#because death must be something prey can be able to swallow

[microwavablefork]

Hello! Your art is very beautiful. Please tell us more about your COTL AU Nomadic Faith. Seems very interesting! Are you asking for art requests? May a kind month come to you. Eat your fruits and vegetables.

HII!!! omg this is my first ask about my cotl au (and first ask in general yippee!!) you have just released a demon my friend. (and tysm :3)

OK SO! I was kinda reading the lore tablets in game and didn’t understand what the fuck was going on so I decided to make my own lore and run with it! :3 I always thought it’d be interesting if the Sheep never worshipped the Old Faith, instead I envisioned them more like Plimbo or some of the NPCs who have livelihoods that overshadow any cult like behavior. Or at least any that abided to that of the Bishops rather than their own culture.

I took inspiration from nomadic groups like the romani people and other eastern tribes in terms of clothing and style. (which i have yet to post my designs oopsie…) The idea of nomads kinda flowed into that idea of a ‘herd mentality’ sheep carry by having them travel and bond together like that. They’re very musical and are insanely talented at detailed wool cloths and textile crafting and trading herbs and spices. (Also the little earrings you see my lamb wear also speak to their wood workmanship! Each earring has a specific meaning whether it accords to age, family, etc. But by the time the lamb becomes a god.., they forget half of it :( )

Once Narinder had split off from the Old Faith and began to get more greedy with his power and start to question the Old Gods, that’s when Shamura had the vision of the prophecy and the reaping began. So The Lamb (i don’t have a name for them yet but I’ve been thinking of Ewe = Eve like from the bible), is born during the reaping, and has very much grown up with a more hurried ‘on-the-road’ lifestyle.

Most of the Sheep actually turned to Narinder’s faith (that was separate from the old faith) because they saw comfort in death being something they could believe in. Sheep are prey animals by default, so the idea was even more instilled into the herds once the reaping began.

(ALSO! Narinder is very fond of sheep in general as they made for the most loyal of followers.. plus they made him really pretty garments and wrote songs as offerings)

I’ve just realized i’ve probably talked your ear off into oblivion (big apologizes to anyone who’s reading this far 😭) but yeah I’m just very passionate abt this au of mine.

So anyways! Once the reaping gets more severe, the herds begin to break off smaller and smaller to protect one another. Usually it would’ve been 4-6 big families and family friends traveling together, but by the time The Lamb was born, they’d only travel is groups of 1-2 families. Though she did get to experience the culture of her kind up until her early adulthood when her sister was kinda… slaughtered 💀 They had been the last two sheep unknowingly, and after much running, hiding, and crying alone in the woods. The Lamb was captured, brought to slaughter, and everyone knows the rest.

Though they did buck out at the Bishops and put up a decent fight beforehand.

There is MUCH more in regards to cult life, my au version of narilamb has a lot of meat to it, but I’ll spare the yap for another day HFHSHD


THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE ASK THOUGH!!! may a kind month come to you too :3

[vixen525noms]

Defying Certain Death Part 10

Copied from my DeviantArt account, a non-sexual G/T vore story featuring adults along the lines of the lion and the thorn fable. There will be tons of hurt/comfort aspects, lots of safe vore. That is the primary focus in this.

Barrett is and adult giant standing 85ft tall and Hope is an adult human at 5ft 6. Barrett does not eat children at any point.

Warnings: Unwilling Prey; Fatal Mention (Implied future); Characters in Distress

Future: While this part is relatively tame, future parts include fatal vore and violence. Barrett, the giant, is not a good guy, so will be doing some occasional bad things.

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Hope sighed, uncertain about the best way to answer. “Well... I’m not entirely sure about the distance... a storm took out almost everything I had growing, so I made this trip to get enough to start over. But the reason what I grow is valuable is because it is typically found a great distance away, too far to easily travel. I had to sell the last of my supply... and most of my other belongings, to be able to afford to make this trip... My best guess is my village is about fifty or sixty aroys from here.”

Barrett paused, shocked at the distance. An aroy was about a full day’s walk for him, and she had come that far? No wonder she sold her whole stock, she must have paid someone to make a portal. And it meant she probably hadn’t thought she’d be able to go back for some time, if at all. It only served to increase his curiosity about her, leading to more questions rather than answers. “So what are your plans then, Hope?” “I… I’m not entirely sure. I was just going to continue gathering plants, get some sprouts started, and head in the general direction of home. I hadn’t decided if I’d go the whole way or settle somewhere between here and there.” “Well consider my offers… I could provide you some things from my collection, and you’d be set...” 

He paused suddenly when he caught a scent, one that reminded him of the need for him to get food. He closed his eyes and sniffed the air a bit, smiling. About time he found something. “Hope? I’ll be getting you out shortly. I’ll be sure to put you near some water so you can clean up while I hunt.” “Thank goodness... despite your reassurances; this is still pretty scary for me.” Barrett turned, heading first towards where his sense of smell indicated water to be closest. It looked like a lake that the mountain river lead down to... and was likely where the caravan he smelled was heading. He was pretty sure they were far enough that Hope wouldn’t see or hear anything while she washed up... He had a pretty good feeling that if she knew what kind of prey he found, she would probably be upset. He may have nothing against hunting humans and similar prey, but he didn’t want to upset Hope if it could be avoided. Not after all she did for him.

He made his way to the lakeside, closing his eyes briefly as he knelt down. He would be ravenously hungry once he got Hope back out, and he wasn’t looking forward to that feeling of desperation. But it would no doubt be horribly traumatizing to Hope if he didn’t get her out first. Thankfully, bringing the girl back up wasn’t too difficult. Do to the potential risk that came with their habit of consuming live prey, they were able to bring back up anything they swallowed with relative ease. Before long, his small rescuer was back in his mouth, and he opened it slowly with his hand held out in front of it, letting her crawl out on her own. His stomach was already complaining at its emptiness, but he focused on how much he owed Hope, and the presence of nearby prey, to resist the urge to swallow her back down again.

He lowered her to the ground near the lake and stood, not wanting to linger near her while his need for food was so strong. “I’ll return soon,” he said simply before turning and walking between the trees nearby. He almost immediately heard the sound of Hope going into the water to wash off. 

After he had gone a bit of distance, he crouched lower, moving more quietly as he caught the scent of the humans and horses of the caravan again. He smiled, looking forward to a meal of more than just a couple mountain sheep. But he’d also have to be careful not to eat too much. After all, he’d had significantly less food for a few weeks, so his stomach would have shrunk. Eating as much as he might normally have could very well kill him. Perhaps he could save some for later... That might work.

Ears perked as he heard the humans in the caravan talking. He continued moving forward slowly, only stopping when he could just barely make out the road between the trees ahead. They were getting closer... why run after them if they would come right to him? He could wait a couple minutes. He could even get them to stop right in front of him. Just listen to them get closer, then lunge once they were in sight. 

Barrett carefully grabbed a fallen tree from the nearby woods, moving it to block the road. As he did this, he heard a word that drew his attention to their conversation. “...syor when heading this way. They had his road off limits for a while because apparently some were crossing further past the mountains and took out some of the travelers along this route.” The voice sounded male.

“So what changed? Why is the road cleared for general travel now if it wasn’t before?” The second voice also seemed to be male, although seemed younger than the first.

“Well, the town ahead has defenses against their kind, but having the road at risk cut off supplies from them. Way I heard it; they hired a couple of terran geomancers to make sure it wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“How’d they manage that?”

“I don’t know the details. Try asking Marie, she’s always listening in to the latest news and stuff.”

“Hey Marie!” Before they younger of the men could ask, a female voice spoke up, “I overheard you. Loud as you two are, it’d be impossible not to have heard you. Yes, I know about it, way I heard it they were supposed to make it impassable, but decided it would be easier to bobby trap it... Shit, can we talk about this later? Looks like you two boys are going to have to clear the road ahead.”

About this time, Barrett was finally able to see the two horses pulling the pair of carts coming around the bend. He smiled as the first came to a stop, and the second soon after it. The pair of men riding in the first cart got out to move the tree, and Barrett stepped out behind the two carts. The woman driving the second cart screamed as his shadow passed over them, and the two men turned around just as Barrett reached over to grab them. 

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[simonalkenmayer]

Hey Simon, I'm getting death threats and just pure garbage in my own inbox today from Terfs. So that's fun.

Any advice on how to deal with it?

Yes, actually.

1. Know that you are right, and that they are bigots. (Put a pin in that, I’ll get back to it later)

2. Stop caring what bigots think. Yes it affects you, but stop taking it to heart. Threats and vitriol are the vestige of the weak and pointless. People who really mean to harm you, don’t tell you they will. They just do. So if they threaten you, you’re pissing them off and there’s nothing they can do, so keep it up! You have to actually realize that you aren’t wrong, and that you are living your truth, and that their nonsense is just that. They have no power, except that which you choose to grant their impotent caterwauling.

3. Don’t try to reason with them. Do you know what psychology and group dynamics says about such people? To belong to the group from which they find the most support, swallowing the rhetoric hook, line, and sinker is critical. People will literally tear apart their own lives, their minds, and the information of their own ethics and senses to agree with the group, so as to obtain the benefits of it. You cannot reason with them, or walk them through the contradictions. It’s impossible. They must come to the realization themselves, usually when the group harms them too, because they don’t match up to an increasingly insular and impossible standard, or fail prey to those members of the group who use it as a means to power.

4. Don’t reply to their asks. I’ve done many many essays on how the ask box feature on this site can be used to toy with someone’s mind and self-esteem. They don’t have the platform unless you publish the ask. So here’s what you do: screen cap it. Put it in a file just for the hate mail. Keep that file religiously. Then when you want to make a point, you can trot it out, or you can experience the sheer bliss of deleting the asset, blocking them, and replying to their nonsense in a post of your own, which I sometimes do, but only if I feel the ask allows me to make a point about something larger.

5. Make fun of them. They hate it. The more you mock them, the harder they come back with insults and petulance. Meaning the more impotent they show themselves to be. You really must embrace the concept that their bullying shows who and what they are, while your patience demonstrates who you are. Don’t worry about your reputation. Who cares about that? Who cares about what bigots say? Not I. So it should only bother you, if they have some kind of influence over your actual life. Internet TERFs do not meet the criteria for giving fucks.

6. Don’t try to see their point of view. Their point of view is actually quite simple: if gender is a construct then all that matters is physical sex, and men oppress women, even to the point of “pretending” to be women, or telling “girls” they must butcher themselves to be accepted. It’s incredibly naive, offensively misandrist, and fundamentally flawed in logic. It ignores the biology it pretends to leverage. It ignores the complexity of human self-awareness, and it simultaneously denies all the bad patriarchy does to men also. It’s not reasonable. You can’t argue for freedom whilst also arguing a limitation to that freedom. That’s not how freedom works.

7. Get really good at rolling your eyes. Hell, start a bingo game. I’d play.

8. Get acquainted with logical fallacies. There’s tremendous spiritual comfort in being able to name each flaw as it comes your way. Each rhetorical device becomes petty. Each logical fallacy becomes a weapon you don’t even have to use. Plus it infuriates them. It makes your sense of purpose feel much more sound and resolved. Strength in knowledge. Stop fighting for selfhood, because that will tax your emotions to their limits, instead, argue rational thought. They hate that. Why? Because they must defend that with their all, in order to be right, and it taxes them to their limits instead.

9. Reply to all terf asks with a well-chosen inspirobot meme. Like this one:

10. Ask them a question in reply, increasing in silliness until they move on. Such as “How far up your ass is your head, really?”

Essentially, my friend, what I’m trying to say to you is: Bigots become bigots because they were hurt by something and used faulty reasoning to think through it, or they were indoctrinated by someone who was. These groups are insular, and members either jockey for power, or they cancel out their own senses and reasoning to be able to stay in the group. They are not functioning in any way that aligns to benefit, reason, kindness, or even freedom. There’s any number of ways to prove this, but the easiest and most assured way you can know it, is by their behavior. Bullying is unbecoming and frankly? Stupid. Bullying online in an askbox? Fucking absurd. Do not take it personally because they would do it to anyone even half as brave as you.

TL;DR TERFism is ridiculous, and not founded in rational thought, extending from personal bias. Facts show that gender, biological sex, and sexual preference are all spectrums. Humans are complicated. Freedom embraces complexity. And inspirobot is amazing at comebacks. Oh, and also, if you’re a TERF or sensitive to that cause, you may view this as your opportunity to leave my blog, before I end up asking if you’ve rectally inserted your foot into your mouth yet today.

Thank you kindly.

[aminiatureworld]

Reanimate

Characters: Ganyu, Zhongli, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,930

Warnings: Character death, violence

Premise: There is something cruel in the sudden death of a loved one, especially one who should’ve gone on so much longer. And yet perhaps that is not the cruelest twist of fate. Perhaps death is sometimes a small mercy.

In which the reader returns as a member of the Abyss.

Author’s Note: I decided to give archons ichor-like blood just because. Also sorry I did my best to be ruthless, I hope I didn’t get too carried away

Ganyu

In all the thousands of years of her existence Ganyu had never received the answer to the question of her humanity. Which pieces of her were adeptal and which were mortal? It was a foolish question perhaps, but something that had haunted her, almost as much as you.

She’d received a sort of answer one day, though not one given but rather one snatched away. It was a little time after your passing, when Ganyu still couldn’t discern the nightmares of her sleep from the memories of her waking moments. She was laying up on the peak of Mount Hulao, wondering why the sun should be shining up in the sky, when the familiar lilt of Cloud Retainer’s voice traveled up to her ears. There had been more adepti frequenting her abode than usual, all peering over the mountain, making sure their ward did not drown herself in sorrow. Ganyu didn’t know who Cloud Retainer was talking to now, but her words were as clear as ever.

“Poor darling, she was born with the heart of a human after all.”

At the time Ganyu had felt almost affronted, as if some great wrong had been laid at her feet. Yet even as there had been anger there was also curiosity. What did it mean then, to have a human heart? Perhaps there was weakness in it, but it seemed there was also privilege. For even as she curled around herself, bleeding out from some invisible wound, she could still picture your smiling face, and the happiness she’d gleaned from it.

Now this picture swam in her head once more, floating in stark contrast to the image now in front of her.

You had returned, how in Teyvat had you returned? Ganyu knew the ways of the world, knew that half-adepti could be killed. Had she not experienced proof of this when you’d died? Had the demon which stood upon your corpse, laughing at the blood coating his hands, not shown Ganyu that even those blessed with immortal age could not escape the wrath of the world? How could you be standing here in front of her now then, as alive as you’d been those thousands of years before?

Though perhaps you weren’t alive, perhaps this was simply a trick of the Abyss. For there was no light in your eyes, no flicker of recognition in regards to the person you’d once pledged your soul too. Ganyu was bewildered, glancing this way and that at the heralds surrounding you. “What have you done to them?” She pleaded, voice barely audible. “What monster did you create?”

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to harm you, to take up her weapon as she had done so many times before. If the Abyss was tricking her than the likeness was impressive. Your attack patterns were familiar, an old dance that Ganyu had learned so long ago. You stabbed this way and that, as if Ganyu was being attacked by a needle rather than a sword. And yet she still could remember the dance, and had only a scratch on her arm. She’d always chastised you that your form was too artistic.

“Why don’t you remember me?” She now turned to you, ignoring the Heralds which lay frozen upon the ground, having no qualms in their destruction. You narrowed your eyes in response to her callings, seeming as mute to her entreaties as you had been to your name. Did you even remember it?

Ganyu jumped back as you once more aimed to stab her. Unfortunately it seemed as if you had learned somewhat from this fight, or perhaps just retained the memory of the sparring the two of you had often shared. Stretching out from your lowered position you rammed your back into Ganyu, causing her to topple to the floor. Flames coated your sword, which you now pointed at the pinned half-adeptus. Ganyu’s eyes widened, as panic truly began to run through her. Once more she called out to you.

“Stop.”

“What?” Ganyu watched as your arm faltered and your face contorted itself into a frown. You narrowed your eyes, breath coming faster now.

“Stop saying that name!”

“But it is yours.”

“It is the name given to me by a liar. It is the name of a weakling.”

“It is the name of the person I love.” Ganyu knew she should be running, should be taking advantage of your weakness. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to pull herself away, desperate in the hope you might return to her.

“That person died thousands of years ago.”

“And yet they’re standing right in front of me.”

“Thanks to those who the gods would destroy. Thanks to those who understand the true nature of this world.”

“And what is that?” Ganyu felt her voice falter, shocked by the venom in your words.

“Cruelty. The cruelty of the gods. They betray humanity, betray that which they’re sworn to protect. They’re nothing but fickle creatures, no more than beasts. The only thing they truly love is their own superiority.”

“You’re wrong. You know you’re wrong. You… you love the gods.”

“How could I love such monsters? You’re deluding yourself. Deluding yourself as you always did. You were always too soft… Ganyu.”

As if reinvigorated you took a deep breath. Taking a few steps forward you loomed over Ganyu. She couldn’t help but notice your eyes, how glassy they seemed to be. For a moment she was so seized by them she barely registered the sword raised above her head.

Yet the practice which had led her out of the darkness of your death now refused to let you take her life. Rolling over Ganyu jolted as your blade came crashing down into the stone right next to her ear. Running back towards the exist of the lair in which she’d found herself Ganyu foundered one last time.

“Come with me. There are so many who miss you. Cloud Retainer and Moon Carver and Madame Ping. Come back with me. We can go see the statue they’ve created of Skybracer for the Lantern Rite, I know how much you liked the festival.”

“I’d rather die again than be a traitor to humanity. You’re part human yourself. And yet you bow and scrape at the feet of tyrants.”

“And aren’t you also part adeptus?” Ganyu felt tears pooling at the corners of their eyes, their salty warmth stinging her frigid skin. “I wish you’d taken my hand.”

“And I wish you and the rest of the traitors would just die!”

“So be it.”

Ganyu tried not to remember the scream that pierced your throat as your leg buckled, tried not to think of the blood that pooled where her arrow had lodged itself at the top of your knee, droplets landing in icy circles on the barren ground where she herself had just been lying. Instead she ran, ran out of the domain, ran away from the person who had once brought her such joy.

