#heavy weight tarp

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[uk-tarpaulins]

Canvas Tarpaulins for Agriculture Protecting Crops and Equipment

Introduction

Agriculture is a many-sided hit the dance floor with nature, where achievement depends on the sensitive harmony between ecological circumstances and human mediation. Canvas Tarpaulins assume a significant part in this dance, giving a defensive safeguard against eccentric components that can imperil the two harvests and cultivating hardware.

Protecting Crops

One of the essential elements of canvas tarpaulins in agriculture is protecting yields from antagonistic weather patterns. These strong covers go about as a boundary against over the top daylight, weighty downpours, hailstorms, and ice, all of which can inconveniently affect crop wellbeing.

2.1 Sun Protection:

Canvas tarpaulins act as successful awnings for crops, forestalling overexposure to extreme daylight. Delayed openness to brutal daylight can prompt burn from the sun and dry out of plants, hindering their development and lessening yields. Canvas tarpaulins, when decisively sent, moderate these dangers, establishing a favorable climate for plant development.

2.2 Rain and Hail Protection:

Exorbitant precipitation, particularly during basic development stages, can prompt waterlogging, root decay, and yield infections. Canvas tarpaulins go about as defensive layers, keeping water from immersing fields and hurting crops. Moreover, their durable development gives a safeguard against hail, a characteristic danger infamous for harming crops.

Preserving Soil Health

Canvas tarpaulins likewise add to saving soil well-being, assuming a part in soil disintegration counteraction and dampness maintenance. By covering the dirt with these coverings, ranchers can safeguard it from erosive forces, guaranteeing that important dirt remaining parts in one piece and is fruitful. Also, the coverings lessen vanishing, assisting the dirt with holding dampness, which is critical for supported crop development.

Protection During Seasonal Transitions

Farming cycles include advances between seasons, each introducing its difficulties. Canvas tarpaulins work with smooth advances by offering insurance during these weak periods. Whether it's protecting yields from late-winter ices or setting them up for the colder time of year chill, canvas tarpaulins give a solid safeguard against occasional limits.

Protecting Agricultural Equipment

Past protecting yields, canvas tarpaulins assume a urgent part in safeguarding the honesty of cultivating gear. Present day agriculture depends intensely on a different scope of hardware, from farm haulers and furrows to water system frameworks. Openness to the components, like daylight, downpour, and fluctuating temperatures, can speed up mileage, prompting expensive fixes and substitutions.

5.1 UV Protection:

Tarpaulin Sheets go about as a successful hindrance against unsafe bright (UV) beams. Drawn-out openness to daylight can cause blurring, breaking, and debasement of hardware surfaces. By covering apparatus with canvas canvases when not being used, ranchers guarantee that their gear stays shielded from the harmful impacts of UV radiation.

5.2 Rain and Moisture Resistance:

Water, particularly when joined by wind, can saturate the multifaceted hardware parts, causing consumption and lessening functional productivity. Canvas coverings, with their water-safe properties, give an impermeable hindrance against downpours, shielding gear and forestalling expected harm.

5.3 Temperature Regulation:

Outrageous temperatures, whether burning intensity or cold, can unfavorably influence the usefulness of farming gear. Canvas tarpaulins go about as encasings, directing inside temperatures and safeguarding apparatus from the limits of climate. This aids in keeping up with ideal working circumstances and broadens the life expectancy of the hardware.

Customization and Adaptability

Canvas tarpaulins offer a serious level of customization, permitting ranchers to tailor their use in view of explicit necessities. Whether covering a little vegetable nursery or safeguarding broad farmlands, these coverings can be adjusted to various sizes and shapes. This flexibility upgrades their reasonableness in different rural settings.

Durability and Longevity

The sturdiness of canvas tarpaulins goes with them a practical decision for long haul horticultural security. Produced using durable materials, these canvases endure the afflictions of open air openness, guaranteeing dependable and delayed assistance. This strength means cost-viability for ranchers, as they can depend on a solitary speculation for numerous developing seasons.

Environmental Considerations

Canvas, as a material, is biodegradable and harmless to the ecosystem. Not at all like a few manufactured other options, canvas tarpaulins don't add to natural contamination. This eco-accommodating perspective lines up with the developing accentuation on feasible horticultural works on, settling on canvas coverings a mindful decision for naturally cognizant ranchers.

Conclusion

In the domain of agriculture, where the harmony between nature and development is fragile, canvas tarpaulins arise as crucial apparatuses. Their multi-layered job in shielding crops from the components, saving soil wellbeing, and guaranteeing the life span of cultivating gear contributes altogether to the general achievement and manageability of horticultural practices. As ranchers keep on confronting developing difficulties, canvas tarpaulins stand as dependable partners, giving a canvas of security to the development and success of agriculture.

[sukunasteeth]

Your First Time on Sukuna's Bike

You lost a bet. 

That’s ultimately how you ended up here.  

"Hey," Sukuna is calling your attention to him, sitting on his motorcycle with a spare helmet outstretched in your direction. "Put it on."

The sun was just starting to set behind him on the horizon, casting him in this warm orange flavored glow that was almost comforting. Almost. 

"'Kuna, maybe this is a bad idea." You stay where you are a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot nervously. "Maybe you should go to the meetup by yourself-"

He interrupts you with one call of your name, effectively silencing you. He raises a brow.

"C'mere," He's smirking at you, seeing your unease as a challenge. Like he always did. 

"No, totally, I would. It's just-I- " You can't find the words to deny him. They don't come to you anymore. Your heart aims to please him in everything but your body is frozen in fear. Your brain scrambles to produce something- any kind of lie under his lion-like gaze. "I just remembered that Yuji asked me to do something with him-"

"Yuji's with his goth boyfriend." Sukuna rolls his eyes, quickly swapping the helmet to his other hand and leaning across the short distance between you to grasp your wrist instead. He tugs you closer to him, until your shoe is nearly touching the tire of his bike.

He's grinning up at you, with that convincing little squint to his eyes.

"Chicken shit." He accuses.

You gape at him.

"I am not afraid of your little motor bike, okay?"

"Then put the helmet on, Braveheart." He shoves said helmet into your hands and releases it before you can say no to fully grasping its weight. You fumble with it, trying not to let the piece of equipment slip to the asphalt, it felt expensive and heavy with quality, just as a lot of Sukuna's things did.

When you finally have it secured to your chest, safe and sound, you pale at the thought of the next step. 

Now, Sukuna was nothing if not a gentleman. You knew that. But, he also was constantly toeing the line of gentleman and... complete and utter vagrant menace. He would come over to your apartment after a meetup like the one the two of you were going to, with wind whipped cheeks and adrenaline clearly glimmering in his eyes. Occasionally, he would even ask you if you had a spare tarp so that he could cover his bike in case the police came around the neighborhood looking for a similar one.

Being in one of his turbo kitted cars was different. If there was an accident, it wasn't just between you, the heavy leather jacket Sukuna had bought you, and the rough merciless asphalt of the street.

You're staring down at the helmet like it's a death sentence when Sukuna calls for your eyes again, his hand coming up to caress the back of your arm with a gentle, coaxing touch. He ushers you until you're within his airspace, creating a timeless bubble where only the two of you exist. 

You’re slightly guilty when you look up at him. You hated questioning Sukuna, especially when it came to something like your safety, which he would never put at risk, but you can't help the nerves curdling in your stomach.

His gaze melts into something similar to sympathy, still slightly amused with you. 

