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Summary: “Why didn’t you tell me you were hallucinating?” Frank asks in an undertone. Something somber in his voice. Laying low isn’t as fun as it’s cut out to be, Frank thinks, specially when you have a TBI patient whose lawyer brain and sheer stubbornness won’t be hindered by his memory loss, someone dead set on killing said patient and your own internal crisis going on. Notes: Poems and excerpts taken from (in order of appearance):Symbol for static grief, Gilbert MaxwellSwift shot, Kynafrom Bodies of water, T. GreenwoodMake me human or give me death, May Yangfrom Flux, Afaa Michael Weaver Happy reading!❤️     White noise; a constant background noise that drowns out other sounds.   No color and no wonder... Wanting no end at all, yet vaguely seeing Something of peace in breathing and not being.   PAPERCUT   tragedies become memories, living, dying. Sound is dead. Breathing is only a feeling.   Frank finds the edge of the tattered fleece blanket and pulls it over Murdock’s shoulders for the fourth time since dawn before going back to his research, hands flying over clacking plastic keyboard, faded white letters and stains roughly the shape of his digits. Possible Punisher sighting. He reads the article quickly - lacks evidence besides a female eyewitness claiming she recognized his silhouette from the news and the fact that bullets where found on scene. The address isn’t mentioned, neither is Murdock’s name. No news of six dead mercenaries found at the wanted lawyer’s flat. No police report of shooting. Nothing. FBI agent investigated. Albanians killed. Fisk’s transport detail ambushed. FBI agents injured and dead. Nothing pertinent, not now. Besides the guy’s face - strangely familiar. The same that has been going through his head since the attack on Murdock’s house two days before returns in a loop, running useless circles around his brain: Fisk makes a deal with the Feds, gets shanked in supermax. Transferred to the Presidential hotel, ambushed by Albanians, saved by one lone FBI agent. Red calls him, Frank finds him brained in a warehouse covered in blood, dead guys all around them. The moment Red steps back into his flat, Fisk sends mercs on broad daylight to take him out. He either wanted to get back at Murdock for putting him there, or- Or he knew he was Daredevil. Mercenaries on broad daylight, though? It either showed desperation or a man who had nothing to fear from the police or the Federal Bureau itself. Frank digs his digits into the corners of his eyes, thumb and forefinger holding tight to the crooked bridge of his nose. An exhale, and his large, aching palms snapped the laptop shut. Murdock shifts at the sound, a tiny jump of his shoulders indicating the startle. The covers shift with his squirming, fall again to expose a pale shoulder prickled like a Braille page from the chill. He had spent the day before in some kind of dissociative state. Obeyed commands sometimes, but mostly just lied there, eyes open and body completely still. Except when he did talk, but then it was just one word, caught in a loop: “Danger.” “Nobody is in danger, Red. We’re okay.” “Danger.” “You’re okay, nobody’s hurt. Go back to sleep.” Frank stands up - takes the corners of the blanket again with a sigh and tucks them back around Red’s neck. Out of habit more than necessity he checks the sutures for any sign of bleeding, plus or serous liquid. He had cleaned them, checked the scarring over Red’s lower abdomen and thigh now that the sutures were out. Didn’t touch the ones in his head, though. He was due a check in with Curt, anyway. The bandages around his hands were still pink. One of the cuts hadn’t been deep enough for stitching, but it was in a bad place: every little twitch of Red’s knuckles got it bleeding again. Nicks and shallow cuts surrounding it, framing them like a halo. Nothing Murdock hasn’t survived before, which isn’t saying much. Last he heard of the Devil before this sh*t show, he had been trapped under a collapsed skyscraper in Hell’s Kitchen. Had the whole thing fall on top of his head. Figures that wouldn’t have taken him down. Frank is tempted to say nothing can by this point, but circumstances have changed. Only takes one wrong move, Frank, Curt would say, tearing the wrong ligament, severing the wrong muscle, and you’re down. For good. Murdock’s breathing changes like an omen moments before he awakens. Frank’s been getting used to the sound of it - deep, relaxed breaths turning choppy, shallow - and hadn’t noticed. He listens to the change, the shift of ribs allowing lungs to expand full of air, for the tell tale- There. Abrupt inhale, a pause and then a long, carefully measure exhale. Frank sits back against the creaking old chair and watches Red twitch under the sheets, back turned to him. He moves, the blanket falls from his right shoulder again. Frank doesn’t try to straighten it back this time. “Hmm.” He meets Red’s first words with a grunt of his own, brings restless fingers to scrape over smooth wood, catches the splintered edges with his nails, digs them into the hollowed out nicks - carved again and again with fingernails until he couldn’t wash out the dark stains anymore. He stands up once Red turns, pushing the blanket down his torso and staring up at the ceiling. Heads to the kitchen. The whole emotional trauma sh*t and activity from two days before hadn’t done him any good and he was clearly still out of sorts. Eyes lethargic where they oscillate from the ceiling to the wall, sunlight reflecting dully on the damaged retinas. He peruses for a clean glass - one thing he’s come to realize about Red the last twelve days, you can fool his ears if you try but you can’t fool his nose. Or tongue for that matter. Unwashed cups gets him the disgruntled, pissed off face; anything he doesn’t like eating gets Frank the puppy dog f***ing looks. Shoves the glass of water into Red’s hands as soon as he’s up and leaning against the headboard, peeks over his shoulder at the sound of rustling sheets and fleece blankets before getting one for himself. Gets back only to see Red doing his smack-of-lips routine, tongue working over his teeth with that puppy look again, forefinger twitching along the hem of his sweatpants, scratching at the skin under it. His right hand is unsurprisingly uncooperative on the task of getting a proper hold of the cup. When Murdock fails a third time, Frank throws patience out of a window and sits down by the bed, enveloping a cold, shaky hand with his and helping him find a grip around the cup, clenching his fingers forcefully over Red’s. “Thanks,” barely loud enough for his ears to catch. He ducks his gaze in favor of missing that ridiculous look Red puts on his face when he’s thanking him, catches glossy red paper from the gift half-hidden under the pillow. Looks away. Matthew drinks slowly, blinking sluggishly through each gulp. Frank gets tired of the f***ing creaks of the chair and brings one from the kitchen, straddles it at a reasonable distance from the redhead - close enough to jump in should he let go of the glass. There’s been enough broken glasses around Red recently for him to know it’s not safe, should that cup break. With his head messy like it is, Frank isn’t sure if he would jump away from it or clench his palms around the shards until it bled. “Headache?” “No,” a frown. “Why can’t I move my hands right?” Frank squints at his face; every inch as clueless as he had expected. He had been doing it a lot, recently. Having episodes and forgetting about them afterwards. “A window broke. You got hurt.” Murdock’s head snaps up, eyes big when they land between his arms and torso. “You’re lying.” Yeah. Frank ignores it. “Who am I?” Matthew’s eyes go up to the ceiling in what Frank recognizes now as an attempt to roll in disdain. “Do we really have to-” “Yeah, we do,” kid almost gets himself shredded in a broken window and he wants to know- “F***ing hell, Red.” Shoulders go back, his spine straightens, chin goes up. Sh*t, and it’s not even a fighting stance. Frank had seen that in the hospital room, yeah. But mostly, he saw that one in court. Kid’s geared up. “You’re Frank,” a shaky right hand pulls the fleece blanket away from him, exposing his naked upper body. “You have military training but apparently doesn’t answer to anyone. You don’t have a job or a license, but you carry a lot of guns. You killed people yesterday and yours vitals kept steady like you were washing the dishes or doing your laundry. You’ve had me for almost two weeks and you somehow failed to mention that I’m a target for someone powerful enough to send armed mercenaries after me in the middle of the day.” Murdock takes a long breath, lets it out with a defeated sigh. “Who are you, Frank?” Can’t lie, right then. Not with those eager, desperate eyes stripping him bare. “A while back,” voice goes low, Frank clears his throat, “there was a shooting at Central Park. Three gangs.” He can almost smell it, the stench of death when it started creeping up on him. When he woke up and realized- “They killed my family,” a whisper: “all of them.” Matthew turns to him, then. The same attentive, considerate gaze Frank recognized from the graveyard. Willing to carry a few more burdens, a few more pains. Like he didn’t have enough of them. Gets him remembering that this is the man that cried for his daughter, for Frank. Frank who had bounced a bullet off his head not a week before, who had terrorized him into killing, taped a gun on his hand and chained him to a chimney. And now Red was here, with a whole less baggage than he had the day the met - all those years wiped clean out of his head -, and still willing to hear it. Share that burden again. “Got shot in the head,” a flinch, “but I survived, Red. Went after them, took all of them down.” He lets go of the wooden backrest once it protests against the strength of his grip. “You were my lawyer, when I got caught.” A head tilt. “I got you out of prison?” He asks in a small voice, slightly odd. “Nah,” he fixes his eyes back on Red, “that was me.” He frowns, considering the new piece of information. Maybe putting more questions in his head than answering them. He’s a lawyer in the care of a wanted murderer. “You helped me then,” he offers, it’s barely consolation but it’s all he can give. “Even when I didn’t want you to.” He’s waiting for a lot of things. A speech about revenge not being the same as justice. About second chances and life is sacred, Frank. He’s certainly not expecting what he gets: “I’m sorry.” A pause. Frank lets it stretch until it snaps too thin. “What?” “About your family,” a flicker of pain through his eyes, “I’m sorry you lost them.” Nausea hits Frank hard. Maybe it’s something about hearing it coming out of Red’s mouth - the raw truth of something morbid, horrifying coming from someone... sh*t, someone good. The type of good you don’t believe when you see it. Looks unreal. “Yeah,” he looks at him. Really looks at him. “Yeah, Red, me too.” The silence grows but it doesn’t offer much more than an attempt at catharsis; maybe an understanding. Facing a shared loss, loss of loved ones, of memory, of control. Seems like hours later, maybe, when Murdock finally speaks up again. “What do we do, now?” He asks, voice cracks into a whisper. “What do they want with me?” “See if we can wait the dust to settle. Head back to the cabin if we can, get ya out the city.” Although Frank seriously doubted it. This whole thing smelled of Fisk - of power and manipulation and well thought-out plans. Smelled of him past the point of pulling strings - a**hole’s running the whole show. “This place...” “It’s a safe house,” Murdock nods. “Might keep us out of trouble for a while.” Frank sighs, stands up with his trigger finger jumping against his upper thigh. Talking of them got his whole skin creeping, stress building up, muscles tensing. The carousel song going round and round in his head. “How’s the head, Red?” As if on cue, Red reaches to touch the sutures. Frank snatches his wrist, avoids pressing into the bandages. “Hey, don’t touch it.” Doesn’t let go, for some reason, calloused fingers tight around the shivering skin. “It’s... it’s fine.” His voice goes tight, breathing goes odd. He does that thing again, spilling out of himself like a broken cup, head flying miles away from his body. Or at least, he attempts to. He’s back in the room soon, flinching at sounds Frank can’t hear. Hyper-alert, goosebumps rising in cycles all over his arms. Frank sighs, leans back while slowly letting go of Murdock’s wrist. Frowns when Murdock flinches, hand slamming down against the mattress and immediately clenching around the fleece, bunching it and letting it spill from the cracks between his fingers. He worries the fabric between his palm and the bed until his breathing evens, his shoulders stop jumping and muscles coiling at everything. “You know, you’re gonna have to tell me sometime, Red.” Murdock either does everything he can to avoid his eyes landing on Frank or he has no clue where Frank is in the first place when he responds. “Tell you what?” Frank sits back down. Cocks his head back. “Com’on,” he chides in an undertone, “Don’t do that.” Murdock deflates with a shaky sigh. “I know,” he scratches at his neck gingerly. Frank eyes the scrapes on his forearms