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mikavlcs · 2 years ago

Text

False Meridian

Pairing: Ghostface!Tara Carpenter x reader

Summary: Another Ghostface appears out of the blue and Tara will do whatever it takes to eliminate them before they get the chance to hurt you.

Warnings: graphic violence & gore (!!!), bad decisions, bad writing, the usual shit honestly, this fic also follows scream logic (stab wounds are akin to paper cuts)

Word count: 8.2k

Notes: this was requested by a few people. read the warnings pls. i hate this.

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2

It had been two months since your father’s death and things were very slowly but surely improving.

You integrated into life with the Carpenter sisters well. So well that Tara honestly thought you were always meant to have a place here. Even during those first few days when you were drowning in guilt and grief, you walked the halls of her house like you belonged there, and Tara loved it.

Unsurprisingly, through the impending days and weeks, your mother never came to check on you even once and, in turn, you never asked to see her. Tara couldn’t help but think it was for the better.

Now, she and Sam were your family, and everyone involved seemed more than happy with the arrangement.

Tara could do without having Sam there, personally, but she still had her uses and you loved her for some reason. Well, not for some reason, you’d mentioned how you always wanted an older sibling a few times, but why you adored having Sam in that position was still a mystery to her.

Sam had abandoned her when she needed her most, and her being back now, five years later didn’t change that, no matter how apologetic she tried to seem.

But Tara buried those thoughts whenever they came forth. Sam, for all of her many faults, was helping you and she wouldn’t begrudge you a connection with her sister because of her own hang-ups.

Plus, there were more pressing issues at hand to worry about anyway.

Returning to school after the bruises had healed enough to be believably covered by makeup and strategic wardrobe choices was tense for both of you.

Tara knew her friends could be nosy, and the last thing either of you wanted to talk about was what happened that night.

And the questions started immediately when you sat down at the group’s picnic table before first period. The boys were practically talking over one another, but they calmed when they noticed the way you shrunk into yourself.

Mindy specifically, being the only socially conscious one, was determined to give you space about the issue, whacking Chad and Wes when they crudely tried to question you and reminding you that they would be happy to listen whenever you were ready to talk.

For that, Tara was thankful, and she made sure Mindy knew that.

Over the days, weeks, and months, you established a new normal bit by bit. Your usual liveliness began seeping back in as the blood on your hands faded with time. Dinners and family nights were riddled with your laughter, and you started going to more and more group hangouts.

You seemed freer now, without the shackles your parents placed on you, and the sight made Tara overjoyed.

So things settled once more and a peace of sorts came to rest over her.

Sure, there were the daily annoyances like boys at school who stared at you in the halls, Wes’ insistent crush, and Sam’s overprotectiveness, but none of that mattered because you were there to soothe her every time.

And now that you lived with her, she had unlimited access to you—her favorite drug, her unending addiction. It was utter bliss.

But of course, peace, however relative it may be, never lasted for Tara.

It happened on a normal night, which only made it that much worse in Tara's mind.

You all had finished eating dinner together twenty minutes ago. Sam, as usual, left for her night shift just as you and Tara began washing dishes, walking out the door chuckling at Tara’s grumblings about getting out of chores while you waved.

Per the routine that you both had been cultivating, you washed, and she dried. You’d gotten to the point where you were both automatic, not needing to look to know where the other was and what they were doing.

When you blindly handed her a dish, she was already waiting for it with an open palm. You worked in tandem efficiently, like a well-oiled machine.

The only thing that actively broke the set-in-stone routine was the ringing of the landline on the kitchen counter.

It was an odd occurrence. The number connected to it was long forgotten by Tara, so it sat silently on the counter most days, completely invisible save for the few times it got knocked over while cooking.

So the sudden sharp ringing startled you both. Tara flinched, her movement nearly imperceptible, but you literally jumped. The only thing that kept you from dropping the dish you were scrubbing was the steadying hand Tara placed on your forearm.

You shot her a bewildered glance, which she returned, but ultimately you ignored it and went on with your shared task.

But then it rang again, and again, and again.

Both of you tried to continue ignoring the sound, but it persisted for minutes on end, unrelenting.

You dried your hands off roughly with the towel by the sink. “I’m just gonna answer it.”

Tara nodded mutely, her eyes following you as you answered the phone.

She continued to dry off the last few dishes, sending you small glances as she set them on the counter. You were leaning against the island, exchanging tense small talk with what Tara assumed to be a particularly insistent telemarketer and she could tell by your tone of voice that the conversation would be over very soon.

Just as she was about to put the dishes away, you gasped, and the phone clattered loudly onto the island counter. Tara was by your side instantly.

“What happened?” she asked urgently.

You didn’t answer, too busy pressing yourself against the sink to try and put as much distance between yourself and the landline as possible.

She carefully took one of your hands and cradled it between hers, hoping to calm you enough to talk and it worked.

“He—he asked what my favorite scary movie was.”

Oh, she thought, her previous tension abating a bit.

Stupid calls like this had been happening ever since her initial killing spree. Immature teens and twenty-somethings loved pretending to be her so they could scare a stranger and get a cheap laugh. Tara adored the Stab movies, but the hardcore fans could be such disruptive assholes.

She sighed, stroking her thumb softly over your knuckles. “It’s okay, baby. It’s just a prank call. People have been getting them for months now.”

You shook your head vehemently. Only now did Tara feel the slight shaking of your hand in hers.

“No, Tara,” you whispered, fear staining every syllable. “He knew my name.”

Tara froze. Immediately, she picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear.

“Who the hell is this?”

A sardonic laugh chimed from the speaker, and even from that single noise, Tara recognized the use of the voice changer.

“I’m just somebody who knows your little family secret, Tara.”

Her heart stuttered but she didn’t miss a beat. Thinking quickly, she decided to try and bait him.

“And just who are you? A loser who needs to hide behind someone else’s identity to mess with some girls? Don’t be a coward, show yourself.”

A clumsy attempt, but the only thing she came up with on the spot. Unfortunately, he didn’t bite.

“Oh, now where would the fun in that be? One of the best parts of the Stab movies is the mystery. Revealing the killer’s identity in the opening scene would be disappointing. As a fellow fan, wouldn’t you agree, Tara?”

The way he said her name, like a taunt rather than a title, made her skin prickle. Her irritation was rising steadily, but she couldn’t lose control. Not in front of you.

Narrowing her eyes, she walked to the other side of the kitchen and dropped her voice to the most menacing whisper she could muster.

“Is that what you think this is? The opening kill scene? Because I think you have it painfully backwards.”

“And what makes you think that? I could kick down your front door and dismember you both right now. Who knows, maybe I’m already inside.”

An empty threat, she knew, but still opened her security system app, silently thanking her intuition when she all but forced Sam to install one after you moved in. As expected, it was green. No doors or windows had been opened.

With that reassurance in mind, she set her phone down and turned her back to you.

“Believe me when I tell you that if you step foot inside of this house, I won’t just kill you, I will brutalize you. I will maim you so badly that your family won’t even be able to identify your body.”

The threat did little to deter the stranger. If anything, it seemed to excite him.

“Oh? And how can you be so sure?”

Tara chuckled. “Call it personal experience.”

“Well, luckily for both of us, we’re diverging from the formula. This isn’t a kill scene; this is a warning. A message, if you would.”

Confusion swelled in her. She asked, “A message for who?”

A laugh from the other end. Then, “You, Tara. And your dear sister. And your… ‘friend,’ of course.”

Her teeth grit harshly at the mention of you, but she needed to uncover a motive of some kind if she wanted to identify this person, so she tried another tactic.

“You’re a Stab fan, but you’re changing the iconic opening sequence?” she asked. “Why? Isn’t changing the franchise formula sacrilegious? I mean, they tried that with Stab 7, and look where that got them.”

“Ah, but this is my movie, Tara. And altering the structure serves a purpose. It destabilizes audience expectations and builds tension for the impending bloodbath in the future.”

“And when exactly will this bloodbath be?”

“I’ll be back for the seminal third act soon when both family members are present to witness it. In the meantime, I’ll keep your secret safe.”

Tara went to respond but the line went dead.

You watched her intently as she turned back around, glancing between her and the phone. Cautiously, you asked, “Did he hang up?”

She nodded, placing the phone back on the receiver roughly. She hadn’t managed to ascertain a solid motive, but there were pieces. Bits of a breadcrumb trail for her to try and follow.

He mentioned that this was his movie, could that be his motive? Was this just the work of a fanatical fan that wanted a movie made from their actions?

But at the same time, this sounded far too personal to just be some random fanboy. Why target her specifically? And what exactly was he talking about when he said he knew her secre—

A sharp knock on the window resounded through the kitchen.

Both you and Tara jumped. There was a moment of stillness, both you and Tara seemingly frozen in time, but she forced her legs to move. Slowly, she crept toward the window, ignoring your frantic whispers, and pulled the curtain aside.

Standing right on the other side was someone in a Ghostface mask and a black robe.

When he knew he had her attention, he tilted his head to the side and raised his hand, proudly showing off the knife within it.

Tara’s eyes widened. Her fingers curled instinctively, muscles tensing in preparation for a fight. But he simply waved, waggling his fingers around the hilt, then turned and walked away.

She wanted to chase him down, tear off that mask, and use that knife of his to tear out his insides. But she couldn’t leave you here alone, vulnerable to an attack from a possible accomplice. After all, there were usually two killers in the Stab movies.

So she stood with her feet planted before the window and watched as he disappeared into the night.

Behind her, she heard you speaking urgently with someone and her answer as to who it was came not even ten minutes later when her sister’s car screeched into the driveway.

There were only seconds between Sam haphazardly parking and her crashing through the door. Before she knew it, Tara was being pulled into a group hug, but her eyes remained on the window.

Distantly, she heard you recounting the events of the past half hour or so, and Sam’s repeated attempts to calm you finally pulled her from her stupor. She reached, put a consoling hand on your back and cherished the way your muscles relaxed under her touch.

A combination of Sam’s ushering and Tara’s reassurances got you to finally go upstairs and as soon as you were out of view, it became apparent that Sam was going to attempt to get Tara to follow suit.

“Hey, I know you’re probably shaken about what happened, but you need to rest,” Sam urged her kindly, but the words went largely unheard.

The only part Tara registered was the error in her statement. Because shaken wasn’t quite how she felt.

Her smoldering anger was present, burning her veins with its intensity, but more than anything she felt…dishonored. Aggrieved, even, that someone would dare don the mask and robe that she adorned months before and attempt to terrorize her in her own home. Not to mention the extended threat to you as well.

So, no, Tara was not shaken in the slightest. If anything, she was rooted more firmly in her ways than she had been in a while.

Sam approached and rubbed her shoulder gently. This time Tara looked over at her, which made the taller girl smile.

“Go get some sleep, Tar. I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

The use of the old nickname made Tara’s hand twitch. She wanted to protest, she didn’t trust her sister to bear that responsibility alone, but you were upstairs waiting for her. You needed her so she forced a nod and trudged up the steps.

As expected, you were in bed waiting for her. She climbed into bed next to you and pulled you into her, cradling your head to her chest. Neither of you spoke a word, just laid with each other in the silent reassurance that the other person was alright.

And even when your breaths eventually evened out, her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling above.

Tara didn’t sleep.

Her eyelids never even drooped. There was too much adrenaline, too much to think about, too many opportunities for someone to sneak in and hurt you for her to even think about sleep.

So instead, she cycled through all of the possibilities of who the imposter Ghostface could be and who their target was.

Her first instinct was to say they were after her, but that couldn’t be true. No one knew that she was behind the murders earlier that year. No one.

There were no witnesses, no clues left at the crime scenes, and no reason for anyone to suspect her.

Next would be you. But she couldn’t think of a single person who would want to hurt you. You had no enemies, at least none that she was aware of. It could theoretically be someone who knew about your father, but no one in their right mind would be seeking retribution for that waste of oxygen, so she wrote that off as well.

Lastly, there was Sam.

Sam was the biggest unknown factor for Tara. She knew next to nothing about her sister’s whereabouts in the past 5 years, besides the vague knowledge about her residing in Modesto for most of that time.

But faux Ghostface’s words kept replaying in her head.

“I’m just somebody who knows your little family secret, Tara.”

In the meantime, I’ll keep your secret safe.”

Tara thought that those comments were directed toward her, that someone had figured out what she had done. But what if they were about someone else? After all, she wasn’t the only one in the family with a dark secret.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

She was hesitant to leave you alone, even when she knew you were safe, but this was a conversation she had to have with Sam alone. So she carefully untangled herself from you and laid you against the pillow before heading downstairs.

Her sister was lying on the couch with her eyes glued to the tv, looking every bit as tired as Tara felt. She sat up as Tara entered. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Tara muttered, sitting down where Sam’s legs had previously resided. She gave her sister a serious look. “I need to talk to you.”

Sam’s brows furrowed at her tone, but she nodded. “Okay.”

“I need you to be honest with me, Sam. Please.”

Another nod. “I will.”

Tara took a deep breath. “Is there anyone from your past that you think would want to hurt you?”

“You think Ghostface was here for me?” Sam asked.

“I’m thinking it could be a possibility, yes.”

“Okay, um,” Sam bit her lip, thinking. “I don’t think so. I haven’t been involved in anything…bad for years now. What makes you think he might’ve been targeting me specifically?”

“He mentioned a family secret. Twice,” Tara explained, watching her sister’s reaction closely. “I’m not trying to accuse you, I promise, but is there anyone that you told about your parentage besides me? Anyone?”

After thinking for another moment, Sam paled. She looked away for a minute then, straightening up, she said, “I have to tell you something…”

“What?” Tara asked, trying to decipher her sister’s behavior.

“There’s…this guy that I’ve been talking to online. His name is Richie,” Sam said, voice unsteady.

Tara’s stomach dropped.

“Sam…”

“It was just casual at first, I swear. I wasn’t intending on getting too close, but I was struggling, and he offered to listen,” Sam whispered. Tears were welling in her eyes as the full realization hit her, but Tara didn’t care. She couldn’t, not with what she was hearing.

“Did you tell him?” she asked, heartbeat kicking up.

There was a beat of agonizing silence. Then, “Yes.”

Tara stood abruptly, fists clenched. Sam stood with her, hands hovering around Tara’s shoulders, but the smaller girl took a step back. Her mind raced. She was trying to simultaneously work out what was happening while actively refraining from strangling her sister.

A question rose to the forefront of her mind.

“How did he know where you lived?”

Sam looked away, shame radiating off of her. “…My birthday’s coming up. He said he wanted to send me something—"

Tara spun on her heels and stormed into the kitchen. Her sister was hot on her heels, the stuttered beginnings of an apology on her lips, but Tara couldn’t hear it over the blood roaring in her ears.

“Tara—"

“I can’t believe you,” she growled. “You risked not just your own life, but the lives of everyone in this house, and for what? A man that was just trying to use you? Jesus Christ, Sam. That’s pathetic, even for you.”

That nearly made, a few tears overflowed and spilled down her cheeks, but she kept herself together long enough to get out one more coherent sentence.

“I’m sorry, Tara. I never meant for something like this to happen, I swear.”

Shaking her head violently, Tara looked away.

She didn’t want to accept it. She wanted to go even further, to stick her finger in the wound and dig even deeper. Twist the knife even further and watch Sam squirm under the pressure. But she held herself back.

There was an unpredictable man in a Ghostface costume specifically targeting them. She needed all hands on deck. This wasn’t just about her feelings, even if entirely justified. You were here now, and your safety took precedence over her personal vendettas.

So she forced her tense muscles to go slack, wiped the fury from her features, and turned to pull Sam into her arms.

She disregarded the way her sister’s pathetic cries made set her nerves alight and whispered out meaningless we’ll be okay’s until the emotion passed.

Through it all, Tara tried to ignore how badly her palms itched.

Time passed in an odd, infrequent manner.

It was no longer a steady, unending stream of hours, days, and weeks. It trickled by in short, uneven bursts as if it was leaking from a broken faucet. Some days were long, the eight hours spent in school feeling like an eternity, while others seemed to last for minutes.

But eventually, the days added up until three entire weeks went by in paranoid quiet.

No sign of a lurking killer. No calls on the landline. Not a single glimpse of a white mask.

It was tormenting. Every day that passed without incident made her tenser, feeding her paranoia steadily until it was impossible for Tara to get a single good night of sleep.

Sam appeared to be suffering the same fate as her, but Tara didn’t care. She had offered the illusion of forgiveness in the moment, but they were on far from good terms.

They still saw each other every day since they lived in the same house, but apart from greetings and small pleasantries, Tara was trying her best to avoid interacting with her sister. The lingering anger and bitterness were still simmering beneath the surface, and she didn’t want to risk unleashing that in your presence, so she took to avoidance.

Sam noticed and tried to bridge the gap, mostly at dinner with incentivizing questions and comments, but her attempts were brazenly ignored by Tara, leaving you to awkwardly pull on the conversation threads in her place.

Of course, because of that, you picked up on the tension between the sisters. It was hard to miss, honestly.

Tara thought you would confront her about it, but you must’ve learned that head-on confrontation accomplished little when she was set in her ways about something because, suddenly, there were far more “family movie nights” than there were previously.

She participated half-heartedly, mostly for your sake but also because there was strength in numbers, and being together was safer than staying apart.

Tonight was one such night. It was 10 pm on a Friday, and you were practically buzzing with excitement beside her. For movie night tonight, you weren’t even watching a movie but instead finishing some Netflix show that you and Sam had gotten hooked on.

So you were snuggled into Tara’s side on the couch, pulling the show up on the tv while Sam made the popcorn (Tara’s personal favorite part of these nights, besides you).

“Ah, shit,” came Sam’s voice from the kitchen, and you both looked over to see what was going on. Sam closed the cabinet, a frown pulling the edges of her lips downward. “We’re out of popcorn.”

Your excitement tempered some, a disappointed sigh leaving your lips. You went to say something, but Sam straightened up, her frown disappearing.

“I can run to the store real quick and get some.”

Whether she was trying to dote on you to build rapport with Tara again or she just genuinely wanted to do it for you was unclear, but Tara didn’t like the idea of her going alone.

“Sam, maybe that’s not a good idea,” she reasoned. At her side, you nodded in agreement.

“Yeah,” you said, “it could wait till tomorrow.”

“There’s a convenience store a block or two away. It’s barely a trip.”

When neither of you responded, Sam pursed her lips, looking around briefly before grabbing her phone from the kitchen island and opening it. She spent a moment fiddling with it then came to kneel in front of you.

“Here,” she gestured to your phone, “accept the call, and I’ll stay on the line until I’m back.”

You hit answer, still hesitant. Tara said nothing, unease building in her gut steadily. It had been three whole weeks without a peep from Richie. And sure, the possibility of him losing his nerve and giving up was technically feasible, but was that really a risk worth taking?

“Are you sure you don’t want me or Tara to come with you?” you asked, worry tinging your tone.

Before Tara could say no, Sam shook her head. “No, you two stay here. I like knowing that you guys are safe with the security system in place. This should take no more than fifteen minutes and I’ll stay on the phone with you both the entire time, okay?”

Tara narrowed her eyes, flicking them over to you to see your response. For a moment you just sat there, looking worriedly at her sister, but you nodded slowly.

“If you hang up, I’m finishing the show without you,” you threatened with a small smile.

Sam laughed, patted your arm, and stood. Both you and Tara watched as she pulled her shoes and bomber jacket on. Tara was tempted to call her back but by the time the urge hit, Sam was shutting the door.

Throughout her journey to and inside the store, Sam kept her promise and didn’t hang up, keeping a steady flow of conversation with you even as she was being rung up by the clerk.

Tara stayed quietly by your side the whole time, trying to ease the pit in her stomach, but it didn’t go away. The dread persisted still as Sam announced that she was pulling into the driveway.

