#◈ rp threads

[gcldfanged]

@umbral-dominant

Blackthorne's forge was noticeably empty, save for one lanky looking woman. She was not cleaning, nor taking account for stock of supplies nearby, instead single mindedly focused on the slow push and pull of her blade against a damp whetstone.

It was a small dagger, barely enough weight or heft to feel intimidating by itself, but the angle of the swedge and shape of the knife's sweep indicated it was made for precision- Whether that be precision cutting or piercing. Often the simplest of weapons were the nastiest, whittled down to it's base components through repeated use and time. The function isn't visual appeal, strength, nor endurance, but to sever a nerve, muscle or tendon fibers- or blood vessel to disable and kill the adversary via exsanguination.

Her long, scarred fingers handled it with the casual ease of someone accustomed to bloodshed- There was a intimate familiarity to the way her hands worked with rather than against it's construction, but also a comfortable amount of confidence, bringing the dagger to eye level to examine the edge for any burrs or a noticeably drastic difference in angle.

"Blackthorne's not back yet," she explained aloud, not sparing even a once over to the man who stood at the threshold between the anvil and smithing table.

"Charon called him away, but he should return soon. I have some business with him, so whatever it is you need will have to wait until I'm done with the old bear."

Ji-ho merely wanted to establish that she had since been patiently waiting before this stranger entered the smithy's. No reason to let some newcomer try and muscle his way in front of her position of priority.

The wraps of colored silk and short cotton crossed over her torso were reminiscent of a courtesan's attire, though any gaudy baubles and jewelry she may have once donned had long been sold off for coin. There was no bearer mark upon the steep angle of her visible cheekbone, but her arms and shoulders bore countless scars: semi-circular divots of flesh were entirely missing in places, puckered scar tissue forming shallow craters from where fine cigarillos had been repeatedly extinguished into her bare skin. Thin and meandering lacerations snaked around bony elbows in idle, nonsense patterns- Almost creating a mockery of constellations between the beauty marks and moles standing out against her honeyed-olive complexion.

The tall and taciturn male standing there looked almost passingly familiar. Maybe she had seen him in parting while leaving Cid's solar? It wasn't immediately clear just how the woman had recognized his grim countenance, there were so many refugees and Cursebreakers joining the cause that it was hard to keep track of every single soul who resided within the Hideaway.

[mutasharid]

@sunderedoldfriends requested a starter for Estinien:

For a gravely wounded man, the Warrior of Light was making quite a ruckus at the Barber's. The more sensible of the Healers had left, but one or two stubborn souls reminded behind to try and talk sense into the mage.

"I don't need to be attended to like some... invalid!" Vali raged while looking, if possible, even more angry than he had before he began to cough up specks of blood. He'd bellowed enough to strain his throat hoarse, held together with ruddy bandages that needed replacing, yet Arrzaneth had decided this was a feat he could manage on his own.

A roll of bandages was carefully gripped in his right hand, trying and failing to wrap it snug against the mangled remains oh his once dominant opposite. It had taken two weeks of sedation keeping him immobile, grafting the raw wound to a flap of skin on his lower abdomen above his hip. Once rooted, new skin began to form enough to remove it once more, at the cost of some bone and tissue remaining from the dregs of his necrotic middle digit. The remaining ring and pinky finger could barely move, trauma to the adjoining muscles and tissue having atrophied any dexterity he could perform.

An ugly line of stitches and stapling started a little below his sternum, the imperial viceroy's blade having caught him at a diagonal, carving into his chest to the shoulder.

Now that he was awake, all he could think about was the massacre that had unfolded at the Reach. How foolish he had been to think the empire was blind to their schemes and movements. He'd barely cobbled together some untrained young villagers to take up arms, convinced more sons and daughters of simple laborers to enlist and aid the Resistance. With those who remained with Commander Kemp after Baelsar's Wall, they barely had any numbers to rival that of an experienced legion.