from jumping that building. “But I didn’t lie, the pain isn’t too bad.” “Right,” he sighs softly. “Hey, Red?” Matt turns to him, eyes lost somewhere on his neck. Chest going up, up and down in stutters. Up, up, down. “Breathe.” A flush rises up to his cheeks and colors his neck pink too, but Red tries. He’s been needing that a lot - someone to remind him to eat, breathe, take a break. “C’mere,” Frank stands up once more, sits down on the edge of the bed. Leaves plenty of space for Red to retreat away if he needs to. Can feel him reading him before he makes a decision, curious little head tilts before deciding and inching slowly towards the marine. Frank is mindful as he traces the sutures, checks for the third time for any signs of infection. The sickly red is down to a less concerning shade of vermilion - the wound didn’t close as quickly as the gunshot to the thigh or the slash on his stomach, but it was scabbing. “Should pay Curt a visit, to be sure.” He grunts, presses his palm against Red’s forehead before making a sound to indicate the movement. Red reacts better to it when he knows something’s coming. “Can’t tell if it’s healing as it’s s’pposed to.” “Who’s Curt?” “A friend, helped me when you were hurt.” Matthew smiles softly and Frank stops where he’s moving, drawn back to the slight push of lips. His whole face lights up with it. “I thought you were the one who put my head back together.” Frank can’t help a snort at the quip. Shakes his head. “Let’s go.” He walks up to the closet first, perusing for something Murdock could use. It was a fierce cold outside and winter was approaching. Grabs a pair of black wool gloves, threadbare and probably smelling like all the years it spent on the bottom of Frank’s bags. Forages for a scarf and a thick sweater to go with the coat he had brought from the kid’s place. “Put that on,” Murdock cocks his head in that ridiculous way of his before taking the offered items. Frank frowns at the pouty, plush mouth when the redhead licks over the chapped lower lip. He finds that he can’t look away. Red suddenly goes still, straightening up subtly. Frank clears his throat and turns away, feeling see-through. “I’ll get you a goddamn chapstick on the way back, yeah? C’mon.” Ding ding , he lost that round. Red stays still for a moment longer in appraisal and Frank feels like an a**hole who just handed over ammunition to the enemy. He strolls towards the door, ignores the nagging chip on his shoulder until he can’t: “And drink some f***ing water, Red.” He opens the apartment door after checking his handgun, shoving an army knife in a holster and extra ammo on the inside pocket of his jacket. Leaves Red’s cane and glasses where he can find, although he doubts he’ll be taking them. Keys. Burner. Money. Curses himself as he reaches for some paracetamol, in the likely event that Red’s headaches make a come back. Murdock shouldn’t be moving half as much as he is but this sh*thole has not elevator, which makes getting him a wheelchair to avoid stairs useless. Waiting for Red to get on with it, Frank leans against the door frame, eyes casually sweeping his surroundings. There was the possibility that Army lady and Knee jerk were alive, if they were, they either recognized Frank or they didn’t. If they did, there’s a small chance Fisk has people trying to find where he is. He had nothing but contempt for the son of bitch, but there was something about the immediacy with which Fisk established his control. Managed to get himself out of supermax, put the FBI after Matt Murdock and sent someone to kill him the very second Red stepped inside his apartment. Trigger finger taps, taps, taps against his thigh. He knows the layout of the Presidential Hotel by now. Frank could drive Red to Curt’s and go there, end this. But that meant leaving his one-legged friend and the concussed, amnesiac idiot on their own to fend against more mercs. And then the guy from the warehouse shows up and what in the world are they supposed to do with that? Murdock steps closer as he hides a reddening nose under a dark, coffee-colored scarf. The threadbare fabric probably had some stains from when Frank had to use it as a tourniquet, but it was functional. Walking down the stairs, Red misses some steps, fingers digging on Frank’s biceps the first two or three times his knees decide to buckle out of nowhere. From there on, the marine manages a subtle grip on his upper arm, steering him close so he can guide him properly and keep him from keeling over if he can. If Murdock is confused about the different car and the blood under the back tires, he doesn’t mention it. By the time Frank drives away from his building, Red’s already asleep, face nestled in Frank’s scarf.     Frank notices them when it’s almost too late. He keeps his eyes open and alert all the way to Curt’s place. It’s half an hour from East Harlem to Midtown, give or take, and low blues rock filled the car from the radio station he had settled in when Red kept flinching from every horn in his sleep. Taking the FDR Drive had been a bad idea. They’re just driving past East 59 th street when Red suddenly jumps in his seat, sluggishly fumbling for Frank’s arm, blinking in sporadic, forceful motions. “Something isn’t right.” Someone blares a horn, a loud screech of tires and two black cars flank them from both sides. A woman in a red Bentley just behind them screams when the left car forces her to move out of the way, Frank immediately spins the steering wheel right, stabs his feet down against the accelerator. There’s too much traffic. A car tries dodging out of the way and loses control. Left car can’t avoid crashing against the lower part of the vehicle. A silver Honda crashes against a truck on his right, a man screams, Red’s fingers dig into his forearm and pulls him away from the window when the first gunshot flies over their heads. The silence precedes the telltale drop of a canister outside the van. Frank can’t recognize its shape, can’t see where it landed. Unbuckles his seat belt in under a second before throwing himself on top of Red, covering his whole frame with his at the same time he pulled his head closer to his chest, making a shell out of his hands to protect his break. Instead of exploding, smoke bursts up into the air and keeps spreading high. His visibility will take less than a minute to be shot to hell. Another canister, he uses the little time he’s got to shove Red in the floor between the passenger’s seat and the dashboard, under the glove box. “You stay there, Red, don’t you goddamn move-” Another canister, this one hits the window before it falls to the asphalt. A symphony of horns not far behind them work in tandem with screams, people running, another car crashing. Frank pulls his AK from under the back seat with a painful tug, two mags. “Frank, there’s too many-” “You don’t move from there, Red, you hear me?” “Frank, you have to listen to me!” The gunfire starts. He manages to open the backseat door and jump to the ground, crouching low and squinting through the smoke. The worst of it gathers in front of the car, wind blowing west and taking the fog with it. Frank looks back to Red, curled up impossibly small under the glove compartment, breathing hard with each gunshot and shattered car window. Sh*t, he can’t- he can’t leave the car. Can’t force them back and take them one by one as he’d usually do. Can’t leave Red unguarded and helpless in the f***ing van and- Frank takes his eyes away for just a second. Crouched low and waiting for a reprieve on the bullets to return fire. Just a second and it’s long enough for Red to shout out and Frank’s finger to twitch violently against the trigger. When he turns his gaze back, Red has his face splattered with blood, an assault rifle in his hand and a guy shouting, holding a broken nose, bleeding profusely all over his fingers. Red’s relentless, Frank had forgotten. He doesn’t give the blonde bearded guy a second to as much as step away before he’s driving a powerful kick between two ribs once, twice, three times until Frank’s sure he heard one of them break. Still manages to shove the butt of the gun to Blond Beard’s mouth and finish him off with a kick to the throat. “Jesus Christ, Red,” he turns away and stands up. The smoke finally dispersing enough for him to spot heads and weapons. At least five from the left, another three from the right. He points and he shoots two down before they notice where the bullets come from. A man screams, getting out of his car with a kid pressed tight to his chest, scrambling away from the black-clad, armed mercs approaching Frank’s van. He drops into a roll, throws a look over his shoulder. “Keep your head down, Red!” Gunfire starts again. Frank curses under his breath. There’s heat coming from both sides, Red is already spent from a few kicks and looks ready to pass out. Got not time to kill them if he wants to keep Red from getting shot again, for good this time. “Frank, there’s more-” He sees it before Red’s finished speaking. A third car approaches from the other side of the road. No identification plaques, black. “F***’s sake,” voice gets lost in the roaring gunfire, Red screams out some kind of warning seconds before another smoke grenade is thrown at his feet. He takes it and flings it as far as he can before jumping up and returning fire. Another goes down, he narrowly misses a bullet coming from the right. But the mission is change, his focus another: maintains shooting until he’s safely back inside the van. Thinks he sees another come down before slams the door shut and keeps firing. “Put your seat belt on-” “Frank-” “Put your goddamn seat belt on now!” Red jumps back to the passenger seat and buckles himself in with shaky hands. He drops the AK with the empty clip down and takes his handgun with his left, the right hand grips at the steering wheel just as he presses down the accelerator. At the sound of the gunshot, Red goes from erratic to completely still, freezing against his seat. That same panic again. “Just hang on, Red,” he maneuvers between two crashed cars forgotten in the middle of the road and drops the handgun as soon as he gains just enough speed to get the others running towards them. “Just hang in there.” He stops. Matt’s breathing is still too quick. Frank uses the time it takes for four remaining bad guys and the other two joining the party to circle the car. The moment three of them step in front, he shoves his feet hard against the pedal. One barely manages escaping. The van jumps when it runs over his legs, and everything else from the other two. The shock of it seems enough to startle Red out of his panic. Ragged breaths turning shallow and angered turn towards him as he manages a hasty escape, lowering down his head from time to time when stray bullets manage to hit the back glass. “What the hell , Frank?!” Doesn’t offer anything in return but a look that Red, somehow, manages to hold. Frank hasn’t apologized for who he is in a long time, he won’t start now. WATER   This is what I know: memory is the same as water. It permeates and saturates. Quenches and satiates. It can hold you up or pull you under; render you weightless or drown you. It is tangible, but elusive.   Murdock is barely coherent by the time they find a place to ditch the car. Frank has to drag him and sit him in the cold grass by the roadside and get him to breathe properly. Waits at least twenty minutes until he’s sure the younger man can manage to move. It’s not news - Red seemed to have some delayed responses sometimes. Pushed through the trauma to get through the fight and crashed right after. He can’t be picky and there’s no other illegal stolen cars around that he knows of to rob from bad guys so Frank goes with the least worse option: take from one of the local gangs he knows off. It’s risky, some of those guys have friends in high places, but he’s got Red to think of and dangling him around security cameras is a bad idea, so no walking. “You stay there, stay hidden.” Frank orders, eyes all the while jumping from Matt’s face to his surroundings, to every car that passed. “I won’t take long, I’ll stay close, yeah?” Red nods with a heavy shrug, whole body drained. Frank nods, attention orbiting the redhead’s face again. The blood splatters dusting his right cheek, his eye, his neck and jaw. His lips. The muscles around his wrist and forearm tense and ripple with a spasm, fighting the urge to reach out and clean the dark-red dots. “Stay safe. You notice something, you run.” Matt nods through a sigh, whole body deflating as he finds somewhere to sit and wait, out of sight. Frank’s footsteps take a while to move out of his hearing range. The attack in the middle of FDR Drive, in plain daylight, opens his eyes to the severity of the situation. Someone is desperate to either kill him or take him and Frank knows who it is, Matt wasn’t fooled by his routine for a second. He has a feeling Frank knows that too. The shameless, unapologetic way the man presents himself as nothing else than Frank is somewhat fascinating, even if Matt isn’t sure he has the time to dally over it. The marine had been nothing if not a solid beacon of composure and steadfast single-mindedness through the whole time he’s had him in his care. If Matt shivers, Frank brings him a scarf. If he has headaches, Frank gives him his