#{-Only Scars Remain Of Who I Was | Infinite-}

[cryptidclownz]

updated ref of my oc naryn!

no bg + scarred alternate

i tried my hand at writing a little scene of the whole naryn/lamb backstory!! im not super proud of it but i dont usually share my writing so i figured i might as well!

—

Another crusade through Darkwood gave the lamb time to think. To unwind. Slaughtering beasts and heretics was a favorite pastime of theirs, but their followers grew ever needy. Demanding. They dreaded a request for materials that would be better spent on medicine and worship, but the scolding their god would give them if they refused was just as infuriating. A leader must provide, he would tell them. Your followers will dissent without proper care. Coddling, more like. Lambert was not a gentle leader, and they had no intention to be one. As much as they wished they could toss their flock to the wolves and go on about their life, The Lamb knew Narinder was right. Their flock would be rewarded for hard work and good behavior, any recruits would find their new life comfortable as long as they behaved. If they didn’t, The One Who Waits had no issue if a follower appeared in his realm in the middle of the night now and then.

Although they were out to gather camellias for a follower desperate to win one of their disciple’s affection, Lambert felt right at home in the dungeons. They handled heretics and monsters with relative ease, well acquainted with the tricks enemy cultists thought would fool them.

The Lamb walked, bored, through another few clearings, only sometimes remembering their original task and picking a few flowers to toss into the crown’s infinite storage. A soft rustling in the trees, the telling shuffling of feet on the ground. The Lamb’s sword was drawn before the ambush had even landed around them.

Boring. Predictable.

They went after the boldest attacker first; a smaller hooded figure than the others who carried an unproportionately large axe. It swung at them, but the weight of the axe slowed it down. The blade of The Lamb’s sword hit the axe’s hilt, slamming it down just inches away from their hooves with unexpected power. The heretic wasn’t given the time to pry its weapon out of the dirt before the Lamb swung at its neck, slicing past muscle and bone with a sickening slap.

The Lamb didn’t behead it, leaving the near-dead heretic to scream in agony for a few moments before it finally died. They were unphased by the rest of the troop storming toward them, having learned by now that heretics don’t take the time to mourn their fallen.

The sword almost seemed to move on its own; slicing through the throats of some and gutting others. Lambert cast a curse in the direction of the two remaining, though the tentacles that rose from the ground only caught one. The Lamb didn’t mind. They preferred to do the work themselves, anyway.

They gripped the handle of the crown’s sword tightly, taking chase after the last remaining heretic. The Lamb moved with powerful, calculated steps, letting the runner think it had a chance to get away. It wasn’t every day that an attacker would try to run, after all.

–

The heretic bolted.

He ran with all of his might, adrenaline willing his trembling body forward despite the gash in his side and the blood of his troop that stained his person. The uniformed hood he wore fell back with every desperate leap forward, and the cold air that rushed past his fur made the tips of his ears burn. He didn’t dare look back, too afraid to see the figure of that monster behind him. The heretic hardly noticed the tears that whipped past his cheeks, wet and sticky like the rest of the blood that coated him. Not his blood. He was alive, even if his friends weren’t. Gods, they were gone, weren’t they? They were-

His foot caught on a slippery root. The cat was flat on the ground before he could feel the sharp sting of pain from his ankle.

“No,” He choked out, voice hoarse. “No, no, no, no-”

Slow, heavy footsteps cut off his thoughts. The heretic kicked and clawed desperately at the dirt beneath him, but his movements were frantic and uncoordinated. The Lamb would have found it funny if they weren’t irritated by the sticky residue coating their arms and fleece. They approached the hooded figure so slowly it was cruel, listening to the panicked breaths and gasps that came from it.

“Rise, heretic,” Their voice was horrifyingly level, and the hooded figure could spot the glint of their sword out of the corner of his eye as they lifted it towards him. He was going to die.

“P-Please,” The voice that sounded from the heretic was quiet and shaky, but his limbs trembled more violently as he propped himself up on his forearms and cautiously turned. With his ankle still caught on the root, the cat was forced to twist his body to look up. His hood slowly fell from his ears, no longer casting any shadows on his face. He was going to die. “Please, spare me.”

The Lamb froze.

They stared down at the heretic before them, eyes widening in a state of shock that was entirely foreign to them.

A black cat stared back, the dark amber of his tear-filled eyes glinting red in the sparse lighting of the Darkwood forest. His long, pointed ears pinned back against his skull, the tips nearly pressing together. His fur was blood-splattered and matting in the direction of the drying redness, but the Lamb could still see that perfect black beneath it. Their eyes shifted to the heretic’s forehead, where a discolored splatter of blood stained the fur. At least, that’s what they thought it was.

Their eyes narrowed.

The Lamb moved closer, stepping over the root that the cowardly heretic was trapped underneath. They stood in front of him, sword lowered but still pointed near the cat’s head. Unsatisfied by what they saw, the Lamb lowered to a squat, causing him to gasp and flinch back. His eyes screwed shut, awaiting the same agonizing pain that he’d just witnessed his troop suffer.

And yet, it never came. Instead, he felt a hand on the top of his head, firmly planted but not suggesting any malice. The Lamb took a moment to feel his fur. Soft, they realized. Such a familiar texture.

Their hand moved further down, landing on the red blood on the heretic’s forehead. They pressed down and slid their hand to the side, expecting it to smear or crumble off entirely. When that didn’t happen, their breath quickened. The cat didn’t know why. He pried his eyes slowly open, pupils dilated about as far as they would go. He searched the Lamb’s expression warily, but he was about as lost as they were. It was hard to distinguish exactly what this was. Excitement? Fear? Confusion? Maybe it was a mix of everything. The source of their confliction, however, was no question.

This heretic was the spitting image of The One Who Waits, down to the most subtle stripes in his fur and the red in his eyes. The red mark on his forehead was distinctly eye-shaped, like some sort of mimic of their god’s divine features. It was almost revolting, the fact that a lowly heretic would be blessed with such features–- such mockery. The Lamb’s expression hardened, and the heretic noticed. He wanted to pull away, to scream, to plead for his life, but the heretic’s throat ran dry. He could only watch as the Lamb continued to inspect him as if they were searching for just one inconsistency; one reason to kill the vile mimic that tried to fool them. There were none.

“You...” The Lamb began, dropping their hand to the underside of his jaw and jerking his head up. There was no telling what went on in their head, even as their sword warped back into the shape of a crown and sat atop their head. Their glare seemed to soften a moment later. “Where have you been?”

[beevean]

Sonic Forces

Infinite

[phantomjackal]

This pain (persists)

I can't (resist)

But that's what it takes to be I N F I N I T E

Indie & Semi-Selective Infinite the Jackal RP Blog. Penned by Arcane. ‼️Possible Epilepsy Warning‼️ 【Muse ✖ Rules✖ Headcanons ✖ Story】

[muiitoloko]

I looooved the daddy severus fanfic aaaaghhhh ❤️ but now can we have what he needed to do to have the baby lol

Breeding kink severus PLEASE!!! Xx

Title: A Second Chance

Summary: Surviving the war was only the beginning for Severus Snape. With your love, he learns to embrace life, finding comfort in the thought of a future that includes a family of his own.

Pairing: Severus Snape × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: I'm so glad you loved the Daddy Severus fanfic! ❤️ And I couldn't resist your request, so I went ahead with the breeding kink idea—but decided to keep it light and wrote a completely new one-shot instead. Don't worry, it's more on the sweet side, nothing too kinky 😅. Hope you enjoy this one just as much! xx

Also read on Ao3

Severus Snape never imagined he would survive the war, let alone find himself married years after the defeat of Lord Voldemort. In truth, he hadn't even expected to live past the moment Nagini's fangs had torn into his throat. The pain had been excruciating, but it was fleeting—quickly overtaken by the cold, creeping numbness of death. He had welcomed it, that final escape from a life filled with darkness and deceit. Everything had gone black, and he thought that was the end.

But death had not come for Severus Snape that day. Instead, he had awoken to the sterile smell of potions and the clinical brightness of the Hogwarts infirmary, with Madam Pomfrey's stern face hovering above him, muttering incantations and administering salves to his ravaged neck. She had told him that the war was over, that Voldemort was defeated, and in those first few moments of lucidity, Snape had wanted nothing more than to slip back into unconsciousness. He had nothing left to live for, after all. But fate, as it often did, had other plans.

Snape had been in a coma for two long years—two years during which the wizarding world had moved on without him, during which he had been declared a hero by none other than Harry Potter, the boy he had once loathed. Potter, in his infinite idiocy, had come forward with memories—his memories—evidence that Snape had been working as a double agent, risking everything to protect the son of the woman he had loved more than life itself. It was Potter’s testimony that had spared Snape from Azkaban, and it was Potter who had ensured that he was awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, and hailed as a hero in the aftermath of the war.

Snape thought bitterly of that fool of a boy now, sitting in the grand sitting room of one of the Prince family’s old mansions. The house had been passed down to him as the last living heir of the Prince family, a lineage he had long since stopped caring about. His mother’s bloodline had never brought him anything but misery, and yet here he was, a reluctant beneficiary of the wealth and status he had once despised. He rubbed the large scar on his neck, the mark left by Nagini’s fangs a constant reminder of how close he had come to death. It barely allowed him to speak without pain, a daily torment that was only mitigated by the potions and treatments he had to endure.

And that was where you came in.

You had been sent by St. Mungo’s on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, assigned to take care of Snape’s throat, which often swelled and caused him intense pain at random times. The venom of Nagini had remained in his bloodstream, a sinister reminder of the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant. Snape hadn’t wanted you there. In those first few days, he had made every effort to drive you away, using every tactic at his disposal—scathing remarks, icy glares, and, when words failed him, the sheer force of his silent, menacing presence. But you hadn’t been intimidated. You had insisted on staying, refusing to leave despite his best efforts to scare you off. You were patient, determined, and unfailingly kind—qualities that Snape found both infuriating and, inexplicably, disarming.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when things began to change between the two of you. Perhaps it was the day he had tried to intimidate you with a particularly venomous glare, only to find that you met his gaze with calm resolve, refusing to back down. He had pressed you against the wall in a fit of frustration, intending to finally break through that maddening composure, but instead, he had found himself kissing you—fiercely, desperately, as if you were the only thing tethering him to this world. That kiss had quickly turned into something more—something that left you both breathless and shaken, your bodies entwined in a feverish, almost primal need.

Months had passed since that first heated encounter, and somehow, through a series of events that still seemed surreal to him, Snape had found himself married to you. He looked down at the simple, yet elegant ring on his finger, a symbol of a life he had never imagined for himself. The ring was one he had chosen himself, purchased with the money he had saved over the years as a professor—years of putting up with those insufferable, brainless children. The irony of it all was not lost on him. Severus Snape, the cold, unyielding Potions Master, now had a wife, a home, and a life that was, in many ways, far more normal than he had ever thought possible.

He had thought he would hate it—the domesticity, the mundanity of it all. But as he sat in the quiet of the old manor, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, he realized that he didn’t hate it. Not at all. In fact, he found a strange sort of peace in it—a peace he hadn’t known in decades, if ever. It was a peace that came from knowing that, despite everything, he had somehow found a place in this world—a place with you.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, and he looked up to see you entering the room, a soft smile on your face as you made your way over to him. You were dressed simply, yet elegantly, your presence filling the room with a warmth that he still wasn’t quite used to, but which he had come to cherish nonetheless.

“Severus,” you greeted him, your voice soft and soothing as you approached. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged slightly, the familiar discomfort in his throat a dull throb that he had long since learned to ignore. “As well as can be expected,” he replied, his voice low and rough, a result of the lingering effects of the venom.

You nodded, your expression one of understanding and quiet concern as you reached out to gently touch his hand, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of his wedding ring. “I’m glad,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his with a warmth that made his chest tighten. “You know, you don’t have to bear this burden alone. I’m here, Severus. I’ll always be here.”

He looked at you for a long moment, the weight of your words sinking in, filling the empty spaces in his heart that he had long thought would remain void. He had spent so many years alone, so many years building walls around himself to keep others out, that it still felt strange—unnatural, even—to have someone who cared about him, who wanted to share in his burdens.

But you were here, in his life, in his home, and he had somehow, against all odds, found himself falling for you in a way he hadn’t believed was possible. You had been a light in the darkness, a beacon that had guided him back to the land of the living when all he had wanted was to fade into oblivion.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion as he looked down at your hand in his, the warmth of your touch grounding him in a way that nothing else could. “And I’m… grateful.”

You smiled at that, a soft, genuine smile that lit up your entire face, and for a moment, Snape felt something stir within him—something that had been dormant for far too long. It was a warmth, a flicker of hope, of love, that he had thought he would never feel again.

Without another word, you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, a kiss that was soft and sweet, filled with all the affection and tenderness that you had brought into his life. Snape closed his eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the sensation, to savor the moment, the connection between you.

When you finally pulled back, you looked at him with a quiet intensity, your eyes searching his as if you were trying to understand the depth of what he was feeling. And in that moment, Snape realized that you did understand—that you knew him better than anyone ever had, perhaps even better than he knew himself.