The muffled sound of a car door closing outside had you rushing over to the door. Tara smiled at your excitement, stepping up behind you as you pulled it open.

Outside, Sam was standing in the driveway, victoriously waving the popcorn in the air. “I got the last box!”

She started walking up to the open door when suddenly, a streak of black flashed across the yard, and before Tara could properly register it, her sister was being tackled to the ground. The sharp crack that accompanied her head hitting the ground barely resonated before Tara was slamming the door shut and twisting all the locks back in place.

You ran toward the door, but Tara grabbed you. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Sam’s out there, Tara. We have to help her.” You started toward the door again, but Tara wasn’t budging.

This is all her fault, she wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, she said, “We can’t. It’s not safe, but we’ll go back for her, okay? I promise.”

“Don’t be so sure about that, Tara.”

Tara inhaled sharply at the sound of the voice, while you dropped your phone with a gasp. But then the implications hit her just a second later and made her stomach drop to her feet.

The call was still connected. Sam’s phone was still unlocked, meaning Richie had full access to the security system app.

Seconds after Tara’s revelation, her phone dinged, and the voice notification automatically played.

Security System Disabled

A horrified gasp from her right told her that you heard it too. She tried to reenable it, but it was immediately disabled again, the green turning back to red while the mechanical voice taunted her.

Security System Disabled

There was no time. He was going to make his way in here, there was no stopping it.

Her greatest concern was making sure that you were as far away from him as possible when that happened. She grabbed your shoulders, caught your eye.

“Listen, take one of the kitchen knives and go lock yourself in my room. Hide in the closet and call 911. Tell them to bring police and paramedics, okay?”

You immediately shook your head and protested, “What? No, I am not leaving you alone with a serial killer, Tara.”

“Yes, you will. You need to.”

“Tara—"

“Please,” she begged, her voice strangled. She tightened her hold on your shoulders, thumbs digging into your soft skin. “Please, I can take care of myself. But I need to know that you’re safe. I can’t focus if you’re in danger. So please, just do as I say right now, ok?”

Reluctant, you nodded and pressed your lips to hers in a quick but firm kiss. After parting you held her gaze for another moment before running up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

Tara watched you go and once she knew you were safe, she ran into the kitchen and scoured through the cabinets until she found the large, cast-iron skillet she used for stir-fries. She tried to peer out the window, but with the curtains tightly drawn, there was no telling what was happening outside.

Tara paused, a strategy forming. She could use the lack of visibility to her advantage.

Quickly, she moved the knife block to the opposite end of the island then began to cut the lights in both the living room and the kitchen one by one.

She saved the kitchen for last, keeping her eyes on the door as she flicked the switch down and crouched behind the island near the knives to wait.

Minutes passed in eerie silence, then finally, she heard the tell-tale jingle of keys in the front door lock. The knob twisted and the door creaked as it was pushed open, soft and slow. The sound only put Tara even more on edge.

Light footsteps could just barely be heard even in the silence, and Tara’s ears perked. The sounds stopped momentarily, then started in her direction. Quiet footfalls neared at a glacial pace, giving Tara ample time to steady her grip and prepare herself.

Once the footsteps were practically next to her, she swung with all her strength to the left. She connected with the nearest leg, and the force of the blow sent shockwaves up her arms.

The pained shout that arose was distorted by the voice changer inside the mask, but the clatter of the knife he was holding falling to the floor was clear as day.

Tara stood and, as soon as she located the knife, kicked it away. She took another swing, but he seemed to hear this one coming because he jerked back, so she struck the hard counter instead. The physical shock of it made her drop the pan in surprise.

He stumbled to his feet, clearly favoring his left leg. Desperate, he swung wildly a few times. Tara backed away but in a stroke of luck, the last one connected with her cheek.

Pain exploded where his fist connected, echoing through her jaw. The familiar, addictively metallic taste of blood coated her tongue and teeth. The pain only served to ground her, focusing the smoldering fire of her rage solely on the man in front of her.

Breath heaving, he went for another blind punch, but she sidestepped and delivered a solid kick to what she hoped was his left knee. And if the groan was anything to go by, then she hit her mark.

He fell again, clutching his knee, and Tara circled him. She stood on his right shin, hooked her arms around his throat, and leaned against the counter behind her, pulling back as hard as she physically could.

Richie coughed violently. Flailing arms tried to pry her off, but she stood firm, eyes drifting to the knife holster on the island. She leaned down by his ear.

“You know, with all that talk about secrets, you really should’ve been more careful with your own.”

She squeezed her arms together tighter and braced her hands firmly on her upper forearms. The urgency in Richie’s movements increased, but he achieved nothing all the same.

“Because I know your secret too, Richie,” Tara growled, lips coiling into a malignant crimson smile.

He froze at the sound of his name and Tara took the opportunity to rip the mask off of his face.

Now that his mask of bravery was off, she was overcome with the need to turn the lights back on. Because she wanted to see it. She wanted to watch his weaselly face contort in pain, she wanted to watch those last bits of life drain from his eyes.

Violent desire coursing through her, her grip loosened, one hand reaching back to flick the light switch on. But that was all he needed.

A moment of hubris was enough to ruin the victory she had very nearly secured.

The instant the lights were on, Richie, with all his body weight behind him, lurched right, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Because of her position, she was unable to get her arms beneath her in time, and her head hit the tile hard. She blinked against the white flash of pain, but by the time she got her bearings, Richie was already retrieving his knife.

Watching him struggle to his feet, Tara changed tactics. She backed into the living room to put some space between them so she could possibly get another weapon. But before she could assess the room, Richie rushed her with a loud cry.

He clumsily wrestled her to the ground in a mess of thrashing limbs. Because of his size, he gained the upper hand quickly and straddled her. Tara fought against him, lashing out violently with her hands, and her nails managed to catch on the side of his face.

Gasping, she dug them deeper into his skin and, with all her strength, pulled.

A yell of agony tore its way out of his throat, and Tara could feel his skin peel beneath her fingers and get stuck under her nails. But he didn’t let up. His fingers found their way around her throat and squeezed.

He had her pinned down. His fingers had a death grip around her throat and her vision was beginning to go dark around the edges.

She thought she saw a flash of something behind Richie, but she paid it no mind, keeping all of her focus and strength on punching and kicking and squirming. He pressed down on her trachea even harder, and Tara choked.

But then, Richie screamed and all at once his hands released her throat, and she could breathe again.

He careened to the side and only then did Tara notice the knife sticking from his left side. She looked back up and saw you with wide, terrified eyes. Despite the danger, she took a moment to appreciate the circumstance before her.

You had picked up his knife and stabbed him with it. She would have smiled if her throat wasn’t on fire.

Another ragged cough tore its way from Tara’s throat and that brought your attention from her attacker to her. Your eyes softened and you started toward her. But Richie wasn’t down just yet.

He wrenched the knife from his side with a grunt. With rage in his eyes, he turned to you, staggering unsteadily back to his feet with the knife tight in his grip.

“You fucking bitch!” he roared.

You froze and, without any other option, fled into the kitchen with Richie stumbling closely behind. Just as your fingers brushed the hilt of one of the knives in the block, he snagged the neckline of your shirt and yanked you back.

“Oh no you don’t.”

Richie pinned you against him, one arm steadily anchored around your ribcage and the other, the one with the bloodied knife, rising above his head. Tara tried to stand, but equilibrium was shockingly hard to regain at that moment.

She was just getting to her knees when he plunged the knife into your stomach. The pained scream that you let out would haunt Tara for the rest of her life.

Richie smirked, wide and unruly. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

The only response you gave was a whimper. He grabbed you by the neck and slammed your head down onto the kitchen counter. Hard. A loud crack echoed off the walls and you fell in a heap on the floor, unconscious.

Words like rage, fury, and anger were far too soft to describe the feeling that overtook her when your body hit the ground.

The emotion that overcame her was rough and discordant, and primitive. It bled over her vision, tainting it dark crimson, and pushed her to her feet with a newfound balance and sick certainty.

At full speed, Tara ran and latched onto him, using all of her body weight to throw him back onto the living room carpet.

Richie tried to stand again, but Tara tackled him back down and straddled him. But Tara punched him once, hard, then again and again and again until his head lolled and his grip slackened, leaving the knife to fall onto the carpet beside him.

Seeing him lying under her, bruised and defeated, didn’t satisfy Tara, nor did the ache in her knuckles. Not after he hurt you so badly. She needed him to bleed. She needed him to suffer.

He needed to pay.

Steady fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife at her side. As she raised it above her head, she found a certain poeticism in it—the fact that Richie was going to meet his end at the hands of the true Ghostface, with his own weapon.

With a deep breath, she allowed the savage tidal wave of emotion to wash over her, and she saw more than felt the way she slammed the knife down. Time became a blur of movement. Red clouded her vision, but she could feel everything—the hard hilt of the knife, the give of the flesh beneath it, the satisfying crunch of bone.

The image of you being stabbed playing over and over and over, fueling the raging wildfire within her.

By the time she returned to herself, there was an all-encompassing silence; the only sounds impeding it were her labored breaths.

The knife in her hand was slick with blood. A fierce ache ran from her forearms to her shoulders. Tara looked down at her victim and her brows furrowed.

What remained of Richie’s head was a mess of jutting bone fragments, scattered clumps of blood-soaked hair, and chunks of torn flesh. Amongst the soup of blood, bone, and brains, there was an eyeball rolled off to the right. Distantly, she wondered where the other one was.

Looking further down, Tara noticed the amount of blood on the ground. The carpet was drenched in red, and given how saturated it looked, she wouldn’t be surprised if it soaked all the way through to the hardwood beneath it.

Tara exhaled sharply through her nose. That carpet would definitely have to be replaced.

Her eyes moved off the ground and toward the kitchen, where your limp form entered her vision. Immediately, she dropped the knife and ran to you, dropping to her knees beside you.

She scrambled to press her fingers to your neck, and thankfully, she found a pulse. It was weaker than she would’ve liked, but it was steady. You were holding on for her, and that meant everything to Tara.

Turning her attention back to your wound, she assessed the damage. The blade was still lodged firmly inside your stomach, and she hadn’t enough medical knowledge to know whether it pierced anything important based just off its positioning alone, but she knew not to take the knife out.

So she pressed her hands down around it as hard as she could. You let out a pained breath in your unconscious state but showed no signs of rousing. She wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

All that mattered was making sure that you stayed with her until the paramedics arrived. She knew you listened to her earlier, so authorities should be on their way with medical help in tow.

But she would be lying if she said her composure didn’t begin to slip with each passing second of silence.

What got her most was the blood. Tara was accustomed to gore and had long passed the point where anything like that bothered her, much less the sight of just blood, but this was your blood, and it was everywhere.

On her hands, slipping between her fingers, pooling beneath you, staining her pants, on your face, drying just beneath your nostrils.

All Tara could see was red, red, red, and not because of her anger, but because of her inability to protect you when it mattered.

The door opened, slamming harshly against the wall, and Tara jumped, instinctively putting herself between you and whoever was approaching.

She glanced back and saw her sister standing in the doorway, leaning against it slightly as she clutched her stomach. Their eyes met and Sam visibly relaxed. “Tara—"

Her gaze wandered left, and Sam stopped short by the door; eyes glued on the mess of human flesh laying limp on the carpet. Cursing silently, Tara squeezed her eyes shut.

She rushed to find any sort of justification, but it was hard when her world was falling apart before her eyes and beneath her hands.

“He—he hurt—” Tara broke off into a sob, the blood on her hands burning nearly as much as her throat.

Sam tore her eyes away from Richie’s remains and looked back over to her younger sister. Her eyes widened and Tara assumed that she finally noticed your worrying state. Tara kept her hands firmly pressed to your wound as she watched Sam, trying to figure out what her next move would be.

Finally, she said, “It’s okay,” sounding more like she was trying to reassure herself than Tara. She nodded to herself, repeated it, “It’s okay.”

Slowly, she moved from her place by the door and approached the body, looking like she was fighting the urge to be sick the closer she edged to it.

“What are you—” Tara started, eyes wide, but Sam interrupted.

“Listen, when the police come, you’re going to tell them that I did this.”

Tara blinked, lost. “W-What?”

Sam, with a pale grimace, reached down to the mass of flesh and began doing a mixture of spreading and splattering the warm, leaking blood on her shirt, face, and arms. Then she came to kneel on the other side of you, giving you a long mournful look before she spoke to Tara.

“When they ask you what happened, you tell them that he was trying to hurt you and I did…that to him because of it. Okay?”

Nothing was making sense. She wouldn’t take the fall for Sam if it were the other way around, so the fact that Sam was so willing to do it for her was…it was rousing feelings she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“Why?” Tara asked, bewildered.

“Having this on your record, even if it was self-defense, will haunt you for the rest of your life. You have a bright future, Tara, and I’m protecting that.”

Traces of the affection she once felt for her sister flared up and to her surprise, Tara felt more tears well up in her eyes and spill over. Real tears accompanying the achingly real tightness in her chest. “Sam—”

Sam just shook her head. “You know how Sheriff Hicks feels about me; she’ll be more than happy to put this on my record. You’re going to be ok. Both of you will. I promise.”

Gently, she leaned her forehead against Tara’s and kept it pressed there until sirens blared in the distance. When Sam stood and went over to kneel by Richie, Tara blinked away her tears and pressed her hands down harder on your wound.

Police burst through the door, and everything blurred for Tara. The world became a cacophony of lights and sounds and movement, and she only snapped back to reality when paramedics started trying to take you away from her.

In her mind, she knew she should let them take you. That you were much safer in the hands of professionals that could properly tend to you, but the logical part of her brain was quickly overshadowed the moment someone tried to pull her away.

Because she needed to be next to you. She needed to feel your pulse, see the rise and fall of your chest with her own eyes to make sure that you were still alive.

So she fought every hold on her, twisted violently against the increasing number of hands clutching onto her, trying to separate her from you. And she nearly succeeded. She was so close, so close to making it back to your side.

A prick in her neck was the last thing she felt before the world faded to nothing, the last remnants of your name dying on her tongue.

A monotonous beeping in your ear was the first thing that you registered.

The second was how weird you felt. You felt heavy and weightless at the same time. You cracked your eyes open and instantly closed them against the blinding brightness you were met with. Briefly, you wondered if you died, but something told you that the afterlife didn’t smell like antiseptics.

Once more, you opened your eyes, going slower so your eyes could properly adjust, and finally took in your surroundings. You were in a hospital room and a glance to your left told you that the annoying beeping you heard was a heart monitor.

Awareness slowly crept back into your dazed mind. The moments came back one by one, flashing against the back of your eyelids as you blinked.

Ghostface attacking Sam. You going upstairs and calling 911. Running down and helping Tara.

Tara.

With a gasp, you jolted up. Your wound gave a powerful throb in response, cutting straight through the pain meds but you ignored it.

The last thing you remembered was the man—Richie? —thrusting a knife into you, then your face met the hard marble of the kitchen counter and that was it.

Was Tara ok? Did Sam make it? Was Ghostface caught and apprehended?

Those questions fueled you to sit up but you only made it halfway before strong hands were on your shoulders, pushing you back down.

“No, don’t move.”

Recognition sparked instantly. You knew that voice. Tara.

The need to know that she was alright nearly made you frantic as you looked at her, and took in her state.

She had a fading bruise on her cheek, and there was some much harsher, nearly black bruising around her neck, but otherwise, she looked fine, if a bit tired. You let out a sigh of relief.

You tried to lift your hand to her neck, but you only made it about halfway before Tara caught it and brought it to her lips to press a kiss to your knuckles.

“Looks worse than it,” she said with a small grin, but you could hear the strain. It reminded you of the ache in your throat after what your father did, the bruises he left behind.

You looked away, decided to focus on the other questions plaguing your mind.

“What happened to the man? Is Sam okay?”

Tara’s eyes flashed with something, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. “Richie’s dead.”

“The police killed him?”

She looked away then and played with your fingers. “No, Sam did.”

“Sam?” you asked in disbelief. That didn’t seem quite right, but you couldn’t pinpoint why.

You looked at Tara, saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she was worrying her lip between her teeth, the tension in her brow, and you decided to believe her.

It had been a long, hard night for everyone, and you heard whisperings of something deeper going on with Sam, so maybe she was capable of that. After all, weren’t you?

And either way, it was self-defense. He attacked first, unprovoked. The world was probably better without him, as much as the thought put a bitter taste in your mouth.

Plus, Tara would never lie to you.

“Is she alright?” You decided on after minutes of processing.

Tara nodded. “Yeah, she’s stable. She’s in the room across the hall. The sheriff kicked me out to take her statement.”

“Can you tell her I said hi? And thanks for making sure Richie couldn’t hurt anyone else.”

That made Tara freeze. Just for a moment before she seemed to catch herself, but you saw it nonetheless. “Yeah, of course.”

Under any other circumstances, you’d have half a mind to ask Tara about her odd behavior or at least store it away for later contemplation, but as it stood, the pain medication was already sweeping the incident away.

Silence lapsed and you both just enjoyed one another’s presence, basking in the knowledge that the other was safe and sound.

The tempting call of sleep tugged at you. You tried to stay in the moment, but you were drifting. You could tell and so could Tara, who coaxed your attention to her with a gentle stroke of her thumb across your knuckles.

“Get some rest, sweetheart. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” you slurred, eyes already drifting closed.

You could practically hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Of course.”

She lulled you to sleep with the promise and a final, tight squeeze of your hand, and you drifted off into a drug-induced slumber with thoughts of your gentle, loving girlfriend at the forefront of your mind.

#this fic was written while almost exclusively listening to sonic the hedgehog music #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #ghostface!tara #scream #jenna ortega #i don't care how well this does #i just want it out of my face...#sorry this sucks lmao #this whole series isn't very good tho #so i guess that's the standard

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steddiebang · 1 year ago

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Rounding Third, Sliding Home

Author: @thefreakandthehair l Artist: @sungods_healing l Artist: @oriarts Posting on Saturday, November 25

Steve Harrington is a baseball wunderkind and the star shortstop of the LA Dodgers. It’s his life, his purpose, his escape— so when he injures his UCL and has to return Indiana to recover, he’s not sure where to go from there. It’s here that he meets Eddie Munson, local massage therapist who soon becomes so, so much more. Over the several months he’s back home, Steve is surprised to find that Eddie’s tender, caring touch heals much more than his arm. Love builds a bridge between himself and this wonderfully ridiculous, gregarious man, but digs a mote between who Steve wants to be and who he is. When he heals up and goes back to his old life, can Steve and Eddie find a way to keep what they’ve built?

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

💆🏻‍♂️

Eddie still doesn’t care much about baseball, not about the sport itself at least, but watching Steve play almost makes him care. There’s something special about the way he moves, like his glove is simply part of his body, like he floats around the in-field rather than runs. He’s a fucking natural at this and Eddie has no doubt— not a single one— that this, right here, is what Steve was born to do. Painful though it still is, it’s hard to begrudge Steve for making the choice he’s made.

Something happens that Eddie doesn’t follow, but Chrissy cheers along with the crowd so Eddie follows suit. And then he hears it, the unmistakable twang and reverberation of the guitar lead-in to Tom Petty’s I Won’t Back Down. Blood rushes to his head, all glee and overwhelm when Steve steps out of the dugout and the entire stadium erupts. People scream, sing along, stomp their feet on the bleachers in such a way that it feels like the Earth itself is shaking.

Eddie’s world certainly is.

Beyond seeing Steve in his uniform, a treat in itself, it’s as though he’s seeing a wholly different side of him. As he walks up to the plate for the first time all season, bat in one hand and waving to the crowd with the other, Eddie sits silent. He’s only known Steve as the cute guy who’d needed a massage therapist, whose face scrunches up when he laughs from his belly, who falls asleep when Eddie plays with his hair, and who prefers his pasta just a touch underdone for more of a bite. Somehow, the Steve who’d held his hand the first time they slept together is the same Steve whose name and walk-up music sends a packed crowd into a frenzy.

