Kyle Rayner:

Style Of Affection: Kyle is exuberant, Kyle lavishes affection. He's eager to press a kiss to the crown of your forehead, to the slope of your shoulder, to the crook of your arm. Whenever the two of you walk around in public, he wants to hold hands and shoots you a pout if you deny him for any practical reason ("Oh, so you hate me, then?"). In private, he always has a casual arm or leg draped over you. He wants to be touching you, he wants to be near you—he's like an excitable golden retriever who needs constant affirmation of love.

Dates: Everything is either meticulously planned once every 1.5 business years or spur-of-the-moment. The two of you can be found in a hole-in-the-wall pho place, eating street vendor burgers as the two of you go to the indie movie theater, painting each other in the comfort of your apartment while popcorn burns in the microwave—he's always down for an adventure, big or small. And you're happy to do it with him.

Gifts: Kyle gets you gifts that range all across the spectrum. It could be anything from that pair of shoes you were eyeing in the window, to a meticulously painted portrait of you that he's chipped away at over the course of months, to a nice rock he spotted on a faraway planet because he "thought you'd like it." And you always appreciate all of them.

Kissing? He's an exuberant kisser, to say the least. There's always energy and passion stored in every kiss, intention laced in the way that he presses his mouth against yours. There's always desperate longing written into the way that his lips find you, as though he'll never get another chance and he needs to savor this as much as he can.

What Kind of Lover Are They? He's so, so eager to please. You want him to go down on you for hours? Can do, baby. You want to try something slow and sensual? Say no more. You want to fuck? He's already stripping and ready to go. He wants to make sure that you're always satisfied.

Jealousy? Kyle gets jealous, but it shows very easily. He gravitates towards you if there's a hint of any competition, but he's quick to verbalize his feelings the second the two of you have a moment of privacy—though it almost always shows on his face the second it registers. You always reassure him, and he always bounces back quickly.

Do They Say I Love You? Often, constantly, frequently. Never wants the two of you to part ways without him making sure you've exchanged it. Says it before the two of you go to sleep, before you head out to work. Always always always.

Akihiro/Daken:

Style of Affection: He keeps you on a tight leash, so to speak—whenever the two of you are in a room together, he ensures that he keeps his hand hefted over your shoulder. If it embarrasses you, the way that his palm and wandering fingers loom over your chest, far too low down your back—even on the slope of your ass—any complain you make will fall on deaf ears. And if you complain too much—he'll just be able to use his powers to mollify any request for leniency on your part. You'll acquiesce eventually.

Dates: His favorite type of date is doing something indulgent, opulent, and in pursuit of his own self-gratification. Whether that's a pulsating, pounding club that he guides you into the center so that he can make sure that everyone knows who you belong to—or if it's the bathroom later so that the two of you can snort coke off the toilet seat—or if it's hopping in a sleek limo with less-than-savory characters to "have a few drinks—"—he's all or it. And you're tagging along for the adrenaline rush that he gets off of it.

Gifts: That's a nice thought. You already have the gift of him and any alcohol or drugs that he wants to ply you with—what more could you ask for?

Kissing? Whenever he kisses you, it's always so that you can get a taste of whatever was on his tongue last—blood, alcohol, pills, the taste of your orgasm—and he always makes it feel like it's your last.

What Kind of Lover Are They? He's a selfish lover—always demanding that you stay sucking his cock for hours, edging him so that he can come all over your face. Using you like the fuckdoll that he wants to treat you with—if you're uncomfortable with the position he wants, that's okay; he'll just use his phermone manipulation to make sure that you're fine with it. You always come around eventually—and come on his cock, to think of it.

Jealous? He's very easily made jealous, but he doesn't take care to mince words. He'll speak his mind and make sure that you take extra, extra time in the bedroom to make sure that you're very sorry for making him worry about the status of your relationship like that.

Do They Say I Love You? Nah.

Elektra Natchios:

Affection: Subtle but intentional. She wakes you up with a lingering kiss to your cheek, will press a kiss to the inside of your wrist on occasion in public, will drape a hand down your cheek. But never anything too ostentatious unless she has the privilege of your privacy—and everything is charged with a low, simmering energy.

Dates: Everything you go on is deliberately composed—to a penthouse sushi restaurant, to a stylish orchestral concert in Madison Square Garden, to a destination resort vacation. You are always informed of them ahead of time and with exacting expectation that you make time for them in your schedule, which you do.

Gifts: She's an excellent gift-giver, and she always gets you what you want. You don't even need to hint—anytime you even so much as set longing glance on something, it's yours. She always delivers it at perfect occasion—the trip you mentioned might be fun one day, the book you read the back of with vested interest in the bookstore. You don't want for anything with her.

Kissing? She always kisses you with slow-burning, simmering intensity—starting slow, gentle—before crescendoing in passion as her hands search you out, as her tongue licks up yours. Always, always leaving you breathless for more.

What Kind of Lover Are They? She's a giver, for certain, but she enjoys drawing it out of you. Always loves torturing you with intentionally deliberate pace—she relishes the act of making you so flustered and bereft of coherent thought until she can finally make you come. Then she'll do it all over again.

Jealous? She gets jealous in the sense that she expresses herself with jealous physicality. Her touch loiters on your body, her arms ruck around you, her words—though never directed at you—become clipped, direct, indicating the souring of mood. She's slow to have her jealousy soothed, but always comes out of it eventually.

Do They Say I Love You? Often. She makes sure to say it to you with every kiss, after you collapse next to her sweaty in bed, before she leaves for her work. Every time you never doubt if she means it.