The moon outside was a smiling crescent, its light casting a cold shade on the trees around her. The stars which seemed so far away were now hunters, she was their prey. She plunged through the scraggly forest, desperate to reach the safety of Jueyun Karst. The sky seemed to be burning away, or perhaps swallowing up the world. Finally a familiar mountain ridge was spotted, and Ganyu let out a cry of relief. She was halfway to the top when the darkness descended and the night swallowed her whole.

 Ganyu dreamed. Or perhaps she did not dream. Perhaps she simply remembered. The wind rustled her hair, and the faint sound of a flute echoed in the air. She lay on your lap now, smiling sleepily as you recounted some odd experience, expression one of soft, sedate joy.

“I’d never truly met a pilgrim before. They were quite unlike what I expected. The poor man, he nearly fell over in his attempt to bow as low as he possibly could. I told him that there was no need, that I wasn’t important enough for that, but then he only seemed surprised when I talked. Perhaps he expected some divine wisdom, although according to you I might only be able to offer him a somewhat incomprehensible account of the Archon War, since my mother saw approximately half of it.”

“Still, you must have made him very happy.” Ganyu smiled up at you as you twisted your expression into one of exaggerated solemness.

“Perhaps you are right. For what are we but being to give our souls to the happiness of humanity? Although I must admit that I have already pledged mine elsewhere.”

“And where might that be?”

“How silly of you to ask Ganyu! Honestly, you’re becoming quite forgetful. Why, it’s right there, in your heart.”

“Y-you shouldn’t say that.” Ganyu stammered, a familiar blush dusting soft warmth over the bridge of her nose. You merely laughed, leaning down to give her a quick kiss. Your lips tasted of lazy summer sun, and Ganyu found all embarrassment replaced with a sense of utter contentment.

“Why not? It’s the truth. And it will always be the truth.”

“Even when you and I have turned into enemies?” This surely was no longer a memory.

“Even then. For in my heart you will never be anything but my beloved. And don’t you forget it.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What a foolish thing to say Ganyu. Of course you know! You always will.”

“I… I love you.”

“I love you too. Always.”

When she awoke the half-adeptus gave herself up to the small luxury of crying. She knew that she couldn’t stay here, knew that there was work to be done, the work she’d promised to the people of Liyue. Yet even as she told herself to get up Ganyu continued to cry, to sob as if in great pain.

For indeed what is more painful than the sudden, utter shattering of one’s heart?

 Zhongli

Throughout the millennia of his existence, throughout all the changes that had been wrought on the former geo archon, Zhongli could feel at least a little bit grateful to time.

Time had been kind to the archon, for it had let him retain all those things that mattered. He could still recall the soft tones of Guizhong, the excitement as she explained some new contraption; he could recall the way that the familiar tones of a flute once echoed throughout the canyons of Liyue, the call of an adeptus who was still young and untethered to the sins of others; and, if he focused but for a moment, he could still recall the look of surprise on your face, the exclamations of protest, and the soft smile that brightened your expression as you finally reached out to take the glaze lily from him.

How he missed you, you his most perfect half. It seemed so long ago, and yet so painfully close, the day you two had met. You were a minor deity, formed for the benefit of humanity, made incarnate by the prayers of those early inhabitants of Liyue who could not simply lock their doors to keep the dangers of the world out. You had been an odd deity, the combination both of hope and suffering; the longing for peace combined with the knowledge that such a thing was unlikely.

“It’s very odd, being a deity born of human hope.” You’d commented once. You’d joined Zhongli to look out upon the sunset, climbing a mountain that would one day be dwarfed by the pillars that would spring up after the last of the Archon War.

“I should not see why it would be any different than any other deity. After all, we all live to give to humanity in some way.” You’d shook your head at his response.

“Zhongli, you weren’t made from humanity. Even if the people of Liyue foundered, even if they moved or lost faith in you or no longer needed a geo archon, you would live on. We who are born from humanity, we will fade if we are forgotten, if human prayers no longer reach us.”

“I doubt there will be a scarcity of the need for hope anytime soon. Alas the dangers of the world are not yet gone.”

“Perhaps not, but one day humans will be able to fight and hope for themselves. And then who knows where we lesser deities will be.”

Your odd conversation had worried Zhongli at the time. Not because he truly believed that you would disappear, no he had too much faith for that, or perhaps too much love. No, it was the way you had said it, as if you had resigned yourself to some terrible fate. He’d held you closer for the next few days, as if to remind you that you indeed existed, as if to assure himself that he would not have to lose another person who he held within his heart.

The death of Havria had been a shock, but Zhongli could tell you were more shaken than he was. For some time, the amount Zhongli could never calculate, you had said little, withdrawing into yourself. Old shadows had reared their ugly heads again, and now you seem at their mercy, drowning in your own self-imposed prophecy.

“My love, do not fear your own disappearance. You are not like Havria, you have no one who might betray you.”

“It’s not that Zhongli. It’s… it’s just the reminder of how fickle humans are.” You sighed, eyes fixed not on the archon sitting in front of you but on some unseen horizon. “Gods are fickle, they always have been. But that’s what you expect, and you cannot hold it against them. Humans on the other hand, humans are supposed to be static, even as they grow their faith is seen as assured. It’s… uncomfortable, a reminder that such an assumption has no real basis except one of hubris. Who else might fall at the hands of those they protected.”

“Not you. I could not imagine them harming you. You are their incarnation of hope after all, of the human will to survive. And no human can live without the will to survive. Besides my love, last I checked you had rejected the chance at a domain.”

“And leave you? Of course I did.” Your tone was indulgent, but the smile that passed your face was distracted. “I hope that I won’t meet death in such a way. I thought to be forgotten was the cruelest fate, but perhaps it’s not; perhaps the cruelest fate is to be betrayed by the ones you love. How much Havria must’ve suffered in her final moments.”

“But you will not meet either of those fates my love, I promise it.”

 Zhongli had ended up being right, as neither of those paths were to be the one you walked. The one placed in front of you was perhaps one you would’ve approved of, though Zhongli could never truly bring himself to accept that. When the Qingce had threatened the quiet settlements which grew out of the harbor you’d come to the aid of humanity. In a manner that felt much too passive in Zhongli’s mind you met your fate. What was the emotion of your final moments? Zhongli could never find it in him to delve into that question. He could barely find it in himself to think of you at first, drowning his sorrows in the blood he spilt to ensure the continuation of Liyue, and then in the millennia of his rule afterwards. Even his tears had seemed distant, as if they were wetting the face of another person, someone very far away and very different than he was.

 There were reports of a disturbance in the Guili Plains, of the agitation of Ruin Guards, and of whispers of the Abyss. Zhongli realized that it was no longer his duty to look into such things, that his resignation of the post of Geo Archon also relieved him of the duties of scouting the plains of Liyue for such dangers. Yet just because the stipulations of a contract have shifted does not mean the contract no longer exists. Zhongli’s duty to protect Liyue remained. He was not perhaps a deity from humanity, but he was destined to protect it nonetheless.

The domain that he’d managed to find was oppressing, the atmosphere tense. It made Zhongli think of older times, though not so long ago. It made him think of a razed city after the smoke had cleared, though this location was sure to be crawling with enemies. A pity there were no allies to fight alongside him now.

And yet you had somehow managed to follow him here, somehow managed to appear once more, after a millennia of buried loss. Upon entering the chamber in which you stood Zhongli could do nothing but stop in his tracks. You had appeared. Somehow, despite your death, despite the years, despite the fact that you’d never known the Abyss in your long ago existence, you were now here. Zhongli felt dazed, mind clouded, limbs made of stone. He made no effort to move, not when your eyes lit up in grim, impersonal recognition; not when an all too familiar claymore appeared in yours hands, not when you lunged forward and geo-infused steel slammed into his shoulder.

Zhongli knew something was wrong, knew that he must’ve made a mistake a some point in his long, drawn out existence. Whatever it was he couldn’t piece it together, could barely continue to stare at you as your weapon battered him over and over again. Blood was sticking to his gloves, his shoulder, his neck; small golden trickles opening up every time you swung your claymore. He knew he should fight back, knew that this wasn’t truly you, could not be truly you. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to fight back, to harm even an illusion of the person he once loved.

Eventually he found himself slumped against a wall, eyes still gazing up at you in mute entreaty. He hadn’t tried to call for you yet, hadn’t yet attempted to break the spell washed over you. The words stuck in his throat, those lovely words that belonged to you. He could not fight and he could not call out. Instead he sat there, frozen, heart beating erratically as he tried to find the ground beneath him.

“You’re a surprisingly abysmal fighter, Morax.” The voice was yours but the words weren’t; you would never call him such a thing. Perhaps it was that which finally enabled him to speak.

“And you have changed in a millennia”

“I learned of your treachery, of the crimes you committed when I was gone. Of the people you slaughtered.”

“I do not know what spell they cast to bring you back in such a state, but you cannot believe what you have been told. My love, since when did you mindless follow the rules of others?”

“Mindlessly?” You barked out a laugh, though it sounded almost like a cry to Zhongli’s ears. “The only time I mindlessly followed someone was when I was with you. You tricked me, you lied to me. You pretended to care, only to betray my existence the moment I was gone. Morax, the god of Liyue. What sort of god slaughters people for attempting to create a civilization just as he once did?”

“You were not there for the life of Khaenri’ah. You do not know what took place.”

“I doubt I needed to be there to understand the facts. You betrayed humanity Morax. Do you not deserve to pay for such a crime?”

“Zhongli.”

“What?”

“You used to refer to me as Zhongli.” At that moment the ex-archon pulled himself up. Standing up he managed a smile, though inside he felt as if he were fracturing. “If your anger must be removed in such a way, so be it. Take it all out on me. But, when your rage has finally been spent, please come back to the light. This place, it is too dark for you.”

“My rage can only be quenched in death.”

“So be it.”

Zhongli was not sure how long you hacked away at him, claymore swinging in a wide arc as the future scars which Zhongli would wear multiplied. His clothes were in shreds at this point, his coat barely clinging on to the semblance of what it was made to be. The metal which he wore was stained a rusty golden color, and his shirt was now damp with blood and sweat.

Perhaps this was his rightful punishment, the result of having ruled Liyue too long, having grown too old. Perhaps you truly did hate him now, having somehow reincarnated into a being of pure wrath. Perhaps he’d somehow meet his end here, and perhaps then you would be waiting for him, you and all the ones he’d lost, restored to your former selves.

And yet another part of him knew that he was tethered to his contract, to the promise to protect the citizens who now bustled about, enjoying their newfound freedom. And that part of him knew that this could not truly be you. Even if the Abyss had managed to coax your body and soul from the other side they’d only managed to bring back a shadow. A shadow could never replace you, for it knew none of you complexities. It could only haunt those around it, in hope to be paid the same amount of attention.

It was this knowledge that allowed him to fight back, even as he willed himself not to hurt you. Claymore met polearm, and the ground seemed to shake around the both of you. If any other members of the Abyss had managed to rouse themselves within this time they were almost assuredly crawling away, for surely the structure would fall at any moment. But Zhongli cared not for this fact; the walls could crumble around the two of you for all he cared. There was nothing else in the world, only you, the weapon in his hand, and the contract in his heart.

Finally you began to falter, the energy you’d contain slowly draining away. Slowly Zhongli began to regain the upper hand, beating you back into the edges of the abode. Finally at one point you slipped, and Zhongli found himself kneeling over you, polearm planted into the ground, barely grazing your cheek.

“If you have truly been brought back to life, then I beg you not to throw such a thing away on the revenge of those who never knew you.”

“I won’t listen to your disgusting lies any longer!”

“You loved me once, do you not remember that?”

“How could anyone truly love a tyrant?”

Zhongli sighed, but his hands were trembling violently. He knew it wasn’t you, that it could not truly be you. And if it was, then Zhongli was ready to pay the price in suffering.

Contracts were the most sacred concept of Liyue. One must abide by them, whether it benefits them personally or not. Though he was no longer Liyue’s god, Zhongli was no less tied to those promises he’d made. This was his price, the price of power and influence, the price of his continued existence.

“When time has run its course and the world of the gods comes crashing down, I will see you again.”

He did not expect your blood to run red.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

Hi! your writing is so amazing and I always come back to the Geto x reader works you did. I’d love to request a strong female reader whos a warrior that catches Geto’s eye. I know this is vague but I hope it can give you some ideas. Again thank you for your amazing writing its so entertaining 💗💗

The Commander: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: NSFW

masterlist

Suguru knew what might happen if he began allowing females into the King's Guard.

He knew what circumstances he would be putting his men - and himself - in if he did this.

But his troops were so few... and the King himself even had the grand idea that it would be best if they had women in the Gaurd to boost morale in his regime.

He caved the day Satoru - with his glassy blue eyes and somber expression - told him that he had to fix public opinion in his favor - or else. Suguru knew this threat was hollow, but the fact that Satoru - his best friend since childhood - thought it was time, well... that was enough to persuade him.

As announcements went out around the country, Suguru didn't really expect anyone to show up for training. Training as a King's Guard was brutal, and the regiment would include fasting, staying awake for three nights in a row, and building rapport with the others in order to complete the final task - a trek up the highest peak in the middle of winter.

And at first, no one did. Suguru smirked to himself every day that passed, bringing forth no new women into the fold. Perhaps things could be kept as they were. Things could remain as they always had been, and no one would get hurt.

But on the third day of recruitment, you came swaggering in through the gates of the training grounds, pack loaded up on your back and eyes determined.

Everyone held their breath - that's something that Suguru remembered quite well - until you stated your name loudly for all to hear, and dumped your pack onto the ground with a thud.

"I'm y/n from the Whispering Hills," you stated, hands resting on your hips. "And I've come to join the King's Guard."

____________________________________________________________

Everyone knows better than to laugh at a child of the Whispering Hills. The people from that area of the country are famed for their ruthlessness, unwavering loyalty, and quick tempers. They also believe in the Old Gods, which were banned from being worshipped long ago by the king before Satoru's father.

But no one seems to care that you wake up at the crack of dawn, walk out into the field with your nightclothes still on, and kneel in the direction of the hills with your eyes closed and hands folded in prayer.

No one says a word when you stay behind to eat and the others go off to pay tribute to the New Gods with offerings of wheat, grains, and fruits.

No one, not even Suguru, bothers you when you slay an animal and burn it on a makeshift altar (animal sacrifices are also forbidden) because they know you will cut them to pieces without even blinking an eye. And you'd be fully justified in doing so.

Suguru watches you do all of this, his eyes assessing you carefully as you train with the other men without missing a beat, without being injured or tapping out.

And for some reason, the deepest fear he had begins to blossom in his chest like an unbidden guest taking residence in his space. He's watched you for a few weeks now, just being yourself - but has never spoken to you one-on-one. Why hasn't he just--

"Commander."

The voice belongs to you, and you stand above him, looking just as you did on the first day you arrived. Suguru's eyes dilate and he swallows hard past the lump in his throat.

"Yes, y/n?"

"I must request a short leave of absence to meet with my people at the foot of the hills. It is festival season."

"I cannot permit you to leave training for your festivals," Suguru looks back down at his papers, shrugging. "You made a commitment to remain here with us during your training. You must keep that promise or be kicked out of this year's recruits."

Suguru doesn't see the shift in your stance, but he can feel the air around him shift from respectful to hostile. When he looks up at your expression, though, you look perfectly fine.

"Understood."

_____________________________________________________________

But things were not fine.

"Sir! She's refusing to do anything, and we can't complete the trek up the mountain without her in our group."

Suguru's had enough of your non-compliance. Ever since he said "no" to you going back to your hometown, you'd been unmoved from your station in your tent. Festival season was long over, but you'd remained in your tent, alone, and unwilling to reemerge.

The flaps on the tent swing open as Suguru storms in, his hair and eyes wild with disdain.

"Get up," he mutters, and you rise from your bed, looking over at him with bleary eyes. "You made a commitment."

"You do not honor my gods," you begin, wiping your eyes. "I will not come out until the moon has completed its course."

"I said, get up." Against his better judgment, Suguru pulls you up out of your bed by your arm and drags you to your feet. You sneer at him and bark the command to let you go, but Suguru ignores you - again, a poor move on his part. Because then, without speaking, you launch into an attack.

Suguru's been studying you carefully, and he knows your go-to moves, dodging them with ease and skill. You can hardly catch him off guard as your fight spills out into the open, calling the attention of all of the guards-in-training around you.

Suguru's long hair flies in the wind as he ducks, avoids, swiftly blocks, all while you're on the offensive, face turning a deep shade of red as you try to land a single blow on his body. If you could just get him once... then you'd have a personal achievement and a justified temper.

"Your temper is unyielding," Suguru pants, face splitting into a wild grin. "But your body cannot last as long as mine."

"We'll see about that," you reply, hands and fists flying with precision. After a few more moments of this back-and-forth, Geto stops you with two well-timed punches; one to the stomach, and one to the chest. You stumble back to catch your breath, vision blurring, but his hands grip yours behind your back, twisting them painfully.

"Yield."

"I will not yield," you grit out, pain shooting up your arms.

"Yield and I will spare you the punishment that follows."

"I will not yield!" you scream, bucking against the brute strength of the man.

"Your pride will cost you, then."

_____________________________________________________________

Your pride cost you more than just discomfort.

As you lay at the foot of Suguru's bed, your mouth whispers silent curses upon the Commander.

"Hush," Suguru gripes from his perch at his desk. "Your cursing is much too loud for my ears. I must focus."

"I hope you're never able to focus again," you snap, hands tied behind you.

"Such a sweet thing to say to your commander, soldier."

"I hope you choke on it." Suguru looks up from his book, but not at you, contemplating taming that snarky mouth of yours. But he decides against it, returning to his scribing.

Why are his hands shaking so bad, though? Had it really been so long since he felt challenged in a fight? And not only challenged but terribly aroused?

Suguru tries to fight these feelings day in and day out, looking at you with some terrible form of lust in his mind circling around him and making him go insane.

What could he do?

What should he do?

When he sees you laying on the floor with a death glare, he wants to break out into laughter and tell you to lighten up, but he knows if he does, he'll be ruined as a commander in your eyes. He must be stern, tough, unyielding, unshaken. All the things he's always been.

"You take yourself too seriously," you whisper, and Suguru looks over at you again, his brow raised.

"And you don't?"

