping over Hastur as he rose up through the hard packed dirt.

Crowley scowled. He should have miracled himself home and saved himself the trouble. He could very well still leave but if Hastur was bothering him, it was for a reason. It always was. It was also always something miserable that he didn’t want Aziraphale dragged into. He’d had a few hundred year’s peace after their initial meeting and, while Hastur hadn’t come around with any more job offers, he usually bore information. Wretched, gut wriggling stuff that Crowley was probably better off not knowing but could never seem to resist.

He had enough time to collect himself, to cross his arms and pretend at calm. Annoyance. He knew he could fight if he needed but he really preferred not to. Luckily it had been some time since a demon had forced him to it. Chances were today would be no different. All the same, he’d keep himself wound and ready, should it come to it.

Hastur emerged fully with a sneer already on his face. Crowley resisted the urge to push him right back down into the earth and instead asked, “What do you want? You’re sort of ruining my attempt to enjoy the fresh air.”

The corners of Hastur’s mouth widened slow and sloppily as the filth he reeked of until it formed a too wide smile. “Just came to congratulate you, Crowley. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

Crowley merely blinked. He couldn’t think of anything of note that he’d done in the past couple of centuries. Really, he’d been remarkably good, even by his own sometimes nebulous standards. He’d helped inspire a saint or two, been a patron of the arts, and had handed out the occasional blessing. Mostly he whiled away the time with Aziraphale, wherever they found themselves living as Aziraphale did jobs for Heaven. He’d even taken on a few of Aziraphale’s jobs, first as a way to let Aziraphale chase his own pursuits and then simply because he’d wanted to. Aside from helping a fellow angel skip work, he’d practically been a model angel.

“Hit your head on the way up from Hell, did you? I haven’t done anything.”

“Don’t be so modest. Weaponizing questions, really. Everyone Downstairs is impressed with this one. I’m almost jealous.”

Crowley felt a prickling down his spine. Something about this put his teeth on edge. Other than the obvious, that it was Hastur speaking to him, he didn’t know what it was about this that made him so uneasy. He wanted urgently to be home with Aziraphale. It wasn’t just the usual desire to be with his husband but something deeper than his bones. Deep as his very essence. This was the sort of warning urge that had sent him deep into the stars, once upon a time, a warning that things would shift irreparably if he did not act.

He shook the stiffness from his limbs. No need to be tense. No need to run. It was just Hastur and whatever he was babbling about. He hadn’t done anything- he really hadn’t- and nothing the demon said would change that. He took a step to walk around the demon. “If you’re done…”

Hastur angled himself to stop Crowley. He would have grabbed him if Crowley hadn’t already been on the defensive and ready to slip away. “Tell me how you did it? How’d you talk the humans into this Inquisition in Spain?”

- - - -

Crowley wasn’t sure what day it was. He wasn’t sure where he was but the near empty bottle in his hand implied a tavern or something of the sort. Usually drinks were poured into cups, though, so there was a chance he’d grabbed a bottle and taken it somewhere. That, or someone had let him simply drink from the bottle. Either way, probably not any sort of fine establishment. He wasn’t sure if he felt good or bad, either, but that was by design— don’t feel anything, don’t think. Seemed to be working fantastically judging by the fact that he could neither see, sit, nor think straight.

“There you are.”

That voice was familiar. Made something warm settle into the sloshing sea of alcohol in his system. “Here I am,” he agreed.

“Perhaps you should stop drinking a moment and look at me.”

Crowley sank down to embrace the bottle. The glass was cool against the side of his face. It felt nice. “Nah. Think I’ll just stay like this,” he said. Or, tried to say, judging by the slurred garble that slipped out of his mouth.

There was a long sigh. “Crowley.”

The bottle was carefully pried from his grip. He tried to resist, muttered a few choice curses, but was easily left slumped against his own folded arms. A gentle hand landed on his right elbow and when he turned to look at it, a face came into view. It took a moment for him to focus well enough to bring any of the features clarity but it could have stayed a bright, blessed blur and he would have known that face anywhere.

He picked up his head and beamed. “Ziraphale, s’good to see you.”

“I’m surprised you can see anything, judging by the state of you. Why don’t we get you home?”

Crowley shook his head. He abruptly stopped when the whole world seemed to shake with it. “Nope. Too drunk. Would probably discorpra- discapor- die if I tried a miracle.”

“Well then, why don’t you sober up?”

Aziraphale’s voice was low, sharp, and even. It was the sort of voice that in any other situation would have had Crowley worried but he’d done too good a job of getting rid of silly things like worries at least half a dozen bottles ago. Maybe more. He’d lost track after the first five or fifteen.

“Told you,” he said, resting his chin in the palm of one hand, “no miracles. B’sides, I don’t wanna.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “You don’t want to?”

“Nope.”

Crowley popped the ‘p’ and then repeated the sound until he fell into a fit of giggles.

“Then allow me—”

Everything was too murky for Crowley to remember why exactly the idea of sobering up sent his heart pounding and his stomach plummeting but he instantly snatched Aziraphale’s wrist to stop it from happening.

“No.”

“If you really feel so strongly about it, I won’t. Can you at least tell me why?”

Crowley opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head. Every time he reached toward the source of that feeling, something fractured and threatened to fall away completely.

He heard another long sigh. An arm wrapped around his back and another under his legs. Suddenly he was being carried. The lift into the air made him dizzy. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest. His shirt smelled nice. Like… flowers or something. Something pretty and nice. Like Aziraphale.

“You smell nice.”

“I’m glad,” Aziraphale replied flatly. “Do you have a room?”

“Dunno.”

“You don’t— where have you been staying all this time?”

“Dunno. Has it been a long time?”

Yet another sigh. Crowley felt like he should start taking count.

“It’s been over a week since I expected you back.” They started moving and Crowley had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop feeling dizzy. “Well then, if you don’t have a room and you won’t let me sober you up, what do you say to me bringing us both back home?”

Home. For much of his existence that had been a moving target with Aziraphale as a constant center. It didn’t need to be a physical place, the heart of it would always exist someplace beyond, but at the moment it was. More importantly, it was somewhere away from here. Whether he could articulate why he didn’t want to be here any longer, he knew how happy he was at the thought of leaving, particularly in Aziraphale’s arms.

Crowley hummed appreciatively and pressed in as close as he was able. There would always be a part of him that worried he would forget this form if he shifted back into his serpentine one but he missed the simplicity of it. He could never feel quite so much as a snake and he could instead rest easier, coiled around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Maybe he still would, when he sobered. He knew that Aziraphale would love him no matter his shape. It might not be better but it would be easier and, at the moment, that sounded very tempting.

There was a feeling of compression and then expansion as a miracle sent them both home. Instantly Crowley was inundated by the rich smell of oak from Aziraphale’s heavy wooden desk with a whiff on top of ink and parchment. He remembered the sound of wind rustling through the olive trees and the scratch of a quill as Aziraphale passed the nights writing while Crowley slept. Or tried to, anyhow. Oftentimes he would lay with one eye open and watch Aziraphale work by candlelight.

He thought of those nights as Aziraphale laid him on a bed that was far more comfortable than it had any right to be. Aziraphale took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Apparently neither of them was willing to break the silence that had fallen between them. Instead, Aziraphale quietly ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Or tried, as he got caught in hair that had managed to tangle despite being braided.

“When was the last time you brushed your hair?” Aziraphale asked as he drew his hand back to himself. “Or bathed? Or did anything to care for yourself?”

“You said I’ve been gone over a week? Then, uh, yeah. Probably something like that. S’not like we need to bathe or anything. Not like humans do.”

“You do if you’re going to soak yourself in alcohol and drunken humans.”

Crowley groaned and buried his face in a pillow. As it happened, an angel’s metabolism didn’t allow for passing out drunk, or that had been his experience over the last however many days of attempting to reach blissful oblivion. Maybe he could sleep, though. That might be alright.

He forgot why he’d been avoiding sleep until it overcame him. He’d gotten complacent since his marriage to Aziraphale. Even in the worst of times, life with his Principality had been a waking dream and the sleeping world had shaped itself accordingly. But the world wasn’t painted in only soft shades of cream and powdery blue, sometimes it was the harsh, steely grey of cruel human ingenuity or the slick scarlet shine of blood. The blood wouldn’t wash from his hands no matter how ferociously he scrubbed. It gathered under his nails, stained his skin, and blemished the band of gold around his finger.

Then there were the screams. They were never ending. If he pressed his palms tight as he could over his ears, they still rattled through his bones. He suspected he would continue hearing them even if he banished his ears altogether with a miracle. He just wanted them to stop. He screamed for them to stop. He begged and pleaded like he had for little else in his long existence.

Silence returned with two words. “Wake up.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. He breathed in gulps through a raw and ragged throat. He looked impulsively at his hands but they were clean. The screams had been his own, the blood imagined, and yet he couldn’t seem to free himself of the sensation of either. He rubbed senselessly at his forearms until a pair of arms encircled him like a vice and forced him to stop.

“It’s alright, dearest. You’re alright.”

“It’s alright? I’m alright?” he repeated, each statement transforming into a question in the mouth of a non-believer.

“Yes. I’m here. You’re safe.”

This time there was no doubt. There never would be, not in Aziraphale. He relaxed into Aziraphale’s arms. “Yes.”

“How about a bath?” A snap and the scent of lavender filled the suddenly humid air. “I’ll take care of it. All you’ll have to do is relax.”