Victor Stone:

Affection: Vic is an earnest man, and is intent to make sure that you're aware of his love for you. Holding hands, chaste, gentle kisses to your cheek in public, compliments he pays you about how good your hair looks or how cute your smile is or how good that outfit looks on you—sending you smiles and winks from across the room. Leaving you goofy yet sweet post-it notes on the kitchen counter or the bathroom window.

Dates: Vic always puts in the effort to make sure that you have a great time, wherever the two of you go; and he makes suer to put variety into the experience. If you're going to the movies, he's getting you both the nicest seats, the candy that you like, drizzling extra butter on the popcorn, and paying for it all. If the two of you are going out to a fancy dinner, then it's your favorite place or that one you've been drooling over whenever you see it on your FYP, and he's covering the bill. Everything is always layered with deliberate aim to make sure that you know he cares about making you happy.

Gifts: Vic always buys you things that are across the gamut of things that you like, all across the spectrum of extravagance—to a scarf that he thought brought out the color of your eyes. To the tickets to a concert to the band you've been playing in the car the most often. To a homemade birthday cake that he made just for you, right after the dinner with all your friends that he invited (and he didn't even have to ask for their phone numbers).

Kissing? He always errs on the side of caution just because of the cybernetic enhancements, so he's always a gentle kisser. You're the one that has to encourage him to crank up the heat a little bit, which he always acquiesces to—by degrees. It's just him playing overcautious, which is kind of endearing, but not always when you want to get in his pants.

What Kind of Lover Are They? He's super considerate to your needs and how you're feeling in bed—he just wants to commit the touch of you, the taste of you to what physical parts of his body remain as well as what the receptors of his cybernetic parts detect—both are pleasurable for him in different ways. Prefers lovemaking to fucking, especially considering the enhanced strength he has—but if you ask when the moment's right, you'll find your diligent efforts rewarded ;)

Jealous? Vic is fairly confident in the security of your relationship, so it takes a lot to rattle his faith in you. If there's ever a sliver of doubt, he goes about communicating with you pretty openly and honestly to make sure the two of you can get to an understanding resolution.

Do They Say I Love You? Vic was the first to say 'I love you,' and is always the first one to say it every single time afterwards. The squeeze of both of his hands—one mechanical, the other flesh and blood—feel warm against yours, paired with the love that speaks in his eyes as he says it, every single time.

Victor Von Doom:

Affection: Doom is possessive, Doom is controlling, Doom is dictatorial. Doom chose you because he wanted you and knew that it wasn't a matter of if he would have you, it was a matter of when he would have you. He wants to make sure that you are always in the room with him whenever he can afford it—and he always can. You are known to all his advisors, his counsel, his people—and so you must always be by his side. And he must, of course, always have a hand on you, for you are his.

Dates: It's not a matter of money, that's always no issue. It's a matter of what you want and how quickly it can be arranged for you, which is always in fashionable, timely manner. Do you want to be able to dine in the Alps with violin quartet? It's done. Do you want to enjoy banquet-style Chinese made tableside with entertainment? It shall be completed—whatever you want, it is given.

Gifts: Of course, nice, lavish, expensive things—but in the sense that while money talks, wealth whispers. Everything is of finest quality—the clothing that he buys crafted from your exact measurements, the jewelry that he requires you wear, the weapons that he ensures you have finest tutelage to train with. They are deliberately made with you in mind.

Kissing? You have never kissed Doom—at least, not without the ability to see him. Every time, due to that issue of vanity—you are required to be blindfolded, as a pair of warm hands find the edge of your jaw and a mouth marred with injury presses against yours. If this is how you receive it—then you are pleased to do so.

What Kind of Lover Are They? Again, vanity limits what you can see, but you feel everything—though Doom exacts his control here. You are always blindfolded and bound in some way—by wrists, on your knees, face-down—but he's well-versed and generous. You never lack for orgasm whenever the two of you share a bed.

Jealousy? Doom always seethes with jealousy the second that any other competitor rises to the occasion—though it is subtle and understated. A keen eye would have to know. One such example was when the Fantastic Four arrived and Johnny Storm requested a dance from you—social niceties requested that you dance with him, under the imperious glare of Doom. You were required to soothe his jealousy in bed for several nights after that.

Do They Say I Love You? Never when you can hear—but you're made aware. From the way that when you drift to sleep after sex, the blindfold still affixed to your head, you can feel the drape of implacable fingers soothe into your shoulder. From the way that his hand rests on the small of your back when you both stand at a palatial balcony that overlooks the sea. He need not say it when everything he does expresses it to you in form of action.

Eobard Thawne:

Affection: Always does little things to stake his claim on you, and they're always laden with a subtle kind of aggression that lingers beneath the surface. Presses a kiss to the column of your neck while nipping his teeth at your pulse. Holds a hand over the slope of your waist but makes sure to clench his fingers when he does it. Kisses you but treats it like a battle to be won, and you never win. Wants you, but wants to dominate you at the same time.

Dates: You don't really get a choice in what dates the two of you go on—wherever you go is somewhere expensive, some place where he can lavish money. But it's not really for the purpose of spoiling you; more for the purpose of showing to you and everyone else how you're provided for. How he provides for you.

Gifts: He's vain—things are always connected to him, in a way. He buys you clothes that are revealing for the purpose of him being able to walk around with you as his trophy, sex toys that he can watch you use on yourself—or he just straight up promises the virility of his body as a gift for you.

Kissing? As mentioned before, he's a cruel kisser. Always wanting to have the upper hand, always wanting to bite your bottom lip between his teeth, always squeezing you to throw you off-balance and ensure he can force his tongue into your mouth.