"This isn't about me," you mutter, looking over your shoulder at your tied hands. "This is about your appearance." She's not wrong. "You want to seem strong. I've been eyeing you, Commander. I know how you work."

"Then you know I'm not going to let you get away with anything because you're a woman."

"But you do have a soft spot for me." Suguru rolls his eyes, despite you being absolutely right. "That's why I thought you'd let me go home for a few days. I see the way you look at me. Have you seen the way I look at you?"

"Don't," Suguru bites out, trying his best to avoid looking you in the eye. "Don't do that."

"Have you thought about me in your bed, Commander?" Suguru's breath hitches and he wonders if you'd snuck into his mind at some point, watching him watching you. "Or should I call you Suguru?"

The alarm bells in his mind are ringing, but something in Suguru lurches anyway, wanting you to say his name like that again.

"Y/n, this is neither the time, nor the place, nor the man you want to test you womanly wiles on."

"Oh?" You produce both of your hands, now untied, for him to see. "Or is it the perfect time, the perfect place, and the perfect man who has me all alone in his tent for the evening?" Suguru stiffens as you walk around to where he's seated, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. "You going to show me who the strongest is, Commander? Or are you going to sit there and let yourself be taken by a woman, again?"

The answer is clear by the third hour of the morning.

Your hips smack backward, and Suguru hisses, hand coming down on your asscheek again.

"Tell me who the strongest is," Suguru huffs above you, one hand holding both of your wrists on the bed.

"You are," you breathe, looking over your shoulder at his pleased expression, dark eyes drinking in your features with the lust you'd preyed on earlier. "You're the strongest."

"That's right," Suguru exhales, leaning over your back and whispering in your ear. "I'll always be the strongest between the two of us. Don't forget that, y/n."

[angelicyoongie]

for the love of me

— characters: mermaid!jungkook x bunny hybrid!jeongguk — genre: mermaid au, hybrid au — w.c: 1.3k (drabble) — anon said: Is it too much to ask to get a tiny snipit of bun!koo and mer!koo meeting?🥺👉🏻👈🏻 — notes: i couldn’t help myself ,,, it was too tempting. what was supposed to be a short drabble turned into 1.3k but still, hope you enjoy!

Jeongguk hasn’t blinked since the show started. He stares wide-eyed at the creature in the large tank, following the quick snaps of the strong crimson tail as it’s forced to move around. The employees keep poking at it with long metal rods when it lingers in one spot for too long, the creature hissing and snapping after it when it touches its body. Even if he’s sitting at the far back of the crowd, Jeongguk feels a shiver rush down his spine as he sees a glimpse of rows of sharp, sharp teeth lining the creature’s mouth. The bunny hybrid’s instincts are screaming at him to run, to get out of there while he still can. This predator is something far more dangerous than anything he’s ever encountered before, and yet—he can’t help but be curious. Jeongguk startles as the crowd suddenly claps, his ears flopping down against his head to block out the worst of the noise. One of the employees make a big show out of lowering a large shark down towards the tank, the animal still twisting and twitching and very much alive.

“Oh my, the shark will tear that poor creature to bits!” A woman gasps, and the crowd erupts into low murmurs as they all watch the shark get closer and closer to the surface. Jeongguk bites down on his lip, nervous, as the creature finally turns its attention to the looming shadow over the tank. The shark trashes wildly as it breaches the water, just enough to twist itself out of the chains holding it up as it plunges into the tank.

It only takes a second.

The creature closes in on the shark before it’s even fully submerged, the crowd stunned into a horrified silence as it tears a chunk of meat straight out of the shark’s neck. The bunny hybrid swallows thickly as the clear water begins turning red, the filtration pumps in the tanks clearly not able to keep up with the creature’s sharp claws and teeth – with the viciousness in its attack. Although the water is too murky, too stained with blood to see through anymore, they all feel it when the creature stops.

A sudden lull falls over the crowd, and Jeongguk can’t help but cower down in his seat, making himself as small as possible behind the groups of people in front of him. He can’t see anything, but it still feels like he’s being watched. He jumps alongside the rest of the crowd at the sudden bang against the glass, the creature’s tail barely visible before it once again disappears. There’s a jittery energy in the room, like they’re all waiting for something, but no one is sure what that something is.

There’s another bang, and the two employees begin to slowly inch away from the tank, their faces shining with confusion and alarm now that the creature is hidden. Jeongguk shifts in his seat, eyes glued to the tank despite the strain in his muscles that is begging him to run. The bunny hybrid’s body locks up as low menacing clicks fill the air, the sounds growing louder and louder as the hits against the glass begin picking up speed. The employees are visibly shaking now, their voices barely audible above the creature’s as they hurriedly yell for the crowd to move along.

It happens all at once. Screams fill the room as the glass cracks, bodies pushing each other out of the way as water starts pouring out of the tank. Jeongguk is rooted to his seat, his prey instincts telling him it’s too late to run despite having the advantage of well, feet. He can only watch as the employees and the crowd run, the room loud but empty as the rest of the tank shatters. There’s so much water it’s up to his knees in no time, and the bunny hybrid’s ears shoot up as he hears something moving closer in the darkened room. The only lights are directed at the remains of the tank, the rows of seats plunged into darkness.

Jeongguk’s ears twitch desperately as he tries to pinpoint where the sound is coming from, his eyes locked on the exit but his body refusing to move until he knows where the threat is located. His answer comes faster than he would’ve liked. Jeongguk stiffly turns his head as a low hiss sounds from his left, the blood in his ears rushing as he comes face to face with burning red eyes. He’s yanked down to the floor before he can even blink. He hits the ground with a pained cry, claws digging into his ankle and water rushing into his mouth as he’s forcibly pulled away from his seat. It’s only a few seconds, but it’s enough to leave Jeongguk gasping for air as he manages to wrestle himself up above the surface, his lungs aching.

The creature is already hovering over him once he manages to gather his bearings, strong arms resting on either side of his head. Jeongguk’s eyes fly over the creature’s face, his heart stuttering in his chest as he takes in the familiar slope of its nose, the mole underneath his lower lip. It can’t be ..

The bunny hybrid recoils as the creature opens its mouth, rows of stained teeth and the smell of death making his body tremble in the cold water. Although Jeongguk can’t understand the clicks leaving its mouth, he understands enough to stay quiet, to stay still. The creature killed a shark in two seconds; he doesn’t doubt it’ll do the same to him if he doesn’t listen. The bunny hybrid’s lips part in shock as he feels claws gliding down the soft wet fur on his head, the creature tracing his long bunny ears. He hates how sensitive they are, how good it feels to just have someone else touch them, even if the creature is probably even less human than he is. He’s seen fish hybrids before, and while some have a tail like this one, they’re all softer, kinder. They don’t have sharp teeth or claws; they don’t have the same bloodlust. This .. thing is something else entirely.

The creature lets out a happy thrill as it touches his ears, one of its clawed hands soon moving to Jeongguk’s face, tracing his features. It follows much of the same path Jeongguk’s eyes did, the weird texture of its fingers moving down his nose, to the mole beneath his lip, before it maps out the sharp line of his jaw. The bunny hybrid is frozen in a state of fear and morbid curiosity as he watches the creature back, watches how it acts and moves just like him. The creature had been too far away to properly make out before, but Jeongguk can see it clearly now. The face, the arms, and the strong chest – it’s all too familiar.

It’s him.

Jeongguk lets out a startled noise as the creature moves to cup the back of his neck, dragging his face closer to its own. He watches as the same realization settles in the creatures blood red eyes, another happy noise leaving its lips as it dives down to nuzzle its cheek against Jeongguk’s. The bunny hybrid feels drunk on terror – on the stench of death and predator that is rubbed into his skin. He watches with hazy eyes as the creature pulls back with a wicked smile, its chest rumbling with satisfaction as it takes in Jeongguk’s panicked face.

The bunny hybrid swears his sanity must be slipping as he hears the faint echo of another voice inside his head – the voice his, and yet, not quite. The creature’s head tilts as his gaze burns into Jeongguk’s, those deep red eyes echoing the words that are growing louder and louder inside his mind. The green exit sign flickers faintly behind the creature’s back, mocking him, with how close and how far away his safety is. The last thing Jeongguk remembers is the creature’s words ringing clear as day in his head, its voice sinister yet sweet as it says, “Me. Mine.”

a/n: just want to point out that i don’t do requests, but i just couldn’t help myself with this one 🙈 what happens in this drabble isn’t canon for either abundance or the crimson shell, it’s just for fun! so let’s just say that the jk’s can hear each other because they’re essentially the same person 🙈 anyway, hope you enjoyed this!! 

[my-bated-breath]

Closing Thoughts on Vincenzo

No one asked, but here you go.

I watched the last two episodes of Vincenzo yesterday, but even in the midst of my viewing experience I was able to synthesis and analyze what I was enjoying and not-enjoying, what worked and what didn’t work (for me), so that itself says something about how immersive it was. Of course, Vincenzo is a great show — the action is sharp and satisfying, the schemes are elaborate and spectacular, the humor is cracky yet genuine, and the characters are so, so lovable. And I loved the romance side plot, because yes, I am weak. Still, the last 2-4 episodes strained some of that, and this is my take on why I felt not exactly disappointed, but underwhelmed in the final stretch. I’m also including what I did like at the very end, as that makes sense with how I’m structuring this kind-of-analysis.

spoilers below

Tension, Stakes, and Pay-off

The tension in Vincenzo has been ramped up ever since the death of Vincenzo’s mother, loudly and painfully declaring in that moment that “this is not a game” (contrary to Vincenzo telling Hanseok in jail that he’s toying with him). This leads to a chilling confrontation between Vincenzo and the antagonists while also uniting the residents of Geumga in all-out, unapologetic war. And there is no more game of chess — just one of cat and mouse, with Vincenzo descending upon his prey.

Hence, Vincenzo is noticeably less soft, and he strikes Babel with the steel of his resolve. His schemes feel much more sinister than mischievous as they had been before; he is ending this, once and for all. So, how does the show amp up the tension and stakes from there?

Well, it’s all in what I said before. The tension is teased out in Vincenzo stealing everything Hanseok has ever treasured and then taunting/threatening him in prison, and then with the Babel villains descending into chaos and desperation. The stakes, however, are less noticeable, because Vincenzo is kind of obviously winning. The stakes have already been established with Vincenzo’s mother, then paid off with her death, and then paid off even more with Vincenzo mercilessly seizing the upper hand.

That’s why I feel like Myunghee and Hanseo’s death just... happened. Because it’s been 3 whole episodes since Vincenzo has founded this new resolve, that sort of dragged out follow-up loses its thrill and gratification. They’ve been defeated now, completely and totally. But so what? They’ve been on the losing end for more than 3 hours of screen time now, and even their last resort of a counterattack didn’t hold much narrative weight (which is something I’ll get to later). Their deaths are not boring to say the least — I saw a post that said something similar to “Myunghee, a woman who danced to the music of others’ pain, died dancing to her own” and “Hanseo, a man with no heart, has a hole drilled into that empty cavity.”

But their deaths also happen very isolated from everyone else, not just physically, but emotionally as well. It’s almost as if Vincenzo’s clapping his hands and saying, “Let’s wrap this up now, I’m getting a little tired.” And while I wouldn’t say their deaths are unnecessarily cruel, given everything they’ve done, I don’t think Vincenzo does this in response to anything particularly substantial. Is this for his mother’s death? For Chayoung’s injury? For everyone else? Well, maybe, but it sure didn’t feel like he was contemplating that during or after torturing them. If I put the Vincenzo from the beginning of the show there in those two scenes vs Vincenzo from the end of the show, post character development and all, I think the only difference would be that beginning-of-the-show Vincenzo would still be unfamiliar with Babel’s crimes and see this as a waste of time.

A sort of side note: Now, one of the strong points of this show is its use of comedy in its otherwise very serious schemes (I still thinking about episodes 8 and 15 all the time). But with the impending climax and increasingly serious tone, there was no comedy to make said-serious schemes as engaging to watch. So now unable to rely on one of its greatest strengths, the show must rely on emotional impact. Or similarly: narrative weight.

Narrative Weight

In episodes 19-20, Chayoung is shot, Hanseo dies, and Chulwook is stabbed (and you think he’s going to die but he doesn’t). Who said there was no emotional impact in these episodes again?!

Oh right. Me.

Beyond Hong Yuchan and Oh Gyeongja’s death, injuries and fatalities suffered from our protagonists�� side don’t really have that many consequences. You can argue the consequences of Hanseo dying is that we’re all very sad, but both we and the characters are barely given a moment to grieve before we have to move on. What does Hanseo die for? He dies as an abuse victim just beginning to break out of the cycle he was trapped in, and that itself isn’t necessary a bad narrative choice, and he dies as a warrior in this Mafia vs Conglomerate war, but what does he die for? If it’s for Vincenzo and Chayoung to live, they pretty much get lucky with Hanseo running out of bullets. If it is to show that he had changed, and that this tied into some greater theme of redemption, then his death really isn’t really given enough thought for it to resonate well. I would’ve loved to see Vincenzo reflecting on Hanseo learning to trust and love again, despite all the mistakes he made in the past, and how that influences his own decision to embrace his version of villainous justice. But no. This is something I only thought of after reading a few Vincenzo posts and trying to justify my own moral for the show.

Don’t forget that Chulwook almost dies too. Like I genuinely believed he was dead, shed a tear for the daughter he would never meet, and then the show went like, “Guess what? Psyche!”

I’m not very fond of that injury/pseud-death-but-not-really.

And now we have Chayoung, the person who Vincenzo is the closest to. Don’t get me wrong, I amso weak for her never giving into Hanseo and asking for death over Vinceno getting hurt, for guarding Vincenzo from the bullet, for Vincenzo’s shocked and empty eyes, for Chayoung’s glazed gaze, for him desperately and powerlessly hugging her tightly because that’s all he can do for her now. Afterwards, she’s in the hospital, her shoulder is recuperating, and there’s a nice Chayenzo parallel to episode 4 when Chayoung was waiting by Vinny’s hospital bed. But afterwards afterwards? She’s just in the hospital. Sidelined from the climax.

Vincenzo told her, “I will finish this, for you.” That could’ve worked, because we could’ve seen Chayoung emotionally or spiritually with us during the climax and Myunghee and Hanseo’s deaths. But like I mentioned earlier, it really didn’t feel that way. Ultimately, the narrative tells us that Chayoung’s injury just means she can’t strain herself for a couple of days, despite initially delivering it so dramatically and emotionally.

As one of my friends said while we were discussing this episode: Vincenzo is the titular character, but Chayoung has so much to care for too. Her father died because of Babel, and she said, “We should share the danger.” Instead, we got a decentish-but-slightly-underwhelming scene where she is driven to see Vincenzo off. Okay then.

Characters

Speaking of, Chayoung receives much of the short-end of the character development stick in the last 4 episodes. I found this to be acceptable in episodes 17-18, and she does have that moment where she looked uncertain and nauseated at the death of the “hunting dogs” before shoving down her misgivings, clinging onto a facade of strength as she says “this is what I wanted.” Also, even though it wasn’t episode 14, I wasn’t complaining about the Chayenzo moments either.

But still, this is the second most important protagonist in the narrative and nothing about her really changes in these last few episodes. Nor does she experience catharsis alongside Vincenzo, emotionally or otherwise. There had been some buildup about whether or not Chayoung can swallow the cruel path that she has chosen, but if she’s not even the given the chance to make her own decision on said cruel path, that’s just wasted set up.

(I know that during the Babel Tower party-fiasco Vincenzo told Chayoung that he originally wanted her to push the button that’ll kill one of the hunting dogs, but then decided against it upon seeing Chayoung’s wavering face, but like. Narratively, if she was the one to press it, and then we had some follow-up character arc about her coming to terms with her decision... Oh, we could’ve had it all.)

Another thing I want to point out is that Chayoung has been a foil to Vincenzo in that she represents the happiness, love, and innocence now unattainable to him. (This is just his view, by the way, since Chayoung isn’t exactly innocent herself, which he could’ve seen if the show had only taken this direction.) That is to say, Vinceno’s most interesting character moments are drawn out of him by Chayoung: In his apartment, when they are under the ceiling-stars, and she asks him whether he has ever killed anyone. On the rooftop, when they decide that Hanseok must lose everything before he dies, and he promises to her that he’ll stay in Korea to see things through to the end, in direct contrast to himself at the beginning of the show. In the highway pass, when she embraces him after a gunfight, the closest he’s ever grazed past death. When they drink makgeolli together and he tells her about what her father wanted to say to her. When they sit together by the riverside and she tells him that his mother would have been proud of him.

One of my favorite parts of episodes 11-12 during the gun fight is just how emotionally present Chayoung is, despite not wielding a gun herself, or even being anywhere near the action. I’m not sure if I’m getting this right, but I think this is the first time Vincenzo had killed people on screen, so to see Chayoung embrace him so tearfully afterwards almost felt like he was being reminded of his humanity. And this also shows that Chayoung, despite saying that she would feel distant towards Vincenzo if he did have blood on his hands, loves him closely, so closely it hurts.

We think about Vincenzo, what it means to be a consigliere, and his distorted flashbacks of flesh and blood and killing and losing himself, and that teddy bear, slowly panning out to a child, staring at him in fear. We think about how is it possible for him to love again? Can he even know what love is?

Then Chayoung appears, a woman whose very presence unraveled the mystery that is Vincenzo. But the moment that Chayoung’s development was stunted, that was the moment Vincenzo lost his foil, and we, the audience, lost the ability to see how his past, present, and future reconcile.

Themes: Loving in Sin

In episode 20, Vincenzo and the monks have a conversation about whether he was worthy of love or not before being told that he was Vaisravana — and though he could never be accepted by Buddha, he would be appreciated at times, and he would have his own role to play too. I like this conversation a lot in concept. In execution, it would’ve left much weightier an impact if only we had seen Vincenzo’s journey to reconcile his villainy and humanity play out more, if we had a glimpse into the moral conflict warring in his mind. The last time the drama showed that to us — not told it to us — was with the death of Vincenzo’s mother.

I would add more, really, but I feel like my review up until here says everything I want it to. In my opinion, there was no real epiphany that Vincenzo reached upon hearing those words from the monk because he hadn’t reflected on it enough for there to properly be one. And the ending to Vincenzo and Chayoung’s romance would’ve felt a lot better if it was Vincenzo choosing to love her despite his fear of himself, despite his belief that he could only hurt people. (Also that ending monologue wouldn’t have felt so tacked-on, like, oh wait this is supposed to have a theme right? Here, this is vaguely related, right?)