And for some reason, reasons that become more and more unfathomable the longer the crowd celebrates, Steve wants him. Or at least, wanted him. He’s still unsure of what to expect but even if that happiness is now in the past tense, to have been loved at all by Steve Harrington is miracle enough.

“That’s your man, Munson! Cheer!” Robin reaches over Chrissy to smack him on the arm and he springs back to life. Your man is presumptuous but even if it’s one-sided, she’s not wrong.

He cheers so goddamn loud.

⚾️

It’s the first time in almost a year that Steve’s stepped up to a plate, and it should make him feel… something. Nervous, anxious, excited. The roar of the crowd doesn’t die down but he drowns it out and instead searches the bleachers behind third base, looking for a few very specific faces.

Robin makes herself known first, standing and waving the hand sign for I love you frantically. Dustin and Chrissy flank both sides of her, and then he spots Eddie whose hands are cupped on either side of his mouth in what he’s sure is a terrifyingly loud scream.

For him.

Steve can’t give himself the time to process or think, but he knows that having Eddie there for his first game back means more than the entire fucking stadium.

The crowd sings along to Tom Petty until the music fades out. Steve rolls his shoulders back and stretches his neck, just like Eddie taught him, before cranking the bat back into his stance. Feet hip-width apart, slight bend at the waist and knees, elbow up, eyes on the pitcher.

Just as he’s ready to swing, the Phillies elect to intentionally walk him.

The crowd boos at the anticlimactic decision almost as loudly as they’d cheered for his return as he drops his bat and jogs to first base, rolling his eyes at the pitcher who was too cowardly to pitch to him.

Coward.

#steddiebang23 #steddiebang23 upcoming projects

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the-phantom-otaku · 1 year ago

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What if Bayonetta was in Tav's place in BG3?

This thought has passed through my head once or twice, so why not?I can't talk about within the context of the whole game, of course, so I'll just hit points that I think are interesting or that I have thoughts on.

Just some groundwork: Witch Hunts and the War still happen and all that, just in the BG3 world. I think all of that would go down on a different plane of existence, tho, much like how the Gith reside on a different plane. Anyway, Bayo probably set up shop in Baldur's Gate. She still has guns, too, but guns are something exclusive to the Witches. Just another secret they kept hidden from everyone else. As a result, they're considered to be some of the rarest weapons one could possibly attain.

Anyhow, on with the show:

-Unlike Tav, she doesn't end up there bc she was captured. Enzo was snatched and she went after him. She managed to get him out of there but she basically took his place and got wormed instead. The ship escaped to the Hells before she could get off.

-Joined up with Lae'zel and saved Shadowheart like Tav did.

-Found Astarion on the beach after taking out some of those brain things. Tho she falls for his ruse initially, he's unable to pull her to the ground like he planned, and he found himself faced with the barrel of a gun. He weaseled his way out of it tho and she agreed to let him join them so long as he didn't pull anything like that again.

-Finds Gale on the beach too. Pulls him free with ease and allows him to join the party as well. I think bookworm Gale would recognize what she is immediately and begin asking her questions regarding Umbran magic and their history.

-They rescue Lae'zel from the Tieflings. I imagine Bayo managed to convince them, but she could've also just threatened them. I think they managed to get through this without actually killing the Tieflings.

-Speaking of Lae'zel, her and Bayo don't get along at all. They take pot shots at each other and insult one another. She isn't scared of Lae'zel at all either. They do have a begrudging respect for one another, tho, based on fighting prowess.

-Probably threatened to beat the shit out of Nettie after she tried to poison her and her companions. But ultimately, she agreed to clear out the Goblin camp to look for Halsin. Any complaints (from Astarion & Lae'zel) were met with the absolute fact that they needed Halsin anyway, and there was little chance of them sneaking him out.

-Idk if Astarion would actually try to bite her considering the fact that he's seen how strong she is, but since she's in Tav's place, we're gonna say he wanted a taste of witch blood. She'd once again threaten him but wouldn't throw him out of camp. If he acts up, she could kill him without much trouble and she makes sure he knows that. I don't think she'd let him have blood, but we're gonna say she agreed bc he was very pitiful and she did like the promise that he'd fight better if he had some.

-Speaking of that, I almost wonder if he'd fight even better or if he'd gain some residual magic from her bc it runs so thick in her blood.

-Everyone in the party would be shocked, to say the absolute least, the first time the angels come down to fight her. Gale's the only one who is sort of in the know about the Umbra, but even his knowledge of them is limited by quite a bit. I imagine she'd tell them to stay out of the fight, but with the angels gunning for them as well as her, they don't have a lot of choice. Anyhow, the angels are the first time they really see what all she can do bc up until that point, they haven't faced anything that's made her use her entire skillset.

I think that's about all I've got. I'll update if I end up with any ideas.

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krovscastlerpg · 14 days ago

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Magnai Khasar | Master | 265 | Vârcolac (Alpha) | Top

“What you allow is what will continue.”

Magnai’s strongest memory of his childhood was how it ended: bloodied, shivering, surrounded by the corpses of nearly everyone he’d ever known - and one man who walked amongst them who could not die. That sight rooted itself deep in the young wolf’s psyche and he abandoned without hesitation the faint blur of what life he might’ve had if such bloodshed had never come to their land. For many years, Magnai was just another thin orphan tailing a war train. It took time to understand that there was a war at all and who it was being fought for and who against, and to learn to call the untouchable figure that so compelled him ‘vampire’.

It was a long war. Opportunism and pure fortune allowed the lone werewolf to survive long enough to become useful to the army sweeping over the northern lands, dedicated to all the petty acts of maintenance that kept such a machine running. Magnai crept closer and closer to the man that dominated his thoughts, seized his chance and approached him alone on bended knee to beg for the gift that would make him, too, untouchable. He was still young, scrawny when he was at the age to grow muscle, dirty and calloused from following the march on bare feet, but there was a zealous desperation to him that must have caught his future sire’s eye.

Their commander made it clear to his ward that he had no love for his kind; werewolves were primitive creatures, slaves to instinct, worse than dogs who at least could be trained to take orders and trusted to protect their masters. Magnai could not be trusted, not unless he showed himself to be better than his kind. Thus, he was granted the chance to prove he was worthy: endure ten years in their band, train and carry himself with humility, serve without argument, and the bite would be his. With the fervor of one who had no other choice, he agreed.

In hindsight, Magnai doesn’t begrudge those hard years. They gave him discipline, drive, taught him even better than orphanhood had what it meant to endure without. The purpose behind the vampires’ grand crusade sharpened into focus and he took it into his own heart, as deeply invested as the other undead lords that strode in and out of his commander’s tent as the war went on. The terms of his bargain had a funny way of changing: ten years turned to fifteen as a precious territory proved stubborn to conquer, six already served were docked from his tally for alleged poor conduct. To stave off his hunger, Magnai was rewarded with a precious compromise: the boon of his commander’s blood.

Magnai had grown into a formidable warrior and with a vampire’s healing to supplement his own, he was capable of enduring intense punishment on the battlefield. But it made him erratic too, vicious, easier to punish. The years blurred by and slowly Magnai began to see the trap that had been set for him past the red in his eyes. Yet he still could see no way out of it, not when he craved his reward even more strongly for knowing the next time he raised his weapon could easily be his last. A deep bitterness set in, chilling his fervor for the man who had entangled him. He began to form his own strategy, his own understanding of the men fighting at his side.

The war was not ending swiftly. Magnai’s commander was pushing ever north, set on a distant castle belonging to their foes. The fae and their allies no longer met them in grand battle that season, but had gone to ground during a long, snowy winter, attacking erratically, impossible to pin down. Magnai was granted his wish suddenly and impersonally; he became a different tool in his sire’s hand. A new creature was unleashed into the frozen woodlands of that hostile region, to either hunt or die and Magnai remembers little of what followed his transformation but the ecstasy of the feast. After uncountable days he came back to himself under a waning moon, drenched in gore, and returned to his master like he always had.

The vârcolac’s rampage had scattered the pockets of fae resistance, flushed from their holes like panicked rabbits to retreat and exposing their positions in the process. Magnai dared to imagine his success would grant him higher status in his sire’s eyes, but when Magnai rejoined the fold he found nothing had changed. The briefest recognition was offered and brushed past, no matter the respect now grudgingly given by his peers. Once Magnai had repaid his commander for the years the vampire had clothed and fed him and trained him, he was told, he’d be perfectly free to leave. Magnai’s bitterness crystallized into a colder hatred then, soothed only by the fact that he had finally gotten his wish. With the war concluded, his final years served, he would have nothing else to tether him there. Until then, his conduct would not falter.

It ended inevitably with the taking of Athizia, the stronghold that would become Krovs Castle. Their commander had been long fixated on the castle and he would be struck down taking it, one last disillusionment for Magnai as he watched the man he had once seen as a god prove as weak as the rest of them. His loyalty to what he had envisioned though was still firm - and well known. When the dust settled Magnai was given the role of Enforcer, the first of many, and accepted it without complaint. His decades of servitude granted the vârcolac no special empathy for the ones who found themselves enslaved to the undead. His sire was ash, but the lessons he imparted remained: discipline, respect, the natural laws of hierarchy. In this manner, Magnai served out the last of his years owed to the man and then resigned his post without a backwards glance.

In freedom Magnai dedicated himself to aiding in the capture of the last fae veterans who found themselves trapped by their closing portals. He would see the war finished in its entirety, the dregs gathered and disposed of, and when he deemed the job done he slipped easily into the hunter’s life. Though decades stretch between Magnai now and his life as a soldier, the habits have not easily died, nor have the beliefs carved into him by years of conditioning, and though an equal amount of time has passed since he carried the Enforcer’s title, he still finds himself drawn back to the castle time and time again - just to make sure the old heap of stones hasn’t fallen for good in his absence.

Positive Traits: Disciplined, conscientious, unflinching, persistent

Negative Traits: Inflexible, demanding, insensitive, zealous

3 turn-ons: Power exchange, overstimulation, impact play

3 turn-offs: Age play, incompetence, pet play

#supernatural rp #smut rp #mxm rp #kink rp #oc rp #jason momoa #character #magnai khasar

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rohirric-hunter · 3 months ago

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Okay and now that I've got that monstrosity of an ask game response out of the way. I can post about something I noticed while reviewing quests for it.

At the beginning of this questline, Arwen tells the PC she has concerns that there will be some kind of assassination attempt on Aragorn.

Traveling through post-war Gondor, the PC encounters many individuals who lost spouses or lovers during the war, and the quests dealing with this often get into people's reactions to this loss. How they go on to deal with the world while dealing with their grief. Both in the main quest and in innumerable sidequests. The ways in which we lose loved ones and how we react to it is a running theme.

Our first encounter with one of the Heirs of Castamir has her talking about marriage in this sort of way -- "I do not begrudge Elessar his choice of wife! Were he not King, he could marry anyone he wished, and he would have my blessing. But if he is to be King, he should put the needs of Gondor ahead of his heart's call. If Gondor is to have a Queen, she should be a woman of Gondor."

Leading into the Heirs of Castamir portion of this questline we learn that Aragorn is in genuine danger of being assassinated -- "To have another member of Elessar's court among our number seems almost too great a gift to be believed, but I will not turn it down!" However when we tell Aragorn this he brushes it off. He's not concerned about it because of Arwen.

The PC goes on to encounter many many more instances of lost lovers and loved ones. I'm not even going to try to list them all. This post would be way too long. it's So Much. The principle ones are, of course, Nakási and Tumúldo. The game even drags other, unrelated stories along these themes into it, like Nimrodel and Amroth.

Anyway, Chekov's Gun, that's what I think. We know that while we've been off in Umbar someone close to Aragorn has been conspiring against him. There will be an assassination attempt, that much is certain.

My theory is that this assassination attempt will appear to be successful. Aragorn will either be injured or lost when it happens, or choose to fake his own death, perhaps to gather information. In the absence of an heir, the duties of ruling will presumably pass to his wife. Which will go over so well with certain parties.

Unsure where else things will go from here. Maybe someone else (Sakalphêl?) will come forward with a "more legitimate" claim to the throne and it will turn into a situation where Gondor must quite literally choose between a stranger who cares about them and one of their worst enemies. Maybe not. I've been hung up on how Nakási works as a foil for Hathellang, but maybe within the framework of the story she's meant to be a foil for Arwen. That would be interesting.

This whole conflict in general is actually hysterical considering Arwen's uncle was literally the founder of Númenor, making her more Númenorian and Gondorian by blood than most people living in Gondor today.

Anyway.

Fascinating storyline. I'm interested to see where it goes.

(Also I wonder what the Heirs of Castamir's position would be on Gothmog. Could be funny.)

#lotro #spoilers of umbar #kings gondor spoilers #theory

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actingwithportals · 6 months ago

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A Retrospective on Asexuality and Trauma

(TW: discussions of religious indoctrination, purity culture, aphobia, sexual assault, and the intersection of those latter two topics.)

I've been thinking a lot lately about why I'm asexual; how much of it is genuine, and how much of it is shame.

How much it even matters, either way.

Despite being raised by staunchly evangelical parents, my sex education wasn't entirely nonexistent. At a very young age my mother read educational books to my sister and I regarding anatomy, puberty, and "how babies are made"; lessons I remember always looking forward to because it was fascinating to learn. I didn't understand shame yet.

My parents did not speak demeaningly of me or my sister, were not opposed to what they figured would be our inevitable interest in boys, did not discourage us from pursuing romantic interests even while still only 15. My mother begrudged me far more for my fashion choices that pertained to color palettes rather than the lengths of my skirts--a blessing to have avoided from my own blood, but well enough made up for through the disapproving glares of the mothers of my friends.

No, I do not think my parents are the ones who taught me this shame, at least not with me in mind. The way they spoke of others I could not describe so graciously, but it wasn't me they belittled, so that cannot be the source, right?

I felt the shame secondhand, anyways.

Perhaps then it was my friends, my youth group, my peers who instilled this fear of my own body in me, this fear of others bodies. The girls I knew and shared my teenage years with had endless things to say about attraction, about the appeal of a man's musculature. When our youth group discussed sexuality and purity, it was easy for those around me to speak of future events with future husbands with excitement, longing. Gratefulness.

I did not understand. I couldn't. It frightened me. My own body frightened me. Others bodies frightened me even more.

I knew my older sisters before I knew purity. I knew changing clothes companionably in a room full of relatives trying on outfits together, lovers kissing and embracing and my father pretending to threaten the men who dared touch his daughters but he and everyone laughing as if they all understood the threats were no more than a comedic performance, elders of the family teaching younger ones about hygiene and cleanliness and safety.

All things considered, it was a friendly home. What my parents and my mother's family might've had to say about others was regularly combated by my father's children and grandchildren. And yet, still I feared.

I often find myself searching for a moment, a significant point in time that could have elicited such a frenzied response in my psyche, but nothing appears. No secrets to unlock, dark truths to discover behind a curtain. Perhaps I am just simply afraid.

It would take me a few years longer to accept the full scope of my queerness, but discovering the word asexuality at 17 felt like a godsend enough on its own. The answer to everything that felt so wrong and irrational about myself. A logic I could grasp onto in the face of so much uncertainty. The first time I understood pride.

Though the online vitriol hadn't yet reached its heated peaks of the mid 2010s, talks of early blooming were still regular occurrence enough to not fully avoid. But such accusations didn't faze me. Why should they? I was happy, I had a word for myself, for the tangled painful feelings in my chest that haunted so much of my childhood and teenage years, an ache that finally found a way to subside into comforting acceptance. Who cared if this title was impermanent. It was real now, and that's all I needed.

People did not often like that answer.

I was bold when I was younger, perhaps even to naivety. I did not weigh the chances of possible recourse if I painted my nails in shades of purple black white and grey for ace week while attending my Christian university. I did not consider that people would even ask.

People asked.

I was thrilled to answer, at first. The girl assigned to sit next to me in one of my largest lecture classes seemed friendly enough, surely she would take my explanation of asexuality as not totally affronting of god or something. Right?

Well.

It wasn't an angry response, per se, but it wasn't kind, either. It was...accusatory. Confused. By some grand design of the universe a man happened to walk by us then, stopping in front of me to ask why I wore cat ears (I had an interesting fashion journey in my college days, don't ask). I told him because they were cute, and he told me he thought so too and went on his way. My classmate looked smug, insisting that see, you can find a man to love, look at how easily you flirted just now.

I didn't know complimenting someone's weird fashion choices constituted flirting, but what did I know? I'd never flirted with anyone before.

And somehow, this interaction didn't deter me. Even after class when she insisted on taking me out to dinner so she could spend more time telling me about how sinful I was. How she worried about my soul, my future. I grinned and nodded along to her words, and simply decided I would never speak to her again after that night. It was fine. That interaction was merely a bust. They couldn't all go so terribly.

The universe loves its grand designs and cruel tricks.

I would find myself befriending that man who complimented me, purely by chance of us having a mutual friend who sought us both out to play DnD together. He hadn't forgotten me. I had nearly forgotten him.

And when a man remembers you fondly, and you are young and in college and coming into adulthood, you are meant to be attracted, right? You are meant to be swept off your feet. You are meant to spend Christmas vacation crying to your mother that you feared your first real romantic endeavor would end in rejection as soon as he discovered you were asexual. Normal new adult things!

(The internet wasn't very good at talking about asexuality in men yet, you know how it is.)

But again, I was naive. I was hopeful. And he matched that hope and welcomed my differences with supposed open arms. He told me he was safe. He told me such aspects of a relationship weren't necessary to him. He told me he was in love, and that's all he needed.

And then he asked me to be his girlfriend, when in the same earlier breath I had told him I could never be a woman.

He asked me to be a pastor's wife someday, though I had told him after seeing what damages the role did to my own mother, I could never put myself through that.

He told me he was going to kiss me, our first time. I didn't get a chance to say "not yet", because he had learned to stop asking.

He told me we would go someplace quiet, before dropping me off at my dorm. Because that is what all couples did on this campus, and he loved to be normal. He must have forgotten our earlier conversations, he must have forgotten I considered myself repulsed.

But he had stopped asking, so there was nowhere in the script for me to say no.

He told me we'd do this every night he brought me home. He told me after we'd park in front of my dorm and we would then read scriptures together. He told me he knew then that my asexuality couldn't be real, that he'd finally proven me confused!

I walked myself back up the stairs to my dorm that night. When my roommate (my sweet, kind, loving roommate) asked me about my evening, I couldn't understand why I was suddenly crying. She never pressed, but she held me. It didn't go unnoticed by me that this felt so much safer than how I was held an hour before.

That relationship ended a month after it started. I thought myself cowardly for running away from what should have been a perfect plan for my future. I can see now it was one of the braver things I'd ever done.

And that complicates things, doesn't it? The shame. The fear. Like all of this animosity and conflict I held within myself finally had a point by which to be justified. How much of my asexuality was genuine, and how much was pain?

The first time I kissed a girl, it was beautiful. Until we got excited, until it got familiar. I hadn't thought at the time too strongly about what marks might've been left on me, until she remarked how he really messed me up, didn't he?

I'm grateful to her for saying it. I don't know if I would've ever thought it too clearly on my own. I'm a coward, like that.

It's been nearly a decade now. A whole slew of labels and identities later, but the ace never really had a phase of leaving. I don't think I know how to part with it. I like to think I am less repulsed now, perhaps even favorable when the stars align just right with the one person I've come to trust in that way, trust more than anything.