What Kind of Lover Are They? Every time the two of you fuck, you always get fucked into next week at the cost of being able to walk for the next two. He's always brutal, wringing orgasm after orgasm out of you, even when you're on the verge of passing out. Always has to have you under him or with your ass in the air—he treats sex as an act of conquest, and he'll be the one exploring this new territory.

Jealousy? Constantly, constantly jealous, especially when there's no reason to be. Has been openly confrontational to whoever he perceives as his opposition to the point where you've had to quickly, frantically reassure him in the moment. But this was also part of the plan you see—as he demonstrates over your shoulder with a cruel smirk to whoever was stepping in on his territory.

Do They Say I Love You? Not at all. But you're certain that he either does—or this is a most visceral obsession indeed. After all—why would he treat you like this?

Marc Spector/Steven Grant/Jake Lockley (Moon Knight):

Affection: Marc is wont to hold your hand, to compliment you on your clothes, your smile today—Steven has to shore up a little more confidence to kiss you on the cheek in front of others. Lockley enjoys pushing you into more secluded spots in public so that he can have his way with you. Marc will praise you for your qualities, Steven will share sweet smiles with you across the room—Lockley will whisper phrases in Spanish in your ear that will have you frantically scanning the room and hoping no one is bilingual.

Dates: It always depends on who's in the driver seat—you can count on Marc taking you to nice, casual affairs; a night to the movies or a bar. Steven is reliable to take you somewhere quietly sensible and romantic—a jazz performance at a local venue, an after-hours museum tour, a gallery exhibition. You and Lockley never get further than the backseat of your darkened car, with him fucking you into next week.

Gifts: All three have a fairly good idea of what to get you; a bottle of your favorite wine, a day at the spa, jewelry commemorated with Egyptian iconography—what differs is how they expect to be thanked. Marc is fine with a kiss and a thank you, Steven is satisfied with a smile and verbal confirmation—Lockley needs something a little more physical.

Kissing? Marc enjoys taking things slow and exploring the nuances of your tongue, your mouth, your body as he feels you up—Steven needs a little more coaxing from you to warm him up to the heat you want from him. It's Lockley that views it as a battle that isn't won unless he has you heaving for breath in state of disarray in the cage of his arms.

What Kind of Lover Are They? Steven's the one who ranges on the more mild end, preferring lovemaking and making sure that your needs are attended to; Marc doesn't mind switching up a few positions every now and then while making sure that the two of you get mutual satisfaction from it all—Lockley's the one who has you breathless and fucked into the mattress with nothing but pleas for him to Please, fuck—don't stop—

Jealousy? All of them demonstrate jealousy in different flavors, but Steven keeps it to himself—Marc makes sure to clear the air and the board with you—and Lockley goes directly to threatening the perpetrator themselves. You have different ways of salvaging all of the situations—but exactly how clothed you'll be depends on which of the three you're dealing with.

Do They Say I Love You? They all say I love you in different ways; Steven is the most free with it while Marc makes sure to reiterate it often enough that you're aware of his intention. Lockley takes care to establish it with the sinew of his body and the protective action that he'll assert for you in the face of any trouble. Regardless—you appreciate all of them.

dividers and banners made by me :)

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𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜/𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜:

Alright, as we all know, he doesn’t really speak. Not even a peep of pain leaving him as he gets wounded from minor or severe injuries. He is like a brick wall, and it’s almost like talking to one too, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening in on you. You are at least humane enough that you just… ramble to him at points whenever he is around, and it rather makes him feel more… included in life than he was.

He was unsure of you at first, like any other soldier or person that has found another survivor of an apocalypse, but he eventually gets used to your presence. Sometimes he even turns a bit, expecting you to be next to him when he was out slashing demons. He gets a bit… saddened each time when he sees you are not there. Though, I believe he would have some voice recording of you in his helmet to put him at ease.

Eventually, he likes to be around you more and more. Always finding himself coming to your house/base and watching you doing something mundane. Something this is something else rather than killing and hacking demons. He… he enjoys the simplicity of life. It’s very much different from his usual order: slash, kill demons, rip and tear until nothing is left, repeat. He likes watching you, and in return? You watch him as well.

Either he follows you around like a big protective puppy or you follow him around like a mewling kitten. This is no in-between. You going out to rob some abandoned joint? He’s coming with you if he is there with you, no matter the time, dusk to dawn. You following him? He grows to enjoy it, but just because he lets you follow him when he’s out slaying doesn’t mean he’ll let you every single time. It’s very possible he will stick you somewhere if you’re adamant enough to follow him. He’ll come back for you, don’t worry.

Big ol protector, is one of the things he’s being great at in a gore-like way. Don’t expect him to be all pristine after tearing all those demons apart either. That is his job, don’t disintegrate it for he is really good at it, and well… I don’t think he would appreciate you bad mouthing him. Despite that, he would protect you to the fullest. Being your leader once he learns of your pathing between abandoned cities and factories, and demons know full well to not get in the way. At least, not without a powerful hoard. (That will still fail, but there are possibilities…)

Speaking of the possibilities, he is brutal when something happens to you. The slayer has lost so much already, he is not going to be kind on whatever hurt you or is perceived a threat by you. It’s x10 worse when he finds you gone and he finds out about it himself. His livid, but again, silently. That is until he gets his hands on the demons or even humans that have captured you or perhaps even killed you. If they have put you 6 feet under, expect the aura of this silent behemoth to go up.