The former Azure Dragoon's presence went barely noticed as Vali pulled at the bandages between his teeth, trying to knot the material and failing spectacularly. Growling out a frustrated noise of disgust, he curled his right hand into a fist and slammed it down on the wooden frame of the sick bed.

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ actions and dialogue for forbidden kisses 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “… that shouldn’t have happened.”

²⁾ holding onto their shoulders/waist for the duration of the kiss, and making no move to separate even after it’s ended

³⁾ “stop telling me that we can’t be together and then pulling shit like this!”

⁴⁾ “[name], i’m sorry.”

⁵⁾ pressing the pads of their fingers into their lips in the aftermath, like they’re either trying to capture the feeling or banish it from memory

⁶⁾ foreheads pressed together as the kiss breaks, eyes guilty but so so full of want

⁷⁾ “this can’t be all there is. a half-dozen kisses every year that we pretend don’t happen and pretentious conversations about ourselves, is that what we’re clinging so hard to? what i’m clinging so hard to?!”

⁸⁾ having begun to trail impassioned kisses down their jaw and neck before the harsh reality kicks back in

⁹⁾ “i shouldn’t have let this happen. it’s not fair on either of us.”

¹⁰⁾ “we sh- “ “no, please. just- just let me have this. just for a minute.”

¹¹⁾ breathing in their scent because they know that this is as close as they’ll get to it for a long, long time

¹²⁾ “why are we doing this to ourselves?”

¹³⁾ using every ounce of strength they have to not lean into the hand cupping their cheek or cradling their head

¹⁴⁾ “that was an accident.” “yeah, you always seem to say that.”

¹⁵⁾ “no matter how cruel it is that you keep giving me hope like this, it’s still never enough to stop me from loving you as much as i do.”

¹⁶⁾ “i don’t want to let go of you.” “and i don’t want to let you.”

¹⁷⁾ feeling tears welling up in their eyes as the hurt and longing burns in their chest

¹⁸⁾ holding the face of their would-be lover tenderly in the palm of their hand, silently apologising for putting them both through this again

¹⁹⁾ “i love y- “ “no, no. please, i can’t. i can’t hear this, not again.”

²⁰⁾ breaking the kiss but still holding them close, hiding their face in the other’s neck to try and recover the moment

²¹⁾ “would now be a bad time to tell you you’re a really good kisser?”

²²⁾ calling them a petname to try and comfort them, but only succeeding in upsetting them more at the reminder of what they can’t have

²³⁾ pushing them away, knowing exactly how cruel it is but favouring it over hurting them both by letting things go further

²⁴⁾ “how do we keep letting this happen?”

²⁵⁾ “this is killing me, [name].”

[gcldfanged]

"Nothing's stopping you from just... mouthing them, as a casual reminder. You don't even have to break their skin, just hold them in your powerful jaws like a large dog grabbing a smaller dog by the muzzle."

"Well I already have the social dominance of being the Phoenix and the heir to Rosaria so I've not needed to go and bite people to assert that."

[gcldfanged]

[Continued from HERE.]

He's always a bit lethargic after a meal, not even from the amount of food consumed- But due to the sheer amount of organization, time management, concentration, and labor needed to prepare a custom menu. He wasn't bellowing orders at the pass or throwing badly plated dishes at his line cooks (this time, anyway), but the weariness was evident in the way the crime lord's shoulders sagged a touch lower and the flirtatious quality to his voice and gestures had quieted down into something much more thoughtful and subdued.

Swirling the remnants of some disgustingly pricey luxury champagne within a fluted crystal glass, Yoon crosses one long leg over the other with a soft exhale. Business was going well, as to be expected- However, his 'pet project' in sponsoring a up and coming yakuza heir had proved to be a decision that had sent ripples of confusion and unease through his subordinates. While they didn't spurn all dealings with the yakuza brotherhoods stationed overseas, direct business with any who remained rooted to the island proper was obviously quite rare.

