#— ✥ ⦙ gone fishing ⧼ queue. ⧽

[dehvoursarc]

Foul Legacy - a quick rundown

The being that fused with Ajax when he first fell into the Abyss is an abyssal creature that gives him the ability to transform: I distinguish between the FL Transformation (being their transformed state) and FL itself.

Sk.irk taught him how to control the transformation, and the FL Transformation is a 'partial' transformation — partway between the human and the abyssal, an amalgamation of the two of them. This is also why it looks somewhat similar to the shadow inside the Narwhal.

FL tends to react to danger to protect them, and sometimes it will not 'let go' of his form if it still feels danger is present. It will not do so until it feels safe, despite the strain it puts on Ch.ilde's body.

They have both been influenced by each other, and although FL doesn't quite understand humans, it feels a sense of protectiveness over those Ch.ilde cares for, and it will also react to what he wants to protect.

While Ch.ilde uses both he and it pronouns, FL uses strictly it/its pronouns.

[devourensarc]

❛ you should’ve thought about that before you got into a fight. ❜ (thoma chiding him as he patches him up??? :eyes:)

@daybreakrising

❝  Eheh. . . ❞ Despite his complaints, no shame tinges the Harbinger's laugh. Thoma's hands were gentle as he cleaned his wounds, but the water still stung, and Childe squirmed on his seat with every touch.

Someone cleaning him up after a fight was an unfamiliar feeling but, despite the sting, it wasn't an unwelcome one. He only ever gave himself the bare minimum of first aid, and the many scars decorating his skin testified to that.

And despite the sting, he saw no reason why it should dissuade him from starting such fights in the future. He'd won, and none of his injuries were severe. If it would get Thoma to do this again, though. . .

❝  Worried about me? ❞ He lets his head fall backwards, watching upside - down as Thoma rinses the bloody rag again.

[leverage-ot3]

op's tags: #and Again when the train comes#bc he cant put hardison in danger. thats where his priorities lie

that sequence in the Gone Fishin' Job where Hardison and Eliot get taken hostage is Really Something because like. Eliot's looking around and he's counting. and he's deciding whether he can risk a fight. and then he looks over at Hardison. at the guns aimed at Hardison. and he goes without a fight. cause he can take a bullet, he can take the risk, but Hardison can't. that ain't ever an option.

[netherfeildren]

Kiss, Kiss, Kill, Kill!

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel is a long haul truck driver. One day he finds a pretty girl in a diner and decides he’d like to keep her. 

Murder and sex ensue!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak; Graphic depictions of violence; Murder; Blood; Gore; Threat of SA; Impotence; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Loss of virginity; Virginity kink; Breeding kink; Spit kink; Rough sex; Pussy slapping; Dark!Joel; Mean!Joel (also kinda crazy and pathetic); Obsessive behavior; Possessive behavior; Discussions of suicidal ideations; Unreliable narrators; Alcoholism; Consensual non consent kind of (But not previously discussed - they're both into it tho); Use of misogynistic language; Grief

A/N: Hi :) Another one just bc I have no self control. 

Parts of the narrative read a little disjointed and/or confusing. This is intentional. I was kind of trying something weird out here, I guess.

Word Count: 9.7K

Read on AO3

The first time Joel sees you, it’s a Thursday. His least hated day of the week, but not his favorite, for he doesn’t really have any favorite things anymore. Your eyes’d stunned him at that first look. They sparkled as if dusted with frost – speared him with an intensity that burned. 

But no… that was a lie, and Joel is trying not to be such a liar anymore. He does have one favorite thing now. This middle-of-nowhere diner, this place where’d he’d found you. 

The first time he’d actually talked to you, you’d interrupted his own stubborn, sour silence with a silence of your own. Different, agonizing, compared to your usual persistent fishing for his attention. 

“What’re you doin’ out here in this wasteland, sweetheart?” Because you look sweet as that cherry pie you’re always trying to push on him. 

“Been here my whole life.” It’s verging on evening, the sky gone to melancholy, and there’s a young girl with dark hair weeping on the shoulder of an older woman in the booth over. He wants to snap at her, demand to know what the fuck she could possibly have to cry over? He’s sure she mustn’t have a dead daughter like him, and so there really seems to be no reason for tears. 

“No plans to leave?”

You shake your head, hum a little, set the coffee pot down on the edge of the table to pop a hip out and think on your answer. “Guess you could say I’m a little bit weak or scared, don’t know.”

“Doubt that,” a surprised laugh forced out of him. Entirely improbable, he knows this just by looking at you. “You’ve got eyes that seem as if they’ve never held fear within them in your entire life.” And he makes you laugh at that, head thrown back, throat rippling. The sound like the tolling of the bell indicating the start of the rest of his life. 

When you’re done gifting him your laughter, you ask, “What about you? Why are you here?”

“My daughter died.” Plain. 

Your eyes seem to shutter or flicker, something like a chimera about them, “When?”

“Two years ago.” He watches the crying girl and the old woman get up to go. And then the two of you are alone. You move to sit in the booth across from him. He’d been coming in here to see you for more than half that time since, and now, the first time the two of you are having an actual conversation, and this is what he’s decided to open with. But really, it’s the only story he has to tell anymore. He watches you watch him for a long moment, as though you’re searching for something within him, or mulling over what it is you want to say to him, the shift of your jaw from side to side as you chew on your words. He feels easily frightened now – fragile – and yet vibrantly malignant, at the same time. A juxtaposition on two opposite ends of the spectrum of good and not so good, or perhaps, verging on very, terribly bad, in the grocery store line of human morality. Two Joel’s at the start and end of the queue who could not seem to come to terms with one another. Enemies – they were enemies of each other. A Joel who’d once had a daughter, and a Joel who now did not. A Joel who’d pulled a trigger at his own temple, and one who’d never even considered such a thing. He draws his finger along the line of scar tissue at his temple.

For a long time he’d wanted to tear a hole in his world and escape, but he was no master of inventiveness. On the contrary, he found his attempt rather miserly – had short changed himself at the last moment and flinched. But perhaps, it had been for this reason – for you, to find you. He wishes he could peer inside your mind, crack open your skull and read everything you’re hiding away from him inside there. A violent thought, but you make him feel slightly violent, or – no, that’s not it – for Joel is already a violent man. It’s more that you pull a specific hue of violence out of him, incite it, like he needs to move, to howl, to claw at something, at you, scream and scream and scream to keep your undivided attention on him forever. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say finally, voice quiet. “How old was she?”

His loss. That was a funny way of putting it. It had never felt like a loss. The word was too small. Four letters was not enough to describe what it really was. There was no word for what it felt like. An emaciation of his very self until he simply ceased to exist. Something that had sucked his soul, his heart, his brain out of his body, but they didnt feel lost. They felt destroyed, decimated, or like they had never existed. Sometimes the feeling left him confused, disoriented – this strange purgatory he’d been relegated to, it was like it had never happened in his mind sometimes, or like it had happened to a different man. Like that life with that beautiful little girl with the green eyes who’d had a father who loved her, who’d then died, had happened to someone else. Someone who wasn’t Joel. Like a war that had raged and raged for centuries, and now nothing was left in its wake. Only that terribly fraught reminder of a violence too grotesque for a human mind to conceive. 

How could he miss something, wish for something so, so, so fucking desperately he’d peel his very skin from his body himself to get it back, but also feel like it didn’t belong to him anymore? Like it had never happened to him, like he remembered it out of his own body? A dream that belonged to someone else, and Joel’d only been told of it second hand. His mind was fractured now, he knew this. He wasn't right – broken or glued together the wrong way. His bones didn’t fit in his joints the way they were supposed to anymore. He was all wrong and ugly and fucked. 

“She was twelve.”

“My whole family’s dead,” you say it almost casually, with a half shrug of your shoulders. “Is that why you started driving? To get away?”

He’s been a long haul truck driver for going on two years now. Started just after Sarah – needed to get away, to get lost. He didn’t enjoy it – he does not enjoy it. Not because the work is bad or boring or what have you, but because he doesn’t enjoy anything anymore. But it’s productive and pays well and… well, he does appreciate the solitude. There is that, at least. He’d been on the route from New Mexico to Washington for several months now, and it was fine. Occasionally, he’d head up to the Dakotas – not so fine, longer, harder trek, but he managed it. He preferred this one, preferred the darkness of the north west corner of the country. He never went further south than New Mexico, though. Absolutely never into Texas. He’d never go back there again. 

“Sure… to get away.” He couldn’t be there anymore afterwards, had nothing left. “My neighbor, Anna, she’s got a teenager, Ellie. Sweet kid. Weird kid,” he laughs fondly, remembering the two of them. “The kid was friends with my daughter, Sarah. And after everything– well, after everything, Anna made sure they both stuck around. Didn’t let me shut myself away the way I wanted to,” ill-shaven recluse, confused, fractured, “They’re good people. You’d like them, I think. They’re… they’re my friends.” They were another reason he kept doing the driving, he liked to send money back to Anna and Ellie. He knew they didn’t need it, didn’t want it, but he had to. He needed to feel like he was still taking care of someone, contributing to someone’s well being. It was just part of who he was. 

“I’m sure I would.”

He watches your silent enrapture as you listen to him tell you of his pseudo life. After a while he’d realized that was all he’d started doing, making his way back to you, to this diner where you work. A sad place for ugly men to stop in on a pause from their interminable journeys and lay eyes on an angel. He hadn’t even really realized that’s what he was purposely doing or that it’d become a pattern. He just needed something to see at the end of the tunnel, a light to look towards when he was lost in the darkness. That’s what you are, a single flickering light in the abyss of darkness he exists in now. 