Honestly doesn't like seeing you gone from his sights for too long. It gives him a weird feeling of dread after a while. Sure, he’s focused on his task, but who’s to say that a brain doesn’t multitask? This slayer can think of you all day long, and many days he has. I mean, what if there is a demon hoard around your base/home? Getting through you to get to him? He wouldn’t put it below a demon to do so…

Likes helping you out quite a bit with most of the mundane chores of the world. You going to wash the dishes, including his plate? No, let him do it. You made the food, it’s only right for him to help you clean up. You need to travel to get more supplies? Expect a hefty amount in your pantry/storage the next day, maybe a few hours. He just likes providing like he human again.

He definitely likes to jam out with you. Sharing each others music tastes. He even listening to your music while he fights off demons. Mercilessly tearing down his enemies as a rather cute song plays. The blood of the his opposers staining his armor while he just continues on his way. Somehow even sending you recommendations when he out slaying. You encourage him to focus on his set task and he just sends you another song in response, despite your worry.

Encourages you to defeat your enemies when you to battle together. He helps you to know your weapons, slowly teaching you how to weld what you hold. Doing some combos and tactics: thrust, dodge, slash, thrust. A simple combo, but it sure is amusing to see you trying to use what he’s teaching you of. It never fails to have you a bit… dazed in your training, and perhaps… underneath him.

𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥/𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭:

For those who veiw the Doomslayer in a religious light. I would say he would like wait until you are both married to have sexual intercourse, and at that certain point I believe he would take it slow at first. You are both testing your boundaries. It’s usually not good to rush unless experienced with your partners body. Also, he’s definitely huge and would not like to ruin you the first time. No matter if he had tempting thoughts of you.

Worship can both ways in this one. With him? He likes to caress and massage you. His tongue and teeth gently giving kitten licks and nips to test your skin and nerves before starting the main course. Do it on him? Best believe he would be a bottom for a bit. His hands squeezing your thighs gently while you focus your attention on doing your treatment on his own battle hardened skin. You can hear him sigh out a couple of times to your affections.

In my opinion, I think he would like biting more than praise. He’s more hands on than all talkative, but he won’t object your praise to him if that is your subconscious duty. He will grow to love it. Though, back to biting. He loves to mark his partner. Sinking his teeth into their skin just hard enough to leave a mark, and he absolutely doesn’t mind if you do the same. It will surprise him at first, but he’s not against it with how his member twitches.

Definite size kink. That man is what? 7ft? Almost? Ones has to have a size kink of being such a powerful size. So, with a smaller partner he would absolutely thrive on how tight you feel around him. Your body unable to take any more that what you have already inside of you. Bigger partner? He loves just how much you can take him. To see his cock disappear within you as you take him greedily.

Belly budge kink, if he liked watching himself going inside of you, he’s going to like watching that bit of skin the creates a budge inside of you. Telling him of how much you are taking him, and it’s impressive. His hands usually wandering over that bit of skin and gently thumbing it. Watching you closely as you wither and whine at the sudden touch.

I see him having a lingerie kink. So, it would become a great surprise to him if he sees you in nothing but lingerie. He wouldn’t expect that of you, but he certainly isn’t declining your clear invitation of your body sitting so pretty upon the bed with sighs of his name falling from your lips while you pleasure yourself with your fingers. He is quick to not leave you unsatisfied.

Ough, chastity. This one can last a while as he would not have a high limbo. This can be torture for you and more like a walk in the park for him. So, I would advise you to plan this one carefully. Perhaps even challenge him (and well yourself) that you two can’t fuck each other, but you two can tease one another. It’s mostly you teasing, but once he does it? It’s hard to keep your hands to yourself because he knows you like it when he gets back to you and takes his armor off to show the hidden muscle underneath. Bastard.

You could ask him to be bottom for a night, but he would be a power bottom. His hands grasping at your thighs and thrusting up into you with impeccable timing. Your mind going a bit frazzled at his actions as you thought you were going to have him withering but it seems he keeps you in your place in either position. He also likes it when you look exhausted above him. Your hands splayed out on his chest with your heated breathes coating his skin.

There are times where this man gets needy after having you has a partner. The chastity maybe a hard one to get him on, but it honestly takes a lot of time for him to become needy. He is more of a war machine than a sexual one, so it makes sense he isn’t, but when he is? Expect him to be curled around you with his cock deep inside of you. His own, hot breaths breathing into your ear as he stuffs you slowly with him. Taking you deep and slow, savoring you.

No, you were a humble lab tech, firmly beneath his and Olivia Pierce’s notice. You had been fresh meat to throw at old problems, things veteran staff were too smart and far too scared to do themselves. Things like fiddling with artifacts from literal Hell.

At first you had been thrilled to get a pay and prestige bump from the invite to shadow a Lazarus Lab researcher, one of the more personable senior staff even. Now you were fairly certain that if you ever saw your lovely boss again you would wring his neck and dance on his freshly-dug grave. Whatever demonic rock he’d had you blast with concentrated argent energy had caused a blinding flash of light that left you in the yawning void, but fate could never be content to leave your unlucky self so unbothered as that. The abyss had spat you through what felt like an inter-dimensional roller-coaster, gravity stretched and warped what felt like your very atoms, lights flashed and blurred past you at speeds you couldn’t possibly catch. Hellish red, sickly green, icy blue, they burned even through your eyelids as you clenched them and tumbled to god knew where. When you were thrown from a portal, it was into solid stone. Into what you’d learned was called Argent D’Nur, a planet populated by an ancient warrior race embroiled in a battle against Hell that had raged for centuries.