"Why're you scared?” He wants to know. He knows just which soft and low tone of voice to use on you- to make every secret you have come rushing to the surface, desperate to please him just like the rest of you was. 

"Scared? Of a stick with two wheels that can go in between cars that weigh literal tons while riding at a speed of 120 miles per hour? No. No, why would I be scared?"

"120 miles per hour?" He repeats, cocking a brow at you. "And put my little chicken shit in danger? Are you insane?"

You bite your lip. 

“Can we go slow?” 

Sukuna merely laughs, turning back towards his bike and turning the key to kick start the ignition. The time for conversation was clearly over. 

“Put it on.” ~

Sukuna actually does go at a reasonable speed for the majority of the time. You get used to the feeling of the wind gliding over every inch of you, hissing so loudly in your ears that all other sounds become moot. It’s almost like white noise. 

Sukuna’s body is warm and sturdy against your front, and you press more of yourself than needed into him, just to be closer. Occasionally he’ll reach down and squeeze your thigh or point something out for you to look at, but otherwise he lets you take in the scenery at an easy pace. 

After an hour of riding, you may very well say it was comforting on the bike. 

At least, until you get to a long stretch of highway, that is. Empty and wide as it is long. A highway to some rural part of the city you had never been to before. 

Sukuna taps your knee, and then reaches up and tightens your hold on his waist. It was a signal. 

“Wait-” Even if Sukuna could hear you past the helmets, the unrelenting wind, and the roar of the motorcycle beneath you, he didn’t give you a chance to say much. 

The bike climbs speed as your heartbeat climbs in speed and if it weren’t for the helmet, it would be impossible to breathe easy with the wind whisking around you in such a flurry. Your thighs press into Sukuna’s, and you peek over his shoulder at the speedometer to watch it hit 95. It felt so much faster to you. It felt like you were flying. 

You can’t help the giggles that escape you as exhilaration plucks them out of you. 

Fear had long since revealed itself as excitement to you, and Sukuna could tell in the way you would kick your feet as he revved the engine that you were on the same page now. 

By the time the two of you make it to the meetup, you’re buzzing like a ball of electricity. Sukuna parks the bike, kicks the stand out, and immediately turns around to unclasp your helmet first. 

You tear it off of you, barely containing yourself long enough for him to remove his own before you're winding your arms around his neck. Giggles are still leaking out of you and into his ear, which is searing cold beneath your lips. 

“I told you you’d like it.” He chuckles, leaning backwards into you and forcing you to be the one to keep the both of you upright. You use your free hand to pull on his hood, forcing him back even further until you can press a kiss to his prideful smile.  

“That was fun.” You whisper.

“Good.” He whispers back, grabbing his keys from the ignition without moving his head from your grasp. “You’re drivin’ us home.” 

[syoddeye]

kinktober - day 04 - leather

soap x f!reader | 2k words cw: established relationship, sub!Soap, dom!Reader, impact play, heavy restraints, handjob, love a/n: everything is consensual, just not explicitly discussed. summary: johnny reaps the benefits of some diy. banner by @/cafekitsune

John spent weeks locked away in his shop, toiling on a project he was adamant about keeping a secret. A surprise.

When it was complete, he fetched you from the house with the eagerness of a dog pulling a lead. Barely in the door from a long day at your hellish job, you were suspect and reluctant.

“Johnny, please make it quick. All I want is a bath, and a bowl of ice cream.”

“I ken, I ken. Just wait ‘til ye see.” 

He shepherds you through the shop door and shuffles toward a bright blue tarp draped over something sizable. You inwardly groan, immediately assuming he’s gone and found another bike to restore.

“Oh, boy…”

“Remember John’s party back in February?”

Heat erupts on your cheeks. Jesus. “Yes…?”

“And remember the basement? Simon?”

Your head whips around, expecting the lug to materialize from the shadows. “He’s not here, is he? We’re supposed to chat before–”

“No, nothing like that. Do ye remember what he was doing?”

How could you forget? It was hard to look away. The whole room had gone quiet when Price and Kyle unveiled Simon. It was a shock seeing the big man rendered helpless. Ankles, wrists, and neck locked in a stockade. It was medieval. You never took him for a man who’d consent to being displayed like that, let alone restrained. But that was one of the joys of visiting Johnny’s friends.

“You didn’t.”

His grin grows. “Aye, I did.” With a dramatic flourish, your husband hoists the crinkling fabric into the air and away.

“Jesus Christ, John.” You giggle nervously at the sight of the gleaming wooden stockade. The light bounces off the lacquer, catching the steel fixtures and rich, black leather. It’s gorgeous, and the sight alone lights a fire in your belly. “This is what you’ve been up to? Turning the shop into an actual dungeon?”

“We'll move it indoors. Got the plans from Price and everything. It’s not an exact copy, but it’s a decent prototype.”

You shoot him a look at that, running your hand along the cushioned beam meant to support someone at their stomach. “Prototype? You betting I’ll like being in there that much?”

He goes quiet, and slowly rounds to the front. His smile now sheepish. “Actually, I was hopin’ you’d put me in it.”

~~

Your husband is not a giant like Simon, but he’s not small, and he’s certainly not someone to underestimate. You’ve had your head locked in his arms before, have had him manhandle you about like a toy. He uses his broad shoulders and muscular thighs to his advantage, and his concentrated bulk lends him quite a bit of speed. Wrestling with him is never strictly playful, at least it never ends that way, and he always fights dirty.

So seeing him bent over, ass perked in the air, and tugging at the restraints is somewhat of a revelation. Knowing he’s trained to avoid capture and resist interrogation, and knowing what he could do with his hands-free? It’s a good thing you’re clothed. Your underwear is soaked.

(So’s his, his leaking cock gradually darkens his cherry red jockstrap.) 

You card your fingers through his hair, feathering it affectionately. “Comfortable?”

He smiles warmly, leaning his cheek into your palm when it slides down his face. “Reasonably.”

“You ready?”

“Aye. Please.”

“That’s a good boy.”

After wrangling the stockade into the basement, a team effort between you and him, he sprang surprise number two on you—a brand new set of a flogger and a crop. Matching. Another apparent recommendation from Price. Your hand hovers between, ultimately selecting the flogger first. A pretty thing, black and dyed red leather, and a decent weight. It’s not your first rodeo, but you're not as seasoned as Price or Kyle. You take the time to roll your wrist with it in hand, letting the quiet flutter of its tassels build anticipation. 

Your Johnny looks so good like this. Legs forced open, muscles straining under his skin. You notice the twinge in his knee, something he swears is alright, but you let your mind mull over options for doting on him tonight and tomorrow in the background.

He gasps when you start. You surprise him with light, twinned strokes over the backs of his thighs. It’s a test for the stability of his work as much as it is for him. Neither of you are accustomed to him being on the receiving end. It’s a rare privilege. But the stockade barely budges when he jolts, and he doesn’t tap out. You escalate accordingly.

His thighs, his back, his shoulders. Everywhere but his ass gets painted in a series of mildly firmer strikes. You’re careful, mindful of his work-related injuries and sore spots, and listen closely to his breathing. It’s heavy and deep, hitching when you drag the flogger slowly over his cheeks. Sweat beads at the nape of his neck.

“Fuck, yes.” he whispers when you let it rest a moment. He tells you he’s green, then wiggles eagerly. “Get on with it.”

You tease him instead. Lashing out, literally or figuratively, is simply rewarding his mouthy behavior. You let the tassels swing without force behind them, and the tips barely skim him. A few minutes of that gets him apologetic, whimpering. It’s a fight to hide the pleasure in your voice.