Crowley let out a hollow puff of laughter. “Is that all?”

Aziraphale gripped him by the shoulders and sat him up so that they were face to face. There were tears obscuring his storm grey eyes. “Then you don’t need to do even that. Simply let me take care of you as best I can, alright?”

Crowley nodded when his throat tightened too much to make a reply. He loathed seeing Aziraphale cry.

Aziraphale helped him to his feet and out of his clothes. Each article of clothing was removed with more care than it deserved, stiff and smelling as it all did of a week’s worth of drinking in whatever establishment would have him. If he thought too closely on that he was liable to consider once more what had driven him to drink in the first place and, for Aziraphale’s sake, he was determined to at least try to relax.

He set his eyes on their bath. It was a lovely thing made of delicate white marble. Carved on the outside were scenes of angels dancing and drinking and generally having a lot more fun than real ones did. Bathing came and went in vogue with humans, but Aziraphale had developed a special fondness for it in Rome and so they’d kept a private bath wherever they settled since. Such, he supposed, was the luxury of not worrying whether the locals had plumbing anymore or not. One quick miracle and they had a full tub with steam that rolled in easy clouds off the surface.

“Come now,” Azirphale said as he took one of Crowley’s hands, “let’s see if this helps you any.”

Crowley let Aziraphale lead him to the bathtub and then climbed in without letting go of Aziraphale’s hand until he’d lowered himself most of the way down. Aziraphale carefully undid the braided hair that trailed after Crowley like a train. Once done, he gathered it up into a careful coil and deposited it in the water with Crowley. The water rose to the edge but didn’t spill over. It was just enough for Crowley and not a drop more.

Crowley let out a long, trembling breath as the hot water worked its wonders on him. He wasn’t quite as fond of bathing as Aziraphale but he did very much enjoy the act of being bathed. It was a bit like sleeping, without the danger of nightmares. Instead it was the very best sort of dream, shaped by the one he loved the most. Strong, calloused hands worked at the tense muscles in his shoulders and scented water poured over his head from a glittering copper vessel. The ritual of it was a comfort bordering on the sacred.

Aziraphale rubbed a small dab of scented oil on Crowley’s temples. “I got Leonardo’s sketch,” he said.

“I should hope so,” Crowley replied, “or I would have to worry my miracles are starting to go awry.”

Aziraphale nudged Crowley into a seated position so that he could better comb out water loosened tangles. “It was quite lovely. I do hope that you told him that and that you thanked him for his patience. I could tell you were as restless as ever at your sitting.”

“Er—” Had he thanked Leonardo? He couldn’t remember. “Oh! He asked me to come back for a proper portrait. Said I’d make a good angel.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “At least someone thinks so.” The comb hit a snag and was replaced for a moment by careful fingers. “I don’t know how you managed this.”

“Dunno.”

“You do have a talent for finding trouble.”

When one segment was finished, Aziraphale moved to the next and the next in meticulous fashion. Crowley’s eyes fell closed as he sank into the comfortable rhythm of it. He felt like a bit of flotsam tossing gently in the waves without a care in the world.

“I suppose this hair is what put Leonardo in mind of angels,” Aziraphale continued. “I don’t think you’ve had it this long since Eden.”

Crowley opened his eyes again as he pulled himself from his quiet reverie. “I mean, I was a snake for quite a while after that, so hair was sort of off the metaphorical table.”

“Indeed. But… it’s nice. I like it quite a bit when it’s this long. Of course you know how I love it no matter the length—” Crowley ignored the burn in his cheeks and Aziraphale continued to comb. “—but it’s nice to remember simpler times.”

“For the, what, handful of minutes we had them?”

“Even so.”

Simpler times. Crowley hardly remembered them. Yes, he’d forever recall his first sight of the delightfully soft Principality, high on the eastern wall of Eden, when he’d been nothing more than an out of place Seraph with perhaps a few too many questions on his lips. But any memory of that time was overshadowed by what came after. And then what came after that. And after that. And on and on and on despite all the good mixed in.

Crowley pulled his knees up and hugged them close. “Hey, so, uh, with my rude awakening earlier, I think I’ve sobered up enough to, er…” He ran his tongue over his teeth and pressed extra hard on his left incisor, which had always run a bit sharper. He didn’t want to talk about it but it was a dark and hungry secret that he worried would devour him from the inside out if he didn’t. “I remember everything, if you wanna hear about it.”

Aziraphale stilled for a moment and then continued combing Crowley’s hair. “Only if you want. You can take whatever time you need.”

“No, I should— I want to now. Maybe then I can start to forget without an ocean of alcohol to help me along.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut but when he did, he could see that faces of humans contorted beyond recognition by unfathomable pain. It was no wonder Hell was impressed. The humans were up here serving up the sort of punishments even demons might not have dreamed of. He looked instead at his hands beneath the surface of the water and reminded himself that they were not stained in blood. He tried to remind himself also that they were clean of any guilt in this, but he was less successful on that count.

“So,” he continued when Aziraphale didn’t make any response, “ran into Hastur on the way home.”

“What did that wretched demon do this time? If he’s the one that caused all this, I’ll… I’ll… well, let me think on it but it will be suitably ghastly, I assure you.”

“No, it’s not— he didn’t do anything. Well, guess he did but not like that. Not that I’m against the idea of you laying down some holy wrath on him, if you’re so inclined. But I’m—” Water splashed as he gestured broadly at himself. “Because, well, how much have you heard about the Spanish Inquisition?” He only waited half a heartbeat before charging on. “Hell thinks I cooked it up, since it’s all being done in Her name and with the whole, you know, inquisitive nature of it. Aziraphale, it’s awful.” He emptied his lungs into that word and still it didn’t seem to be enough. “Monstrous. Wretched. Abominable. Really, really… bad. I’d say hellish but apparently they hadn’t even thought up half the things these humans have. Got the impression they’re taking notes.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded so small behind him. “Oh, Crowley. Why did you go look?”

“Had to, didn’t I? If everyone thinks I did it, I should at least know what I’m getting my name on.”

Aziraphale’s hands fell away from Crowley’s hair as he rushed around to the side of the bath. “But you didn’t have anything to do with it! You know you didn’t, my dear, so why torment yourself over what a pitiable bunch of damned creatures think?”

“Well, it’s not like they’re completely out of bounds thinking I’d gone and corrupted the humans again, are they?”

“It’s not— Crowley, how many times are we going to have to have this argument? You can’t take all of humanity’s sins on your shoulders.”

“I can try.”

“You certainly can and I know that you do, but I wish you wouldn’t. The humans will do whatever they will do, for good or ill. You know that. Not even the Almighty can stop that.”

“Why the blazes not?”

Aziraphale froze except for a sudden fluttering of his lashes. “What?”

“Why can’t She put a stop to this? They’re committing atrocities in Her name. She’s fucking well put a foot down in the past, drowning a whole load of people and—”

“Stop!” The walls of the villa shook at the command and for a moment Aziraphale seemed much larger. He shrank back down as he grabbed either side of Crowley’s face. “Stop, please. Not another word like that.”

Aziraphale crushed their lips together in a fierce kiss. He kept kissing until Crowley no longer had the mind or breath to argue further.

“Please,” Aziraphale said once more. “Not this. If there’s one thing in the entirety of existence you don’t question, let it be this. For me.”

Crowley could feel the drip of tears onto bath wet skin as their foreheads pressed together. He wanted for all the world to agree to that. Even being able to lie about it felt like it would be a weight off his shoulders. His life— their lives— would be so much easier if he could. If he could just trust in whatever damned plan there was, he might not have spent the last week drunk out of his mind.

He pulled back enough to look Aziraphale in the eyes and frowned at what he saw. “I made you cry again.” He bent forward and kissed the tear tracks off round, ruddy cheeks. “I’m sorry, angel. I won’t say anything like that again. Not to you.”

Aziraphale’s brows lowered over watery eyes. “Not to anyone.”

“Right. Not to anyone.” Crowley sank into the bath and deeper into himself with a hunch of his shoulders. “I promise I’ll try not to even think on it, not ever again. I just want to be with you and to be happy with that.”

Aziraphale laced their left hands together so that their rings pressed together. “You have me and you always will.”

#good omens #good omens au #go au: tmgt #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #angel!crowley #my writing #fic

30 notes · View notes

ao3theskyisblue · 4 years

Text

It Takes 784 Muscles to Hide a Body

Summary:

It takes 4 muscles to smile,

16 muscles to frown, . . 784 muscles to hide a body, And 0 muscles to never speak of it again.

Written for Lonestar Week Day 7 - Anything Goes

Link to AO3

“What – in the world, are you doing?”

TK froze, his shovel plunging mid-way into the dirt as he looked up sharply, wincing as a shadowy figure holding a flashlight shined the light right into his eyes. The figure must have noticed TK shrinking away because the flashlight quickly lowered. With no words of apology, he instead moved to shine the flashlight on the ground in front of them.

TK groaned when black dots swam in his gaze, blinking repetitively to try and adjust his eyes to the dark once more. His own flashlight had been smaller, far less powerful, and placed on the ground beside him. The glow of the receding sunlight was still present, but not enough to create enough lighting in the middle of a wooded clearing where TK had begun digging.

There was no mistaking that voice.

“What are you even doing here?” TK winced; his eyes having adjusted to the faint illuminating rays around them well enough to see a very unimpressed single eyebrow lift. He recognized that look, because it was the same look the man standing in front of him gave to the crooks he caught when he called them out on their bullshit.