The Sentinels, as you'd learn they were called, pointed spears of pure energy at you and shouted in a language you didn’t understand. You had gracefully and promptly vomited your meager lunch onto the floor and fell unconscious. You awoke hours later in what seemed to be a medical facility of some kind, bound to a bed but unharmed even as they started to interrogate you. To say you were shocked they spoke English would have been the understatement of the century but you were informed that your unceremonious entrance had not been a first impression, it had been the second. You weren’t the only unlucky human hurled through time and space to Argent D’Nur. Once the Argenta had firmly determined you were no threat to them, they had been kind enough to inform you that another human had suffered the same fate as you many years ago. One they had simply deemed the Doom Slayer as he’d never given them a name to call him by. He didn’t sound human from what they told you, but the little flicker of hope in your chest just couldn’t let the idea go. Maybe you weren’t so alone after all. Maybe you could figure out a way to get home with him. Or at the very least have a companion to suffer with.

That former had not happened. The latter, on the other hand, took on an entirely different meaning.

It was rather slow-going learning the Argenta language but you’d become reasonably fluent, sharing knowledge of your home and history that the Slayer had not. Several of the Sentinels found it, and you, fascinating. Fascinating enough to tell their otherworldly patrons, the Maykrs, about the curious new visitor to their world.

Once again you felt as if you’d been suckered, but King Novik and commander Thira had been nothing but sincere to you, they couldn’t have known what they were walking you into. If they’d known what awaited you. If they’d known what awaited their former comrade, they’d have turned their guns on the Maykrs then and there. Of that you were certain. The Night Sentinels were honorable, proud, people, above something so duplicitous and cruel as lying to you for so long. Perhaps that was woefully naive to think but... They wouldn't. They wouldn't have walked you into this if they knew? Right?

Right?

The Kreed Maykr’s ship was perpetually cold, built with only the armored forms of his kind in mind and not your damnably fragile human flesh. At the very least he had deigned to allow you to keep the clothes Thira had gifted you, which luckily included a heavy, fur-lined cloak. Now your only barrier against the frigid cell you’d been thrown in. There was a palpable disgust that the Maykrs held for you, almost none of them would even look at you let alone speak with you. The only reason they kept you around was that you had once again been unlucky enough to be deemed useful.

For all they cared you were nothing more than a sobbing, screaming, bargaining chip fit only to keep their newest and most unruly beast firmly on his leash. You would never forget the first time you saw him, the Slayer. A towering behemoth of green armor and an untamable killing instinct that almost suffocated the air around him. He hadn’t been there when the Kreed Maykr took you, but he had returned just in time to see the aftermath.

There was precious little you knew about him, and less that you understood, but even still it didn’t take a genius to figure out exactly the kind of rage seeing you in the Maykr’s clutches had kindled in him. They kept him in his own cell, a barren circle with layer upon layer of fail-safes and kill switches, not even the freedom to pace like the animal they treated him as. But the second he’d heard you, you had heard a terminal somewhere in the room start to scream.

It had meant nothing to you at the time, a background hum as your ears rang. These… things were not benevolent patrons, their very presence reeked of ill-intent and malice, but you didn’t have your Argenta allies anymore. They had been ordered away, and while Thira had done so reluctantly, she had clearly wanted to. So there you stood, alone, terror rising in your throat like bile.

The air was still and tense, drones milling about unaware or uncaring for the steadily boiling panic in you. You clenched and unclenched your hands, fingernails digging aching crescents into your palms before you spoke, “I don’t know what-“

The Kreed Maykr’s many eyes snapped to you, “I do not remember having bade you speak, human.” He said it like it was some kind of a filthy word, something he could barely stomach even leaving his lips. Immediately your shoulders flinched upward, voice quavering into silence. “You will not speak unless spoken to, you will do as instructed,” he loomed over you as he continued, “or you will learn quickly what disobedience earns you if you do not.”

A shaky nod was your response and the Kreed Maykr drifted away, absentmindedly waving a hand. “Have her brought to the other containment cell, we shall see if the Khan Maykr’s hypothesis rings true.”

Instantly you were seized by the arms, two drones flanking you and wrapping their odd, tentacle-like, arms around yours and pulling you backward. It was instinct alone that made you dig your heels in, fear that chased a watery cry from your lips. You had no possible idea of what they wanted from you, there was no way they didn’t know you were just a normal human. Unremarkable in every way except blindingly bad luck. The limbs twining around your own coiled tighter as you struggled, every animal part of you screaming that wherever it was they were taking you would be the last place you ever saw. You wanted off this ship, you wanted Novik and Thira to come back for you no matter how unlikely that was, you wanted your life back. “I just want to go home!” Your shriek was answered only by the drones twisting your arms behind you, the pain of bone and muscle being torqued and ground pulling a sob from you that finally broke the dam and sent tears down your face.

SLAYER MOVEMENT DETECTED

Finally your eyes snapped to something that wasn’t the Maykrs. That floating cage came alive, more screens and alarms blaring as the Slayer dragged one foot forward. His single step echoed like a canon shot and sent all the drones into a flurry of motion, even the Kreed Maykr flinched and shuddered. Massive turrets unfolded from the walls, whirring to life as each barrel primed and prepared to fire on the Slayer.

You couldn’t even blink staring at him. Your heart seized and he wasn’t even looking at you. No his eyes were on Bishop Kreed, still suffused with that unnatural golden glow, but locked on like a predator about to leap. One of the drones poured more power into the gravity cage, slamming the Slayer to one knee but failing to pin him completely. Electricity and argent energy arced from the core on the ceiling down to his armor halting his stubborn attempts to stand again. He was going to kill himself at this rate. Your lips parted to speak but nothing escaped, just a panicked, stuttering, breath as a cold barrel pressed to your forehead.