The bad blood that stemmed from a long history of incredibly hostile foreign occupation was a blisteringly raw wound that refused to scab over, only to be further exacerbated by the resurgence of strong neo-imperialist sentiment within Japan's political climate. And while Jae-hyo himself could admit that he entertained contacts with origins from Japan, they both knew (but never put words to) the basic rule enforced, ever passed down from generational trauma: You can engage with them at large, even call some of them your friends, but you never forget.

Miyoko was vastly unexpected, the direct offspring said to inherit their father's criminal empire and yet they did not glide across the floor radiating some modern and wordless echo to yamato nadeshiko with an ever graceful economy of subtle and subdued movements. They marched like someone who'd just returned from a stint of career military service, had that sharp-eyed predator's awareness of their surroundings at all times, their body an extremely deadly and more than effective weapon hewn from shattered bones that only grew back thicker and stronger for it, scarred flesh touched by little more than cruelty for the sake of flaunting power, and a personality that more brief flashes of keenly-honed edges and layered barbed wire keeping others at a firmly enforced distance.

They could exercise politeness when needed, but beneath that calm and neutral mask lied something that Yoon recognized very quickly- a learned state of passive acceptance. It wasn't innate, it wasn't some intrinsic yellowed streak that hid beneath the chiton of one's backbone when introduced to increasing pressure.

It was the kind of dead-eyed lack of personhood that he saw staring down at the drain of a public bathroom sink, like the centrifugal force of the ruddy water might drag his body down into the blackness along with it. His mirrored-self's jaundiced and bruised flesh: all manner of painful lessons burned, beaten, strangled, and subdued by anything from knives, to ropes, to chains and the control of much larger stronger hands. There was nothing human there, no 'soul'- Only an ever spiraling void that continued to consume everything leveraged against it, yet was never truly complete. A sieve through which any sense of freedom, expression, or even opinions that differed from that of their master fell straight through the gaping mouth punched through it's foundation.

He should be disgusted by the knowledge, the ability to recognize that shared hollowness that is forever carved through their being- A yawning abyss that did nothing more than gnash it's broken teeth and futilely gnaw at it's own belly, stripping fur and skin until they punctured innards.

He should hate them, for being so weak- As he hated his old self, the coward who did nothing but cry endlessly and snivel into her twin's skirts at the overwhelming hopelessness of their situation. The helpless little girl who had said nothing, not even dared to breathe, even as her only remaining source of unconditional love and selfless protection was so cruelly dragged away- All the while struggling just to lock eyes and deliver a reassuring smile to her other half that was birthed from the same womb.

It's going to be okay, J꙲꙲i꙲꙲-꙲꙲h꙲꙲o꙲꙲.꙲꙲"꙲꙲

Jae-hyo's dominant arm lashes out like a snake, to close steely leather-encased fingers around Miyoko's wrist and pull. Keeps pulling until the guidance and torque results in the yakuza heir sitting astride his hips and thighs. His gimlet-eyed stare is little more than two pools of spilled oil spreading across the encrusted rime of a gelid pond. He doesn't move to grasp at familiar curves or the hard planes of muscle, doesn't lift a solitary finger to coax, cajole, or otherwise lure them into a false sense of comfort. His expression isn't warm or bright, it's not reassuring kindness and closed-lipped smiles. Jae is content to merely study his would-be 'prize', taking mental notes of dark pupils that expand- pushing out the equally rich hue of their irises into thin limbal halos. How they jump from the sharp ridges of his clavicles up the slender column of his neck draped in delicately interwoven gold chains and Cortez pearls in a spectrum of peacock blue-green, lush aubergine, and rose.

On any other person, they might have been garish and over the top- Sneered at for being ostentatious trappings meant for an overly-spoilt trophy wife hanging from the arm of an actual made-man. Yoon wasn’t confident in the sense that he wore what he did because he had convinced even himself that it was stylish, he chose specific accessories and fabrics to artfully drape himself in because he liked the way they looked on his androgynous frame- Limber and all tightly-coiled braids of wiry muscle slumbering against sharper, bony landmarks that could cut through glass.