“That is the question, isn’t it? One that I should be asking, mind you, because if I didn’t know you any better, I would be calling in backup for a potential crime scene.” The figure said drily, eyes lowering to where a decently sized pit had been dug relatively deep in the ground.

The metallic part of the shovel that TK had been working with flashed its presence in the glimpses of light. There was a small mountain of already dug-up dirt right beside where TK was standing, and he was sure his face had to be smudged with debris and the gloves on his hands caked with soil.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Carlos? I accidentally killed a man and am currently getting rid of the evidence.” TK said without even so much as a blink, hand reaching for the shovel again to kick-start the process again. The hole should be deep enough, so why hadn’t it shown up yet?

“Oh, did you now?” Footsteps crunched against the dead leaves on the ground as the man walked closer, pausing to stand on the other side of the pit TK had dug to face him. “Then where’s the body?”

TK glanced up from his ministrations on the ground, eyes narrowing on the crossed arms that emphasized bulging biceps, a hip weighing slightly more than the other in a cocky stance. Placing the shovel beside him once more, TK leaned on the handle with one arm, a leg crossing over the other. He met the man’s gaze straight on, head tipping up in defiance.

“Did you know, that there are over 700 muscles in the human body? And it takes 784 of them to even attempt in hiding a body. No way am I going to waste them to drag an entire body out here, so obviously I chopped them into bite-sized pieces.” TK rolled his eyes, sending Carlos a ‘you get me?’ look as if they were discussing what they should have for dinner. Carlos didn’t even flinch.

“Did Mr. Carson get on your nerves again?” Carlos’ lips were twitching now, though his expression still completely stoic, and TK kind of hated police officers sometimes.

Just sometimes.

He was quite fond of one of them all the other times.

“I swear, if he starts to call my very well maintained hair a wig one more time – “ TK scowled, stopping his hands at the last second from running a hand through his hair in frustration, remembering that the gloves were still caked in dirt and other glorious findings that used to be a part of the forest floor.

“Did you have to resort to murder though? I quite liked his pecan pies.” Carlos mused, uncrossing his arms and opting to place his hands on his hips, relaxing his stance. It was true – Mr. Carson made some of the best pecan pies in the city, but his mouth needed a filtration device when it came to everyday conversation.

“That’s because he doesn’t call your curls an unfortunate by-product of hair rollers. Then you might understand the pain.” TK muttered, not being able to glare at the object of his frustrations at the moment, so he opted to glare at the manmade hole separating them instead. Carlos chuckled, ducking his head so that he could meet TK’s gaze.

“Alright spill, what are you really doing here?” Carlos asked, his eyes now purely shining with curiosity, lips tipping into an endeared smile when TK pouted.

“You’ll laugh at me.” TK huffed, tearing his eyes away from Carlos’ unrelenting gaze, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the hand that was holding onto the handle of the shovel.

“Is the reason any worse than hiding a body? Because I really can’t think of anything worse if I’m being honest.” Carlos raised an eyebrow and was giving him that look again, but TK only chewed nervously on his lower lip.

“TK, I think whatever it is that landed you here, in the middle of the woods digging a very impressive hole at night grants an explanation.” Carlos’ tone had turned serious – border lining concern. TK turned his head to meet Carlos’ gaze once more, shoulders slumping in defeat at the ‘I can see right through you’ expression on his face.

Fine.

“A bone.” TK blurted, closing his eyes and cringing at the admission. When he opened his eyes to gauge Carlos’ reaction, he would have laughed at the dumbfounded expression he was currently donning if the situation had been in his favour.

“I’m sorry, come again?”

“I’m digging for a bone.”

“…”

“..?”

“I just – did you and Buttercup switch bodies without me knowing, or is this some sort of a feti – “

“Oh my god.” TK groaned, not even bothering with the filth on his gloves this time as he ran an exasperated hand down his face. “No, that’s gross, Carlos – no, I meant Buttercup was hiding one of his bones around here and forgot to dig it back up before we left. He was looking around the station for it, so I’m trying to find it.”

Carlos’ hand on his flashlight loosened, letting the object tumble to the ground, thankfully stopping before it fell into the pit in front of them.

Silence.

TK tightened his grip on the shovel’s handle, eyes darting over Carlos’ face to catch any sort of movement – a twitch of a muscle, a tip of the lips, a widening of the eyes.

Nothing.

The sun’s rays had almost completely settled down the horizon now, and pretty soon, the two men would be left with only their flashlights and each other to hopefully find their ways back to civilization.

If TK could somehow find a way to get Carlos to snap out of it first, that is.

“Are you telling me, that you’re out here on the brink of twilight, in the middle of nowhere, because you’re trying to find a doggy bone?”

Carlos’ words seemed to catch in his throat, and TK couldn’t really pinpoint what exactly it was that made his voice shake but pushed it aside as probably confusion. The firefighter met the cop’s gaze head-on, and in a completely serious tone, replied,

“…Yes?”

And Carlos lost it.

“I hope you know that I really, really hate you right now.” TK grumbled, glaring at the laughing figure of his boyfriend in front of him, bending down slightly to clutch at his stomach with whatever he found so hilarious about this situation.

Carlos’ bright laughter echoed in the clearing around them, probably scaring the birds that were also wondering what the fuck was up, but TK couldn’t find it in himself to even pretend to be mad.

His chest warmed in contrast to the cool tone of the evening - witnessing Carlos laughing as unabashedly as he was right now was a sight that will be forever ingrained in his memory.

“You – I just – TK, why didn’t you just bring Buttercup along? He has a sense of smell almost 40 times better than ours.” Carlos choked out, before going into another fit of laughter when TK’s eyes widened in realization.

Oh.

Damn, he hadn’t even considered that. He had seen Buttercup looking absolutely miserable at the station, whining pitifully for a toy he had lost, and TK hadn’t thought twice but to immediately come back here after shift.

The crew was going to have a field day when they heard about this.

“I probably should have just gone with trying to find a time capsule, huh?” TK knew his cheeks had to be on fire, and not the type that could be easily put out.

“Actually, the only time capsule located in Austin right now is the one below city hall. So, if you really had been digging that up before 2105, I honestly would have been even more concerned.” Carlos chuckled, ignoring his fallen flashlight on the ground between them.

The minimalized light surrounding them now cast a comforting glow in the shadow of darkness, the sun officially too tired of their game to stay any longer.

Suddenly, spots of blinking lights pictured before them, and TK shifted his gaze to follow, eyes shining in awe at whatever he was witnessing.

“Fireflies.”

TK turned to see that Carlos hadn’t even bothered to follow the blinking lights like TK had, instead, looking like there was nothing he would rather be looking at than the man standing in front of him.

“It’s actually rather rare to see them nowadays.” Carlos added softly, eyes trailing after the speckles of light, granting TK a moment to admire the stunning profile of a man who had not left his side since first coming into his life. The man who had somehow found him in the middle of the night even when he had a shift just hours before – tracked him to the middle of the woods and need no reason to stay other than to offer his company.

I love you.

“Guess we’re pretty lucky then.” TK opted to say instead, heart thumping wildly in his chest both at Carlos’ quiet ‘I am,’ and the three words currently echoing in his mind – the warmth of the feeling leaving a prickle of electricity along his skin.

The tiny flickers of light danced closer towards him, and TK grinned when a couple of them even swarmed around him for a while.

“Seems like they can’t resist a pretty face.” Carlos teased, laughing lightly when TK scoffed, offering a fond smile at the sparkles of light blinking in a rhythm only they knew.

“How’d you know where to find me, by the way?” TK asked, tilting his head in a silent question. Carlos sent him a wink.

“I followed the blood trail.” Carlos deadpanned, before snickering at TK’s unimpressed stare. “Okay, fine. I may or may not have tracked your phone’s GPS.” Carlos admitted sheepishly, eyes lowering to the ground beneath them. TK would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little impressed.

“Aw, I’m honoured. You used your fancy police equipment to find me.” TK batted his lashes playfully, and if Carlos hadn’t still been standing one pit apart from him, he was sure that comment would earn him a chastising shove.

“I was worried, when you didn’t answer your phone.” Carlos confessed quietly, and TK’s expression immediately softened. He had left his phone on silent and shoved it in his pocket when he had started digging, the device’s vibrations probably getting lost in the movement.

Eyes locking with Carlos’ once more, TK could make out a hint of fragility, an almost uncertain look that he instantly wanted to erase.

“Thank you…for being here.” TK matched Carlos’ answering grin with one of his own, immersing himself in the moment. It was probably his imagination, but it almost seemed like the light from the fireflies brightened around them, casting an ethereal glow in their pocket of intimacy.

“Next time you want to hide a body, hit me up first, okay?” Carlos’ grin suddenly turned teasing, and TK groaned, laughing dejectedly.

“You are never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

Unbeknownst to the two men, the glowing flickers of light that had watched the entire exchange mustered all their strength to shine even brighter, giggling amongst themselves. Flying over their heads, they maneuvered themselves to create the shape of a heart, just as one of the men made his way over to the other, gathering him into his arms.

“Let’s go home.”

#tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star #lonestarweek2020 #Day 7 - Anything Goes

38 notes · View notes

spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

Such Thankless Toil

Tybalt stared at the simple wooden cross hanging on his wall. He warmed himself by the fire in his hut. The cold still seeped in through the cracks everywhere throughout the drafty place, and his hands still throbbed from the friction of the wood axe’s handle rubbing against his calluses, clashing with the biting cold of a winter come early to these lands.