The Kreed Maykr spoke and time slowed to a crawl, “think very carefully about what you do next, Slayer.”

Beads of cold sweat joined the tears dripping down your face, you dared not even move, eyes still locked on the Slayer. He turned to you and still you couldn’t parse anything but the haunting glow in his eyes, but after a few long, agonizing seconds, his body relented. The gun retreated from your head and you sucked in a breath, heart pounding in your ears. Watching the tether reassert control over the Slayer was horrifying, like somebody pulling puppet strings on a human body. His movement was too smooth, almost mechanical, muscles relaxed and placid where seconds ago they’d been straining to what looked like the point of pain.

The drones promptly dragged you away but you’d caught the very last thing Bishop Kreed said.

“My how promising indeed.”

You were, as it turns out, a very effective insurance policy. Bishop Kreed’s… assistant? Minion? Advisor perhaps. Whatever he was to the Bishop, he had told you in the few meager conversations you’d had that your purpose here was to keep the Slayer under control. Or at least be used to do so. And such use typically involved no small amount of pain on your end.

It wasn’t necessarily a frequent occurrence, but it didn’t matter how rare it was. It was excruciating. There was a balancing act the Maykrs struck between near-irreparably harming you and keeping you just alive enough that the Slayer had no choice but to keep playing along. It was humiliating. There was a nonstop video feed of your cell projected on the screen in his. If he so much as breathed in a way they didn’t like, they would do something to you. Be it physical or mental harm, depriving you of food, rest, or warmth, they would do it. And without fail it would snap the Slayer back into their perfect little soldier.

You couldn’t possibly know how long you’d even been locked away. Days? Weeks? Time ceased to mean anything, the lights were always the same, the temperature was always the same, it felt like they gave you food at completely random intervals. Sometimes you swore they forgot you were even there. You’d lie on the floor for god knows how long after the latest session of torment, unthinking, body teetering between the waking and unconscious worlds. It ached, everything ached. Even the frigid metal of the cell’s floor couldn’t ease it anymore, couldn’t reach the agony that had burrowed into the very marrow of your bones.

Part of you wished one day soon they’d finally go too far and outright kill you. There would be no saving them then. The Slayer would rip the ship to pieces with his bare hands and grind the ash under his boots. But there was still a stupid, stubborn, part of you that hoped against all hope it would end some other way. Maybe Thira would come back for you. Maybe something would go wrong and you could escape. Maybe. Possibly.

“Like all of your pathetic species, your purpose is to die for your betters”

You just laid there. Unmoving. Barely breathing. Why even try? Your eyes burned, but no tears escaped, your body stubbornly clung to what little water you had. They were hollowing you out. Day by day. piece by piece. To everyone who had ever known you, you were dead, obliterated in an unfortunate but necessary lab accident. A briefly grieved stepping stone in humanity’s march toward infinite energy. Part of you wanted to laugh at it now that you knew what argent energy was, at the absolute destruction Hayden was courting. If he knew, he was a moron, if not, simply a fool.

A fool and a genius who couldn't see past his own ego long enough to realize that what he had was a monkey's paw and not a golden goose. Each finger curling as your species asked for more and more not knowing the costs that would inevitably come calling.

You had to stop that train of thought, it never led anywhere good. Flashes of the terrible monsters that lived just beyond the gossamer veil of reality. The demons that the UAC was knocking on the door of. Right on Mars. Right next to Earth. If they-

You slammed your own forehead against the ground hard enough to make your ears ring. None of that. Think of something else, anything else, anything besides how doomed you and your people were. You closed your eyes. The golden light still pried at your eyelids, unchanging as ever. Groaning, straining against myriad healing and new injuries, you turned yourself into your back and threw an arm over your eyes. At least a facsimile of darkness. A place where you might pretend.

Retreat inside your own body, your own mind, go somewhere they can’t follow you yet. Was it pathetic to pretend you were just sleeping under your desk back home? Maybe, but you didn’t care. For just a moment your wheezing breath seemed to ease, body going even a little slack as you let your mind wander. A phantom of a memory snagged you, your little wireless speaker. A much cherished part of your workspace, a tiny island just for you amidst the hustle and bustle of the labs. Music. God you missed it.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think better of it, your lips were moving. It was quiet, off-key, and cracked under the weight of agony, but your voice stumbled along the beginnings of a song. Whatever you could think of, you barely even registered it, but something in you felt lighter. Maykrs didn’t seem to have music, this ship and its crew seemed so sterile, above useless things like amusement and art, it seemed. So this was something all your own, something they couldn’t take from you even if they ripped your larynx from your body. You would have memories. Your home lived in you. Even when it hurt.

As your voice petered off, you felt the needle on the record in your mind skip and skip and skip. Why? Your throat protested the shuddering, panicked breath you sucked in, cold air rasping all the way down like broken glass. Why? Again, the burn in your eyes reminded you there was nothing left in you that your body was willing to cry out. A sob wracked you anyway. Your voice sounded tiny even to you as you whimpered, “Why can’t I remember the rest?”

SLAYER MOVEMENT DETECTED

Your eyes snapped open, arm flying away from them and pushing you up to stare unblinkingly in the direction you guessed he was in. The alarm set your heart racing, like it was clawing at your ribs.

RETURN TO COMPLIANCE OR BE TERMINATED

He was fighting them again, and your mind tore in two directions. If he could get out, he could save you, even if he couldn’t do that he could save himself. At least one of you could be free. He could deny the Maykrs so much. A vengeful and bitter flame in you sang at the idea. The idea of a victory, even a Pyrrhic one, nearly brought a mad giggle out of you. But the other side wailed and cowered at the idea of being alone, of being hurt, punished on his behalf as a last wound to a man they seemed to know they could never fully control.