But I still freeze when people bring up certain words, discuss certain topics. The dark, the traumatic, the real and fictitious. I'd never thought of myself as a person easily triggered. After all my most well known and documented traumas hardly faze me to discuss. I even indulge myself in joking about it, and broaching the subjects in fiction make me feel real rather than untethered. But this... My hands shake when I think about it too long. My heart stutters in ways it used to naturally when I recklessly drank caffeine. The memories fade themselves to black rather than stick out in crystal clarity like all the hospital stays do.

I don't tell my friends to avoid topics of self harm or suicide in our DnD campaigns. I'll withstand some amount of religious abuse if it's well-warned. Even unreality can be spicy and exciting if I'm in the right headspace. Those traumas are somehow so much easier to stomach. But I tune out the conversations of consent being ignored. Of experiences with a different kind of death, a death you live through and consequently feel every day.

The shame. The fear. The repulsion.

I don't know why I'm asexual. I worry it's because I'm afraid. I worry I live out a stereotype our community fights so hard to speak out against. I worry I'm a terrible example. Pressures of purity culture wrapped in aphobic assault culminating into someone who has nightmares for weeks if they think about an unwanted kiss for too long.

Why should the community want me? Why should my words be taken seriously when I say that this is my nature?

Maybe I'm asexual because either overtly or covertly I was taught to fear myself, to fear others. Maybe this asexuality reinforced itself because I was taken advantage of. Maybe I'm just a bad cliche. Maybe the community won't want this.

But asexual is what I call myself. It's what I've called myself for years. I've painted over those pure white walls with purple and I've drowned out the pain with so many teary nights of cake. It's another cliche, I know. But I've always liked this one. Maybe cliches suit me.

Perhaps it doesn't matter why, in the end. I'm here, anyways. I'm going to continue calling myself this. Maybe I'm spiteful, maybe a part of me wants to prove he was wrong, that he didn't "fix" me. Maybe leaving behind this label means accepting what was done to me as effective, and I simply cannot bear for that to be true.

It doesn't need to be pretty. It doesn't need to be nuanced. If my sexuality is a product of childhood indoctrination and young adulthood trauma, then that is simply who I am. That is what the universe carved me into being. However shaped.

I'm sorry I couldn't be better. That I couldn't get passed this. I'm sorry I can't slough it off like others do, talk frankly like others do, rewrite themselves away from it like others do. I both hope and fear that I'm not the only one. No one should experience that. I'm afraid of being alone.

I don't know how to be a "good survivor" or whatever they call it. I'm too afraid to talk about it, after all. How should I know what the language is? What the approved script of behaviors is?

I'm still proud, I think. To be asexual. To carry this identity and everything it means to me. To be disruptive, and spiteful. I think I'm prouder now than I was even five years ago. Maybe I'm healing. Maybe that's why it hurts.

Maybe one day it won't, and I won't need to be spiteful anymore. But it's not today, and I'm ok with that.

For now, I'm ok with that.

#asexuality

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snow-system-wol · 1 year ago

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Scions of the Seventh Dawn

(oh take me back to the start)

Ao3 link.

No major tw: canon typical light references to violence and slavery

Joining the Scions of the Seventh Dawn was both extremely familiar and also like nothing S'ria had ever done before. How odd it was that his path had led him here of all places…

Being with the Rogues, there was never any doubt that he was proud of what he was doing – upholding the Code rarely put his morals in any conflict. Over the decade, some of the violations involved truly sketchy business deals and raiding of friendly vessels – the sort of things that Limsa Lominsa wanted to put in the past, but needed someone far less visible than her guards to investigate.

In truth though, the vast majority of the violations that the guild felt the need to step in immediately with were human trafficking, perpetuating the more morbid and dangerous black markets.

S'ria would not say everything he did was above the board, could not call himself a law-abiding citizen, but he knew that he was making people safe.

Each time he hauled a slaver back to the nearest gaol, each time he slit their throat if they refused to yield, each time he gently untied someone's wrists and helped them to their feet – he was comfortable saying these actions were all the right ones. The blood on his hands didn't make them feel any less clean, that was all.

S'ria didn't leave because he disagreed with any of that. He simply…drifted. Many of those that had helped raise him had already moved on – to safer careers, to build a family, to spend their life at sea. He didn't begrudge them their choices, but Jacke was now really one of the only people that'd been here when Sria first showed up a decade ago. The Guild would always be a safe place to go, but it felt a little bit less like home over the years.

There wasn't any one moment where he decided, either. S'ria just quietly joined the Adventurer’s Guild for spare gil, taking on a mix of normal jobs when he wasn't occupied on other missions. More and more of his time was spent away. Jacke started calling him in less for missions in a move that S'ria initially read as rejection, but quickly realized was Jacke trying to give him the freedom to choose. S'ria was grateful for that, even if he never said it to him out loud.

And then S'ria took on some odd jobs at a farm and everything changed very quickly.

He'd immediately known something was different about Y'shtola – he'd seen a few conjurers pass through the Guild, but none like this. She was warm enough to him, but S'ria always tried to keep in mind that she was clearly powerful.

Her allies were similar – each with their own quirks (nice but maybe flaky, a bit distant but reliable, vaguely troubled), but clearly all very strong in their own rights.

(The Hyur, Thancred – it did not miss S'ria's attention that his fighting stance was identical to S'ria's – but if Thancred had left before S'ria ever arrived in Limsa Lominsa, then that was none of his business to acknowledge. Surely the man must've noticed as well, on S'ria's end, if the fake guild-assigned last name didn't give it away first.)

When the Scions made their initial pitch, his first thought was to compare them to the guild he'd grown up in. Certainly, both were sure that they were improving the world with their actions. The Scions, however, believed they could make a difference on a far broader scope than one contained region. It scared S'ria at first. The type of people in La Noscea who claimed they would change the world were typically either tyrants or two steps from drunkenly falling on their arse. Both were bad for their own reasons – but better to follow an idiot than a megalomaniac.

If the Scions were destined to be tyrants, he didn't want to be operating as their right hand – or their left (he was not yet sure if they were asking him to operate in the light or the shadows. The latter could get even worse.)

There was a distinct danger in that – there was a hierarchy here. Minfilia, then all of the others, then S'ria. Oh, the Archons may say he was their equal, may even say the whole group was equal, but S'ria could read the room. He could tell apart a suggestion and an order, no matter how gently it was phrased. While Jacke may have been considered a guildmaster of sorts, he was never meant to be obeyed without question. (Hells, he'd probably give you a lecture on safety if you were obedient to a fault.) His leadership was only a matter of skill and experience, not authority.

With all that in mind, S'ria maybe should've given more thought to leaving Vesper Bay and never returning.

The Scions seemed different though, somehow, from what he feared they could become. For one, Minfilia seemed to understand something about what… happened to his mind and memory sometimes. At least, he thought she did, but she may have been speaking of something else entirely. It was still more courtesy and understanding than pretending it never happened.

S'ria quickly learned that the gaps in his memory, those were still abnormal to Minfilia and shouldn't be talked about– but she at least understood that he saw things and felt odd or different at times. That was worth something.

And the actual nail in the coffin – gods if their hope wasn't infectious.

#ffxiv-oc #snow-system #ffxiv oc #writings #sria snippets #i dont think we ever really got into srias transition from rogue era to scion era #and his feelings about that so #🤲

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stankycowboy · 1 year ago

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In the fading red orange of a dying day, Severen sat out on a park bench; unprotected, unveiled, basking in the death knell of the sun. His growing tolerance of the light was still somewhat new, or at least newly explored. It was hard to not be hesitant when approaching the world still lit by her once deadly guardian. But he had trusted her word when Lira said he might find himself less vulnerable; and could not hide an eagerness to find out if his former limitations had been expanded. Sunsets were not so far distant in his memory as to be revelatory in viewing, but actually being present was oddly invigorating. Whether it was because he was ( free ) out in the wild when he was not supposed to be, or the prospects of new adventures calling, Severen could not help smiling openly at the rose hued world. Approaching from behind him, Lira came around to sit; handing him a homemade popsicles of sorts in a gradient of reddish hues. They had been treats devised for their devilish spawn, but her parents had similar tastes as well, and what would the little gremlin know if two were missing? Knocking the edges of their popsicles together they share a small laugh. The lingering rays made the gold in Lira’s eyes blaze, drawing an admiring stare from her husband. He moves a wild strand of iridescently hued hair back behind her ear so he can better see her face. Hyper vigilant eyes scouting every familiar part of her, appreciating each detail as if it were the first he’d seen of it; never growing tired of how inhuman her human shape was—that mortals could be so blind to not see what lay beneath.

Around them the last of the human stragglers were packing up to leave the gathering place for idle recreation, respecting the signs posted declaring: “park closes at sunset”. The fact that humanity thought that they could bar access from nature herself was insulting, if not laughable, no less so to the pair observing the pestilential beings as they scattered. Before long they are left with the warbling of the last cries of diurnal creatures running to their beds, while the chorus of the night began their churrs and chitters. Severen wraps an arm around her shoulders, running his tongue long and thoroughly up the side of the treat that had not yet begun to melt. His mouth does not aid in this either. He mostly tastes the frozen moisture surrounding and not the true substance that had solidified. Unable to cause the mass to soften, he is forced to relent to other means. With mild irritation he takes a bite, crunching through with wild abandon. There is a hint of the original flavor, a lot of it lost in sensation. He does not resent the snack though, least of all the chance to chew; despite the lack of satisfaction. Lira’s lips redden as her own treat melts against them. Perhaps on purpose, she lets a little run down her chin. Severen is all too eager to catch the drip. His mouth sings with warmed blood. He leaves a cold trail up to the corner of her mouth; lips numbingly chill as they press against her. The horizon, once fiery, moves toward more familiar shades. Purples and deep blues take the heat from the world, leaving them to darkness. As much fun as it is to play in daylight, this time is best. There is no begrudging his more natural habitat, he has never had cause to regret anything of his being; least of all a simple drawback as this one. Forsaking the sun had been the easiest choice of his life, never once did he question being led by the moon. They relax in the comfort of each other’s presence, soon down to wooden sticks (Severen’s gnawed between his freshly pointed fangs); waiting to hear the distinctive flutter of leathery wings to inform them they are no longer alone. Now the night begins in earnest. They hunt as a pack for fresher game.

@ulfhrafnx

#✘ ic.#ulfhrafnx #( just an idle image I had in my head )

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gust-jar-simulator · 1 year ago

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Outtakes from Penumbra. The scene's a bit stuck and the characterization's questionable so I'll probably rewrite it, but this is still pretty fun.

Characters: Vio, Time

•��🌳⛰️🌳🌲•

"A rather long walk for a bathroom break, isn't it?" Vio hummed, watching the hero out of the corner of his eye.

Time was a good man, a fair leader, and not a bad verbal sparring partner in the grand scheme of things. He'd put up well with Vio's faespeak, at least, and didn't bring up the occasional slip out of meter. He paid attention when Vio did that, for all he pretended otherwise, and did so now. Somehow, the man knew his way around forest-kin.

He held another branch out of Vio's way and continued deeper into the woods, where the magic ran thick enough to cling like blood. Was he chasing it? Was it instinct? Vio could almost touch it, here, enough to dare feeling out the woods in his own way. The magic naturally thinned, near the reach of iron and controlled fire. This, here, was probably the closest to biting into fresh fruit he'd experienced since.... before rotting in a divine seal for a couple millennia. If he wasn't careful he might start genuinely enjoying this little walk.

But his wrists were bound, glamor moldering away in splotches of grey, and this walk was a permitted thing for a well-treated prisoner. As well as he could be, in the woods, and Vio wouldn't begrudge them that.

After all, he was getting what he wanted. Even if the side effects were... more extreme than anticipated.

Time's voice was almost as low as his own, edges smoothed in the same way so the sibilants might not travel, cat's-paw quiet even in conversation. "You've been eating less."

Well, that was simply a fact. Vio stepped carefully around a bush and waited for an actual question.

"I asked the fairies about you," Time continued, "and they called you dangerous. I believe it."

"You'd hardly make a good leader without some passing sense," and he let slip the glamor a little more, ash-blond tinting more ash-grey, color draining from cheek and jaw. It was a careful game, careful lies on careful lies. He couldn't see Time, but he could pretend to, calculate the angle of his presence and the height his voice came from, the black spot in the world where green life bent and split. Vio went on reconnaissance missions because he could ask, and wood and stone would answer.

People were rarely so simple, which was why Red handled diplomacy.

Time brought them to a stop in a little clearing, and proceeded to make things complicated. "You're dangerous, but you're willingly starving. Why?"

"Willing is a strange word, Hero of Time." He smiled, close-lipped and polite as a spider. "I play the game because I must- even you faithless hounds can trust, within the bounds of rule and rhyme."

The retreat into guarded verse had the hero's attention sharpening, as Vio knew it would, and it was exactly the kind of distraction he needed from words like starving and dangerous. Of course he was dangerous. Dark wouldn't have summoned him if he wasn't. Dark wouldn't have bedded him if he wasn't, most likely, either. Vio was dangerous because he got results.

He was also dangerous because he was an ancient shadow rooted in elemental earth, and it was very hard to ignore that in the middle of the woods with a forest-marked child of Farore.

"You're starving," damn him for saying it, "and my teammate's health directly correlates to how well we treat you. Am I wrong?"

"You've been very gentle with me, any refusal is my own choice. Your hospitality is faultless, I'm simply unwell."

"Then," pressed the cruelly stubborn hero, "if my teammate were unwell, I would want your associates to take care of him."

"Then," he mocked, "you should take comfort in your track record of not forcing your whims upon me."

Too blunt. Too honest. He lost, there, and Time's silence in digesting the words drove it home. Vio felt shaky like something alive, like something with blood and rage, and it was almost fun. But where the ache of a pulse should have sat was hunger, hunger, hunger, and grasses coiling around his ankles like the feather-light gloves of noblewomen. Moving would be wise, before sturdier roots and vines got curious enough to wind close in offering.

Vio took a breath like a living thing, green-scented, and starved.

"This," he whispered, "is a long way to walk for a little relief. State your business, Hero of Time, or return me to my bonds."

#my writing

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ahungeringknife · 1 year ago

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365: May 17

Crota's Throne World was decadent as far as abodes were concerned. The light of his own Oversoul illuminated everything within it, an unflinching eye that gazed upon all who dared enter it. Great towers pierced the Ascendant Realm and moths and crystal decorated every nook and cranny.

Normally the Prince of the Hive dealt with matters of his greater swarm in his antichamber but tonight was... a bit more personal. It wasn't every century one of his precious daughters proclaimed to have found someone worthy of her attention.

Crota was not amused by the thing Kinox brought before him and Omnigul. Kinox was not the youngest of her sisters but stuck in the middle she was always eager to please, vying for favor from her perfect elders or her cherished younger. Besurith was the only other to take a consort and Crota knew Kinox looked up to her immensely, always trying to emulate her.

But this was a poor imitation of Besurith's ability.

Omnigul hung off his arm like a perching bird, her searing blue-white eyes boring down onto their daughter and the unflinching worm she had brought before them. He knew given the chance she'd cut the thing off at the throat. He could feel her discontentment in the way her claws scraped against the chitin of his arm, the restless rasping of her breathing.

It wasn't even uncharitable. Crota expected much of his children as Oryx did of him. So to say he felt great... disappointment when his beloved Kinox presented an acolyte was no small choice of words. An acolyte? For his daughter? It meant he was barely even grown.

"Daughter, what is the meaning of this?" Crota asked.

"A meaning of my heart, father," Kinox said clearly. "This is Noornoon," she indicated with a held out claw. He kept his eyes down out of respect, dutifully not meeting the eyes of the Prince and his consort. "And I am to take him as mine."

"Absolutely not," Omnigul hissed, raising herself up some.

"I do not ask for permission," Kinox growled right back.

"And you will find his head on your lap by night's end," Omnigul floated down from his arm.

"Then you will have one less daughter," Kinox said proudly, sternly, meeting her mother's gaze with her own eye-less visage. "I will take him or have no other and may my brood lay barren eternal."

Omnigul snatched their daughter by the throat. "Watch the words you speak, darling child," she said. He understood her wrath. Omnigul had scarified endless opportunities to be by Crota's side in the end to only become a mother. Omnigul was no mother either. She'd earned her teeth and her eyes in battle and her claws were soaked in blood enough to satisfy her worm long before she claimed a sizable tribute. To have one of their daughters throw it away for an Acolyte. It enraged her.

"Omnigul," Crota said, distracting her. "Release her."

"Crota-" but she did, furious, at Crota's level stare. She glared at him and then flew off to go be enraged elsewhere. He had a feeling he'd have Ir Yût's claws in his spine for this later.

Kinox rubbed her neck where her mother had almost strangled her. She did not begrudge her either. She knew her anger was only out of love, of wanting the best for her. "Kinox," Crota said in a more measured way than his consort, "this is an Acolyte."

"Yes," she said.

"Explain to me, my daughter."

She flew up to be eye level with him. "You know Besurith's consort," she said, he nodded slowly. "Yes, of course. So does everyone else. Zoken cannot make a move without anyone important within the swarm knowing what he does. His blade is dangerous and his power substantial. Zoken is a great warrior who draws the eyes of all who behold him as is fitting of Besurith who wishes to emulate Xivu Arath in all her great victories for the Hive." Crota made an agreeable noise. Yes Besurith did try to emulate her great aunt Xivu Arath and Zoken was indeed a mighty warrior. Loss of his tithe would not go unnoticed if something were to happen to Zoken even before he became joined with Besurith. "I am no warrior and I do not seek to emulate Xivu Arath. Rather my worm seeks satisfaction in knowing more and seeks to emulate Savathun. Knowing the secrets of my sisters and brothers keep my worm well fed but soon it will not. I need to know what I don't know. I need to be unseen, to find all the empty spaces in the swarm and learn their secrets as well. But how will I do such a thing when I am your child?"

"Get to your point, daughter," Crota said but not unkindly.

"Noornoon has not taken a morph by my desire," she said simply which surprised him. "Because an Acolyte may move unseen through the swarm and be my eyes and hands and ears. His tithe and knowledge more than sustains me. Perhaps you may feel it as well," she said.

"Hmm," he looked down at the Acolyte Noornoon knelt at his feet, hands up prostrate. "Rise, Noornoon," he rumbled and he did and looked up at Crota unflinchingly. He didn't move an inch when Crota reached down with his great hand and curled it around Noornoon's entire torso. His thumb pressed against the Acolyte's chest and he could feel the thrum of the worm inside Noornoon and the tithe it gave to Crota. He was... surprised. It was not insignificant. Not the most. Not as much as Zoken or even Kinox but it was not nothing. Certainly more than some of his great warriors. "Where do you draw your tithe?"

"Those who do my bidding. I command many eyes and swords for the benefit of the swarm, for you, my Prince," Noornoon said gravely.

"And yet you are an acolyte," Crota said roughly though with the size of his tithe Crota could tell he could easily maintain the morph and violence of a Knight.

"Kinox demands it and so I obey. Her desires are mine." Next to him Kinox shivered in delight. Crota had to admit, his daughter had it bad for this acolyte.

"And you are loyal?"

"I would give her my third eye so she may have one more," Noornoon said without hesitation. "I have an extra."

Crota paused and then he laughed and released him. "Very well," Crota said.

"You approve?" Kinox asked him.

"I am willing to let him prove himself to be worth a consort to my daughter," Crota said specifically. He grunted when she hugged him, her spindly form like a brush of cloth against him.

"And what about mother?" Kinox asked nervously.

"I will stay her hand from using your Noornoon's entrails to paint the walls of our home," Crota said.

"He will prove himself," Kinox said. "And will make me proud."

"I expect nothing less than perfection," Crota said. He looked down at Noornoon. "Right?"

"I know no other way, my liege," he said.

"Very well. Begone," Crota waved his daughter away.

She immediately flew down to Noornoon's height and grasped his hand, pulling him away. When she thought Crota could no longer see them she draped herself over Noornoon's wide shoulders and he easily held her aloft. It would do for now.