“I love you, Sev,” you whispered, your voice filled with a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt. “I always will.”

But Severus Snape had never been one for grand declarations, especially when it came to matters of the heart. The words I love you felt foreign on his tongue, weighed down by the years of pain and loss that had shaped him into the man he was today. Instead, he preferred to convey his feelings through subtle gestures, through actions that spoke louder than words ever could.

And tonight, he intended to show you just how much you meant to him.

Without a word, Snape leaned in and captured your lips in a kiss, one that was slow and deliberate, full of a restrained passion that he had kept buried for far too long. His lips moved against yours with a careful intensity, as if he was savoring every moment, every sensation. His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, his long, slender fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer to him.

You responded eagerly, your body leaning into his as the kiss grew more heated, more urgent. Snape’s other hand found its way to your waist, his grip firm but gentle as he guided you onto his lap, your dress rustling softly as you straddled him. The fabric of his dark robes brushed against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that radiated from his body.

When he finally broke the kiss, his breathing was slightly uneven, his dark eyes filled with a hunger that you had rarely seen before. He looked at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat, his gaze piercing through you as if he was trying to convey all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Without breaking eye contact, Snape’s hands moved to the hem of your dress, his fingers grazing the soft fabric as he slowly pushed it up, revealing the smooth skin of your thighs. He let out a low, almost inaudible groan as he felt the warmth of your body against his, the sight of you on his lap stirring something primal within him.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper as he traced the outline of your hips with his hands, his touch possessive yet reverent. It wasn’t quite I love you, but it carried the same weight, the same depth of emotion. It was his way of claiming you, of letting you know that you belonged to him in every sense of the word.

You shivered at his touch, your own hands moving to his shoulders, your fingers brushing against the cool, smooth fabric of his robes. His grip on you tightened slightly as he pulled you even closer, pressing your body against his as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against you, a clear indication of just how much he wanted you.

“Severus…” you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of anticipation and desire as you felt his lips ghosting over your throat, leaving a trail of soft, heated kisses in their wake.

Snape didn’t respond with words. Instead, he let his actions speak for him, his hands slipping beneath your dress, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine before moving lower, cupping your ass and giving it a possessive squeeze. His lips found their way back to yours, capturing them in another deep, fervent kiss as he shifted beneath you, positioning himself so that his cock was perfectly aligned with your entrance, the heat of your arousal palpable through the thin fabric of your underwear.

Snape’s gaze was intense, his dark eyes boring into yours as he uttered a single, hoarse word: “Bedroom.” The command was rough, almost strangled, a reminder of the ever-present pain that laced his throat. You could see the discomfort etched into the lines of his face, a sharp pang of concern shooting through you. Was he okay? Was the pain too much for him? But before you could voice your worries, Snape dismissed them with a hard, determined look. He wasn’t going to let anything interrupt this moment.

In a swift, fluid motion, he lifted you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as you clung to him. His strength surprised you, the lean muscles beneath his robes belying the quiet power he possessed. You could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against you, straining through the fabric of his impeccably tailored trousers. The sensation sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine, igniting a fire in your belly.

He moved with purpose, carrying you down the dimly lit hallway of the old manor, his long robes billowing around him like shadows. The silence between you was thick, charged with the unspoken desires that had been building between you for months. Snape’s grip on you was firm, possessive, his hands settling on the curve of your ass as he held you close. The tension in the air was palpable, the only sounds were the soft rustle of fabric and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots.

When he finally reached the bedroom, Snape pushed the door open with a gentle nudge of his foot, striding inside without hesitation. The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. The bed—a grand, four-poster affair draped in rich, dark fabrics—stood at the center of the room, an inviting haven amidst the darkness.

Without breaking his stride, Snape crossed the room and laid you down on the bed, his movements careful but deliberate. The mattress dipped under your weight as you looked up at him, your breath catching in your throat as you took in the sight of him. He stood at the edge of the bed, his tall, lean figure imposing and commanding, his dark robes making him look every bit the cold, enigmatic man you had first met. But now, there was something more in his eyes—a burning need, a primal desire that he could no longer suppress.

Snape’s hands moved to the clasp of his robes, his fingers deftly undoing it before he shrugged off the heavy fabric, letting it pool on the floor at his feet. He remained silent, his gaze never leaving yours as he began to unbutton his shirt, each movement slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. The pale, angular planes of his chest were revealed inch by inch, the faint scars and the dark trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his trousers only adding to his rugged appeal.

Your mouth went dry as you watched him, your pulse quickening with each piece of clothing he shed. By the time he reached the waistband of his trousers, you were practically trembling with anticipation, your body aching with the need to feel him against you.

Snape didn’t rush. Instead, he paused, his fingers lingering on the waistband of his trousers as he looked down at you, his gaze dark and hungry. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, roughened by both his desire and the ever-present pain in his throat.

“I’m going to fill you,” he rasped, the words sending a jolt of arousal straight to your core. His expression was one of pure, unbridled lust, his eyes locked on yours as he added, “I’m going to put a baby inside you.”

The raw, primal promise in his words left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as heat pooled between your thighs. You could feel the wetness gathering there, your body responding to his words in a way that was utterly instinctive. Snape’s eyes flickered with satisfaction as he noticed your reaction, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grasp your ankle, pulling you toward the edge of the bed with a firm, steady grip. You let out a soft gasp as your back arched, your dress riding up higher, exposing more of your skin to his hungry gaze. Snape’s hand slid up your calf, his touch sending sparks of electricity coursing through you as he pushed your dress up, revealing the lacy fabric of your underwear.

“Take it off,” he ordered, his voice hoarse but commanding, a dark edge to his tone that sent a shiver down your spine.

You obeyed without hesitation, your hands trembling slightly as you reached down to slip the dress over your head. The fabric pooled on the floor beside the bed, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Snape’s gaze raked over your body, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in the sight of you.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, the word almost lost in the roughness of his voice. His hand moved to your hip, his fingers tracing the delicate lace of your underwear before slipping beneath the fabric. The feel of his hand against your bare skin sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your breath hitching as he caressed you with slow, deliberate strokes.

You moaned softly as his fingers found your wetness, your body arching into his touch. Snape’s gaze was fixed on yours, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart race. He moved his fingers with a practiced precision, teasing you with light, feathering touches that left you gasping for more.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation as you looked up at him. “Yes, Severus, please.”

Snape’s smirk widened at your desperate plea, his hand leaving your core to grip your thigh, spreading your legs wider. He moved between them, his trousers slipping down to reveal his throbbing erection, the sight of it making your mouth water with desire.

He positioned himself at your entrance, his tip brushing against your wet folds as he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. The sensation was electric, his lips moving against yours with a fierce, possessive hunger that left you dizzy. You could feel the tension coiling within him, the barely restrained need that pulsed through every inch of his body.

With a low growl, Snape pushed inside you, the thick length of him stretching you to the brink as he buried himself to the hilt. The sensation was overwhelming, your body trembling with the sheer intensity of it as he filled you completely. You could feel every inch of him, the heat of his skin against yours, the raw power in the way he moved.

He set a slow, deliberate pace, his thrusts deep and measured, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. Snape’s gaze never wavered, his eyes locked on yours as he claimed you with every thrust, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive strength that left you breathless.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough and strained as he drove into you with a primal, almost savage need. “Mine to fuck, mine to fill…mine to breed.”

The words sent a shiver of pleasure through you, your body tightening around him as you let out a low, breathy moan. Snape’s hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you against him with each thrust, his pace quickening as he lost himself in the intensity of the moment.

You could feel the heat building within you, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. Snape’s name spilled from your lips in a breathless chant, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he drove you closer to the edge.

Snape's breath was ragged as he buried himself inside you, his trousers bunched up around his ankles, trapped by the boots he hadn't bothered to remove. It didn’t matter to him—nothing mattered now except the primal, driving need to fill you, to claim you in the most profound and intimate way. His dark, greasy hair clung to his forehead as he hovered above you, his pale, angular face set in a mask of intense concentration and desire.

His thrusts were deep, deliberate, each movement calculated to drive you closer to the edge, to ensure that every inch of him was felt within you. His normally stoic expression was marred only slightly by the flicker of pain that crossed his features when he dared to speak. The venomous scars on his neck, the constant reminder of his near brush with death, flared in protest with every word. But his voice—deep, roughened by the damage to his throat—slipped out when he could no longer contain the twisted fantasies that had consumed him.

“Mine,” he rasped, the single word filled with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours as his hand gripped your hip tightly, holding you in place as he thrust into you again, harder this time, his need taking over. “You’re mine.”

The room was filled with the sound of your bodies colliding, the soft crackling of the fire the only other noise breaking the silence. His boots scraped against the floor as he shifted, driving into you with a relentless pace that left no room for doubt about his intentions. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, the full force of his need pressing down on you.

His mind was filled with images—visions of you swollen with his child, your body heavy with the life he’d put inside you. The thought only spurred him on, fueling the dark hunger that had taken root within him. He could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye—a little girl, with your beauty and his cunning, a powerful witch who would carry on the legacy he had never thought he would pass on.

“You’ll give me a daughter,” he whispered hoarsely, the words a struggle, each one tinged with the pain it caused him to speak. But he had to say it, had to let you know the depths of his desire. His fingers dug into your skin as he pounded into you, the force of his thrusts sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “You’ll carry her, and she’ll be perfect…just like you.”

The idea of breeding you, of seeing you swollen with his child, made him almost desperate in his movements. His pace quickened, his hips snapping against yours with a brutal precision that left you gasping, your hands clutching at his shoulders, desperate to hold onto something as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

His breathing was labored, the strain of holding back the pain of speaking clear in the way his chest heaved, but he couldn’t stop now. His fingers moved to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles as he watched the effect it had on you, the way your body responded to him, the way you trembled beneath him. It was intoxicating, knowing that he had this power over you, that he could bring you to the brink of ecstasy with just a few well-placed touches.

“You’re going to be so beautiful,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “Round and full…carrying my child. My daughter.” His eyes were locked on yours, his gaze intense and unwavering as he thrust into you with a newfound urgency. “I’ll protect you…both of you…no one will ever hurt you.”

His words were rough, almost growled out between clenched teeth as the fire within him built to a fever pitch. He was close, so close, and he could feel you tightening around him, the telltale signs of your impending climax pushing him even further.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice low and commanding despite the strain. “I want to feel you…want to feel you fall apart around me.”

You were helpless to resist him, your body obeying his every command as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Your climax hit you hard, your entire body tensing as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Snape watched you, his gaze dark and intense, his grip on your hips tightening as he drove into you with a final, powerful thrust.

He could feel you convulsing around him, the tight, wet heat of your climax pulling him over the edge with you. He let out a low, guttural groan as he buried himself deep inside you, his release flooding you with a heat that seemed to burn through him.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, the crackling of the fire, and the faint rustle of the sheets as Snape remained still above you, his chest rising and falling with the effort of catching his breath. His dark hair fell forward, obscuring his face as he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips rough and warm against your skin.

“You’re mine,” he whispered one final time, his voice barely more than a breath. “And you’ll give me everything.”

His words hung in the air, a promise, a vow, as he slowly pulled out of you, the sudden emptiness almost jarring after the intensity of what had just passed between you. He laid down beside you, pulling you close to his chest, his long fingers tangling in your hair as he held you tightly, as if afraid to let you go.

In the silence that followed, Snape closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. But even as sleep began to take him, the thought of you carrying his child—his daughter—brought a small, almost imperceptible smile to his lips.

For the first time in years, Severus Snape allowed himself to hope for the future.

After the intensity of your shared moment had begun to settle, you found yourself recovering faster than Severus, whose chest still heaved as he fought to catch his breath. His dark eyes were closed, his pale face flushed with the remnants of passion, and his hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. For a brief moment, you simply watched him, your heart swelling with a deep, unspoken affection. It was in these quiet moments, after the storm of his desire had passed, that you felt closest to him—that you saw the man behind the formidable exterior, vulnerable and human.

You moved gently, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to the scarred skin of his neck, your lips lingering just above the spot where Nagini's fangs had once pierced him. His eyes fluttered open at the sensation, and he looked down at you with a mixture of exhaustion and something that might have been tenderness, though he would never admit it aloud. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he might protest your ministrations, but you silenced him with a look, your eyes conveying a wordless command.

“Don’t move,” you whispered, your voice soft yet firm as you began to reach down, your hands deftly unfastening the boots that had remained stubbornly on his feet. Snape tried to protest, his brows knitting together in irritation at the thought of you taking care of him, but the protest died on his lips when you fixed him with a pointed stare.

“Be quiet, Severus,” you instructed gently, though there was no mistaking the steel behind your words. “Let me do this.”

For once, he complied, his lips pressing into a thin line as he allowed you to help him. It was an act of trust, a rare thing for him, and you didn’t take it lightly. You removed his boots with care, followed by the trousers that had bunched awkwardly around his ankles, your fingers brushing against his skin as you worked. Despite the lingering heat between you, your touch was tender, almost reverent, as you undressed him, revealing the lean, angular planes of his body that were usually hidden beneath his dark, forbidding robes.