The Slayer didn’t know you. He seemed to care in an abstract sense about you, didn’t want to see you hurt because of him. But there was no way he’d keep weighing that against his freedom and keep choosing you. He had no reason to. He deserved to escape, people needed him, he was someone who could help in ways you never could. The Slayer had suffered like this for who knows how long. He needed to take his shot while he could.

RETURN TO COMPLIANCE

“Get out of here,” you spoke it into the air like a prayer.

CHARGING PLASMA CANONS

Another sob tore through you. “Don’t you dare look back either.”

PLASMA CANONS PRIMED. THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING

You felt something rattle the very ship and a manic smile pulled at your lips. “Rip this place apart, tear it out of the sky!” It hurt to yell but it felt so good.

The ship-wide comm crackled to life as the Kreed Maykr screamed, “Somebody shut her up!”

That finally ripped a full laugh out of you. It tore its way up from your stomach and out. The walls shook again. You howled like a maniac, falling back to the floor, fingers digging into your hair and covering your eyes to hide what you were, against all logic, sure were stubbornly welling tears. Seems there was something left in you after all. “I hope he gets you first, Bishop Kreed” you hissed his name with force that shocked even you. “I hope you beg like I did!”

The door to your cell flies open but you couldn’t stop even if you’d wanted to, “I hope he doesn't listen, just like you did.”

You were dragged up by your collar and something struck you on the head. The darkness was almost instant but you remember grinning like a lunatic nonetheless.

When you awoke you were somewhere else, a different room, darker and smaller. Taking stock of yourself you tried to push yourself up only to realize you were strapped down to a table. Panic doused every nerve in your body and you jostled against the restraints only to freeze as cold air slithered down your back. Your bare back. Like a trapped animal, your head whipped every way it could looking for some way to escape, somewhere to even hide.

“Finally decided to wake up, have you?” The Bishop’s voice only chilled your blood further. “I should have you peeled apart, piece by screaming piece.” He finally floated into view, looking more haggard than you’d ever seen. A little satisfaction was a small balm on your frazzled mental state, the Slayer must’ve escaped, that would explain this level of exhausted anger. “I should kill you, but I won’t. I have something far more… instructive in mind.”

Without explaining further, a sardonic smile flitted across his face and he exited only to be replaced by drones you’d never seen before. As they approached, terminals and platforms emerged from the floors and walls, a large light flicking on overhead that would’ve been blinding had you not been face down. “What are you doing?” The drones didn’t answer your hesitant question, simply continuing to silently float around preparing things.

The door slid open again, revealing that Maykr with a broken halo. He floated toward you, eerie and silent as the rest of them. “You really should have known better at this point,” his head tilted down at you. Inspecting, appraising. “You both should, but it seems you humans are a uniquely willful and self-destructive species.” The bastard had the gall to tut at you as if you were some misbehaving child. As if you weren’t crisscrossed with bruises, as if your ribs weren’t cracked and your blood hadn’t stained the floor of this ship more times than you could count.

He made some unknown command and the drones set to work again. Hands touched you, pushed and prodded even as you jerked and tried to throw yourself from the table. “You should feel lucky I argued him down to at least giving you local anesthetic.” That single sentence froze you solid, barely registering the stab of a few needles, right between your shoulder blades. “From what I understand of normal humans, enough acute pain can induce cardiac arrest.” You stared at him. Unblinking as you felt the liquid numbness seep under your skin.

With lips that could barely form the words you asked, “What are you doing to me?”

If you were in any fit state, you might’ve noticed the minute hesitation in him. It would have scared you more. “There can be no more mishaps.”

Ice. Flame. Detached but not. Yet more restraints slammed you further into the table. The kiss of a scalpel was an unmistakable thing, slow and precise. Slipping through flesh almost without resistance. The drones were unmoved by your shrieking, cold and silent even as you screamed your own throat raw. They peeled you open. You felt blood run down your back, hot and thick, a mocking warmth in the frigidity of the sterile room.

Skin to fat to muscle to bone. Even with the blessing of some numbness it was like acid on a raw nerve. Parts of you never meant to meet air were subject to cruel, robotic, hands. Worse was the fact you could feel them adding things. Slipping filaments in between neurons and meat, slithering their control into your very body. They flayed you open, slow and deliberate, before whatever it was they put in you was activated and started moving of its own accord.

The Bishop’s right hand spoke one final time, “Perhaps now you both will learn how futile this was.”

Something beyond even what that damnable machine was touching cracked. He hadn’t escaped. The thought swirled around in your head like a hurricane. He didn’t escape. Some noise left you, a choke, a sob, you wanted to vomit but had nothing in your stomach to retch up. Not even after you’d begged him.

You really were never getting out of here.

Then… then the real pain started. Pain that rendered you mute. Agony beyond what a word could ever quantify. All that left you was jagged, gargling, sounds. Struck dumb, struck dead but not dying. It curled. It clawed into you. You weren’t even writhing anymore, you could feel your heart pounding behind your eyes, in your ears, down to every capillary in the farthest reaches of you. Filaments turned to fingers turned to needles. A monster, a demon of metal they put on your gaping, bloody, wound. It dug past muscle straight to nerve, right to your spine and everything splintered. Thought ceased to mean anything, time died. All there was, all you had, was hell beneath your very skin.