“What was that? Couldn’t quite hear you.”

“I-I said please. Please. I’m needin’ it.”

You hum, draw the flogger away, and wait. The second you see his head try to turn, trapped in its leather-lined hole, you lay down a volley of firm hits to the meat off his ass. You don’t let up as his skin grows rosy. You don’t stop even when he’s moaning at the top of his lungs, whole body jerking in the stocks, rattling and testing the hardware. You go until your wrist aches.

After ditching the flogger, you inspect where the gear touches his limbs. While on a knee, listening to his breathing even out and his body settle lax onto the bar, you bite your lip at the sight of him. 

“Making a mess down here, baby. You want this off?” You ask, rising to your feet, toying with a band of his strap. “Not digging in, is it?”

“No. Water?”

You fetch the bottle immediately and watch closely as he drinks. His throat bobs and it’s never looked as good as it does resting on the plush leather of the stockade’s hole. Sweat drips down his temples, his jaw. When his eyes flick up to look at you, glassy and blue, your stomach clenches. His fucking mouth puckered around the straw should be innocuous. Should. You’re going to lose it the next time he has you. This is all you’ll think about until then.

The first few hits with the crop are love taps. Enough to make his muscles spasm, but keep them loose enough. He hisses from a couple of harder hits to where his thighs meet his ass. He twitches, toes curling and uncurling, before he sticks it out marginally further, as much as he can given his limited movement. Neither of you are into dealing serious damage, but it’s as if you can read the thoughts darting through his mind. Hear the gears turning. He wants more. He’s ready for more.

Following a couple of idle swings, you start, similar to how you did with the flogger. Without telegraphing, you lay easy smacks to his thighs, moving up a hair each time until one bounces off a cheek. You soothe over it, admiring the color. Slowly but surely, he’s getting pinker.

You knead one cheek, trailing the flat of the crop up a leg, adjusting your grip and stance to slap the other, and switch after a half dozen. You brush your thumb, petting his stinging skin and coarse hair, and sigh contentedly at a little whimper.

“Doing so good for me, Johnny. Such a strong boy.”

It earns another choked, desperate sound. He gives his color when asked, and you return to an arms-length away. You flick the crop across his skin, glancing blows to revive the bite and burn. You progress to rapid-fire snaps, peppering his skin until he’s squirming again. Peeking over the wooden top beam, you smile at the slack in his jaw and his breathless panting. He meets your gaze with a pleasure-drunk laugh.

“A little more?”

“A little more.”

Since he hasn’t requested that his underwear come off, you swing the crop up slowly and drag it along the underside of his covered cock. It twitches at the contact, testing the fabric. You smirk as he keens and curses, thrusting futilely once again backward in the stock. If you didn’t think he’d come in two seconds flat, you’d call him a slut. Rather, you prod and nudge his balls with the crop’s head, letting the thin leather bend and slip around them until a glint catches your eye. A fine spiderweb-thin string of precum seeps through the cotton. It dangles. Drops. A low, prolonged moan escapes him.

“Fucking hell, John. Look at that…” You drop the tool, eyes drilling into the stain. You dip your thumbs under the waistband. “May I?”

His head barely lifts and drops in a nod.

“Need a yes, baby.”

“Y…Yes. Please.” His voice is jagged, raw. 

“So, so good,” You breathe. You tug the strap down, the two of you groaning when his cock bounces free and sways. More droplets splatter onto the ground with a wet sound. “Christ. I’m…”

“Fuck, please, I’m gonna burst.”

The jockstrap falls down his thighs abandoned, and you press to his back. He hisses when you drape over him and take him in hand, partly from the rough texture of your clothes and the feel of your warm palm. Swiping your thumb over the drooling tip, you spread his prespend over his aching length and firm up your grasp to how he likes it. John starts to stammer out something undoubtedly impatient, but it flattens into a choked-off grunt as you stroke. His feet lift and stomp on the vinyl lining the flooring of the stockade. He bucks, trying to fuck your fist, but the stomach bar keeps him chasing it as feverishly as you reckon he’d like.

“You close?” You tease, lips dusting over a red spot on his sweaty shoulder, and swallow hard.

The pure need in his voice makes your chest tighten. He struggles with a response, nearly slurring his words. “Dinnae stop, fuck, I-I…Oh, fuuuuck—” 

One downside of his little DIY project? Not seeing his face as he comes. He lurches in his holds, and you peel yourself off of his back. As he swears and sputters, hips jerking, you ease your grip and retract your hand. Stepping away, you stare at the mess on your hand, then his quivering thighs, and sigh wistfully.

Licking your fingers, you watch as he slumps bit by bit, coming down from his high with ragged breaths. You free his ankles and take a moment to examine him before unlatching the hinged beam closing in his wrists and neck. You smooth over his mohawk, damp with sweat, and rub a small circle into his scalp. You support his head as it lifts, blinking hazily up at you. His gaze alone takes the edge off. He’s so sweet like this.

You maneuver him to the couch to decompress, using the last of the strength in his legs. A whole assortment of goodies is within reach the second he asks, and you remind him of that as you push a throw pillow under his head. Large swaths of his back are pink and red but already fading. A bolt of guilt passes through as you catch yourself thinking of how much darker you’d like to go next time. He tears up again but settles and nuzzles into the pillow. He’s gone. You’re gone. Seeing him so vulnerable—it’s a head rush. Just like watching Price and Kyle work Simon over. You thought you understood before, but now…? You’ll need to call the good Captain for advice.

“You…” John mumbles with a smile lazily stretching across his face, words elongating with a yawn. “You like my project…?”

You brush over a brow, lowering to lay beside him. Your voice cracks along with your heart. “Yeah, baby. I love it. Love you.”

His eyes flutter closed, and he sighs deeply. Sated. That makes two of you.

[ichorai]

i was just a kid ; marc spector.

track one of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; marc spector x vigilante!gn!reader

synopsis ; khonshu wanted you dead. marc just wanted you.

words ; 6.6k

themes ; action, mild angst/fluff, vigilante au, thief au

warnings / includes ; blood/injury, cursing, mentions of human trafficking/sexual assault but not at all graphic, marc is basically chasing after reader for half the fic, we're traveling the world in this fic baby !!! khonshu being Annoying, reader doesn't know marc has DID and thinks he's crazy, a steven cameo !! and one (1) mention of spider-man and daredevil <3

main masterlist.

NEW DELHI, INDIA.

The street market was crowded, bustling with chatty tourists, loud salesmen, and traveling vendors. The air was heavy with the sweet, saccharine smell of fresh mangoes, intertwined with the faintest trace of turmeric, ginger and garam masala from other stalls you hurriedly passed by. You would’ve given anything to stop and try some of the food, if not for the terrifying white-suited fucker hunting you down.

The bleeding cut on your cheek he’d given you from when he threw his crescent-shaped boomerang in your direction throbbed. You’d barely been able to duck away in time. At least here, in the busy street, he couldn’t risk hurting anyone else by striking you long-range. 

At least, you hoped so. You weren’t entirely sure how far this bastard was willing to go to get you. Sure, you’d made a lot of enemies in the past, but, to your recollection, you’d never met any moon-caped supers keen on taking your life before.

You were quick to duck through the tight-knit throng, panic setting in when you realized the market was thinning away—you were near the end of the street, and you no longer had the advantage of cover on your side. 

With agile steps, you sprinted into an alleyway, glancing up the side of an apartment.