When you were finished, you summoned your wand with a simple flick of your wrist, casting a quiet cleaning charm over the two of you. The warm, tingling sensation of the magic swept away the remnants of your passion, leaving you both feeling refreshed, though the intimate connection between you remained unbroken.

You returned to his side, snuggling against him with a contented sigh, your head resting on his chest as you traced lazy patterns on his skin with your fingertips. Snape’s arm wrapped around you almost instinctively, his long fingers threading through your hair as he held you close. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, a soothing rhythm that calmed your own.

Lifting your head slightly, you rested your chin on his chest, your eyes meeting his with a mischievous glint. “At this rate, we’ll have a baby soon,” you remarked with a teasing smile, your tone light despite the weight of your words. “You’ve practically made love to me every day since I mentioned you’d be a great father.”

A faint flush colored Snape’s cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or something else, you couldn’t be sure. His gaze flickered with a mix of emotions—desire, uncertainty, and something deeper, something almost fragile. You knew that the idea of fatherhood had taken root in his mind, had sparked a longing that he hadn’t fully realized until you had voiced it aloud.

“It… seems to have stuck in my head,” he admitted gruffly, his voice low and rough as he avoided your gaze, his fingers still gently tangled in your hair. “The idea of… breeding you, of putting babies inside you… it… it turns me on to no end.”

There was a vulnerability in his admission, a raw honesty that was rare for him, and it made your heart ache with affection for the man who had always kept his true self hidden beneath layers of cold detachment. You reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing lightly over the scar on his neck as you leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I love you, Severus,” you whispered against his mouth, your voice filled with a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt. “And I’d be honored to carry your child… our child.”

Snape’s breath hitched at your words, his dark eyes searching yours as if trying to find the truth in them. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost reverent. “You… would?”

You nodded, your smile widening as you rested your forehead against his, your heart swelling with love for the man who had once believed himself incapable of it. “Of course. There’s no one else I’d want to share this with… no one else I’d trust with this.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of Snape’s lips, and he let out a shaky breath as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive tenderness that spoke volumes. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to hope—not just for the future, but for a future with you, a future where he could be the man, the husband, and the father he had never believed he could be.

As you lay together in the quiet of the old manor, the fire in the hearth casting a warm glow over your entwined bodies, you felt a sense of peace settle over you—a peace that came from knowing that, despite everything, you had found each other. And as Snape’s hand drifted to rest on your abdomen, his fingers splayed over your skin in a gesture that was both protective and tender, you knew that the love you shared would be enough to carry you through whatever came next.

[whimsi-clown]

What's the Best Way to Start a Story? Ah, yes. Death.

Part 1 of the Reverse lsekai Disney Villains x Modern Reader AU

(That I made on a whim)

Warning: Lots of Curse Words and a bit OOC

In a series of unfortunate (or fortunate, depending on how you view things) events, your eccentric rich bitch of an employer had just died.

Sad, I know. But they had it coming. Sorta.

Nobody really liked them. They were, to put it bluntly, an asshole of the highest degree, and they didn't have any living relatives or descendants.

As such, with you being the only person in existence who still stuck by them, gave a shit about them, and had the balls to deal with all of their bullshit, they decided to leave you with their inheritance.

From their large plot of land to their unrealistically big ass mansion with a private beach close by, along with everything inside of it. Money included.

It was all yours for the taking, and you were all too eager to accept.

At this point, you had everything you needed to live the life of your dreams. A large plot of land, a mansion, a near infinite amount of money.

Now, all you needed left in this big and lonely mansion...

Was companionship...

...

Yea, no. We'll skip that for now.

So, with that in mind, after setting down the remaining boxes of your belongings that you had just brought in, you decided to stroll through the halls of the place, eager to familiarize yourself with your new home.

Your eyes perking in interest as you spot a door that you had never seen before, curiously entering it with a new wave of excitement as to what you could find (or possibly sell) on the other side.

Nothing could ruin this day for you!

.

.

.

.

.

Something has just ruined this day for you.

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face as 12 of the most iconic Disney Villains settled on the set of couches before you with crossed arms, disgruntled expressions, and glares aimed your way.

Maleficent sat on the lone couch to your left, while Grimhilde, the evil queen, sat on the other couch to your right, both looking at you with displeased glares.

On the main couch sat Ursula, Cruela De Vil, Dr. Facilier and Jafar. All sharing the same disgruntled expression, like they have better things to do than be in this predicament.

And those who decided to stand behind the couch were Hades, Captain Hook, Shan Yu, and Gaston. All of them with their arm crossed.

Finally, seated on the carpeted floor before the couches are Scar and Oogie Boogie. Who looked bored out of their minds.

You let out yet another groan.

How did you end up in this situation again??

Ah, right. The mysterious room.

For those of you who are wondering, here's what went down literal hours ago.

You had entered what looked like an old storage room, flicked the light switch on, and discovered that it was filled to the brim with various antiques and junk.

Looking around, you felt like a kid in a candy store, discovering the various curious objects that your former employer collected, lining each shelf.

Everything was so interesting (and sellable) to you.

But what stood out to you the most, though, was an assortment of random items set up on a row of pedestals.

A staff broken in half, a shattered mirror, an unlit greek looking torch lying on its side, a dusty lamp, a tarnished silver hook, a vintage hunting rifle, an old scattered deck of tarot cards, a weird wavy looking sword (a quick google search informed you that it was a serrated jagged jian), a lion skull (not even gonna question how your employer got their hands on these ethically), a gold nautilus shell necklace, an exotic black and white fur coat of some animal (again, not gonna question how they were ethically acquired), and finally a set of red hand carved dices.

With a wide shit eating grin and dollar signs in your eyes, you decided on the spot that these would definitely sell for a large amount of money and decided to take a picture of them to post online.

However, before you could take the shot, you realized something.

No one would buy any of this junk if you sell them as they looked now, like junk!

So, with a new goal in mind, you quickly set out to grab whatever cleaning materials you could find.

And when you came back, you glued together the two broken parts of the staff, put back the pieces of the shattered mirror back in place, set the unlit greek torch up, rubbed the dust off of the lamp, polished the silver hook, cleaned the vintage hunting rifle, stacked and rearanged the deck of tarot cards, sharpened the weird wavy sword, dusted the lion skull, washed the gold nautilus shell pendant in soapy water, and brushed the exotic fur coat.

When all was done, you stood back with your hands on your hips, a prideful grin stretching across your face at having cleaned all of the useless junk before you.

If only you had the same amount of energy and enthusiasm when it comes to cleaning the rest of your house.

You were about to take a picture again when you realized you weren't completely done. There was still one item left.

The pair of red dice.

You stared down at the dices in contemplation. For some reason, something about them didn't seem to sit right with you.

One dice had a six facing up, while the other had a five. Making it an eleven in total.

You grabbed the dices, shaking them around in the palm of your hand and without much of a thought, threw them onto its pedestal. Watching as it rolled on the surface before stopping, both dices landed on a one.

Snake eyes.

All of a sudden, the lights in the room started to flicker and turn off completely, leaving you in the dark.

You cursed under your breath as you were about to turn the flashlight on your phone when you noticed that the dices were glowing green, like one of those shitty glow in the dark star stickers you had as a kid.

Suddenly, the dices weren't the only thing glowing as the fur coat was glowing white, followed by the shell pendant glowing gold, the lion skull glowing green, the sword glowing a dull blue, the tarot deck glowing purple, the hunting rifle glowing red, the hook glowing gold as well, the lamp glowing red too, the torch glowing blue which also lit up in blue flames on it's own, the mirror glowing purple, and finally the staff glowing green.

Each of the items slowly hovered in the air, wind seeming to pick up around you despite the lack of windows, and then suddenly a burst of green smoke spread throughout the room, temporarily blinding you as you coughed into your fist.

You swatted your hands around to clear the smoke, rubbing your teary eyes when a sound caught your attention. Not just any sound, it was the sound of a person, no, people! It was the sound of people!

When the smoke finally cleared, you were greeted by the sight of a dogpile of people, all groaning and moaning in pain, some muttering curses under their breaths as they struggled to get up from their current positions.

"Get off of me, you fools!"

A comanding feminine voice exclaimed.

"Ugh, you first, I can feel you stepping on my tail."

Another masculine voice grumbled.

"Ugh, get your slimey apendeges off of me, woman!"

Another masculine voice exclaimed in disgust.

"For the last time. It's not slime, you narcissistic oaf, it's mucus!"

Yet another feminine voice retorted.

"She's actually right, ya know? It's mucus, not slime. Had to learn that the hard way."

Yet another masculine voice says, agreeing with the person who spoke before them.

Whilst they were still arguing with one another, you figured now would be a great time to escape, slowly backing away, careful not to make a sound when you flinch as your back hits something sturdy and warm.

With a nervous gulp, you slowly crained your neck up only to see a tall gray skinned man with shark like teeth and blue flames for hair, looking down at you with a wide toothy grin.

"Hey there, nice to meet cha', you goin' somewhere, babes?"

The gray man asked in a casual tone, a hint of a threat hidden beneath it. Before you could respond, you yelped in surprise as you were suddenly grabbed by the back collar of your shirt and lifted a few feet away from the ground.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?~"

You froze as you were suddenly face to face with a big talking sack, your face growing pale when you noticed a centipede crawling out of its open stitched mouth.

The thing before you seemed to notice this, grinning even wider as they brought you closer to its face.

"What's wrong, little one? You feeling ssscaareeddd?~"

A snake had just slithered out of its mouth like a tongue and hissed at you as it trailed off the word 'scared'. Which made you scream as you kicked at his face in response, causing the thing to drop you as it held its face in pain.

"UGH! YOU LITTLE-"

The commotion seemed to finally catch the others' attention, finally registering your presence.

Before you could run off and escape, though, a tendril of black smoke wrapped around you, restricting your movement as it pulled you closer to the blue flame headed guy who merely chuckled as you thrashed around in his grip, successfully getting your arms out before trying to tug and yank the rest of the smokey tendrils off of you.

"Hey, fellas, I think I found the culprit to our little... Heh, predicament..."

The blue flame haired guy announced as he pulled you closer to him and grabbed ahold of your cheeks with one hand, forcing you to face the rest of the group.

The rest of them then approached, crowding around and glaring down at you.

"So you're the reason why we're in this mess... Speak. Why have you brought us here?"

The beautiful woman before you asked, no, commanded. Her pose is regal and sophisticated even as she looks down on you. She wore a golden crown atop her head, with a purple velvet dress and a black cape.

Your face morphed in confusion as you stared up at her, practically scanning her features.

For some reason, you feel like you've met her before.

You turn to the others as well, scanning them from head to toe.

A tall mean looking lady with greenish skin and black horns, a grumpy arabian guy dressed in red and black, a big intimidating asian dude, a woman with melanie martinez's hair but if she were emo, a guy that looks like a himbo, a fat drag queen with tentacles and light purplish skin, twinkish looking man with a fancy hat dressed in all red, twinkish looking man with a fancy hat no. 2 dressed in all purple, and a literal fucking lion.

After staring at the crowd before you, you turned your head back to properly look at the other three you had just met. The fat sack of creepy crawlies, the shark teethed flame head, and the literal fucking queen.

Stupid. That's what you currently felt. Not scared, not happy. Stupid.

How could you not recognize the people before you?? They were your literal childhood before you grew out of them. Gods, you felt so dumb for not realizing it sooner!

They were all Disney Villains!

Noticing that you seemed disappointed about something rather than fearful of their presence, the villains turned to one another with looks of confusion. Not used to this kind of reaction.

Hades, who still held you hostage decided to shake you out of whatever it is you were so hung up about.

"Oy, kid. You still with us? Kinda rude to just space out on people ya know?"

He asked, successfully snapping you out of your momentary internal berating.

"I... I know you guys..."

You muttered out loud, still in disbelief of the situation.

This caused the villains to smirk and perk up a little smugly, their ego rising at the thought of being recognized by someone they deemed lesser than then. Especially a certain muscle head.

"Ah yes, of course you've heard about the great Gasto-"

"You're all disney villains!"

You unintentionally cut off him off, your eyes widening as you clamped your mouth shut with your hands in realization of your mistake.

The villains were also caught off guard, not by your interruption, but by your statement.

"Disney... Villains?..."

Shan Yu slowly repeated, confusion evident in his tone.

You kept your mouth clamped shut, refusing to respond until a silver hook was pressed against your neck.

"You better spill, little one, or I'll slice through that pretty little neck of yours, and you don't want that now, do you?"

Captain Hook threatened, pressing his hook closer to your neck, nearly breaking the skin.

That was what led to all of you gathered in the living room, after begging asking to be released so you could explain to them, glancing at each disney villain from Maleficent to Oogie Boogie.

When Oogie Boogie noticed that you had glanced down at him, he sent you an eerie grin that made shivers crawl down your spine.

Out of all the Disney Villains present, He unsettled you the most.

The other's existence was reasonable and made sense to you.