Mascara-coated lashes accentuated by rich crimson gel liner lower just the slightest increment, brushing feather light against the fullest slope of Miyoko’s right cheekbone- A brief moment of extremely fleeting contact that the heir-apparent craved.

Turning his wrist in a languid motion, he brings the heel of a gloved hand to his mouth and sinks his incisors into the softly treated leather. The protective coverings slip from what would have been long and elegant fingers- An artist’s tools, or the perfect living canvas to model rings. Instead, they reveal cratered and discolored remnants of wounds that went far deeper than surface level contact burns- Countless live embers carelessly stamped and ground into his naked skin when the cigarillo’s pleasant sear no longer mattered as a form of enjoyment.

It's with these disfigured hands that he gently brushes through gathered strands of hair falling in a defensive curtain away from his partner's visage, tucking the dark locks behind the curve of their ear.

[melancholicmoonlight]

In the dark afternoon, two horses guided by lanterns trudge off down a snow whipped path, up to a shabby cabin off in the distance. Ice nips at their noses, and in the distance, the sound of howling wolves echoes throughout the mountains.

Jameson tugs his scarf up to cover his face, glancing over at Reid. “Do we have enough firewood for the night?”

[alburnusgecko]

@dr-octayve @mr-rey-of-sunshine @intern-ko

*gecko knocks on the daycare door* hello? Is anyone here? Me and Dr Octayve figured out how to reverse the de-aging gun!

[gcldfanged]

Despite Tseng's uncanny gifts of astuteness and intuition, managing to land precision-strike darts upon the twisting labyrinth that made up Jae-hyo's psyche did not require a surfeit of perception- At present. Normally, these ever shifting corridors resembled more a distressing landscape that would put an M.C. Escher design to shame. Instead, the agent is clearly elsewhere. His passivity and abject silence continued to loom heavily with uncharacteristic languor.

As if stirring from a centuries-long period of malaise, Yoon wordlessly leans back within his ergonomic chair and narrows his eyes at the ceiling. Seamless tiles broken up by sleek, modern fixtures of overhead lighting were normally sanitized by the maintenance crew every evening- But Reno had seen to it that a spare fountain pen had mysteriously found itself embedded into the PVC.

His PHS remains motionless on the surface of his desk, seemingly forgotten (it wasn't). Not that he was expecting contact anyway. Unless the G-cells were steadily eating away at Hewley's brain matter, then he might as well just wrap himself in a gaudy-ass bow and land on the President's private helipad atop the Shinra building.

The stupid mental image doesn't even stir an ounce of... anything, really. Ever since the mass desertion, he'd busied himself with work: would have preferred to complete reconnaissance and infiltration missions within the jurisdiction of their headquarters over being assigned 'resident desk jockey'.

But his actions, his choices- Every word put to voice needed to be closely monitored, after all.

It hadn't been a shock to the system or a massive betrayal of implicit trust when he'd found himself handcuffed to some dingy metal chair in front of Verdot. If anything, it felt natural. Expected. Routine.

The Director had ever been at his side through it all: Pushing heavy clumps of drenched hair back from Jae's face as he puked up nothing but what felt like gallon after gallon of frigid water, smoothing the calloused pad of his dominant thumb over scabbed ridges of Jae's knuckles as he applied liquid adhesive over the raw and exposed wounds where his fingernails should have been, gently daubing at heavy rivulets of cold sweat pouring down the length of Jae's neck after injecting him with a heavy cocktail of potent drugs mixed with dimethyltryptamine.

In some sick way, he almost wanted it to be like that again.

No more 'what ifs' and 'could haves' spiraling into the infinite, a restless snake perpetually swallowing it's own tail. Just the intimate familiarity of pain suffusing his being, his complete surrender to Veld's omnipotent and perfect control, it's haunting euphoria enveloping him.

The exact question hadn't been addressed, only implied through an obdurate mask of wordless austerity.

Outside their ranks, is anyone worth that? Will he wake up each morning with effortless certainty of his value and dedicated place carved out by someone else?

Does he even feel like home, to you?