#365 #writeblr #writblr #fanfiction #destiny #destiny 2 #destiny the game #Hive #destiny Hive #Crota #Omnigul #Kinox #Noornoon #hey what's up here are my Hive blorbos I love them a lot

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the7thcrow · 2 years ago

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Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 06

series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.

series masterlist | previous chapter

Part Six: a rest-stop, illusions, and a begrudging truce.

series rating: 16+

series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.

series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)

summary: as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.

chapter details beneath the cut ->

chapter wc: 12.7k

extra chapter warnings: nothing new, but maybe heed the blood warning.

chapter summary:

And yet, something about the way San’s hand sits on his shoulder, remaining an entire arm-length away, makes him feel…small.

It’s what drives him to say his next few words, to finally let a fraction of what’s been building inside of him slip. To be selfish for once.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, San?”

Seonghwa cannot remember how long it’s been since he was last alone with San.

Not within the last week, as far as he can remember, as most of his time on this trip has been spent with you, and if not solemnly, then with both Woo and San as company as well. It seems strange, that amidst days of journeying he hasn’t had the opportunity to really converse alone with the swordsman. However, upon consideration, he’s realized that he and San don’t spend much time with only each other under normal circumstances, either.

It’s not due to any sort of dislike surrounding the swordsman. Frankly, he believes it would be difficult to feel anything but adoration for him. San is just so… steadfast. Solid. Always reliable, always in control. Seonghwa would trust him with his life, or with anything for that matter.

Yet, as he sits beside the swordsman at the fire, both you and Woo having turned in early for the night, he can’t help but rack his brain for the last time he and San really talked.

Despite living with the swordsman, eating meals with him, sharing a tent on plenty of nights, and fighting alongside him, he can’t recall the last meaningful conversation between just them.

To be fair, San has never been the vulnerable type. Always playing his hand close to his chest, Seonghwa can admire the swordsman’s inner strength and discipline. Where Seonghwa thinks too much with his heart, and Woo seems to have a general lack of thinking at all at times, San uses his head. He always seems to know what to do.

But in moments like these, Seonghwa wishes that San talked to him more.

He used to, Seonghwa thinks. He can recall a time where he and San were alone together plenty, especially during his earlier years with the elemental and the swordsman. But as time has passed by, these solitary moments between them seem to have become few and far between.

The swordsman currently sits with his back against the log in front of him, one leg extended outwards while his knee is drawn upwards on the other, arm resting atop of it. His face is buried into the crook of his arm, the flames flickering in the reflection of his good eye as he watches the fire.

Seonghwa wishes he knew what he was thinking. He wishes the swordsman would tell him. That he’d let his walls fall, even if only for a moment.

He would never admit it out loud, but sometimes he envies Woo for the way San opens up to him. He knows how close they are, he has from the moment he met them, and that bond isn’t something he’d ever wish to strip from them. He knows his place.

But sometimes it feels like San purposefully keeps himself at a distance, and Seonghwa just wishes he knew why.

The swordsman notices that he is staring, and casts Seonghwa a side glance. He sighs, and when he speaks, his tone is definite, as well as embarrassed.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” San says quietly, words muffled as he speaks them into his sleeve.

Seonghwa figured.

By “it” he means what happened back at The Desert Lotus, when both you and Seonghwa had found San with Minnie.

Seonghwa wasn’t sure what exactly was happening at the time, but after escaping the tavern and setting up camp, you’d given them the details about your meeting with the eccentric owner, and how the strange tavern actually managed to function so prosperously in the middle of nowhere.

Seonghwa had never been compelled before, but he’d always been curious as to what it may feel like. In hindsight, however, it felt like nothing.

He just felt happy, or better, ecstatic. It didn’t feel like some supernatural force was guiding his every move, or a dark sinister voice was whispering commands into his ear. It just felt like he was doing what he wanted to do, nothing more or nothing less. Even now, it’s difficult to wrap his head around.

He imagines it’s equally as difficult for San to understand, which is why it’s no surprise that the swordsman wouldn’t want to discuss it.

San likes things to make sense. He likes when they have an explanation and are orderly. Things that work in a logical fashion.

“Well, except Woo,” Seonghwa thinks to himself.

He doesn’t say any of this, obviously. Instead he grants the swordsman a kind and reassuring smile.

“That’s alright, we don’t have to,” Seonghwa answers, even though he doesn’t quite mean it. He does want to talk about it, in fact, it’s been eating away at him since you told them the truth, about how they were actually acting upon their greatest desires.

Seeing San with Minnie and being so openly affectionate, it was just… strange. With all the years they’ve known each other, he’s never been that way with Woo. Ever.

And if that’s what San wants, if he desires it more than anything, then why don’t they just… do it?

Seonghwa wishes he understood them better. He wishes they would just talk to him.

He doesn’t know what is going on with them, never really has. They say they aren’t together, but they sure seem together. They share a bed on multiple nights, both at the cottage and in the tent, but not every night. They’ll be affectionate one day, and then barely speak the next. Woo will console him for hours just a few nights ago, but then San will barely even look at him for the days following. He just doesn’t get it.

But it’s not his business, so it’s not like he can ask. They wouldn’t want to talk about it, anyway.

It’s difficult to constantly feel like the deadwood, attached to the trunk but also not really being a part of the tree. Just hanging there, like an extra limb, serving no real function. He knows they care about him, as he does in return, but sometimes he just feels… excluded.

It’s embarrassing, but the empath can’t deny that he’s growing tired of it, although he doesn’t want to spend too much time obsessing over that fact. If not out of courtesy for his sanity, then what may happen to the three of them and their life if he decides he’s had enough.

That uncertainty, that growing instability… It scares him.

“How did you do it?”

San’s voice is sudden as it cuts into the night’s quiet, and Seonghwa refrains from displaying the surprise he feels.

“What?” He asks, and San sighs, finally bringing his face up from his arm in order to look at the empath.

“Back in the desert, when Woo collapsed. How did you…” San trails off, hand grasping out in front of him as if physically reaching for the right words. “How did you just…handle it?”

Seonghwa thinks back to this morning. Woo had fallen rather suddenly, and he remembers his heart seizing in panic when the elemental hadn’t risen back to his feet. How he’d rushed to Woo’s side, brain immediately sifting through all possible case scenarios, trying to decide what exactly was happening to the elemental.

Like flipping through a journal, his mind assessed the symptoms. Loss of Consciousness, muscle contractions, sense of confusion. A seizure.

“It was just a medical thing,” Seonghwa says, brushing it off. It really wasn’t a big deal. “You know that I know a thing or two.”

While Seonghwa was never a doctor, or even an apprentice for that matter, his half-brother was. Mentored by Maralya’s town medic, he liked to practice things on Seonghwa. Nothing serious of course, just little procedures like wrapping bandages or diagnosing a concussion when Seonghwa hit his head falling off the fishing dock. He liked having Seonghwa quiz him on notes he’d taken, even though Yunho already knew everything forwards and back.

Even though he had no official training, Seonghwa learned a lot from his brother, a valuable asset to have considering the trouble he, San, and Woo have gotten into over the years.

But San already knows that, which is why the question confuses Seonghwa. Fortunately, the swordsman elaborates.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” San sighs. His expression is pained, as if it’s a struggle for him to get the words out. “I mean, how did you not panic? How did you not…freeze?”

It’s with that word in particular that Seonghwa finally understands what San’s getting at. The question isn’t about him, not really. It’s about San.

Seonghwa remembers the swordsman’s face when Woo was unconscious. The way his jaw dropped, good eye widening as he stared down at the thrashing elemental. While the situation caused Seonghwa to spring into action, body moving faster than his worry, it had caused San to become a statue. Unable to move, to do anything but simply stare.

San hadn’t mentioned it afterward, but Seonghwa remembers how once the elemental came to, San set himself into motion. Not towards Woo, but in the opposite direction. Up the sand dune and as far away as possible.

Seonghwa gives him a small smile. He knows the feeling. He isn’t sure how to truly answer San’s question, but he wants to reassure him, make him feel understood.

“When I was younger, my brother fell from our house’s roof,” Seonghwa starts, and San’s eyebrows furrow together, confused by the change in topic, although he doesn’t stop the empath. “It was in the middle of the day, he was 10 and I was 12. I came rushing outside, and he was just lying there, staring up at the sky, mouth parted open.”

“He was in shock. I know that now, but at the time I didn’t. I thought he was dying. I was scared, terrified actually, and I wanted nothing more than to help him. But I didn’t know how.”

San’s lips pull into a thin line, as he understands Seonghwa’s message. The empath continues. “It’s horrifying when someone you love is in danger and you have no idea how to save them. I happened to know what was happening to Woo today and how to fix it, so I did. If you knew, you would have too. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

San seems to consider this for a moment, before he eventually smiles. It’s not much of one, just the corners of his lips curling upwards, but it is something. It makes Seonghwa smile too.

“I guess,” the swordsman sighs, before sucking in a tight breath. “It’s just… he’s been so… and then there he was just… and I couldn’t…”

San seems to be having trouble finishing a thought, so Seonghwa tries to help. “Does this have anything to do with what’s going on with you guys lately?”

“Maybe,” San begins, before pausing. When he opens his mouth again, it’s preceded by a deep sigh.

“But I don’t want to talk about it-

“But you don’t want to talk about it.”

Both of them speaking over each-other, San seems surprised by the unison of their words. Turning towards Seonghwa, he appears almost caught, mouth parted open as if to ask: “How did you know?”

“Because I know you,” Seonghwa wants to say. “And I know that you never want to talk about it.”

Instead, Seonghwa decides to bite the bullet. He won’t press any further, because it’s likely to make San even more evasive than he already is, but he can’t help but add: “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, the two of you always do.”

San smiles, but it quickly falters, as if he doesn’t quite believe him.

A moment of silence passes, and Seonghwa feels a bit useless. He’s meant to comfort them - or at least that’s the role he’s assigned to himself - and San doesn’t seem any less troubled than when the night began. Seonghwa doesn’t like seeing him like this.

So he extends out his hand. “Come here,” he says gently.

San stares at his hand for a moment, confused as his gaze flickers up to meet the empath’s own, eyebrows furrowed. When he realizes what Seonghwa is implying, the expression shifts into a scowl, and the swordsman physically recoils.

“No,” San states firmly, shaking his head.

“Come on,” Seonghwa says, extending his hand out with a little more fervour this time. “It’ll help.”

“I don’t want help,” San replies, tone perhaps a little too fierce. After a moment, he seems to realize this, and it softens. “You know I don’t like it when you do that,” he mumbles.

“I know,” Seonghwa starts, before giving him a small smile. “But it would make me feel better if you’d let me.”

Seonghwa knows that it will make the swordsman change his mind, because this way it is not him helping San, but San helping him. And San is the most selfless man he knows.

“Please,” he whispers, sliding down from his place on the log and onto the ground, inching towards the swordsman.

After a moment, San concedes. Twisting to the side, he sighs as he turns to face the empath, hesitantly extending his arm out towards him.

The way his hand shakes slightly as he does so casts a wave of familiarity through Seonghwa. Maybe the last time they were alone together was like this one, a quiet moment after Woo had gone to bed, and San was hurting more than Seonghwa could dare to let the swordsman bare himself.

It’s happened more than once. Not frequently, but enough that Seonghwa has noticed a pattern. With San, it’s the little things that run deep. A fight between him and Woo that Seonghwa didn’t know the details about, or following a nightmare surrounding Jay. Once there was a particularly close battle with a basilisk that left the swordsman on edge. San likes to bury his pain, Seonghwa wishes to dig it up and carry it himself.

Each time the swordsman contests it, but he eventually gives in. Seonghwa believes that on a subconscious level San knows that he needs it, even if consciously it isn’t something he lets himself want.

When San’s hand finally lands itself on his own, Seonghwa cradles it gently. Placing his other on top of it, he settles himself to face the swordsman, kneeling in front of him. Taking in a deep breath, he begins.

That’s the only word he can think of to describe using his gift: “beginning”. It’s not exactly something he has to do, like flipping a switch on and off. It just… starts. Like a tickle settling in his chest, it’s more a basic instinct, a calling from within rising to the surface.

This is what he’s meant to do. He craves it, revels in it, even if in the moment the sensation is… anything but pleasant.

San’s eyes flutter shut, lips parting open slightly as he drifts into subconsciousness. His head falls to the side, body tilting, and Seonghwa quickly extends one of his hands out to catch him, pulling San’s head to rest on his shoulder. The swordsman seems to relax even more as he does so, sucking in a deep breath, and Seonghwa can feel San’s smile through the fabric of his shirt.

For a moment, he is happy. San is at peace, surely flooded with some sort of pleasant memory that carries him gently through a dream-like state. Maybe the taste of his mother’s cooking on his tongue, or the smell of Woo’s clothing flooding his nose. Seonghwa is just happy that he’s happy.

Then it starts.

“Why aren’t they sending anyone?” Seonghwa asks. He is pacing back and forth, bare feet sticking to the cracking kitchen tiles. It is dark out. Yunho has already gone to sleep, which leaves only him and his mother beneath the dim light of the flickering candle that sits on the table.

“They won’t, Seonghwa.” His mother says. Her tone is exhausted.

“Surely Zaria could afford to send a few of their own medics, the kingdom has more wealth than they know what to do with! Or even just some decent medical supplies!”

“They won’t, Seonghwa.”

“Are they deaf to the news? The illness has spread to three different families, The Kim’s have sent what, a thousand letters to the royal family? Surely they must have received them, and should feel some sort of basic human decency and send-”

“Seonghwa!” His mother’s tone is sharp as she cuts him off, loud. She rarely raises her voice, but when she does he knows it’s time to listen. He stops pacing. “They won’t!”

He stares at her, incredulous. He doesn’t get it. “Why not? How can they know what is happening to us, and not care? How can they show such little empathy?”

His mother purses her lips. She stares at him, as if deciding something. Eventually, she speaks. “Why do you think the buildings were never repaired after the flood?”

He scowls, agitated by the change in topic. “What does that have to do with-”

“Why do you think we have to ration all of our crops every winter, and it is still not enough? Why did The Kim’s have to spend their son’s education fund to afford new bandages and Burberry salv? Why does Mayor Choi quietly sob everytime the tax collector arrives for the monthly quota?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how.

“Because nobody cares about Maralya, Seonghwa,” she whispers, and tears well in her eyes. He hasn’t seen her cry since his step-father died, and that was years ago. “This sickness could kill us all, and Zaria would not bat an eye. Maybe they’d miss our tax fee, but certainly not us. Nobody spares a prayer for Maralya, except for us Maralyan’s.”

“No,” Seonghwa whispers, shaking his head. “They must… they must not understand-”

“You’re right, they don’t understand,” she continues, shaking her head, defeated. “But that is because they don’t want to.”

“But we’re a branch of their kingdom…” Seonghwa trails off. He’s sixteen now, practically a man by the town’s standards, but he feels like a child. “How can they care so little?”

“We are a branch of their kingdom, and yet we are not on any map,” she replies, and her words drop like a stone within his gut. “We are nothing. We are non-existent to everyone except ourselves.”

With this she leans forward and blows out the candle. The kitchen is shrouded in darkness. She casts him a glance, strands of untamed blonde hair cascaded messily over her face, dark eyes glistening in the moonlight. She heads up the stairs without another word.

Seonghwa doesn’t move.

He stands in the kitchen, staring at the burnt out candle, trails of smoke curling in the air. Eventually they disappear, twisting and turning until they transform into nothing at all.

Nothing. That’s what she’d said. To Zaria, to the world, they are nothing.

His fists clench at his side. In the distance, a bell rings, pounding into the night, a distant echo.

It’s from the medical centre, a signal that someone has died.

They are the first.

Seonghwa sobs, but his tears are not sad ones. They are furious. He sinks to his knees, the tiles cool enough to sting through his pants. Winter is coming, it will be cold. They will not have enough firewood for heat most nights.

He screams, loud enough to wake Yunho. Maybe even the town, if the bell hasn’t already done so.

All he feels is fury.

Anger.

“I’m sick, Hwa,” Yunho mumbles, looking up at him from his place on the bed, covered in a myriad of patch-work quilts and pillows. He coughs a few times, and blood paints the kerchief he holds to his mouth, like bright red rain drops. He’s only fourteen, too young to be like this.

“I’m going to die, whether you stay here or not,” his brother continues. Tears paint his cheeks, glistening against his sickly pale skin. “You have to go.”

“No,” Seonghwa says stubbornly. Clinging to the blanket at the foot of the bed. His mother won’t let him touch Yunho, she’s too afraid he’ll catch his illness. “I can’t leave you like this.”

Seonghwa stares at him, and tears sting from within his eyes. He does not let them fall. “I can fix this.”

“No,” Yunho says, and Seonghwa can tell he’s fading into unconsciousness. He’s been in and out for the last few days, every time Seonghwa fears that he won’t wake back up. “You can’t.”

“I can,” Seonghwa answers, frustrated. Yunho does not respond, he is already asleep.

“I can.”

Seonghwa knows that he cannot.

Desperation.

“Please, don’t make me go,” Seonghwa begs, fist pounding on the door. His knuckles are bruised from trying to break it down. It won’t budge. He can barely speak as he weeps, chest rattling, eyes blurry. “I can’t leave you both, not like this.”

“You have to,” his mother responds on the other end. Her voice is weak, a testament to how the sickness has infected her lungs. Her sobs are interspersed with violent coughs, and Seonghwa’s heart shatters with each and every one of them. “I am already going to lose one son, I cannot lose both.”

“Please!” Seonghwa blubbers. He presses his cheek to the door, feeling the wood scratch against his skin. He doesn’t care. “Please Mom, I can’t go. Please don’t make me go. This is all I have, I can’t leave you. Please, please don’t make me go.”

It’s after this she stops answering. Seonghwa knows that she is still there, he can still feel her presence behind the door. He knows that she listens, silently taking in the last words her son will ever say to her.

Still, Seonghwa doesn’t stop for hours, until his knuckles are not only bruised but bleeding, tiny splinters digging into the flesh of his skin. They paint the light brown wood red. And yet, he continues.

Even as the neighbours walk by, staring through their own tired and hollow eyes as they keep to themselves, muttering a prayer to the god’s in his name. Even as he hears Yunho crying from upstairs, begging under his breath for his older brother to not be an idiot and save himself. Even as the sun sets, and the night watches him through her single pale eye.

It is only once the chill sets in that he accepts that this is it.

He is alone, he is shaking, and if he doesn’t find shelter fast the cold will eat through his bones.

He thinks Zaria may be right, he is nothing.

He has no home, no family to turn to.

He is a ghost.

Picking up the things that his mother forced out with him, mostly just the bare necessities he’d be able to carry, he wraps them in Yunho’s old baby blanket. It’s a final departing gift, one that his brother had forced their mother to let him throw out the window, even if she worried it would be plagued with the sickness. Even as his younger brother grew into a teen, he’s never stopped sleeping with it. “So he won’t get cold,” Seonghwa had heard Yunho tell their mother through the door, delirious through his sickness. Seonghwa took it anyway. It is all of Yunho he will have left.

He turns towards the forest, towards the one half-beaten trail he’s never taken before, that will lead him deeper into Burovia. Towards the cities he’s only heard about it passing, the complicated world that exists beyond Maralya’s ocean banks and gentle breeze.

He trembles, and beneath his skin something stirs. An awful dreaded feeling, that scratches his lungs and suffocates his throat. That pounds within his head and beats minacially against the lining of his heart.

Terror.

He is afraid.

He is alone. He is a ghost. But more than either, he is afraid.

Fear.

Seonghwa’s eyes fly open, his hands trembling as the clutch onto San’s own. The swordsman’s head still rests on his shoulder, the smile of his lips still pressed against Seonghwa’s tunic.