Evil human beings of higher power and capabilities? Fine. A literal dark fae, an octupus lady, and a greek god? Good. A talking lion? Amazing. But a literal walking, talking, sack of bugs?

Burn it to the ground.

You take in a deep breath, exhaling through your nose in an effort to stay calm (spoiler alert it is not working) as you face the group of animated evil doers come to life with an uneasy smile.

"So... What would you like to know first?"

End of Part 1

Next Part

[vivi-the-goblin]

Just thinking about the poetic nature of the Gith

Originally, there was just one species that broke free of the mindflayers and turned to bloody rebellion. In the aftermath the Githyanki (those who follow Gith) formed a new militaristic culture based on their inherant superiority, while the Githzerai rebelled against becoming like thier old masters and left (those who spurn Gith). The Githyanki live in the Astral Sea, a place where nothing ages or changes unless change is forced upon it. The world is vibrant, sure, and it IS constantly changing, but only through force and intrusion.

The Githzerai live in Limbo, a land of infinite chaos where even the fabric of reality might turn from air to bread to napalm in a second. It is only through massive willpower and active dedication that you can craft anything, and that needs to be actively and constantly maintained.

The Githyanki have not changed. They became their old masters. They have slaves of their own. They're coping with the scars of their enslavement by making sure THEY'RE the ones on top this time. Though they still identify themselves around wiping out their old masters, the system never fell. tyranny just gained a new face and explanation. The same face, the leader has been the same bloodline even since those times beyond measure, with the current one being an undead immortal ruling for thousands of years, unaging even when in places that do change. Githyanki are forced to occasionally explore to have kids and let them grow to adulthood. But they leave the encampment only to plunder resources, keeping the kids as secluded as possible and dragging them back ASAP to double down on indoctrination. Nobody moves on, and the youth who attempt to are met with force.

The Githzerai have changed so much they're no longer the same species, even if they are still externally recognizable. They left for a land where everything changes. However, through introspection and dedication to ensuring personal freedom, they thrive. Specifically, it's from their leaders giving up that freedom to eternally power their chunk of safety in the storm. Literally sitting in a sarcophagus for eternity, the death of self. You'd think would be horrible, given the whole point was escape from eternal labor and gaining freedom! But the difference is that it's willing, it's their choice, one they were free to make or decline. They chose to make a home others could grow up in safely, a place that would still remain for them even if they left for a time. These elders are also don't age...but they're the ones who came to terms with their trauma, fought, and decided to move beyond. They even lost the initial war, but persisted and kept working to break the system. And they do so by supporting those that come next, trusting they'll keep fighting to stop this cycle of oppression.

The Githyanki are conquering the stars but haven't really moved an inch. The Githzerai are living in an ever-moving and actively hostile world, but came to terms with themselves and their past and moved ever forward.. Beautiful.

...

I'm also thinking about how the Githzerai names a city Susanowo. Like the brother of Amaterasu. Like, in-universe named that after actual スサノヲfrom actual Japan. Because Earth exists, and the various gods USED to exist there. An old empire kept kidnaping people from Earth, and the gods followed their believers but got stuck. I keep running into bits of lore that tie into that and it hits me like a truck every time.

[infizero]

MORE STUFF I WAS THINKING ABOUT THAT SOMEHOW TURNED INTO AN ENTIRE PLAN FOR A FINAL SCENE WITH INFINITE:

ok something else i want to add that i just thought of while listening to virtual enemies - i feel like you could do something more with the fact that infinite's main ability is creating illusions. that ability paired with the fact that he has tried to completely reinvent himself and if you will, give off the "illusion" that is is an entirely different person..... i feel like something more could be done with that.

in addition to showing how his illusions affect other people (such as shadow hearing the illusions of rouge and omega which. is a whole other topic), i feel like this could be something that plays into infinite's own character. the idea that this entire "infinite" identity is itself an illusion and that despite how he presents himself, he really has not changed as much as he thinks he has. the way he acts in most of the game is not who he truly is - it's a front. an illusion.

and i think that if i went down this path of the avatar having known infinite before the events of the game, this could really be played into more. you as the avatar are able to progress through the game via not getting pulled in/convinced by infinite's illusions; in short, the avatar is a character who (by the nature of being you) can see through infinite's illusions. so of course it would make sense that they could see through the illusion of infinite's new identity, and use their knowledge of who he once was (and still is) as an advantage in defeating him.

i dont know if i'd really want infinite to be reformed, but idk maybe his "death" could be changed to a shadow sa2 situation where in the end he sacrifices himself for the greater good, after being changed by the avatar's influence. though if that's the case then i would probably want him to stay dead so he isn't totally copying shadow LOL.

i think the scenario i'd like the best is that infinite has moments of doubt throughout the game which seem to imply that he might turn good by the end of the story; glimmers of hope. however by the climax with the final boss battles, he ends up choosing the bad side despite everything, leading to the final fight with him. like in canon, he would be defeated and seemingly die. HOWEVER. there would be a post-credits scene which wraps up both his and the avatar's stories - at least for the time being.

(side note. we gotta change this climax cause super anticlimactic battle with infinite and him just like. dying and then eggman being like LOL actually im the final boss... kind of screws over infinite as a character and feels both really anticlimactic and same-y with it just being eggman again)

i think the scene at the end would involve him being revealed to be alive, and the avatar character finding him - likely extremely weak and injured. this could be a moment where infinite gives up - being truly defeated and losing the power of the phantom ruby has just reinforced to him that he is weak, his main insecurity which shadow instilled in him. (although i think it'd make more sense for this to be a feeling infinite has struggled with his whole life, and that shadow beating him so easily and calling him weak was more of a "final straw" situation rather than what actually caused this insecurity to develop.) he states that he's weak, pathetic, and encourages the avatar to just kill him and put him out of his misery.

however, of course, the avatar doesn't do so, instead offering him a hand. infinite is baffled at this, giving the usual "after all i've done to you...?" kind of spiel - though more bitterly and unconvincingly than that usual kind of thing is. i think what would convince him is perhaps some kind of reference by the avatar (nonverbally of course) to their shared past. i still dont know exactly what i'd want that past to entail, but whatever the avatar communicates to him would be something that reminds infinite of their bond in the past, something which basically implies that the avatar doesn't see him as weak and that he doesn't need to be "infinite" in order to feel fulfilled; he can just be himself.

infinite likely hesitates but eventually accepts this, and takes the avatar's hand. they pull him up, perhaps gesturing to the direction of the resistance. infinite states that he doesn't want to see them... he'd rather set out on his own. the avatar looks back at where the resistance is, in thought, before seemingly making a decision. they indicate they want to come with him, and although infinite is unsure about the idea, he eventually is like "very well." they begin to leave together, but infinite hesitates for a moment. he draws a hand over the mask on his face, already slightly destroyed from the battle. after a moment of silent reflection, infinite takes the mask off, revealing his true face (normal mobian, scar and heterochromia aside. he's just a guy, not this big powerful villain he tried to become), and walks back towards the avatar. they smile at him, offering their hand once again. infinite awkwardly takes it, and they walk off together, with a final shot of the mask left on the ground.

^ WHOOPS i didnt mean to write out a whole script. i just came up with a very specific idea and kept writing it LOL. i think this would be a more interesting way to wrap up the avatar's story, since they end up leaving anyway at the end of the game. i know this would sort of lock the avatar into a set ending instead of it being left open to personal interpretation, and also all this would make it so if a player didn't like infinite their avatar wouldn't really act accordingly but like also. you don't get any choice about their actions anyway other than their appearance, so i dont think this would matter much.

personally i'd rather have the avatar be an actual character with certain things about them set in stone and unable to be personalized, rather than how they are in the usual game where they are literally the blankest slate imaginable and have a laughably small impact on the story outside of being the self insert hero or whatever. yeah its less you get to make up about them, but i feel like it'd also make the player feel far more INVOLVED in the story rather than just playing through the levels and having characters be like "wow rookie you're so cool! nice job rookie! you're so awesome rookie!"

like idk about you but that shit just feels like such.... nothingness. its so self-inserty and boring. obviously i wouldn't get rid of things like customization or characters praising your skills, but i think it'd make it way more interesting if your character actually had direct personal involvement in the main plot rather than just being. some guy who shows up and saves everyone despite having no relevance to anything going on here. thats just my opinion tho

ok thats about it for now. im not actively thinking about this stuff at all but every time i listen to the forces ost it jumpstarts this again in my brain. hope any of this made sense. at least it wasnt written at 3am this time LOL

one day i will make a beautiful full rewrite of sonic forces like ive always dreamed of doing since i was a 14 year old girl

(ok so um. i started writing stuff in the tags and it accidentally got so long i went far beyond the tag limit. whoops. so this is just an actual post now. read more for my insane sonic forces rewrite ramblings)

i want to so fucking bad. every time i think about the wasted potential that is forces it makes me so depressed ToT i cant help but love forces despite it being garbage. the soundtrack is banging, the character customization is fun, i LOVE infinite, it attempted a darker story like the good ol days..... its so fucking bad but there were so many cool ideas and it drives me insane

also its one of the few sonic games i've actually played firsthand. purely because it was free on like the playstation game pass thing or whatever its called. and i did genuinely have fun with it even if it was pretty easy. also for the longest time of me being a sonic fan, forces was the latest mainline game. that era is when i got into sonic so idk. i cant help but look fondly on it even though its writing choices drive me fucking batty

while thinking about all this i came up with an interesting idea. so. there's something so fucking cool to me about infinite and the avatar's dynamic like. the way that infinite, despite his powers... him being a mobian and that scene of him flying right beside you and stuff..... idk its like he feels more on your level then some like ancient god villain or whatever.

that flying side-by-side scene esp inspired this but ANYWAY. what if, to make him AND the avatar character more interesting.... they were like. childhood friends or something. or just knew each other in the past in general. that would add SO much depth to their interactions within the game of like. infinite calling them weak. flying side by side. infinite's whole classic "character trying to reinvent themself" thing.

like infinite is using the power of the phantom ruby, trying to become strong because shadow called him weak and everything <- which btw this motivation has gotta change/be expanded upon cause this shit is still so silly. shadow called him gay and that's infinite's whole motive. cmon now we can do better than that

ANYWAYS. but that desperation from infinite to become an entirely new person - changing his name, wearing the mask, etc etc. that could become even more interesting if you add someone into the mix who knew infinite BEFORE his transformation.

and i know i know the avatar is supposed to be able to be projected on and stuff whatever whatever. but like idk man. plenty of protagonists have pasts that are part of the story even tho they're customizable. and besides it wouldnt be like a full backstory for the avatar. just the fact that they knew infinite once upon a time. and maybe something happened that split them apart or something. idk. but whatever happened between then and the events of the game wouldn't be elaborated upon, so you'd still be able to come up with your own story for your character if you want to.

and then the avatar's presence in the story could present a conflict for infinite. maybe despite him trying to act like he doesnt care, he like. hesitates. or lets the avatar go at some point. or something. and that gets him in trouble with eggman <- on that note. MORE CONFLICT BETWEEN EGGMAN AND INFINITE. im a little fuzzy on that aspect of the game but from what i can remember that never really goes anywhere. i want infinite being fickle about eggman's orders to MEAN SOMETHING!!!!!

also. i guess infinite could still ambiguously die at the end. but he'd definitely survive and show up in a later game, a la shadow. i need him to. my special boy.

anyways but going back to the avatar and infinite. i rlly think this could make both of them far more interesting than they are now. infinite rlly doesnt have like. an arc over the course of the story? hes just kinda. there. we get his backstory but in the present he kinda just. fights you a few times and then he dies. the end. this would actually give him something to do during the story, even if it was just like. brooding over why he let the avatar go or something.

and like..... i feel like forces SHOULD focus a lot on infinite? at least more so than the actual game did. like it doesnt have to be a shadow sa2 situation where like the whole game is centered around his story but i honestly... wouldnt be opposed to that either. like the war stuff is not that interesting im gonna be real.

also btw OBVIOUSLY the whole "sonic being imprisoned and tortured for 6 months with zero consequences" thing would be changed. that shit is so stupid and pointless. idk for sure if i'd just get rid of it outright or alter it, but probably the latter. cause like it IS actually an interesting scenario: how would these characters react to sonic being presumably dead? (long-term. 06 does not count LOL)

like that genuinely is a fascinating scenario to explore but i think one of the main things is that it would have to take place soon after it happened. none of this 6 months later amy wistfully going "sometimes i still dream sonic is with us....." shit, that is so dumb. WHAT is the point!!!

i'd want the story to start like fairly soon after sonic gets captured. and it wouldnt just be "sonic characters act as war generals" simulator. if we're doing this we are going ALL in. full focus on the characters' emotions and mental states which fluctuate over time. at the beginning they're hopeful but as more time passes with no sign of sonic and them losing more and more land to eggman, things start to crack. that could genuinely be so interesting to watch as long as it was treated with the actual seriousness it deserves instead of the cop-out edginess with no repercussions that the actual game has.