Then, you began to climb. You scaled the small grooves in the bricks, expertly balancing your weight just right so you wouldn’t fall. You’d done this a million times before, with much smoother surfaces to climb—after all, that was the bare minimum required of a thief. 

You hauled yourself onto the rooftop, laying low so he wouldn’t be able to spot you from ground level. 

Only—he wasn’t on ground level.

A shadow loomed over you just as you crouched by the rusted air conditioning unit, and you had but a millisecond to roll out of the way before his foot came crashing clean through the metal.

Well, fuck me, he can fly, you wryly thought. 

“Glide!” the man behind the mask gruffed as he grabbed your arm and shoved you against the crumpled AC unit, the searing hot metal digging painfully into your skin. “I glide, I don’t fly!”

“I said that out loud?” you panted with a hoarse chuckle, before quickly twisting and kicking his knee, brandishing a sharp dagger from the utility belt loosely secured around your hips. Up close, his suit appeared to be fashioned from a multitude of bandages, not unlike the cheap mummies from old nineties halloween movies. “Sorry, would it be weird for me to ask why a toilet paper cosplayer is trying to murder me?”

The man offered you no response, only diving forward and landing a good punch to one side of your jaw, which made your vision go blurry with disorientation for a moment. 

There was no way you could best him with strength—you needed to get away from him. 

With quick, nimble fingers, you pulled two smoke bombs from your belt and threw them onto the ground. Large plumes of ashen white immediately ate up the space between you, and he was left blinded for a couple of seconds. You tugged a grenade out a moment later, pulling out the pin with your teeth before tossing it in his general direction and throwing yourself off the opposite side of the building, where you’d spotted a plastic-woven tarp over one of the stalls by the edge of the market.

You’d crashed straight through their booth, fruits and drinks spilling all over the street’s asphalt. The vendors started cussing at you in a language that was foreign to your ears, but you knew they were saying foul things nonetheless. With a groan, you pushed yourself up, ignoring the searing pain that ran down your leg and began running back into the crowd. 

The explosion on the building had blown Marc back several meters, and he cursed beneath his breath as he pushed himself back up. Just as he was about to set back off to track you down, Khonshu’s bellowing voice made him halt in his motions.

“Let them go,” the God rumbled. There was an undertone of mild disappointment that laid stagnant beneath his voice, as if he’d just lost a game rather than a target. “We have more pressing matters at hand. Ammit’s followers are stealing more souls in Cuba.”

Marc’s brow furrowed. “Let them go? You want me to go to Cuba? That’s halfway across the world! I can finish the job, they can’t have gotten too far—”

“We have more pressing matters,” he repeated himself, this time with an edge to his voice. A headache pulsed angrily through Marc’s temple. 

“Why’d you want them dead so bad? This target—that person, were they a follower of Ammit? Huh?” 

Much to his frustration, Khonshu ignored him completely, merely brushing past his avatar. “Go to Havana,” the bird-skull rumbled over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”

And with that, he disappeared.

ASTANA, KAZAKHSTAN.

A final stream of smoke fell from Elena’s lips as she pulled the cigarette away, dropping it into the floor to stub with her boot. She fixed you with a neutral expression as you made your way to her, though the unmistakable affection in her molten brown eyes gave her away. 

“Took you long enough,” she said, glancing at the large black cloak you were wearing. Her demeanor gradually shifted into one of a more somber variety. “Verdict’s been decided. The court decided not to charge—all those police that beat my friends to death… they’re walking away free of consequence. The government’s gone to shit. Everything is more expensive now—riots are breaking out over fuel prices, which means more people are getting killed. Nobody is willing to help anymore.”

You nodded grimly. “What can I do?”

There was a dark glimmer to her eyes as she squared her jaw. “You’re going to help me burn down government buildings. I don’t know how many, but… as many as it takes for them to change.”

A hint of a grin graced your lips as you regarded your past-lover with a nostalgic kind of fondness. “It’s the first time I see you in years and you’re already throwing me headfirst into war.”

She offered you a shrug and a wry smile. “Don’t kid yourself. You live for this kind of shit.”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” you hummed distantly. “Where do we start?”

It was pandemonium. 

Everybody was yelling—the protestors, the police, the civilians watching from the sides, the sparse firemen as they tried to put out the massive, roaring flames that were greedily swallowing the government building in its entirety. You had to admit, you were rather proud of your handiwork—absentmindedly wondering if Elena would be happy with it, as well.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, a foreign hand tightly seized around your wrist and began to drag you back away from the crowd. Your gaze wildly swiveled around in confusion to the man yanking you along, noting his heavy-set furrowed brows and his frustrated scowl. With as much strength as you could muster, you dug your heels into the ground and halted his motion, pulling against him with all your might. He didn’t relent, only staring you down with dark eyes that held the warbling reflections of the fire you set behind you. 

“Who the fuck are you?!” you barked, starting to get more frantic as you fruitlessly attempted to get him to let go of you. 

And when he spoke, it finally dawned on you.

Well, fuck me. It’s that bitch that chased me down in New Delhi. Wonder why he isn’t wearing his super suit… probably not to attract attention like last time. The news was all over him.

“You’re just getting more people killed,” he husked, clearly talking about the fire you’d caused, before brandishing a dark karambit knife, one that you swore gave you a cut just by looking at it. “No wonder he wants you dead.”

Fear wove down your spinal column when the blade poked your lower stomach in warning. “I’m sending a message,” you growled in reply, lips curled over your teeth in a snarl as you bristled. “And what about you? You’re gonna fix the problem by killing me? I don’t even know you! Some hero you are—those people protesting out there? They’re better than you will ever be.”

For a moment, his pupils darted back to the rioting crowd, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features, and you used the short-lived distraction to your advantage. You expertly kicked the knife out of his hand and landed a quick blow square in the center of his face, feeling his nose break beneath your knuckles. 

Not wanting to push your luck—you remembered how fast he was during your last encounter—you gave him one final shove, sending him sprawling into a trash can with a groan and a muffled curse.

By the time he forced himself back onto his feet a second later, you’d already disappeared into the shadows.

Fuck. Khonshu was gonna kill him.

PODGORICA, MONTENEGRO.

Marc still wasn’t sure why Khonshu wanted you dead so badly. Then again, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to Khonshu. 

But he knew one thing for certain—if Marc truly wanted you dead, then you would’ve been six feet under weeks ago. Which meant… he wasn’t actively trying to kill you because he didn’t actually want you dead. All the others that he’d killed for Khonshu felt like they’d deserved it—rapists, abusers, pedophiles… and though Marc didn’t know you very well, he knew you weren’t anything like the people he’d killed before.

Marc didn’t know what he was doing. 

Jaw clenched, he pulled the cap lower down his face, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jeans. He followed not too far behind you, silent as a wraith, watching as you merrily strode down the streets of Podgorica. 

Finally, when you stopped by a little coffee truck to order an iced latte, Marc stepped forward to stand beside you.

For the first minute, you idly tapped away on your phone, smiling down at the screen briefly before pocketing the device. You glanced at him, thinking nothing of the person beside you, assuming they were just another civilian—

Then you froze.

You knew that face.

After all, you’d broken that very same nose less than a week ago. Strange, it looked just fine now. 

Immediately, you hunkered down into a defensive position, backing away from him with quick steps. Then, you ran, sprinting away so quickly that Marc could’ve sworn a trail of dust kicked up beneath your feet.

The man in the coffee truck incredulously yelled out after you, followed by a string of what Marc could only assume was a creative litany of Montenegrin profanity. 