Because a lot of this emotional potential was not quite met, I think the finale also had to resort to some cheaper ways to make us feel for the romance, such as Chayoung rushing to see Vincenzo off and Vincenzo leaving the diplomacy-relations party early (he very poetically disappears while walking behind this sculpture, but I thought it was hilarious that if the shot didn’t get cut off there in another 2 seconds we could’ve seen him walking out of where that sculpture thing blocked him lol).

Overall though, I’m pretty happy with the romance’s ending, at least conceptually. The way they incorporated the story of cow herder and weaver girl and the bridge of pigeons (not magpies!) that will allow them to see each other again every year was so bittersweet, and as someone familiar with this myth, it made me very nostalgic. Also, I do think it works better with Vincenzo’s themes that he would be apart from Chayoung in some way. They each have their own lives to lead, but although they met by coincidence, they’ll remain by each other’s sides by intention. He is a villain, and so is she, but villains love tenaciously.

[whosscruffylooking]

Instinct Part Two: Interrogations and Intrigue (Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader)

A/N: I'm super excited for this part. Spencer and Reader’s relationship finally has some foundation!

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings! Mentions of suicide and manipulation. 

(Reader’s POV)

I tap my foot anxiously as I peer around the bland and intimidating interrogation room. It looks like something out of a mental asylum in a 1980's horror movie. They want me frightened? They got me.

Count Dracula barges in abruptly and sits opposite from me. I wince at the sound of the metal chair scraping against the cement floor.

“My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner. I'd like to take a moment to get your description of the man who broke into your apartment," he shows no emotion.

I nod, "Well, he had his hood up and a bandana on, but from what I could tell, he had green eyes...maybe blue...or hazel. I'm sorry, I'm not a hundred percent sure. He was just a little bit taller than me, so maybe 5'8 or 9. He climbed out of my window, so clearly, he's at least slightly athletic. He disguised his voice; he made it sound almost like Batman."

He writes down some notes. A statement that the other agent presented to me at the crime scene puzzles me. I decide to inquire for myself.

"The other agent..." "Dr. Reid?" "No, Emma? Emily?" "Yes, Agent Prentiss." "Yes, her. She told me at the ambulance that I might be the key to solving this. What did she mean by that? This wasn't just a one-off robbery? How could it involve me?"

He purses his lips, obviously pondering the right response, "What do you know of the Nomad Boys?"

My heart rate rises, but I promptly disguise my anxiety. "You get straight to the point, don't you," I quip, "I know that they used to operate about a block from my old neighborhood growing up. A lot of people have lost their lives because of them. Both figuratively and literally."

"Are you aware of your brother's involvement with them?" Agent Hotchner examines me.

I gasp. What kind of game is he playing here? I shift uneasily in my seat, "Excuse me?"

"We have significant evidence that your brother Jeremy was involved with the Nomad Boys from 2015 until his death."

I slam my fist on the table, "How dare you. How dare you bring my brother up and implicate him in illegal activities that he had no part in. Is this what you people do? You're so desperate to close a case that you can't admit defeat in then you pin it on people who aren't even here to defend themselves?"

"You seem relatively defensive yourself. Care to explain why?" The emotionless man taunts.

"Two hours ago, I was the victim of a failed robbery, and now I'm being interrogated by the feds about my dead brother? Is that not a good enough reason to get defensive?" I clamor back. 

Tears sting my eyes and threaten to spill over as I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand, trying frantically to suppress my growing rage. He watches me like a predator to its prey. The sound of my rapid heartbeat muffles my hearing. I can feel my skin heat up with anger. I stare right back, eager to display my disdain for his treatment.

"If you'd excuse me," he gathers his files and leaves the room. I exhale shakily and hastily wipe the stray tears from my eyes, desperate to gain my composure.

(Spencer's POV)

Hotch exits the interrogation room and clutches my shoulder, "You're up. She knows more than she's letting on, even if she doesn't realize it. She will feel more comfortable with you." "Hotch...I-I feel like maybe Emily or Morgan should go in. Not me." "Why?" He glares at me. I swallow the lump in my throat. 

I have a job to do.

"Forget about it," I say, stepping past him into the dimly lit room. She looks up at me with pleading eyes, silently begging me not to put her through what Hotch did. I sit across from her, noticing her obsessive picking at the skin of her fingers. Her knee bounces and lightly taps against the underside of the table.

She takes a deep breath and breaks the stillness, "Whatever it is they are thinking, it's not true. None of it is true. They're wrong." 

"Y/N, I appreciate your willingness to cooperate and come back to the precinct with us and sit in here to be interviewed." 

She throws her head back and laughs, "My willingness to cooperate?Interviewed? You mean interrogated, right?"

"I know this must feel like an ambush," I say, and she jeers, "but I promise if you just hear us out, the sooner we can rule you and your brother out of this." 

She sits up, eyes wide, her posture defensive, "You just said my brother and me. Am I a suspect too? For god's sake, I don't even know what we are suspected of! Do you think I'm apart of the Nomad Boys too?" 

Strike one, Spencer. Don't screw up again.

"I didn't mean it like that, y/n." 

"But you said it," she crosses her arms.

"I need to ask you some questions about your brother's death." 

"I'm going to be sick. Screw you, Dr. Reid." 

I can't manipulate her. I don't want to. I can't use months of researching her to achieve our agenda. 

It doesn't feel right. Why doesn't it feel right? 

But for the efficiency and success of this case, it's required.

"Every day, you wake up in fear of the nightmares that haunt you each night. You live with the images of your brother engrained in your mind. The patterns he used to follow every day have now been adopted by you, most likely in an attempt to keep his spirit alive somehow. You are constantly looking over your shoulder because, still to this day, aspects of his death leave you unsettled and uncertain. You opened the door today because you were under the impression that the person on the other side would be able to offer you insight into your brother's death. He couldn't because he had another agenda, but I can. I can give you that insight; I just need you to work with me." 

I watch as she struggles to fight the pain that comes from masking her fear. I got to her. 

Why do I feel so guilty? 

Her lip trembles as she begins to speak, "I know he didn't kill himself. That's all." "What makes you so sure?"

She releases a sob and then grapples with composing herself, "B-because he loved his family. He loved life. His girlfriend was pregnant; he was going to be a father. What kind of man who was so family-oriented and had such a bright future ahead of him would do that to himself, to his future child?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize he had a child." "Aren't you guys supposed to know stuff like that? Shouldn't you come in here armed and ready with any ammunition needed to break me down?" She cocks her head. "We do. We try to find out all vital information on our suspects and those connected with them." "That's how you know that I follow the same routine as my brother? Have you been watching me?"

I can feel a bead of sweat drip down the back of my neck; I reach my hand around to pat it off and to buy myself time to come up with a sufficient answer. She chuckles, "You don't have to answer that. I've seen you and Count Dracula in there tailing me."

My heart stops, and I swallow unexpectedly, slightly choking in the process. "For professionals, you sure don't take into consideration the fact that most people are suspicious of black SUVs now...mainly because of tv shows. Black Suburbans with tinted windows are either law enforcement or a celebrity. And judging by the fact that no celebrity would ever willingly set foot in my town, I was quickly able to determine which I was looking at every Monday and Friday from 10am to 5:30pm. You should really try getting some red cars, maybe blue, just try and blend in a bit." 

"Actually," I begin falling back on my knowledge as a way to diffuse the situation, "Any vehicle, when suitably modified, can be utilized as a police vehicle, but the most prevalent are those produced or altered by manufacturers for the role of being a police vehicle."

"Validation and dissemination: am I making you uncomfortable, Dr. Reid?" She raises her eyebrow. I adamantly shake my head, "Not at all. I was merely dissecting your point and proving it to be a failed tactic to intimidate me."

She looks at me keenly, but not in the way she had looked at Hotch. No, she peers at me as if striving to convey a message, an offer to be her ally. While locked into her gaze, I can't help but study her. Contrary to all of the times we followed her, hidden within the shelter of our car, I can now learn her up close. She is attractive in a flawed, approachable way. Her vulnerability camouflages a might that even she doesn't perceive exists.

(Reader's POV)

I study him thoroughly. He baffles me. A man in the station he is, maintaining the job he has, and bearing the weight of both victims and perpetrators on his shoulders, should be coarse, bitter, emotionless, much like the first agent who grilled me. Yet, here he is, eyes lighting up when he starts to spout off facts. His nervous ticks overflow, making it seem like he is incapable of withholding the truth of what this job does to him. He doesn't want to put me in this position. He's not like the standard brute that treats this job, and it's prey as if they are nothing but a bridge to walk over to get appreciation and approval.

"I want to help you," he proposes in a hushed tone.

"I know," I whisper, easing back in my seat. 

Unexpectedly, he offers me a wink and then stands from his chair. Stepping over to the door, he clasps the doorknob but delays for a moment. I look at him in anticipation. Looking back at me, he declares, "I'm going to get you answers. I promise you that." And with that, he's disappeared behind the two-way glass. A feeling of being left alone in an alternate universe overwhelms me. 

Spencer is somewhere out there on the side of the good guys, his reputation untainted, with the certainty that he will be going home tonight. I, on the other hand, have lived in uncertainty since my brother died. Here I sit, on the side of the glass that is riddled with darkness and evil. Spencer lives in a world of heroes. But I have been subjected to the world of criminals. I have a feeling, though, that I won't have to navigate it alone. 

Tag list:

@mcntsee

[fusrodie]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him.

chapter 1 - grisly reunions

SFW, canon-typical violence, blood, mention of death. 2K words.

link to ao3 (or read down below)

Nothing ever happened in this boring old village. Every day he would wake up to the same dull sky, the biting cold on his skin, the smell of blood in the air. And the chanting, for fuck’s sake, the goddamn chanting. In the silence of night, you could hear them if you listened close enough. Even cooped up in his factory, trying to focus on bringing his latest creation to life, through the humming of engines and rattling of pistons, he could hear their voices pleading forgiveness and salvation.

It paints a perfect picture in his mind: a bunch of old farts holding hands in a circle, standing over a creepy-ass painted crest of an unborn baby, pouring their heart and soul into their prayer, accepting death and giving glory to their murderer. The prayer itself never made sense to him, not really, but he had to admit it was a damn good way of justifying their atrocities. Nobody batted an eyelash when someone was taken away, went poof overnight to never return. Something about the sacrifice having been made, fate had led them to the light at the end or some shit. It used to fascinate him back in the day, when he was just a child watching everything unfold hidden behind his mother’s skirt. But he was no longer a child, and after almost a century of bullshit, it was hard not to impale every single fucker who talked about devotion and destiny.

Not that anyone would care about it, of course - sister dearest routinely kidnapped girls from the village and no one seemed to notice the Castle was a death trap. Boxes and boxes of wine would make their way into the village and out into the world, the truth right there in the label, and no one seemed to put two and two together. Dimitrescu had offered him more than a few bottles as a courtesy, an attempt to bridge the gap between them - even he had limits, however, lines that he would not cross. The very thought of bringing a goblet of blood-infused wine to his lips made his stomach turn; he had never been one to experiment much with food. He drew the line on frozen pizza and energy drinks.

It’s a wonder the village still had people in it, really; between Alcina’s obsession with maidens, the poor sods taken to Moreau for Cadou experiments and the failed vessels Miranda would discard like common garbage, he figured at this point there were more lycans than people around. More for him to experiment on, he figured, though digging up corpses in the dead of night had done a number on his back. Haulers could only do so much, and more often than not he would have to get his hands dirty. Not having a proper bed, sleeping on a bare metal cot and decades of living on borrowed time had nothing to do with it, of course.

The Castle drawbridge lowered as he approached, hammer thrown over his shoulder, one last peaceful drag of his cigar before he was thrown into yet another boring council meeting. The vineyard greeted him with the bleak vibrancy of a cemetery, scarecrows drained of color, barely recognizable but eerily preserved in chunks of ice. A waste of perfectly good specimens, really.

The halls were quiet for a change, no tormented screams and blood-curling wails, no giggling sisters running around in the hallways. It all smelled of death and old people, expensive perfume and a good dose of arrogance.

He flashed a charming smile at one of the Castle’s servants, laughing when the girl turned a bright shade of red and scrambled away from him. Heisenberg could hear the bickering as he pushed the doors open, Angie’s joints clicking incessantly as the doll moved about. Moreau’s breathing sounded as loud and disgusting as ever, yellow teeth and the smell of a polluted riverbed with a hint of fish. There they were, his beloved little family, waiting patiently for him, staring at him like he had fucked every single one of their mothers.

“You are late, Heisenberg.” Alcina began, as she always did, eyebrow raised in contempt. “As always. Mother,” she turned to Miranda, gesturing towards him with her hoity-toity, stupid cigarette.

“You are obnoxious, Dimitrescu.” He replied without sparing her a glance. “As always.”

He could practically hear her seething as she finally placed her humongous backside on her chair, having given up on chastising him when Miranda paid both of them no mind. Mother sat at the end of the golden-trimmed table, looking awkward in her great black gown and modly crow wings. Dimitrescu’s finest china was laid perfectly for their little afternoon tea party, cup handles that were too big to fit his fingers, minuscule spoons that were fit for Angie’s creepy hands. The servant that had scurried away at the sight of him had come back with a tray of hot tea, biscuits and blood - the house’s specialty. Miranda began speaking as the girl poured her drink, some small chitchat about the state of the village, the influx of foreigners and progress on her grand resuscitation project.

“Thank you darling, but I brought my own.” He started as the girl circled around the table to serve him, pointing down towards his belt buckle to the whiskey flask he always carried around. She couldn’t help but look down, and then up at his sly smile, the blush returning to her cheeks in full force. Dimitrescu’s reaction was swift, a well placed slap with the back of her hand square on the girl’s cheek. He felt sorry for her for a moment, but it was good training - if she wanted to survive the Castle, she would have to learn that it was better to be blind and deaf, and that she had much more provocation coming her way than his harmless flirting.

Heisenberg tuned out of the conversation as he poured his whiskey, pinching the teaspoon between his index and middle fingers, swirling it slowly, scraping the sides of the porcelain. Alcina’s displeasure at his use of her china for such vile beverages made it all the better. He slurped it loudly to add insult to injury, savoring the drink for a second, sloshing it around his mouth before swallowing, a satisfied “ah” escaping him when the liquor burned down his throat. If Alcina didn’t already look like a corpse, he felt like she would have turned purple. When he unceremoniously shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth, crumbs falling all over the tablecloth, he thought she would vomit.

“The latest vessel, unfortunately, has been a failure.” Miranda announced with sadness in her voice, which prompted all of his other siblings to sigh collectively in sympathy. What a bunch of morons. “However, we have made some progress. It seems my theories were correct - younger subjects are far more receptive to the Cadou.” Kidnap babies, got it. There was no limit to how low Miranda would get to fuel her quest for a daughter that had been dead for longer than she was alive. “I regret to say there are no suitable infants at the moment,” she stopped to sip at her tea. “We can only hope the harvest fares better in the coming months.” Had she seen them as nothing but guinea pigs back then, too? No doubt in his mind she did. The only reason she kept them around is because she might not be able to kill all of the monsters she created - better to keep them close than risking losing it all.

“There is but one more matter I would like to discuss, Mother Miranda,” Dimitrescu began, a lilt in her voice, the telltale sign that whatever would come out of her mouth next would be positively foul. “My girls have brought me troubling news.” Troubling, he repeated to himself, but she had a smile on her face as she said it. Miranda gestured at her to continue, which she gladly did, excitement rising with every new word. “It would seem a monster prowls near our blessed haven. There is talk among the villagers of bodies being found drained of blood, organs harvested, but without a single cut left behind.” She stood up to pace the room, one of her favorite displays of grandiose that made her look like the world’s biggest buffoon. It suited her. “At first I believed this to be a mere rumor, a lycan attacking the livestock, a corpse refusing to rest. But then,” she clapped her hands, the doors to the room promptly opening to give way to Crazy, Dumb and Ugly, giggling in their flowing black dresses, dragging a corpse along like it was a treasure they had found in the forest. Angie tagged along with their excitement, pushing Moreau away to get a better look at the stinking body thrown onto the hardwood.

There was no mistaking the lycan, all teeth, claws and complexion of the finest of silver poisonings. It smelled just as bad dead than it did alive; bruises and injuries and gums that stuck out of its mouth. How, pray tell, was this thing still in one piece? Heisenberg rose to take a closer look, pushed its stringy hair away from its face to reveal glassy eyes poking weirdly out of their sockets. He tested its consistency with a slight kick, stabbed it with the butter spreader, shoved a gloved hand in the cut to pull it apart and open. It looked fresh enough, but nothing but a foul vapor oozed out of the body. Crystal dust lined its insides, shards poking out of muscles. He pushes his arm deeper, feels around the chest cavity to find nothing.

“No cuts, no holes,” he begins as he pokes and prods. “No bites, either. Heart’s missing. This your handiwork, Alcina?” Heisenberg quips, suspicion seeping through his stoic facade. For a moment, he swears he can see the lycan’s flesh pulse, the smallest contraction of a muscle. This whole situation got weirder by the second.

“The technique is truly admirable, is it not?” She offers with a gleeful smile, picks up her cigarette and places a hand on her hip. Here we go again. “I simply must have it. Besides, we must know if it poses any threat to us.” She was right, this time. After decades of experimentation, none of them had ever managed to keep an infected subject whole after death.

His shoulders slumped as she spoke, head bowing to hide his discontentment behind the brim of his hat. He knew what this meant: being sent on a stupid adventure in the ass-end of the woods, because he was the only one out of this freak show with the brain and brawn to venture out into the world in broad daylight, without dying to the cold or stopping every five seconds to infect and pet wild animals. Some of these missions he did enjoy, like being sent to nearby towns for special supplies - or special victims. He was never gone long, nor would he stray far, but those escapades never failed to serve as a reminder that he had a reason to keep going, that maybe one day he would be free and the world would be his to explore.

The four of them eyed Miranda quietly, waiting for the verdict that was certain to come. Moreau cut the silence by volunteering to investigate, the pathetic pitter-pat of his feet filling the room when Mother smiled at him.