meds. The car isn’t safe, he finds another one that is. Mercenaries came after Matt to kill him, Frank killed them instead. No second thoughts, no regrets. He thinks of it while feeling oddly out of his own body, resting his head against... something. Isn’t sure what. Something solid, cold, echoing the vibrations coming from the ground. Reality downs on him at the same time it feels far away, held distant from his own body. Maybe it’s the physical exertion or the rapidly building migraine. Maybe it’s because he’s been in his second gunfire in under three days and feels oddly unafraid of the fact. Maybe it’s because he’s already witnessed Frank Castle kill ten or more people and he still feels safest with him. He wonders if it’s because Frank’s the only person he remembers and knows clearly, untouched by the fog circling thick around his mind. Or because, even terrified at the prospect of a man that kills so easily, so efficiently, Matt can still identify a slight thrill of the simplicity of it. The finality. It horrifies him and settles him, too. Knowing that those people can’t come after them, can’t hurt anyone else ever again. “Always had the dark inside,” he whispers, isn’t sure why but can’t feel his lips moving, only his voice. “Murdock boys.” What was it Grandma used to say? He remembers sitting by her feet in the living room, drinking something pleasantly warm. His reflexes aren’t exactly a surprise. He remembers Stick training. Remembers getting ready for the war - a voice like that of a drill Sargent: it’s time to stop taking a beating and start giving one. Stick knew. He smelled it in him, the day after. The tears in his face. The other man’s scent. He reeked of it, couldn’t get it out of himself. Milk? Something. She’d tell her neighbor sometimes, a punishing strong hand clamped around Matt’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure what happened, but she said Matt did something wrong. That something was wrong with him, inside him, just like his Dad. There’s something wrong with me, he remembers thinking, gritting his teeth because his wrists hurt and his back did too. God is punishing me for being bad, like Grandma said. Sitting on the breakfast table, the nice nun who smelled of black tea and antiseptic asked what was wrong. Why did Matt cry all night long, and he couldn’t answer because- because- Because he doesn’t think about it. Because he couldn’t say it, she’d see it like Grandma saw it. The bad thing inside him. The dark. But Stick knew it the moment he went down to the basement. He smelled it in him and for the first time, Matt heard his heartbeat skip in surprise. And then anger, and something he wasn’t sure of that he later learned to identify as sadness. Sh*t, kid. And then he had nodded, hadn’t he? He nodded and for the first time, didn’t tell Matt off for crying. I’m gonna teach you to defend yourself first, he said, fancy kicks later. If you can’t use your arms, use your legs. If you can’t use your legs, bite that f***er’s throat out and make him bleed. And Matt did, not a month later.     The headache hits him hard when the hazy, floaty feeling dissolves, sitting on the passenger seat of a car. And with it, the sense of danger, of not being safe. Of having eyes all around him. Doesn’t remember Frank coming back, now that he thinks of it. But Frank’s heartbeat pulsates in steady, strong thumps by his left side, one hand in the steering wheel, head leaning back against the back rest. They’re moving - car, Frank came back with the new car -, the noises of the city considerably less grating with the closed windows. He thinks about asking Frank if he had slept, but it wouldn’t do to give it away that he had no idea what happened in the time span between sitting in the cold grass thinking about his childhood and being in the car. Last time he could properly recall being conscious it was still afternoon, maybe close to sunset, but now the car roof was cold and so was the asphalt. The air lacked the heat sun brought with it. Frank opens a crack of his window with a sigh and the rush of smells makes Matt suddenly dizzy. Mexican food (a block away), car exhaust (everywhere), sweat, garbage (garbage truck few yards behind them), dogs (several, park), Hudson (to the right), cheese (pizza? No, Italian place), alcohol (a bar, cheap beer). Hudson. The same scent he smelled on the clothes in his kitchen floor, the day before. Or what Frank said was his kitchen floor. Everything smelled of him although dust had settled in the place. It didn’t feel lived in. But the clothes, the river had washed away a lot of the smells and covered others, but there were some Matt could pinpoint clearly: blood, a considerable amount of it, gunpowder, smoke and leather. Car seat leather. His chest hurts. Matt hears his own pulse stutters before it quickens, the throbbing pain climbing up his neck and reaching the fracture tearing at the right side of his head. Panic builds in his throat and he doesn’t know why. The smell of the Hudson clogs his nostrils, mixes with the scent of military-grade smoke bombs that he remembers from earlier. The handgun and the sound it made when it went off. Somehow so much worse than the assault rifles and shotguns. Terrifying in a way being attacked hadn’t been. He clenches his fingers around his knees. He can’t do this again, he’s been panicking over nothing all the time now and he needs to tell Frank to shut the goddamn window but the words can’t seem to come and his voice is lost somewhere, buried deep- Drowning. Matt remembers drowning. In the river? He couldn’t breathe. The car went deeper and deeper, water broke the front windows and cracked the windshield and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find a way out- His breath leaves in a ragged cough before he remembers how to breathe, inhaling brokenly and having his whole frame shudder with the strain of it. Fingernails dig deeper in his legs, enough to sting. The pain isn’t enough to snap him out of it. Isn’t enough, he needs- ”...Red, Red,” doesn’t sound like the first time he said his name, “Red, goddamn it, open your hand.” He flinches away from the knuckles resting against his forearm before registering the heartbeat against the skin - Frank. He tries to tell him, tell him he can’t breathe, that there’s no air, that his chest feels too tight and he’s scared, and doesn’t know why, that he was drowning and he needed help- “Open your hand, Red, com’on. You’re okay.” He does as told, fingernails unlocking painfully from the skin above his knees and the fabric of his pants. Two small pills get dropped on his shaky left palm. “Just swallow ‘em, it’ll make you better.” Frank seems to take his hesitation as stubbornness which works just as fine for Matt if it covers for the fact that he can’t remember how to move without panicking more. “What is the other one?” His voice is embarrassingly small and choked up - no air left in the room for the words to come out completely formed. Chest goes up and down too fast. But he doesn’t recognize the chemical smell coming from the second, oval-shaped pill, compared with the capsule-like shape of the paracetamol. Frank nods softly in acknowledgment. Of what, Matt’s not sure. “It’s Xanax, just take it, Red.” He drops the pills in his mouth with trembling hands and struggles with pushing them down his throat enough that Frank feels the need to check him before hissing out an alarmed sh*t. Matt startles, body straightening up in his seat, muscles tensing around his arms and shoulders as he hones his senses outside, one arm coming to grab Frank and pull him back, away from the windows. He isn’t sure why but they stopped and all the other cars around them did too. Spot the threats, tame the pain into submission. Has to protect Frank, cover the car, find the threats, make sure no one is hurt. He’s gotta make sure no one gets hurt- “Hey, hey, it’s fine,” spot the threats. Three teenagers laugh in the car behind, a dog barks, someone blares a horn, a motorcycle drives past them, a glass breaks, sirens far away. “Red, it’s fine, there’s nothing there-” Matt presses Frank back when he tries to move, away from the windows. Away from the shooters and the bullets. Has to find somewhere safe to hide him, has to spot the threats before they- Hands close around his wrist. Matt flinches away with a cry before recognizing the heartbeat pressed against his own pulse. Frank. “Red,” heartbeat too fast, thundering over his ears, how can he spot the bad guys if he can’t hear them over his own heart? “Red, calm down. There’s nothing out there.” Nothing? No, that’s not right, Frank was surprised by something, he saw something that alarmed him. Has to find the air so he can fight and protect him, keep them away from the car, buy Frank time to escape and- “Red. We’re both safe, listen to me, do that ninja thing you do. I’m not lying, am I?” Matt tilts his head towards him, every breath burning in his chest. No. He’s not lying. They’re safe? “C’mere,” Frank’s hands direct him to turn his body towards his left. His voice is surprisingly soft. He thinks it’s the first time he heard it like that. “Your nose, s’bleeding again.” Oh. But why was Frank scared? He sounded alarmed, worried maybe. Frank takes something out of the glove box in a movement that, in his drowsiness, Matt can’t track before the marine’s leaning closer to him. Letting Matt get a whiff of his scent before blood drips over Frank’s shoulder. His blood. He wants to apologize. He should apologize. But breathing is still difficult and Matt can’t figure out the words. “Why-” words. Words, he needs to find the words. Frank presses a cloth against his nose, a palm cradling the back of his skull and helping him tilt back. “Why were you scared?” “I wasn’t scared,” a pause. Frank presses slightly harder before letting go and checking his nostrils, using the cloth to wipe the blood staining his lips and chin. “Just, shouldn’t be bleedin’ like that. It’s the third time already.” Oh. Worried. About him? The bleeding seems to have stopped, but Frank doesn’t let go immediately, no. Cloth-covered fingers rub at the bridge between his lips and nose, as if wiping a particularly nasty stain. “Did it... stop?” He asks partially because he wants to know if he should worry and partially because he isn’t sure what to think of Frank’s intense focus zeroed solely on him for such a length of time. Skin prickled with the idea that it felt like Frank had found something he really liked and it was either the sight of Matthew bleeding or his lips. Or both. Matt isn’t sure which one he prefers. Not for the first time, he speculates on which kind of relationship Frank and him had before... whatever happened to him, happened to him. A friend? A colleague? A father figure, a lover? Maybe Frank just felt the need to take care of people or maybe he got stuck in this situation without wanting to. Maybe Frank, under all the crassness and walls he built to keep people away, felt the incessant need for connection too. Maybe Matt was projecting. He could live with those three possibilities. Anything else was too much right now. Puts the control of their relationship on Frank’s hands and not on Matt’s lacking memory. Frank clears his throat before letting go of the cloth, dropping it carelessly over the gear lever. His heart does something odd when he turns to look at him again and finds Matt staring right at his eyes, where Matt can hear his eyelids move. Not the usual telling sign of pity or discomfort drawn from his dead irises, but a falter. Like surprise. “We’re clear,” he says and Matt comes to realize they’re moving again, just pass a heavy buzzing he came to recognize as streetlights. “I’m taking you to Curt now.” “Who’s Curt?” Frank’s heartbeat does another surprised little jump. His voice sounds oddly monotonous when he answers. “A friend that helped me when you were hurt.” Matt smiles softly, slightly confused at Frank’s forlorn tone. “I thought you were the one who put my head back together.” Frank’s heart stutters again but not in amusement at the quip. Something farther away from anger and closer to dread that Matt couldn’t quite figure out.       