Dropping a few shillings onto the truck’s counter, Marc grabbed your coffee and ran after you, shocked at how far you’d managed to get in such a short amount of time. 

There was no denying that you were a fast runner—but as the old tale went, the quick hare would always get overly confident. You slowed down to a moderate jog when you glanced behind you, Marc nowhere in sight. With a relieved sigh, you turned the corner and slumped against a building, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. 

Damn, you’d kill for that iced coffee right about now.

As if on cue, Marc rounded the corner, catching you by surprise. You were just ready to turn tail and run away again, but his hand shot out and held onto your wrist, not unlike he did in Astana. 

You spewed out a myriad of curses, ranging from calling him an ‘insufferable cucumber-dicked motherfucker’ to ‘smooth-brained, butt-faced swine’, wildly trying to get him to let go of you. If you weren’t violently bucking against him with all the grace of a panicked mare, he would’ve laughed at the creativity of your insults. 

“Stop, I just want to talk!” exclaimed Marc, dodging when you pushed yourself forward to try and wrap your hands around his throat. 

“Last two times I saw you, you tried to kill me!” you breathlessly spat. “Sorry if I don’t quite trust you now!”

“I’m unarmed,” he gritted out, stepping back slightly to allow you to scan your gaze over him. Though you didn’t want to admit it, you knew that if Marc really wanted to kill you, you would’ve been dead long ago. “I just want to ask you a couple things. And look—I brought your coffee!”

A low hiss fell from your lips. “I’m not answering jack shit.”

With that, you lunged forward and shoved him hard—so hard that he stumbled into the jagged brick wall behind him with an oomf. The iced latte sloshed right out of its cup and spilled all over his chest. His head struck painfully against the stone and his vision went blurry for a moment, expression faltering. 

You stepped away, watching him with cautious, narrowed eyes. 

After a long, pregnant pause, the man blinked in a dazed fashion, seeming confused. 

“What? Where am I? What’s going on?” he said, accent suddenly… British. He fixed you with a genuinely miffed gaze, appearing slightly frightened at your withering glower. 

You didn’t stay to answer his question. 

As you were turning on your heel to run away, you faintly heard him mutter to himself, “Where the bloody hell am I?”

Crazy bastard.

VALENCIA, SPAIN.

Your knuckles were split. Blood dribbled down your fist, a mixture of yours and the man whose face you were caving in.

One of your hands was bunched into the collar of his shirt, holding him down as you rained punches on him. The sickening sound of his bones giving way with your strikes didn’t deter you, and you only snarled and hit him again as he blubbered out prayers in Spanish. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his busted lips. 

“Who are you praying to?” you hissed, releasing his collar in favor of wrapping your hand over his throat, squeezing tight. The dull green of his eyes flashed with panic, legs flailing weakly. “The gods will not listen to the likes of you—I’ll make sure of it.”

A strangled wail erupted from him. 

And just as you were about to land another punch, you found yourself being shoved away from the man, and promptly lifted off the floor with the scruff of your shirt collar, shoving you against a wall. You began kicking and twisting blindly, cursing furiously when you saw the man you were beating up scurry onto his feet and haggardly sprint away.

Your struggling was of no avail, and you weren’t at all surprised to see the same person that’s been trying to track you down for months now. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, brows heavily furrowed and dark eyes stormy with anger. “You were about to kill that guy!”

“He deserves it,” you bit out, glaring back at him with just as much intensity. “The fucker’s been stalking a friend of mine and sexually assaulted her daughter.”

There was a beat of silence. Marc’s cross expression seemed to drain away, but he still bore a stern face as he slowly let you go. You slid down the wall and got back onto your feet with a wince. 

“Why have you been following me?” you huffed, dusting off your pants. “You think I don’t know that if you really wanted to kill me, I would be dead by now?”

Marc squared his jaw and leveled his gaze on you. “Someone… close to me wants you dead. I want to know why first—he won’t tell me.”

“Sounds like you shouldn't be all that close to him, then,” you snorted derisively. 

“Not for a lack of trying,” the man dryly replied. 

With a scoff, you stepped forward and wiped your bloody knuckles onto his shirt, leaving a damp trail of darkening crimson. “There’s way too many reasons a person would want me dead,” you whispered, one hand patting his chest. The other trailed down, down, down…

To the high-rise potted plant beside you. You grabbed a fistful of dirt.

“See, he’s not exactly what you’d call a person—”

Before Marc could finish his sentence, you chucked the dirt straight into his face. He inhaled some of the soil and doubled over, pounding on his chest as he coughed it out. With a growl, he frustratedly swiped the remaining flecks of dirt out of his eyes, blearily looking back up. And, to none of his surprise but much of his dismay, you were already gone.

OSLO, NORWAY.

“Why aren’t they dead yet, Marc?” grumbled Khonshu in that grating, gravely tone of his. Even though the God had no eyes, Marc could still feel his stare burning straight through him. 

With a frown, Marc was quick to respond, “Because you haven’t told me why yet.”

“You’ve never needed a reason before—always blindly following my orders,” the bird-skull crooned. “What makes them so different?”

There was a bitter taste to the back of Marc’s throat. What made you so different?

“Because I don’t know if they deserve it, alright?” he retorted, crossing his arms to glare up at the tall figure. “You can’t just expect me to kill everyone who mildly inconveniences you.”

Harrumphing, Khonshu snapped back, “They are naught but an inconvenience—they are a disruption to the very balance of nature. Y/N has taken justice into their own hands, and that is a very dangerous thing for a simple mortal to do.”

Marc cast his gaze away in frustration, pacing back and forth. “But that’s exactly what you make me do.”

“Yes, because you are my avatar,” deadpanned the God. “And Y/N is not. Though, they might as well be because you are being a fool.”

He could feel one of his eyes twitch. There wasn’t ever a conversation Marc could remember where Khonshu didn’t insult him. 

“They’re doing what they think is right,” defended Marc. “They’re not hurting people just for the sake of it.”

“That is not for them to decide!” bellowed the God, which made him step back just a bit. “They have done terrible, unimaginable things in the past—though mistakes some may be—and they will continue to make them. Take a look for yourself.” With that, Khonshu swept his arm out, gesturing to the large bank across the street, large windows giving him a clear view of what was going on inside.

His heart dropped down to his stomach when he saw you. 

You were wearing a mask that covered the entirety of your features, except for your eyes and your mouth. The rest of your body was shrouded with simple, dark clothing, suitable for running. 

And, most notably, you had a gun in your hand, pointing straight at the trembling woman working behind the counter. Your mouth was moving and you gestured with lax, calm movements, despite the explicit terror written across the woman’s face.

Marc’s brow furrowed. Damn it. 

He watched as you snatched the bag of money the woman slowly slid over, and hightailed out of the bank with the gun still gripped tightly in your hand. You ran the opposite way, before disappearing down another block. Glancing over at Khonshu, only to see that he was nowhere in sight, Marc huffed out a sigh and began sprinting after you.

One downside of Oslo was that their buildings weren’t exactly the easiest to climb—which meant that you had to stick to the ground and trust your speed. 

Marc wasn’t as fast as you without his suit, that was for certain. But with his suit—he could glide. 

And so that’s how the white-caped figure dropped straight down in front of you out of seemingly nowhere, which elicited a shriek of surprise from you, nearly dropping the bag out of shock. You had pulled your mask off long ago, shoving it into the knapsack shrugged over your shoulders, along with the gun. 

This clearly wasn’t your first time doing this.

“You,” was what you incredulously breathed out, eyes wide. “You must be obsessed with me or something.”