You’re small – tiny compared to Joel’s own hulking size. He thinks he could break you, easily, if he isn’t careful, if he so felt like it. And you were – you are so fucking pretty. He thinks of you so often. Almost as often as he thinks of his dead daughter which might seem wrong or strange, but it’s really nothing more than the two opposite ends of a spectrum of perfect beauty that he’s known within his lifetime that now he cannot reach either end of. Sarah – dead, forever out of reach. And you. Too perfect for consideration, too beautiful and good for these monstrous hands of his. The thing he’s become in his grief is not worthy of a gorgeous creature like you. His existence post Sarah’s death had become some sort of apocalyptic dysphoria where the only monster here was Joel. But he does like to watch, and he does like to think of you. To come to your diner and sit and watch you serve coffee to your customers – the scum that muddles through here isn’t worthy of laying eyes on you – men like him. Sometimes, when he sits here silently, pretending to ignore you and not be entirely beguiled by you, he feels as if he has a purpose again, like the money for Anna and Ellie, getting to inconspicuously watch over you, make sure no one gives you a hard time gives him purpose. And when he goes, even though he never really wants to, he takes you with him in his mind through the long stretches of his hauls. When there are nothing but ghosts to keep him company. When thoughts of Sarah and that dead life become too overwhelming, he calls you to mind, plans his routes to make his way back to you. 

You’re also fucking persistent – not giving him the chance to wallow away in his silence and brooding. He was rude at first, gruff and unresponsive and wouldn’t ever acknowledge your queries of, How’s it going today, and, Oh, back again I see. Sometimes he wanted to snap and just spit the truth at you, ‘course, I’m fuckin’ back, I’m here to see you, I’m obsessed with you. And rounds and rounds of, Can I get you another cup of coffee? The same as usual? You’d memorized his order. Pestered and pestered and pestered for his name until he’d finally ceded it to you, and, How ‘bout some cherry pie this time? After a while you’d gotten sick of his recalcitrant bullshit and just dropped off the piece of pie, slipping it onto the edge of the table and sliding away without a word or a half look back at him. He’d eaten the whole damn thing, savored it, and caught your sassy, little smirk after he’d finished. He’d wanted to bend you over the counter and spank your ass until you cried after that. He bets you’d taste as sweet as that pie, that if he slapped your cunt enough times he could get it red as a cherry. He bets you’d like that – that you’d like it a little rough, a little dirty, a little mean. You might look like an angel, but Joel’s seen the way you look at him, the way you follow him with your eyes, leaning against the counter, chin cupped in your small palm watching him eat his eggs and drink his coffee. 

You want him. 

But Joel is frightened – frightened and cowardly and not right, and as much as you look like an angel, he also worries you might have the ability to entice him into very, very bad things – to provoke him into depravity, even. There is a part of him, large or small given the day and the mood and the weather that he walks in here on, that has the rotten half of his mind whispering at the not-so-rotten half that he wants to defile and debase you, and that he’s pretty sure you’d like it if he did. He wants to fuck you full of his come and then watch it leak out of your used, gaping hole. Then he wants to lick you clean, kiss it all better so that he can do it all over again.

The first few times he’d stopped at your diner, he’d pretended he hadn’t even noticed you, would lie to himself in his mind and tell himself that he had no interest in a little thing like you. He had no interest in women, in making connections, in having conversations. Occasionally… well– no, not occasionally. Twice, it had happened twice now, when the urge had struck, the itch had become too persistent, and his hand not enough, he’d gotten a hooker. The first time he’d shut down completely, lost his hard on and not been able to finish. The second time… he’d finished. He might’ve even made the woman come, he hadn’t bothered to ask, but he thought he might have. Then he’d gone back to his truck and cried great heaving sobs. Like he’d said… not right, he wasn’t right anymore. Couldn’t even fuck a whore without blubbering like a baby. He’d wondered if perhaps his grief had made him impotent. That’d be funny. That type of funny thing that is also a humiliation… you know the sort?

But after a while, the lie had become too much of a farce, even for his own mind. He knew, from that first moment he’d walked in, and you’d spun around, a bright smile and chirpy, little voice telling him to sit anywhere you’d like, be right with you, mister, that he’d taken notice. More than notice. He’d put you in his pocket that day and had carried you with him in some way since. Like a stone chosen off the beach, washed up by the tide and deposited in the sand just for him to come across, or maybe like a fucking infection, like the plague, for he did not want this. He did not want to think of you. He did not want to think of anyone or anything. He wanted to be alone and without anything or anyone for the rest of his life. If he did not have anyone, if he remained alone, then he could never again experience that loss which was not truly a loss, but something much worse and devastating, and even, perhaps, a little hilarious, in that way that a hilarious thing can also sometimes be humiliating and shameful… there it is. A loss that is not a loss for it is a thing so devastating it becomes something else entirely. A humiliation to one’s very existence, a decimation, emaciation, all the things, all the things, and nothing at the same time.

His mind was wont to ramblings, on occasion now. Perhaps, incoherence, was the better word. Anxiety, as well, panic, tears. Couldn’t even fuck a hooker without weeping, howling, a few sobs. 

He had wandered so far, and sometimes he thought, I want to go home, but of course, that home no longer existed. It had been put in the ground two years ago and lost forever. The dissatisfaction of constant ennui. He could, perhaps, return to the geographical place, but nothing familiar would remain. He couldn’t live with the memory, he couldn’t live away from it. It was like it had simply ceased to exist that day that she’d died, and every moment since that moment was just a series of moments filled with a yearning for some place that no longer existed. He didn’t think he’d ever again feel at home anywhere.

And yet…

He turns back to look at you. 

“How did they die? Your family.”

“Home invasion – murdered. He never found me, hid in the boiler closet.”

“Little rabbit.”

“Hmm,” a huff of a laugh, “Maybe. Someone once said I was lucky. Pretty fucked up, no?”

“Do you feel lucky?”

“Never. Angry – that I’d been left behind.”

“Yeah…”

“Alone.”

“Are you alone?”

You turn back to him. Inspect him. He watches the slant of your eyes take in his hair, his face, wrinkled, haggard, his chest, his arms – he feels a flush flare beneath his ribs, then back up to his eyes. He wonders if you’ve ever been fucked before. You’re young – but he can’t imagine how you wouldn’t have been. He thinks he’d do anything in this moment to get between your thighs, but also, he hopes you haven’t, hopes you could be all his, only his, his his. Mine. 

He hopes he won’t cry if he gets the chance. 

“Entirely,” you say finally. 

“I had– have– ” shakes his head, “I have, I guess, a brother. Tommy. But the last time I saw him… I was horrible.” They seldom saw each other now – lie – they never saw each other now. Truth, Joel. We’re telling the truth now. 

You laugh lightly, shrug, “Happens.”

“Sure…”

“What’d you do to him?”

“Ah, just couldn’t get a handle on myself after everything. Things got bad enough eventually, and we fought… a lot. Violently. I was violent. One morning I got out of hand, terrible – one of my biggest regrets. We hurt each other with our words and our fists, and in that way only two people who know each other too well can. He cracked my ribs, gave me half his orange in the evening, afterwards – said our apologies. He was gone the next day. Haven’t heard from him since. I just got to be too much for him,” he says again, needs to reiterate it, make sure you understand that he is too much and too dark, too unmanageable – ugly. That you should not be sat here with him. That he has a violence within him, and that you should probably run as fast and as far as you can, but that he cannot promise he will not follow. “I had…” he is ashamed of this part, surprising for he sometimes wonders if he still possesses the heart to feel shame, “I had a problem with drink for a while – not anymore, though,” he says quickly. “I promise, not anymore.” He should not be promising you anything. “I got control of it – knew it was making it all worse rather than better. Felt like I was trapped underwater with my damn ghosts – that … What's that thing called when – when sick people get like – like trapped inside themselves or somethin’? You ever heard’a that?”

-

“Locked-in syndrome.”

“Yeah– yeah. I read about that once or heard it somewhere – that’s what it felt like when I was drinkin’ – fuckin’ terrible. Let it go after a while… but by that time… Tommy was gone, done with me. I was – dunno… like some sort of demon or somethin’ – somethin’ bad.” He huffs a small, derisive laugh, looks at you with that ridiculously charming, crooked half smile. 

That laugh sparks a kindling of anger inside of you for him. This is a broken, angry, creature of a man, you think. Something fractured – not whole, and he must be handled with care and gentleness. “How could he just leave you?

“Didn't give him a choice. Sometimes people deserve to be left.”

“I wouldn’t have.” That sobers him, wipes the smile right off his handsome face. You think of the invisible giants hurting this man in some unimaginable fashion; of the endless tenderness coiled up inside of him and how the crushing of that tenderness – the death of it – has given way to what may be considered madness. Because after all these months of watching him, of him watching you, you can see it, recognize that tenderness for what it is, but also the madness, for it is impossible to ignore if you’re really looking. Soft marrow at the center of a hard man. 

“I did other things… worse things.”

“Try me.”

“I tried to kill myself.”

You whistle, long and low. You actually had not been expecting that one, at least, not the admittance of it, “You’re just full of truths,” for looking at him – the sort of man he’s built as, the thought that he could be felled by anything, even his own hand, is a little hard to believe. 

“Feels like a sort of confessional in this–”

“Shithole–”

“Diner–”

Your voices overlap. You both laugh. You think you quite like the sound of your voices intermingling one on top of the other. 

“What happened?”

“Flinched–”

“I flinch all the time.”

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

You hum, tilt your head side to side on your neck as if you’re letting the thought slide from ear to ear within your skull. “Perhaps only the peripheral idea of it, but never with much imagination or dedication. I don’t think I have that much to kill myself over, you know?”

“Your family?”

“Not really – it’s sort of become just this… this thing that happened once. I don’t feel much ownership over it anymore. Don’t know why, exactly.”

“Sure, that’s how I feel about it sometimes too. That belongs to a different man now – like– like some actor or a facsimile, and I just look in on it as if from a distance. Enjoy the sight of someone else's suffering…” He shakes his head, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, no, I understand. Something to do in the way that a tragedy can be compelling to watch. You can let go, let go of your awareness of yourself and experience it in a way you’d never do so in the present moment.”

“A dissociation.”

“Yes. Why would you want to go and relive the basest parts of yourself all alone, over and over again? Not likely.”

“But it was me.”

“A dissociation,” you repeat, smile. 

“Yeah,” he pauses, turns the coffee cup round and round with the slow spin of his wrist as if to dissolve the remains of the grounds you know the shitty machine has left deposited at the bottom. There is a small dusting of golden brown hair covering his wrist and disappearing up his forearm beneath his flannel. You want to taste it, follow the trail to places unknown. “Not so well adjusted, us two,” And he laughs then. A real laugh. He lets you have a real laugh of his, and it is powerful – special. 

“Well… no.” Of course not. “I don’t think either of us could ever claim that.”