Someone approached his humble abode. The sound of the frosted ground outside crunching alerted Tybalt to the person’s nearing, but he felt no need to react. Light steps—someone frail or small or both. Tybalt just continued to hold out his palms in front of the fire, savoring that thrum of the blood pumping through his veins, pushing out the feeling of pins and needles in his digits.

His visitor finally arrived and knocked on the door. Entered without waiting for a response, accompanied by the creak of old metal hinges. Tybalt reared his head to see who had found the courage to visit him here all alone.

A young lad. He froze in his tracks as his gaze wandered from object to object in the hut, but then snapped into place when he locked onto Tybalt’s face.

The boy gasped.

Tybalt grabbed the brown hood from the nearby table and slipped it over his own head. It was harder to see through the eyeholes cut out of its front, but it made it easier to converse with people. It made it easier for them, for it hid his hideous visage.

The young boy backed away a step and almost tripped over the threshold when Tybalt rose from his seat by the fireplace.

“What is it?” he asked the boy. Every baritone word crashed down like strikes of an axe against a log.

The boy swallowed, fighting to overcome his fear, but it visibly still paralyzed him before he mustered enough courage to reply. Tybalt waited patiently, standing still and finding pleasure in the warmth of flames in his back.

“L-Lord Gabriel de Rochefort s-summons you for another task, m-master,” stuttered the boy.

Tybalt tilted his head, pondering those words. He read the fear festering in the boy’s heart and understood his own subtle motions to be only fertilizing that growing dread. Tybalt started nodding, the intensity of it waxing as their exchange spurred him into action.

“You may go. I must sharpen my axe, then I will arrive shortly to do as he bids,” Tybalt replied, gruff and as voluminous as an earthquake.

The boy practically ran away. Barely eked out a word of farewell. The sounds of his fast pace betrayed just how panicked he really was over the sight of Tybalt’s appearance, gaining distance so quickly that he would be back in the village in no time whatsoever.

Tybalt could not blame him. His reaction to seeing his disfigured face was no different from anybody else’s. If anything, Tybalt resented the fool who had failed to mention it to the lad before sending him on his errand.

He kept his hood on, finding the warmth it shed preferable over exposure to the cold air, even in spite of the humidity quickly building with each breath. The large man used a bucket and ladle to splash some water onto his table, placed his whetstone onto it, and sat down there with a massive axe in hand.

Each precise and slow stroke of the blade along the stone’s surface gave him more time to think.

SHHHHINK.

How de Rochefort allowed him to keep the boots from the thief he finished last week. A rare thing to find such good cobbling fit to a size like his.

SHHHHHHHHINK.

How some of the peasants found that a wolf had torn through their livestock several days prior, and Tybalt was the one responsible for clearing out the carcasses from the nearby woods.

SHHHHINK.

How he handled all those diseased corpses in town last year, burning them on a pyre, which Tybalt carried out without posing a single question or uttering a word.

SHHHHINK.

How they all viewed him with derision, but always needed his help. Such thankless wretches. All but the good lord who had pardoned him all those years ago.

SHHHHHHHHINK.

Tybalt tested the blade’s edge against his thumb, careful not to cut himself. Such thankless toil.

One more.

One of these days, he would fail in his tasks, and be put to the axe himself. Subject to the fury of the thankless mob.

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHINK.

Death could not be stayed forever. Not even for its chosen agents.

He sampled the blade’s sharpness again.

Good now.

Tybalt threw on a blanket to keep him warm on his march into town. He hoisted the heavy axe onto his shoulder and left the fire burning. With a bit of luck, this would be quick, and warmth still lingering in his hearth upon return.

The time it took to walk from his abode to the town always gave him ample space to fill with thinking. A pious pilgrim once said that too much idle time gave even the most honest men cause to lend the devil their ear, but Tybalt always found that it helped him come to terms with his many frustrations and lingering resentments. To sort them out, and bury them deep, keeping the surface of his mind clear and cleanly.

His wandering took him from the edge of the woods, down muddy paths seldom traveled.

A task always required his full focus. He envisioned the many necks he had severed, the many times he had separated heads from their connected bodies. The crunch of bone, the sprays of blood. No room to register the shock of a leering audience, some whose eyes displayed perverse lust at the spectacle of a public execution. Such impressions always sank in after the fact, for they would only distract him from his work, cost him tiny increments of much-needed precision, precision in which every tiniest fraction of an inch mattered.

Now, he walked along pastures where peasants worked the fields in desperate haste against the winter’s premature arrival. One of them shouted to the other, though far enough away that Tybalt could not decipher his admonishments, only feel the waves of hatred conveyed through incessant swearing.

De Rochefort’s land was a miserable one, filled with miserable people.

Tybalt had no room to consider things like the derangement he saw in the crowds while performing his handiwork. The master would dictate how many strokes he was afforded to end that life, and if he failed, then his head would be next on the chopping block.

Therefore, he had to find focus. To concentrate. To consider the way he bore that axe’s shaft. How to swing with maximum accuracy.

His life depended on it. And who else could take his place? Who would?

The blanket, the heat from his hearth trapped underneath it, and his long walk helped stave off the bitter cold as Tybalt passed through the open gate of the town’s outer wall. A commotion of sounds welcomed him, among others, the rhythmic sharp ringing from the farrier’s anvil some streets away. Many voices chattering away in houses, echoing through the streets. So alive, here, yet so foreign to him these days.

He pushed back every thought until his mind cleared entirely. Kept pressing on until he arrived on the town’s grand square, now devoid of market stands save for those wily enough to trade edible treats to wealthy snobs hailing and visiting from distant lands.

The scent of roasted pig and honey hung heavy in the air, wafting from those stands, though muted somewhat by the smell of frozen mud and wintry cold. Even through his mask, it all filled Tybalt’s nostrils.

Upon the executioner’s stand, Lord de Rochefort awaited, arms crossed. A large horde of town folk had already started to gather around the elevated wooden platform.

Tybalt could also feel their blood lust. Like a cold heat, emanating from the crowd.

Lord de Rochefort’s eyes flashed with recognition and relief when he noticed Tybalt’s arrival. He raised his chin to look down at the tall man while Tybalt ascended the narrow steps up onto the platform, but he gave him a deep nod in recognition and greeting.

“Bring forth that scoundrel, that filth,” commanded de Rochefort in an imperious tone, gesturing at one of his servants to do his bidding.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The lord clapped Tybalt on his shoulder once he arrived by his side on the platform, a living tower standing next to the master of the fiefdom.

“Thank you for your haste,” de Rochefort whispered to him.

Tybalt nodded to him, then surveyed the crowd. Shutting out the cascade of garish colors of their attire, their bodies huddled together in the creeping cold, flush with anticipation for the coming spectacle of carnage.

This was one of his least favorite parts. He knew others would think it odd if he ever shared such an account, but the act of butchering living men only paled in comparison to when all eyes were on him and the people he was tasked with ending. How disgusting it was how they wanted to watch a man die.

It was always these periods of time when he had to wait until all announcements were made, everything decreed. He cared not for their crimes, had no capacity to pity them left over in his heart. Wished not to know how much the common folk dreaded or enjoyed the organized slaughter of their fellow human beings, found no curiosity in seeking any deeper meaning.

He despised having to absorb any such speeches or impressions, because only one piece of proclamation mattered to him: how many swings was allowed.

That many chops into the neck, and no more. Or he would be next. He knew that the previous deathsman, Hadrian, had been lynched by the mob for failing at his final task. When they were riled up, there was little the lord could do to stop them. Little he would do, lest he endanger his own blessed and high-born life.

Such was the executioner’s way.

Noticing how he had lost focus in such thoughts, Tybalt pinched the bridge of his nose through the linen sack mask over his head.

Two men already dragged the criminal up the steps onto the platform with them. Tybalt had missed Lord de Rochefort’s declaration of offenses that had delivered this wretch to the here and now, to lose his head on this very day.

The criminal looked sickly. Black rings under his milky-white eyes, pallid skin. Like he was already dead and the world around him had yet to notice it. Unlike many others, this captive offered no struggle. Never protested, never rebelled against the grip of his captors.

The master held up a hand, all fingers splayed. A lop-sided grin marked his face, knowing these displays did in fact help placate the masses of his unwashed serfs.

“Five swings,” de Rochefort shouted to the crowd, rousing a clipped cheer from them, then shooting Tybalt a glance.

Tybalt nodded.

Five was a normal amount, but the criminal’s neck looked so thin and frail, leaving the seasoned executioner to wonder if he would not manage it in three for a change.

The two militiamen shoved the criminal onto his knees and pressed his head down against the chopping block. Tybalt studied the blood from the previous week still staining the coarse wooden surface where blades had repeatedly hacked into the wood once they cleaved through men’s necks.

Many in the crowd sharply inhaled. Even through his hood, Tybalt could perceive the pleasured anticipation, heavy in some of those intakes of air. He cringed, a sentiment concealed by the hood on his head.

De Rochefort cleared his throat and Tybalt took his position beside the chopping block. All whispers and murmuring in the crowd ceased, a blanket of dead silence draping itself over them.

That sickly wretch just knelt there, head resting sideways against the block, staring blankly past Tybalt’s legs. Like his soul had already escaped the confines of his body, and all that remained here on display was a husk of a human being.