Not in the mood to play around, Marc growled out, “Why are you doing this? Give the money back. It’s not yours.”

“Who said it was for me?” you countered, upper lip curled in contempt. You tilted your head at him, eyeing his suit with interest, before returning back to your scathing disposition. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this money’s for the small orphanage a couple miles from here. They’re barely getting by with the money the government gives them. I have a kid there I know.”

With bated breath, Marc willed the suit away, leaving him in a dark sweatshirt and a pair of woolen pants. He eyed you suspiciously, still not too sure if he should trust you.

Sensing this, you rolled your eyes and unzipped your bag. “If you don’t believe me—check my gun. It’s blank.” You fished out the small weapon and handed it over to him with the end pointed towards you so he wouldn’t think you were going to shoot him. “No bullets.”

Marc didn’t need to check it—by now he knew you were telling the truth. But he looked into the chamber anyway, finding it void of any ammunition. 

“Can I go now? We both know you’re not going to kill me. The cops will be looking,” you said, voice a bit more gentle than before. He noticed that the anger on your face had melted away, leaving only urgency and another tumultuous emotion that he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

When he offered you no response, finally relenting, you nodded once to him, a glimmer of gratitude behind your irises. And with that, you began running again, effortlessly disappearing into the shadows.

“Fool,” thundered a rumbling growl from somewhere above him. Marc looked up, but the bird-skulled God was nowhere to be found.

COLUMBUS, OHIO.

Damn. Nothing hit harder than classic, greasy, American cheeseburgers with a side of curly fries and a milkshake. You shifted eagerly on the sticky red leather of the booths, shooting the waitress who’d handed you your food a flirtatious smirk and a ten dollar bill, which she took with an equally salacious wink.

You grinned down at your food before taking the first bite into the burger, a muffled noise of content falling from your throat.

“Am I interrupting something?” said a frustratingly familiar voice, the man sliding into the seat across from you. “It sounds like you were just about to have the greatest sex of your life—with a cheeseburger.”

You pointedly glared at him, though it lacked any true heat. After about a dozen deliberately slow chews, you finally swallowed down the food. Marc looked like he wanted to say something else, but you merely held up a finger, slurping on the paper straw of your milkshake. He pursed his lips with a mildly aggrieved look.

Finally, you tilted your head at him. 

“Is there something you want from me?” you asked him casually, reaching to the end of the table to grab a napkin and wipe at the corner of your lips. “Because I’m not in the drug business anymore, if that’s what you’re looking for. Or is it something else, hm?”

It seemed that Marc hadn’t completely thought this through. Sure, he’d planned out what he roughly wanted to say to you, but now that you were right in front of him, he found his tongue running dry. He fumbled for words, fists clenching and unclenching by his knees. 

“I don’t want to kill you. Or hurt you at all, for that matter.”

You scoffed, remembering the instances in which he’d hurt you plenty.

“I just… I want to know your side of the story. I want to know why you do what you do,” he said, a bit quieter. 

For a moment, Marc thought you’d just tell him to piss off. But there was a gradual shift to your features, going from obvious irritation to gentle curiosity. 

“Alright. I’ll cut you a deal,” you said, popping a curly fry into your mouth. “I tell you about my tragic backstory, and you tell me all about this… thing that’s been wanting to kill me. And before I start—I’m gonna need your name. I can’t keep mentally cataloging you as the toilet paper man.”

And for the first time since you met him all those months ago—Marc laughed. It was deep and gratingly genuine, coming from the very bottom of his chest.

“Well, first of all, it’s not toilet paper. It’s the ceremonial armor of Khonshu’s temple. And second, it’s Marc. Marc Spector.”

“Ceremonial armor of whose what now?” you balked. 

A hint of a smile graced the corner of Marc’s lips. “Khonshu—Egyptian God of the moon. I’m his avatar. He’s the one that wanted me to kill you. He called you a disruption to nature—said that you were wrongfully taking justice into your own hands.” As he spoke, the smile began to wane away, and he regarded you in a more serious light. “I want to know why he thinks that.”

You stared down at your plate of fries, stunned. An Egyptian God wanted you dead? You knew you pissed people off, but Gods too?

“And if you don’t like what you hear?” you quietly asked, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Will you drag me out of the diner and strangle me to death?”

Though you could tell he didn’t like saying it, Marc’s face was set in stone when he leveled with you. “I’ll give you a head’s start.”

Another beat of silence. You picked up another fry and popped it into your mouth. The plate slid across the table as you nudged it towards him. 

“Alright, Marc. Settle in, have some fries, order a milkshake—it’s a long story.”

And you told him everything. You told him about your childhood—rumbling stomachs, nimble thieving hands, falling off of buildings when running away from cops. You told him about your teenage years—pulling off heists, brokering deals with gangs, breaking nearly every bone in your body being reckless. You told him about your early adult years—falling in love with Elena, getting more comfortable as a vigilante, as you liked to call yourself, meeting other superheroes and helping out on occasion. Marc seemed to recognize Spider-Man and Daredevil’s names when you mentioned them in passing, his eyebrows arching up closer to his hairline. 

You told him that you now spend your days traveling around the globe helping people. 

By the time you were done spilling your entire life story, your fries and burger were cleanly polished off. 

Marc was silent for a long time, as if unsure what to say. 

“I was in love once, too,” he said in a tentative manner, gaze trained on the table. “Her name was Layla.”

“Oh, yeah?” you curiously said, sipping on the last frothy remnants of your milkshake at the bottom of the glass. “And how’d that work out for you?”

There was a sad glint to his eyes. “Not so good. We’re divorced now.” He cleared his throat before you could press him about it. “What happened with you and Elena?”

It was now your turn to stare out the window in a despondent manner. “Same as you. Except we were never married. My lifestyle was… too much for her.”

Marc nodded in understanding. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of you stared at the glossy table in silence.

“You still in love with her?”

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I love her, yeah—I always will. I’m just not in love with her anymore.”

The man across from you hummed. There was a newfound understanding between you two—unspoken, but the both of you could feel it. 

“Do you still love Layla?”

A ghost of a smile graced his features, but it was gone just as quickly as it came. “Not in the same way I used to. But I do.”

With a final slurp of your straw, your drink glass was emptied. “Seems like we’re a lot more similar than first meets the eye, huh?” 

Marc fixed you with a loose, awkward smile. Without another word, he pulled the bill of his cap lower down his face, and slid out of the booth. It seemed that he wasn’t going to be strangling you tonight. 

You didn’t look back when he walked out of the diner, the bell hooked by the doortop tolling with his departure.

YEKATERINBURG, RUSSIA.

The bird skull was saying something. His bony beak was moving. You could feel the vibrations of his thundering voice beneath your feet. And yet—you had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

You blinked up at the God with wide eyes. 

“Could you repeat that?” you winced out, having not picked up a single word Khonshu had said in the past three minutes. The God grumbled, and somehow glared at you despite having no eyes within his bony skull. Beside you, Marc let out a muffled snort.

“You insolent buffoon,” the bony figure snarled. “Have you not been listening?”

Despite the bristling God in front of you, you found the entire situation to be amusing. “Sorry, it’s just… your head’s really big. It’s kinda distracting. Just paraphrase yourself—I don’t need all the terms and conditions.”

Marc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but he immediately sobered up when Khonshu rounded his pointed beak to him, back straightening. 

“This is a gravely serious matter—!”

“You know what else is serious?” you snapped, pulling your thick woolen coat closer to your quivering body. “Catching hypothermia! Did you really have to pick Russia of all places? We couldn’t have met on a warm beach in the Caribbeans, or something?”