“Bet you’ve never been bad a single day in your life, have you?”

You cock your head, let your eyes slide from him to peer out the dark window. His lonely semi is parked under the single flare of light out there. The evening has sunk into a deep blue, the hue of mourning, of melancholy, and the pavement is wet with evening rainfall.

You'd heard that some trucks had spaces behind the seats where truckers could put a bed, have a place to rest. You wonder if he’ll take you back there and fuck you in his little bunk. And honesty is a fickle thing when discussing a topic like this, isn't it? There’s a depravity about him, and you can’t tell if the truth or the lie would placate him – incite him – more. To be similar in such a way as that which he’s imagining. A little bit of both, then. After all, intent holds weight – imagination, desire, it has a mass to it that can, if enough pressure is exerted upon it, be transformed into something else. 

“Not yet,” you tell him, sliding your gaze back to meet his, “Haven’t had a chance – but there’s still time.”

-

“What would you like to do?” He wants to take a bite out of that soft flesh you’re encased in, draw blood.

“Something depraved?” You’re taunting him – trying to provoke. It makes him slightly angry, but also hard. You should know what it is you’re toying with here. 

He frowns at you, at the lilting song of your words trying to beguile him into doing whatever it is you think you want him to do to you. “What is it that you think you want here? You don’t know what I was, how I lived. Shouldn’t be sat here with me, little girl,” he scoffs. “I was– was not– I don’t fucking know, not a man. I’m not, I’m not. Not a person anymore, just this thing that continues to exist. I should not have been expected to survive. This should mean something to you too. You also have no one. You’re alone too. You’re alone in the world. You know what it feels like to only live in the winter.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, and then you say: “I think I’ve come to quite like the winter.” And at that he knows he’s taking you for himself, whether you agree in the end or not. You’re going to be his. 

But he knows he must also let this roiling anger, this depraved hunger settle before he lays hands on you. Like this, in this state, he’d be too rough, break you, nothing compunctious about him or his jaggedness. He excuses himself for a smoke, your only response simply more of that inciting silence – more thoughts of cracked skulls and a cherry red cunt and tears after failed trysts with someone who doesn’t even know his name. He’s fucking embarrassing. What would Tommy say if he knew Joel couldn’t even get it up for a paid fuck anymore? He’d laugh in his face, never let him live it down. He misses his brother very much. He misses lots of things. 

He’s sucking on his Red under the awning of the diner’s entrance, imagining what it’ll be like to suck on your little clit, when he hears them. 

“She’s usually out about midnight. We’ll snag her then.” Grating, guttural voice.

“But I get to fuck ‘er first. This was my idea so I go first.”

“Yeah, whatever. S’only happenin’ ‘cause of me. Too fuckin’ stupid to see the plan through after all these months of watchin’ ‘er.”

“Fuck off.” Silence, and then almost with giddy elation: “We gonna kill her too?” Something cold and terrifying settles within Joel. 

A beat, “Should we?”

“Dunno, man. Might be fun, huh? Never done it before.”

“She’s fuckin’ pretty,” the voice draws the vowel out in a high pitched, sacharine whine. “Got the face of an angel.” Joel’s angel, his, his, only his.

He’s got his Bowie in a sheath on the back of his belt. Perhaps, this would be a useful exercise in release. After he’s dispelled his excess energy he can come back and touch you, take you. 

“Can’t wait to taste that cunt.” His cunt.

“Seen her tits, man? Fucking round and bouncy. Wanna make ‘em bleed.” And there’s only one avenue of consequence after that. After all, this is not the first time Joel’s done this. 

His most well kept secret.

Sometimes, when the itch cannot be eased, abated, by his hand or a fuck or a drink or any of the other readily available vices, he turns to this. Only when the straits were dire. Only when he saw no other recourse. Only after his daughter was dead and in the ground and his brother gone away from him

. 

But sometimes… sometimes it’s just fun. Sometimes it’s useful for a man to do that thing that he really feels he wants to do, if only to enjoy himself, if only to let go of some of that suffocating tension. If only to keep vermin like this away from an angel like you. 

“We’ll chill in the woods for a while, wait the little thing out, yeah?” Joel edges his way towards the edge of the building closer to them, peeks a lone eye around the corner. Two men, middle aged. Not a problem. Not for a man like him. 

He waits for them to make their way to the edge of the tree-line, watches them disappear into the gloom. He looks back into the diner through the murky windows. The warm glow of the overhead lamps washing you in a hue of golden light that brings out all the warm goodness in you he’ll take for himself once he’s snuffed out this issue. 

No one’s going to touch you but him. No one’s going to hurt you but him. 

As he rounds the corner of the diner there’s a piece of metal pipe propped up against the building by the dumpsters. Very nice. 

He goes after them. 

At the edge of the tree-line, under a swaying, low hanging branch, there is a tiny unfledged bird, helplessly twitching its way towards death in a puddle. He pauses to watch its struggle, gathers his skin about him, tightens his seams – prepares to gorge. He watches the inch by inch pilgrimage towards its last breath, then stillness. He feels so much older than his years, like he’s lived a thousand terrible years, watched a thousand terrible deaths. But there is a buoyancy about him, as well. Filled with a saccharine sweet fizz of sticky anticipation. He’s going to taste your cunt after this is done.

 He moves into the gloom. He’s going to kill them for you, and his cock is hard at the thought.

Stepping beneath the canopy of the trees, into that cold, damp darkness, he sees the absolute truth of the world. On the heels of two men who’d do you harm, he knows that he’d failed to save someone he cared about once, he’d not be bested by failure a second time. Darkness implacable, the crushing black vacuum of their overheard words buzzing in his head like flies, of the harm they’d do you. Two hunted animals moving away from a creature much darker than they could even imagine, scurrying on borrowed time. What most moves him is that the things they’d do to you are not so dissimilar to the things he plans to do to you, as well. The only difference being that after he’s done defiling you, he’ll keep you for himself, with all the care and gentleness a little thing like you so deserves. 

-

You press your ear to the cracked open door leading to the back of the building. It’s not the first time those two’ve talked their filth regarding you. The murdering is new, though. You’d not thought they were smart or inventive enough to come up with an actual kill plot. Rape enough of a hardball for minds as shallow and small as those two’ve got. 

You’d never really considered them much of a threat. Or maybe you’d just never really cared enough to pay them much attention. But as you watch the broad, rippling expanse of Joel’s muscled back stalk after them, his pause at the tree-line to look down at something on the ground, you think he must be more in the vein of taking a stupid man’s shit talk to heart than you’ve ever been. 

He has a thick, forearms-length of steel pipe gripped in his huge fist, and there’s a wicked looking knife strapped to his belt on the back of his hip. 

Interesting. 

You look back at the empty diner, the lonely parking lot beyond the glass of the windows, only Joel’s semi still taking up residence on the wet pavement. You turn back to follow after the three men. 

One you want, two you’re interested to see what fate awaits them.

For some reason, when you step outside, you’re expecting there to be snow on the ground, but there is none.  

You move across the pavement towards the forest-line, and the pilgrimage towards the verdant darkness feels very much like your one-way ticket out of this forlornness you’ve been trapped in your whole life. You’ve been stuck in this small town for so long, for too long. One man had already tried to forcibly evict you, had taken your entire family with him, maybe this one, maybe Joel, would do so in a way you’d more likely enjoy. 

There’s been a steady, faint drizzle all day long, and the puddles of rain look like holes in the dark pavement, apertures into some other realm that glide past underground. You wonder if you stepped through if you’d disappear below into some other place. You wonder if he’d be able to find you even in that unknown other. 

You cross the line into darkness. 

The familiar terror of silence – you don’t seem to find it here. There is only the sound of your rushing blood, the cadence of his voice rumbling through your psyche, firing your neurons up into a frenzy. There is a twisting heat low in your pelvis, dampness between your thighs. What’s he going to do? Why’s he going to do it?Is it for me? Is it for me? It’s for you.

You let out a low whistle between your teeth and move beyond the trees. There is a giddiness about the darkness of the wood – the motley of shadows, the aroma of mushroom rot. 

The familiar terror of silence. Perhaps, that is what they are experiencing now. The great horror of being set upon by a beast more terrifying than anything they could have ever conjured up on their own. 

That infinite tenderness from before, that acute madness – it coalesces in the gap in the trees as you come upon the three men. 

Joel has already started on the first. He murders almost tenderly. With great care, but infused with an aroma of agitated frenzy that seems flavored in the same notes of erotic buzzing that hums beneath your own skin. There is blood and viscera splattered on his face and clothes, in his hair. That great hunting knife embedded in the throat of the first man. The body lays facing you now, eyes open, shocked at his own death. Funny. Perhaps, that’s how they would have liked you to have ended up once they were through with you. 

Oh, how the tune changes when the monster is on your side. 

What are you? Be a creature. Be a creature. Be a creature!

You take Joel in. Thick, massive frame. You love his hair, it was one of the first things you’d noticed, thick dark curls streaked with the silver veins of his age and experience. Something that promised of care and knowledge and patience. His patchy beard with the heart shaped gap in it, you’re going to write your name into that space. His powerful arms, muscles coiled tight, his shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he brings the steel pipe up above his head, pauses to look down at his next victim. 

“We won’t bother her anymore, never again – p– please, please, I swear,” the man on the ground begs and cries. There are tears and snot bubbling down his ruddy, pocketed face. 

Joel is silent and terrifying and glorious above him, and then a small nod: “That’s alright… I believe you.” The metal comes down in a whistling arc, makes contact. 

Flesh and blood splatter, the sound of it is pulpy and wet and vindicating. He starts with the man’s knees, then his head, caved in like the shell of an egg, the yolk spilling out like vermilion drool. 

He heaves silently above the man that would have done you harm. Makes the threat go away. 

You step forward, cunt pulsing and wet and eager for him. When he’s gotten his fill of bludgeoning he turns slowly back towards you, as if he’d known the entire time that you’d been stood there watching. 

And the look on his face, it makes something electrifying and sticky buzz up your spine and ooze down your veins. You shift back on your heels

He shakes his head, his eyes are huge, pupils blown wide. “Don’t run,” he says slowly. If you hadn’t just watched him murder two men in cold blood – no, in your defense, he saved you, he protected you, fizzy heart full of satisfaction – you’d say he almost looks a little doe eyed. 