speaking of this part. TAILSSSSSSSS tails in forces was the wasted opportunity of the century. im gonna be real after having so much time to think about it, i really dont think that tails cowering after sonic was defeated was THAT egregious. i definitely think it could've been handled better, considering he had both beat chaos before and thought sonic had died before, BUT. tails is, at the end of the day, still a little kid. no matter how much hes grown and everything, thinking his big brother is fucking dead is probably still gonna fuck him up big time!!!

i also think that the idea of tails out on his own is SO fucking interesting and i am so mad every day that they barely did anything with that. maybe tails DID stay with everyone else at first. maybe after enough time everyone else presumed sonic to be dead and tails got upset because he knows sonic can't be dead, he always comes back, he did last time this happened right? and he left one day without telling anyone, attempting to try and find sonic himself.

and then he comes across omega all trashed up, and him fixing him, oh, idk, ACTUALLY MATTERS? (crazy i know) omega gets fully restored (plus some upgrades, of course) and it becomes the two of them against the world. throwing in a little craziness here but what if omega sticks with tails bcuz tails (who is definitely um. a lil more fucked up from everything) promises that hes directly interfering with eggman here, and that he'll actually allow omega to full on KILL eggman if/when they get the opportunity to. (tails is not fucking around) i just really need these two working together to be a thing.

rouge and shadow could also be MIA. i dont know if i'd want them as part of the larger resistance, they'd probably just be trying to help stuff on their own, but maybe at some point they'd realize that shit is really fucked this time and the only way they'll be able to stop eggman's reign of terror is by joining forces (lol) with the larger group. power of friendship and teamwork and all that, as is forces' main theme.

anyways. this is kind of all ive got swirling in my brain right now. i dont know how i'd tackle sonic's imprisonment itself. i definitely dont want to be in a position like the canon story where sonic should 100% be traumatized by what happened. bcuz i feel like thats probably a bit much lol... so maybe keep him imprisoned that whole time but get rid of the torture. idk, if we want to really get crazy with it we could throw in a whole thing where its like hey eggman why arent you just killing him? isnt that what you've wanted to do this whole time? funny how you're... keeping him alive like that. isnt easy bringing yourself to kill this kid you've basically watched grow up huh? even if he is your biggest enemy. idk that could result in way too much going on. but it could give a reason for sonic being kept alive + a reason why his imprisonment wasnt too crazy bad. just spitballing here.

ANYWAYS ANYWAYS. for real thats it I NEED TO GO TO BED. good god. maybe i'll rb this post at some point with more ideas if i have them. hell maybe i'll even write this whole thing someday..... regardless. GOOD NIGHT NEW YORK CITY!!!!!!!!!!

[mosaickiwi]

Fall Unto Me (epilogue hehe)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Demon!Ren and Angel!Angel my otp!!! I think saying I won't write anymore compels me to write more somehow................... sowwee I just keep lying :3c

cw// religious themes

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Moonlight gleamed on the gentle waves pushing back and forth to meet the shore. You sat at the water’s edge with your lover, legs curled under you to lean against his side, your fingers drawing shapes in the wet sand that only lived a few fleeting seconds, then washed away in the water's wake. 

The blue eyed demon kept an arm around you for warmth. You still felt cold, sometimes even during the day. It bothered him more than you. Ren silently watched you etch shapes, though they didn't pay as much attention as usual. He was lost in thought.

Almost a year had gone by since the dreaded night that wouldn't leave their mind in peace, when heaven had burned away all you’d ever known without a care for the loneliness you felt afterwards. A nightmare that was sure to stain decades of eternity with you. Centuries past his own damned fall from heaven's gate, they still found a way to punish him.

Your heart healed quickly with his doting and comfort, but the physical scars remained. Each morning was a glimpse of heaven and hell. He was always awake before you, but to ever leave your side would pain them like nothing else. So he waited. You'd open your eyes, smile at him as if he was the paradise you'd treasured dearly—how could you still choose to grace a monster like them with your sacred beauty? Your presence? Your love?—then crawl from the sheets to stretch and start your day. 

The two jagged streaks of seared flesh on your back greeted him like a cruelly blinding sunrise. He could only wonder where everything went wrong.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen so soon. Your fated fallen angel had already waited millennia to meet you again, and he was intent on waiting infinitely more until you were ready. Because they knew you’d eventually come to desire him, to yearn for their embrace above all others. But you’d fallen—both in love and divinity—faster than he dared to wish for. Nevermind a thousand years, you were taken with him in barely a day, even if it took you much longer to realize the gaze you set upon him in the setting sun was more than just curiosity. 

It must have been destiny’s twisted attempt at design. He didn’t expect you that day in heaven’s library, but they were meant to belong to you from the moment— 

“Ren,” you spoke as softly as the ocean’s gentle breeze. Still, they heard you loud and clear through the muddled sea of their mind. You were the only being who could ever pull him ashore. Or astray. 

“Yes, little angel?” he answered. The nickname burned in his heart to use now, but the way your eyes glittered with love like the moon and stars above when they said it… he yearned for that happiness to last as long as it could.

“Did I spell it right?” He cast his gaze to where you pointed. Just out of the crawling reach of lapping waves, you’d written something in the starlit sand.

They’d written your name thousands, maybe even millions of times over and over to keep him sane enough to find his only solace in you. Seeing it here, finally in your own handwriting was something else entirely. He’d commit it to memory.

“Exactly right,” Ren smiled down at your handiwork and leaned over to write the three letters of his name under yours. They were all he could remember of the real name heaven had stolen away. Though it’d been so long that he wasn’t even sure if they were correct.

You stared for a moment, then drummed your fingers on your thigh. “Your real one was certainly longer than this,” you muttered to yourself. 

Your companion absently nodded, those innocent words haunting him with another memory. He’d spilled his heart out months ago in a moment of weakness, one morning when the sight of your scars broke him. About the real first time you met, his own fall from grace, his sinful intentions to take you with him some day. Everything that he feared would make you hate him. It was a way to punish himself further. Heaven’s permanent reminder wasn’t enough—but you forgave everything with ease like the angel you truly were. 

I’d go through it all again if it meant you’d be mine, you told him. As if it was a simple choice. You were more upset to hear that you couldn’t call his true name. That worthless excuse of a god had made a mistake to let you go—one Ren would never even think to make.

The demon had developed an odd habit of brooding. You kissed his cheek to get his attention, one hand lacing through theirs. “Ren, there’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t we go swim? Or take a walk?”

He meant to answer, but a harsh shiver suddenly tore through your body. You felt cold again, even to him. A lance of pain from his own ill fated guilt, and he carefully stood, lifting you into his ink-stained arms. “Let’s go home.” You were clearly about to frown, and he had to correct himself. “Little angel, let’s go home.”

Not even the moon could outshine the immediate smile you brightened his world with.

[kastlequill]

iii/v. unearth without a name: the parent forced to eat its young before it grows

pairing: keegan p russ x f!reader word count: 3.2k synopsis: the third time you hallucinate keegan tags: whumptober, psychological warfare, injury, electrocution, brainwashing, hallucinations, hurt no comfort, established relationship, ghost!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: canon-typical violence, torture ao3: read here ← prev | next →

III.

Things didn’t get much better from there. In fact, the torture only worsened. 

The passage of time remained a disorienting illusion at best, but you were certain that you’d been in this hellhole longer than the less-than-professional portion of your relationship with. . . 

With Keegan. 

It hurt to think about him. Well, it hurt to think about any of the Ghosts, men who you had seen as your crew, your family, but matters surrounding the sergeant in particular were infinitely more painful. They had each promised you one thing and one thing only: short of death, they would sooner lose a limb or two than abandon you. He, however, had gone a step further, all but vowing to follow you to the ends of the earth. 

Of course, Keegan hadn’t exactly said as much, for such a confessional manner of speaking was beyond his realm of expertise. Still, it was difficult to dispute the torch he carried for you when one took into account the way he slipped his treasured rations of dried jerky into your back pocket, or how he gave you his undivided attention both in the field and in the privacy of his own quarters. 

Anybody with a pair of workin’ eyes can puzzle you idiots out in five seconds flat , Merrick had said once. Makes the rest of us sick. Sick, I tell you. 

Unfortunately, reality was often disappointing. And you were starting to believe that the only person who’d ever been wholly honest about their intentions with you was Rorke. 

The day you first had this passing thought was the day you officially relinquished your already-slippery grip on sanity, mind finally at a loss. Because nobody of a sound mental state would consider their captor, interrogator, and torturer to be a pillar of truth or a beacon of honesty. Nevertheless, he wasn’t the one who had given you false hope, nor had he been the one to abandon you here, leaving you to waste away and rot. From the get-go, this monster of a man had detailed the exact terrors he would inflict upon you and then subsequently followed through on his words. 

A part of you—the worn-down, bone-weary, hollowed-out part of you—respected that. 

“Why don't we start the day off with a bang, hm?” Rorke strapped your wrists down to the arms of the wooden chair in which you currently sat. Giving a sharp tug, he tightened the restraints until a tingling numbness radiated throughout the meat of your fingers. “Get the blood flowin’, so to speak.”

In your peripheral, two Feds were hooking you up to some sort of death machine, which looked like an entanglement of wires and an array of dials. Malnourishment slowed your ability to assess and process new information, so you couldn’t muster the energy to investigate whatever damage they had planned for you. 

Resistance was futile; at this point, the pain was inevitable, and the suffering was unavoidable. You possessed no power, you had no leverage, and you were losing faith in your comrades fast. Combined, it was a sure recipe for disaster. Yet, you had no choice but to see all this chaos through until it’s likely-bloody conclusion. 

Rorke took a seat in a chair of his own, positioning himself just a few feet across from you. Close enough to intimidate, but not within kicking distance. To calm your racing heart, you focused your attention onto the deep scar that sliced his left brow and trailed the contours of his face before abruptly stopping at the edge of his jaw. 

Your sense of curiosity briefly flickered to life, and you wondered if it was the handiwork of another Ghost. Maybe Merrick, your methodical, war-horse of a captain? Or the Elias Walker, known to you only in the form of tales told by his remaining men?

Regardless, the image of the healed wound birthed in you a furious desire to bestow a matching mark on the unblemished side.   

“First order of business,” the ex-Ghost began. “The Walker boy. Logan. Is he back in it again, runnin’ amok with that sorry brother of his? Haven’t seen either of their ugly mugs in a while.”

During the previous winter, you’d learned some of the details surrounding Logan’s capture and escape, both of which had occurred prior to your recruitment. Keegan had always been pretty tight-lipped about the subject, usually dismissing it altogether by redirecting you to ask Logan personally. And so you had. 

What he divulged had sickened you to the core.

Although he wasn’t a big talker, Logan Walker had unveiled the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in a series of short fragments over the course of several weeks. His recounts weren’t always delivered in chronological order, for he occasionally jumped around as trauma poured out of him like an unleashed dam. He had spoken of the isolation and the disorientation, of the physical beatings and the mental lashings. Of reliving his father’s death again and again, of the apparition of his brother shouldering him with the blame. 

The most harrowing part, however, had been the brainwashing. The manipulation of the mind and its contents, the rearrangement of orderly thoughts, beliefs, memories into a locked state of disorder. Forcing the self to become a foreign object in its own native vessel. You had thus far managed to avoid undergoing such disfiguration. Still, considering Logan’s experience mirrored yours almost exactly, it was safe to assume that you wouldn’t remain unscathed. But where his strength and sheer tenacity had foiled Rorke’s plans, you weren’t optimistic that you’d be able to replicate his success. 

Even so, no matter the evils lurking in your future, you scorned the prospect of willingly revealing any information that could be used to harm your teammates. Especially Logan. Dying would be less of a burden on your soul than condemning him to this hellscape for a second time. He’d already endured it once; to curse him twice would be beyond cruel. 

Perhaps you were a tad bit self-sacrificing. You ignored the bitter, unwelcome voice from within that questioned whether the Ghosts would do the same for you if the roles were reversed. 

Finally ready to reply, your head jerked to the left, then to the right. No.

A harsh exhale escaped his nostrils, like Rorke had expected the small defiance but was nonetheless disappointed. He snapped his fingers. 

“Wrong answer.”

To punctuate the detached statement, a sudden current of what could only be described as concentrated lightning flowed into you. Your nerves caught fire, and every single muscle housed inside of you responded by contracting painfully. The sensation caused your joints to lock, stunning you into submission. 

You felt your eyes roll back, but you willed them to refocus, threats all around. It was the sole method of motion still under your conscious control, for the rest of your body was seemingly trapped in an electric prison. However, when you glanced up at Rorke, a blurry figure to his left stole your attention instead. 

Brows furrowing, you blinked rapidly to wash away the hazy features you had grown to love, but the mirage of Keegan remained. You would’ve noticed the sharp sting of an injection, so, unlike the previous two instances, this particular hallucination hadn’t been induced by drugs. It was a break in the pattern. 

I’m going insane. Great. 

“I wouldn’t lie if I were you. We’ve got ways of verifying, y’see, so cut the shit.” A nasty, blood-curling grin spread across Rorke’s lips. His soulless vessel swelled with delight as he unleashed another cruel stream of words. “Those sons of bitches can’t be worth all this. You’re nothing to them. Nothing. They didn’t think twice ‘bout sendin’ you off to die an undignified death, alone, and yet you wanna protect them?”