He hated swimming. Specially after he went blind and his senses started developing. He couldn’t say his childhood had been sheltered in any way - Matt had learned to take care of himself from a young age and he remembered that particularly well, even a few gaps and chunks were missing. His clearest memories were from his nine to twelve years old, although the chronology had a tendency of getting lost on him. Matt didn’t have many friends when he was younger. His Dad worked a lot most of the day and Matt spent a lot of his time alone at home, forbidden from going out. That is, after Grandma died and he couldn’t stay with her. He did remember Lindsey Shelton from school. One Matt met only months before the accident - her appearance comes to him so clearly, then. Long, thin braids that went all the way to her waist, thin eyebrows, dark skin like chocolate, yellow hair clips over her year. Remembers how a lot of older kids picked on her because she was so much smaller than the other kids their age. Her and Matt, also scrawny for his age, quickly became acquainted. Remembers almost drowning in the public pool, the one day Dad managed to take them both, and drowning in the Hudson with so much clarity that, when they’re closer to Curt’s place and rain starts pouring down, his heartbeat doubles. He doesn’t panic, not this time. Maybe because he’s too drained or maybe because of the Xanax. It makes him loopy, weird. He’s in the car sitting by a man he barely knows but feels he can trust with his life, but he’s also hearing Dad’s alarmed shouts and Lindsey’s scared, distant shrieks. A car honks past them, Dad pulls him out of the pool. Frank says something, Lindsey’s tears fall all over his face when she cries over his chest. He doesn’t tell Frank what’s happening, is not sure of it himself. A flashback? No, he knew where he was. He was in the car with Frank. They just parked outside of Curt’s building. It’s raining. And Matt’s friend is scared, because she thinks it’s her fault he can’t swim. Stepping out of the car makes the ghost touch of her small, childish fingers disappear. Raindrops make the world around him come around in a myriad of bright, tonal reds and flashing embers and Matt has to breathe deeply several times before closing the door. Frank looks different than what he had imagined. Matthew can’t exactly see in the rain, he has zero light perception, his sight extends like an endless void in front of him. It’s just that the radar sense works perfectly with the tiny sound waves each drop create. Sometimes, it can be overwhelming, depending on the rainfall. But if he focuses, just like this, he can hear the symphony of drops falling over Frank’s face and body and outlining every curve and edge instead of his impressionist-like blurry picture from before. He can see. Matt sees his deep set eyes, the strong eyebrows curved over them and the beautifully well-defined jawline. He follows the raindrops to a Botticelli-worthy upper lip, sculpted into a curve just bellow a crooked nose, the bridge healed unevenly from too many breaks. His hair was kept buzzed at the sides and slightly longer on top. His ears were... endearing, to say the least. Matt can’t help a small, tired chuckle. Frank’s heartbeat falters and he turns to stare, his puzzled expression makes Matt turn up to the sky with a free laugh. He didn’t know his senses could do that. He can see. “You have ridiculous ears,” Frank’s pulse indicates surprise, once more, and something like disbelief. “And you broke your nose at least eight times.” Frank doesn’t snort but there’s something like amusement in his tone when he speaks: “How in the hell would ya know that, Red?” Matt only offers him a small smile in return, the exhaustion sank deep in his bones but standing in the rain there, listening to how Frank looks like, it feels like he can keep going, if only for a bit. “I just do.” He thinks Frank scoffs bullsh*t under his breath, but the raindrops like thunderclap hit the shell of his ear and Matt flinches. The sudden interference with his hearing throws him off balance, which is maybe why Frank is suddenly there. Just distant enough not to crowd him, but at a distance that allows him to catch Matt, should he take a tumble. Curt lives in an apartment and he doesn’t appreciate the stairs. He’s had more than enough panic attacks and commotion for the day. Frank doesn’t reach out to steady him until it becomes clear he can’t keep going on his own and, even then, he doesn’t ask if he needs a break. So Matt keeps walking when his head starts throbbing, he keeps walking when his shot leg protests fiercely against the steps, keeps walking when the pain builds up so high that he feels like throwing up and almost faints. And when he gets his feet under him he walks some goddamn more. Castle is a steady, solid presence through it all, if not for the grumbled curses of almost there and goddamn it, breathe, and keep going, soldier and Matt wants to tell him that he’s wrong, because he wasn’t a part of Stick’s war, because Stick left him, because Matt wasn’t good enough. Or was it Dad that left? No. No, Dad died. He found him dead in the alley with a gunshot to the head and a stab wound to the stomach. No - no stab wound. Who died with a stab wound? Who- “Get in,” an extra heartbeat among the myriad of others in the apartment complex gets Matt jumping. “Sh*t, Frank, he looks like a ghost, he was supposed to be resting, not walking around like-” “Yeah, yeah, place to sit him down?” “For the love of- His head was open a week ago!” “Curt.” “I found you a wheelchair. Why-” Frank’s trigger finger jumps against his thigh. “You try and make him stay still, Curt.” The man, Curtis, sighs before guiding the both of them towards a kitchen table and Frank finally gets Matt to sit down. The reprieve should feel like heaven on the overworked muscle of his left thigh, still recuperating from the gunshot wound, but his body is too out of it to register. He isn’t sure how much time passes from the moment the second heartbeat (not Frank, slower, two inches taller, broader, antiseptic and good coffee, metallic sounding leg) leaves the room to when he comes back. He digs his fingers into his healing thigh, the pain makes him sharper. Needs to stay alert, needs to- Flinches away from foreign fingers attempting to touch his hair, his hand forms a fist, his leg muscles tighten. The fingers go away, familiar ones close around his wrist. “Hey, take it easy,” bad coffee, gunpowder, smoke, Frank. “Easy,” danger. Needs to- “There’s no danger. It’s my buddy, Curt. He’s a medic. Take it easy, Red.” “I just wanted to take a look at your head wound, if that’s okay? If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t.” Matt waits for the tell-tale skip of his heartbeat, the proof of a lie, nothing comes. His body is still hesitant to trust, muscles tense and about to snap even when he slowly nods. The fingers come back. Matt feels the foreign pulse through the skin as it prods around his scalp, feather-like touches tracing the scabbing wound. “Alright, Matthew, how’s the pain?” “I can take it.” A skip of two heartbeats, Matt tilts his head, smells the air. No anger, although Frank’s heart speeds up slightly before he forces it back down. Curt’s stays slightly faster. “Right, but is it bad?” What does it matter if it’s bad if he can take it? “Sometimes.” “Alright,” the man slowly tilts his head against the light, “it looks clean. Healing slow but well. Did you have any fever?” He realizes he doesn’t know the answer to that question just before Frank catches on to the same. “He didn’t.” “Ringing in your ears? Deaf episodes? Alterations in taste or smell?” “Ringing,” he mumbles, “sometimes.” Hands move to check his pupils, the man takes a flashlight, switches it on. “How’s the nausea?” “Hm.” “Throws up from time to time,” Frank answers for him. “Think it’s that Post-Concussion syndrome you talked about?” Curtis makes a vague sound in consideration. “Could be,” the flashlights are switched off, the man leans back against his own chair. “How’s your appetite?” Frank grunts from his place, arms crossed over his chest like a guard. “Eats like a goddamn bird.” Matt ignores him. He eats what he can keep. He’s not supposed to waste food, the nuns said... or was it Dad? No, he’s quite sure he heard something in the orphanage, too. And Stick said differently. Food is fuel, you’re not supposed to enjoy it. “How is your sleep?” “Uh, it’s okay.” Curt must see something in his face because he turns to Frank for confirmation and Matt does a poor attempt of hiding his scowl. He’s not a child, goddamn it. “Sleeps most of the day sometimes, but it’s fitful. Still having those episodes I told ya about.” He snaps his head towards Frank, frowning. He didn’t have any episodes, did he? He’s about to refute that statement out loud before remembering the day he woke up with glass shards all over his hands and a broken window. “Have you had any bleeding? From the wound, ears, nose?” “I don’t think-” “His nose did for a bit,” Frank mentions, and it’s the first time Matt catches something akin to reluctance in his voice, “after some running.” “Jesus Christ, Frank.” The man in question only shrugs in response. Curtis seems to shake his head before turning to Matt again. “It could be post-op hypertension. Blood pressure goes up, capillaries can burst inside your nostrils, causing the bleeding. Which is why you need to rest, as much as you can. Stress when you’re recovering from head injuries can be really harmful.” Another sigh, exuding barely contained disapproval. “Any numbness in your extremities? Motor impairments?” Silence stretches thin before Matt raises his eyebrows pettily. “Oh, I can answer for myself, now?” Curt snorts as Frank huffs through his nose. “No numbness, my right hand is getting better.” “That’s good to know, squeeze my fingers please.” Matt does as told, squeezing as hard as he can with one hand and then moving on to the other. “It’s improved, but the muscle is still weak. Are you doing the exercises Frank’s taught you?” “Yes.” “Good, you’ll probably regain full function, but I can’t be sure, it’s not my specialty.” He lets go and Matt’s go back to his lap. “Any periods of confusion, lost time or hallucinations?” He freezes. Immediately tries to conceal it with a careful shake of his head, pressing his lips thin. Frank’s gaze burns at his skin. “No,” Matt answers in an undertone, voice coming off too weak and little convincing. “None.” He doesn’t need eyes to notice Frank and Curtis exchanging a cryptic glance.   CHILDHOOD   This matters because I’ve lived on that side of life that you all have made for me partitioned the orphaned one   The itch under his skin spreads until it takes over; an unrelenting pressure at the back of his head. Fingers open and close around the steering wheel, he gazes at the new bottle of painkillers held tight in Red’s hand before his eyes stray towards the reflection of his sutured skull on the foggy window. Frank’s geared up. Every muscle is ready to act and he has to fight every single impulse that tells him to do something. He has nowhere to go, nothing to fight, so he clenches his fingers harder over the wheel and stays put. Heart pounding like a freight train that has got to be pissing Red’s sensitive ears off but he keeps quiet, and so does Frank. Glancing from time to time at raindrops reflecting in sightless eyes that can’t appreciate the beauty of it. Goddamn it. He abruptly changes course, turning left when he was supposed to go straight, finding a spot by Ruppert Park, empty. It’s a few minutes past midnight already and the roar of traffic in the 2 nd and 3 rd avenue are far away enough that Frank can just barely make it over the rumble of the engine. He takes another look at Red, then, whose head is slanted slightly towards him in silent acknowledgment of the detour. Frank sighs heavily, lets all the air leave his lungs before turning off the car and leaning against the back rest. “You gonna talk?” He drawls, left hand joining the right over his thighs as it drops off the wheel, trigger finger twitching restlessly. Nothing to fix, nothing to do. “Talk about wh-” “Cut the sh*t, Red.” Murdock’s jaw works. Frank considers him with creased eyebrows before angling his body towards him, his face set in the beginnings of a scowl to the point he carefully schools it into nonchalance. “I don’t know what you mean, but I do know that we can’t stay here. So if you will-” Frank’s scoff interrupts him before it turns into a derisive laugh, only serving to get Murdock worked up. Good. Let him burn along with Frank. “Better keep that bullsh*t o’yours before you run out of it, Red.” Matthew turns away from him and the sutures reflect in impressionist-like strokes of dull color on the window, the picture forming poorly on the droplets merging together to form bigger ones and collecting at the frame. The lamppost light catches on shaking hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hallucinating?” Frank asks in an undertone. Something somber in his voice. Murdock scoffs but there’s no humor in it, no real reaction besides a bitter, forced indifference. Or resignation, who knows. Red presses his knuckles against his teeth as if about to tear it off in frustration, turning to stare out of the window in a world he can’t see. Maybe it’s the realization of how vulnerable he must feel and how much he must hate it that Frank lets the accusation fall from his voice. “Hey,” when softer doesn’t work, he turns sterner, “hey.” It feels like calling Junior out on lying. Like telling Lisa she can’t get into fights, even if he was proud of her for protecting her friend from bullies. He shakes his head out of the thought when his guts twist and turn over themselves. Reaching out to tap Red’s upper arm, Frank reminds himself to do it slowly - first touch soft, showing he’s not a threat. The words in the crumpled paper inside his pocket burned in the back of his eyelids: Gunshot, touch, name. Nudges with a little more pressure behind it when Red doesn’t flinch, calling his attention back to the car - the present -, away from the rain or whatever was happening in his f***ed up head. “Red,” now gentler, coaxing him out of his shell like he used to do with his kids, when they cried. Back when he had people to hold on to, people he hadn't held strong enough. It doesn’t surprise him that it works and Red deflates, angling his head towards Frank, eyes staring vacantly while his lips twitched from time to time, fingertips playing with the hem of his sweater. Frank notices the little blood drops caught in the wool. His left knuckles are reddened by the jab he threw at Beard guy earlier, his right ones are soft. Long healed over from the warehouse fight. Frank suddenly wants to press his lips against it, against proof that Red maybe has a lot in common with Frank, but he’ll always be different. Better. Innocent. Wants to taste that innocence in his lips - the light Red had inside, that spark of wild fire he couldn’t erase. “Talk to me, Red.” “I don’t know,” he says, and it’s clear it kills him. Either the admitting or the pain of not knowing, swallowing him up. “Sometimes it’s like a dream. The world feels weird, there’s noises coming from nowhere and smells or tastes that I know aren’t there. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning.” Frank waits him out when he suddenly stops, allows his own knuckles, scarred and layered with bruises, to graze over the skin of Red’s forearm briefly. He was still losing a bit of weight, the marine noted vaguely. “The devil,” Frank’s heartbeat jumps like a bull against a cage before he forces it down. “I know it sounds.. ridiculous. But I know it’s him. Sometimes he’s just there and sometimes he talks and I don’t know why, I-” Words die before they make it out. Red shakes his head before turning to Frank. “I doesn’t happen often now, just sometimes and briefly. It’s fine.” Frank wants to laugh. Wants to do something with his hands. Shoot Red in the head and he comes back to save you from torture. Chain him to a chimney and he comes back to help you out of a death penalty. Hurt him and he forgives you, trap him and he tries to save you, take everything away from him and he’s still there. Body and mind soaking up abuse like it’s no big deal. “No it’s not, Matt.” In the silence that grows after his voice fades, there’s understanding. A distance Frank doesn’t try to impose by refusing to call him by name, an honesty Red doesn’t try and hide behind snark and stubbornness. Murdock looks a lot more like the guy Frank knew, before everything. The lawyer with the relentless sense of justice; the vigilante who’d sooner get killed than let someone get hurt. The guy who had two people who’d give him the world, if only he knew how to ask, and who he’d die to protect. And here they are now.     “H-h-hurts,” everywhere, and he can’t make it stop. It’s the first word through his lips once he wakes up. Smells blood, gunpowder, cordite, urine, dust. “Hurts, hurts-” “Red,” he’s moving, why is he moving? He needs to stop. He’s got to hide. He needs to hide before- “Red, it was just a dream.” “Hurts,” he isn’t sure what. His head. His head hurt. His belly, his thigh. It all hurts. “Red, what’s my name, huh? Can you tell me?” Voice. Deep. Tense. Familiar heartbeat. Gunpowder. Coffee. Shaving cream. Smoke. “F-rank,” a sob, “it hurts.” The moving stops, the word comes to a halt so suddenly Matt feels sick. Car? Clunk of metal, unfastening seat belt. 

  In our darkest hour, we look for salvation. Alpha Union Controlled Space: Cold. That was the only feeling he could feel as he hung in the middle of the room with energized cuffs around his wrists. Cold wet sweat covered his naked broken body as he tried to look around with his bright green eyes. He managed to lift himself halfway, but as soon as he tried to put weight on his legs he fell back down to hanging with his arms above his head. Pain shot through his body as he gasped for breath.  The door behind him opened with a creek as it swung on heavy hinges. Hearing footsteps on the wet stone floor he tried to turn his head but received a blow to his cheek from an armored hand. “You don’t get to see your host yet. Scum.” The guard said as he punched Morian again in the face, aiming for the one good eye he had left. Seeing stars as he shook his head and again tried to look around he heard a snicker. “You don’t listen very well do you?” He then saw a figure step out of the shadow and hold up a hand stopping the guard from further action. “He has that renowned Basoar stubbornness, that is all.”  The man leaned forward showing Morian his face with a smile. Morian was shocked at who he saw. But that was the last thing he saw as a needle pierced his neck and injected him with something. As the world began to fade he heard. “We can educate that out of him…and so much more.”  The man adorned in a black tunic waved for the other guards to move in and lift Morian off the ground as they unhooked him from the ceiling. They then took him to a machine that connected several monitoring devices to his body and strapped his head so that a ring surrounded it.  Activating the machine they began by turning up a dial and touching a sequence of commands into a touchscreen. A lot of this tech looked to be former Dominion and Imperial tech. “Let's begin.” The man said as he turned the dial up and immediately Morian started screaming in pain as focused energy shot into his brain in a series of pulses.  They were going to break him.      Voltera Nebula, Starbase, and Shipyard:  The Voltera Nebula was a massive nebula that covered thousands of square lightyears of space and contained several celestial bodies and even a few solar systems. One of the solar systems had been turned into the Dominion’s main shipyard and Central Command for the Dominion Space Forces. Right now it was a refuge for a heavily battered Dominion fleet.  Rie stood at the window of his quarters on the Titan’s Fist. His armored hands clasped behind his back as he watched several tow tugs maneuver a super-star destroyer into a repair dock. Major sections were missing from the ship as it had taken the brunt of one of its last battles with the Alpha Union.  His ship was in the only dock that could accommodate its size. They were damaged severely in the Battle for Naboo and then in the subsequent battles as they retreated. Retreat…that was a word he did not like having to think about let alone order.  There was a beep at the door and he whispered. “Enter” and the door opened showing Admiral Tiet. The Admiral walked in and stopped at the head of Rie’s desk waiting. Rie turned around away from the depressing view.  “I used to find the view of the shipyard inspiring,” Rie said softly.  “It will be again. We just have to keep moving forward.” Tiet replied. Holding out the datapad, Rie took it and began reading the summary of the latest reports.  It was not as bad as he had thought. Roughly 80% of the fleet was still fightworthy. The other 20% was in different states of complete losses to almost ready for service again. They also were holding systems that he thought were being lost. New Coruscant, despite the devastation brought upon it by Thorin, was holding off the Alpha Union forces for now. As were Chandrilla and Corellia. They also were holding key hyperspace lanes.  “So far this is good,” Rie said. Then he looked up with his bright orange eyes at Tiet. “Any news of where they took Morian?” Tiet let out a breath that he had been holding. Unlike others, he knew Rie would not hurt him as the messenger, which was why he was here delivering it. “We did not find any information on where they took him. The ship that he was put on was using some kind of stealth tech that obscured their hyperspace signature completely. I have ALARA working on it but she is even doubtful it will be salvaged.  Rie let his head drop slightly as he leaned against the railing in front of him heavily. Letting the weight of it all hit him for a second he let out a sigh and then refocused. Right now he couldn’t do anything for his brother. They wouldn’t give up on him though. “Keep me advised on anything we find. However, we need to focus on getting back into the fight. We cannot continue to be on the defensive.” Tiet agreed. They needed to take the fight to the Alpha Union and its mysterious leader. “What targets do you have in mind?” “Coruscant…” Rie said. Which surprised Tiet. They both knew how well defended that system was. It was the namesake of their very own capital. Originally the capital of Palpatine’s Empire and the Old Republic. Now it serves as the capital of the Alpha Union. According to intelligence reports they had discovered several caches of Palpatine’s warehouses that housed experiments, weapon prototypes, and so on. Which had aided their quick rise.  “We will have to work towards it by hitting several smaller targets, but our main goal will be Coruscant. Cut off the head of the snake.” Rie clarified.      Coruscant; Center of Alpha Union Operations:  Ships buzzed in lines across the skies. Their silhouettes look like insects against the backdrop of the setting sun. Morian stood with his hands behind his back as his green eyes stared out at the sun as it crept beyond the horizon. His back tunic and robe hid most of the damage his body had sustained when he was captured. But his face was scared and still had bacta bandages on it covering the wounds that were still open.  Bringing his hands in front of him he looked at his palms and flexed his fingers. The mechanical right arm made noise as it flexed. Not the most up-to-date design. Looking down he sighed. Both his legs had been either mostly or partially replaced with mech as well. That tank blast had done a lot…though it should have killed him.  His eyes darted over to his ‘escort’ who were like shadows no matter where he went. He had been surprised when they had brought him here and let him out of a cell. He was standing in what had formerly been the Jedi Temple, then the Emperor’s Palace during the time of the Empire. Now he was not sure what the Alpha Union used it for. From his experience and knowledge, they despised anyone who used the force. No matter its cause.  “Admiring a good sunset?” the voice of Vok came from behind him. Feeling his spine stiffened he took a breath and let it out before turning and facing the man. He was clad in stormtrooper armor that had been painted in a camouflage pattern which conflicted with the very urban setting all around them. Over the past twelve months he had been held by the Alpha Union Vok had been his handler.  Feeling his fists tighten as they closed he felt the urge to attack and try to escape. However, before he could the feeling turned into pain as he fell to his knees. A small chuckle came from Vok as he too knelt slightly in front of Morian. “You can’t do anything that we do not want you to do. You should have remembered that by now.” The pain reached a high point and Morian resisted the urge to scream out. He was defiant and wanted to not show them any weakness if he could help it. The pain stopped and his body went limp as he fell to the ground fully. A moment or two passed before he was able to get up and straighten his tunic. His green eyes glared at Vok with a hate he had not known in a long time.  “Buck up Morian… it's graduation day!” Vok said as he nodded to the two troopers behind Morian.  He felt a needle hit the skin of his neck and soon after he was in darkness again. Nothing but pain and darkness as he tried to hold onto the last shreds of what made him...him.  The troopers carried him to a medical lab with a similar machine to the one they had originally put him in. Strapping his arms and legs into place his head was fitted with what almost looked like a crown made of copper and kyber crystals.  “Are we ready? Said the Overseer as he walked up behind Vok his hands clasped behind his back.  Surprised that the Overseer was here for something so trivial Vok stiffened as he turned and bowed to the man that had saved them all. “Yes, we are about to begin the final phase of reprogramming.” A smile crept across the scarred features of the Overseer. “Remarkable technology...It's a shame that Rie decided not to go further with it.” Vok nodded slowly. The Overseer knew many things about his enemies. Sometimes almost as if he had known them for a long time. However, no one dared question him on such matters. He had brought them out of the darkness that had been brought on by the Dominion and its meddling in things it shouldn’t.  “Sires, we are ready to begin,” Stated the tech next to Morian.  “You may begin.” The Overseer said as he held his hands in front of him and smiled. As the hum of machinery began Morian also woke up. His eyes darted around as he fought against his restraints. The tech tried to calm him down. “The more you struggle the more it will hurt.” This did not deter Morian until the machine fully activated and the kyber crystals around his head all glowed their respective colors. Mostly used to power lightsabers and had even powered the weapons systems of the Death Stars..kyber also had a strange effect on a person if used correctly with certain energy types. Something that Rie and his scientists had found out and then abandoned.  Morian then began screaming as the energy focused and started pulsing into his skull. His brain felt like it was on fire. His screaming continued for a few more minutes then he passed out from the pain.  “Keep it on for the full effect...I want him fully primed.” The Overseer said as he turned and then left the platform. Vok bowed with a nod as he then turned and watched Morian. A man who had once been regarded as one of the best special forces soldiers was now theirs. Now how to use him.  