A hollow pounding begins in his heart, as if it had remained silent for the past two years and was only now taking notice of its own silence. His cock, hard enough to burst, angry and throbbing beneath the confines of his blood soaked jeans. Fuck this scum laying on the ground beside him, look at what he has infront of him. Nothing else matters but you. A goddamned angel. Damned for he’s found you now and nothing good can come of this. He takes a step towards you, and you match him with one backwards, away from him, his blood starts to howl in his veins. Different to the humming frenzy that had filled him as he did his murdering. This is hot and viscous and ravenous, and he knows he’ll get to keep his catch once he’s gorged himself on it. He knows he’ll get to keep you once he’s caught you. 

You take two more nervous little, quick steps away from him. Your eyes are slightly manic, face flushed, frame jittery, excited. A rabbit that knows it’s about to be caught. He watches the pause of your limbs as they fill with coiled energy, getting ready to make the bound and leap towards escape. He lunges, goes in for the kill, teeth bared, talons  brandished. 

Faster than you can even comprehend, he lunges, takes you to the ground with one massive, powerful shoulder to the vulnerable, soft of your belly, one huge paw cradled at the back of your skull to protect you from the hard ground. Your spine hits the cold, wet earth, the breath knocked out of you. You think you let out an animal noise, high pitched and supplicant. A thing that knows it’s been caught and is soon to be devoured. Your limbs scramble against the dirt, heels digging into the ground for purchase, you feel the loss of one of your shoes, as you try to get away or to crawl closer, who can be sure. A spider caught in the web or a larger, hungrier arachnid. He sets the huge heaviness of his muscular weight over your much smaller frame, one strong hand caged around the column of your throat, the other pushing your chest into the earth as he shoves his hips into the cradle of your own, forcing your thighs apart and your skirt to pool at your waist. You feel the stretch of the center plaque of your tights as his wide breadth settles between your legs, making room to take you for himself. You bring your own hands up to the wrist holding your throat and dig your nails into the skin there. You can feel the light smattering of hair covering his forearm beneath your soft palms, the cold, wet dirt beneath you, the searing stretch of the inner muscles of your thighs spread wide for him, the damp of the air surrounding the two of you. He leans forwards, pressing you down into the ground, and you have the fleeting thought that you want to transfuse yourself into the earth, into him. 

He pauses then to look down at you, appreciating the gloriousness of his catch. “Caught ya.” And he’s filled with an exuberance, a sort of victory. Look at what he’s snared – all for himself. 

You try and struggle again, if only to see the flare of annoyance in his eyes. It makes your cunt tight and achy. Even more than it already is. There’s a part of you that thinks you want him slightly angry – rough or mean. That you might like it even more if it hurts. Be kind enough to be cruel about it, you want to beg him. He leans forward to press his nose to your cheek, drags the cold vermillioned flush of it along your jaw, down the line of your throat, bites harsh and painful at your collarbone then over the peak of your breast. 

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. It sounds very much like a threat. 

“Yes.”

“Saved this cunt all for me.” And it is not a question. Yes, you moan anyways. Let him know. Let him know that this defiling is a gift you’re granting him. He sits up on his haunches between your thighs, his hands sliding down to press on your lower belly and digs his fingers into the center of your tights and pulls, ripping a hold in them for his pillaging. You try and press your knees shut at the feel of the frigid air on your sensitive inner thighs, dig your nails into the ground above your head to try and drag yourself away from him. 

He digs his own fingers harshly into your flesh, his nails biting painfully into the soft skin of your thighs and ass and brings you back towards him. There’ll be streaks of pain left in his wake after this. Bad little rabbit. He smacks the inside of your thigh, watches the smooth flesh ripple for him. You let out a warbled, angry screech, little nails still trying to claw yourself away from him. He laughs then, a little mean, condescending. “Fight harder, little baby. This is pretty pathetic.” He rips your thighs apart, keep your fuckin’ legs open for me, his hands slick with the blood of his victims slide up the back of your thighs, anchoring his palms beneath the damp creases of your knees to press you open and wide for him, slaps your cunt, hard, over the soaking gusset of your panties. 

“Who the fuck’re you wearin’ this tiny little thong for?” he growls. It’s white lace, with a sweet, little pink bow adorning the front. “Me? Wrapped yourself up all nice and pretty for me?” Your little foot sneaks up under his armpit and tries to push with, what he’s sure is all your valiant might, at his chest, trying to unseat him from his conquering position above you, but he takes your ankle in a vice like grip, bites harshly into the meat of your calf so that an animal squeal of pain is clawed out of your throat at the same time that he slots his fingers under the damp center of your panties. “Sing as loud as you want, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hear you out here.” He can feel the soaking wet seam of your cunt against the backs of his knuckles, and he rips them clean off you. The sound of the last remaining barrier of protection of your cunt against his ravaging being decimated has you going shock still – prey that knows it’s caught and has decided to give up. Good, this is how he wants you. Your big, wet eyes look up at him as he flings the lace towards the still steaming dead bodies. That’s all they’ll get of you. The rest is only his. Mine, mine, fucking mine. 

You let your arms go limp above your head, soft and pliant and ready for ravaging, melting into the earth.

He presses your knees back and up, letting the red blossom of your wet cunt bloom for him. It’s slick and swollen, and he knows when he shoves his cock inside it’ll be burning hot. “Look at this gorgeous virgin pussy, baby. All for me. Only for me…” he murmurs, hypnotized, mesmerized. He drags the back of his knuckles over your slit, uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart, admires the swollen nub of your clit. You’re just as hungry for him as he is for you. Messy, eager little whore. He moves to undo his belt and free his aching length. Huge and brutish, thick veins pulsing just beneath the thin skin. He’s going to split you in half, break you, mold you in his image. 

He spits right onto your soaked folds, watches the thick glob of saliva slide down to mingle with your own leaking slick. He’s not even going to make you come first. Little virgin cunt and he’s not going to even bother getting you ready – just gonna shove the whole, unforgiving length of himself inside of you. Force you to take it. He fists his thick fist around himself, jacks his cock once, twice, squeezing at the bulbous head so that a trickle of precum seeps out of the slit. He presses his head to your clit, slides down to give you a small threat of pressure at your opening. When he looks back up at your face your eyes flutter shut, a look of pure contented submission washing over the gorgeous planes of you. 

“Not gonna be gentle, baby. Don’t got it in me.” He notches the fat head at the slick mouth of your entrance and crams his cock inside of you in one go, meets that thin barrier that says you still belong to yourself and rips through it. Mine now. No reprieve, no respite. And God, the feel of it, cleaved in half, scorching hot, filled to the brim and never deep enough. He is a rabid, snarling beast of a man as he hits the very end of you, grinds his cockhead at the mouth of your womb. You let out a warbled, pained moan, little fingers coming up to claw at his throat and chest with kitten-strength, down to dig into his thick thighs as he pins you down, and you tilt your hips to let him in deeper or escape him, he doesn't know. He doesn't care. He pulls his hips back and forces himself back in, too thick cock wedged into the too tight space. “Christ, goddamn tight fuckin’ pussy – made for me,” he grits through bared teeth.

He fucks you raw and cruel, and he needs you to just lay limp and still and take it.

And you do. And he does not cry this time. 

He sets a brutal pace, throbs deep in your belly at every pause as he grinds at your cervix. It must be painful for you, perhaps, but the flush in your cheeks, the fever in your eyes, the ripple of your cunt around his driving length tells him you also like it. “What a good girl, taking my big cock,” he coos. You preen, tilt your hips this time in supplication he’s sure, hitch your feet higher along his sides. There are tears running back down your temples and into your hairline. His cock makes you cry. If he could, he’d split your throat and drink, he would. But he cannot, so he’ll split your cunt instead. He thrusts into the hilt, complete negligence for care, for gentleness lost in the dark wood, for the desperate necessity of feeling your virgins blood coating his cock. Your protestations lost to the louder song for more, for harder, for deeper

Joel, Joel, Joel. 

He’s going to listen to you sing his name for the rest of his life. 

He feels unhinged, a thread picked at too many times, spun loose, unraveled and frayed. That edge that separates good and evil – his bloody fingers clamp down hard on the edge of your jaw, forces you to open for him, and he spits into your mouth – direct, dirty … warm. “Lemme see…” he rumbles, and you stick your tongue out for his inspection. Once he nods, pleased and smug and conquering, you close and rub the slick of his saliva onto the roof of your mouth with your tongue, savor the taste of him. This was the taste that you’d longed for… that which teaches you what that professed edge really is. Is he good, is he evil – he’d just killed two men, you’d watched him, cunt wet at the sight of it. Albeit to protect you… sure – but does it even matter? You swallow his spit down. Probably not. 

He is huge and life altering inside of you. Your virginity scoured away on his invading length. 

He leans forward, hand clamped around your jaw to pierce you with his manic gaze, like his cock pierces your cunt. He smells like the forest and sweat and power. “Little fuckin’ tease,” he grits, “Bringing me cherry pie like that all the time – fuckin’ provoking me. You just wanted me to pop your cherry for you. Didn’t you, little girl?” All you can do is nod dumbly and take what he gives you. He hooks one of your knees over his elbow, the other propped over his shoulder, foot bobbing limply at each slam of his hips. He has you bent entirely in half, cunt splayed wide open for him to fuck down into the deep, devastating end of you. Your vision goes blurry, black stars streaking across the back of your eyelids. All you see is him. Perhaps he’s all that exists now. Maybe you’re just as dead as the two bodies laying beside the two of you. You wonder peripherally what the sight of the four of you must look like. Joel’s hulking form fucking you like an animal into the dirt. You open your eyes to look up at him, there’s blood splatter across his face, in his hair. His skin is burning hot against yours. You think that perhaps you’ll have scorch marks in the shape of his fingers in your skin after he’s done with you. Two dead, brutalized bodies cooling beside the place where the two of you are fucking. 

“Can feel ya tightening up, baby. Gonna come all over my cock.”

He does something to change the angle, and it fucking hurts. “Too much,” you beg, try to push him back weakly, but your cunt pulls sharp and tight, and then your muscles are rippling around him, womb contracting painfully as your orgasms blinds you with its sudden intensity. 

“Don’t care,” he growls back. “Do not fucking push me away.” No, he must not care. Prey doesn’t decide how it’s felled, after all. 