Seonghwa attempts to steady himself. His mind swirls with those three entities: anger, desperation, and fear. Like dark figures surrounding him, they weigh upon his shoulders as if they are bricks stacked upon them. They crush his chest as if their hands are placed there, pushing and shoving him down. They pour their sick and twisted poison down his throat, choking him.

That’s how he’s learned to view these emotions, as beings. They plague the body, manipulate it. Like a sickness, they invade and multiply, and then they harvest.

He knows there are more, whirling around in San’s mind, beckoning him to take them as well. But if he absorbs anymore, he will break, and San will feel responsible for making him do so.

He has to stop now, before this goes too far.

“San,” he whispers, releasing his hand from the swordsman’s own and placing it on the man’s shoulder, shaking him softly. It takes a moment for San to stir, but when he does, it’s with a sleepy sort of groan.

He sighs, then after a moment, stiffens. Awkwardly removing himself from Seonghwa’s shoulder, he clears his throat.

“Thank you,” San whispers, and he looks embarrassed. Even so, he seems much better. His eye holds less of a darkness, his posture no longer so sunken and defeated. Seonghwa forces a smile, even though his throat bubbles with a rising sob, eyes stinging with tears that wish to fall.

He doesn’t let them, it’ll only make San feel responsible.

“Of course,” he replies, tone gentle. “Any time.”

And he means it. He will do this for him again at the drop of a hat, no matter how many times he is asked. His heart knows that it is worth it, even if his body and mind scream for him to stop.

He’s an empath, it’s who he is. It’s who the god’s wanted him to be.

Despite himself, he sniffles, his eyes still watering and nose stuffing itself in that annoying and pathetic fashion that always serves as a dead give away for how much this affects him.

It’s funny, Seonghwa never see’s tears as pitiful on anyone else, but he can’t see them as anything but that on himself.

San takes note of the sniffling, and his eyebrows furrow. He looks closer at the empath. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa replies, a little too quick, too obvious of a lie. He needs to work on that. “I’m good, really.”

San frowns, then sighs. “No. You’re not.”

“I am,” Seonghwa assures him, although a tear that manages to slip through after a series of frantic blinks speaks for him instead.

San reaches out a hand. He hovers it in front of Seonghwa’s face for a moment, as if considering whether he should wipe the tear away, before deciding better and settling on the empath’s shoulder. The safer option.

Seonghwa tries to not look too dejected.

San is always so hesitant to touch him. Whether it be a hug after a successful hunt or a moment where the other is down, San is always evasive. Seonghwa knows it shouldn’t, but it hurts. Only a little bit, but enough to make his chest tighten. Obviously he’s not Woo, but is he really that repulsive that the swordsman can’t even touch him?

He knows it’s his gift talking. His emotions are always heightened after he uses it, the little things enough to cut him deeper than they should.

But still… It hurts.

Seonghwa is only making this worse for himself, letting the absorbed emotions fester and infect him rather than expel them out. He’s gotten rather good at the latter, having had more than enough practice over the years.

And yet, something about the way San’s hand sits on his shoulder, remaining an entire arm-length away, makes him feel…small.

It’s what drives him to say his next few words, to finally let a fraction of what’s been building inside of him slip. To be selfish for once.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, San?”

He can physically feel the way San freezes, the way his hand seems to transform to marble atop his shoulder, providing an answer before the swordsman can offer a lie.

San’s eye shifts to meet his own, and his expression surprises Seonghwa. The empath had assumed that he would be wide-eyed, fearful as if he’d been caught. Instead he looks… dismayed.

He opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates. His eyebrows furrow, and for a moment Seonghwa can not tell what he’s thinking. His good eye swims with a strange sort of disappointment, an awfully sad expression.

“No, Hwa,” he says, and his voice is softer than the empath’s heard it in a long time. “Of course not.”

Seonghwa chews on the corner of his cheek, dissatisfied.

“Then I don’t get it,” he starts, and he hates the way his voice shakes. He shouldn’t bring this up now, while his gift has him too emotional, heart on his sleeve. But then again, perhaps that’s the reason why now is the only time he can speak about it.

“I feel like you’ve been so skittish around me lately. On guard. I know you’re a reclusive person San but just, you’ve been different. Over the last year you’ve started keeping me at an arm's length, and I just don’t understand what I did wrong to make you feel like you can’t-”

Seonghwa is cut off by the hand that rests on his shoulder pulling him forward. It’s only a split second, but suddenly his chest is pressed up against San’s own, the swordsman reaching around him with his other arm.

Seonghwa blinks. San is hugging him.

“I’m so sorry, Hwa,” San says, chin resting on the top of Seonghwa’s shoulder. “It’s nothing you did, I promise. I’m sorry I ever made you feel that way.”

Seonghwa doesn’t know what to say, as his brain is having difficulty stringing one thought to another. San is hugging him. Like, a real hug. Not a hesitant, half-embrace that leaves him feeling more awkward than anything else. An actual, both arms around him, hug.

“Okay,” he says dumbly, raising his own hands to hover behind the swordsman, before hesitantly placing them on his back. San doesn’t move.

“I’ll work on it,” San says, voice quiet. “It’s just…a me thing. It’s not you.”

Seonghwa considers this for a moment, then nods. Apparently this distance is something San is conscious about, whether that is a good thing or not Seonghwa can’t decide. He’ll have to wait and see.

“Okay,” he says again, this time with a little more sincerity.

San gives him a final tight squeeze, but as he goes to pull away, Seonghwa holds onto him a little tighter. The swordsman seems to understand, and stills.

Seonghwa smiles. For a second, it feels like he has his friend back. He has San back, and in this sacred moment, he does not dare let go.

“Okay seriously, what is up with you today?” Wooyoung asks, raising an eyebrow at the empath.

Seonghwa has been in an awfully good mood all morning. Far too cheery considering that they’d almost died of dehydration in the desert yesterday, or how they’d been way too close to being mind-controlled into throwing away all of their life savings at some wacky-ass tavern.

Yet, the empath walks with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. He even whistled a few moments ago, as the two of them made their way through the sand village. Whistled.

It pisses Wooyoung off.

If Seonghwa got laid last night, he doesn’t need to be so damn obvious about it.

Besides, Wooyoung doesn’t want to think about what Seonghwa’s like after sex. He doesn’t want to think about Seonghwa and sex at all, actually.

The thought repulses him, what the empath might be like. What he’d say or do. If he’d be more dominant. If he’d be loud, or bratty, or servicing, or-

Wooyoung is quick to put a lid on that jar before any more unwilling thoughts can spill out of it.

“We aren't going to die today,” Seonghwa answers him, gesturing to the sand village around them. To the people bustling about, and the buildings that contrast the barron landscape they’ve all grown used to. “Surely that would put anyone in a good mood.”

“I'll hire the party planners,” Wooyoung grumbles, and Seonghwa rolls his eyes.

“Well, maybe not everyone,” he says, wrinkling his nose. Wooyoung huffs.

The two of them are currently in search of somewhere to spend the night, although Wooyoung believes he may never want to spend another night at a tavern as long as he lives. Fortunately, the village they’ve stumbled upon seems far too small to have anything remotely resembling a tavern anyway.

It’s nothing more than a group of houses, structured by a strange sort of clay material that Wooyoung doesn’t think he’s seen in any of the past villages he’s visited. It’s a nice tight-knit community and the people are kind, but as a result it’s also not much use for them. Nowhere to really stay, no real stores to buy supplies from. When asking where the local watering-hole may be, a sweet elderly woman quite literally brought them to a hole full of water, serving as the town’s well.

Seonghwa and Wooyoung have been going door to door, asking if anyone has some extra space for their group to spend the night. So far they’ve had no such luck, the houses are too small for the amount of children running around them, anyway.

However, third time’s the charm, and the size of the stable they approach shows promise.

“Are you okay, by the way?”

Wooyoung turns to face Seonghwa, caught off guard by the question. The elemental regards the empath warily. “Yeah, why?”

“We never really got the chance to talk since after the tavern,” Seonghwa explains. His tone is nonchalant, but Wooyoung can tell it's a facade. He’s concerned. “You were quiet.”

“Yeah, well,” Wooyoung laughs, brushing it off. “Can you blame me?”

“No,” Seonghwa admits. “But it was a lot, for all of us. If you want, you know that you can talk to me about it.”

“Sure,” Wooyoung snorts, rolling his eyes. “Maybe then we can hold hands and skip afterwards.”

Seonghwa lets out a groan, rubbing his face in exasperation as he pinches his nose-bridge. Wooyoung’s just glad he’s annoyed rather than concerned. When Seonghwa is annoyed it’s entertaining, when he's concerned it’s unfathomably difficult to get him off his ass.

“The gods forbid anyone try and help you,” he mutters. Frankly, Wooyoung agrees with the sentiment, and doesn’t bother with a response.

However, Seonghwa doesn’t quite seem to be done with the pity party.

“But physically, you’re alright? A seizure can mess with some things. Does your head hurt?”

Wooyoung considers this. “Actually, yeah.”

“Really?”

“No. Now would you relax? I’m fine,” Wooyoung pushes, twisting his head to face Seonghwa.

The empath is already looking at him, and his heart sinks. He’s wearing what Wooyoung likes to call the look. The look is dangerous. The look is a pair of puppy-dog eyes bearing into his soul that make him feel bad for giving the empath such a hard time. It screams: I want to help you. I want to help you and you won't let me.

The look says that the empath wants to use his gift on him, and that is something Wooyoung will never let him do. Never.

Wooyoung smiles, wide. Makes sure his teeth are even showing. “I’m good, Hwa. Okay? Don’t get yourself worked up over it.”

And he is fine. The tavern was… messy, yes. Complicated, definitely. But he just wants to move past it, forget it ever happened. He was being compelled, it’s not like he would have gone into the sauna otherwise.

It’s not like he wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t found him. He would have snapped out of it eventually. Find San and Seonghwa, get them out of there himself, surely.

He would have figured it out. He’s fine now, and he would have been fine then. No doubt about it.

His head does hurt a little bit though.

Seonghwa steps forward to knock on the stable door they approach. After being greeted with silence, he knocks again, only to receive no response.

“I don’t think anyone’s here,” Seonghwa mutters, before letting out a sigh. He’s prepared to turn around, but Wooyoung reaches out for the door’s handle, twisting it. It’s open.

“Come on,” he says, swinging open the door and walking inside. Seonghwa grabs hold of his arm, tugging him backwards.

“Woo!” He exclaims, incredulous. His voice is lowered into an angry whisper. “We can’t just break in.”

“It’s not breaking in if they leave the door open,” he shrugs, before letting out a laugh as he tugs his arm free. “We’re literally thieves, Hwa.”

Seonghwa blushes, embarrassed.

“Okay but this isn’t a castle,” he mumbles, still hesitant as he refuses to move through the door frame. “It’s a kind little town. The owner is probably just at the next building over, and likely wouldn’t appreciate us crashing in their stable without asking.”

“We’re not crashing in it yet,” Wooyoung replies, taking another step further inside. “We’re just taking a look around to see if we can.”

Seonghwa doesn’t seem convinced. Wooyoung grins. “Fine. Just wait for me and stand in the doorway. Hopefully one of the kids playing down the path doesn’t notice you. The girl with the pigtails was pretty intimidating, I wouldn’t want you to be scared.”

Wooyoung turns around, but he knows the exact face Seonghwa is making. A sort of half-pout, half-glare, that makes it no surprise when he hears footsteps follow after him.

“You’re such a dick,” Seonghwa mutters as he closes the door behind them.

The stable is bigger than Wooyoung had expected. Much larger than their one at home, more-so on par with Libaiya’s kingdom stable, where they’d once stolen a horse after a particularly risky expedition. They’d given it back, sending it out into the courtyard one night because they didn’t have the room nor resources to take care of it, but Wooyoung almost wishes they could have kept it.

He’s never wanted to give anything back to that disgusting, low-life of a king. Not after what he did to him.

This stable is a little smaller than Libaiya’s, but it has a similar number of horses. Well, not horses exactly, as these appear to be some sort of strange variation of mule, all with light grey hair and long pointy ears. They’re more miniature than horses, and there appears to be enough for each person of the village to have their own, likely for supplies runs over to more populated areas.

The air smells rancid, rotten. Like horse shit but somehow worse. Wooyoung does his best to not breathe in too deeply.

The elemental reaches out to pet one of the mules, smiling as it whinnies under his touch. “We should look around and see if there’s an open place to sleep. You want to go check one side, I’ll do the other?” He asks.

Seonghwa nods, looking a bit anxious as he walks to the other end of the stable, arms wrapped around himself. It makes him look smaller, even if he’s a good few inches taller than the elemental. An endearing sort of nervous innocence, almost shy.

Wooyoung ignores the way it makes his chest warm.

Fortunately, the empath turns around the corner and out of sight, and Wooyoung can bring his focus back to the task at hand. Walking down the hall of stalls, he doesn’t see much open space. The building is too small for the amount of mule’s alone, let alone the four of them.

He sighs at yet another disappointment. At this point, they’ll be spending another night with their tents dug in the sand. Wooyoung doesn’t want to. It’s miserable, the tarp falling down in the middle of the night as the wind picks up, mixed with San’s cold silence and the sand. So much fucking sand. The moment they step out of this godsforsaken desert, he never wants to even look at another grain of sand so long as he-

“What are you doing in here?”

The sudden voice causes Wooyoung to nearly jump out of his skin, fire automatically igniting in his hand as he whirls around to face the speaker.

“Woah, woah, woah,” the speaker says, placing both of their hands up to shield themself and rushing backwards. Now that he’s facing them, he can see that she is a woman. She’s tall, with long dark hair and piercing violet eyes. She’s also coated in mule shit, which stains her beige tunic and long red velvet skirt. “No need to kill me, I’m just asking.”

Wooyoung lets out a sigh of relief, clenching his fist to extinguish the flame. “Sorry, you startled me.”

“My mistake,” she quips, finally bringing her hands down as her scared expression settles into a scowl. “I should be more considerate when addressing strange outsiders who break into my stable.”

Wooyoung internally winces. “To be fair, I knocked and the door was unlocked.”

She snorts, motioning down at her ruined clothing. “Clearly I was busy.”

Wooyoung doesn’t respond, and following a moment of tense silence, she sighs. “Fine. What do you want?”

Wooyoung straightens his posture, trying to exude a bit more confidence in his proposal. “My group and I were looking for a place to stay the night.”

The girl raises an eyebrow. “And you decided a pile of hay would be a better option than a bed?”

“We aren’t picky.” Wooyoung reasons. “Besides, your village doesn’t seem to have many beds to spare for four people.”

She hums, considering this. After a moment, she rolls her eyes, letting out a defeated sigh. “Alright. I can offer you a place to stay, but it can’t be here. Rat issue.”

“Rat issue?”

“Place is full of them,” she explains. “Wouldn’t want them to bite one of your friends and give them some deadly rat-disease.”

“Well, maybe one of them,” Wooyoung thinks to himself, internally smirking. However, upon second-thought it causes a weird feeling to settle in his chest. Almost like guilt, which makes him feel even more uneasy. He brushes it off.

“My family is currently on a trip to Gloria for some supplies, so I have a few extra beds to spare. Of course, I’ll have to meet your group first, make sure you aren’t a pack of murderers.”

“At least upon first glance,” Wooyoung jokes, although it doesn’t quite land as she casts him a skeptical glare. He sighs. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t even know us.”

She shrugs. “I can’t lend you my stable, it’s the least I could do.”

Wooyoung isn’t sure if he agrees with that, as he would by no means ever willingly offer a stranger a bed in his house, even if for only one night. However, as it now works in his favour, he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. He extends his hand. “Woo,” he says.

She wipes off some mule-shit on her skirt before accepting it. “Aisha.”

He nods in acknowledgement, before lifting his hand and pointing towards the wall Seonghwa had disappeared behind. “One of my party is over there, if you’d like to meet him?”

Aisha nods and the two walk to the other end of the stable. Upon turning the corner, they find Seonghwa. However, unexpectedly, he is on the floor rather than standing. Bent down on one knee, his gaze is trained on the low-hanging window to his left, clearly watching something as his eyes dart back and forth.

“Uh, Hwa?” Wooyoung says, casting him a confused glance. “What are you doing?”

Seonghwa’s eyes drift from the window to face Wooyoung, expression blank. After a moment, he blinks, as if coming back to himself. “Sorry,” he breathes, rising to his feet a little too quickly, brushing the dirt off the knee of his pants. “I tripped.”

“Alright…” Wooyoung responds, still watching the empath warily, although Seonghwa won’t meet his eye. Did he hit his head or something? “Well, this is Aisha. She’s offering a place to stay for the night.”

Seonghwa nods in her direction, granting a meek smile. “I’m Seonghwa,” he says, voice a little raspy, as if choked up. Woo tries to get a look at what he was staring at out the window, but he can’t crane his neck enough without appearing suspicious.

“Will we be staying in the stable?” Seonghwa asks.

“I’m afraid not,” Aisha replies. As if on cue, a loud scratching noise echoes throughout the stable, seemingly coming from beneath the floorboards. Seonghwa jumps, startled. “Rats,” she elaborates, and the empath wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“You’re welcome to have dinner at my place, there’s not much food to buy here other than ingredients. It’s just next door, if you’d like to grab the rest of your party?” Aisha offers.

Wooyoung nods. She turns towards the stable’s door, Seonghwa following after her. The elemental stops him, reaching out to grab the empath’s arm.

He makes sure to keep his voice low. “Are you alright?” Wooyoung asks.

Seonghwa doesn’t answer immediately. Instead his gaze drifts from Wooyoung’s eyes to his hand that clutches the empath’s tunic.

Then he laughs. A sharp exhale through his nose, almost like a scoff.

“I’m fine,” he says bluntly, pulling his arm free.

“Hwa, what’s up with-”

The empath pushes past him, before casting a glance over his shoulder that Wooyoung can only think to describe as…mean. A single eyebrow raised, lip drawn upwards into a smug smirk.

“I told you I’m fine. Get over yourself, yeah?”

With that Seonghwa follows Aisha out the door, and Wooyoung is left to stand there, dumbfounded. Twisting towards the window, he watches as outside Seonghwa approaches you and San, who appear to be deep in conversation by the watering hole.

When he greets you it’s with a firm kiss, to which you appear to be just as surprised as Wooyoung feels. Seonghwa is not typically so brazen.

“What the fuck?” He thinks to himself. He stands in the window, chest riddled with both confusion and an undeniable amount of hurt. What did Seonghwa see to make him snap like that?

Swallowing his doubt, as well as his pride, Wooyoung awkwardly exits the stable after him.

“How was your walk around the village?” Seonghwa asks you. Seated to your right at the dinner table, the empath regards you with a warm smile, mindlessly shuffling a deck of cards in his hands.

He’s been in a really good mood all day, surprising considering the circumstances of the previous night. You’d retired to bed early, following just after Woo in the opposite tent. You aren’t sure what San must have said to him, but it’s clearly lifted his spirits. After all, you and Seonghwa hadn’t so much as kissed since before the trials of the desert, and yet to greet you with such excitement? Perhaps Woo said something to brighten his mood as well.

“It was alright. People were nice, but there really isn’t much for us here beyond that,” you reply, and Seonghwa nods.

Behind the empath, you notice Woo standing in the corner of the room. He’s leaned up against the wall, eyebrows drawn together and mouth settled into a frown as he watches the two of you.

You lower your voice so that only Seonghwa may hear you. “Did something happen to Woo? He seems even more sour than this morning.”

Seonghwa laughs at this, shaking his head. “Are you really surprised? He always looks like someone took a piss in his drinking water.”

You frown. That was… harsh. You’ve never heard Seonghwa say something like that, even if warranted. Sure, he and Woo have the occasional shots back and forth, but something about the statement rubs you the wrong way.