The Slayer didn’t even need the video feed to hear you screaming through the walls. But the auric glow in his eyes didn’t falter this time. His soul shook but his body wouldn’t answer. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. A prisoner. A pawn. A thing. Idiot. Failure. Failure. Should’ve killed them. They’d have killed her first. Maybe not. Maybe he could’ve been faster. Maybe maybe maybe. Probably not. But what if he had?

His muscles twitched and the control tether was ramped even higher, stilling him once more as your screams finally petered off into silence. Time hadn’t held any meaning to him for years, but still the small part of him that could think beyond rage counted the seconds. The Maykr’s control wasn’t perfect, it dulled everything about him down to slaughter and obedience, but there were small pockets of his mind that he could call his own even now. And all of them held their breath. You’d been quiet for too long. Quiet wasn’t good.

He couldn’t see you back in your cell. At least if you were screaming it meant you were still alive. It meant he might hear you try and speak to him again. Or sing. Hell he would even take hearing you cry over the all-consuming silence of this ship again. Your pained sobs were not a sound he liked, not in the slightest, but they told him you were at least okay enough to feel. That you hadn’t fully broken yet. That he could still save you. That he could deny your captors another soul.

The door to your cell opened and he saw you unceremoniously tossed in, body limp and lifeless. Your shirt was gone, your back a mess of carnage he couldn’t discern the details of. It boiled his blood but the tether held firm. His eyes flicked to the side of the screen as something new flickered into existence. A vital tracker. Why? It couldn’t be his, so it had to be… But why would they need to keep tabs on your vital signs?

A quiet groan broke him from his frantic thoughts and his eyes snapped to you again. You were moving! Alive! Alive! Still alive! He hadn’t failed you yet! He could still fix this. Just had to figure out how.

The bishop’s assistant threw something on you and you flinched, expecting more pain, more violation. But mercifully it was just your borrowed cloak. Or what used to be borrowed, you didn’t think Thira would want it back now, ragged and blood-spattered as it was. You barely registered moving a trembling arm to grab it, could barely feel it between your fingers as they shook. Numb. Exhausted. A cloak clutched to your bare chest was the only vague protection and comfort you could muster. Just when you thought they couldn’t rip any more dignity away from you, they throw you back into a 24/7 livestream topless and covered in blood, the bastards.

It might’ve felt at least mildly amusing to be upset about the Slayer and whoever else was monitoring the feed seeing your bare breasts if you didn’t feel like you’d been hollowed out with a dull blade. Somehow you couldn’t really feel your back, you felt the cold of the machine, the warmth of blood flow that had slowed to a tepid ooze rather than the hot flood it had been. Small mercies. You were probably in shock, you felt your heart racing, felt your chest expanding with rapid, shallow breaths, but it felt like your thoughts existed behind a pane of glass. Separate from your body.

Maybe that was a good thing, maybe the thick fog over your mind was what was keeping you from feeling everything far more acutely. It was certainly preferable to the operating table. You felt your stomach lurch just at the thought and it brought a little lucidity back to you. Just enough to hear somebody talking. It didn’t seem like they were talking to you so you paid it no mind, content to curl harder into your cloak to try and regain some warmth.

SLAYER MOVE-

Your body was alight again, every nerve ablaze from your spine outward and you convulsed. You didn’t even register screaming again until the pain stopped and you were hacking up bile onto the floor. This time your ears decided to actually comprehend what was being said.

“This will be the fruit of further rebellion, Slayer. Remember this lesson well.” It was the Bishop again, sounding so very pleased with himself. Hate. You hated him like you’d never thought you could for another living being. In the burning aftershocks of that monstrous device’s assault on your nervous system your fractured thoughts started to fade. Oblivion, unconsciousness, was so much sweeter. Forgetting for a few hours was a joyous thing if they let you sleep that long. You hoped they’d leave you alone for a while after this.

The Slayer watched you eventually go limp, vitals still active but shaky, asleep. He was fighting everything in himself to not move, not even blink too aggressively. Rage was too paltry a word for what he felt in that moment, when his hand clenched and you’d shrieked like you were dying. They had sewed your suffering together, shackled your very survival to his obedience and bet that he’d weigh one life against freedom. They’d bet on the bleeding heart they tried so vehemently to silence.

And they’d bet right. The Bishop had sneered with smug satisfaction when he had frozen, when your agony had literally stayed his hand. The perfect trap. Not his tether, not his rage, a noose to hang himself with because he couldn’t bear to see more of his people suffer, especially not at his own hand. An innocent torn from your shared home and brought into this mess because of him, the Maykr’s fear of him. They went further because he kept pushing and now look where that had landed you both.

His eyes fell toward you again, the uneven line of your heart monitor, the blood drying and flaking from your skin. He was almost happy you’d buried your face in that cloak, the undoubtedly deep shadow on your eyes and crust of tears on your face were not things his shame could take seeing at that moment. It burned. Roiled in him like snakes rearing up with fangs desperate to lash out, but he couldn’t move. Not without hurting you.

The Slayer focused his eyes on your breathing, shallow as it was, your ribs rising and falling, rising and falling. He burned the image into his mind, every inch of your agony-stricken form, every drop of blood and angry wound.

The Maykrs would pay for a great many things, sufferings untold, but your price upon them would be different. The Bishop had exacted a personal and intimate violation on you, forced him to be a part of your torment, and worst of all that monster took pleasure in it. That kind of cruelty deserved payment in kind. The Slayer felt himself start to move, to clench a hand and aim to rip through everything between him and the target of his hatred, but he saw your heart jump. The slightest hiss of pain even in your sleep stilled him again.

He would figure a way out of this, he would save you, avenge you, make the Kreed Maykr pay. Make him pay. Make him pay. Make him pay.