Add FriendBlock User♥ Premium Gift Select Jan 18th 2023 - 9:52 PMHey hunClick to join the group for these templates https://www.roleplayer.me/view_group.php?group_id=30479Than we use these toohttps://www.roleplayer.me/view_group.php?group_id=29968https://www.roleplayer.me/view_group.php?group_id=17345andhttps://www.roleplayer.me/view_blog.php?id=0000493518

    Hiiiiii! It's again, Birdoline coming at you from the very beautiful. very hot. very fun La Parguera. It's day something, we're hot, but we're not tired! And like all things Birdoline, it's time to spice things up a little bit and bring in a special guest that I think is really cute and I would totally already have his baby, please give a very warm Isla Vibras welcome to the chest hair millionaire himself, my husband, Abel "The Weeknd" Tesfaye." Caroline says to the camera and to her best friend and husband. The table is set up with the limited edition "XO" tequila in both cocktail and shot form. "We're going to play a super fun game of Truth or Drink. The game is simple, we had Jordan," Caroline pauses and the camera shows the Tesfaye's body guard who loves the attention too much, "Back over here. thank you. gather tweets from fans with some hard hitting questions and you can either choose to answer the question or take a shot. easy peasy." Caroline says, though she can't help but laugh a little. "Birdie and I have been training for this our whole life, so I hope you're ready, babe." ;   "We are very hot and very not tired! I don't even think I've slept since I've arrived." Birdie states matter of factly with a shrug of her shoulders, it's all vibes."It's El Fin De Semana!!" Birdie exclaims, clearly quite proud of herself for pronouncing it correctly. "And if you think I won't be calling you that all fin de semana-" She pauses to laugh at her own joke before continuing on. "You're very sadly mistaken." As the camera pans to Jordan, Birdie exhales a long dramatic sigh directly into the microphone. "Don't give him too much attention, his head is big enough as it is." As the camera pans back to the trio, Birdie is wearing a wide enthusiastic smile, clearly excited for this challenge. "I did make sure to have Jordan pick a few of the more wild questions, just so you know." She waves her cue cards, looking between her best friend and Abel. "Let's get right to it, shall we? Pick your poison, El Fin De Semana!" She gestures to the variety of shots and cocktails displayed before them. "Alright, we'll start with a tame one; from user star g-one-rl...oh starg1rl..okay 'When is the new album coming? Give us the date Abel Lynn!'"     "I don't think y'all have let me sleep since we got here," Abel joked, pulling the mic away from his mouth just enough to plant a quick kiss on Caroline's cheek and whisper a soft 'I love you, baby,' in her ear. Pulling back, Abel raised a brow as he glanced between Caroline and Birdie, unable to repress a laugh as his wife referred to him oh so lovingly as chest hair millionaire. "That ain't right, Sugar Glider," He then turned to Birdie. "El Fin De Senmana," He repeated, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I know. The more ya' drink, the less it'll sound like The Weeknd in Spanish,"Abel rolled his eyes when the camera panned to Jordan who, unsurprisingly, was checking out a woman just out of view. "You need help," Abel shook his head, turning to Birdie and Caroline once again, pushing the thought of Jordan trying to get laid out of his mind. "Alright, alright, I think I can do this, I'm pretty open. I mean, half of the world has seen mine and Caroline's sex tape, so there ain't much being kept a secret anymore," He joked.Listening to the first question, Abel narrowed his eyes. "Sometime in 2024," He shrugged, "I can't give exact dates but that is technically a date," Abel hoped that it would be vague enough, because if not, he'd already be taking a shot of their exclusive XO Star Fruit & Pineapple Tequila. "Next question?" He asked, hopeful that he had successfully outsmarted Birdoline for the first question, although he knew if he got lucky this time, it would be short-lived.   "Caroline begins to chant, "sleep is for the weak! sleep is for the weak!" knowing that Birdie will always be there to continue the chant because who can sleep when there's so much fun to be have? and so much work, but shhh. "En Fin De Denmana, Millonario de pelo en el pecho." Caroline said with a small laugh though she was the only one who spoke pretty close to fluent Spanish. "Don't call me sugar gliderrrrrr on the internettttttt" she whined, she did not want to answer such things, but she would because it was very true. "Hahah, Birdie called you big head." Caroline mocked from where she stood and enjoyed a little middle finger from the security guard who was a big tit baby all the damn time. "Don't any of you nasties tweet us to see the rest of the tape. We don't need to be teachin' y'all have to have babies." she said narrowing her eyes at the camera and giving them the firm "Mom-finger" to show that she was serious. "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Doesn't count, baby, too vague. Drink up. Then you can ask me, birdie, or birdoline a question next to keep it fair." she said taking the bottle. "Look how pretty, this is ours. We'll tell y'all about it at the end, but we made this. and it's very yummy, and it's from our brand." she said as she poured the shot glass full and handed it to her husband. "bottoms up, babe."   As anyone could have predicted, Birdie joined in on the chant with her arms raised above her head with enthusiasm; "sleep is for the weak! sleep is for the weak!" The comment in fluent Spanish went over her head, visible confusion on her face as her arms drooped back into her lap. "Yeah, I dunno about all that." How exactly was she supposed to interview multiple musicians who spoke almost exclusive Spanish? Time would tell.The warning prompted Birdie to quickly shuffle through the index cards with tweets that had been pre-typed on each of them, stopping at a specific one and ripping it in half before tossing the pieces over her shoulder. "Yeah, ya nasties!" She shot a glare over towards Jordan for allowing that one in, who held his hands up in defense with a sh*t-eating grin on his face."No vague answers, that's cheating fin de semana del día conmemorativo!!" Birdie exclaimed, clearly she had plenty of spanish nicknames tucked away for this occasion thanks to Nori. "Bottoms up, Trey Songz."   Abel couldn't help but roll his eyes. "You know I can't answer those questions. I am under contract. Things do need to be kept under wraps. Giving you a year is the best I could do," He shrugged his shoulders, reaching for the shot of their XO tequila that Caroline had poured for him. "I swear, you're getting me drunk on purpose," he then nodded toward Birdie, "And she's just here for the ride. I don't know what the hell y'all are callin' me either so that's kinda rude,"With that, Abel held the shot glass to his lips and let the liquid slide down his throat, as he tilted his head backwards. With a quiet gulp, the shot was gone and he gently placed the shot glass down on the table. "Alright, I'm.. actually sort of curious. So, Caroline, what's your favorite Harry Styles song? And Birdie, what's your favorite song I've released? No bullsh*t. Blinding Lights and Watermelon Sugar are wrong answers, 'cause that's what me and Harry hear all the time,"   "Contract Sm-tract." Caroline says with hands her hips though she laughs, "I'm kidding, don't break contractal agreements kiddos, it's not good and court is not fun. Birdoline will not be your lawyer, we do not have law degrees yet." She warns, sliding the glass over, watching carefully to ensure that all the liquor left the glass. "Us? Me? Us? We're angels. We would never play such games. You're a honest man, Abel Lynn." She teased, though getting drunk is always preferrable outcome for content and for the fact she liked the laugh. "Yikes. I guess I'm gonna drink on this one." She said before laughing, "I'm kidding. Easy peasy." she said, "I did want a shot though." she pretended to pout. "I think I know Birdie's answer but I'm going to zip lip cause I wanna see if I'm right . BUt my favorite Harold song is probably Golden. Or Treat People With Kindness. I love both equally, but TPWK feels like Harry as a person, and Harry and I are very similar humans."

I owe: Kian [5/2/2024] Ember [5/2/2024] Darcy [5/9/2024] They owe: Keylee [5/17/2024]

LUNA BECOMING FREE!Solo # 1 - 1/20/2024 ψ  Luna heard the footsteps of her Master as he came to unlock the cage door that held her. In his left hand she could see that he held a long silver chain with a silver collar on it.The collar swung back and forth as he approached. In his right hand was the dreaded cattle prod, that he had adapted to use on her. If it was used on a cow, they would be dead in less than a minute. Her? She could with-stand it to a small degree. He charged it up and poked her with it harshly, forcing her to shift to her wolf form. ψ  She yelped in pain as the force of it hit her forcing her body bones to break and form until she was in her wolf form. He quickly put the collar on her neck, before she regained consciousness. Once awake she looked at the door which was now open, her master holding the chain in both hands now. "Out." He ordered her in a dark and strict tone. She knew she had no choice but to obey. She crawled out on her stomach, her tail tucked between her legs, as she cowered before her Master. He tugged on the leash, pulling her with him to the horses, where his wife was already on one and ready to go with weapons on them. ψ  She followed him as he locked the chain on the horse's saddle, as he got up on it. "Ready?" He asked his wife, who gave him a smile and a nod. "Let's do this." She said with a grin. Luna had no clue what was going on. Were they training or hunting? She never knew what they were up to. ψ  Her Master took off at a gallop forcing her to keep up with him with her werewolf super-speed. They spotted a couple of vampires and untied her, ordering her to go after them and kill them. Using the prod, he shoved her and zapped her. She yelped and ran off to do what she was told to do and came back with the head of the two vampires in her jaws. Her Master and Mistress praised her and fed her a good dinner and allowed her to sleep on a mattress with a blanket, at the foot of their bed. ψ  Many years passed and they had her trained well enough that they didn't use the prod unless they had too. Today though, it was March 13th, the last day she would see her humans and gain her freedom. But before that. They had planned a hunt the night before. They all went to bed that night. Her Master locked her back outside in the cage, weakening her slightly, starving her so she had the urge to hunt and kill the supernaturals they wanted her to kill. The next morning she waited for them to come out, in her wolf form. Ready for the hunt, she licked her jaws, as her owners came out and let her out of the cage. ψ  She followed her Mistress to her horse, but at the whistle of her Master, she moved over to his side. A flash of four being caught her attention, and she curled her lips in a snarl and let out a growl of hatred. As she waited for the go-ahead. Her Master gave a sharp whistle and she sprang after the four beings. Two split off and she took off as she heard the hoof-beats of the horse take off after the other two. She cornered one of the vampires and launched herself at him and tore his throat open and off his shoulders with her fangs. The other one attacked her from behind, but being small, she slipped out and leaped onto it's back, ripping the back of his neck open and then stabbing them with a piece of wood. She heard screams in the distance as she watched the two vampires disappear into nothing. Ψ Hearing the screams she pelted off towards them with her wolf speed. The two vampires are gone, but her owners are lying in a pool of blood. She inched towards them slowly, her eyes and ears alert for danger, as she approached. When in-front of them they spoke in choking gasps as they set her free. Before they took their last breaths. Luna bowed her head to them, and then shifted to her human form. Scars littered her body as she stood naked, before the now dead corpses. She thought about burying them, but then she turned away and left them in their pool of blood. ψ  Luna was now free and was able to do what she wanted now. She decided to gather clothes and other items to go to America, and start a new life for herself. She would stow away on a ship and stay on it until they came to New Orleans, Louisiana. She got off and made her way to the nearest woods and shifted to her wolf form and ran around for a while, until she fell asleep from exhaustion. The next day, she decided that now she was free she would do whatever she wanted. ψ  Over the next few years she lived in the woods and slowly began to blend in with the humans. As she began to travel around in the City of New Orleans. She even began to work as a bounty and Supernatural huntress. She loves her life now and is always looking for another hunting job.