There's an unsettling gleam in the mesopelagic abyss of his dark, crimson-lined eyes. A tomcat's slit-eyed leer.

"You were saying something, hyungnim? I completely missed it, sorry- Does it bear repeating?"

Yoon's raspy tone is laden with the sweetest coating of syrup he can express, thick enough to outright suffocate the other man. Choke him, even.

"It's such a shame when a Turk gets too caught up with a SOLDIER."

[alburnusgecko]

@listacole

Okay! So I have all the unlabeled guns in that box in the corner, do you want to pick one out? I’m pretty sure all of them are mostly safe!

[gcldfanged]

@sometimesrufus

Photos enhanced to high quality perfection spanned each wall of the annexation remembrance display, SOLDIERs and infantry men alike caught in candid shots holding rescued children or helping the injured to a healer's tent. To Ji-ho, these were memories that did not reflect their home at all- They may have been born during the armistice between Hanuel and Shinra's military forces to oust Wutai's hostile occupation, but their grandfather had little love for foreigners.

Had they stayed behind and not been trafficked, they doubted they'd be anything but the last of a dying breed- A die-hard loyalist who stubbornly clung to belief of their own nation's might, trying to preserve what little dignity they thought they had left.

A well-dressed secretary arched an eyebrow at the state of them, but Ji-ho had no money for fine clothes, much less a formal silk blouse and skirt set that probably cost as much as a four-door car. Yet they wore the few scraps of fabric that composed their obvious 'street walker' ensemble with an easy confidence, refusing to be cowed into humiliation by a nine-to-five pencil pusher. The stiletto heels of their knee-high boots clicked ominously as they strode over to the elevator, disgruntled chaperone in tow.

It was a long ride up countless floors, until the elevator finally came to a smooth stop.

They’re not sure what to expect. The night before still felt almost like some strange fever dream brought on by malnutrition and one too many fists to the jaw, perhaps the contact high from the smoke. Rufus Shinra looked like what ‘good people’ in movies were- Blonde and pretty, clean and pale-skinned, wearing the purest white like some kind of sartorial oxymoron drifting weightlessly through the blueish gloom of Wall Market’s nightlife. Like an angel from on high, except an agent of God wouldn’t have packed blue steel heat like he did, wouldn’t have the cold and calculating poise with which he unraveled Masa’s born-bully psyche like a threadbare bathroom rug by simply pulling the most obvious string.

They had been the ‘shield’ afterall, a crude bargaining chip seized in the moment (which would have been hilarious if they all hadn’t seen it coming a mile away), as if the Wutaian gangster actually valued Ji-ho’s life in the slightest beyond being one more layer between himself and a hail of bullets. What had they looked like, they wondered- Probably tired. By the situation, the banter, the spectacle. Rufus could have shot Ji-ho through the heart and they would have thanked him, by that point. Shinra Junior had disarmed Masanori in one confident pull of the trigger, said his piece, then ended the ‘discussion’ with a second shot to the forehead. They’d merely wiped the blood from the side of their face and spit on his corpse in response.

That had made the corner of the blonde’s lips quirk into a crooked smile, like he was actually impressed by the display of obvious disdain. He’d given them a business card and offered an opportunity to ‘discuss employment’, whatever that meant. Honestly, they weren’t expecting anything so revolutionary, they couldn’t already guess what their ‘job’ might entail. Still, maybe some tiny part of their mind was holding out for a miracle, maybe something unexpected that could lead them to a better lot in life.

Even if such hopes were mere childish fantasies and they’d be re-learning the hardest lesson all over again, they would have regretted not showing up to the Shinra building at all. 

After being lead to the conference room, Ji-ho remained standing, almost prepared to walk right back out if they didn’t like what the other had to say.

[gcldfanged]

Ahh, there he was at last...

Always playing things extremely fast and loose with unspoken golden rules that the mundane and even so-called 'Masters of the Occult' should constantly adhere to: Never run from something immortal, lest you attract it's immediate attention. Never accept gifts, food, or drink. Never share one's true name, and so on.