He pulls out and back then, suddenly, slaps your cunt harshly, once, twice. You mewl, high and shocked, writhing around in the dirt. He grabs you by the hips and flips you so fast you’re left disoriented, pulling your ass up, up, up. 

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he croons, bends to bite down on the meat of your asscheek, and then notches back at your gaping, fluttering hole, orgasm still running through you, and pushes back in. You’re soaking wet, slick and fucked open by him and the taking is much easier this time. You feel his thumb press down on your asshole, “Gonna take this too. Gonna have every part of you, every piece. Gonna swallow you whole.” All you do is arch your back further, cheek smushed into the dirt, fingers digging into the cool earth for purchase, for salvation.

The sight of you stretched around his thick base, so slick he feels you dripping down his balls and further below, into the bloody earth. There’s a red tinge of your own blood coating his skin, and he’s going to come. He’s going to fill you up with his spend and fuck it deep into you until it takes. Until no matter how far you want to run, he’ll be with you, always. He lets his head fall back on his neck and stares up at the dark canopy of the trees, groans low and deep.“You’re gonna be my little hole now,” he promises, presses one large palm into the small of your back to deepen the angle and fuck down into you. “Gonna take you with me and fill you up whenever I feel like it. My gorgeous little cumslut.” The ramming of his hips starts to grow sloppy and stuttered, close to the edge now. Victory is so, so near. 

You start to claw at the dirt and wiggle again. Little knees chafed raw and scrambling against the hard ground trying to get away. He slaps your ass hard, hopes there’ll be the print of his hand to appreciate later. 

“Not inside, not inside – not – no birth control,” you stutter, beg.

“I’m not fuckin’ pulling out.” He twists a cruel and unyielding hand into the back of your hair and presses your face harshly into the ground. Your eyes pinch and tears seep and mingle into the blood and dirt beneath you. “Gonna pump you raw and full. You don’t gotta worry about anythin’ anymore, baby. Gonna take care of you,” he grits and you press yourself harder back into him. There is an existential seesaw inside of you – a volleying of your wants – you want him to hurt you, to force you, to take care of you and keep you, all at the same time.

“Promise – promise me you won’t leave me,” you cry and beg because really, that’s all you want. All you’ve ever wanted. For someone to stay, for someone to never leave, no matter what.

“I promise – fuckin’ swear.” And you go loose and passive again at that – his to do with as he will. Nothing else really matters after all that.

He senses the change. The loosening of your muscles into capitulation. He stops his thrusting and grinds, strums at your clit. “Oh fuck, you want me to fill you up? And what happens if I do? What happens if it takes? Want me to get you fuckin’ pregnant?” Starts to fuck into you again, “I think you do.”

Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

“You’re mine. Fucking mine.” He says it again and again and again, yes, yes, yes, lets himself fall forward, anchored above you with one strong arm as he presses as deep as he can physically go and starts to fill your pulsing cunt with his come, the heat of his spend inciting you to roll into one more throbbing orgasm. He brings his face down close to yours, open your eyes, little thing, lemme see you. The fluttering of your lashes, sweaty, dirt-streaked face, and you are seraphic, the wet crimson heat of your blood pounding beneath the delicate membrane of your skin. Gorgeous, perfect, conquered and his. 

“Fucked full’a me now,” he whispers, presses a soft kiss to the tender skin of your eyelid. You nuzzle into him, and then look up at him with the warmest, most vibrant gaze he’s ever seen. Fucking pleased and sated. 

“They wanted me, but only you get to have me now,” you whisper. “How does that make you feel?” Provoking, provoking again. 

“Like I fucking own you.” He grinds his still spitting cock further, feels the pull of your muscles milk him deeper. 

He lets his weight fall partially over you, too heavy for the full mass of himself. You are, after all, a delicate thing, and he must remember to handle you with care, occasionally. He feels the pulsing and quivering of your cunt around his softening cock, and the two of you settle to lay there in the dirt, bodies still dead, virginity scoured and stolen, and stare at each other. 

“Have you ever been in love?” you whisper, dragging the tip of one little finger, whisper soft, over the arch of his brow, the slope of his nose.

“I feel a little in love with ya right now,” he confesses, and you press that finger against the seam of his mouth, begging for entrance, and then inside, against the flat of his tongue to inspect the wet gleam of it. It’ll be inside of you soon enough, you should take a look at that which you’ll be writhing against in due time. 

“Good. That was my plan all along.” Smug, conniving little creature. 

-

Once it’s full dark, he packs you into his truck, buckles your seatbelt for you, tucks a blanket around your dirty knees and drives off as if he hadn’t just murdered two men and taken your virginity with their blood still hot on his skin. He goes for miles and miles, eventually finds a dark, secluded spot to park the truck for the night. He takes you into the back bunk and fucks you like you’d wanted him to, on your side, one leg slung over his shoulder, hand gripping the lush of your ass to pull you onto his impaling cock, watches your ass bounce against his thrusts. A demanded play with it, lemme see ya push it back in, as he watches himself drip out of your messy hole. Eats your cunt until you cry. Afterwards, the two of you lay, naked and damp, facing each other, tracing the lines of one another in the quiet dark. 

Sometimes he’s worried he’s blood hungry – or pain hungry. Starving for something he doesn’t have a name for. But he thinks that, perhaps, he can use your name to fill in the blank space now. He’d always felt as if his devotion was a punishment to the receiver. After all, everyone Joel has ever loved has left him. But as he looks at you, there’s something in your eyes that tells him that perhaps, you’ll remain. Perhaps, he can compel you to, force you to. Perhaps, he can anchor you to himself, and in turn, give you everything. 

“Are you a ghost?” he asks.

“No. Are you?”

“Sometimes I think I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re like a fuckin’ angel or somethin’. What were you doin’ out here in this wasteland?” He asks you again.

“Maybe I was waiting for you.” This answer he likes.

He’s quiet for a long time after that – taking you in, cataloging you, memorizing you. His fingers ghosting over your face, your hair, strumming the fan of your lashes. Later he asks: How do you remember the memory of someone else? How do you keep them when they’ve gone somewhere entirely unreachable?

“Because you love them,” you tell him.

“That’s enough?”

“Of course. Will you ever forget that you loved her?”

“Never.”

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[dehvoursarc]

NAMES.

He chose the alias "Ch.ilde" after he began training under Pulcin.ella. It was a very deliberate choice to give off a certain appearance. It's a name that is more common among the wealthier, urban population of Snezhnaya, the exact opposite of his hometown. It refers to "a young man of noble birth", and it is meant to call to mind a diplomat, a charming young man, someone who isn't as dangerous as his reputation says.

He uses his alias more than his Harbinger name for precisely this reason. Tar.taglia is a terror on the battlefield, a bloodthirsty Harbinger that brings a storm of chaos wherever he goes. Chil.de is a diplomat, quick to smile and crack a joke. Chi.lde is meant to get his targets to lower their guard, so that Tar.taglia can do his work.

He only ever goes by Ajax at home. He doesn't truly feel much connection to that name anymore, but it's easy to slip into his different roles when they are separated by their names. He uses it as a sort of compartmentalization, so each "name" is more of a name for a performance, than it is for him.

He almost never gives someone his birth name. The only people who know it are his family, Pul.cinella, and possibly the Tsaritsa. ( Anybody else who knows it will have to be plotted out )

[devourensarc]

@spnasrosula — sc.

It had been a particularly sleepless night, broken by nightmares that followed him into the daylight. They swim behind his eyes whenever he blinks, and all the sideways glances dig into him like fish hooks as he walks with Navia out of the city. His mother's face flashes through his memories, and he shakes his head to clear it.

❝ Why aren't you scared of me? ❞ It slips out of him before he can stop it — confused, sharp ( scared ).

He was used to others looking at him like a creature that had crawled out of the shadows, like he would grow teeth and claws any second. Like a beast to point at enemies, good only for the carnage he wrought.

He is not used to the laughs and the smiles, the touches that brush against him just for the sake of it. He is not someone who should receive those things — all he knows how to hold is a weapon.

But Navia does not see him as a weapon, and that thought digs into his chest, slipping through his rips to strike his heart. It's a bolt of pure terror, because she will see soon enough that he is not a person, not like she is ( not anymore ) — and he is sure the absence of her warmth will leave him even colder than he was before.

❝ I — I don't understand. ❞

[dehvoursarc]

Visible disappointment washes over the Harbinger, and flat blue eyes narrow as it considers pushing just a little more. The fight had scratched the itch, though, enough it can shake away the hunger and force itself into something presentable enough to walk the streets of Mondstadt. . . once it cleaned off all the blood.

❝ Mmm, fine. I'll let you go. ❞ Deep blue eyes stir with a promise: next time. ❝ This was fun. I hope to see you again soon. ❞

There is no hope to it. He will make sure he sees the Cavalry Captain again, when that itch flares up again. This was perhaps the least destructive it has been, when the hunger reared up. It was in the Fatui and Mondstadt's benefit, and while the Harbinger itself wasn't complaining, it was pretty sure Kaeya had at least not hated their little excursion.

A bright smile takes over the Harbinger's face, and it bends at the waist into a theatrical bow. ❝ You know where to find me, if you ever get the urge, Captain. ❞

( ✨ ) WATCHING IT NEARLY led the calvery captain to laugh , it was like leading a crystalmoth to a flame with how the harbinger standing before him hovered close to the abyssal fire that flittered above the palm of his hand. the air that was the man ( was it a man ? it had to be something more than that ) led the blunette to think back to his time in the abyss prior to being dropped in mondstadt -- the creatures that were not monster nor man but something in between.

CURIOUS . .

❝ FAR FROM IT actually -- i've been a silver tongued devil years before meeting you , tartaglia. lets at least make that one thing clear. ❞ single - eyed gaze flicked over the harbinger 'fore a sharp lop - sided smirk sat on his face 'fore he closed his hand and extinguishing the cool flame in seconds.

SNORTING , THE BLUNETTE shook his head , feeling a low pulse in the back of his right eye begin. perfect , he would end the night with a splitting headache ; he'd hoped he'd end the week without much hassle . . though he could count it to be worth it due to what he'd gleamed from the interaction thus far.