Good, the executioner thought. If he did not fidget, this might be over fast.

Tybalt reared back and raised the axe.

He swung.

THWACK.

The crowd gasped, someone started screaming. As they always did.

The hood concealed Tybalt’s grimace.

Thin and frail and all sickly-looking, but still sturdy as a fresh tree in spring.

Tybalt tilted his head back and forth, observing the results of the first stroke. It had cut into flesh and arteries but barely chopped through the spine. Gurgling sounds erupted from the criminal’s throat, but this was a strange one. He neither tried to scream, nor escape. His body had no fight in it, showed no will to survive. Tybalt had never seen anything like it.

He shrugged that off and raised the axe again, then brought it crashing back down.

THWACK.

More screams. Someone in the crowd covered a child’s eyes.

Finally, the victim started squirming. Twitching. Not resisting—but wracked by wild and weird spasms. It made little sense to the executioner.

The spine was severed, but it felt like he had barely cut through half the neck, and getting all the way through sometimes still proved to be difficult at such a junction. Blood pumped out of the gaping wound which each additional swing would keep widening.

Tybalt’s heart raced. Each blow counted.

He reared back and focused. He did not care about living, but he did not want to die. It was this or death. He could sense the cold and hungry rage swelling in the mob. That twisted place between shock and pleasure, eager to see a man slaughtered but also fearful of the sights and sounds that it delivered.

Fury that should be directed elsewhere to the lord more deserving of it, standing nearby and watching closely as Tybalt ended some poor man’s life—but fury that would find a convenient target in the hideous-faced executioner.

He gritted his teeth. Adjusted his grip. Concentrated.

With all his might, he brought that axe, chopping down again.

THWACK.

Thump.

The head rolled and flopped on the platform’s roughshod boards, having torn itself loose from the final tendrils of flesh and muscles. Thick gobs of blood gushed all over the place.

Tybalt marveled at how little of the splatters he had gotten on himself this time.

Three swings, as he had predicted. He almost felt a little bit of pride swelling in his chest. But his revulsion eclipsed it within seconds, fueled by the overjoyed claps and cheers that erupted from the crowd. While his mind had grown as calloused as his hands from all the woodwork and beheadings, he never stopped finding these crowds repulsive.

Everybody went dead silent once again. Tybalt looked to his lord, who stared wide-eyed at the head he had removed. So did the crowd.

When he followed their gazes to study the face of death in that disembodied head, what he saw paralyzed him as much as it did everybody else. The incomprehensible sight curdled his blood, made his body turn cold—colder than the wintry air could ever render it.

Dozens of insect-like, spidery legs sprouted from the dead criminal’s mangled neck. A patch of blood-drenched greasy hair flapped wildly around as these long black spindly legs managed to get the head standing up straight and those uncountable number of tiny pointy feet found their bearing.

Once one person in the mob started screaming, other shrieks followed.

The head, carried by that gruesome array of legs, still gushing blood from the neck—it skittered off, leaping off the platform, and scooting away through the alleyways with unnaturally abrupt motions. People it passed by ended up scattering in every direction, running away from it in a panic, yelling at the top of their lungs, and crying for their mothers or their God.

The severed head on its tiny monstrous legs had long vanished into the darkness of the alleyways when Tybalt let his gaze sweep across the crowd.

A murderous glint twinkled in all their eyes. A rage that directed itself at him.

Lord de Rochefort took the stage, stepping in front of him.

“The devil took that man’s soul and possessed his body! You witnessed God’s work in our deathsman cleaving his neck in twain, good folk,” the noble shouted. His voice shook, quaking with the fear of a man who knew how dangerously close to getting lynched he himself now rode.

The mob hurled angry shouts and curses at him, but no objects yet. He raised his hands in hopes of quelling their fury, and their volume shrank into upset murmurs. Several people already peeled away from the crowd, seeking the safety of their own four walls. The devil’s many names escaped many sets of lips in baleful utterances.

“Fear not, for we will continue to do God’s work, as the Lord intended,” de Rochefort announced, shaking his hands, now balled into fists, at the end of every word.

Some people in the mob began to nod and vocalize their support. Others shouted for the demon to be slain. All the while, Tybalt’s heart still raced, pounding like a drum in his ears.

Lord de Rochefort turned to him and clapped his hand on his shoulder once more.

He always did that when he expected his loyal executioner’s aid. But this time, he followed that gesture by leaning in close to Tybalt. Unlike the mob, de Rochefort’s eyes were wide not with anger, but with terror alone.

Almost entirely drowned out by the rising ruckus from the excited crowd, the lord hissed a whisper to Tybalt, “You must seek out that foul creature—and slay it.”

Some of them had already returned with pitchforks. One with a lit torch.

Tybalt surveyed their lot and then looked back to the alleyway where the—

The thing, that awful thing—

Wherever that thing was, had skittered off to.

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of pursuing it. What if he failed? What if it possessed him next?

He gave Lord de Rochefort a grim nod and turned to leave. He inspected the sharpness of his axe’s blade while he took slow, deliberate steps down the stairs from the platform.

Tybalt felt watched. Felt the many gazes from the crowd, transfixed on him. Burning. Oh, how his masked disfigured countenance drew more looks than the prettiest of faces. The huddled masses spilled away from him, giving him a wide berth as he walked.

He did his best to ignore them and wandered alone into the dim twilight of the alleyways. Where it reeked of feces and vomit. A fitting place for him to wander, to hunt such an abomination. A fitting place for such a foul creature to retreat to. The stench, permeating the air underneath his hood, it reminded him of why he hated his settlement. Resented all these people.

What if he just left the town and wandered into the depths of the woods where beasts dwelt, never to be seen again? Just up and left these wretched saps to their own fates?

Scampering sounds and something clicking, chirping, reached him from several steps away. Tybalt held his axe up high, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness devouring all the nooks and crannies around him. He took cautious steps, a pebble crunching underneath his boot as he swiveled in his search.

The thing was close. Hiding.

He inched forth and paused to the sound of flesh tearing and something meaty, wet, slapping against cobblestone and dirt. Tybalt adjusted the grip of his axe once more.

A thankless toil indeed.

—Submitted by Wratts

4 notes · View notes

icarus-the-eternal · 4 years

Text

The Raid

Archon Braessath of the Kabal of the Black Fang laughed as the prey ran, animal terror pushing them further and faster in hopes of escape. Standing on the prow of his Raider, he lifted a splinter rifle and fired, dropping one of the beasts in a howl of anguish. A cruel smile danced across his lips as his warriors laughed and jeered at the display, jetbikes swooping past to herd the prey on. This had been a pleasurable excursion so far, no rivals to dispute his claim and plenty of fodder for both the slave pens and torture racks. “Such a nice time for a hunt, eh Ahlseth?” His Dracon barely looked up from where she was sharpening her flensing knives. “Perhaps my lord but they are rather poor sport, no fight in them at all.” Braessath chuckled to himself, lowering the rifle and accepting a cup from one of his waiting attendants, enjoying the pleasant burn of the hallucinogenic liquid down his throat. “Where’s the fun in prey who fights back? The easier the better I say.” Ahlseth simply shrugged, irritating in her indifference, so the Archon turned his attention back to the hunt. These mon-keigh were even more primitive than the rest of their simple race, barely above animals, but he did enjoy them so. Perhaps when they returned to Commorragh he wouldn’t sell all of them but would establish his own private reserve. He liked that idea for surely many would pay for the pleasure of hunting without leaving the comforts of home. His revelries were interrupted by a blaring alert on the communications channel. Irritation returning he opened it, swearing to skin the one responsible for disturbing his pleasure. “What is it?” The panicked voice of Bezial, his distant cousin and second Dracon, came through. “My lord- attack- can’t- by the dark o- AAAAGH!” The channel cut out in a harsh static and gunfire, no response afterwards. Braessath cursed and turned about, fur cloak billowing in the breeze. “Turn is about! Call back the hunting parties! We have uninvited guests!”

Jaego broke the extended arm, ignoring the pained screams of the Kabalite warrior as it dropped the knife intended for his eye lens. He rapped it across it’s androgynous features, feeling the crunch of bone and cartilage beneath his knuckles before he tossed it to his waiting retinue. The slavering mutants fell upon the injured xenos with hungry claws and teeth, Jaego chuckling as it’s screams faded beneath snarls and growls. “Eat my lovelies! Eat your fill!” He moves on through the ruined camp, humming softly as he paused here and there to examine a corpse or extract a sample. This particular breed of Eldar was fascinating, having adapted to sustain themselves on the pain and anguish of other beings. He hoped to take a few alive for future study, his fingers itching with the desire to peel apart their secrets layer by layer beneath his scalpels. He’d been surprised when his presence had been requested but this raid had already provided him with plenty of useful data and a chance to test his newest experiments. The xenos had dared to trespass upon a world considered valuable by the goddess, it’s Stone Age human population worshipping her in some fashion. His Gland Hounds were gone, given permission to hunt and kill as they saw fit, so he strode through the ruined camp alone. The sounds of gunfire and battle persisted somewhere nearby accompanied by the shouts of mortals and howls of mutants. The first batch of enhanced fodder had performed within expected parameters so far, though he could already see the improvements he would make next time. A feral roar tore through the air and he barely sidestepped as an armored body crashed to the dirt just past him. The drukhari in charge of the camp was barely recognizable from the strutting, gilded peacock he’d been. His armor was cracked and broken, his beautiful sword broken in half, his lifeblood pooling beneath him. Drogon strode after, the giant Astartes radiating primal fury. Every breath through his vox gril was a snarl, fists clenching and unclenching, the sharpened horns and arm blades of bone coated in blood from use. The xenos tried to crawl away but it was no use. The daemonically strengthened warrior seized his helpless foe and with a guttural snarl wrenched it’s head free in a crack of bone and wet tearing of meat. Jaego felt his twin hearts beat faster, his mouth go dry in the presence of such beauty. He had met all the champions of his new patron and his feelings ranged from indifference to respect in the case of fellow Apothecary Furio. But only the renegade Black Dragon made his blood race this way. He was a monster, a magnificent being of gene-crafted death and fury. Oh how he longed to put him on the table, to explore every nook of bone, knot of muscle, and twisted genetic strand. The wonders he could work with but a loving touch, surely it would be his finest work! He’d carefully secured a few samples of blood and tissue but it was not enough, barely a drop to wet his insatiable thirst for more. Drogon looked from where he had dropped the head, fixing his red gaze on the Apothecary. “The rest will come. We prepare. You fight with me this time.” Jaego felts his blood sing as he set about his work.