Basic Informationψ  Full Name ~ Luna Amara Pantazi ψ  Name Pronounced ~ Luna (Loo-Nah) | Amara (Ah-Mar-ra) | Pantazi (Pan-ta-zee)ψ  Name Meanings ~ Luna (Roman Origin = The Moon), Amara (Latin Origin = Everlasting), Pantazi (Greek Origin = May you live forever) ψ  Nicknames ~ LuLu (By Everyone), Lunatic (By enemies and people who think she is crazy), Luna Love (By her Owners and those she has fallen in love with), Wolf Pup, Little Wolf, Lunatic Wolf (By her Owners).ψ  Species ~ Werewolf (Triggered)ψ Birthday ~ 7th Century AD (Precise Birthday unknown)ψ  Age ~ Over 1,0000 Centuries Oldψ  Occupation ~ Ex-pet to Selene & Alexander Niklous, Seeking Pack/Adopted Fam, Supernatural Huntress of evil Creatures who harm others.ψ Sexual Orientation: Bisexual | Submissive | Into Guys and Girls. | Multi-ship | Relationship Informationψ  Father ~ Mr. Pantazi (Alive - Unknown Where-abouts.)ψ  Mother ~ Mrs. Pantazi (Alive - Unknown Where-abouts.)ψ  Previous Master and Mistress ~ Unknown Couple (Dead - Unknown reasons.) & Selene & Alexander Niklous (Dead - Killed by vampires while hunting them.)ψ  Pack ~ None (Seeking One)Personality Informationψ Luna is a submissive pup who would do whatever anyone says, though she is learning to stand up for herself and make choices on her own. She can be very protective of those she deems as friends and or family. She will hunt down any bad criminal or supernatural who poses a threat in whatever town she is in and kill them. She had no sense of human justice and is learning with the help of humans she interacts with in learning their ways.Appearance Informationψ Luna as a human is 5'5" tall, brown hair and green eyes. She is slim and fit, much like most female werewolves of her family. As a wolf she is small (The size of a wolf pup), grey fur, and red eyes. She has scars all over her body in both forms from beatings with whips and other objects from her slave life centuries ago.Biographyψ   Luna Amara Pantazi of Athens, Greece, was born in the 7th Century AD, to two werewolves who served a human household as their slaves. Her parents had been captured during a war raid in a nearby village and taken captive. Their owners weren't nice. They would starve, beat and torture them, anytime and any way they wanted. Luna was the product of a forced rape, between her parents who were forced to mate by their owners. Once Luna was born, her father was sold off and her mother was heartbroken and forced to work.ψ  Nine months later Luna was born. She was taken care of by nursemaids alongside her Mistress's children until she was eight years old. Luna was then sold off to Selene and Alexander Niklous where she was constantly abused and raped over and over again, chained down with silver and so much more. Once Luna turned 18, she learned the truth about them. They were hunters of Supernatural's. They had bought Luna so they could experiment and use her to hunt down others for them. They had her kill an innocent human so she would trigger her wolf side. ψ  Over the next few years, she would help them hunt and kill supernatural's. Every day, she regretted it, knowing some didn't deserve it, but she had no choice. Luna would hunt on the idea that she would be allowed to eat and have a bed at night to sleep in if she was obedient and did as she was told. Disobedience was met with no food, locked either outside in a cage made of silver or locked in a cell under the house. Either way Luna was starved and beaten, tortured until she either bled to near death or weakened due to other forms of torture, until they decided to let her out. ψ  Centuries would pass and her owners soon died, having been killed by Supernatural's one day, as they had ordered her to track down two others, as they themselves went after another two. When Luna returned to their side they were bleeding out and dying. The brown-haired girl reached them and tried to heal them, but they were too far gone. At their deathbed, they set Luna free. She left them to be eaten by the animals and gathered what stuff she could find and put some clothes on. Once she had everything she needed, Luna left her owner's house and walked for miles, until she reached a boat and stowed away on it.ψ  Months later, the boat reached the US. Where she had no clue where to go or what to do. As soon as she was able to get off the boat, she ran into the woods to be alone, not knowing where she was and not really sure what to do. Luna was scared. She shifted to her wolf form, a small puppy-sized grey wolf with red eyes. She ran around the woods, letting all the pent-up energies out of her. Luna would eventually lie down in a pile of fallen leaves and think of her next move. ψ  She eventually decided that she would live however she wanted. Luna had no pack, no family, no one to care for her, so she was on her own. Luna stole and killed to live. Venturing into the nearby city to scavenge through trash or when She felt like it, she would hunt rats and other animals in the alleyways, while humans slept. Luna didn't know anything about wolf packs, vampires, or witches, but she would soon find out though. From then on, her life was different. ψ  Luna would meet other supernatural's and her instinct to kill them almost wins over. But she had to remind herself that not all are bad and that some deserve at least three before she ends their lives. She finds herself working with human supernatural hunters and supernatural's alike. She also knew that if she was going to be around humans, she needed to fit in with them, so after much thinking Luna decided to work as a Bounty Hunter, bar-tender, and work her way into a biker club.    Notesψ  Luna seeks a family of her own someday, but for now, she must learn to survive and learn to be her own person. If a pack or a family wants her, they will find her and ask. For now, until then, Luna will live for herself, and enjoy the freedom that was given.ψ  That doesn't mean that Luna won't find herself in bad situations, she knew that those would happen no matter what. She must take each day at a time. Hope for the best.ψ  Luna is able to speak human in her wolf form and understand humans as well.ψ She has scars all over her body in both forms from beatings with whips and other objects from her slave life centuries ago. ψ Luna is known as the werewolf pup huntress that hunts other supers. Most only see her in her wolf form and have no clue what she looks like in her human form.

one. mature audiences only. absolutely not asmüt page. two. no stealing. that is incrediblyfoolish. three. no imitating slash copying slashharming me to make yourself feel slash seemmore desirable.✨️ four. i am under no obligationto speak to you if i don't wanna. five. para tomulti-para is my thing. novella for publications. six. themes vary. just whatever compliments ourconnection. pretty flexible writer. seven. stay ic.it's simple really. i like to keep things simple.absolutely no ooc drama please. ooccommunications should be limited to plot discussionsand activity notices. eight. nothing personal, but iprobably won't join your rpg. i'm a 1x1 writer. overwhelming me with social interaction won't getyou anywhere with me except on my avoid at all costslist. nine. literacy is important. chemistry is key. storytelling is really the only way to engage with me. ten. this is a single ship account and roma is straight. eleven. i'll trigger you and the universe will trip you outif you come at me with sketchy vibes. just a heads-up. ☺️ 

 he would have laid down every man woman and child for miles and miles to bring her back. he would have slaughtered the entire congregation of the supposed devout. hung them by their necks, their ankles. . . he could have gladly watched thousands of their deaths, to take back from having to witness the person he loved most in this world, the person he was vowed by god himself to protect. his baby sister. if there was a god, he was going to make him answer. if there was a god, he must pay. for now, holy men would do. his father, “the father.” the man responsible. a self-taught contractor, he built the poor homes, housing them, in a compound like society. . . a preacher, before. kane could see all the signs now, as he looked back. how one thing led to the next. . and by the end, churches, with gold and gems and riches burrowing down deep into the basements and secret entrances. a vast sprawling compound (his family had the largest house of course) brother abel. brother kane. sister abigail. and of course, the mother. but the mother was long gone. . . part of the church’s story now. how the father had to carry on and take care of his family without his lovely wife who seemed to have been keeping it all together. there was truth in that. this would never have happened if she was here. it made his father bitter. he changed the day she died, and nothing kane could say or do changed that glint in his eyes. he knew it all too well for now it became a part of him.  are the sins of the father passed down to the son? you see, abigail was the sweetest little girl. all heart, his heart. born with a condition that made her “special” in the eyes of the lord. socially inept, yet somehow she was the shining star, full of smiles and delicacy. the lead singer in the choir, an angelic voice. . the church had been capitalizing off of this since she was no more than 9, religious music, of course. she never had much of a choice, and it was something she loved to do regardless. she had no idea how much profit it brought. .  he remembered when she was a girl. . and she hated most everyone, but him; of course. she had always been soft on kane. how she had grown. . until of course, her lifeline; their mother met her untimely demise. rumor had it that their father’s men had caught her in lascivious acts in and around church grounds with multiple boys in and around her age.. the father did not take this kindly. . . she was impure, a sinner, she must be purged of her demons, he would chant it in the night. About how he always knew something was off with her, how that storm had raged the night of her birth, the one he had forgotten about, and his father could never stop speaking of. spouting off at his mouth, that snake oil salesman’s charm. he had watched him break people. truly break them, mind, body, and soul. He had all his fathers gifts. he would never use them for this. he would rather sully himself in every way imaginable instead until he had no humanity left. . but in truth, kane knew. he hated her because she was special. he hated her because she made him look bad. he hated her because she made him feel weak, and to sacrifice his own daughter, amongst these men, women, and children? exorcism was an easy option. rid the demons by fire. if the child survives the flame, the child was never guilty. so they said. so they prayed, in incantation over a crowd of onlookers he once called brothers, friends, lovers. respected men and woman of a prestigious community built on the foundation of the bible was almost too comfortable as they stood idly by. the ringing of the chains binding his hands and ankles in the back of the large crowd, up high where the peasants couldn’t get to still haunted him, as did the men who wielded his chains, two “brothers” he had grown up with his entire life. they held him bound and made him watch. all because of the night prior, when his brother abel had come to visit him at the farm. telling him of the plans, of what was to happen, of why it needed to happen, and why he needed to go along. how she would be okay, father would never take it that far. it was just a show. there were no words he had for him. this had been building for months, and no matter what he told him, no matter the measures he tried to set in place to halt the charade before it started, his brother had been a thorn in his side the entire way. spoiling meetings, stealing intel, serving justice in the form of cells to the men and women who chose to follow him, who could see the path they were being set on without their choice. the blood splattered through the barn that night, his, abel’s, a cacophony of violence filling the air. chaotic screams and screeches from the horses, cows, and sheep followed as they were used as barriers and brigades. obstacles in a war between kin. blood was spilled on both sides, until both men could barely stand. as a party of his father’s men’s filtered through, abel had kane in a full choke, life slowly leaving his flesh to the ethereal plane as he fumbled behind him desperately. calloused palm clutched around a large rock, nearly slipping his grip from the blood flowing across his palm; squeezing as tight as his shaking tendrils would allow. it met his brother’s skull with a crunch as he dropped to the side like life had never been in his body, head first. he heard his skull crack. it was not of this earth, almost comical the sound it made. bone chilling. . the feeling however. . . to take a life. . . was something that would haunt him until the end of his days.. he never truly made it far, choosing to knock himself out by proxy, fighting hard; yet all he remembered was a stick to the back of the head, and his lights went out. Light was not something he’d thought he’d ever see again, but indeed, it shined through the vast plains that seemed to stretch as far as the eyes could see.. civilization no where in sight. water, food, shelter. it took him 8 days to find human beings. the longest 8 days of his life.  haunted by dreams of a past, he had been raised up by his father to be a shining beacon of what it was to be holy, yet he’d never fit the part. snoozing through bible lessons, and found himself engaged in all of the activity his sister was murdered for. F***ing church girls in the priest’s chambers below, he had keys to everything, nothing was off limits to him. sneaking so much wine off the reservation his father had threatened to take his tongue for he’d no longer have the taste for it. stealing from the church since he was a boy, stashing his prize in buried caches around the grounds. A taste for sinning knew no bounds, almost like he was pushing back, rejecting the ideals he knew to be folly. by the time he was 21 he’d built up a back-room poker game that resulted in a heavy pocket. it was his place, he was the holy son, it was nothing but a playground for a young man growing into himself. laying claim over it before he left,and many fought behind his lead, most captured, some dead. years later, the jesuit is on a mission to slaughter all that is sacred. knowing it will all end in the revered lands where his father still triumphs.  in the present day — kane is capturing clerics, priests, holy men of all kinds. women and children remain untouched by his violent dealings through the many religious towns bordering his father’s “compound” cult, many of which deciding to take up residence with his people instead, some being raised as sons, and daughters anew. his intention for this to end at the finish line. . . where he may find his own peace, and for them to carry on without him in the aftermath. all who would choose to follow must accept that religion was no longer a part of his order, and in fact, the cause of all the pain and violence they’ve found themselves subject to.  the holiest men do the wickedest things, all in the name of a god they pretend to know. they preach the bible, how to follow, how to become a sheep. believe in the cause, or you are forsaken. believe in the cause, or you are forsaken of your rights to humanity. live in line, not a step out of place. for that, they take. and when you realize all they are doing is the taking. . giving with the one hand, and hoarding control of your life with the other. follow or perish in hell’s scorching blaze. repent or fall. and pay a tax. you have to pay the tax. . . but where does the money go? where do the sinners go?- - - - - - - - -  writer is multi-ship, ships with chemistry, and writes across multiple timelines, sometimes shifting backstory/plot on it's head. open to most crossovers within reason, but willing to stretch and fold to verses, fantasy being top priority, where supernatural elements increase in the story. don't expect much aesthetically from me, i'm more about the writing. discord based where as writing is concerned but can make exceptions : ask for it if you desire.