“I would not risk you in such a way, my son,” she patted his head without a hint of affection. “Not when we are so close to answers. You must continue your research - Heisenberg will look into this… Whatever it is. You are dismissed.” Her tone was nonchalant, her confidence rock solid. This was merely an obstacle, not real danger. At least, that is what she wanted them all to see; if one looked close enough, they would notice the slight furrow in her brow through the slits of the golden mask.

“As you wish, mother.” He tipped his hat before taking his leave, chewing on his unlit cigar, feet pressing hard against the gravel underneath.

Heisenberg never thought he would come to regret having a proper spine and a functional pair of legs.

[wolfs-hunt1]

Wolf Kisses 2

Pairing: Stucky x Shapeshifter reader

Summary: Steve and Bucky find out the truth and end up trying to help (I can’t do summaries, I still have no idea what to write here)

Word count: 2048

Warnings: angsty,  sorry for any typo

A/N: Still not sure where I want to take this XD, but I’m enjoying writing this fic a lot, so until I feel like it isn’t over I’ll keep making some more chapters. Can’t guarantee another one for next monday, because university is about to start, but I’ll try not to take too long.

THANK YOU ALL so much for the suport you have giving this story! I love you all!!!

Tag list is OPEN

— — — — —

Part 1

Bucky buries his head further into a warm neck, inhaling deeply the foreign scent. Bucky doesn’t remember Steve ever having a mild fruity scent on him. He holds the body closer, long locks of hair getting tangled on his fingers. Ok now his sleep heavy mind knows something is wrong, Steve’s hair was short. His mind starts to wake up more, body stirring slowly until he can stand to open his eyes is the barely-there sunlight.

The sight before him made him real back a bit, hand reaching for the knife he kept hidden under his pillow. A woman was nestled in their bed, previously curling herself around bucky’s body, but once he got away, she curled into Steve’s seeking the warmth they radiated.

“Hey…” he whispers, shaking her shoulder for a few seconds. No answer at all. so he tried again, this time a bit louder “Hey, you…” this actually makes Steve stir in his sleep, arms tightening around the girl’s middle and pulling her head into the crock of his neck.

“What Buck…” he grumbles still asleep.

“Steve wake up.” Bucky sais now more forcefully making Steve open his eyes and look at the girl in his arms, alarmed when he doesn’t recognize her. With all the commotion the girl also wakes up, stretching a bit and looking blearily up at the two towering super-soldiers surrounding her. Then her eyes trail to the knife Bucky’s pointing at her and she scrambles out of the best so fast she gets her legs tangled in the sheets and falls, crawling the rest of the way until her back is flush to the window.

She’s breathing hard, hands raised in defense. She looks so tiny tucked in a ball in the corner of their room. Steve looks at the girl and then the knife and puts a hand softly on Bucky’s arm, silently telling him to put it away.

Bucky looks at her, taking in her appearance, and suddenly stops. Her leg was wrapped in bandages, the same leg the wolf had had her bandages. He looks at her eyes, questions zooming past in his head. ‘what did this mean? who is she? where is the wolf?’

“Ok, let’s calm down.” Steve tried to dissipate the electrically charged room, slowly climbing out of the bed and reaching for some sweatpants to put on. Bucky didn’t move from the spot, gaze locked on her, and making her shrink more into herself. From where he stood it looked like she was trying to melt into the glass. He could see Steve approached her softly, like one would a sacred animal, a shirt in his extended hand for her to take. She pulled the shirt down her head and hips, making sure all her body was covered in the oversized fabric. “What’s your name?” Steve tried to keep his voice soft, but even he was confused with what was happening.

“Y/N.” her voice was gruff and small like she hadn’t used it for months, and she had to clear her throat to make herself heard.

“How did you got here?” Steve asks, sitting in the corner of the bed to seem less intimidating to the poor girl.

“You… you brought me here.” her eyes are cast downwards, but she can still see Bucky’s scowl appear on his face. “I’m sorry….” she whispers.

“What do you mean we brought you here?”

“I'm… I’m a shapeshifter.” once neither of them said anything she continued, “I can turn into a wolf. ”

“Oh… you didn’t have to hide you know?” Steve said.

“Being hurt prevented me from shifting back, so I’ve been a wolf for this past week. I must have shifted back during the night…”

“So you’ve lied to us…” Bucky shoots, making you look up at him startled.

“I didn’t lie, I couldn’t even speak! I was being hunted, I ran for shelter. I didn’t ask for you guys to help me, I appreciate it though, but you can’t accuse me of lying.”

“Buck, calm down, let’s all try and get everything straightened up, without accusing anyone.” Bucky glared at him for a full minute before relenting and getting up from the bed, moving to the bathroom to get dressed.“Why don’t you join us downstairs for breakfast? We can talk better after a cup of coffee.” he offered you a kind simile with those words, and after considering it for a moment you relented and got up, leg still a bit sore.

Steve gave you some gym shorts for you to wear, despite having to tie the laces a bit better so they wouldn’t fall, and Bucky came out of the bathroom, fully clothed and a glare directed at you making you look at anywhere but him.

—

The kitchen was awfully silent, the only sounds were of the coffee pot dripping, and of the pancakes, Steve was flipping at the stove. You were awkwardly sitting at the stool behind the island counter, Bucky in front of you not saying a word, but you could see the war waging through his eyes.

The atmosphere was suffocating, and making your skin crawl with anxiety. “Look…” you started, “I know I should have said anything sooner, I’m sorry. But the fewer people that know my secret the safer I am.”

“What did you mean you were being hunted?” those are the first words Bucky has uttered in what seems like forever, and so you look at him to give him all of your attention, less he goes back to silently throw daggers at you.

“I… I haven’t seen my family in years. We were a small community of shapeshifters, just living our lives without hurting anyone until they came. Hydra. They burnt our houses to the ground. Killed anyone that tried to protect themselves and captured the rest.” your voice is cracking and so you take a deep breath to ground yourself before you continue. “I managed to run away, and I’ve been running ever since. I’ve been using that cabin whenever I need to recover from any wounds, I had no idea you were going to be there. I… I have been spotted a couple of weeks ago by a poacher. He saw me while I was out hunting, and he started to lay down traps to get me. A giant wolf’s pelt must be worth a lot.”

Steve had plated the pancakes and had put a plate in front of you while you were talking. When you finished and looked at them, he smiled and nodded his head to the place of food in front of you, encouraging you to eat something. You say a small thanks and take small bites from the buttery pancake.

“How did you managed to get stuck on a trap?” Bucky is silently taking in your words.

“After weeks of avoiding him and his traps he started to get more violent. He would hide loaded guns ready to fire with tripwires, he would burry the traps under the snow, he even tried to starve me by scaring away any prey I tried to hunt. In the end, it was the exhaustion of not having sleep in days and my hunger that made me lose focus, I stepped on a trap and panicked, I managed to break the chain and get away from there.

I reached the house to take shelter, honestly, I don’t know what I would do without you guys… I wouldn’t be able to turn back, so I would have just bled to death probably.”

“Hydra killed your family?” his voice is laced with anger and you can see the vein on his jaw thick, his metal fist is closed so tightly that if it were flesh the nails would have pierced the skin.

“They captured most of them. They wanted to use us for their own gains. Once our alpha refused to let them use us, they came back with guns and took them by force. They killed him right in front of me… They killed my father because he refused to stop protecting his pack.” you could feel the tears in your eyes spilling down your cheeks, shaky sobs being swallowed down so you wouldn’t be rendered to a blubbering mess in front of the two guys.

—

They let her stay up in their apartment, away from Tony and the experiments he had wanted to do to her wolf self. Bucky keeps his distance, he had felt like she had betrayed him, by hiding who she was, but at the same time, he understood why. She was on the run from hydra, for what she knew they could have tracked her to the cabin and took her.

They weren’t so surprised with what she was, Inhumans had been on shields radar for a long time, so having an entire population be able to turn into wolfs wasn’t such a big deal. The fact that hydra had hunted them and captured them, now that was alarming. Bucky had been silently devising an attack plan to try and find where they had been taken to after they were captured to go with a team to recover them. He knew what suffering at the hands of hydra felt like, and he didn’t want them to have to experience more of that if he could avoid it.

Steve had been talking to her all day, asking questions about her life on the run, and her wolf form, and the fact that she’s been living away neer that cabin for weeks now, with the only human contact she’s had, had been the poacher trying to kill her.

He’s startled from his thinking when he feels her hand on his shoulder, silently questioning if she could sit with him on the small sofa. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing.”

“No, no I do need. You two helped me without thinking twice, and I just used you both to keep me safe from the poacher. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was scared he would just have followed me and would kill me during the night. So I went to try and sleep on the floor of the cabin’s bedroom.”

“Really? I distinctly remember you hopping on the bed and trying to steal the blankets.” he jokes prompting her to shove him lightly with her shoulder.

“It was freezing in there, and you two are human heaters. So yeah, I also took advantage of that. Besides I didn’t hear you complaining, if anything I was almost going to die if you squeezed me any tighter while you were asleep, I might be fluffy, but I’m not a teddy bear you know?” this makes Steve laugh loudly, holding his shaking sides to try and not fall from his perch on the barstool.

“He doesn’t want to admit it, but he really likes to cuddle while asleep!” he wheezes out between fleeting breaths. You look at Bucky in time to see his red cheeks before he turns his face away from the two of you, grumbling something under his breath.

“Well guys, it’s getting late, I’ll take the couch, and then tomorrow you can let Tony know that his test subject has run away, and then I can just sneak out of the tower and I won’t bother you ever again.

“NO!” Bucky says a bit to fast startling both you and Steve. “I mean, you don’t need to leave. If you stay we can help you find your family.”

“Buck’s right. We’ve been hunting down Hydra bases for a while now, and if we do find where your family has been taken we can save them.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t give me hope with something you don’t know you can do. We don’t know if they can be save let alone if they are even still alive.”

“Hey…” Steve sais, getting up from the stool and coming to where you had stood up and started pacing, running his hand in your back comfortingly. “Yes, we don’t know that. But if there’s the smallest chance that we can find them, I think we should take it.” his baby blue eyes held a strength you had long thought lost, but they were enough to ground you and give you some hope.

Part 3

Tags:  @hidden-treasures21 @jelly-fishy-babie @thedarkplume @fallenoutofrose @animegirlgeeky @salveangeli @lokilokilokilokilokiloki

[plumoh]

[NatsuYuu] ever here

Rating: G

Word count: 2282

Summary: Natsume Takashi is fifty-two years old when Madara leaves. It's not a spontaneous decision, but it's not a well-thought-out one either.

Note: AO3 link. Originally written in 2018, did some light editing. I will never stop thinking about Madara dealing with Natsume’s eventual death,,

Natsume Takashi is fifty-two years old when Madara leaves.

It's not a spontaneous decision, but it's not a well-thought-out one either. Forty years spent living with a human is nothing more than the blink of an eye for a youkai, but this same span of time is half of a human's life—Madara knows that much, and he curses himself to have let down his guard enough to be lulled into the illusion of safety.

There is no meaning behind that age. It could have been forty-seven, fifty-three, or even sixty. Madara hasn't pondered on it much outside of the fact he can sense life forces flickering, losing their brightness to let darkness consume them. He's seen and sensed that many times, for years and decades, watching the phenomenon unfold with both curiosity and disinterest. Human lives are short and fleeting, nothing worth paying attention to, as they will always disappear sooner than expected.

(Reiko vanished from the town and next thing he knows, she is no more.)

He retreats to the mountains farthest from Yatsuhara. He doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't let anyone know where he is. The peaceful and soothing rustling of the trees' leaves and the river's water help appeasing his heart in a frenzy, and pushing back his swirling thoughts. It's pathetic, in a way, to let himself affected by so little. It's not like it's the first time he's been in contact with a human before—and he still believes that not meddling with their affairs is less troublesome and more beneficial to his sanity.

(He thinks about the mess left by a lonely woman, that a brave boy tried to fix.)

Madara spends his days napping. He finds a new patch of grass to sleep on on a regular basis, right under the sun to keep him warm, and at night he takes walks or watches the starry sky to chase away unpleasant thoughts. He pointedly ignores any scent he recognizes, as they never travel close enough for him to get worried. Not that he's worried about anything, not really, it's just more convenient that way. Being alone is much easier to deal with his own pitiful state than being seen by some fool and having to explain something he doesn't want to think about.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a familiar voice tells him he's running away. He brushes it off.

It has only been forty years, but he's already forgotten how silent life is when he isn't surrounded by idiots and accident-prone kids. He's a great beast, someone who holds power over low-class creatures and who rivals most of the strong youkais. And just for a second, one vulnerable moment, he wonders what good there is to possess such tremendous power if he doesn't have anyone to protect anymore.

Dizzy and perturbed, Madara stops in his tracks, and howls—a cry piercing the sky until it cracks to let untold messages squeeze through.

Human lives are short and fleeting.

***

He doesn't know how much time passes. It can't be more than a handful of years, though, because the scents are the same and the landscape has not yet warped. Nobody reached out to him either, and he doubts that no one is able to track him if they tried hard enough—even if he's escaped to far away mountains, he's not impossible to find. He knows for sure that Misuzu will be smug about finding him, and Hinoe is too stubborn to let him disappear without a word.

Days resemble each other. Madara misses manjuu and dango.

Then one day, the wind carries a different breeze; there is a quality to it that almost spells familiarity, ruffling his fur and sending shivers down his spine. He catches the whiff of a strong smell and overwhelming power, one that gently pushes at him with care, considerate and soft.

Kind and warm.

Madara jolts and scrambles up, mind racing and heart beating too loudly, eyes scanning the area like he's on the lookout for a prey he's waited for weeks, wild and cautious. Only then does he realize this aura isn't alone—and of course it isn't, of course it would come with two other ones that announce trouble.

He does not stare. His eyes do not linger on the gigantic silhouette of Misuzu descending from the sky like an omen, his grin ever plastered on his face, not quite landing (Misuzu never lands) but he lowers his hoof to let his passengers get down. Madara stays still.

“Damn, Madara, if you wanted us to leave you alone that badly, you could have just asked,” Hinoe sighs with fake casualness, as she takes a drag from her pipe, pinning him with a hard glare.

But Madara doesn't listen to her. He's too focused on the second figure stumbling on the ground, like he hasn't alighted from the body of a beast a hundred and a thousand times over, wincing when Hinoe has to put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Madara can't tear his gaze off him.

“Sensei,” Natsume says, something akin to relief and desperation in his voice, and Madara chokes on his own words, unable to dig into his arsenal of insults to deal with the situation. Instead, Natsume takes a step forward, and another, and another, until he's standing right in front of him. “Were you here all this time?”

His eyes didn't change—that damn kindness is still lurking behind them, the fervor of his own stupid faith shining through it, like he hasn't found any reason to stop believing he could help anyone coming his way. Eyes never lie; eyes are what differentiate the humans from each other.

Natsume's trembling hand tentatively reaches up to stroke his snout and—Madara lets him, lets this light touch wash away his countless worries, and he closes his eyes. If he tries hard enough, he can be transported back to the youthful days of returning names and being wary of any youkai approaching them. He can summon the smell of Touko's tenpura and the tatami of Natsume's bedroom. It is comforting, wrapping him in a blanket of tranquility he wishes could last forever, but when he opens his eyes he sees Natsume's tired but never broken face, features drawn old, his once light hair taking a shade of gray only age can paint.

He releases a breath, tickling Natsume, just like he once did a long time ago, and this time Natsume smiles.

“I missed you, Sensei.”

Natsume keeps his hand on Madara's snout, and if he's pressing a bit harder than usual (when was the last time it happened?), Madara doesn't comment on it. Instead, he lays down, and carefully wraps his tail around Natsume, a silent invitation for him to settle in the white fur. This stretches Natsume's hesitant smile into a full smile as he sits down and starts scratching Madara's chin.

“The Book of Friends is empty now, do you still want it?” he quietly asks.

And Natsume must have felt his jaw clench, because he stops, lowers his hand, and gazes directly into Madara's eyes, waiting, expecting. Madara hates the feeling of helplessness.

“I have no use of a tool stripped of its power,” he croaks out, looking at a point past Natsume.

“...We've talked about it, Sensei.”

“What do you want me to do with the cover of a book?”

“That's up to you. I'm still going to give it to you, so please come home.”

Madara finally, finally meets Natsume's earnest eyes, after trying for so long to avoid reading the emotions in this brittle, human gaze when talking about the Book of Friends. He doesn't know what he expected to find; he probably expected nothing, except for something inherently Natsume in them, warm and affectionate, much like the stupid self he's always been. Natsume is looking at him with the same determined expression he's always worn when he set his mind on doing something. There is also fragility in it, an open wound waiting to be healed. Madara basks in the familiarity it provides him.

He gently knocks Natsume's head with his snout.

“The Book of Friends is exactly the reason why I left, and you cheeky brat has the nerve to come and dump it on me.”

There is no heat in his words, and everybody knows it. They all look at him without judgment, though if he had paid close attention to them, he would have seen pity coloring their faces. He holds Natsume's gaze as best as he can—Natsume assesses him quietly, carefully, like he's expecting Madara to flee again. He won't.

“I keep my promises, you know that,” Natsume chides gently. “No matter how much time passes.”

Natsume's hand comes up again to stroke the fur on his head. The movement is assured, but slow, nothing like it used to be; Madara swallows the uneasiness, the fear, and stops running away.

“How old are you?”

He doesn't register Hinoe shaking her head in the back. All he notices is the way Natsume's smile takes a hue of sadness, his aura enveloping them both in resignation. Madara is certain his own sorrow is seeping through the seams of his fake calm demeanor.

“It's July 1st, today.” There is a brief pensive look on Natsume's face. “I'm turning seventy-seven.”

Twenty-five years is nothing to youkais. They let them fly by without thinking much of it, but for humans it's enough to raise a new generation of people that will become their hope. Madara has a thought for Natsume's descendants, who probably don't even know why their father, their grandfather (great-grandfather?), decides to take a trip to the other side of the mountains, visibly unaccompanied. He realizes with horror he doesn't know for sure that none of them has the ability to see youkai.

“It didn't feel that long to me,” Madara whispers.