❝ IF YOU'RE WANTING something more than treasure hoarders . . i must disappoint for now ; my day has been long and i'd rather end it with a drink rather than ripped attire. ❞

[dehvoursarc]

✏️

Wriothesley: Bottling up negative emotions is bad for your health, so you shouldn't do it. Childe: I know, that's why I bottle up all my emotions, both positive and negative, so it cancels out. Wriothesley: Th-that's not how that works-

Wriothesley: Are you ready to commit? Childe: Like, a crime or a relationship?

at a zoo Childe: What are they in for? Wriothesley: Childe, this isn't prison. Childe: So they can leave? Wriothesley: No, but- Childe, pointing at an otter: I bet that one murdered someone.

[devourensarc]

@resolutepath ( diluc ) — sc.

Mondstadt is not his problem — or rather, not his to cause a problem for, and yet boredom already itches under his skin hardly a few days into his stay. With the Fair Lady's passing, someone had to remind the City of Freedom of their ally's strength, and who better than the walking weapon of war?

He doesn't even need to do anything, and that is precisely the problem.

Finally, that boredom drives him back to the Angel's Share, because surely even the dulled flame behind the counter would be more exciting than the sleepy monsters outside Mondstadt's walls. Childe had seen the Vision — not a Delusion — the bartender wore. Even if he claimed he'd always had it . . .

His smile flashes in the light as he strides into Angel's Share, and his smile only grows wider as the patrons' eyes turn to follow his path to the bar. He drops his elbows on the counter and leans his chin on one hand.

❝ Hey, red. ❞ Scorched Abyss mages, a long red hair in the remains of a Fatui camp . . . Childe only had to fan the flame enough, and he was sure it would flare back into that stunning blaze. ❝ Lucky me, my favorite face is working tonight. Say, do you have any fire water? Something stronger than the fruit juice you call wine, at least? ❞

[dehvoursarc]

Warning for: implied child abuse, brief animal death mention (game animals, wolves, and bears), mentioned violence.

The three days Ajax spent in the Abyss was three months to him. Both the trauma of constantly fighting for his life and the Abyss itself had a deep and profound effect on who he was. He changed because he had to in order to survive, but what was three months of hell for him were three short days for his family.

When Ajax stumbled out of the woods dirty and ragged and covered in blood, they thought he'd just gotten lost. At first, they were overjoyed to have him home.

But he had changed, and how could the sweet, shy little boy change so much in three short days?

He wouldn't sleep, and when he finally collapsed from exhaustion, he would wake screaming. When someone was unlucky enough to sneak up on him, they would find a Hydro dagger pressed to their throat- first a sibling, then his mother, before they learned to be careful.

He would escape out the windows, and return a few days later dragging dead animals behind him. When that failed to impress his parents - hadn't they always wanted him to be strong enough to help? why weren't they happy? - he moved on to wolves, and then bears.

See? I'm strong enough to protect you, now.

His smile was off, his mother decided. Like he didn't really remember how to smile, or like he'd never known in the first place. His laugh was hollow, his eyes dead. No, this was not her son. Some thing had crawled out of those woods, some mockery of her son twisted into his shape.

His parents refused to let him near his other siblings. His mother couldn't look at him. His father tried to discipline him back to normal, but that only made Ajax worse. Fresh from the Abyss and Skirk's training, in his mind that meant he still wasn't strong enough to deserve acknowledgement.

So he started on the other villagers. He picked fights first with older teens, and then grown men, and then several grown men at once. Finally, fed up with the increasing violence and under pressure from the rest of the village, Ajax's father did the only thing he could think of, to get this child out from under his roof, to try and "fix" him without killing him -

He turned him over to the Fatui.

[devourensarc]

❛ I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. ❜ from scara mayhaps.

@astraltm

❝ I think you forgot a few things. ❞

The Eleventh leans back in his seat with a delighted smile, because really, could Scaramouche have set himself up any better? What better way to pass the time before their meeting, than to see just how sour that face could get?

❝ You're arrogant. You're rude. You're obstinate. ❞ He counts off each trait on a gloved finger — never mind how many could apply to him, too. It was all a build up to the final blow, anyway.

❝ And worst of all? You're short! ❞

[dehvoursarc]

❛ come back to bed. ❜

@spnarosula

Moonlight fell across the floorboards, broken only by his shadow from where he sat curled on the windowsill, feet tucked under him ( just in case ). He hardly noticed the chill of the night air — nothing compared to the frigid bite of his homeland — as he stared out the window.

Even in the dark, he could pick out the ripple of the breeze through Poisson, the flicker of shadows in the night. He'd woken from his nightmare agitated and unsettled, and even after determining their room was empty save for them, he couldn't settle the nerves. Instead of stalking through the streets like the monster he'd been called, he chose to park himself on the windowsill, where he could see outside, and he could see her.

Navia.

Her voice drew his focus from the window, and he glanced over his shoulder to find her bright blue eyes on him. The tangle of nerves in his chest loosened enough a small smile flashed across his face.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

He hopped down from his perch and crossed the room soundlessly. He could take his place behind her again, back to the wall, or. . .

The bed dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge and brushed a strand of golden hair away from her face. He skimmed his lips against the tip of her nose as he slipped back under the blankets and turned to press his back to her chest. His hand found hers and he guided it around his chest, pressing her palm against his bare skin, right above his heart, where it still fluttered anxiously.

"Can we stay like this, for a bit?" he asked quietly, nearly a whisper, and yet it still felt deafening in the silence.

[devourensarc]

𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 ?

ruined by fury

you are angry. you are angry and everyone knows it. the fire within you will not die, cannot die. for if it dies, you wont have a reason to burn. your rage simmers close to your chest, it boils near something you wont touch. you are angry because it is easier than anything else. you are angry because you choose it over pain. you are ruined because you cannot feel anything but your own ire.

ruined by fear

you live on the edge of your seat, but it is not a good thing. youre constantly looking over your shoulder, unsure of what will hurt you next. you have been hurt so much, but you refuse to adapt to your pain. instead, you avoid what you cannot control. you are so afraid of making a mistake, of being brought closer to your doom. but, despite this, you cannot articulate what you fear. you are just afraid. only afraid. and you will be afraid until you are brought to what you fear.

tagged by : @deathsmaidens <33333

tagging : @icerberus @rotdame @daybreakrising (wrio or thoma) @spadilled + steal!!!

[dehvoursarc]

He leaned into her touch, resting his head atop hers. It was brief, barely a few moments, but it helped to settle the nerves turning in his stomach. The smile that spread across his face was open and warm as he leaned forward to inspect the figurines.

❝ They are going to love these, ❞ it declared with a laugh. ❝ Grandpa Almond, huh? ❞

He traced a finger along the carved figures. Warmth settled into his chest, seeping up into his eyes as he turned to look at Lumine.

❝ Mmm, a little taller. He's missed you too, you know. I'll be lucky if I can pry him away from you. Tonia and Anton are so excited to finally meet you. ❞

Whether Teucer's stories or his own had hyped her up more was up for debate. Even his parents were curious to meet this traveler, even if their curiosity was more apprehensive. His stomach twisted at the thought — Lumine knew his position, she knew what being a Harbinger entailed, but the worry his parents would say something remained.

She was perhaps his one true friend. He wanted to share this part of his life with her, as much as he didn't want to lose her.

Ah. He'd told her something about that before, in Fontaine, how he'd fallen into the Abyss as a teenager... and then joined the Fatui not long after he'd crawled back out of it. Even if part of that story was still a mystery to her, it didn't take a genius to discern how he felt about that rift between him and his parents, from the way his gaze remained determined to stare a hole into his boot. Something about that tugged at the center of her chest.

Lumine frowned slightly, leaning against him as they rode along inside the carriage. If there were bumps in the road from snow or stone, she barely felt it. Few phrases made her chest tighten the way I'm used to it did, but that wasn't a conversation to have in a carriage.

“I know... don't worry,” she reassured him. “I'm very excited to be here with the very best toy salesmen in all of Snezhnaya. Actually,” Lumine popped back up, reaching for her pack. “As it just so happens, I had a little adventure recently. I didn't have a lot of time in between returning from that and when I had to catch the ferry, but...”

She held out three small figurines shaped like toy soldiers, frogs, and hamsters.

“Do you think your siblings would like these? The hamster is named Grandpa Almond.” She'd brought a handful of figurines back to decorate her teapot with, then realized she had some extras. Cute as they were, she didn't need two of everything, and what better way to find these little guys a good home?

Her smile was bright now that her face felt slightly less frozen. “I've missed Teucer. Is he taller now?”

[luvv4j4ybe11]

With time

✧𝐓𝐰𝐢n 𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐥𝐨’𝐚𝐤

✧Tw!!: mentions of death,sibling loss, lo’ak dies instead of neteyam, lots of crying, first time celebrating birthday without your twin brother, mentions of su!c!de, underaged dr!nking, mentions of alcohol,mostly angst with some fluff towards the end (if you squint),feelings of grief and depression and I think that’s all, enjoy this lil Drabble<33

✧Dividers by @benkeibear

✧ translation(s): Skxawng-moron,idiot , kuru-queue, hammerbrow fish- the goldfish that kiri was playing with in that one scene (idk how else to describe it😭)

(Listen to this to make it extra sad🥰)

You woke up feeling the weight on your chest being even heavier than usual. Your face still wet with tears from last nights realization. That realization being that today was your birthday but not just yours, it was his too. Ever since the night he died, you haven’t left your side of the marui since.

Even though it’s been four months since your twin brother died, that day just keeps replaying in your head, the sound of your mother screaming, the look of absolute devastation on your older brothers face, the blood on your hands, the sound of tsireya crying, lo’aks cold expression, the way your father looked at you with complete disappointment and spat out a cold, “you’ve done enough”

Every time you thought about it you felt sick.

And naturally, being Navi twins you guys were connected more than normal siblings were, you felt each other’s heartbeats, felt when the other was happy or sad, uncomfortable or frustrated. So when you felt cold and utterly alone, you knew he was gone.

But yet there’s still times you hear his heartbeat, you feel how lonely he is and how much sorrow he’s filed with. And it makes you weak with sadness every time.

Being pulled out of your thoughts by a small pair of hands on your bicep shaking you back and forth, you turn around to see your baby sister staring back at you with a smile on her face, her eyes still washed with sadness. Yes, she was young, but she certainly wasn’t stupid. She knew how to read the room better than kids your age did.