Sibling SparksSibling Sparkswww.roleplayer.me/1959615Mateo: Benji's first partner in crime and occasional voice of reluctant reason. From riding dirt bikes off makeshift ramps to toilet-papering the principal's house senior year, their brotherly bond was forged in antics that made their patience-of-a-saint mother perpetually question where she went wrong.Yet as wild and fearless as Benji's daredevil influence was on Mateo, his big brother's steadying presence kept him grounded when the spark risked burning too hot. Mateo's self-assured guidance and protectiveness over his little carnal were the trembling scales that balanced Benji's impulsive flames.Only Mateo's firm hand and knowing look could rein in Benji from his most harebrained stunts...most of the time. In Benji's unruliest, most turbulent days, he was the steady spark reminding him that their family bonfire still burned no matter how far he strayed, waiting to welcome the prodigal flame back home.Lucía: From the moment she took her first wail of life, baby Lucía owned every rugged inch of Benji's heart. His former reign as residential terror ended upon meeting his baby sister's bright, inquisitive eyes - now, ensuring she remained his innocent, adored protege became Benji's sole driving force.In Lucía's doting "Benny", the wild child was instantly reborn as the vigilant big brother, source of endless piggyback rides and conspirator in backyard camping adventures. While Mateo mostly shook his head at their rambunctious roughhousing, he always allowed them their sibling alliance of reckless explorers with Benji as self-appointed but fiercely protective leader.As Lucía grew and Benji's flames wandered, he always carried home the sparks of her boundless, infectious joy. No matter how far his spirit drifted, Lucía's vibrant innocence still glowed within him, anchoring his soul to the truth that her wonder at simple delights would forever fuel his fire.   template credit.

Burned BoundariesBurned Boundarieswww.roleplayer.me/1959615The copy room at Ziven Marketing always carried a certain electric charge whenever Daniela Torres stepped inside, sashaying past Benji as if the cramped space brimmed with sexual tension. Her dark eyes would lock onto his, lips quirking devilishly as she brushed against him to grab fresh reams of paper. Daniela’s intoxicating floral perfume made the air thick and heady, sparks practically singeing the air between them.For weeks, that familiar spark smoldered with every lingering glance, every brush of their fingertips as they reached for the same pen during meetings. Daniela’s wedding ring seemed to mock and tempt Benji simultaneously…until the day the flame truly ignited. He still remembered the feverish clash of their lips in the dim stationary closet, her sculpted body arching shamelessly against his as their self-restraint incinerated into ash.What followed was a searing, high-stakes affair conducted in hushed whispers and empty offices after hours. Daniela revealing herself as the wildfire to Benji’s gasoline, their passion raging unchecked for several incandescent weeks. Every tangled knot of limbs and breathless gasp threatened to expose the inferno they could scarcely control.Yet for Benji, no blaze burned quite like the one Daniela stoked in his soul. She consumed his thoughts, his dreams ‐ until the day he watched her slip that golden band back onto her finger with a look of hollow resignation. Her fire had banks it couldn’t transcend. Not this time.In the aftermath, whispers and sidelong glances from colleagues made the marketing bullpen feel like an inescapable pressure cooker. Daniela’s fire no longer warmed, only searing Benji’s skin with its inevitably burned boundaries. He tendered his resignation without a word, knowing he’d never be able to look at that damned copy room without feeling the phantom scorch of their wildfire romance.Daniela had branded him in a way Benji hadn’t foreseen, her lesson scorching into his soul - some fires demanded too unquenchable a price. From then on, he would guard his boundaries with other women as vigilantly as one averts a deadly blaze. Burned once, there would be no more igniting flames where they didn’t belong....   template credit.

Wildfire Embers Wildfire Embers www.roleplayer.me/1959615 When Benji first met Natalia, he knew she'd awaken a wildfire that would blaze through his soul and brand him forever. Even amidst the teeming mass of students on UCLA's campus, her radiant smile and warm whiskey-brown eyes drew him in like the oldest siren song. From that very first study group turned midnight taco truck bender, Benji and Natalia burned ferociously, desperately making up for all the lost time those years they attended the same high school yet ran in separate orbits. Her uninhibited laughter reverberated through the walls of Benji's creaky apartment, mingling with the smoky vestiges of last night's bonfire on the beach. In those hazy, languorous college days, nothing could extinguish their fervent flames. Somewhere between the neon flashes of Hollywood's grungy underground party circuit and Natalia's dreams of settling into a rose petal-strewn bungalow, their searing love branded them as soulmates. They were the wildfire that would never gutter out, trailblazers hellbent on leaving the world singed by their passion. Yet even as Natalia carved her name into his tawny skin with desperate nails, part of Benji's restless soul knew he couldn't simply exist as smoldering embers - at least not yet. He needed to chase the inferno to its ever-shifting horizon, explore new frontiers that would feed the wildfire with fresh oxygen before it dwindled. By the time senior year rolled around, Natalia beaming at him beside the fountains where they first locked eyes, Benji's longing for new horizons began suffocating the cozy spark in her soul. When she accepted that corporate finance job in Boston, teardrops hitting the familiar eagle emblazoned on Benji's faded sweater, he understood their wildfire couldn't withstand the separation. Some loves did better as banked embers, cherished memories to revisit rather than consuming infernos. While Natalia's brilliance inevitably rekindled in the form of her loving husband and children, Benji couldn't resist fanning those glowing embers with wistful reverence. In quiet solitary moments, he'd pull out the faded Polaroids and inhale the last smoky traces of their wildfire - a hazy reminder to appreciate the rare, beautiful times his soul found its searing other half. ..   template credit.

My owes:I owe:Alice-Reply-05/19/2024They owe me:Updated Date: 05/20/2024 

WARNING: This scene is a little different from all my other ones. Our characters willl be jumping into smut fairly fast. It's basically building their physical desire for each other whereas the emotional one needs to develop. This scene will have a lot of drama and side plots to build their relationship as wel as lots of smut. I also want to say this just in case someone confuses it. All these characters are over 18 despite the setting. And I DO NOT want any sort of non consensual or rape like elements to this scene. Yes, my characters are dominating but forced just does not appeal to me, so please do not try to sneak that in. I think this scene will be very fun, but if it does not appeal, feel free to check my other scenesThe two of them had known each other since they were kids since their families were close friends. They did everything together and used to always say they were going to marry each other once they were older, which everyone else thought was cute. Oh how wrong they were... They were each other's first kiss except it really didn't mean anything at that age because they hardly knew what they were doing. Things changed once they got older and fell into different crowds. He became friends with the wrong people who were not at all happy of how close he was with her. Maybe it was because they wanted a shot with her themselves. But he was still young and stupid and wanted to fit in, so he pushed her away. However, it did not stop there, and he went out of his way to prove that he was not associated with her whenever he could. Rumors surfaced again of how close they were in their past, and it upset him, so he took it out on her and made her life miserable. Jackson had truly lost himself from what he used to be. Their dynamic had turned into something else recently when his way or treating her poorly had turned into him using her as a way of showing who was the top dog. It was rather ironic to think that his way of conveying how little she meant to him was by f***ing her. Unlike words, when sex was as good as it was between them, it could not be faked. It was a form of passion that showed him when he was most vulnerable. The reason their bodies moved so perfectly together was because these motions literally let their feelings flow through them. Yet, this was still somehow him bullying her at least in his naive thoughts. But this also roused the question of why did she let him do this? Did she still see that boy she grew up with? Did she think she could help him? That there was good in him? Or did it just feel that good that she did not want to resist?It was just another day. She was at her locker, gathering her books to get ready for her next class. Jackson was walking down the hall with a few of his friends when he saw her, and he was not the only one. He could already hear the guys start to mumble and chuckle. It did not take a detective to figure out what those little whispers and remarks were about. No matter how much he proved himself, it never seemed to be enough. So why did it even matter to him? Why did he keep trying to prove himself? That was a difficult question to answer. The male rolled his eyes and pushed a few of his so called buds out his way before crossing the hall towards the woman who was always on the receiving end of this dynamic. It happened abruptly. Shutting her locker, he slammed the books out of her hand without a care in the world for her. Jackson pushed her back against the lockers and stepped in close. His large frame keeping her in place. "Did you miss me?" Such a simple question, but that husky voice combined with their current position could make a woman lose her train of thought.  His friends had already turned the corner after laughing, so why did he still continue this act? Why did he always do so?