“I mean sure, but I don’t know,” you start hesitantly. “Maybe something happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Seonghwa snaps, before sighing at the taken aback expression on your face. “He’s just getting on my nerves, that’s all. Nothing new.”

“Alright…” You trail off, before glancing back at Woo. You find that his eyes meet yours almost immediately. He doesn’t look away, but his expression is difficult to read. He seems mad, yes, but not at you, which is surprising.

“I’m going to help San with the stew,” Seonghwa says, rising to his feet. He plants a soft kiss on your cheek before heading over to the kitchen counter, placing himself next to San.

You waste no time making your way over to Woo. Leaning in close to him so that nobody else can hear, you cast him a glare. “What did you say to Seonghwa?”

Woo’s frown deepens at this and he scoffs beneath his breath. “What makes you think I said something?”

“Because you always say something,” You shoot back, and he rolls his eyes.

“Hey, don’t pin this on me,” he cuts back, raising his hands up in defence. “He was watching you and San at the watering-hole doing whatever it is you were doing, and then randomly decided he was in an piss-awful mood.”

“What we were doing?” You repeat, casting the elemental and incredulous stare. “We were just talking and waiting for you.”

Woo raises an eyebrow. “Just talking?”

“Yes,” you repeat, and when he doesn’t respond, your chest tightens with annoyance. “What is wrong with you?”

He’s no longer focused on your eyes, but directly behind you. Twisting around, you follow his gaze to land on Seonghwa and San at the kitchen counter.

While you want to snap at Woo for not listening to what you’re saying, you find that you can’t. Because you understand what the elemental is looking at, and you don’t blame him for staring.

Seonghwa and San are awfully close.

This meaning that Seonghwa has his elbow resting on San’s shoulder, and San seems to be uncomfortably enduring it as the empath whispers something into his ear. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but whatever it may be, it causes San to nearly cut himself with the knife he’s using to peel the potatoes.

Seonghwa doesn’t seem to notice you watching, but he does notice Woo, whose glowering is a little more obvious. However, to your surprise, this only causes the empath to smirk, as his hand snakes further around San’s shoulder. The swordsman tenses.

Your gaze shoots back to meet Woo’s, almost alarmed. “What the fuck?” You whisper.

Woo seems to contemplate something, watching you but not responding. After a moment, he sighs. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he pulls you after him around the doorway, out of sight of the kitchen. The two of you are pressed close together, the house’s entrance narrow and dark with the setting sun, so that when he speaks you can barely see him, just the outline of his lips as they move.

“Something is up with Hwa,” he mutters, and you snort.

“Yeah no shi- '' You say, a little too loudly for the secrecy of the conversation. You’re cut off as Woo cups his palm over your mouth, silencing you. You can see the outline of his eyebrows furrow together, annoyed.

“Just shut up for a second and let me talk,” he interjects, voice an angry whisper. When you don’t respond, he slowly removes his palm from your lips, before continuing. “I think I know what it is.”

“Alright, then what is it?” You ask, voice low.

“We’ve dealt with one of them before.”

“Them?” You ask, and Woo nods. His head tilts towards the light of the kitchen, and he sighs, a more worried than defeated sound. You can feel the exhale against your face, prickling against your skin and it dawns on you how close the two of you are. Strange, how the circumstances have brought you near something you would never otherwise permit. You’re certain Woo feels the same.

“If I’m right, which I usually am,” Woo begins, twisting his neck back to face you. Sight slowly adjusting to the dim lighting, you can see the outline of his expression. His eyes are dark, troubled. “We’re going to need a plan.”

For what might be the first time, you whole-heartedly listen to him.

Woo watches you from over the table, gaze darting over briefly to look at Seonghwa. The empath - if you can even call him that - sits with his head down, focus entirely placed on the bowl of stew in front of him. Well, perhaps not entirely focused, as his foot gently moves up and down against your leg.

Under normal circumstances, the gesture would have comforted you, maybe even excited you. Now all you feel is disgust.

Woo looks back at you, before subtly nodding. Aisha has left briefly, something to do with the mule’s, which means now is the ideal moment to act.

You take the cue, turning towards the blonde. “Seonghwa,” you murmur quietly, feigning a level of sullenness. “I’m not feeling well.”

His eyebrows furrow together, and he lifts his gaze from the stew to your face. It’s a gentle expression, kind, and it scares you that if it hadn’t been for his hostility towards Woo, you may never have realized that something was wrong.

“Really?” Seonghwa asks, covering his mouth as he talks through a bite. His hand drifts to rest on your own against the table, and you force yourself not to flinch. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m just anxious about last night, with the tavern and everything,” you reply.

Subtly casting another glance at Woo, he gives you a nod of approval, before slightly tilting his head in Seonghwa’s direction as if to say: “Keep going”

You swallow hard, before gently squeezing the empath’s hand on the table. “I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but would you mind taking some? I could really use the help.”

Seonghwa stops chewing. “Right now?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Yeji, I don’t think now is the time oof-'' San starts, but is interrupted by his own stifled groan, which you can only assume is a result of Woo kicking him from under the table. The two of you hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to San about your suspicions. You imagine he won’t be too surprised, considering he’s likely felt that something is off with Seonghwa as well. Well, you hope he won't be too surprised. Otherwise, what’s about to happen may be a little too shocking.

“I don’t know about right now, Yeji,” Seonghwa says, and although his voice is gentle, he retracts his hand from yours, settling it down at your side. “I’m not really feeling up to it.”

“But you’ve never said no before?” You ask, feigning innocence.

Seonghwa shuffles in his seat, but offers no response. Woo leans in, smirking at the empath.

“She’s right, you haven’t,” he says, tone a mocking sort of sympathetic. “Is there a reason you're suddenly so hesitant, Seonghwa?” Woo places emphasis on his name, dragging out each syllable in an almost sing-song fashion.

Seonghwa stiffins, his hand’s grip around the spoon clenching tighter. His gaze stares at the bowl in front of him, not daring to meet either of yours.

“Do you remember when I lit your old blanket on fire?” Woo asks him, and Seonghwa frowns, scowling at the bowl in front of him.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“We hadn’t known each other that long, and I was pissed at you over something I don’t even remember. I didn’t know why it mattered so much to you, how it used to belong to your brother, I just knew it would hurt you to burn it. So I did.”

“I don’t know what bullshit you’re trying to pull-”

“It was the shittiest thing I ever did to you. You should have yelled at me, cussed me out, beat the shit out of me. But you didn’t. You went to your room, shut the door, and didn’t talk to me for a week.”

Seonghwa doesn’t respond.

“Seonghwa and I have never really fought, not beyond bickering. Even when I deserved it, he chose to freeze me out. He’s never said words just to hurt me - let alone out of nowhere - and he’s certainly never tried to use San against me.”

Woo pauses on this, leaning in a little closer to the empath. The smugness in his grin only shines brighter.

“But you’re not really Seonghwa, are you?”

There’s a moment of tense silence, the only sound in the room that of a ticking clock. San’s eyebrows draw together, although he doesn’t say anything, gaze hesitantly drifting to face Seonghwa as he settles back in his seat, reluctant as he observes what may happen next. Meanwhile, Woo rests his chin in palm, expression smug. He’s won, as Seonghwa doesn’t move, simply holds the elemental’s gaze, eyes full of a strange sort of vacantness.

Then Seonghwa flips the table.

Launching upwards and out of your chair, you narrowly avoid the hunk of wood as it comes tumbling down next to you, chunks of stew flying through the air as the ceramic bowls hit the floor with a deafening “crash”. Woo reaches a hand out to stop Seonghwa, but the empath swerves out of the way with a shocking sense of agility, an almost inhuman sense. Fire igniting in his palm, the entire kitchen alights as Woo throws a ball of flame towards the empath, to which he avoids once more, this time with a little less ease.

“What the fuck is going on?” San hollers, good eye darting between you, Woo and his wrath, and the image of Seonghwa avoiding yet another ball of flame.

“He’s a mimic!” Woo shouts at him, and San’s expression lights up with an immediate sense of understanding.

You don’t know much about mimics, only what you’ve learned from one of the many books in your father’s library. They’re tricksters, skin-walkers that take the form of the people they choose to mimic, but you certainly don’t know enough to have divulged that Seonghwa - or rather, fake-Seonghwa - was anything more than a severely pissed-off version of the real thing. You have Woo in the corridor to thank for that.

“And what do you think is wrong with him?” You ask, anxious.

Woo chuckles, each short breath tickling your face in individual puffs of air. “I don’t think it is him.”

“What?”

“I think he’s a mimic. Loathsome creatures. Like to cause trouble wherever they go, and take energy from the chaos they create. We dealt with one at a watering-hole in Stockholm a couple months back, and one further down South before that.”

“What makes you so sure?” You ask, skeptical. Woo is far too prideful, maybe it’s causing him to overlook something, or jump to conclusions far too quickly. “Maybe Seonghwa is just mad at you or-”

“No,” he says firmly, like what he says is fact rather than theory. He shakes his head. “I know Seonghwa. I know what he’s like when he’s pissed, and it’s not like that.”

As if sensing your disbelief, he groans, frustrated. “I also recognize the face, alright? That twisted grin? Every mimic wears that same expression, I’d recognize it anywhere.”

Woo’s jaw locks, gaze hardening. “He heard us bickering when we entered the stable, Seonghwa was probably annoyed with me at the moment, he overplayed those emotions. I know I’m right about this.”

“Alright, let’s assume for a second that you’re right,” you begin, still hesitant to jump to such a bizarre conclusion. “How can we know for sure? Just in case it is actually Seonghwa, we can’t just suddenly jump him.”

Woo considers this for a moment, chewing on his lower lip as he mulls over the question, before his eyes light up. “We get him to use his gift.”

You frown. “That takes a toll on him, doesn’t it? He’s done it too much lately as is.”

“Yes, but if he’s a mimic, he won’t be able to,” Woo replies, smirking at his own genius. “And I’m sure that he is, so we don’t have to worry about it affecting Hwa.”

When you don’t respond, Woo sighs. When he speaks, his tone is more serious than you’ve ever heard it. “Look. I know you don’t trust me - and don’t worry, the feelings are mutual - but begrudgingly I need your help here. You care about Seonghwa, right? So can we call a truce, just this once?”

You look up at him at this, and find that his eyes immediately lock with yours, visible even through the room’s darkness. The two of you are close, closer than you’ve ever been, as his hand rests on the wall just above your shoulder, his chest nearly pressed against your own. You can see a mole beneath his eyes, as well as one on his lip that you’ve never noticed otherwise. You’re sharing a breath, and you're certain that your own exhales tickle his nose just as he does to you.

If such an impossibility as a truce were to happen, you suppose that an impossible moment like this is the appropriate setting.

“Alright, fine.”You give him a nod, and the corner of his lips turns upwards ever so slightly. “Truce.”

San lunges forward at the fleeing mimic, shoving him backwards and towards the kitchen counter. The swordsman advances, attempting to grab the man’s shoulder and pin him against the counter-top, but he doesn’t get the chance. Instead, the mimic reaches to his side, grabbing the knife San had used to peel the potatoes and plunging it forward.

The knife is not large enough to deliver any sort of fatal blow, but it is certainly enough to wound. Embedding itself within San’s shoulder, the swordsman lets out a shocked gasp of pain, followed by a groan as the mimic delivers a swift punch between his eyes. The sickening “crack” that follows the break is enough to make your stomach twist in disgust.

San brings up a hand to cup the blood, and his next few words are garbled as he speaks them through his hand. “He’s going for the door!”

Woo throws another ball of fire towards the mimic, but it’s clear that the monster must have some sort of sixth sense regarding Woo’s gift, as he quickly bounds to the right to avoid the flame. Fortunately, the leap throws him off balance, granting you the opportunity to act.

Your seat had been the closest to the entrance into the kitchen, meaning the mimic remains only a few feet away from you. You aren’t sure what possesses you - perhaps the scheer instinct of wanting to both protect and find Seonghwa, as well as the desire of punishing the mimic for whatever he may have done to the real empath - but you throw yourself forward.

You immediately make contact with the mimic, who lets out a shocked gasp as the air is forced from his lungs. The two of you tumble backwards, and you’re once again sickened by the sound that emits from his head clashing against the first step of the staircase leading to the upper floor.

The mimic lets out a groan, eyes blinking dazedly, and you capitalize on the momentary delirium. Raising yourself up from your place next to him, you flip yourself over top of him, so that you’re kneeling over the mimic’s chest.

“Pass me a knife!” You shout at Woo, casting him a hurried glance over your shoulder. For a moment, the elemental stands there, jaw dropped as he stares at you pinning the mimic to the floor. He makes no motion to move.

“Woo!” You shout, and he seems to snap out of it, moving to the counter and sifting through cupboard after cupboard in search of where Aisha may keep the cutlery. After having no luck, San yanks the knife from its place in his shoulder, sliding it over to you on the floor before cupping his free hand over the blood that now springs from the open wound.

You grab the knife as it slides next you, clenching it in your fist as you bring it to the mimic’s throat, the cool metal pushing against his skin. Red blossoms around the area as it cuts him, not deep enough to kill, but enough to sting.

He winces, and the pain appears to return his mind to him. The dazidness leaves his eyes, and his focus settles on your face.

It’s not until now, with a weapon pressed to the monster’s throat, that you realize the extra difficulties surrounding the fact that he looks like Seonghwa. Exactly like him. The way those big brown eyes look up at you in fear is horrifying, the blonde’s lip practically quivering as his breathing escalates. It causes you to freeze, unable to press the knife any deeper.

“Please,” he begs, voice shaky. It’s so clearly Seonghwa’s voice, accent and all. It’s gentle and kind, but more than both, terrified. “Please Yeji, don’t do this. I-I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

An obvious lie. Pathetic, considering his escape attempt is blatant evidence of the opposite. Yet, you can’t bring yourself to finish this.

You can’t kill him. You just can’t. You’ve never killed anything, let alone a creature with the face of someone you’ve grown to deeply care about.

“Woo, he-he’s crazy! I thought he might kill me, I was scared so I just ran-”

“Shut up,” you spit through gritted teeth, pressing the knife a little deeper. The mimic groans, squeezing his eyes shut from the pain. “I know you’re not Seonghwa, don’t waste your breath.”

He doesn’t say anything, chest heaving as he attempts to steady his breathing. He manages to peek an eye open, watching you carefully. For a moment, he appears to still, as if contemplating something.

“Then why don’t you do it? Kill me.”

When you don’t respond, his face shifts. Teeth glinting as his lips curve upward, his quivering, terrified expression transforms into a twisted smirk. You suddenly understand how Woo was able to tell it wasn’t Seonghwa from this look in particular. The mischievous, evil nature emitting from this smile… he knows that you can’t do it.

“Awe,” he coo’s, and despite you being the one with the knife pressed to his throat, your control feels completely relinquished. “You can’t do it, can you?”

“Shut up,” you repeat again, but this time it is not nearly as threatening.

“What, is it this pretty boy face?” He says, followed by a chuckle. It’s surreal, the way you’ve heard that exact chuckle, following a joke you’d told the empath a few evening’s back. It was such a carefree, boyish sound at the time. Now it is nothing but sinister.

“Or have you always been this weak, Princess?”

Your heart jumps into your throat. You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out, as if the mimic somehow managed to steal your voice. His smile only grows wider.

“I recognized you the moment I saw you,” he says, dropping his voice into a low whisper, out of reach of both Woo and San. “You’ve met me before, at a grand ball. Of course, you wouldn’t remember. I was wearing a different face.”

Your hand begins to shake around the knife, the simple act of breathing becoming difficult. “You’re lying,” you reply, because he has to be. He’s a mimic, he’s just toying with you. But then again, how else would he know that?

“You were prettier then,” he says softly, tilting his head as he looks your face up and down. “That awful scarring hadn’t ruined your complexion.”

You don’t miss the way the wound on his neck beneath the knife begins to repair itself. An impossibility, although you remember what Woo said about mimic’s gaining strength from the chaos and disorder they create.

This is his plan, to gain enough strength from your terror to relinquish himself from your grasp. Heal his head, heal his neck, then act. You’re running out of time.

And yet, you can’t make yourself move. The knife remains motionless in your hand.

“What’s he saying to you, Kuroken?” Woo calls out from behind you, his voice more worried than accusatory. You can feel the heat from the flame that ignites in his hand all the way from across the room.

“If you can’t do it, it’s okay,” San pipes up after him, tone reassuring. Caring. “We will.”

San, who has been nothing but kind to you, who has shown empathy while battling his own many demons, dealing with a past that would harden anyone. It would kill him to know the truth this monster speaks of.

“I could tell them, you know,” the mimic continues, eyes flickering back to Woo and San. His tongue snakes its way over his teeth, an almost animal-like gesture. “Make them stop calling you ‘Yeji’. What a joke.”

“You wouldn’t,” you bite back, and he chuckles.

“I will,” he says, voice cheery as he leans upwards and closer to your face, even if the knife presses a little further into his neck. He doesn’t seem to care. “You know that I will.”

And you do know that he will.

Minho told you that he would. The clairvoyant had said that the truth would come out, soon at that. He said that they would know, they being the two men standing behind you, and that it would change everything.

You know that this is it. This is the prophecy he spoke of, coming to fruition. The words are on the mimic’s tongue, prepared to feed off the chaos created by his admission.

Which is why you burrow the knife into the man’s neck, and sharply pull it sideways.

You think you should close your eyes, but you don’t. You can’t. You watch as the mimic’s own eyes widen, Seonghwa’s eyes. He lets out a sound, like a gurgle, but much worse. Thicker. The noise is soon accompanied by blood - not from the geiser that sprays from his neck, which drenches your hands and tunic in a warm, thick paste - but from his mouth. It pours from his chin, and he coughs, more blood spraying out and sprinkling across your face.

And yet, despite his state, you feel his hand grab at your waist. It’s weak, a useless attempt at trying to get you off of him, even though it’s far too late for that, but something about the gesture sends a jolt of terror through you. Of blind panic.

He’s not dead yet. You killed him, but he’s not dead. He should be dead.

You pull the knife from his neck and bring it down into his chest.

Then you do it again. And again. And again until you aren’t even registering what you’re doing anymore, absorbed in the motion of bringing the blade up and down. Your own eyes eventually scrunch shut, the ringing in your ears deafens you to the squelching noise of it exiting and re-entering the man’s bloody chest. With your eyes sealed shut, all senses nullified regarding your actions other than the feeling of the warm liquid coating your hands, and the metallic stench flooding your nose.

You don’t stop until someone grabs your hand on yet another ascent, fingers wrapping around your wrist tightly, not permitting any more plunges.

“That’s enough,” Woo says, and it’s hard for you to make out his tone. His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Neither hostile or sympathetic. He simply wishes you to stop. “He’s dead.”

Finally forcing yourself to pry your eyes open, the mess before you makes you want nothing more than to close them again.

The body is destroyed. His shirt torn to shreds, the skin beneath mutilated. Blood runs in pools through the cavities you’ve created, running down from his throat to the rest of his body, before dripping onto the floor. His eyes are wide, but entirely lifeless, staring up at the ceiling. Except that he is not staring, because there is no mind behind those eyes. They simply sit there, blank, eyelids stuck open.

He still looks like Seonghwa.

Staring at the body, you are unable to move. Unable to think. You feel San sit down next to you, hand settling gently on your shoulder as he pulls the knife from your grasp. You make no protest.

You stare down at your hands, they are painted red. Your shirt and trousers, they are painted red. The floor and stairs, they are painted red.

There is just so much blood.

You’ve never seen this much blood. When you watched your father die, there wasn’t this much blood. When escaping the castle, there wasn’t this much blood. When you were bitten by the scorpion, there wasn’t this much blood.

And yet somehow, you did this. You are responsible for this horrific scene.