“I know. That's why we came to see you. According to Hinoe, you would have slept through a decade if nobody tried to annoy you.”

He knows there is no accusation behind these words, but he can't help bristling, sharply shooting a glare in Hinoe's direction—she waves around her pipe, dismissing his irritation.

Natsume continues. “It's perhaps not my place to say that, but this is how life is, Sensei. Please let this old man have his one selfish request granted.”

He wraps his arms around Madara's neck, burying his face in his fur.

“Come back home.”

Madara is tired. He's tired of fighting all these emotions, all these worries that shouldn't exist (he's a great beast with overwhelming power), all these thoughts that cross his mind and twist his heart. He's tired of pretending and of living with the heavy lead settled in his stomach, putting him into a state of lethargy and incapacitating his ability to think rationally.

So he nuzzles Natsume, bringing his tail closer to completely protect him from anything else that can still happen, and lets out a deep laugh that sounds too watery and shaky to his own ears.

“Idiot.”

It can't be that bad, if Natsume emits a similar laugh, purposefully keeping his face hidden in his fur even if Madara can feel something wet against him.

Natsume climbs on his back for old times' sake. And if Madara is flying a bit slower than before, Natsume doesn't say anything. Misuzu and Hinoe follow them close.

This might not be the wisest decision. Many youkais would have chosen to stay away to cut all ties with humans, even though it doesn't erase their memories of them. Madara thinks himself foolish to have gotten so soft and attached to one single human, so he might as well be stupid until the end.

There is no worth living a boring life, when he can create new memories to cherish as they come, and for the after.

Reiko always said that people will regret not going through what they wanted, while they rarely get upset over doing something, even if it was a failure or a mistake. Mulling over her words from forever ago, Madara finds himself agreeing, closing his eyes as he curls up at Natsume's feet, listening to the quiet conversation he's having with someone that is without a doubt his grandchild. There is a different air about that kid, and Madara immediately recognizes potential.

That night, Madara digs through Natsume's belongings, and retrieves the remains of the Book of Friends. The green cover is barely worn, defying time and deterioration. He traces out the kanjis with a paw, and is certain the Book retained some power, though very little. These traces of power persevere, fluttering and placating, in a way that makes it look like they are unable to let go of that realm either. Madara shakes his head at the thought, but he keeps his paw on the Book.

“I'll protect your family.”

Natsume finds him hunched over it, and naturally picks him up, acting on pure instinct.

“Old men should be sleeping,” Madara states flatly.

“Then you should be sleeping too,” Natsume retorts. He casts a quick glance at the Book. “It became a family treasure, I guess.”

“Hmpf. Only you would consider something that put your life in danger as a treasure.”

Natsume looks at him, and Madara knows it's useless to argue further.

Years later, the children of the Natsume household will always find the family cat curled around a green book by the altar. The cat doesn't age, is somehow always able to tell when one of them is in trouble, and only a handful knows the secrets he's keeping.

Madara never leaves again.

[gophergal]

HEY GOTTA 'NOTHER CHAPTER FOR YA. Thank you to @bucketofcowboys for betaing for me! Without his help, I would be pulling weird shakespeare lines outta my ass. He makes my shit sound smooth lol

I'm Not Lonely - Chapter Three

Word count:4 000+| Rating: M |  Michael Myers x OC | M/F

WARNING: Gore, Animal Death

Jean must have fallen asleep at some point while reading to Michael, the book slipping from her hands into her lap. She jolted awake at the sudden weight on her legs, her heart pounding momentarily until her eyes fell on Michael's form, watching as his head tilted inquiringly to the side. He appeared as though he still sat where he had been the night before, still watching her as she slept.

It was strange, obviously, but she couldn't help the warm feeling that spread through her from the human companionship. She was tempted to physically shake the feeling away from her limbs and mind, but restraining herself. The knowledge of why she felt so comforted by him, a man she knew by first name alone and nothing else, filled her with a mixture of shame and annoyance, though she pushed that all to the back of her mind to simmer.

With a yawn, Jean stretched, feeling her back click into place after her poor sleeping position. She stood on stiff legs, feeling the sleep flee from her system as the blood circulated throughout her body. In the kitchen, after a quick bite of breakfast, Jean looked at Michael from the other side of the table, sipping on her coffee as she considered what she had planned for the day.

She'd need to get groceries- the fridge was becoming a bit empty now that she was cooking for two so frequently. That brought another thought to mind, that she really didn't know what Michael liked to eat. Part of her wanted to say, “Fuck it, I'm the one cooking and paying the bills, so what he likes doesn't really matter,” but at the same time she didn't feel like being so harsh.

After cleaning the dishes she and Michael had left in the sink, getting dressed in errand appropriate apparel, and yelling to Michael so he'd know she left, she got in her car and drove toward Haddonfield. The grocery store was relatively quiet today. There were times that it could be a true mad house; hoards of middle aged women being impatient with the young employees of the store while their husbands stood around bored, watching their wild hellions wreck havoc.

Jean shuddered at the image, glad to be in at a slow time as the young cashier greeted her with a smile. The normalcy of this shopping trip was sobering as she placed items into the cart, her mind working slowly to remind her of what was wrong with her current life situation. Unfortunately for that rational part of her mind, she simply continued to mark things off her grocery list. She reached for a pack of Dr Pepper cans, only to bump into an arm. She drew back quickly, pulled out of her muffled thoughts, and looked at the person she bumped into.

“Oh! I'm very sorry, m'am,” the tall woman- no, she was rather young, now that Jean got a look at her, she was simply taller than Jean, who was admittedly quite short. Her fluffy blonde locks swallowed her head as a single mass, the part framing her sharp features. She must be a high school student, Jean thought.

“It's fine, please go ahead. And 'Jean' is fine. I'm not married,” she chuckled, picking a bit at her shirt sleeve.

“Nice to mean you, Jean. I'm Laurie. I... don't think I've seen you around before. Are you new in town, by chance?” The girl asked.

“No, not really. I've lived in the area for my whole life, but I live a bit out of town. Laurie, you seem familiar though.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, I can't place where I've seen you though- Wait, were you one of the people attacked on Halloween night?” Jean asked with a gasp, then immediately wished she hadn't. Laurie looked away quickly, and seemed to struggle for words momentarily and appearing on the verge of tears. “I- I'm really sorry, Laurie. That must have been horrific. Did they ever.... catch the guy?”

“No. He's still on the loose. Sheriff Brackett said he'd do everything he could, but Annie- his daughter- my friend, she-” Laurie cut herself off, not needing to say more for Jean to connect the dots, her shoulder's trembling slightly with the effort to remain composed in this public environment.

“You're a very strong young woman, Laurie. Especially to still be out and about so soon after all of that. I'm sure he'll be caught, too. That type of bastard isn't usually free for long.”

“Thank you. It's been very hard, on everyone.”

“I can imagine.

“Y'know, it may be a weird thing to offer, but if you ever need some help, or someone to talk to, here's my number. I can't say I can truly understand your specific situation, but I've had my fair share of loss, too,” she said, producing a small piece of paper and a pen, scribbling down her home phone number, then handed it to Laurie.

Laurie accepted the paper, dabbing at her eyes slightly with her sweater sleeve, “Thank you, Jean. I might have to take you up on that some time.”

“Don't hesitate, I'd be happy to lend an ear,” Jean replied with a small, warm smile.

The women purchased their groceries and parted way. Talking to Laurie had caused the trip to take longer than intended and now the sun was creeping lower, the brightness slightly too intense to be comfortable. Jean got into her car, the paper bags of food on the passenger side, and she left. The intense, golden light highlighted the trees which were now barren of their leaves. That and the chilly air harbingers of the coming winter. Jean worried her mind with the thought that she would have to fix some of the roofing of her home before the wet snow came down and buried the world.

There would be time to do that, for now she had other things to think about, such as her new housemate. Despite, his impromptu move in almost two weeks prior, she still knew nothing about him aside from his name. She hadn't even seen his face before, she realized, causing a slight hum of anxiety to spread through her body. Something in her kept screaming at her to do something about it, but as she drove toward her home, that voice grew quiet.

There were no lights on when she arrived, and no sign of Michael as she put away the groceries. Aside from a couple empty food wrappers in the sink, which greatly irritated her, it was the same as before he first visited her. Perhaps he'd left for the night. She didn't know where he went when wasn't at her home, but frankly she wasn't his keeper and had no responsibility to keep track of him. He was a grown man, after all. She placed the case of soda on the counter and, with a yawn, piloted her weary body toward the stairs.

She instinctively skipped the creaky step, nearly losing her balance to fatigue. At the top of the stairs, she noticed that her bedroom door was slightly ajar, a sliver of moonlight beaming through the crack, a strange occurrence as her habit was to close the door at all times. She drew closer, cautious and uneasy now, and gently pushed open the door, supporting it with her body and praying that the squeaky hinge would remain silent.

The door now open, she could see a lump under the covers on her bed, poking out from the top a curly, dark mass. She let out a small gasp of breath when she noticed the white, fleshy sheet on her nightstand. Michael's mask. This was Michael who'd stolen her bed. Even at rest, there was a tension to him, eyebrows contorted and face twisted into a slight grimace. Yet, she noticed her hand drawing closer to his hair as if it were magnetic. She pulled her traitorous appendage back, foiling it's mission to tenderly push back a brown lock from his forehead.

A slight glint of reflected light caught her attention, her eye sweeping over the sleeping form to see the metal blade of a kitchen knife in his hand. He had a white-knuckle grip on it that did not waver with the haze of sleep. It chilled her. She began backing away, unwilling to take back her bed that night and unsure if she would even be able to sleep. Still, as she stepped gingerly out of the room, the couch called to her downstairs.

The next few days were uneventful. She worked, she came home, sometimes she had to take the couch. Michael didn't seem to leave at all, yet he seemed out of place in the house, having nothing change around him. Tonight would be her last night of work for the week and she was excited to have some time to rest on her day off. She sat across from Michael at the kitchen table, taking occasional glances at his masked face, imagining the man beneath. He sat like a wax figure, unmoving and unphased.

“I have to work again tonight, I can't really tell you what to do, but I'd appreciate you locking the door if you go somewhere,” she told him. While she awaited his lack of response she wondered what he even did while she was away, though she ultimately decided that ignorance was preferable to knowing something she'd regret. Besides, she had things to do before she left for work that evening. The sun was low in the sky as she put on her dusty pink uniform dress and black flats.

Michael watched her leave the house from his spot in the kitchen, waiting for the security of an empty house. Once the coast was clear he ripped the mask from his face, the latex of it clinging to his greasy brown locks in his haste to eat. He grimaced at the tugging sensation, placing his second face on the table next to him. As food was shoveled into his mouth messily like a child, he decided on what he'd do that day. It seemed a good day to snoop through his host's home because, surprisingly, he hadn't already. If he thought about how different this was from any other time he'd stalked prey for too long, it would only confuse him. At the same time, he was reminded constantly by the Shape that it would all end soon, soon enough the pleasure of killing the woman would outweigh the benefit of keeping her alive.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, putting the plate into the sink rather carelessly with a clink. The house was rather uncluttered, with few items in the cupboards and cabinets. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he could tell. Still, bland as it was, it was far more welcoming than the white walls and antiseptic smells of Smith's Grove. Of that place, those were all he could remember clearly, everything else was shrouded in a drugged haze, a curtain of accusation and rough hands holding him down when the doctor ordered. A few small moments of kindness from nurses and orderlies peeked through the curtains here and there, but even those paled in comparison to how Jean was. The Shape scoffed at the idea, reminding him that if she knew the evil that everyone else had, she too would end up as another barrier between him and freedom, and such barriers were meant to be torn down.

The stairs creaked as he climbed, and the photos on the wall watched him closely. Upon closer look he saw a woman, looking much like slightly older Jean, alongside a little girl and an old man. He pulled it off the wall for a closer look. Smiling faces, a happy family, though shaped differently than his own had been. The girl looked to be the same age he'd been on that night so many years ago. He tossed the frame onto the carpeted floor after the top step, not caring for what that last thought brought to mind.

On the upper floor, more pictures were on the walls and now he noticed how few actually showed the older woman. They formed a sort of jumbled timeline, the little girl growing taller until he recognized her as Jean at various ages. A few had only her, no sign of the old man or the woman, and he took one from the wall. She was dressed nicely, her back to the glowing sunrise, making her messy blonde hair appear as a fiery golden halo. He decided that he liked it and held onto it as he kept wandering though his host's home.

The Shape became restless at some point, it's voice growing more frantic and incomprehensible with the passing minutes. Michael was tired though, the thrill of the hunt would be dampened by his lack of sleep. The Shape grew louder, demanding blood, gracing his mind with sudden images of what he could do to satisfy it. He ground his teeth, fist clenching and un-clenching as he tried to shake the thoughts from his mind. He needed rest. The Shape could wait, surely. There would be more prey, more chances. The hardest night was over, and he was unlikely to be caught while he stayed with Jean. Frustrated, he relented, giving in to the grating presence of the Shape. He stomped downstairs, muscles growing tense with each heavy breath.

The diner was relatively quiet that night, only two men were at a booth in the front. A not-quite-elderly duo of middle-aged men with greying dark hair, one taller and mustached, the other weaselly in appearance. Jean hurried to the booth to take their order, “Hey, what can I get you two gentlemen tonight?”

“I'll take a tenderloin sandwich, slice o' apple pie, a black coffee,” said the mustached man.

“Cheesecake, black coffee,” the weaselly man said. With that, Jean nodded and smiled, leaving to take the order to Gus, tuning in to their conversation as she walked away.

“Eh, you know about that one bastard that's been on the loose since Halloween?” Asked the weaselly man.

“Yeah, of course I do. I watch the news. What about it?”

“I've heard that he's twenty bodies in now.”

“The police say that?”

“No, they wouldn't and you know it. I've heard it from a few buddies.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Haddonfield's never had so many suspicious deaths, bud. It's gotta be a bit more than a coinkydink that they'd ramp up after this guy starts killin'.” Jean brought the men their orders and they quieted down on the morbid talk for a bit. The weaselly man rubbed hands together excitedly as Jean set down his cheesecake. The tall man shook his head light heartedly.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” the tall man said. Jean smiled, holding back the urge to roll her eyes at the unwanted pet name. She left to wipe down the other booth tables in the room.

“Anyway, I heard that the cops are broadening their search to the surrounding area,” said the weasel, “been some sightings of a masked man wearing a blue jumpsuit around some houses on the outskirts of town.” Jean found that the description was unsettlingly familiar.

“C'mon, that could just be some kid in a dime store mask and his dad's coveralls.”

“After halloween?”

“Yeah, y'know how kids are. Not sayin' its good, those kids might get themselves killed.”

“Isn't that what happened to that one highschool football player? Tramer, I think his name was.”

“Yeah, just like that. Police thought he was Michael Myers and he got run over. Well, on accident , of course,” The tall man said, putting air quotes around “accident” and then took a bite of his tenderloin sandwich.

“And what a damn shame it is. Poor kid had so much potential. Might as well add him to the body count.”

Jean stopped wiping the table she was standing at. She felt the blood rush from her face, her heart dropped into her stomach, and bile rose in her throat. It all was too much. Her head spun, making the connections, remaking the connections, denying the truth. Her knees felt weak.

“Woah, miss, you good? If all this murder talk is getting to you, we can stop. You look like you're about to pass out,” the mustached man asked her, voice laced with concern.

“I-” she started, swallowing hard, “I'm okay, I think my blood sugar's just low. I'll be back,” she finished, leaving quickly to go back to the kitchen where Jo and Gus chatted. Jean pushed past, throwing open the back door and pressing her back to the brick wall of the diner outside. She breathed hard, shaking hands gripping her skirt as her legs threatened to give beneath her.

Jo burst out a moment later, worried. She put her hands on Jean's shoulders, words coming out of her mouth, but not reaching Jean's ears. She shook Jo's hands off, reclaiming her composure. “I'm fine, Jo, I guess all that talk about the killer on the loose got to me,” she said. It wasn't quite a lie.

“Are you sure you'll be alright? You live alone and now I'm worried about you,” Jo asked.

“It's fine. I'm fine. I promise.”

“Okay, I'll drop it, but if you ever need anything, you know where I am.”

“I do,” Jean nodded. She wouldn't drag Jo into this. This was her own problem, and Jo might very well get hurt. She considered asking Gus to help her, he was a large guy, someone she could trust, and she was sure he would do anything to help if she asked. Then she reconsidered. She'd never be able to forgive herself if she got him hurt. No, she'd have to take care of this herself, somehow.

There was a creeping feeling on her back as the eerie twilight faded into blackness as she drove. There were no stars in the sky, yet the full moon cast it's silvery glow on the earth below, bathing the landscape in a strange dream-like contrast. It was slightly hypnotic, feeding her unease. Once she arrived at her home, she turned the knob on the front door, now aware of the lights left on in the house. She pushed open the door, breaching the barrier between her feeling of environmental disorientation and her nauseating awareness of the room before her.

A sharp scent of salt and copper was in the air, horrifically mixing with the familiar smells of the house, corrupting them in the dim light from upstairs. Before she could bring herself to flip the light switch, she surveyed the dark room, eyes falling on a dark, crumpled form at the bottom of the staircase. Pooling below it, a reflective, dark liquid that appeared black in the shadow of the heap.

She flipped the switch, eyes screwed shut. She finally found the courage to open her eyes, and regretted it. Tears pricked her eyes, a mixture of shock and disgust, as she looked at the crumpled canine body at the bottom of the stairs. The dog, once a charming golden brown, was now stained with the rust colored blood that had kept it alive. Gruesomely, its abdomen was torn open, broken ribs visible alongside the snaking internal organs.

A sound ripped itself from Jean's lips and she looked around the room. The first aid kit was strewn about on the coffee table, the couch soaked in red. Dried blood was tracked everywhere, shoe prints from the back door to the living room, dried droplets leading up the stairs, a smeared hand print on the wall. At the top of the stairs, her bedroom door was ajar. A horrible, sickening curiosity gripped her, guiding her around the discarded carcass and up the stairs.