Braessath has expected a raid from another kabal, perhaps a few dead and the slave stock stolen, but nothing like this. The camp was in ruins, structures toppled and burned or burning. The slaves we’re gonna, their pens pried open and empty. The bodies of his warriors were scattered around in various states of dismemberment, some barely recognizable pieces of ragged meat and gnawed bone. The attackers had left a sign of their handiwork, the corpse and severed head of Bezial held aloft by his own tendons like a macabre puppet for all to see. Archon surveyed the wreckage over the lip of his raider. He’d dressed in finest Wargear to greet these guests, a necessity among the extravagant Archon’s always seeking to outdo one another. A crystalline mesh of purple and emerald armor beneath a new cloak of shimmering metallic feathers and a gunbelt of infant leather slung low in fashion. Fingers rapped upon the gilded shuriken pistols in their holsters as he considered what do next. “Fan out! Find me some tracks! And someone take that damn thing down!” Warriors moved to obey, tugging at the corpse on display. The corpse began to shake and buzz, vomiting a swarm of chittering insects. The warriors cursed and swatted was the cloud enveloped them, rising into agonized screams as the insects found gaps in their armor and burrowed into the inviting flesh. They danced spastically, muscles seizing in pain as the bugs sought the delicious meat of organs and brain matter. Braessath felt himself revolted and fascinated by the sight as the warriors collapsed and their killers settled to feed. Jaego had spent decades cultivating and breeding this particular species of beetle to use against the Craftworld Eldar. He hasn’t been sure thwy would work on the dark cousins of the species but would be very satisfied with the results.

Every step through the camp uncovered more and more booby traps. The Black Fang lost warriors to more hungry beetles, buried landmines, filth coated spike-traps, even a vat-muscled slab of aggression amplified mutant. As he forces were whittled down so did the Archon’s temper flare till he was boiling with only a third of his original force left. As he raged and ranted only then did they make their appearance. Drogan and Jaego emerged from the surrounding woodlands, approaching the eldar at an easy pace. “How did you like our gifts?” Braessath stepped to meet them with hands on his pistols and Ahlseth at his back. “How about you come taste my appreciation mon-keigh?” Drogon snarled, the vox amplifiers making his voice sound even more guttural. “You have trespassed on ground sacred to the goddess, hunted her people. These affronts have been paid for in blood. Leave now and perhaps we shall let you keep your miserable lives!” With his words the rest of the force revealed themselves from under the psychic illusions hiding them, a bristling force of mortals, mutants, and Astartes all hungry for more xenos blood. The Kabalites seemed to be co side red their odds as their leader merely sneered. “Come on then filth! I’m going to make myself a new pair of boots for your face as the slave pis-urk..” Braessath never finished his sentence, eyes going wide with surprise as the air rushed from his lungs. Ahlseth twisted the knife in his spine and drew it out, letting her former master stumbling a few steps and collapsing in the mud. None of the other Kabalites moved to stop her, rather watching with interest as she removed the gunbelt and buckled it about her own waist. Then she waved cheerfully to the pair of astartes. “As Archon of the Black Fang, I humbly accept your terms though I think that we could be of use to each other. Perhaps we could work out some manner of a deal?”

Upon return to the Vaults, Jaego immersed himself in his work once more. He was no warlord and preferred to leave the glories and distribution of loot to others as he’d already claimed the samples and specimens he desired. He was gazing at such specimens now, the mash of machinery and wraithbone the one called Ahlseth had provided him for future contact, when a feminine voice tickled in his ear. “Keeping busy I see.” He turned to find Fuuko in her mortal form standing nearby, gazing into a large tank bobbing with organic matter and nutrient fluid. “Ah my lady! If you had told me you were coming I would have tidied up or prepared refreshments!” The goddess laughed and shook her head. “I prefer my visits to be spontaneous I’m afraid. How goes your work?” Jaego brightened and launched excitedly into his theories based on data from the raid and the possibilities it opened. The goddess played the good guest, listing intently and nodding where appropriate. As he began to branch into the increased growth cycles of hybridized cells, she interrupted him. “I am glad you are enjoying yourself in my service. I shall leave you to your work and I look forward to more results.” Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of incense in her wake. Jaego turned back to tank she’d initially been watching. It was barely an embryo right now, a splice of stolen cells and gleaned samples but he could envision it’s future form. Humming to himself, Jaego stepped away from the Drogon clone and returned to work.

@fuukonomiko

7 notes · View notes

cubeswhump · 4 years

Text

WhumpmasinJuly Day 15: Storm

@whumpmasinjuly Here's my interpretation of Storm!

Warnings for captivity, torture, blood, tiny mention of vomit, graphic violence, gun violence, suicidal ideation, and character death.

This place was going to kill her. Her throat was a dry desert. Screams kept her up day and night. And her hands wouldn't stop shaking and her teeth wouldn't stop chattering since the angry redness streaked up from her cauterized flesh. The sloppy sutures on her stomach—what were those anyway?—had become puffy and raised. She was so cold but all they'd let her keep were the purple briefs she'd had on when she arrived.

When the green-tinged wound began oozing, the smell made her vomit. She hadn't been able to reach her bucket so she just avoided the splatter of sick.

"If you're gonna keep me alive," Blondie rasped, "I need fucking antibiotics."

"I'll let the boss know," replied the useless guard as he poured water in her trough.

Yes, a trough. They'd given her a fucking water trough and it often went dry. It looked heavily used but definitely not sanitized.

Blondie had to get out of here before she died a miserable death. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction of finding her rotting in the filth of this room.

It wasn't as if she had been keeping up with the news, but the born-Floridian knew a hurricane when she heard one; wind rattled the window and voices grew frantic.

"We need sandbags dor the doors."

"The windkws will blow out!"

"I say we just throw these cunts out to the elements."

"They say there could be flooding!'

"Good," Blondie whispered to herself, slumped againdt the wall. "I hope the roof comes out and we all fucking die."

She lay on the cold floor and closed her eyes when light stopped filtering in through the letterbox-sized window, but she knew she wouldn't sleep as long as that dreadful woman's screams and sobs continued. A plan took shape in her head. Was it crazy? Maybe, but she was running on little sleep and definitely running a fever.

Rain beat down hard. Thunder roared and wind battered the building. Blondie stared into the murky water in her trough, painfully swallowing the last of her hesitation. She carefully dragged the big piece of junk as close to the door as her ankle-cuff would allow.

Her mouth was so dry. She needed to drink. No, she needed this.

She pushed over the trough. Water spilled, the puddle spreading toward the door. She dragged the trough back toward the wall and camped out by the door. She took a deep breath.

"The roof!" she screamed. "There's water everywhere! I'm gonna fucking drown!"

Voices outside. "Shit, where's this water coming from?"

"HELP!" she shrieked.

"Jesus Christ. Make the pig stop squealing."

Balancing on both knees was agony. The red lines went up so high and her entire left leg was fiery pain. She tried to keep the stump from rubbing on the floor.

The guards were frantic and she knew it. The man came in alone and barely checked his surroundings, eyes flicking to the perfectly intact ceiling.

Blondie gripped his ankle and deagged him closer. His other foot knocked into her nose. There was a wet crunch and blood flowed down her throat, but she barely felt it. He fumbled with his stun gun but she was on him too fast, her hands encircling his neck. A thumb pressed to his jugular would cut blood flow and merely knock him unconscious.

"What the..." he uttered. Using what little strength she had, Blondie swung thhe heavy trough at him. With a choked cry, he was knocked over.

Electricity buzzed but she was numb to the shocks. Idiots didn't know she had taser training.

Finally, his eyes rolled back and his struggling seized.

She dug through his pockets. Gum. An iPhone. A capped pen. A handgun. No key?

She had limited time before the man woke up or a buddy checked to see what was taking so long. It was hard to be careful in her haste and she jerked the clip of the pen cap around in the cuff's lock. When the clip snapped off, she nearly screamed.

She struggled to remove the piece of plastic with brittle, overgrown fingernails and stuck the pen in her mouth. Plastic crunched between her teeth and she removed the long ink cartridge, snapping ir in half. She jiggled the two narrow halves in the lock.

Click. She was almost dizzy with relief as the metal cuff fell away. The skin underneath was red and raw.