“Sis, come on, get up! It’s your birthday!” She says while climbing onto you to give you a hug, which was something she did every year, but this one was more gentle and genuine than the others. You break the hug to place a hand on her head, lightly ruffling her braids,“Maybe later tuktuk, I’m still a little tired.” You say,weakly trying to hide the pain in your features with a fake smile.

She frowns at this, making you let out a soft chuckle as you go to push her off of you. Making her cling onto you more. “That’s what you always say!, please sis, can you get up? For me? For lo’ak?” She says while looking at you with puppy dog eyes. The slight mention of his name brings tears to your eyes, not ready to start this day without him.

“Sister, leave her be, alright? How about you go see what kiri is up to?” Neteyam says as he lifts the curtain to get into your side of the hut, holding it open for tuk to run out eagerly to find her sister.

Closing it, he glances at you before siting on your sleeping mat, “Sister, I’m-” “Teyam don’t. I can’t go through today with this fake sympathetic bullshit!, you guys were constantly on both of our asses for everything! You guys never cared about how we felt! How he felt! You know how many times he came to me telling me how dad made him feel like shit? Or how kiri was pushing him about certain things? Or how he caught dad talking to you about how he’s, “too reckless” and he “wouldn’t be surprised if he got himself killed”?”

His ears pin back to his skull immediately, knowing the exact conversation you were referring to. “Sister, you think that didn’t bother me too? I told him that lo’ak only acted like that because he wanted to be like him. But of course he didn’t listen. And do you think I wasn’t aware of how you guys felt? Why do you think I’d always have both of your guys backs whenever you got into trouble? Why do you think I came up with lies left and right to mom and dad so you two wouldn’t get your asses beat? I wanted to avoid making you guys feel like that, but I only have so much control y/n..” he says as he squeezes his his fists in anger, his feelings from that night bubbling to the surface again.

You move from your comfortable position to sit next to him, bringing him into a much needed hug. “Brother, I know you did. I know you try every single day. And I look up to you because of that. You’re stronger than I am. You keep pushing forward even though there’s so much shit happening to you, I don’t understand how you do it.” You say as you feel tears flowing from your face, the hug reminding you of how lo’ak used to hug you whenever you were in a mood.

“I do it because of you guys. Because of him. You guys are the reason I keep pushing. And especially the both of your skxawng asses” he says with a soft chuckle before breaking the hug, placing his hand on your head softly, something he did with you and lo’ak that became a comfort thing for the both of you. “You can do this today sister, I believe in you, we all do.” His tone making tears automatically spill over your eyes, and causing you to notice his tear filled eyes.

Looking for some sort of grounding you place your hand over his and squeeze, taking multiple deep breaths before speaking. “Teyam.. I can’t, I miss him so much. Everytime I wake up I feel so alone and cold, but I can still hear his breath, and his heartbeat. My pain is not only mine, but his too.” You say in between sobs, watching neteyams breathing get more shallow as he tries to hold in his tears. His features covered in concern.

“Oh baby sis..” bringing you into another much needed hug. He places a light kiss on your forehead before rubbing your back and gently swaying you from side to side,trying to calm down your cries.

Kiri walks in quietly, the feeling of your pain drawing her to your room. Her whole body goes slack and cold when she sees your state, making her glance at Neteyam. That feeling intensifying even more once she saw the pain in his eyes. She takes her place behind you, quickly inserting herself into the hug. Wrapping her right arm around your waist and the other overlapping with neteyams so she can hold him too,her chin resting on your shoulder.

“You feel him don’t you? His heartbeat? His sorrow? His breath? Like he’s just a word about to be spoken?” Without lifting your head you nod quickly, too mentally exhausted speak anymore. “I know how you feel sister. Take that feeling as a way of him telling you to keep going. Keep breathing for him, keep your heart beating for him. That sorrow will be gone once he sees that you’re living for him.”

Her words make you sob even more. Knowing she’s right, he’s always hated seeing you cry, and he did anything to fix it. Purposely making himself look like a dumbass, making you go on an ikran ride with him, asking you to go exploring with him, taking you to you guys secret spot, pinky promises. He did anything for you. And so did you.

A wave of calm suddenly hits you, making your sobs come to a complete stop, and your breathing becomes more level. Feeling the change, your siblings give each other a confused glance before looking down at you. “Sister?..” they both say in sync as you break the hug and get up, your features going completely cold. “I’m going to visit him..if that’s ok with you guys” you say while lifting up a blanket, revealing a stash of alcohol you’ve been keeping ever since his funeral.

Quickly you take a bottle and cover it back up, grabbing your hunting knife and putting on both you and lo’aks matching bracelets you made on your 10th birthday. Walking towards the curtain to leave, you’re pulled back by a gentle pull on your shoulder.

“Y/n..don’t don’t drink today. It’s not gonna stop you from hurting, and you know that.” Kiri says while gliding her hand down to your hand that was holding the alcohol firmly. “Yeah, I know that kiri, but it dulls it somewhat. And it stops me from wanting to throw myself off of a cliff so I think it’s worth it. Plus it’s my birthday! I’m allowed to drink as much as I want today!!” You say in a fake enthusiastic tone, your sarcasm reminding them so much of lo’ak.

“Y/n.” Neteyam says in a soft but stern tone, the one that told you that whatever he was about to say was gonna be serious. “Don’t drink. I know you’ve been hurting more than we have but we need you here. Lo’ak needs you here. You know how much he hates seeing you hurt.” He says as his voice starts to crack slightly, remembering all the things the three of them would come up with whenever you were anything but happy and content.

Feeling the tears well in your eyes again, you squeeze the bottle tighter, fighting the instinct to drown your feelings in the burning liquid.

Glancing over at them, your heart breaks seeing the genuine hurt on their faces because of the realization you’ve been drinking this whole time and they didn’t know. Sighing angrily,you shove the bottle into neteyams chest. “Fine, but when I get back just save me a bottle, because I know it’ll be gone by the time I come back.” You say while turning out of your room swiftly, leaving kiri and neteyam there speechless.

Once you get to the spirt tree, you thank payakan and tell him that you’ll see him soon. Ever since lo’aks passing you’ve only really left your marui to go see payakan, knowing he carries the same weight as you do.

While swimming towards the tree, you mentally prepare yourself for this painful experience. You’ve been avoiding coming to the tree in the first place, because you knew how much it take out of you. And he knew the same.

Connecting your kuru to the tree, you’re brought to you and lo’aks secret spot back at your actual home. The only place that brought you two comfort. Tentatively, you walk through the clearing, lo’ak still not in sight.

“Lo?, where are you?” You call out, the sound of your own voice making you realize you weren’t 15, but you were younger. Walking towards a curtain of flora that led to a small river, you catch a glimpse of your brother, making you walk quicker.

Once you get there you see lo’ak sitting at the edge of river with his feet languidly swaying in the water, just staring into the water. Almost like he was waiting for something, or someone. You don’t say anything at first, just taking in the sight of him after not seeing him for months.

“Brother..” you say softly, not wanting to disturb his peace. His head whips in the direction of your voice, his expression lighting up as he gets up and walks towards you. “Sister!!, I thought you’d never show!” He says as he takes you into a hug, the sound of his voice making you giggle since he was also his younger self.

“Of course I did, it just took me a little time. You know I’d always come to see your skxawng ass” you say as you break the hug to shove his face with your pointer and middle finger. He giggles at that, his smile making the weight on your chest get lighter.

Grabbing your hand, he guides you to where he was sitting. Taking your seat beside him, you gaze out into the water with him.Nervously playing with your extra finger, you take a breath before talking about what you were avoiding for so long.

“Brother I’m-” you exhale slowly before continuing, noticing out of the corner of your eye how all lo’aks attention was turned to you. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be here. It should’ve been me that got shot that night. I was the one that put the idea into your head to go save spider. I should’ve just told you and teyam to go so I could’ve got spider by myself-” “Sister,” he cuts you off, your rambling making the pain in his heart worse. “It’s not your fault. You need to stop hurting yourself like this. It’s not fair to you. You need to focus on now. Not ‘what if’. And plus, It’s not like I would’ve listened to you if you told me to go anyway, there’s no way in hell I’d let that happen.”

Both of you giggle at the last part, knowing that he’s not lying. Once your laughs die down, you look down at your hands, that feeling of guilt still lingering in your chest. Glancing over at you, he notices how you’re playing with your pinkies, a telltale sign that told him something was bothering you.“Sister, what else is it?” He says as he leans back onto his hands, noticing how your shoulders slightly go stiff from his question.

Turning your body to face him, you don’t fail to notice the genuine look of concern in his eyes. “You know what day it is today?” You ask, making his expression completely drop. “Yeah, I know.” The words feeling like a weight on his tongue. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do today without you lo’. I can’t. It hurts too much.” You say as the tears finally spill over your face, the grief crawling back up your throat once again. “No, y/n, you can and you will. For me. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean you can’t live out there. Live for me, y/n. Stop letting yourself be consumed by grief and guilt. I hate seeing you like this and you know that.” He says sternly, making sure you know he’s being serious.

All you do is nod your head, not trusting your voice with the lump in your throat and the never ending tears that keep falling from your eyes. The sight of your hurting form makes lo’aks heart twist in pain. And the fact he couldn’t really do much hurt even more. “Come here, sis,” Placing his hand on your shoulder he pulls you towards him. Giving you a much needed hug, immediately making you sob into the crook of his neck.

“I miss you, twin” he says while resting his chin on your shoulder, letting the tears fall freely from his eyes. You let out a broken, “i miss you more” as the void in your chest grows the longer you two hug.

Once you finally calm down,you break the hug, now seeing each other how you guys remember. “Well shit..” you both say in sync, making you both laugh. “You look so grown. I don’t like it.” Lo’ak says as he admires you a little longer, a feeling of peace swirling in his chest. “Yeah,me neither” you say in a soft tone, once again feeling guilty for moving on without him with you.

Placing left hand on your head, and his right on your shoulder he looks at you with a soft smile on his face, “Y/n,you’ll be ok. I’ll always be watching you, and I’ll always protect you.” The tone of his voice making you inhale sharply so the next wave of tears doesn’t come. He raises his pinky finger towards you, waiting for you to do the same. You let out a soft chuckle at his childish behavior before obliging.