If Khonshu had eyelids, you were sure they would’ve been twitching with repressed agitation by now.

A deep baritone of a sigh fell from the lanky God. He leaned his weight against his crescent-tipped staff, as if willing his own patience to hold steadfast. 

“I said—” he started again, watching you cautiously, “—that I will be letting go of your past sins. But only because my avatar is so keen on you, and because you show a consistent effort to rid the world of evil. However, if you slip up so much as once, I will personally see that to an unkind descent into the afterlife. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal!” you harrumphed, tucking your frigid nose into the collar of your fur coat. “And I did those things to people who deserved it—which is exactly the same as what you do, you bony hypocrite! Can we go inside now?”

The God grumbled something unintelligible, though you suspected it had something to do with your impertinence, and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“You’ll get used to him,” assured Marc, placing a hand on your back to lead you back inside. “He doesn’t get any better but—you’ll get used to it.”

“That’s reassuring,” you dryly responded, teeth beginning to chatter. As soon as the two of you started to walk back to the small little city hotel, you elbowed his side with a playful grin. “So… you’re keen on me, huh?”

Marc gave you an unimpressed look. Snowflakes danced with the wind and landed in his neatly-combed curls. “Khonshu had to believe that I liked you—the last thing he’d want is a sloppy, grieving avatar.”

“Mmh, I don’t know…” you said, tapping your finger against your chin in thought. “He’d probably like that, considering he’s one manipulative son of a bitch. Maybe he just secretly likes me and wants to keep me around.”

“Yeah,” snorted Marc. He halted in his tracks, forcing down a smile. “That, or I blackmailed him.”

Your eyes widened, frost clinging to your lashes and brows. “You blackmailed an Egyptian God?”

“Let’s just say that he’s had a sticky romance with the Egyptian Goddess of love—ironically, she’s one of the few beings that he’s genuinely terrified of. I threatened to get in contact with her avatar if he didn’t absolve you.”

You kicked at a small build-up of snow by the sidewalk, an excited gleam to your irises. “Crazy how even the Gods have petty dating drama to gossip about,” you commented, turning to him. His nose was tinted a faint shade of red from the cold, bits of white frost freckling his hair and his clothes. “Thanks for not killing me, by the way,” you added as an afterthought, fixing him with a warm smile. 

“Just keep out of trouble,” he gently reminded, mirroring your soft grin. The two of you were now standing in front of your dingy little motel—and Marc apparently had something to attend to halfway across the world in Cuba. 

So this was goodbye. 

For now, at least.

Without thinking, you leaned forward to press your cold lips against the warmth of his cheek, the tip of your nose grazing his cheekbone as you laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“Thanks,” you whispered when you pulled away slightly, breath misting into an opaque fog. Marc was regarding you with an expression that bordered on fondness, which was certainly a new look that you found yourself craving for more. “I haven’t really properly talked to anybody in ages so… this was nice. Goodbye, Marc.”

With that, you turned on your heel and headed into the hotel, grateful for the blast of warmth from the overhead heater, though you could still feel Marc’s burning stare bore holes into your back, even as you turned the corner and disappeared from his sight.

ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA.

Blood, everywhere.

Gunshots in the distance.

Snarling men rounding the corner—human traffickers.

Your dagger glinting beneath the hot Ethiopian sun.

A man screaming as you sliced his throat. 

Gurgling.

Red on your hands. On your clothes. On your shoes. 

Two successive punches—one to your stomach, and the other to your face.

Pain blooming beneath your skin.

A fist around your throat.

Squeezing. 

Choking.

Dark spots dancing about your vision.

Your nails clawing into their eyes. 

Air.

Gasping for breath. 

Wheezing.

You desperately parried away another assailant’s knife.

A song of steel against steel.

More gunshots flying every which way.

You dove behind large metal crates. 

Sand in your shoes.

Copper on your tongue.

Crashing. Yelling. Cursing.

Your fingers flexing around the hilt of your dagger.

Bated breath.

You looked around the crate.

Marc fucking Spector.

A ghost of a smile on your lips.

Your name being called out—surprise in his tone.

“Fancy seeing you here!” you shouted.

Marc’s fist curled into one of the traffickers’ collars.

“It’s been a while!” came his mildly amused reply.

A grunt. A punch. A groan of pain.

His white cape fluttered with the wind. 

“You down for a burger or something later?”

You spoke calmly, as if you weren’t currently strangling someone with a long power cord. 

The man fell limp in your hold. 

“Sure—I could go for a burger,” he called out, 

Blood trickled down your nose and grazed your lip. 

You wiped it away with the back of your hand.

The last of the traffickers was struck down with Marc’s crescent boomerang. 

A breath of relief. 

Drenched in blood (most of which was not yours), you made your way to Marc.

“You clean up nice,” he joked.

A roll of your eyes.

“Oh, shucks, Marc,” you simpered with a mischievous grin, dragging a bloody hand down his face once he retracted his mask. 

He grimaced in disgust, but didn’t push you away. 

A laugh fell from your throat, hoarse and echoing.

You looped your aching, bleeding arms with his. 

“Let’s go get that burger.”

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.

“Ow—ugh, Marc, could you go any faster?” you barked through the dirty cloth wedged between your teeth, glaring up at him with watering eyes. You’d endured pain far worse than this, sure, but Marc was taking twice as long stitching you up than when you’d do it yourself. Though, admittedly, whenever you had to patch yourself up, it was a rather shoddy job and often left a much larger, gnarled scar than it would’ve, had you properly taken care of it. 

The man above you shook his head, dark curls hanging loosely over his forehead. “Stop moving and maybe it’ll hurt less,” he replied, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he worked on your stitches. “You know, just because we work together now and I heal quickly doesn’t mean you do, too.”

With a grimace, you tore the cloth from your mouth, chucking it somewhere across the small motel room to freely speak to him. “It was just a mistake,” you replied, nearly doubling over with a strained groan when he punctured the skin of your abdomen with a small needle, where the deep gash resided, one last time. “I timed myself wrong. Happens sometimes.”

Marc let his eyes roam over your exposed skin, brows divoting ever so slightly upon seeing the multiple other scars littering your body. They were memories of your past, and you weren’t ashamed of them. 

“Doesn’t look like it only happens sometimes,” he murmured, tying off his sutures and cleaning off the last bits of flaking, dried blood on your stomach before binding the open wound with thin bandages. 

“You worried about me?”

Marc didn’t spare you a response. He busied himself by putting away the medkit and tossing the discarded, bloodied clothes into the bathroom sink. When he came back to sit on the bed beside you, you had gingerly moved positions so that you were propped up against the creaking bed’s headboard. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” you whispered. “England fucking stinks.”

Marc chuckled, a small smile curling his lips upwards, though you noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

The two of you sat in silence for a while. 

“Thanks for stitching me up,” you told him.

“Thanks for not dying on me,” he replied. His hand sought yours and your fingers laced with his. “I know we’ve only been working together for a month by now, but I’m starting to really like you.”

With one last painful shift, you moved so that your faces were only inches away. You paused when your lips were just a hairsbreadth from his, giving him time to yank you away if need be. 

But he didn’t. 

His lips met yours with a tender sort of sadness, pouring months of frustration and anger into the embrace. A warm hand came up to cradle the back of your head, angling you closer, wary of your newly-stitched wound. 

Forehead resting against his, you gently pulled away, finding solace in the fact that he chased after your lips just a bit, before cracking his dark eyes open. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” he mumbled, gaze darting back down to your parted mouth. 