She crawled out the door, gun thumping on the tiles every time the hand clasping it came down. The hallway spun and wavered. The woman's screaming, the nuisance that it had been for what felt like months, fueled her.

"Hey!"

There was a hole in the man's pelvis before he could draw a weapon. He collapsed. He struggled to lift his head.

"Shoot me," Blondie croaked. Blood poured down her lips and chin. Shadows and bruisesarked her eyes like makeup. Her light hair matted with old, brown blood. Her snarling mouth was missing teeth.

The man, pale and wide-eyed, put his head back down.

Not many guards were patrolling, so it was an even bigger shock when the Queen stood in her path, blood red lips stretched into a smile, gun trained on Blondie's head. Blondie held her hand as steady as she could, pointing her gun at the Queen. Who would shoot first?

"My, my," the aqueen chuckled, voice silky and rich like honey. "You're—"

Bang! Flesh blew away from her knee, a hole in her jeans displaying the gore, flapping skin and shattered bone exposed. Her shot missed Blondie as she fell over, screaming.

"Fuck off with your villain monologue," Blondie growled, straddling the brunette.

"If you shoot the villain, it's supposed to be a killing blow." The Queen probably didn't mean for the words to come out as a squeak. "Too soft to kill me?"

Blondie smacked the gun out of the woman's hand and tossed her own aside. "No, stupid. I want to enjoy this."

Her hands tightened around the Queen's thin neck. She squeezed tight and made sure she wasn't just pressing on the woman's jugular.

The Queen kicked and shoved but Blondie pressed harder. Redness blossomed in the whites of the Queen's eyes and drool trickled from her painted lips. Blondie wanted to see the light fade from those Hazel eyes.

Her struggles were growing weak. Blondie smelled urine and feces. She didn't stop squeezing even when the Queen's eyes fluttered shut and her struggling seized altogether. She continued until she didn't feel a pulse.

Blondie wouldn't be the one dying a humiliating death. The Queen was the one lying there in her own waste, tongue too swollen to fit in her mouth.

***

Rain beat down on her bare back like a million icy needles. The harsh wind had knocked her over twice now. The surging water was up to her elbows as she crawled through the empty streets.

Everyone was safe in their houses, behind metal shutters and hurricane glass. No one was around to see and help her.

Why didn't she take that Guard's phone? Stupid, stupid!

In a moment of weakness, Blondie took great gulps of the dirty flood water. It gave her strength and kept her going.

Lightning cracked and colored the grey sky. This was it. Electricity was going to surge through the water and fry Blondie.

Oh well. At least she'd ridden the world of one evil. She could die in peace.

Still, she kept onward through flooded streets. There were still no houses. How far was she from a city? Civilization?

At long last, she saw a solitary house, and then another. Cars in one driveway, tires submerged. Just down the long, long road.

Her limbs screamed. A gust of wind threatened to mnock her over again.

She couldn't go on further even when houses, humans were so, so close.

When she had finally stopped for good, she rolled over and lay kn her back in the water, making sure her face wasn't submerged. Drowning didn't sound pleasant.

***

"What's that? Is that a person?"

The sun was shining, though she was still wet all over and in inches of water. Voices buzzed like gnats.

"Oh my god, her foot is gone!"

"Sherri, call an ambulance!"

No more rain beating down on her face, chest, and stomach.

"Why is she naked?"

"Don't look, Mason!

"Call an ambulance!"

Blurry figures stood against the harsh light over her.

"What the fuck?"

"Can you hear me, ma'am?"

Blondie hummed a solitary, monotonous note and closed her eyes.

#whumpmasinjuly #my writing #my characters #whump fic #whump #female whumper #female whump #female whumpee #violence #guns tw #tw blood #death tw #torture #captivity

8 notes · View notes

angedemystere · 4 years

Text

The Unseen Sea (Excerpt - Les Miserables Fic)

Title: The Unseen Sea [excerpt from Homo Homini Lupus]

Fandom: Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)

Characters: Inspector Javert, Jean Valjean

Rating: T

Warnings: N/A

Summary: Another chapter from my werewolf!Javert fic Homo Homini Lupus. Inspector Javert arrives in Montreuil-sur-Mer. As he settles in, he stumbles onto a mystery.

A man didn’t need a wolf’s nose to recognize Montreuil-sur-Mer had the smell of rapid adolescence. It stank of its growing industrial activity as well as its hidden regions—the low town where the poor converged like insects under a rock. Yet even its underbelly was better tended than some of the Parisian neighborhoods granted middling respectability. Desperation was not nearly as potent here as Javert had expected. He’d heard nothing of promise about the town or its recent prosperity until a few days before his departure from Paris to become its new inspector.

He appreciated Chabouillet’s efforts to secure him the post too well to question the choice of town, whatever defects infected it. He commented that a town must have defects where law was concerned for the police to be needed. He would prove himself, be it Montreuil-sur-Mer or elsewhere. Chabouillet, once again slightly misunderstanding Javert’s feelings, assuaged any concern about ignominy. He described the sudden flourishment of the town’s jet-black bead industry. Javert didn’t dwell on the town’s boon before he arrived, settled in, and began work. Now he saw that the need for a watchdog against crime had been slashed. He tried not to grumble. He settled for a dour air that kept the scarce malefactors on their toes.

There was little time for leisure, regardless. The town police force numbered just under two dozen men. The station was a neglected nook home to rodents and insects (living and dead); the décor consisted of cobwebs, dumped pipe ash, tracked-in mud clods, and forgotten articles like gloves and soiled handkerchiefs. Right away Javert instigated new standards: gendarmes would knock and scrape debris from their shoes, arrive to their shift on time and in pristine uniforms, and keep personal effects either out of the station or, if necessary, restricted to the row of hooks near the rear door. A couple maids were hired to sweep and dust the inspector’s office and scrub the cells. No reason to deprecate their bastion of justice to the level of the ingrates that might sully it. The police agent must handle the criminal without retaining a smear of filth from contact.

The concept proved difficult to convey to his subordinates, most especially the plainclothes officers. When they first reported to him, on the street or at the station, he could’ve mistaken them for a drunkard or ruffian in need of a night behind bars. In circumstances where an agent would need a guise to gather information, Javert allowed him to play a vagrant. Otherwise, he expected even a plainclothes cop to resemble a respectable citizen.

Why should that be a concern, one agent dared ask after the third time Javert berated the men for failing to follow the new rules. No one cared how a policeman dressed. In fact, the common people expected him to be uncouth. Smart, clean clothes were costly.

An informative lecture was in order. Javert forced every member of Montreuil’s force to listen to how each article of clothing he wore could be acquired at a meager price and maintained in lasting condition. The leather stock collar was his favorite talking point—not only an inexpensive and durable cravat, but a preventative measure against garroting. Garroting had not swept the town’s little underworld, so the import of the collar’s handiness was somewhat lost on his men. No matter. Once they understood the responsibility due, they would do credit to their profession.

Theirs was not an enviable job. Magistrates received handshakes and invitations to tea and dinner; policemen received grimaces and bald-faced attempts to get out of their path. To the chimney sweep and the duke alike, the policeman slithered around street corners and probed their noses into anyone and everyone’s private affairs, sometimes to flush out a criminal, more often to pluck up gossip and slander and appraise how much it could enrich their pockets beyond the mouchard’s salary. A more honorable man in this occupation nursed his bank account on a second source of income, but he was no more trusted while carrying his government-issued cane. Style of dress would not change this perspective. In that respect, Montreuil’s policemen were right. Where they were wrong was taking the opinions of others as a guide for their conduct. Opinions might stick like tar or peel away like snakeskin. Whether they did one or the other had nothing to do with the inherent merit of their target. Thus, from the first shift of the first day, Javert patrolled the corners of every lane in town, tuned his ear and nose to the activities of the populace, tossed the chaff of gossip and kept the wheat of pertinent intelligence as much as his probity could detect, and dismissed the frowns and snide comments. Gradually, in just a few months, the gazes passed over him. Fear predominated revulsion. He was a nightly shadow, a piece of daytime gloom, a wolfdog on a leash that in time could be forgotten and unseen until the moment he was obliged to step into the lamplight, jaws open, for the terror-stricken miscreant to behold.

One early evening, before the end of the first fortnight, he scoped the nearby woodland. Leisure, as ever, played no part in the excursion. He studied the sensory fingerprint of the semi-cultivated fields and woods to know what to expect outside the town’s walls as well as inside them. He picked an innocuous Thursday evening, after the first frost, to trek deep into the wilderness. He followed the cow paths first, then veered into the unchecked growth out of human sight. Off slid his greatcoat and jacket. Off came the stock collar. His cane and other effects lay blanketed by the greatcoat. Last came the boots. Javert breathed in. When he exhaled, he released the mental bonds on his form. The fibers of the simple waistcoat, shirt, trousers, and socks bristled. He shook off their flattened and sculpted veneer until they fluffed as fur was meant to. Bones expanded and shifted like sponges suddenly doused with water. More fur sprang free over his uncovered skin. His whole shape, recalibrating its sinews and flesh, toppled to the ground, belying the remarkable degree of control he possessed in the moment. Far from writhing in uncoordinated spasms, he regained his natural footing on all fours.

Hardly did a rabbit have time to peer out of its warren and duck back inside by the time a large black wolf was crouching beside the splayed coat. Javert shook off the last transformative tremors, gulped the biting air, yawned to loosen his jaw, sneezed, raised his muzzle, and waited.