That reckless commitment to pure and unabashed idiocy, experiencing it in all of it's facile ease, it's naked poetry- So brazenly flirting with a capricious and ungovernable entity such as themselves? Deceit will savor this, turn it over countless times within their nimble-fingered grasp. They'd return to this moment again and again, examine the scene from all angles, trace the forked tip of their tongue along it's edges from the comfort of their own realm.

Their location changes abruptly, the Endless' human-like proportions now fitting snugly inside the space between John's trademark coat and dress shirt. The tip of their chin rests against the planes of the mage's yet clothed belly, the androgynous being tip-toeing blackened claws up the broad expanse of Constantine's chest. Lithe palms trace out the shapes of arcane symbols inked into his fair skin, stroking over twinned buds of thicker flesh beginning to pebble from the intimate contact. Petal-soft lips curl back to expose sharp golden incisors before viciously twisting at short strands of hair covering the swell of a pectoral with their thumb and forefinger.

Deceit raises their head to hungrily lick at the air, displaying the disturbing length of their reptilian tongue. The dexterous organ appears blue in color, thin as a whip and completely unlike that of a human's- The Endless content to nuzzle their angular cheek against the delightful scratch of beard stubble peppering John's jawline.

"I positively adore your smell when fear takes hold," they admit in a breathy hiss, their slitted pupils beginning to expand the longer they remain entangled.

it's like one of those two-faced dog quotes bouncing around the net these days. 'oh i can get you one of them- watch the back and the front door at the same time!'. skittered somethin' awful along the back of his head.

though that could be because he is POINTEDLY staring down at his whiskey glass and away from those eyes, none too keen on a revisit of that seemingly-eternal nausea that john was pretty sure had nothing to do with the endless itself, and more to do with his magic pitching a fit. or it could simply be tuesday!

the magician laughs at his own humour, canting his head to at least show he's very much paying attention.

" yanno i tend t'satisfy any o'that with the comforting an' vaguely arousing thought that you're in my mouth at all hours~. " after all, he had a talent for lying- perhaps to a level it could be considered compulsive. also, an evident deathwish, given his utter devil-may-care attitude when it came to the divine and all their ilk.

" y'feel my tonguin' your shape earlier, is that it? it wasn' even my best yarn spun-- swindlin' swindler's is fair-easy if y'know what they're after."

[melancholicmoonlight]

It's been a few days of aimlessly searching for the werewolf that bit Jameson, and all they've come across in those few days are the remains of small animals and pawprints in the mud. The gang has given up for the night, and has made a camp in the woods near a babbling stream that Jameson can almost hear over Reids mindless strumming of a banjo, which is out of tune. Harper has already cuddled up in her sleeping bag and is somehow snoring through the thunking of the strings.

Jameson’s sat down on a log across from Reid, watching the fire. He glances over at them and clears his throat a bit. “You’re sure we’ve been going the right way?”

[thethreefaes]

Living on Berk was a dream. Lyra was learning fast from Gothi to be a healer and Altair was finally warming up to being around other dragons again! The two often flying in the evenings together. And Lyra exploring the forests for plants and herbs. She felt alive. Free.

It was only three months later when the dream would shatter. Lyra was working on a garden she’d placed by her hut. Her home! She smiled bright. Altair resting near by when she suddenly raised her head. Scenting the air before hissing. Her eyes sharp and teeth bared. The dragon all but pushing Lyra into the hut.

“Altair? What’s gotten into you? Wh-“ she covered her mouth to stop the panic that bubbled up. Thanking the stars the hut was big enough for both her and Altair to hide inside before they were seen.

Two large men, though smaller than most of those on Berk, approached the village. Dragon hide armor with metal spikes adorned them. One with a sword on his hip and the other with an axe. And hanging from both, iron shackles.

“We request a meeting with the chief of this place.” One of them called out.

@dragonmasterhiccup

[gcldfanged]

speargifted:

"You overestimate how much I want you."