He shook his head and clicked his tongue, the expression on his face morphing into a strange mix of disgust and pity. “What a damn waste.”

Another snap, another electric shock. Those two Federation technicians must have increased the number of amperes or the voltage, for this wave trumped the previous in its overwhelming intensity. 

God, you weren’t built for this. Sure, all the Ghosts had to undergo conditioning and interrogation training. But Merrick, Keegan, Hesh, and Logan had been navigating war and its unforgiving brutality for almost their entire lives. In contrast, you’d been a plain and ordinary civilian up until the moment Keegan dragged you out from beneath a pile of rubble not even three years ago. 

For your dauntless comrades, who had confronted and conquered Death many times over, a little electrocution was indeed light work. For you, however, it wasn’t so.

Perhaps an additional year of experience would’ve solidified this weakness into something ironclad. Keegan had been giving you private lessons after sunset in an attempt to speed the learning process along, but your capture had indefinitely suspended such sessions. Thus, here you would remain, unrefined and incomplete.

At present, clouding your vision with the view of your torturer was more preferable than seeing the resigned disappointment on your lover’s war-painted face.

“Y’know,” Rorke mused, “the Federation could use a soldier like you. Someone with your kind of loyalty.”

You temporarily forgot your vow of silence and gave a derisive snort. The loyalty you had for the Ghosts hadn’t been acquired through material means; no amount of promised money or power in the world had a chance of swaying you. Bonds born of bruises and blood were damn near impenetrable and immortal.  

That level of devotion couldn’t be fabricated or repurposed. 

“Now, now, there’s no need to look so sour.” He bared his teeth, donning a devilish smile. “We’ll have you singin’ a different tune soon enough.”

This is it, you thought. This is where things get ugly. 

As if the steaming pile of shit that Rorke had already dumped on you wasn’t bad enough. Still, objectively speaking, the brainwashing Logan had described would be leagues worse than even the most brutal torture you’d withstood yet. Because it wouldn’t just entail physical duress; your mental faculties would be taken hostage and subjected to radical change.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” he challenged, cocking a single brow. “Choice is yours. I’m partial to the hard way, myself.”

No answer left your lips, which was in and of itself an answer. One that elicited a sigh from Rorke and an eyebrow raise from Keegan.

“Hard way it is, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You steeled yourself for a third wave of electrocution, but nothing could mitigate the calamity brought on by the hot coils that cascaded down your spine and traveled outward to your limbs and digits. It lasted for several seconds, minutes, hours. An eternity. 

To what limits did Rorke intend to push your mind and body? A muddled sanity and crippled form would be of no use to him, surely. So what did he hope to gain?

Probably nothing special. Some people just want to watch the world burn, Keegan had told you at the beginning of your acquaintance, not long after explosives had free-fallen from the sky.

And Rorke fell squarely into that category.

“How d’you think this ends? In walks a Ghost or two, and then off into the sunset you go, happily ever after?” He sneered. “Like hell.”

The wave of his hand brought on another current of heat lightning, setting your skin aflame. You clenched every possible muscle in your jaw as he ducked down to meet your unfocused stare. Upon making contact, your fatigued eyes fluttered shut to replace the image of him with total darkness. 

A fruitless endeavor, really. The hatred carried by his gaze and the imposing outline of his figure were both irreparably ingrained into the very grooves and folds of your brain. 

But despite how he haunted your sleep and consumed much of your waking thoughts, Rorke had miraculously failed to eradicate your willpower in its entirety. Still, he had failed to isolate and exploit your Achilles’ heel; still, he was ignorant to the fact that the root of your motivations surpassed standard camaraderie. It would thus take more effort on his part than electric torture to excavate said root.

You were not yet at your breaking point. And you refused to allow today to be the day you finally cracked underneath his reign of terror. 

For a moment, the pit was silent. Then came the dreadful murmur of his long-awaited epiphany. 

“Ah, I see what this is,” Rorke said, tone giddy and ominous. “Tell me, who’s the lucky guy? Which one’s got you actin’ all stupid?” 

Your heart stopped. 

Fuck.  

“Can’t be the quiet Walker, he doesn’t seem the romantic type. And it can’t be his mouthy brother either, too busy tryin’ to avenge the death of his old man. Merrick, well, the fella don’t really swing that way, if y’catch my drift. So, by my count, that just leaves. . .”

Heedless of your wishes, your lidded stare flicked to Keegan’s impassive face. Rorke hadn’t the faintest clue about the subject of your hallucinations or even about the fact that you were currently hallucinating. Nevertheless, the break in eye contact was sufficient evidence to betray you.   

His gaze narrowed. “Bingo.”

You forced yourself to refocus on the non-imaginary man across from you, but the damage had been done.  

“Keegan P. Russ, you sly sonuva bitch,” he muttered. Rorke pursed his lips and whistled in approval. “How’d he win you over? Did he call you pretty, say you’re special? Was he your knight in shining armor?”

In truth, Keegan hadn’t even needed to lift a finger to successfully woo you. Caring for him was as easy as breathing, and it had come so naturally to you that, without him, you felt a bit like a fish out of water. You couldn’t attribute this evolution of your relationship to a singular, specific instance; rather, an aggregation of stolen moments and intimate gestures had resulted in a mutual desire for more. But, to prevent whatever was mounting between yourselves from jeopardizing the team dynamic, the two of you had agreed to take things slow. 

Maybe too slow, in retrospect. This hush-hush, test-run of a relationship had lasted a mere couple months, terminated prematurely by the man who was currently trying to fry your brain. Now your time was up, and much of Keegan would remain a mystery to you, forever undiscovered and unsolved. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret any of it. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to regret him. 

“Oh, this just keeps gettin’ better and better. I’m gonna have a whole lot of fun with you,” Rorke drawled, cracking his knuckles. A wave of apprehension washed over you, and he grinned at the horror that was surely etched into your face. “Don’t worry, I won’t kill our dear ol’ Russ.” 

Relief surged within you, rejuvenating some of our deadened spirit, but the feeling didn’t last long. Nothing remotely good ever did down here. 

“You will.”

Two little words, two little syllables shattered the illusion of Keegan, and with him went any remaining actionable hope. Try as you might, you were unable to reconjure his presence, incapable of reconstructing the facial features you had once loved to trace as he slept. Already, the pain had begun to distort his image in your mind’s eye, like how a digital photo album might be corrupted by malware. 

Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps you should compartmentalize your memories of him, of the Ghosts, and of the resistance into tiny boxes, sealing them shut then storing them far, far away. Not just out of Rorke’s reach, but out of yours too.  

Because, ultimately, time was on the side of your enemies. Your body would erode first, followed by your sanity and ending with your soul; such was inevitable. Recognizing you were powerless to circumvent this fate, you instead sought to curate the information that would be revealed to Rorke once he finally penetrated your mental bastion. If you purged anything to do with the Ghosts from your memory bank, then the knowledge you possessed couldn’t be weaponized against them. 

The only way you could counteract Rorke’s plans was by forgetting the life you’d built alongside Keegan and the others. Even as you now sat tied up and riddled with convulsions, you were thinking about the four soldiers who had become your home, about how to protect them. Any strategizing you did was to discern a method of silent survival for their sake, not yours. Never yours.

You tried to stave off the bitterness that crept deeper into your heart. 

“Conserve your energy. You’ll be needin’ it for what I’ve got planned,” the older man advised, though his sinister chuckle contradicted any notion of good faith. The metal legs of his chair scraped against the ground as he pushed himself backwards and stood to his full height. “And it should go without saying—”

Rorke let the sentence break off and linger in the tense atmosphere. During these sessions, you’d learned that the older man had somewhat of a proclivity for theatrics. The ex-Ghost derived sick pleasure from randomly dropping bombs of intel on you to instigate a reaction, or from watching you struggle to persist in spite of the various mental and physical agonies he had inflicted. 

A true sadist.

“None of those sorry bastards are gonna barge in and save the day, so give that dream up already. You won’t be found. I mean, how’re they s'posed to find what they ain’t even lookin’ for?”

The sound of retreating footsteps meant Rorke had finally taken his leave, marking the conclusion of this interrogation. But, as the two remaining Feds prepared to conduct another bolt of electricity through your depreciating body, you knew that the prescribed torture had only just begun. 

You hung your head and stared unblinkingly at your bound wrists, at your traumatized fingers, still twitching from the aftershocks. Tremors born of fear, pain, rage. Rage at Rorke, at yourself. 

At Keegan. 

In a kinder world, perhaps Keegan would’ve been around to hold your hands in his, to soothe your scorched flesh with a gentle, mindless rub of his thumb. A fierce longing for him gripped your heart, yearning for that Keegan who could glean your emotional state at any given moment as informed by the mere hitch in your breath or the rhythm of your pulse. 

That Keegan, who let you crawl into his arms and steal his warmth on harsh winter nights, no questions asked. That Keegan, who caught the glazed-over look in your eyes whenever certain topics arose in conversation and thus tried to distract you by playing a game of I Spy, your favorite childhood pastime. That Keegan, who had once nearly broken a man’s wrist for daring to grab the collar of your shirt; he’d been the perfect picture of Death-incarnate, a fierce protector with his stone-cold warning and intimidating stare.

This Keegan, however, was all too different.

Because this Keegan did not come to your rescue. No, instead, he had left you here to die.

tbc.

[awritesthings1]

Here, there, and everywhere

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker/Reader

Summary: Takes place yearsssss after "How to Disappear" Epilogue.

-

“Take my hand, Ani.”

So he does, just like he has been doing over the past few decades.

“Am I dead?”

Your smile catches like little hooks in his skin, guiding him gently through the great, big puddle, which stretches infinitely on all sides. His feet aren’t wet, and there are no ripples or tension in the water. There is only stillness, silence, and you.

“Jedi don’t die, Ani. They move on to greater things.”

He likes that, he thinks. He isn’t too sure where he is, or even who he is, but he’s okay with that. The great, big silence, he realizes, is his own, so he steps back, expecting to hear the sloshing of water. He is caught between fear and wonder when the water remains still and quiet, seemingly unaffected by his presence, like he was never there.

You shush him and step forward to cup his cheeks. He protests for only a moment when he swears that he sees a Jedi with shaggy golden hair looking up at him with the same unsettled frown.

“Anakin, come back to me.”

He blinks because it is easy. He blinks because it’s easier to see nothing than to see a hundred mirrors looking at each other. He inhales sharply because it’s the human thing to do, and he gasps and lunges forward to clutch your shoulders when he can’t feel any air entering his lungs.

He expects you to shove him away, but you only pull him closer and bring his forehead to yours so he can steal the breath between your lips.

“Come back to me,” you whisper more insistently, brushing your thumbs over the vein on his neck, where he hopes his pulse is throbbing.

He hums and meets your eyes. It slows down the space around him, and he begins to see beyond the water, beyond the five senses, into a place where he is everywhere all at once. He is the seas, the mountains, the valleys, the people, the rain, and the sun all at once. And you are there too—the tree to his fruit, the grief to his mourning.

You paint in the colors around him. The first notable one is blue. You are blue, and he is blue. You are glowing like the falling rocks from space that light up the night sky, and he is the darkness watching your light with curiosity. And just when he thinks you are passing by, that smile of yours hooks itself deeper into his skin, and you are falling through the night air together.

He feels full and satiated when you share your blue glow with him. Together, you are the blue ghosts of the Force, wandering the land but not lost.

It is here, there, and everywhere that love follows.

You—the ever-experienced force ghost—teach him the Force all over again as if he were a youngling. He makes some awful joke about haunting some Jedi that got on his nerves, and you rightly tug on his ghostly blue Jedi cloak.

Oh.

That’s another thing.

He wears his Jedi uniform as a Force ghost, even if he wasn’t exactly loyal to the cause his whole life. It takes some getting used to; his cloak, for the most part, was permanently folded away on the top shelf in their Nabooian cottage. The uniform did nothing for the perilous summers on the coastal planet anyway. Now it hangs on his shoulders like it's never left.

It takes some time to come to terms with being a Force ghost, and he now holds more respect for you now that you’ve done it twice. He’s older now; you both are. You grew old together and lived. A part of him hurts when he sees his reflection in the still lake, vacant of all his hard-earned wrinkles and scars, all of which he proudly wore like badges to say, yes, I lived. Even in death, he is still a little stubborn. He’s still Anakin Skywalker. It’s just dissociating to see his past self when he was so unhappy and in a dark place. He doesn’t relate to that boy anymore. He’s grown, changed, and he wants to see that reflected in the water.

And when he’s ready to stand up and shift away into the wind, you’re there, hand on his shoulder, wearing that soft, understanding gaze, saying, I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you. Those three words banish the darkness and welcome him into a warm embrace of love. Forgiveness is never too late.

You take to your new life with the grace he remembers. It scares him at first, seeing you as the blue ghost that haunted him all that time ago. He tries to sink away when those feelings surface, but he knows you see right through him. It’s confronting prying open things he’d rather keep closed. There’s no privacy in his life. There’s no his life, only life. He belongs to the Force, and so do you, but you also live independent of the Force, and are just beings existing. It’s all very confusing.