Once both of you pinkies are holding onto one another, he grips your shoulder tighter. “Promise me, that you won’t give up on yourself, that you won’t push everyone away, that you won’t drink your feelings away. Promise me that you can get over this feeling. That you will live through this feeling.”

You squeeze his pinky even tightly as you feel the tears well up in your eyes, realizing that time will make no difference to how much you miss him. But it will for how much you will grow through this feeling.

Tugging his pinky towards yours, you nod your head ‘yes’ before saying, “I promise. I promise I’ll do my best for you. I promise that I’ll try for you.” The words making a smile appear on his face. He brings you into a loving hug, the warmth of comfort washing over both of you guys.

“Happy birthday,twin” you guys say in sync again, a soft giggle coming from both of you. Breaking the hug, he grabs your hands and squeezes them tightly “ow! That hurts!” “I don’t care! I want you to have fun for me today alright? Celebrate us! Spend time with everyone that loves you and gives a shit about you. You deserve it!” he says through his laughs, making you smile softly at his childish demeanor.

“Alright I will!! I’ll come visit you again tonight and I’ll tell you all about today!” You say in a giddy tone, noticing that this has been the first time you’ve been somewhat happy since these last 4 months.

“You better” he says while rolling his eyes dramatically, knowing he did it to make you laugh. Once your laughter dies down, you both look back at the water. Not wanting this moment to end already. “I love you,bro” you say while bumping your shoulder against his, making him laugh and do the same to you. “I love you more,sis” he says with a soft smile on his face, one that replaced the one on yours.

You two stay like this for a while, just basking in each others presence and invading each others space. Thoughts of leaving suddenly crowd your head and the second those thoughts occur, your brother says something about it.“Y/n go spend the day with them. You know how they get on our birthday, plus they’ll make you feel better.” He says in a delicate tone, a soft smile on his face from remembering how much they loved celebrating your birthdays. You sigh softly, before reluctantly standing up.

He gets up with you, bringing you into an affectionate hug. Without breaking it, he whispers “I’ll miss you,sister.” With complete sadness laced in his tone. A tear falls from your face from the sound of his voice,“I’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know, brother.” You two stay like this for a while, until it starts getting harder to breathe, a harsh reminder of the truth.

Breaking the hug, you give him a look that lets him know that, making him hesitantly let go of you. “I’ll see you later tonight brother, I promise. I love you!” You say while turning around to leave, hearing him let out a little ‘I love you, too’ before you leave.

Once you reach the surface you catch your breath, calling out to your ilu and mentally going over your interaction with your brother to avoid acknowledging that void in your chest.

It’s a peaceful ride back home, until you start getting in your head about ‘having fun’ today without lo’ak. Because it wasn’t just your birthday, but his too. And celebrating without him just doesn’t feel right, even tuk knows that.

But right when you start having those doubts, a group of hammerbrow fish swarm around you and your ilu, stopping you in your tracks. One of them swims up to your face and flicks your forehead, making you furrow your brows and shove it away. They swim around you and you ilu for awhile longer before leaving, one of them staying back a little longer to look at you.

The whole interaction left you with a smile on your face, knowing that it was definitely lo’ak telling you to calm down, and to stop worrying about unnecessary things. Making hope swirl in your chest.

With time, you know you’ll be okay.

A/N~ this took SO LONG to write oh my fucking god. But we made it!! And I hope you guys enjoyed this (and this is my first angst fic so pls cut me some slack if some phrasing gets repetitive😔) because I did, didn’t enjoy the tears I cried while writing this but it was worth it🩷 if you made it to the end and you’re reading this I wanna thank you so much for reading this whole long ass fic, must really love me huh😏?? LMFAOO but anyway! Otw to write for kinkmas now🏃🏽‍♀️💨

Duces🫶🏽,

Luvv4j4ybe11

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 2)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Prologue | Part 1

By the time they arrive at the Capitol, Katniss and Peeta are whisked off to be prepped for the tribute parade.

Y/N is already dressed to the nines, they are here to work after all. Haymitch has begrudgingly squeezed into a pantsuit to match and they’re off to talk up the night’s festivities.

Y/N drags him by the hand as they’re rushed through the streets, bustling with excitement.

“Come, come.” Their escort insists. “Five minutes to curtain.”

“Can’t wait.” Haymitch grumbles, a little hung over. His wife flicks at lint on his shoulder pads, allowing him to take a few sips from his flask as they wait in the wings. Fussing over his hair. “It’s fine,” he’s not like her. Nobody is expecting him to be perfectly put together.

“Remember, we’re happy, we’re grateful, we’re in love.” Sounds an awful lot like the pep talks he used to give her. As if somehow, over the years, they’ve switched places.

“Are we not in love?” Haymitch slurs, cocking his head to the side.

Y/N sighs, “of course we are.” Maybe not the way they were in the beginning. Gone are stolen kisses and frenzied hands; given way to comfort and familiarity.

Flickerman’s music plays, the show has started. As the crowd settles back into their seats, Caesar makes his announcement. “Tonight, we will be joined by two very special guests before the tribute parade.”

The audience squeals with excitement. They get to see her.

Y/N rose to fame because Haymitch pushed her there; she was the first sign of hope he’d seen in a long time. But she remains at the top because Snow allows her to; Y/N is everything he dreamed a victor would be. Someone to rally and unite the people with a story of gratitude and love for the nation.

“Y/N and Haymitch Abernathy,” Caesar smiles, standing at the front of his chair.

That’s their queue. Walk out, smile, wave.

The crowd howls, erupting into applause. Stealing the air from Y/N’s lungs, though no one besides her husband could know that. They greet Caesar in turn. Y/N with a hug; the show host vibrating with delight. Haymitch is a hand shake and a pat on the back.

“Welcome, welcome. Thank you for joining us.”

“Thank you for having us,” Y/N takes her assigned seat on the couch after Haymitch plops down.

“Tell us, how are things?” Caesar crosses one leg over the other. “How are the children? It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”

Not long enough.

“Kids are great,” Haymitch tells him, “brought some pictures for you.” He fishes around in his pocket for a moment before leaning over Y/N to deliver them.

“Oh my,” Caesar cries, “our babies.” He turns the photos out to the crowd, giving the film crew a chance to tighten the shot. “Where are our babies?”

The people let out a collective coo.

“They’re growing up,” Y/N nods.

“You can say that again. Where has all the time gone?”

“I don’t know Caesar, you haven’t aged a day.”

“Ahh,” he clutches a hand to his heart. “You flatter, my girl. Now, I have to ask what we’re all dying to know…”

Haymitch moves to the edge of his seat, feigning anticipation.

“Do you plan on having more children?” Caesar leans in.

Y/N turns to her husband, making a show of whispering in his ear.

Haymitch smirks, nodding suggestively toward the curtains offstage.

“Haymitch, you dog!” Caesar fans himself at the implication.

“It sounded like an invitation,” he shrugs. Quite pleased with himself as people begin cheering. There will be no more children. Not if they have any say in it.

————————————————————————

“I have never seen a more beautiful gown.” The Capitol woman, seated aside of Y/N for the parade, gawks openly at the floor length midnight blue show stopper.

“This?” Y/N looks down at herself. “Doesn’t hold a candle to your outfit. I have half a mind to be jealous.”

Before the chariots are sent out is the perfect time to fish for sponsors. Lay the bait, then once they see the tributes, reel them in.

“Vanity has become quite the talk around here. Everyone loved your reaping dress, we always love your dresses.”

Apparently there is a slew of outfits for a victory tour, assuming one of her tributes ever make it that far.

“Darling, let Y/N breathe.” The woman’s husband cuts in. “Forgive her, she does get overly excited.”

“It’s more than fine,” Y/N reaches a hand out to shake his, “good to meet you both.”

Haymitch watches, giving the man a good old nod and smile when they make eye contact.

The presence of victors is addictive to these people. No matter how much they give, the Capitol demands more. Snow sells it for a price, sells them for a price.

Y/N wants out, she wants freedom. Haymitch keeps her sane, keeps her happy within the confines of their birdcage. They aren’t the only ones. People are angry, desperate for reform. Panem is on the precipice of a revolution, Snow can feel it too. So he digs his claws in a bit deeper.

Soon as the anthem begins to play, all eyes are on the tributes.

District twelve is last, they probably have them dressed as miners again. Ever since Vanity left her post as stylist for the games, the outfits have gone downhill.

This new stylist, Cinna, comes with raving reviews. Still Y/N is surprised to see Peeta and Katniss emerge…on fire?

“Oh my goodness!”

“Look at them!”

“That’s amazing!”

The crowd goes wild, rising from their seats for a closer look. Haymitch huffs a laugh, proud to be their mentor, even though he’ll never admit it.

Katniss won him over during breakfast on the train when she stabbed his placemat. She is a fighter, fighters have a chance if sponsors like them.

When their tributes join hands and hold them high in the air, people eat it up. So far, things are looking better for Katniss and Peeta than any tributes before. The ones Haymitch can’t put names to, the faces that come unbidden in his dreams.

————————————————————————

“Each district gets their own floor.” Effie claps her hands together as she informs the tributes. “Since you’re from twelve, you get the penthouse.”

Katniss side eyes Y/N. Is she serious?

Y/N shoots her a reassuring grin when Katniss freezes at the entrance to the elevator.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Haymitch demands, at this rate he’ll be holding the door open all night.

Katniss swallows, stepping in aside Peeta. Even with Effie, Portia, Cinna and their mentors, the space is not cramped. She wonders idly how many other people could fit.

When they reach the top floor Effie scurries out. “Here it is!”

This time Peeta stalls.

“Come on.” Y/N puts a hand to his back, nodding to the foyer.

Peeta snaps his mouth shut, following after his stylist. It is a bit overwhelming, Y/N remembers. Though the novelty wears off in time.

Effie shows the kids to their rooms. The mentors know theirs well.

“Unzip,” Y/N pleads, the moment they are alone, in the privacy of their suite.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Haymitch chortles. Turning her away to open the gown, allowing it to pool at her feet.

She kicks it away, removing her jewelry and opting for a shower before dinner. When the water runs clear she towels off, feeling like herself again or something close to it.

Tomorrow they train.

Part 3

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