"Sounds like someone's just being a whiny little chocobo chick to me, but okay- Coward."

[gcldfanged]

"Understood, General," Yoon responds crisply, maintaining his composure enough to visibly straighten his posture and make eye contact. His unwavering gaze may be pointed up at the taller combatant, but his eyes are little more than dim pools of bottomless umber- Not really focusing on anything beyond the muted non-edges of large shapes and strong contrasts in shadow.

The recruit's nerves were in tatters, misfiring strong and instinctual warnings to his brain loud and piercing as the air raid sirens that had woke them all from fitful, shallow excuses for slumber. Dirty, suffocatingly cramped within the tiniest hanok built within their.... No, it was barely large enough to be called even a 'village'. More like a commune, a tightly-knit community of generationally impoverished farmhands struggling in wallows of thick mud and seasonally flooded rice fields.

It isn't how people commonly describe the emotional state that violently wrests control from it's host. He doesn't experience any hallucinations, no visions or auditory input- his body does not shrink or seemingly shed years off of his (admittedly, brief insofar) lifespan. He is not a scared little girl anymore, too paralyzed by fear to stand or even utter words. The bars of a cage meant to contain fighting dogs only ever persist in his memories, yet the claustrophobic conditions were similar. When Sephiroth's incredible speed made the distance between them evaporate in the span of a blink, it's pressure had it's own gravitational pull- Swallowed miles upon miles of flooring and massive training mats whole, their audience themselves dropped into a fathomless vortex beneath the knee's width spread of his 'horse stance'. He hadn't even sensed any free space to evade backwards or sideways into, his body's joints simultaneously locking into place as though instantly calcified.

Jae moves on auto-pilot, noticeably stiff in the neck and shoulders. His limber arm snatches up his towel as he makes a beeline toward the now closed double doors that should have afforded them some modicum of privacy, stalking down the adjoining hallway to the 'refreshment center' of the Training Floor. Really, rather fancy a title for some lonely rows of quietly humming vending machines.

Fishing a hand through his compression leggings, the agent slots a 5 gil coin into the waiting tray attached below a large frontal LED screen, the accepted payment triggering some shrill and irritatingly catchy-sounding jingle along the lines of 'Restore your health with our effectively energizing recipe of proplis extract, royal jelly, sambucus berries, and thyrobalm!'.

There was a far lower, barely imperceptible voice rattling off less... health-inspired ingredients such as rock sugar, caffeine, carbonated water, and artificial food dye. The advertisement's actor hadn't even paused or taken a solitary breath between any number of individual spoken words, once.

His index finger hovers centimeters from a long row of many illuminated buttons (they were all the same, anyway). A hot rush of nausea forces bile up the length of his throat, flooding his mouth. His lips had been just slightly parted before, so Yoon has to clap an open palm over his mouth- a panicked attempt to not drool sick all over his worn athletic shoes.

The young Turk's opposite arm curls around his now crooked elbow, obsessively trimmed nails digging into the lean muscle of his right shoulder like he wants to tear open a seam and rip all the skin within reach straight off his body. This is nothing- There's no leering figures, no noxious fug of stale cigar smoke and B.O. permeating his sinuses, no eardrum-puncturing industrial drumkit masquerading as a legitimate form of music.

It's nothing.

Shuddering when the sensation of weight near the lower half of his abdomen drops through his legs and straight down into the dead rusk of the planet, past caked layers of limestone and fossilized bone yet to be exhumed as precious fuel.

As he is nothing.

The retro chiptune emanating from his PHS speaker blares to life, Jae-hyo scrubbing at the corner of his mouth as he yanks the 'intellicessory' out of the travel pocket of his gym clothing.

Doesn't even have to look at the contact id bar flashing angrily like a Cosmo Baboon's swollen ass cheeks- He knows it's Verdot.

"Director."

The recruit's voice is sharp and clear, the length of his bowed spine snapping rod-straight into perfectly poised alignment as he addresses his master with absolute respect and unquestionable obedience.

"I'm en route as we speak, affirmative."