It was a short vigil. The scents in the air were as telling as footprints in mud or snow. He tracked them. Most of his trails belonged to ordinary animals. A few belonged to more dangerous creatures, but they marked infrequent visitors or permanent departures. He still checked every den he found. Human scents crossed the trail, too, and a wary instinct drove him to keep low in the brush. He completed his scouting at a quick clip, then claimed the territory. Urine, scat, tree scratches. This is mine to protect. Mind where you tread.

Coming out of the woods in his human vestige, Javert wore a subtle smile. The expression faded when another human scent brushed his nose. He blinked.

In that blink flashed an ocean. Did he smell the sea? Not possible. Montreuil-sur-Mer had a misleading name. The Atlantic had retreated and abandoned the town centuries ago, now at a berth of ten miles.

He was leaving the forest’s reach, coming around a bend in the road, when he met the human whose smell had alerted him. The terrain returned to wheat and rye fields, dotted by hay bales dusted with frost. The man now in his sights was walking up the road. A broad-rim hat shadowed the upper half of his face. A grey, tidy, robust beard protected the lower half. He had a rifle tucked under his arm. Javert’s nape tensed. He sniffed and observed the long coat buttoned to the neck, cut from coarse, heavy cloth. A coat not much different from his own.

He was prepared to say nothing, no matter that the other man might take it as rudeness. The stranger appeared mired in his thoughts, anyway. Might as well walk on and let peace reign. Yet Javert slowed his gait. Was it the width of the man’s chest and shoulders, barely hidden by the long coat? The slight limp? The mysterious, almost masked appearance?

As they passed one another, the stranger started and stumbled sideways, as though avoiding a collision. “Oh,” he said, low and gentle, but rattled, “pardon me. Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Javert said. He touched his hat. His feet kept moving incrementally.

The stranger slowed, too. He considered saying something else, or he was stealing an extra moment to assess Javert in unconscious reciprocity. Javert’s examinations continued as well. They were drawn to the rifle in the man’s grip. Did he notice that Javert, coming from the direction of the woods, was carrying no obvious firearm?

“You’re going shooting?” Javert asked, trying to sound barely interested.

“No. Just a stroll.”

“I advise caution. There are signs of wolves in the area.”

The alarm in the stranger’s face was followed by a nod. “Thank you, monsieur. I’ll be careful.” He continued walking.

Javert struggled to peer behind him less than twice as he too resumed his walk. The reason? He couldn’t say, which made him want to look again. What was pestering him? His nose itched fiercely. He wanted some snuff to burn out the cacophony in his snout. No, snuff was reserved for deserving victories.

He didn’t smell the sea now. But a stretch of water surged in his mind. He inhaled the imagined, maybe remembered scent. It had him on a leash. His head swiveled to his shoulder. His mouth pressed toward his nose. He’d keep an eye on that man if these strange sensations insisted. Probably nothing would come of it. The most he could expect to do was write to Chabouillet about his notions, which would be kindly put aside and forgotten.

If such a letter happened to be about a creature of interest, it might mean writing a second letter to M. Lecoq, too. Yes, just what he needed. It was one matter marking the boundary outside a town to warn feral lurkers not to cross the line into civilization. It was a different, more uncomfortable problem dealing with a threat within the town limits that blended among the denizens. At least there was now a protocol to follow. In an ideal outcome, Lecoq would send in an agent from the Surete’s “night watch”—someone halfway competent and not a vampire—to handle the situation without Javert’s intervention beyond the initial letter and some helpful intelligence. The question was whether Lecoq had recruited any competent replacements in the last four years.

Let it be—that was the course to hold. After all, why should a vampire, an incubus, a lutin, or another human-looking monster make him think of the sea? Not even a mermaid or undine held that power over his memory. Only—

Javert grunted and picked up his feet. He didn’t feel the late autumn chill. A fire was climbing like a vine through his extremities. Breath clouds billowing in aggravated huffs could’ve been dragon smoke. His cane swung more wildly than usual with his strides.

The next day he saw the stranger again. The same day he learned from a senior plainclothes that the neatly and humbly dressed fellow with the rifle was Monsieur Madeleine, the owner of the black glass factory. A laborer turned wealthy entrepreneur. A philanthropist, always handing over coins to urchins, making donations to the hospital, overseeing the construction of schools. A quiet, kind, solitary man whose favorite pastime was walking through the countryside with a firearm as his companion.

Javert approached the man at an oblique angle after he spent a little more than an hour observing him in the middle of a market festival. M. Madeleine made his rounds with alms and gifts to almost anyone who asked. He didn’t have his rifle today; his hands were otherwise occupied. Javert sidled into his immediate proximity when a gap opened between fawning factory employees and excited children shouting, “Pere Madeleine!” to grab the popular man’s attention.

“Good day, M. Madeleine,” Javert said in a clear voice about a foot away from his ear.

Madeleine jerked his head with catlike quickness. “Oh! Yes, good day, monsieur. Ah … I didn’t get your name, forgive me.”

“Inspector Javert.”

“That’s right. I heard we had a new inspector. Oh, you warned me about the wolves.”

“Not usually in my purview, but I hope it aided you.”

“Yes, thank you. I did find tracks of a wolf. He seems to be a loner. He must have recently arrived from how fresh his markings are. I hope he finds a mate or a pack before winter sets in.”

“Why do you say that?” Javert asked before thinking better of it.

“Wolves are social animals. They thrive best in a group. They can hunt big game together, whereas the lone wolf must scavenge or go after weaker animals. They tend to be more aggressive since they rely on themselves to survive.”

“Making them more dangerous,” Javert said.

“Yes. I pity the creature, though. Solitude can be difficult for those unaccustomed to being alone.”

“You speak from experience?”

Madeleine shrugged. “A little experience, a little understanding learned from others and their experiences. What does your experience tell you?”

“That wolves are dangerous in small and great numbers. They require no pity to survive.”

Madeleine watched him wordlessly. He might have been rooting for the meaning of Javert’s forceful tone. That effort was cut short when a gaggle of children swept in, their combined presence pushing Madeleine away from Javert like an undertow. They pelted him with shouted greetings and pleas about what he might have for them today. Javert frowned at them. How did the man tolerate having anyone, but especially children, chase him around like crows demanding crumbs every time they laid eyes on him? Madeleine was all patience and charity. Out came the coins yet again. Out came corn dolls, too. Javert saw the first emerge from inside Madeleine’s coat to hand to a girl, and he felt dried husks and twine in his fingers and caught the briny air of the seashore again in his nose. Strong sun, ship bells, marching footfalls, swinging chains.

More than ever he wished the children crowding so tightly around Madeleine would disappear. After all, these trifles would give little comfort and pleasure to children with hardly a scrap of leather or cloth on their feet. What did Madeleine hope to gain from being jostled thus? Well, good favor from the parents and the public, perhaps. This suspicion, he later learned, circulated among a small contingent of dissenters to the general good opinion of Monsieur Madeleine, though they had no evidence to base their dislike on. They decried him as an ambitious fellow who desired elevation in society through his charitable works. When such rewards came—dinner invitations, the mayor’s office, the Iron Cross—Madeleine turned them down. The dissenters had dwindling kindle for their dislike. They had only the assumptions of human nature’s expected inclinations to self-service to depend on, and when Madeleine debunked those assumptions, in time the embers of enmity were extinguished. Javert had little better fuel for his dislike, but it burned in his core, in his dog-wolf heart against an enemy he felt he should know. It was a more formidable crucible.

Javert was not yet aware of these dissenters when, after the sated children dispersed, he approached Madeleine again.

Madeleine, a little winded, continued, “Ah, what you were saying about wolves—it’s true we must take care. Living beings will do what they must to survive.”

“There are no policemen for wolves,” Javert said. He nearly smiled. “If only they had a concept of governance.”

“I think they might, in their own way. With the intellect to negotiate their needs, no one need come to harm. Alas, God has granted that only to mankind.”

“Then we must answer them with a firm hand.”

Madeleine frowned. “They are as much God’s creation as we and plants and harmless animals are. God charged mankind with caring for his creation, even the members that can hurt us. The wolf has his purpose.”

“Then,” Javert said, crossing his arms, “like people, the wolf must keep to his purpose or face reprisal. But as you say, a wolf will do what it must to survive. It’s not in its nature to understand its purpose, only that survival is paramount. It is bound to cross a line. When any creature encroaches on the welfare of the whole system, it must be neutralized.”

“I agree,” Madeleine said carefully. “Sadly, a wolf can’t be educated or reasoned with. Not without taming it into a dog.”

“From my own experience, monsieur, some men are wolves that refuse to be dogs, even for their own good. They too can’t be reasoned with. They buck compliance, so they must be controlled and confined where they can’t damage the rest of society.”

“This topic has taken an intriguing turn,” Madeleine said. He didn’t sound intrigued. He seemed eager to break off this discourse to attend to his responsibilities, no doubt numerous for a philanthropic businessman. “Pardon my abrupt departure, Inspector, but I look forward to another opportunity for further discussion.”

“As do I,” Javert said. He touched him hat and watched Madeleine from under the brim. “Good day.”

“Good day.” Madeleine rushed to answer the gesture, then rushed off altogether. His gait was determined. It couldn’t hide the slight dragging of the left foot.

Javert didn’t resist staring after him.

#les miserables #javert #inspector javert #jean valjean #myfic #werewolf au

4 notes · View notes