But there’s one thing that still remains.

“Do you think Yoda is a Force ghost?” Anakin asks.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. He mentors orphans and teaches them the way of the Force,” you whisper, too focused on your meditation to say much more.

Anakin scoffs. “I’m that replaceable, am I?”

You sigh, open your eyes, and turn to him.

“Careful, Skywalker. Sounds like you’re getting jealous.”

“I’m not jealous!”

“Hmm.”

“I’m not!”

…

“Do you think Obi-Wan’s still around?”

You smile.

“He still dreams about you.”

Anakin perks up.

“He does? How do you know?”

A part of him already suspects the answer.

You intertwine your hands.

“He never stopped looking for you, Ani.”

A poison named guilt sours his tongue.

“I… I should go find him then. Tell him I’m fine.”

You shake your head. You’re not upset; you look more at peace.

“He knows, Ani. He knows.”

Anakin can’t quite understand how, he’s still new to this Force ghost thing.

“…And he’s happy?”

You nod with a smile and squeeze his hand.

Only one more thing troubles Anakin.

“Do you think I’ll ever see him again?”

“He’ll come find you when he’s ready.”

You pull him into your arms, and he buries his nose in the crook of your shoulder like old times. Your laughter lifts his spirits.

“You have much to learn, young Padawan.”

There’s no place to start like the end.

[phantomjackal]

He let out a sound mixed between a cough and gurgle as he felt his throat closing tighter and tighter. Burning built up in his chest and head from the sudden lack of oxygen. Saliva slipped out of his mouth. He tightened his grip on the girl's wrist, digging his claws further in. Legs kicked desperately. In short, he couldn't breathe!

A soft red glow formed under his cloak. The gem imbedded in his chest reacted to the panic that was now on the forefront of his mind. It grew brighter and brighter, bathing the two canines in its aura until－

There was a pop and crackle. The jackal let out a yelp with the last air he could muster. His body shook with effort, his grip loosening. Eyes rolling back and closing.

@phantomjackal // From here.

Lycanna can hardly be described as a violent individual - in fact, on most occasions, she's quite gentle.

But that doesn't mean she's to be underestimated, either. She more than proved herself capable during the war against Dr. Eggman. And when she sees that hauntingly familiar figure - the mask may be gone, but she knows it's him, she would know him anywhere, the memories burned into her mind - she acts on instinct alone.

She's rushing in before she even realizes it, her boots stomping against the ground, and then her hands are clenched tightly around his throat.

Her eyes may gleam yellow, but Lycanna is seeing red.

Lycanna's lips curl back over her teeth, baring her sharp, sharp fangs, ones that Infinite should be intimately familiar with. With her hands occupied, she can't exactly stop him when he slashes at her face, at least not without letting him go, which she isn't going to do, but she scarcely even flinches as he leaves bloody lines across her face, marring the gray and white fur.

"You..."

She all but snarls the word, her gaze boring into the jackal. "Why are you still here? How are you still here??" No one had been able to find him after the final battle - and she had searched thoroughly - so they all thought him dead...yet, despite that, here he is. Alive.

Her hands squeeze tighter.

[raiynnah]

Beast

@wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 827

In a world of black and white, starkly split between burning light and voracious darkness, there are only the gods and the god-fearing. With the inescapable tragedy of childhood as his shadow, Remus understands all too well that there are no shades between the sinless and the sin. There is no fall when there is an inherent corruption that ripples through his features, reflecting his soul and physical being. Like two mirrors facing each other in judgement, infinite depictions betray him through his looks.

Remus gazes into the water, which is pure and true and most importantly honest, his eyes cutting over the monstrosity that stains the river reflection like oil, forever separate. 

In a world of monsters and gods, the beast does not notice the deity behind him, caught up in his cage. Instead he sighs, defeated, not snarling at his prison like his nature deems he would.

“Careful,” warns a voice, sweeter than the honey that kings delight in, sweeter even than the ambrosia the gods hoard. “We don't want another Narcissus, do we?” Remus startles, confused at the spoonful of genuine conversation offered to him when he grew up licking any sweetness off knives. He knows the sweetness of pain, of the ache in his muscles and the blood in his mouth when he bites his tongue, and not much more.

“You must be blind if you think that to be currently possible,” Remus answers bitterly. A delighted laugh erupts from the person behind him.

“I see more than you ever will, mortal.” Remus stills, thoughts freezing over, and turns to face the stranger.

There stands the shape of a man, blurry at the edges like light when it fades out, tall, proud and amused. Leaning on one foot, arms crossed, with a smile on his face, he looks human. But it does not distract Remus’ attention from the way that impossibly black strands of hair—the colour of the distance between stars—spill delicately over his shoulders, curving like the familiar blades of enemies or Remus’ hands around water as he scoops it up to drink. His skin glows like the moon; smooth, pale, and as cold-looking as marble. He is beautiful, made up of contrasts of death and life.

“I am no mortal, my lord.” Without a name, Remus treads carefully, relying on a title he’s unsure of. The god tilts his head the way dogs do, yet his stare remains that of a wolf.

“You are no god either.” It’s not said like a question but rings faintly like one anyway.

“I am cursed by one of your own, my lord.” The silver in the god’s eyes as they narrow reminds Remus of his father’s swords, displayed proudly to visitors, and the coins his mother counted after each fight, leaving behind a frustrated opponent that promised to win next time.

“Do you not know who I am? As much as I find it pleasant to be called yours, I have a name like most others.” When he winks, Remus thinks he must have slipped into the realm of dreams unknowingly, because surely this could not be real.

“I…apologise,” he starts, scratching the scar on his skin self-consciously. “I have not been allowed into temples since I was four. My name is Remus Lupin.”

“Sirius, god of souls.” Prince of the Underworld, guide to the dead when he leads them into his father Orion’s domain. It clicks into place in Remus’ mind so easily he wonders if the knowledge comes from him or Sirius. “What did you do wrong at four to be cursed?”

“Be born to a woman who married a man whose hubris had no limits.” It’s not a unique story, a son punished for his father’s mistakes, so he does not go into detail of his father’s strength in battle and weakness in wisdom. “So now I am a monster, inside and out.”

“I know monsters, Remus. I am even fated to marry one, or so they say. Trust me on the fact that they may know appearances but I know souls. They may paint you as a beast but a painting is a reflection of the artist, not the subject.” Remus is quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his words stolen by the wind. Sirius smiles, somehow still having heard it.

Sirius goes to sit next to Remus, eyes never leaving the river. When their reflections shudder with the current, he wonders what Sirius sees. A monster and a saviour? (Sirius sees a man glowing faintly, animalistic features fading in the warm light, next to empty space, but he will not share that for many years, not until the titles my mortal, love, and soul become a daily blessing. Gods have only appearances and divinity.)

“Your soul is purer than mine could ever be, Remus Lupin.” It sounds like an apology and a promise, it sounds like the rustle of hands as the fates weave two strings together.

[inbabylontheywept]

The Price

Mithrain’s hands were thick boned and knotted with scars. Unfit tools for anything delicate. Yet they were all he had, so he traded patience for true dexterity. Where humans had skill and elves had grace, dwarves had time.

His fingers carefully tugged the knotted fabrics apart. Blanket by blanket, twist by twist, the bundle came undone until, at last, an infant lay on the war table.

It was human. Unmistakably so – round ears peeked through a halo of blonde hair. It reached forward with tiny hands and wrapped all ten of its fingers around the dwarves' thumb. Both its index fingers still lingered a full inch from meeting. Mithrain looked down at it with true warmth. Then he looked back up at the elves and gave a command.

“Kill it.”

No one at the table moved. The circle of elves looked from the child, to him, then back. To their credit, the tension was more borne of  confusion than moral wavering. They knew they would not do it. They did not know why they were being asked.

Solathan the Elder spoke first.

“No,” he replied.

Mithrain nodded. The refusal was not merely hoped for, it had been expected.

“This is why you will not win.”

The table sat in contemplative silence. Solathan, bravest amongst the elves, most forward, most dwarf, spoke again.

“Because we will not murder infants?”

“Because this infant is the son of Agamedes. He is the last king of the Hinterlands. Humans grow old quickly – in twenty five years he will be a man, and he will start a war just like the one you are fighting today. A war suspiciously similar to the one you fought twenty-five years ago.”

The words were calm, but he watched the generals hands closely. Even a twitch towards a belt knife would be enough to betray temptation. Yet, each hand remained perfectly still.

There was a short pulse of shame in him. Envy. When he’d had this conversation with his own war council all those centuries ago, there had been several who’d considered it. Who had considered the price of such self-degredation.

“You will not win. You could. But you see the cost now, and you know it is too high. You want to honor your treaties, your duties, your integrity, but you know the word for that which lacks soul but keeps contracts. You’ve fought them with me, in the deepest, darkest depths of the stone.” 

Solathan had gone white. He knew. He’d been so focused on winning this war that he’d failed to look ahead to the next. And the next. And the next. The cycle stood out to him, infinite and spiraling. He froze at the thought of walking down into that abyss.

“I could raise it. Him. I could try and break the cycle. I-“

“He will learn from another human. Another infant that grows to manhood. He will learn, and he will burn your house and throne. Do you think I am so wise, as to see the future without having lived the past? Whatever cleverness you will suggest, I have tried. I fought ten generations of warriors on the same field before I realized I had three options. To burn my soul, to trap myself in endless war, or to lose. So I lost.”

His voice cracked on the last three words. The infant had begun to fuss over the cold, and he went to work swaddling it again. He’d made his point - now it was time to take the princling home. But as his hands made their slow work, he gave his final warning. 

“You did not know when you started this. And you would not have listened if I had told you. But you know now. And if I meet you in those darkest depths, I will know what sent you there. The only pity you will find from me after that is a second death."

He finished his work in silence, leaving as he came. The quiet lasted long after. 

[phantomjackal]

@blackblured sent:

"You sound a bit delusional, you know."

Questioning Starters 「⟡」Open

"Oh?" He scoffed. His shoulders began to shake as a fit of laughter overwhelmed him. A grin formed across his muzzle, fangs glinting in the light. He eyed the hedgehog with a look of madness.

"Do I now? Sorry we all can't be perfect like you, oh wonderful Mr. Ultimate Lifeform!"

[izvmimi]

cw: angst.

“I know you’re probably sick of me calling, and I wish I could stop, but…” your voice pauses over the speakerphone and you swallow thickly. Your mouth is at once both dry and your throat wet with phlegm from crying and you resist the urge to sniffle, and make it obvious to him that you���re crying. But it’s moot at this point, isn’t it? You’re calling in the middle of the night, out of the blue, and it’s been months by now, and it’s obvious by the wobbling timbre of your voice that you’re not okay. 

Never okay. You don’t think you’ll ever be okay. Breathing in deeply and pulling your legs to your chest, you let yourself sigh carefully to prevent a sob. 

“I just… I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m reaching out to you again.”

There’s no answer from the other line, and there probably won’t be, and you let that realization hit you for the hundredth time in the past two weeks since the love you’ve been trying to stonewall came crashing right back into your heart and left it back in disarray, with you far too unequipped to pick up the pieces. Your hand runs through your hair anxiously and then your thumb goes to your mouth as you bite your nails.

You probably look a mess and you’re thankful he can’t see you. Tonight was a particularly bad night, where you’ve succumbed to your destructive tendencies and left your room a mess, and now have to sit in the center, clothes thrown haphazardly and papers, pictures,old gifts, torn up posters strewn all around the floor. 

“I’m just sick of seeing you everywhere.”

That’s not something you can help, and even he can’t help it. You’ll have to live with that. The fact that he remains in the world not loving you and you remain in the world unable to move on. 

“But I didn’t call today to argue with you yet again… I just… I just wish things had ended differently.”

Everything comes to an end and no one has infinite patience, no matter what they claim. 

You bite your lip. You’re not saying anything groundbreaking; anyone with a brain would think that. You ended things horribly; difficult to make happy, combative, argumentative, demanding, closed off, just plain mean to someone who only wanted to love you. 

If you could have released him without swiping at him, without wounds and scars a better person would have to soothe, perhaps you’d be a better person. 

But you’re not. 

“I wish I had appreciated you. Had known what to do with a love like yours.”

Rather than holding it so jealously you crushed it between your fingertips.

You take in a deep breath, and say it, once again, straight from your heart.

“I miss you.”

Someone who’s tasted kindness and freedom will never go back into bondage, no matter how much they love you. 

You should correct that. You miss being loved by him, you miss being adored, you miss taking and taking and taking from someone who seemed to have limitless capacity to care.

But you don’t. After all, you’re the type to gorge yourself full when given the opportunity; eat as though tomorrow doesn’t exist.

“I wish I was different. Better to you.”

Your feet are suddenly freezing and you tuck them under you - in another world, he’d have even warmed your feet, massaged them and smiled, found you socks he bought himself and slipped them on with a reminder to treat yourself better. 

To treat yourself well.