Her heart pounded as she froze in front of the door, mind blank, her survival instincts screaming at her to run. Run far away. You are prey. You will die and then you will feed this horrible predator. She swallowed down these instincts somehow, and pushed open the door. Blood had been dripped from the threshold to her bed. Then she saw him. On her bed. Her clean, comfortable bed with the soft, white sheets. His filthy, blood-stained jumpsuit was touching her once clean, comfortable sheets. Her knees no longer quivered below her. Her prey-like instincts cowered away as something snapped within. She was fucking pissed.

“Michael, what the fuck are you doing in my goddamn bed?! My home?! My FUCKING SHEETS, you bastard!” She shook, no longer in fear- no, that ship had passed along with her pure white sheets- her hands shook with the desire to express her feelings violently.

Michael jumped up almost comically as though he'd been stabbed with a straight pin. He nearly fell, then fumbled for the white latex he treated as his face, then pulled it on. The knife he slept with had clattered to the floor in his struggle, and had been kicked under the bed. He whipped himself around to look at Jean, then stalked to her. Jean held her ground. He was a mere two steps from her, the difference in height and mass between them highlighted by the closeness.

“You've got three goddamn choices. First, you could kill me. Go ahead, I fucking dare you. Second, you could leave. Go somewhere, leave me the fuck alone. Or, you could stay here, follow my rules, have a steady supply of food and somewhere to sleep. Make your choice, Michael,” she growled, glaring into shadowed eyeholes of his mask.She bared her teeth, seething as he put a massive hand, covered in dried dog blood, around her neck. He did not squeeze, simply held it there firmly as he waited for the Shape's instruction.

The instruction to snap her neck did not come. The Shape remained silent. He had expected fear. That was common- expected even- in his prey. They would run, or try to fight back. Some tried to submit, begging him not to snuff out their lives. Anger though, that was reserved for the exceptionally stupid. Yet something was beginning to make itself clear, Jean was not stupid, exceptionally or otherwise. Rage continued to flare in her slate grey eyes as Michael released her neck, an alluring red stain coiled around it. He marveled at the mark as she turned away, stomping down the stairs away from him.

Watch that one, the Shape demanded. Michael agreed to the Shape's demand. He would definitely watch her. She had his attention now.

[whimsywispsblog]

Nothing More

A/N: Hello Wispies, how have y'all been? So, I finally completed my first Chrisandra (Chris x Cassandra) ficlet! It is quite short and really dramatic, but I hope you like it!

"So, how's our little Cassie doing?" Emily asked, taking a big bite off her sandwich. Chris raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of his awfully cold coffee, trying not to spit the bitter liquid.

"Who the hell is Cassie?"

"Cassandra Demitrescu, of course," Emily gave a deadpanned expression, her lips slowly curling into a smirk, making a few crumbs of bread fall off. "Your...uh...midnight tryst?"

"She's not a midnight tryst, Em. She is just an asset for the intel on the inner workings of the Village and Miranda." Chris rubbed his forehead, slightly irritated.

"Sure." Emily mused, wiping her mouth with a tissue, swallowing down a chuckle that (fortunately) did not go unnoticed by Chris.

Maybe he should have let someone younger from his squad handle the asset. Cassandra Demitrescu. Daughter of Alcina Demitrescu. A dangerous biological weapon walking freely, killing several "preys" who were just innocent ignorant people. And she dreadfully reminded him of Jessica Sherawat, a triple agent. Jessica could hardly keep her hands off him. She was really irritating and petty. She was either dumb enough not to see that he wasn't interested, or she purposefully ignored the signs. He never knew which. Of course, compared to Cassandra, Jessica was a little less annoying. And stupid. Or more like naive.

The two of them engaged in a fight just near the exit of the castle. She was strong and difficult to kill, especially with the mutated insects. But Chris was able to keep up with her games until she took him over with her insects and brute strength. And just as she was about to kill Chris, Cassandra immediately dropped her sickle and rushed to grab a packet of granola that must have fallen off during their duel. Instead of killing her, Chris decided to try and get her to give him more information for a chocolate or a granola bar (Not like he could have killed her anyway. She might be a little distracted, but she could definitely overpower him easily).

A part of him felt awful about manipulating and rattling with her naivete. Still, another part of him knew that she was an uncontrollable and vicious bioweapon. They would always meet up at the Fort, past midnight on days when her mother was at the meeting. To her, it was her moment of freedom (and a chance to initiate a...ahem...a hush-hush intimacy with the handsome outsider). But Chris always tried to dissuade her approaches, at most giving her a peck on the cheek or on her hand. To Cassandra, that was enough for her. After centuries, she was being courted by a handsome gentleman. But Chris- he was stuck in a moral dilemma. Yesterday, they got the information that Miranda has indeed set her eyes on young Rose. They were in their final stages of setting up the cameras to monitor the situation before jumping to conclusions. The fortress was the last place. The squad intentionally left that for the Captain. How kind!

Just as he was ready to step out into the harsh Northern winds, the notification ring of his phone buzzed. There were only 4 contacts (besides his squad) that were never muted: Jill, Claire, Barry and Ethan. And the message was from Jill, a voice message.

"Hey, Chris! So, a little update for you. It seems Ada Wong is liked Connections. We're not sure how. Right now, we're trying to track her down, and we're calling in her little puppy, Leon. Also, I will be leaving for Paris today, there's some intel that we'd like to investigate, and Claire is there too, so hopefully, we'll get to catch up." The voice message ended with her usual goodbyes and see you soon.

Ada Wong. That one name that infuriates him (after Albert Wesker, of course). Although he did know that it was Carla's game and not Ada, after the BSAA received a drive with all the proof from an 'Anonymous Wellwisher' (AW = Ada Wong! Get it?!), he still found it difficult to not blame Ada for it. His fists clenched as he started reminiscing about the Lanshiang incident...Piers...Finn.

-

The inner wall of the fortress echoed the soft sounds of metal clanking and Chris' grunts. There was something about the frosty air and the quietness. Chris enjoyed the languid atmosphere. It was something he craved since the BSAA was formed. Maybe before that. Even sleep was tormenting- somehow, he could hear the snarl of the BOWs, and sometimes he could even feel the icky touch of the creatures. The smell- good lord. That sickening smell haunted him to no end. It was there in everything- even in his favourite burger and fries. But this day, there was something different about it. Or maybe he needed this- some time away from BSAA, away from civilisation and his mission. Just rejuvenate with nature's kisses. The wintery smell and the icy air was just perfect IF...If the sounds of the gravel crunching as someone walked- no, not walked, instead hopped towards him wasn't there. He knew exactly who it was- Cassandra Demitrescu.

"Chris! What are you doing here?" The girl giggled as she buried her face in Chris's shoulder, enjoying the feeling of the harsh fabric on her skin and his scent, of course. Chris gave a soft smile, patting her head a few times. It was only then that Cassandra noticed his gear. "Why are you wearing that funny thing? Are you going on a killing spree?" She giggled once more.

"No. I was just out on a walk before leaving for home."

"Will you come back?" Cassandra asked with her puppy dog eyes.

"Probably. Soon." He smiled.

"Will you stay then? When you come back?"

Chris shook his head with a neutral expression while Cassandra looked down sadly. Her sad face increased Chris' guilt. Ever since he and Cassandra started talking, he learned many things about her. One of the most important: She just wanted a normal life. A human life. Not in the castle, not with her sisters and mother, not in the Village. She wanted to experience a normal human life, and she got it from her time with Chris. It was short, yes, but to her, it was an adventure of a lifetime. A wish fulfilled, but at a terrible cost of having her trust and heart broken eventually. In this situation, he was the heartless monster, and she was an innocent girl who knew nothing outside of her castle.

"So...this is where it all ends?" Cassandra asked, her voice soft and low. Chris placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Yes. But I am glad to have had spent some time with you, Cassandra." He meant it. He truly did. As much as he could feel his inner voice breaking and howling, there wasn't any other way. Or the only other way was killing her, which Chris did not want to do. She didn't deserve that kind of heartbreak. Not today.

"Then...If you did like it, why don't you stay? I can talk to Mother-"

"I have a job and family back home. I am sorry."

"Bring them here! Stay here!"

"I cannot, Cassandra. I have other commitments." Cassandra's eyes teared up as her lips quivered uncontrollably.

"More important than me?" She whispered, pulling her hood back on. Chris nodded softly, whispering, 'Yes'.

"Maybe I shouldn't have met you," Cassandra said, clutching her dress. "Bela was right. Look at me. I was a fool to believe that this would..." She looked up at Chris, the tears trailing down her cheeks. Chris tried to wipe off the tears, but the girl pushed his hand away, turning her face away. "Just go, Chris."

"I am sorry, Cassandra."

"I don't want your apology." She said finally, bursting into a swarm of flies, flying away from the place. Chris stayed alone in the empty corridor, replaying the moment in his head. Cassandra's tears.

"Damn, Captain, you just broke her heart!" Lobo chuckled, unaware of Chris' growing sorrow.

"Yeah." That was all he said, and that was enough for Lobo to get the hint that his Captain had been, unfortunately, emotionally compromised by their enemy.

Little did Cassandra know that not only was that her last time meeting Chris, but it was her last week alive. Chris knew that she needed to be killed, and she knew that whatever was said and done, Chris cannot stay here in the Village because, unlike for her, this wasn't his home. But that never stopped her sad tears from falling, her soft gasps turning into audible whimpers and mewls, as she held the chocolate wrappers that Chris had given her close to her chest.

Her sobs got louder and louder as she collapsed onto her bed, crying harder and harder. Cassandra could have killed him then and there. She was powerful, and she knew it. She could take down Chris without much trouble. Or maybe even force him to live with her and abandon his home. But Cassandra loved him. Or maybe cared for him too much. She really did. And that is why she chose to let him go.

In a way, Chris, too, let her go. He could have taken her and given her the 'human life' she craved for. But knowing the BSAA, they would first imprison her. Then run several tormenting experiments on her, as if she hadn't lived through enough already. She would have been used as a weapon, and they'd make her do all the dirty work. And lastly, she'd be killed off once her purpose is served. It wasn't worth it, and that would have made her more miserable. In this, atleast she is at home. She has a family. Her death is inevitable, but she wouldn't die alone or in some unknown lands. And she was his mission. Nothing more.

"Nothing more," He muttered, walking towards the safehouse.

[sirensmojo]

Scar - Geralt Of Rivia x Reader

Summary: You’re a creature chased by Geralt Of Rivia for a week now, but he couldn’t find you. What he doesn’t know is that you were spying on him since the beginning, when another creature attacks him you stand by his side which causes you to stick with him until he decides if he should follow his feelings and keep you alive, or do the job and kill you.

Warnings: fluff, mystical creature, fights, magic, terror & horror

Word Count: 2,757

 Masterlist

Geralt set a camp in a forest, the same he was told not to cross as humans never came back alive from, but he doesn’t have anything to risk. He isn’t a human, maybe this forest was for mystical creatures only. At first, everything went well. The sun was still up, stick to a blue sky sprinkles by the tips of highs bushy and leafy trees. It was boiling hot, he took off his armor, and his body flopped in a vivid sleep near his horse. It founds him well as it has been, three days in a row of sleepless nights.

Swiftly, his body stiffs, eyes snapped open, looking far away, when they finally lock on something unusual. He gets up on his feet and waits, quietly, his eyes following each shadow it can find.

It is when he glimpses of it, in the distance. His head tilted, eyes squinted, a mere inhuman shadow, only visible from where he stands. The beam lights were stopped by the trunks of trees here and there, making it impossible to keep an eye on the form. It was almost as if the thing vanished from one tree to another, Geralt was confused, his brow narrowed at the vision of horror that played before him. One minute it was there, near a bush, the other, right behind a high branch. Nearly human, but not human enough to make him feel comfortable or make sense of it. A grunt escapes his dry, plump lips as the taste in the air changes, Geralt was cold, all of a sudden. He is not yet sure of what presented in front of him, but until then, his sword will stay on the ground.

A high-pitched tone shrill springs out the dark, an animal he concluded. But what sort of animal does this noise? Add to that the pace of the shadows getting quicker and nearer, a peculiar form lurking in the trees. The leery breath of the man started to thicken as his lips parted. If he doesn’t feel at the mercy of anything dangerous, why can’t he control his breath? Or his pounding heart? At each sound, even the slightest, he can’t help but gaze in that direction. His golden eyes flickered from a point to another by the time he notices the settings have changed.

The leaves had left the trees to encounter the ground that it’s covered in white thick peach fuzz. He put one knee on the soil with a hand-dipped in the white sea. It was indeed snowing. An umpteenth grunt slips out his throat, blowing his warm breath in the cold dark. Moreover, his eyes don’t accommodate to the darkness nicely. Not enough to be able to discern reality and imaginations, not sufficiently to put words and reasonable thoughts on what this animal was, not enough to ease his, now, edgy self. Why the beast doesn’t attack? Or was it even a beast? The Witcher came to that conclusion because the feeling in the air has been always more dense and thick, when there’s a mystic creature in the areas, he senses it. Now all he could sense was leather and woods, for some reason. He pinches his nose, quite annoyed by his helplessness, closes his eyes for a demi-second and inhales deeply, which lead to some unwanted noise caused by his half blocked nostril due to the low temperatures.

“Fuck” He whispers.

Not a single sound reaches his ear after that breath, not a single shadow seen. When his eyes open, his whole body is on alert. His arms tense, his torso stiffens, whereas his legs were hammered in the dense white veil covering the spot. Something was approaching. It even passed by him in a fury. His blood boils in his veins. Even so, he feels like each cell weighted ten times its weight in silver. Geralt heard a last shrill noise nearby by the time he fought with the last drops of strength flowing into his body and reach out for his sword. As he struggles to lift it, a jaw closes on his shoulder. He winces in pain, spitting a deep growl towards the shadows. Gauging by how fast the pain spreads locally, the mouth of the creature must be his main weapon. When it backs off after its first bite, the Witcher figured out the thing will not kill him straight, it isn’t hungry or extra. It utterly wanted to play with his prey, him. He felt like his hands paralyzed, but also shook the most, he’s unsure if it was caused by the frozen or by the bite. His black eyes sprang out, revived thanks to the ache emanating from his dysfunctional shoulder, as it gives him a full ability to discern what attacked him.

It looks like a woman with large spider-like legs coming out of its back. Its body resembles a grisly exoskeleton more than the pulpy features of the human woman he spent the last night with, indeed. That thought, making the Witcher smile.

Despite the new ache focus blooming all over his body, the man was still standing on his feet, springing his sword at the neck of the still unknown yet hideous creature when it jumps back at him. The man heard a terrible screeching sound as the creature crawl about a large boulder. Behind him, rustling bushes and a thud, as if something has slid and then dropped down from the trees behind. Yet still, he can’t look back or the spider-looking thing will take enjoyment in biting again, and he knew well he would not survive another bite. He was encircled by weasel creatures that let him an interval to swallow that today is the day he’ll surely die, in the gelid forest, where hours ago it felt as hot as burning coals. The blood dripping from his huge wound was abnormally overflowing, damping his whole white tunic. On top of that, his death comes in the middle of nowhere, far from his pathetic life.

Perhaps in the next world he have peace of mind?

He can’t even comfort his spirit with this thought because as wicked, cold, and evil as this place seems, he preferred to rest under its ground for the rest of life rather than facing the endless void he thought was waiting for him behind the veil.Although the beast was aggressive and agile, the Witcher still tries to aim its back with clean and neat sword movements. Even with one arm left, the battle was not yet determined, but the white-haired man stays confident, patiently looking for an opening. On which occasion he knows he will not hold back his blow.

***

There is blood pooling at your feet and welling up from your throat. There are thousands of bodies around you, all with these same holes burned in their jaws. You woke up abruptly, with the boorish stench of rotting corpses winding each portion of your body as if you weltered in a bath of death. Besides the smell, the knife in your stomach that you see is a dull pain. 

You scratched your lids and opened your eyes again. “Holy crap on a cracker,” you whistle. And fear clouds your every thought, every movement and action from now on. Your heart beating in your chest warning you, he got enough of these for a lifetime or so. All you can think at this moment is how this foulness occurred. Because you are sure you don’t remember the hammered knife in your guts, nor falling asleep in the waters. Your voice instinctively tries to reach out for a name, “Geralt!” you continuously weep, tired of seeing blood and wounds every so often. Where did you go? He asks himself. Usually, he would think you just wanted to go back to your life, but something in his guts told him this isn’t right. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he heard your voice calling for him. He sprints through the forest, lungs burning as he calls you back. The more his breathing grew louder, the more he knew he was near. He can’t hear his desperate breaths, can’t even hear the pounding of his own heart. All he could hear was the soft melody drifting across the wind before him.

“Y/n,” Geralt muttered near your head. You try to lift your hand to his face, but instead, he grabs it and passes it around his neck, helping you to stand. “You turd!” You whisper, almost out of breath. The golden-eyed man looked over your face and grunts, as a sign you got his attention. “Can’t you see the knife?” you teased with a breezy voice. You wonder if you were still dreaming or if all of this was real. Thus, when the pain in your belly starts to prickle. “Just put it out,” you spat some blood. “I’m bringing you somewhere safe,” he riposted. But by the flimsy laugh leaving your weak body, he rolled his eyes and dropped you carefully at the feet of an old tree. His gaze was sinking so deep into you it almost ripped out your soul.

You wanted to say something, but the overflowing blood of your injury got in your head, making you feel dizzy. The face of Geralt is blurry, so is the forest, and again your eyes shut to join a dimension that you swear is your personal hell. There is blood running down the corner of your mouth. You’re invited to look down by the putrid odor, noticing the dead pile of carcasses on which you sat. You began to yell. “Oh, no-no-no. Please no, don’t tell me that… Oh gods, no,” your voice resonated like an echo. Each of your words coming back at the place that sets them free.

You knit your brows as your orbs open. “You finally up?” the deep and raspy voice of the Witcher resonating in your ears. “I haven’t slept in days… Anytime I close my eyes, I feel it reaching out to grab me,” you spitted curtly. The long-haired man, standing and turning his back at you, only grunt as an approval. ”‘Feeling what?’ I heard you asking,” you add. “Did I?” Geralt looks over his shoulders, squinted towards you. You nodded, ready to spread out another layer of drama at the top of your current situation. “Those blackened claws… They’re coming for me. I am the blackened claws,” your solemn tone caught the attention of the Witcher, that slid to sit on the log beside you, holding you a flask of water. He exhaled deeply, avoiding your eyes.