You let out a sob, which quickly transforms into a wail. A scream of agony, that will surely cause the neighbors to rush over, thinking that you are in danger. When in reality, you are the danger.

While it may have been a mimic that you killed, it feels like you are truly the one who is the monster.

San’s hands wrap around your figure, and you try to push him away. There is blood all over your clothes, and you don’t want it to get on him. You don’t want to taint him with this. He holds you anyway, murmuring that it will be alright. You don’t believe him.

What feels like miles away, you hear Aisha’s voice, followed by a thud of Woo shoving her against the wall next to him. You hadn’t even realized she’d arrived home. You hear her call out in protest, but is quickly silenced by Woo’s growling voice.

“Rats, huh?” He spits, and when there is no response, he slams her against the wall once more. She whimpers. “Show me where he is. Under the floorboards, I imagine?”

The two of them make their exit, Aisha dragged behind Woo as the elemental storms toward the stable. You want to follow after them, find out exactly where Seonghwa is and help him, to perhaps pay retribution by rescuing him.

Yet, you can’t force yourself to move. Your legs are stuck, glued to their space on both sides of the mimic’s corpse, as if you are tethered to your crime.

“You need to go help Seonghwa,” you manage to choke out, the words garbled throughout yet another sob. San merely shakes his head in response.

“Woo can handle it,” San whispers in a gentle voice, his hand gently stroking the top of your head. It’s a foreign sense of comfort, something you hadn’t expected from him. Yet, as he holds you closely, shying away from neither the blood nor your trembling form, it feels right. Safe. You pull him closer. “Seonghwa will be okay. A mimic can only take another’s form so long as that person is alive. He’ll be alright, I promise. Woo will find him.”

You nod, but the tears do not stop. You continue to wail, no longer for Seonghwa, but for yourself. For what you’ve done. For what you’ve lost.

In this moment, a part of yourself is destroyed. An innocence of sorts, but of the highest value. In the eyes of the gods, your very soul is tarnished.

You have killed someone.

From your lies, to your repeated deceit, and now the mutilated body beneath you, it finally strikes you that through all of this, you may be the monster after all.

~~~~~~~~

next chapter

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keyleth-clay · 2 years ago

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I was planning on doing this on this coming Saturday, but then I realized that there’s a non-zero chance of getting at least one of these this week, so I figured I’d better do it sooner rather than later.

Also, in case it isn’t clear by now, I’m doing these 30% because it’s fun and I want to, and 70% because if/when they do happen, I can have this in writing and therefore have bragging rights.

KC’s Top 5 CR Player Character Classes Wishlist

(Note that this says “classes” and not “subclasses”. The options on the list should make it clear why, but also I Don’t Actually Know DnD That Well, and don’t have particularly strong opinions re: subclasses.)

Number 1. Literally Any Artificer. There’s been exactly 1 player character artificer in all of Critical Role, and that was Taryon way back in campaign 1. We only got him for 15 episodes, he rarely actually gets included as a member of Vox Machina (even though he absolutely is, dammit), and back then artificers were still Unearthed Arcana. I was SO sure that we’d be getting one in EXU: Calamity, but things didn’t work out that way. Also I just think they’re cool.

Number 2. Literally Any Ranger. Fun Fact: There have only been two player character rangers in all of Critical Role. Vex’ahlia in campaign 1, and Sam Riegel in Liam’s Quest parts 1 & 2. I know Rangers in 5e are Not Great, but there’s some really cool stuff depending on subclass choice. Swarmkeeper, Horizon Walker, Fey Wanderer – there’s so many really cool & creative options. It mostly just boggles my mind that there have been so few of them, across main campaigns and mini-series and one-shots, despite being a core 5e class.

Number 3. Monk (but not Way of the Four Elements). In a very similar vein, there have only been a handful of player character monks. Beau, Farriwen, and Fy’ra Rai are the only monk PCs in Exandria canon, two of which are genasi Way of the Four Elements monks and the other of whom is a homebrew subclass. The only others are Marisha in Liam’s Quest (no subclass given), The Headmistress in CelebriD&D and D&Deisel (no subclass given), and Mezzek in the goblins Pathfinder one-shot from way back when.

There are so many other cool monk subclasses to explore, and while I know that we just had a monk as a main campaign character, that hasn’t stopped them from having a barbarian and a rogue and at least one cleric in every main campaign party. Also Liam would rock Way of the Long Death or Way of Mercy, and you know it.

Number 4. Any Blood Hunter that isn’t Order of the Lycan. Have you figured out the theme of this top 5 yet? :p

But seriously. There have been six player character blood hunters so far, and five of them have been Order of the Lycan (Tova, Chetney, Portia, Benicio, Lawrence). Thank all the gods for Mollymauk Tealeaf for at least attempting to be an Order of the Ghostslayer. I certainly don’t begrudge Travis his manic pixie werewolf dreams, but some variety would be nice, y’know? I’d particularly like to see somebody play an Order of the Mutant, but I’d be fine with any of the other three subclasses.

Number 5. Lingering Soul. Very shortly after I started watching Critical Role, I found out about the plethora of homebrew stuff that Matt has up on DMs Guild. Of course, I purchased and read through all of it, and of course I immediately loved the Lingering Soul class/post-death option that he created. I know it’s a really tricky thing to try to work into a campaign, and it’s something that he’s barely talked about (pretty much everything else of his on DMG has been used by either a player character or an NPC). Right after Molly died in C2, Taliesin was asked on Talks Machina if he would bring him back as a Lingering Soul, but he chose not to. I just… really fucking wanna see someone play this it’s so fucking cool.

DIShonourable mention goes to yet another fucking fighter or rogue. Across campaigns, mini-series, and one-shots, there have been 23 rogue player characters and 19 fighters. I have no problem with either of them, but holy shit pick something else.

#kc speaks #Critical Role #CR Cast #kc's top five

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writersfailure · 4 years ago

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While you studied demonolgy, I studied the blade

A/n: yay more hcs! perfect for my chaotic ass. And it’s another fighting one! I love swords they’re just so pretty. Thanks to the anon who requested this! This is a little long actually

**************

Scenario: You are a master swordsperson who ends up in the devildom. The bois think you’re worthless and just a tool but wait until you surprise them in different ways

Lucifer:

okay this bitch is the avatar of pride. Naturally he’s gonna look down on you because he’s a dick of a demon and you’re just a defenseless little human in his eyes

Makes several snide comments about how he thinks you’re weak. You just roll your eyes and ignore him because even with his whole demon shtick you knew you could take him

It’s not much of a problem until he keeps doing it and you just snap.

You know how way back when, duels were issued by slapping someone across the face with a glove. You follow those traditions but seeing as he’s a demon...

Luci got full on slapped by a gauntlet from one of the suits of armor. He just stares in shock as you issue the challenge. He’s ancient so you do it in a way he can understand. “You have dishonored my realm, i demand satisfaction.” you yell before leaving the room

Lucifer is about to chase after you until you come back with two rapiers and toss one to him and rush him as soon as he has it in his grasp.

Mans is pissed

Fights against you but you’re better than he is at this. After all, what human fights against demons with swords? Magic is quicker and it’s been what he’s mainly used in the last decades.

Sees red when you draw blood from his cheek and keeps trying his hardest to stab you because he is so angry rn. You know that one razor commercial where the actors are fighting and it’s so sexually charged? That but slightly more aggressive

Eventually you beat him back into a corner and he yields, not wanting to ruin the exchange program. You force him to admit that humans aren’t as weak as he believed and that he was a pompous ass.

He hates you but now has begrudging respect for you. Decides to train with you to become a more capable swordsman while teaching you new techniques since again he is ancient and was around to see them in use. Who knows this could turn into something more

Mammon:

This dude doesn’t quite think you’re worthless but you’re nowhere near valuable on the market because Lucifer would kill him if he ever tried to make money off of you. So you’re kinda useless in his eyes

But he’s intrigued. You walk with an air of confidence like you know you can handle yourself. he thinks you’re either cocky or stupid. Maybe both

But considering you can shish kebab all the demons in a room if you had one of your stabby stabs swords with you then meh

Finds out by taking you to an auction of cursed artifacts. he needed an extra body to store the loot on and you fit the bill.

Your eyes land on a sword that the shopkeeper says has a soul fragment of one of the old kings of the Devildom. You think it’s bullshit but it’s a nice looking sword. Luckily you had enough grimm for it

Mammon is confused by your choice until someone noticed the valuables in his pockets. “Thief!” They shouted. “Mammon, get us outside! I can make them back off!”

he decides not to question you and to do what you say. As soon as you’re outside with room to maneuver, you’ve gone on the attack.

Turns out the shopkeeper wasn’t lying, it did have a soul fragment in it. Which gave you a speed/strength/stamina boost. Combined with your skill with the sword and the demons chasing after you went down quickly.

“Mc? Where did you learn that?” Mammon would ask. Once you explain he just grins. “Wanna be my bodyguard Mc? A lot of people would kill to protect the great and powerful Mammon after all!”

You agree just because it gives you an excuse to practice your sword techniques, plus you’d actually be allowed to cause injuries. Win-win

Leviathan:

Now this boy could care less about you. Just another stupid normie. And trust me he lets you know it

You come to dislike him due to how he treats you. But like that’s how you feel towards all the boys during this time period

It’s not until he has a chance to go to a con and starts whining that he has no one to take who’ll understand what it’s like. His brothers toss you under the bus and tell you to go with him

He’s chill for the most part, dragging you around from spot to spot. He does notice your fascination with the live steel exhibit and tells you the story behind all of the the anime swords shown there.

You even got to watch a dueling match! Not to the death, but it was still a showcase. The grand prize for whoever beat the master swordsman up there won a limited edition Rurichan in knight’s armor. Naturally Levi had to have it

While he was muttering to himself to try and figure out how to get it, you just went up on the stage to challenge the swordsman. Levi’s mouth fell open when you proceeded to kick said man’s ass

Gives you the biggest grin as you hand him the limited edition rurichan thing. “Mc! You’re like a Knight in one of my animes! So cool!” He cries as he tightly holds onto his new possession.

Buys you like 15 swords from his favorite shows to use afterwards

Satan:

This smug little jerk. If I could kick his ass I would. But I can’t. You, Mc, however can!

He would definitely call you a tool especially when you and Lucifer started getting along. Boi would rub it in your face

Cause yknow, little asshole

You’re getting fed up with him, especially with his thoughts of how he’s better than you just because he’s had a millennia to memorize more information

You finally catch a moment to prove him wrong though. A treasured day in your mind.

He had been reading aloud from a book of old techniques for sword fighting. “This Style is Said to be undefeatable in battle blah blah blah”

“Your Book is outdated or wrong. Maybe both.” You say without looking up. He frowns and tries to argue with you, even standing up and casting a spell to show you the different stances and moves and how they work.

But when you start describing a more recent style and how it can easily defeat all of those he starts getting angry and flustered. How dare a stupid human think they know better than him! He's still pissed even after you explain.

Forces you to teach him all that you know. Knowledge is power and the demon wants all of it

Let's just say that the next time his wrath takes over, he might have a pointy weapon involved

Asmodeus:

Well he knew that you were doing some sort of physical activity after seeing all your muscles. Putting your whole body into a fight and depending on the style of a sword, you could get decently jacked

Definitely approves of what it's done for your body. But in the end you're just a magicless human. He attempts to be nice but it comes off as more condescending. Blame the narcissism for that.

It wasn’t until one day the two of you were home alone, the rest out doing various activities while you helped him with a live stream. You both started to hear a loud commotion from outside and you peeked out the window to see a small crowd of demons banging on the doors to the house.

“Asmo, what the hell is going on?” You asked. He sighed and flapped his hand about dismissively. “My fans are getting bolder. It’s quite annoying really.” He said. “They’d never be this bold. What did you do?” You asked, knowing how all the demons of the realm feared Asmo and his brothers too much to pull a stunt like this.

“Satan may have... given me a spell that I used and accidentally enchanted many demons to the point of severe obsession.” Asmo said quietly as he did the simpy fingers 👉👈

You couldn’t stand the loud noise starting to echo through the house and sighed as you punched the bridge of your nose. “How do we fix it?” “The spell book said a severe physical shock would break them out of it but none of the others are here and it’s not quite my speed.” He explained.

You just glared at him as you went into Lucifer’s study, where two swords were hanging on the wall. You grabbed them and marched towards the door, Asmo trying to stop you.

“MC you cant! They’ll kill you!” He pleaded. It still didn’t stop you from opening the door and slamming it behind you to keep them away from Asmo.

The demon began to get worried when he heard all the screams and gross squelching sounds but none of them sounded like yours. It wasn’t until you opened the doors back up again and walked in, covered in blood and tossing the bloody swords on the ground.

“Just for that, I get to use your bathroom and any products I want to get the blood off.” You said as you trudged up the stairs. Asmo just stared at you with a slack jaw before glancing outside to see quite a lot of wounded demons wondering what had happened to them while quickly healing.

Needless to say, he didn’t mess with you anymore. But he did make sure to take you to the club with him from then on in order to ward off unwanted admirers.

Beelzebub:

Boi didn’t think you were useless per say but he definitely thought you were weak and needed protecting

Didn’t really come to like you until you started slipping him food and hanging out with him, which is the quickest way to his heart.

Would bring you along to some of his sports clubs or the gym so you could cheer him on. Would also try to encourage you to join a sport until one of the others reminded him how that could end with you maimed or dead

Well one day you were with him in the gym which his team was using for weightlifting while the fencing team practiced in their ring.

You watched their practice for a while until you started yelling out tips or corrections for the fencers. The demons were getting kinda annoyed with it all. Who did you think you were? You were just a stupid human who probably couldn’t even hold a sword properly.

They voiced said thoughts to you and Beel began to frown, standing up to your defense. A hand planted in the center of his chest made him pause. “It’s alright Beel. I’ll take care of this.” You said as you marched towards the ring.

Beefy boi wanted to stop you but by the time he realized that yeah you were gonna be that stupid, you were already grabbing a fencing foil. “Let’s do This.”

He watched in awe as you quickly dispatched your opponent and the teacher watching called your win. Your face lit up in such an infectious grin that he couldn’t help but smile too, happy for you and your victory.

When you tried to leave, your former opponent grabbed you by the shoulder and started berating you some more. Saying that you cheated and called on your pacts to win. Beel only got between the two of you and bared his teeth. “Sore losers make me angry. And watching you two fight made me hungry.” He growled out.

You’ve never seen someone run so fast as that demon did to get away from the two of you.

Belphegor:

Oh this bitch is trouble

He literally killed you, he’s not the most pleasant for you to be around. Understandable really. Having him around all day and with him trying to cling to you like a new teddy bear, really set you on edge.

He didn’t see anything wrong. He just thought you were cowardly like most demons were. He definitely didn’t think you could do anything to defend yourself, especially after how it was easy to just end you.

So when he walks in one day to see you doing a training routine with one of your swords, which often helped relieve some of your stress, he had the fricking audacity to laugh. “Wow look at the human trying to be tough. I doubt you can hurt anyone with that toothpick.”

And you were more than fed up at this point. So you threw the sword at him with as much accuracy as you could.

The tip of it snagged itself in his hood and the force of the throw managed to pin the fabric to the wall, Belphie’s eyes wide as he stared at you. You were seething as you looked at him with tightly clenched hands and he had never seen you that angry before.

“Don’t dismiss me just because I’m human. You only managed to kill me because I was caught off guard and unarmed. And because I had trusted you. If I felt like it, I could carve you up like a thanksgiving turkey with one of these ‘toothpicks’ and be rest assured that your brothers have given me ones that will work against you.” You said.

Belphie’s jaw dropped when you finished your speech. You just stride forward and pulled your blade out of the wall, taking a moment to let it linger against his neck. “I’m not as defenseless as you think I am.” You say before walking away.

Well mark him down as scared and horny. He doesn’t mess with you anymore now tho so it’s a plus

Diavolo:

He didn’t quite see you as useless. You played an important part in the exchange program of course! But he did come across as condescending when he talked to you. It’s just how he phrases things when he talks about the human realm, he can’t help it.

He doesn’t witness your abilities first hand but rather read about it in your file and from Lucifer’s reports. He was quite impressed with you!

Especially when rumors of your skills began going through the devildom like a wildfire. “Wonderful! The human can protect themselves! Now we need not worry as much!” He would simply say.

He worries. He worries very much. What if you couldn’t get to a blade in time? What if a quick demon killed you in a surprise, giving you no time to react? What if there were too many to fight against?

A suggestion from Barbatos solves his problems easily. He picks out a special sword from the royal vault, wrapping it up in a fine sheath before calling you to come see him.

He gives you a sentient sword. “One that will always come to your hand when called, will rise up to aid you in battle if you somehow cannot defend yourself.” You gotta love magic, right?

What really gets you is the inscription with the sword’s name. “Excalibur??? This is Excalibur? Like Merlin and King Arthur and the knights of the round table Excalibur?” You asked and Diavolo nodded.

“Yes. The lady of the lake was a special powerful type of demon who forged that sword. We stole it back from the human realm after it had served its use and I believe it will do good for you.”

Dude tries to fucking knight you, prove me wrong. Also gotta keep your new sword under lock and key away from Mammon. Imagine how much Grimm it’d go for!

Barbatos:

Oh dear he knows trouble when he sees it

You might as well have a flashing neon arrow pointed at your head after the rumors start circulating. Now every demon wants to challenge your abilities and he can see many futures where it ends badly

After a while of listening to Diavolo’s worries and dealing with his own, he makes the suggestion. “My lord, I seem to recall a great many of magical swords in the vault that may prove helpful. Maybe gift one of them to MC?”

Is delighted when he sees how your face lights up at the sword. He spent hours restoring and sharpening it, making sure its ancient magic would be enough to protect you. His hard work was definitely worth it for that smile on your face

Offers to help you with its cleaning and will listen endlessly to your many battles with Excalibur

Simeon:

“MC please be careful!”

Has the pained smile on anytime he has to heal you after a fight. You can literally see the hurt in his eyes. “You’re a Human, you need to be more careful MC.”

Will make you feel sooooo guilty for partaking in fights like this. He just wants you to be safe after all and nothing like a good ol guilt trip to make you stay away from demons who could snap ya like a twig

Doesn’t stop you for long

“Keep the swords away from Luke! I don’t want him to hurt himself.”

Eventually gives in and offers to help you train. He knows a bit, having been around for a while and having probably trained in the celestial realm himself. The brothers styles of fighting aren’t the same as they used to be when he shows you how angels truly fight

Pansies. They fight like pansies

Their style of fighting is less... dirty and underhanded than the styles of those in the devildom. Between that and Simeon’s fear of hurting you, you decide to cancel training with him indefinitely

To say he’d be relieved is an understatement

Solomon:

Troublesome little bastard he is

Enjoys watching you train and helping you learn how to fight when magic is involved. Also loves messing with the magic in Excalibur

Anytime he gets his hand on the sword you end up smacking him though, even when he reveals it’s true past

“Yeah the lady of the lake forged it but I was the one who had to keep reinforcing it. That magic would wear off in two battles! Two!”

“Wasn’t Merlin the wizard in those stories?” You asked. Solomon just nods and gestures to himself “I lived under an alias for a while, okay? Don’t ask me about it.” He simply says.

You don’t believe him. No one does, even if he does provide evidence. Mammon was there during those ages, remembering being summoned to help some witch names Morgana but doesn’t remember Solomon being there.

“I was in disguise!” Solomon’s rants and desperate pleas for recognition don’t do anything for his character

************

A/n: didn’t include Luke in this one because I’m tired and his character is just kinda meh to me. Sorry

#obey me shall we date #diavolo x reader #barbatos x reader #lucifer x reader #mammon x reader #beel x reader #belphie x mc #asmo x reader #levi x reader #satan x reader #simeon x reader #solomon x reader #belphewhore #dia is a sugar daddy change my mind #xreader

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