But you don’t know how to treat anyone well, not even yourself.

“I know I ruin everything good eventually, and I wish I hadn’t tried to ruin you too.”

Your chest is starting to ache again.

“I’m sorry.”

Tears come to your eyes for a moment and you can’t help but let out a sound as you try to blink them back before praying the receiver doesn’t pick up that pathetic sound. 

“I’m sorry I’m so bold as to wish for you to come back.”

You raised your white flag just a little too late, turned around to see him no longer walking behind you, following you home like a loyal dog instead of trying desperately to reach into the abyss with no end that is your sorry excuse for a soul.

“I’m sorry I still love you.”

As if a warning from above to shut the fuck up, you sob and swallow wrong, choking on your own saliva. Hanging up as you try to recover your breath, you find yourself transitioning into a cry that doesn’t end until you’ve fallen asleep.

…

“Did someone call?” she asks. He’s been staring at his phone, laid on the surface of the bathroom sink, for the past 30 minutes, deciding whether or not he should bother listening to this message. He’s listened to every single one before this one, taken every expletive and excuse in stride, and perhaps he shouldn’t endure it again. In fact, by now it’s a mystery why he hasn’t blocked your number yet, but there’s that nagging sensation, the one that’s allowed you to hurt him for this long, that you’re a hurt soul that just wants to be heard, even if it’s not his job to bear the brunt of it every single time. 

But as he looks at the voicemail, he can sense a sort of finality to it. He has the feeling after this one, you won’t call again, and yet. 

“Mm. But it’s late, I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

She smiles and lets her hand rest gently on his cheek. He smiles and turns his head to kiss her palm, then gently lets his fingers close around her wrist to pull her away. 

“Are you coming back to bed?”

She looks pretty in her soft lacey nightgown and even prettier out of it, he thinks for a moment. Of course he’s coming back to her. She’s home, even if he was temporarily lost. 

Nodding, he tells her he’ll be there in a minute and she smiles. Too trusting to even worry about what her love is doing in the middle of the night that’s got him frowning so deeply; too explicitly loved and filled with gratitude to be anxious. 

He sighs once she’s out of view and picks up the phone. 

The voicemail is deleted.

Something inside him seems to rot and wither away, but he doesn’t wince. He takes another look towards the master bedroom where she awaits.

Then he blocks your number and goes back to sleep. 

Should have done it a while ago but late is better than never.

[ladyevol]

And here it is! My first fic for my Hotguy Must Die au. I'm posting some of it here, but for those who want to read everything, you can find the fic in AO3. Going forward, I plan on writing one shot fics for this AU exploring the characters and the world building in general since this is my version of what Hotguy might look like. Let me know who you'd like to see explored in future installments. You can check out the rest here

____________________________________

Wolfbane

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Ships: Scar X Grian (very minor in this one, you can definitely see them as platonic), Pearl X Original Character

Tags: Character death, minor character death, Angst, werewolves, Abusive relationships (not between any of the main characters)

The first thing that the man felt after what appeared to be infinite void was warmth. It touched his skin faintly at first, however, the more stationary he remained, the more determined it became to bring him back to the world of the living. Then, he felt the dirt beneath him, reminding him that he was no longer falling in nothingness for all of eternity. Next, there was the sound of birds in the distance, the wind in his ears and his chest and finally the feeling of something soft and familiar pressing against his cheek. The man finally opened his eyes.

There was a time when he would have been much more desperate to wake up, to escape nothing and return to the world of the living, often accompanied by gasps, quick movement and eyes looking to the sides. Now though, all he felt as he came back was tired. The darkness felt almost welcoming, as if his moments inside it were the only time he could truly rest. Of course, those thoughts were nothing but wishful thinking. Even if he did lay there forever, death would eventually find him again and it was never kind.

This time death came in the form of his neighbor, as it often did. What it wasn't normally, however, was Pearl. She, despite being one of the most capable people he knew, was also one of his neighbors who had given him the least of a bad time. Pearl Moon was once a hunter, one of the guards who were tasked with protecting the city from the monsters and dangers that spawned with the night by tracking them down and destroying, however, an unfortunate encounter with a werewolf left to her forever tarnished, even if she was the winner by the end. The woman, now contaminated with lycanthrope, was ‘asked’ to retire by her supervisors, leading her to eventually moving into the complex and taking a job as a mailwoman, the same role he met her as and that she continued to enact in the many years they had been friends, so the idea that Pearl would just forget to take her medicine that kept her hunger under control was difficult to believe. Yet, it was her claws that had torn through his torso the previous night, her teeth that gnashed his bones and her mutated fingers that pulled his heart from his chest in his final moments of consciousness. He really didn't want to think what she had done with the rest of his body after his death.

Scar rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times to see a familiar gray and white cat looking down at him. Her sight always managed to make his situation feel at least a little bit better. “Hello there.” He said softly and reached to scratch the back of her ear and the cat purred in return, tail curling to let her glee be known. “Always on time, aren't you, Jellie?”

Six in the morning, that was when Scar awoke after every death and around the same place, the hole of Boatem, located in the ruins of an old village in the woods not too far from the city that had burned down twenty something years prior and left the area as a graveyard for its previous residences. The fire had consumed all plant life and since nothing had managed to grow there. Even people had reported to feel uneasy and even sick from being there for too long, so most tried to avoid it. Scar didn't have a choice. Death would always find him and he would always wake up the next day right there. He had grown as certain of it as he was that the sun would rise again the following morning.

“At least it isn't raining this time, right?” He spoke to Jellie who replied with a meow before he looked at the clothes and wheelchair next to the cat. “I'm hoping that you brought some better clothes for me this time, Jellie.” She meowed as he slipped it on, “yeah, yeah, I know, I know, making me wheel around in False's dress was funny and I did slay with it,” his voice became more high pitched and he laughed. “But she wasn't too happy that I had her dress. You'll make people think I'm a creep or something who goes around stealing the clothes of his friends. I would like to be able to at least keep my friendships, please.” He finished with the oversized gray hoodie he recognized as his roommate's, Cub, back from when he was in college and he was pretty sure the black sweatpants were his as well. He didn't know why Jellie wouldn't just bring him his own clothes, but he could at least explain why he was wearing his roommates clothes pretty easily. All of his other clothes were washing and Cub didn't actually care, so that was that.

The brunette man sat on his chair, buckled his belt and began rolling away on the dirt with the cat laying on his lap.

It took Scar thirty minutes to return to the city, and from there, another hour and a half to get inside his complex. The city was buzzing with life as always, none the wiser that their main hero and vigilante, Hotguy, had met yet another gruesome end the previous night. There was a time when it drove him mad that no one could remember his demise. All of his pain and suffering, all his blood spilled and tears and broken bones and he couldn't get an ounce of comfort or relief anything, any sort of response other than curiosity as to why Scar had disappeared all of a sudden or whatever their minds told them that had happened. Now though he was almost glad that was the case. It was best if he just suffered alone. He was used to it anyway. Even physical evidence of his deaths seemed to get mysteriously corrupted. Photos, videos, nothing worked. It was clear to him that whatever kept bringing him back didn't want to be seen. It was almost a shame that Hotguy wholeheartedly disagreed with the idea.

His smile was everywhere, from posters to billboards to shirts worn by the youth. They all knew hotguy, the hero who would die for the safety if he had to and he would. Over and over again, regardless if he wanted to or not, so, might as well make the best out of it. Death would always come after him, but maybe he could use that as an opportunity to prevent it from coming for someone else. Seeing the tears of joy of a mother being reunited with her son after all hope was lost or the joy of a child holding their kitty thought to be lost almost made it all worth it. It was at least enough to make him keep going.

Scar pushed the door of the building open and was immediately met with the smell of mold, dust and different types of food being prepared in the nearby apartments above him. His place wasn't anything fancy, in fact, quite the opposite. Some might think the building to be old and in extreme need of renovations, but to Scar it only gave it personality and made it one of the few affordable places in the city for a lesser known architect still hoping to make a name for himself with a working elevator. Scar pushed the button and waited for the doors to open before rolling inside. After selecting his floor, he waited for the door to shut, only for it to be interrupted by an arm being shoved between the doors just before they met. “WAIT!”

“Huh?” Scar blinked as the metal retreated to reveal a shorter man with pale skin and dirty blonde hair. The glasses around his black eyes made it seem considerably smaller than they actually were, like dots on a canvas and the scarf around his neck hid away his mouth and part of his nose. The rest of his body was covered by a similarly colored sweater and gray leggings. Grian strolled inside without another world and stood next to Scar after making sure that the man had indeed clicked the right button to their floor. “Oh, hey G. How are ya?”

As soon as the doors were shut, Grian replied by flicking Scar's forehead who immediately rubbed the area, less so due to the pain and more so from instinct. “What was that for?!”

“What the hell was the bright idea, huh?! Leaving me all alone with a WEREWOLF?! Scar, she could have killed me!”

He knew. She nearly did. They had underestimated Pearl's intelligence while fully transformed. A hunter was a hunter, even as a wolf like monster unable to speak or recognize those around her. She tricked them into thinking that they had the upper hand, only to use the opening to attack the one of the two of them she thought to be weaker, smaller. Scar refused to let any harm come to his partner, even if that meant jumping in front of her jaws. The rest he would rather forget. “Right, right, sorry, I just really needed to use the bathroom all of a sudden, haha.” Scar forced a laugh and rubbed the back of his head.

Grian took a deep breath. “You can't trick me, Scar. I know you just got scared and ran away. You always do this! Honestly, what would people think if they learned that their greatest hero, the only one in the city that isn't a dog for the government, is a fraud?! A coward that runs away when things get too rough! You are meant to be a symbol of hope, Scar!” Grian grabbed his face and squeezed his cheeks while staring into his green eyes. “Act like it!”

Scar gently moved his hands to grab Grian's wrists gently and pull them away. The younger man let him. “Sorry, G. Really, I just- can't help it.” He sighed, “but hey, at least Hotguy can always count on his aMAYzing sidekick to clean up the mess, huh?”

Grian exhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, “right. The thing is, Cuteguy isn't nearly as popular as Hotguy now, is he? People don't like Watchers, Scar. You know what they do like? Underdog's story, like a regular guy that somehow manages to defeat all the monsters the hunters were supposed to keep us safe from and the weirdos that keep appearing every day.”

“Well, I'm not a complete regular Joe, G. You know that.”

“Right, you have Vex blood in you from,” he began counting on his fingers, “four generations ago?”

“Three, actually.”

“Wow, amazing. You can use your magic to aim really well and walk for a limited amount of time.”

“Ouch.”

“C'mon, Scar. You know what I mean! You're the image of everything everyone in this city wants to be. You're their hero. You need to start acting like it.”

Scar looked down. Grian was right. He needed to do better. Be better. Everyone was counting on him. It was just so difficult to do it most days, when he knew that eventually the pain would come again, he would die in a horrific way and no one would even remember. He felt so isolated most of the time, distant like there was a wall separating him and the rest of the world. He couldn't even remember a time when it wasn't there. “Sorry Grian.” He said finally, “you're right. I just got scared.” Scar was always. So. Scared.

Grian looked at him for a moment before his shoulders sagged and his gaze softened. “It's fine. Whatever. It's not like I got hurt in the end. Apparently, just after you left, Pearl found this sack of meat that she ate for long enough for me to bring her down and lock her.”

Ah. So that was what he saw his body as this time. A literal sack of meat. “Y-yeah, pretty lucky. Did she get hurt? Did the police?”

“No, I left with her before the guards arrived. And the hunters. Like I said, after eating she was considerably more amiable. Werewolves are not brainless. They are just hungry.

The more Grian spoke, the sicker Scar felt. “Ok, and did you manage to talk to her after she transformed back? Is her boyfriend ok?”

“Yeah. Apparently the worst thing that happened was her standing him up since they were supposed to have a date. I don't think she told him what happened. I'm not even sure he knows what she is.” Grian gently scratched Jellie's ear. She purred.

“So there were no casualties.”

“No. Only a butcher shop that got invaded and a lot of meat that was stolen. Compared to our other jobs, it was pretty clean actually.” It certainly didn't feel clean. The door opened and Grian walked out, holding the door for Scar long enough for him to roll out. “Listen, you should at least talk to her sometime, ok? Comforting people is your expertise, not mine. It's part of the reason why people love you.”

“Silver tongue Scar, that's what they call me.” The brunette smiled slightly, “should I go as, you know.” He tilted his head to his door slightly.

“That's for you to decide. But whatever you do, do it quickly. Also, you really gotta steal people's pants, man. They just don't look good on you.” Scar looked down at his pants that were seemingly slipping away before pulling away. “Thank-” the door shut behind Grian, leaving Scar all alone in the hallway.

The exhaled deeply before turning around to go to his apartment, located in front of Grian's only to then stop to look at the apartment next to his. It was Pearl's apartment. Normally, she would be already heading to work around that time, would she have skipped that day after what happened? Or would she throw herself in even harder to try and think about anything else? After a moment considering it, he realized the second option sounded a lot more like Pearl. Maybe Hotguy would pay her a visit after solving a few more issues.