The potion remains undispensed within the hollow organs of the drink machine as Jae turns and strides to the nearest elevator that leads to the SOLDIER floor.

the crowd if they could be called such , the loyal employees either wished to see blood or expected to see such. sephiroth was a creature of power and power was perceived as authority , however unless the onlookers were members of the SOLDIER program sephiroth had no actual authority over them. every person held the freedom to leave in order to avoid the mounting tension , but their gazes , like red wolves in the dead of night , informed the progidal weapon that they truly wished to see the thing of stories . . to then have a story of their own to plant in the ear of others. sephiroth naturally knew of his own legacy and how it inspired both respect and fear , among other emotions , but he was ignorant to how powerful their fear really could be.

never had he purposefully committed an act of intimidation for the sheer response unless marching onto the line of battle with masamune in hand could be considered a purposeful act of intimidation. these were his allies , and lest they shoved a knife at his back , they had no reason to be so consumed with fear. — and then there was the turk. rather small weren’t they. of all people he should have been wary of whatever expected wrath was conjured. sephiroth did not even have to be sephiroth ; anyone with a bad temper could have reacted poorly to what was an accident.

what if it had not been accident however? people were oft prone to admire rather than INSITE? violence. it was not an impossibility ; he had come across both fanatics seeking an autograph and psychotics wishing to see him bleed. was the turk from wutai , more deranged than the ordinary SHINRA employee , sadistic , masochistic? sephiroth quieted his thoughts as he palmed his aching testicles. only once before had his groin been struck and the rarity of the situation only amplified his sensitivity. a man’s weakness was a man’s weakness after all , even for one sitting on an ivory pedestal.

❛ well . . . ❜

sephiroth began with word moving with utmost care from his mouth as though the statement to follow had been practiced many times before. in a twisted manner it was true. two persons flinched when sephiroth broke the tension once more. now that was dramatic.

❛ people do make a point of bringing the word honour into the battlefield , yet war is war and most will do everything and anything to survive. ❜

including kicking an enemy’s crotch to gain the advantage — was the point. it seemed he ignored jae-hyo's excuse. an accident was an accident however repercussions were part of the lesson as well.

❛  you will meet me in the SOLDIER barracks at 1800 hours. does that sound reasonable? ❜

naturally he could not control how his eyes looked , but at that moment they were gleaming and shinning with – what was it . . a touch of amusement , perhaps. lips did not betray any emotion. and just like that the tension was skimmed and skimmed until only confusion was left for those wandering eyes. everyone , as if with synced minds , believed that's it? as though they were avians having to exert energy to move their feet , it took one man to break at the knee for others to follow. when they believed they were out of eyesight , some rushed out of the training hall while others lingered in hopes of witnessing an altercation.

[le4ves-1n-the-w1nd]

Of Wind and Wrath and the Pride Between

Leaf leaned back against the cave wall, the cool stone soothing some of the pain. Various bottles of alcohol were scattered around him, most drained completely.

Misty-liquid blood leaked from his arm stump from where he had been untangling Danny's voice from. In his lap was a pile of ethereal string still connected to his shoulder.

He had lied Rory just a little. He wasn't done, but he just couldn't do it anymore. It hurt too badly. There was no amount of alcohol in the world that could numb this pain. And with his allergy, he couldn't use pain medication.

So he was stuck here, three sheets to the wind and wracked with pain fucking Lucifer, bastard fuckwad

He hadn't meant to. Take their voices, he means. It was an accident. He didn't even know he even had that power to begin with. He... He had been scared. It was the first time in three decades that something had physically hurt him.

He threads his fingers through the vibrant green threads, hearing wordless whispers of a soothing voice. It was nice, Danny's voice, but Rory's was better.

It was a soothing rumble that he could feel in his bones. Probably because it was wrapped around his bones. It wasn't going to be fun to get out... And he was probably going to have to do it himself. The thought made him sick.

More wispy blood floats down to the cave floor.

(( @d3vils-in-th3-d3tails ))