“All I know about you is that you miraculously healed from a knife in the guts. I didn’t see any claws, even less blackened,” the man sings, proud of himself. You choked on your drink and hassle to pat your stomach, even ripping your cloth to the side to be able to corroborate his words.  “What the goose?” You sputtered, the tip of your finger seeking your wound in vain. Your eyes wide, you lift your gaze to the sour complexion of the man. “The goo- what?” he repeats, one eyebrow lift to you, which you ignore. “What else has happened?” you reluctantly ask, not sure you wanted to know other eerie things you may have missed about yourself. “Well,” he tilted his head in a chuckle, a smirk graces his face. “It’s that bad?” you cut him off brows narrowed as your gazes lock. Geralt tensed his jaw, a grunt slips its way out, seeing the worry in your eyes. “Can you stand?” he asks your way. You slowly let go of the soil in your hands and lift them to the sides of your body, then you push on your legs, and, as if it was the first time, you throw Geralt your warmest smile, glad. He stands up on his feet and slips on the cloak he just grabbed. You confusedly looked at him. The weather was so hot and humid. You wondered why he needed this cloak. “Come, on,” Geralt cheerfully purrs, motioning that you follow. You executed, quietly walking beside him. When Geralt stops, your two looks drop at the same thing, your feet. Your narrowed eyes describe plainly the conundrum displaying in your head. You kneel and spread your fingers above the white veil before you clench your fingers in a fist, imprisoning the substance in it. You stand back up, still looking at your fist as you open it. Geralt observed the scene with cautious eyes, he surmised you had something to do with the snow, but not quite sure if so, why you were mesmerized by it as if it was the first time you touch it. “Is this familiar to you?” he motions his hand toward the areas.

Indeed, it is familiar. The day before, you saved his life while he was fighting with a deadly injury here.

Geralt hears rustling bushes behind him, followed by a thud. You, now, stand near the scene you were observing from above. Eyes flickering between the watcher and the Cipher, he was staring at, crouching in the shadows. You thought you had each of those bastard creatures. Apparently, one remains. “On your knees,” you commended. Hearing your sassy tone, Geralt looked over his shoulder, and what a surprise he has. Two creatures for the price of one. Solely, you were not the same species that assaulted him. Your eyes constantly drip a yellow ooze, your paces utterly silent as you neared him.

A loud and shrill, high-pitched cry comes from behind a boulder as the wind comes in blasts followed by hailstorms, and thundershower. This tempestuous weather buried a sweltering atmosphere, seizing Geralt by the throat. Him, that refused to kneel before you find himself forced to. The wind is sweeping every greenery leftovers, and rain is draining down any hope of survival.

In the distance, the Witcher shields his eyes with his hand against any projectile and watched as you and the Cipher jumped high in the air with stabbing shrieks and subsequently collide in a mystical twirling of both magic energies. He cringes as the yellow ooze drips from your eyes into the bite holes in the jaw of your victim, infecting her. In a rush of gloom, everything stops. The rain freezes in midair, and the wind hushes. The mist vanishes behind the trees, the dusty sky, making room in an azure and bright one.

Even the heat, passionate mild settles back as if nothing has happened, the only evidence of the previous chaos being the spruce firing body on the ground. “You should fetch more woods that is dry if you don’t want this flames to die” You solemnly let out towards Geralt. “Bloody hell, that rhymes,” you heatedly cheer yourself up. Though the warmth mastered the air again, the snow still envelops each section of the brush like a soft thick blanket of ice and drifting snow. It is an eerily beautiful sight the golden-eyed man is lucky to witness. Geralt lids fluttered in incomprehension for a brief instant, he suddenly stands back up and hassled his hand to his wound shoulder, only to find nothing. The injury completely healed, single marks of sharpening teeth as scars left in there. “How?” he grumbles.

“I can put it back if you want?” you suggest, lifting your eyes brows. Geralt that was still searching for his nonexistent wound stops on track and glared at you, a grunt emanating from the deepest of his throat. “What?” you shrug. “I can slap you… with a wet fish,” you added, gauging his reaction. “Maybe it wasn’t me,” you shrug to him, not knowing what else to say. “Don’t it help your memories flow back into your mind?” asked Geralt as both of you stood near the gathering ashes of bones who initially was the Cipher you killed.You shook your head and mutter. “No, it’s still as dry as a bad piece of lettuce” Geralt glances at you as soon as the words left your mouth. “Hmm,” he grunts.”But Y/n, it is your doing,” he maintains, your weird comparisons comforted him most in his assumption.

[salenakingston]

Mystery March Day 22 - Love/Hate

(Well here we are again. @kanaiekla, after all the kind words, I couldn’t get this out of my head. I originally had another idea for today, but this works out much better. A short little gift fic for you and a cruel irony of a prophetic love. Hope you can handle more love <3)

Love is supposed to be a beautiful thing. An emotion shared between two beings, whether it be a close connection from someone that was once a stranger, or those they lived with their entire lives. There was another type of love, a care born out of taking in a stranger, but one that could be considered family as much as a biological bond. Such acts of love were shared in compassion, tender touches, honesty, devoid of lies, trust.

This is not love…

If this was love, then it was disgusting, rotting. There was no compassion, no honesty, and certainly no trust. Well, that demon would argue otherwise. A claim of giving everything to his new wife… anything and everything he could have ever wanted. Compassion composed of ice, the rough touch of sharp claws boring into his skin, texture of scales, a snake’s tightening grip around its prey. Cutting off his air. No room to breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

Honesty was always laced with lies, promises of peace and mercy burned. A silver tongue seeking to fulfill selfish needs. But he is too selfish isn't he? That's what he has always been told. His own needs should never come before others. In life… and in love. But this wasn't love.

It was torture.

There was no trust, well there was. A puppet on strings, a controller to guide his every move. What freedom there was was an illusion. Any choice against the dark path was swallowed. Light was nonexistent in the world. Even the natural beauty under the sun shriveled in death and rot. How could he ever trust this demon that cared for no one else. He was not a wife, not even a lover. A tool, to be used for the rest of his days.

How could he continue to call himself a divine? They were a shining beacon, something for those to look up to. When their worlds were full of darkness, they were the tiny light one could reach out to. What did he have to offer them? A polluted soul. A darkness thick as ink, and just as hard for anyone to escape from. Yet they still looked up to him. They adored him, but only one claimed to love him.

Lies.

It was a strange feeling welling inside of him, an eternal fire with nothing to extinguish the spreading flames. He was certain if the flames were real, they would lick the band which tied his hair back, making it fly in every direction. Divines were meant to be peaceful by nature, but the introduction of one man made this one prince want to turn back on every law that defined him by his status.

End him.

Save me.

A burning hatred.

That was the word. He hated the cold touch where there should be warmth. He hated the cruel words, snake. He hated how every attempt at love was greeted with flinches, and a scorching desire to push the demon as far away from him as possible. Touches sent chills through his body, even though  covered nearly from head to toe in warm wraps. Were it not for the fact that a certain order must be maintained, he might be able to find comfort in a single guest room rather than the husband he shared his unholy union with.

But that was selfish.

His needs came second, or were never to be spoken of at all. Unimportant. Every attempt to speak up for himself was shot down, the flames fanning further inside his tainted soul. One seven letter word silenced his voice. So much he wished to cry out, mercy to beg for. It escaped him, like everything else. He was to be molded to be perfect, but in whose image? Never his own.

A man of the people, of his kingdom.

But how could he feel anything but hate for a man he would refuse to call his husband outside the public eye? Never love. But then again, what was the alternative? If ever he didn’t immediately back down from the warnings, or did not do as the demon pulled him to, it was met with pain. Purity stained in black and red. Rotting soul.

It must stay hidden. None could see his weakness. They knew of it, but could not see it. He did not run his kingdom, the devil did. No attempt to make him see the error of his ways would be met with a smile. He was flawless. No, he was always the problem. Punishments kept him in line, tears and unanswered cries rang around him. Even fleeing from the man every chance he could was not enough.

Eventually he would have to come back into the constricting, suffocating hold.

The Old Gods were supposed to be looking out for him, answering him when he sent them his prayers. Why would they not answer to a divine? Was it because of this pollution? Why had they forsaken him when he desired their words the most. Even in the most holy place, his only sanctuary, he was left alone. In pain. To suffer a cruel love filled with hate.

But then a miracle.

A sea of blue, a stranger on holy ground. A place of legend discovered, and he in turn. This blue was not cold, nor drowning him in its grasp. A bright sky, breaking through the black. A kindness was given, even when he felt it was undeserved.

Then another, a lavender with a strange smell. The warmth was not as chaotic as his burning heart. He deserved every bit of pain for being so weak. Stand up to evil. You’re a divine. Weak. Selfish. Corrupted by that demon. But, one chose to see through a different light. His savoir, both of them. How could he ever repay them for all they had done for him?

Their colors filled his mind, clinging to them to pull him out of the abyss.

The more he saw them, the more the tar and ink slipped away. A new love was discovered.

And a new spark of hatred formed in another.

[vampylovesaliens]

Pariah - p3

-vagabonds

T’chendris-hlau watched, narrowing her pale eyes against the dawning sunlight as she watched the Phantom disappear among the patchy red-tinged clouds. The lingering fume of the ships’ thermal exhaust stung her tongue as she flitted it out briefly to taste the air, making her grumble and shake her head, turning away to go jogging off to where her mother stood, M’tendris’ silhouette statuesque against the brightening horizon as she lingered in meditation. The young Yautja stood silently in her mother’s shadow, waiting to be addressed so as to avoid startling her out of her concentration, though it was a struggle as always. She had questions and childrens’ questions were not easily tempered with patience.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but which really only took a couple more minutes, M’tendris opened her eyes and looked down at her daughter, the child idly tugging at her silvery tresses, not yet long enough to brush her shoulders but getting close. “You are anxious.” She observed mildly, leaning down in order to reach with a hand to gently caress the child’s smooth forehead.

“Why can’t we go with taka?” T’chendris-hlau muttered, hugging against her mother’s leg. “Where does he go?”

“Ah.” M’tendris’ mandibles flexed, a faintly amused but gentle clattering sound in her throat. “He has...work to do. Hunts to go on. It provides us the money we need for our supplies here.”

“Why don’t you go on Hunts with him, tama? You’re mighty!” She looked up, grinning endearingly up at her mother while squeezing against her muscular leg. M’tendris laughed, leaning down to scoop the child up easily and carrying her back toward the hut that sat nearby, quaint and simple, but enough to house them on this small, unassuming world where Yautja were known, but left in peace and given their space, especially when it was just one little family staking a claim to a small and unassuming stretch of land. “I am mighty, my child. But your father and I, we hunt differently. When you are a bit bigger and stronger, you will hunt with me.”

“I wanna hunt nooowww.” T’chendris-hlau complained, and M’tendris rattled at her chidingly. “Don’t whine, child. Hunting is important, whether it be for ritual, for money, or for food. Don’t forget that; it’s not to be taken lightly.”

“Why?” T’chendris-hlau blinked, eyes wide as she regarded her mother’s words with all the intent concentration her young mind could muster, hungry for every lesson she was given whether it was her father teaching her to harness her abilities or her mother teaching her the more ‘normal’ aspects of Yautja life.

M’tendris set the child down on top of a supply crate so she could sit at eye level with the towering adult, rumbling steadily as she gently brushed her claws over her daughter’s short tresses to sort them out smoothly. “Because the Hunt is the core of our people. It is the backbone to who we are, what Paya and the Ancient Ones bred us for. We live by the Hunter’s Code, and we die by it as well.” She leaned forward, gently touching her brow to T’chendris-hlau’s to reassure her as the child fidgeted nervously with that last part.

“Even taka?” She mumbled faintly, blinking again as she met her mother’s eyes, the ghostly-pale green tint of her irises reflecting in the deep fiery orange of her mother’s.

M’tendris chuffed in amusement, her mandibles tapping affectionately against her daughter’s as she leaned back again. “He would argue that he doesn’t. But that is only because he follows the Code differently than most. If you asked him, he would say that Paya and the Ancients have turned their gazes away from him. But he is a silly old man now, my little one.” She chuckled, though as T’chendris-hlau cautiously reached her consciousness out to test the edges of her mother’s mind, she felt a pang of sadness behind her light tone. But she could not investigate further before M’tendris waved a claw dismissively, changing the subject. “You might be able to hunt with me this morning, actually. We will go for the small game, just enough to make our breakfast fresh.”

T’chendris-hlau whooped eagerly as she climbed down, jogging after her mother as she headed for the hut to collect her knife, the ornately-engraved and wickedly jagged edge one that T’chendris-hlau spent a lot of time admiring, though she knew she was never to touch it. “Can I have a knife, tama?”

“Not yet, little one. But soon. You have lessons yet to learn before you can have your own.” M’tendris attached the knife in its sheath to her belt, then waved T’chendris along as they headed away from the little homestead into the fields surrounding them, the meadows beyond filled with thick tufts of grass, the tops beaded with hearty seed pods that made a nice snack, T’chendris-hlau had discovered while playing. Their quarry she knew already; slinky little creatures covered in silky hide, with big digging claws and teeth for grinding down tough roots. They were numerous in these hills, but elusive and shy. T’chendris-hlau often made a game of chasing them, or lying in wait outside their burrows in the hopes of catching one by surprise. They weren’t large, but they were meaty and delicious, a good target for a young Yautja just learning to hunt. So far though she had not been successful.

“Come, look.” M’tendris beckoned her over as she knelt by a tuft of grass. “Someday you may use the tools we have, but the key to becoming a true Hunter is knowing how to hunt even without them. For these creatures, we will make snares.” She cut free a few long strands of fresh grass, pliable but tough, and then picked up some naturally fallen pieces from the ground around them, dried out and stiff. “Sometimes all you need is in one plant.” M’tendris grinned, before carefully demonstrating how to delicately loop the grasses together and how to deftly shred thin fibers from the blades to form a tensile wire of sorts.

After a couple of sloppy attempts to copy, T’chendris-hlau soon had a suitable loop of her own. The two of them crept across the meadow to find the burrows, where she copied her mother carefully in setting the ‘stakes’ down with the loop in place, a fibrous tripwire in place. And to top it off, some of the luscious seed pods from the tops of the grass were scattered as bait. They were a favorite of the burrowing critters, but they seldom got them. Perhaps they didn’t know where they came from, and so never thought to chew the grasses down, instead forced to wait until the pods fell and hope that they weren’t dried husks that had lost their flavor by that time. Then the Yautja hurried away, settling in the shelter of the grassy clumps again to watch the burrows intently. M’tendris raised a claw to her mouth as she looked to her daughter, reminding her to stay quiet. It wasn’t really needed; T’chendris-hlau could barely contain her excitement but she knew well enough that even as casual and simple a Hunt as this was, it still was her first. She would finally be the one to bring the prey home.

Patience was something that her mother and father alike had deeply impressed upon her, but just as it was for any child it was not easy, especially in such an exciting situation. But then she saw movement, curious snufflings at the mouth of the burrows, and then in quick succession a pair of alarmed squeals. M’tendris rose, but she couldn’t even beckon to T’chendris-hlau before the child was dashing across the meadow to see her catch. In each of the three snars a critter writhed, squeaking and wheezing. Two had been caught around the neck and forelimbs, their hindpaws scrabbling desperately. The third had only gotten its hind leg caught, but it was clear that in the panic it had already broken its own leg badly, twisted oddly as it tried to escape. T’chendris-hlau balked a bit, suddenly intimidated, but M’tendris crouched at her side and gave her a gentle nudge. “Don’t falter. When the Hunt begins, you must not let your prey suffer.”

“What do I--” T’chendris-hlau started to ask, before she saw her mother had already moved to the first two creatures, deftly grabbing them and twisting, a short squeak accompanying the snap of their necks before they went limp. The third, the one whose hind leg was the only part caught, continued to squeal and writhe in the dirt while M’tendris looked to her daughter. “Finish what you started, child. This is how the Code works. We are not afraid to kill; the Code teaches us to do it well, and right.”

T’chendris-hlau swallowed nervously, nodding. It was the uncertainty of inexperience which held her back, not a fear of finishing the deed. Seeing the critter suffer was pitiable, that much she understood. She had trapped it, and now it was her duty to end it. She stepped over, fumbling briefly to catch the wriggly creature in one hand to hold it still--a task slightly harder for her smaller claws compared to her mother’s--before taking hold with the other and imitating M’tendris’ movement. She felt the dull pop-crack under her grip, the critter squealing sharply before it went limp save for the restless twitching of its paws. M’tendris purred her approval, able to hold her pair in one hand alone while she reached out with the other to stroke her daughter’s short tress. “Good job, my little one.”

T’chendris-hlau exhaled shakily, the thrill of it finally sinking in as she stood, collecting the leftover snare material as she saw her mother do. They left the seed pods as a compensation of sorts to the other critters living there, a promise that those burrow entries did not always bring death, and they took their fresh kills back to the homestead for processing.

Skinning and gutting the critters was not as thrilling as the actual catching and killing. M’tendris laughed as her daughter squirmed, claws bloodied from a botched attempt to cleanly slice the pelt open that had ended with the critter’s guts spilling into her lap. But finally, the meat had been stripped away and was cooking, filling the hut with the delicious smell, and T’chendris-hlau watched in awe as her mother carefully processed the last critters’ skull. She had stripped it clean, and after dousing it with a chemical that peeled whatever bits of sinew and meat still held on away, she handed it to the child with a proud rumble. “There. Your first trophy. You can show your taka when he returns tonight.”

T’chendris-hlau took the skull reverently, admiring the smooth bone and running a claw along the curve of it. Her first trophy; not much of a prey but it was still more than the child had ever earned for herself before. Even when she and her mother settled in to eat their meal she held the skull in one hand, never letting it go. It was her constant companion through the day, until finally as the sun sank the glow of the Phantom’s engines came into view above, the ship coming to land just outside the camp. And by the time her father was descending the ramp with a heavy crate of new supplies hoisted over his shoulder, she was already dashing out to meet him and show off her prize.

When she settled into her bed that night, the pride radiating from her father’s mind into her own was still warming her throughout. Her trophy was perched on the little shelf above her hammock, and she purred to herself happily as she regarded it in the dark, until her eyes could stay open no longer.