“Okay,” came your broken reply.

And despite it all, he threw all caution to the wind and kissed you again. Again, and again, and again—far into the night, until the two of you passed out on the stained sheets of the motel bed, limbs intertwined and your nose pressed against his throat, where you could hear the soft thrumming of his heartbeat. 

Unbeknownst to the two of you, Khonshu was hovering on the rooftop, finding himself rather glad that his avatar had finally found someone he could trust—even if that someone was the very bane of his existence. 

“I need a new avatar,” the God harrumphed to nobody but himself, knowing full and well that he wasn’t letting go of Marc Spector and his… counterparts any time soon. 

[daryltwdixon]

The Promise of Us: Chapter 24

You swing your legs off the bike as Daryl cuts the engine, dust rising as you all dismount, heading toward the gates of what looks like an abandoned army base around the grocery store.

“Military came and put these fences up—made it a place for the people to go,” Daryl explains to Bob, his tone steady but a bit gruff. “Last week when we spotted this place, there was a bunch of walkers behind this chain-link.”

“They were keepin’ everyone out like a bunch of guard dogs,” you add.

“They all just left?” Bob asks, sounding doubtful. But before you can answer, Sasha steps closer.

“Give a listen,” she suggests.

In the distance, you can hear music playing from the stereo of a car, and you look at the hole in the fence, smeared with dried walker blood from where they’d pushed through.

Michonne steps up beside you, her eyes assessing. “You drew them out?”

You nod, half of a smile crossing your face. Your gaze shifts to Glenn, who stands off to the side, looking more tired than usual. There’s an unsettled look in his eyes, and you know why—he had tried to convince Maggie to stay behind, feeling like something might go wrong. The thought sends a chill up your spine, and you shift your weight, tightening your grip on your rifle.

Daryl addresses the group, his voice low but commanding. “Let’s make a sweep. Make sure it’s safe, and we’ll come back for more things with more people.”

You follow him as he ducks through the fenceline, your steps cautious but confident. The makeshift army camp is covered in green tarp tents, most ripped open, the ground littered with decaying bodies. You wrinkle your nose at the stench, even after all this time.

Reaching the main doors to the store, Daryl leans against a window, knocking behind him with his elbow. “Just give it a sec.”

You drop down beside him, throwing your legs over his lap as you wait for any sign of movement from inside. You sigh, leaning back against the large window, and catch Zack staring at Daryl with a curious expression.

“Okay, I think I got it,” Zack finally says.

“Got what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Daryl shoots you a warning look, like he’s begging you not to engage. But Zack is persistent, sitting down on the other side of Daryl with a grin.

“I’ve been trying to guess what Daryl did before the turn,” Zack explains, glancing between the two of you.

“He’s been tryna guess for like, six weeks,” Daryl grumbles, his hand resting on your knee as you let out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, Dare, tell us—what were you and I up to before the world went to shit?” you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Zack’s eyes widen. “You two knew each other?”

“Grew up with this knucklehead,” Daryl mutters, but there’s an affectionate squeeze to your leg that belies his rough words.

“Yeah, ‘cause you were all sunshine and daisies,” you retort with a lopsided grin.

Zack continues, unfazed. “Well, I give myself one shot a day with my guesses.”

Daryl shrugs, giving in. “Alright. Shoot.”

He pauses dramatically, gathering himself. “Well, the way you are at the prison—you bein’ on the council, helping people… but you’re still kinda…” grimacing, he shakes his hand in the air, “surly.”

You exchange an amused look with Michonne, who’s leaning against the wall by Zack, clearly enjoying this.

“Big swing here,” he announces, “Homicide cop,”

You and Michonne nearly lose it, trying to stifle your laughter. You press your hand to your mouth to muffle the giggles, while Michonne doubles over, laughing quietly.

Daryl glances between the two of you, frowning with feigned indignation, “Wha’ so funny?” he demands.

“Nothin’,” you manage, catching your breath as you lower your hand.

“It makes perfect sense,” Michonne chimes in, her grin growing wide.

Daryl deadpans, “Actually, the man’s right—undercover.”

Zack blinks, confused. “Come on… really?”

“Yep,” Daryl quips, his face dead serious, “Don’t like to talk about it cause it’s a lotta heavy shit, ya know?” he peers back at you beneath his bangs, a smile ghosting over his features as his eyes meet yours. 

“Dude, come on, really?” Zack repeats, looking incredulous.

Daryl shoots him a look with his head tilted, a smirk across his face, and clears his throat.

Zack finally sighs, defeated. “Okay, I’ll just keep guessing, I guess.”

“Yeah, you keep doin’ that,” you chuckle, your hand squeezing Daryl’s shoulder. Suddenly, a loud pounding sounds against the glass, followed by snarls from inside. Your head turns quickly to see a few walkers pressing against the windows, their ugly decaying faces hungry once they see you. 

“Ready, Detective?” you ask with a grin, throwing your legs off him and standing.

“Let’s do it,” he chirps, and he pulls your face to his before getting up, his lips meeting yours quick and firm. 

As you all ready your weapons at the door, Sasha’s words are firm and authoritative: “We go in, stay in formation for the sweep,” she says, “After that, y’all know what you’re s’posed to be lookin’ for, any questions?” 

You nod, making your way in as Daryl stays at your heels. You hear Tyreese and her go back and forth, teasing each other as brother and sister before everyone makes their way inside to the dark grocery store. 

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

Soon enough, the inside is walker-free, and you all start your rounds around the place for goods you’d been assigned. Pushing a grocery cart almost feels normal, a strange echo of the past as the wheels squeak against the dusty linoleum. You roll up behind Glenn, who’s eyeing a shelf of Polaroid cameras.

You pick one up, exchanging a small, tired smile with him before placing it in your cart. The store is eerily quiet as you move away from him, the only sounds being the squeaking wheels, soft footsteps, and the occasional clink of items hitting the carts. You pass by scattered kids' toys and Halloween decorations, the candy still sitting on shelves like eerie remnants of a world that turned into a real-life horror movie.

The silence shatters with the sudden crash of glass. You spin around, heart jumping, just in time to hear a shelf come crashing down, followed by someone shouting.

Daryl is already moving, and you’re right behind him, beaming your flashlight toward the commotion. Bob is on the floor, pinned beneath a fallen shelf, surrounded by shattered liquor bottles. The smell of alcohol is sharp in the air.

“You alright?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady as you flash the light over the debris. “Cut or anything?”

Bob’s wide eyes lock onto you and Daryl. “Nah, but my foot’s caught,” he mutters, grimacing as he looks down at the wood trapping his leg.

You and Daryl exchange a quick nod before calling over Tyreese and Zack to help lift the shelf.

“What happened?” Glenn shouts from the other side of the store.

“We’re good, we’re in wine and beer!” Daryl shouts back, his voice ringing unnaturally loud in the empty space. The sudden noise sets off a surge of anxiety, making your gut scream for quiet.

All four of you manage to lift the shelf off Bob, but his leg is still wedged awkwardly. Tyreese kneels beside him, assessing the situation. “You lucked out,” Tyreese says grimly. “If this thing had come down on you the wrong way…”

A strange sound from above interrupts him, almost like a soft crumbling. Your eyes snap upward just in time to see pieces of the ceiling give way. You lurch back as debris rains down, and then, to your horror, a walker dangles from the ceiling. Its stomach is torn open, intestines caught in the ceiling tiles, preventing it from dropping fully.

You gag at the sight, instinctively grabbing your rifle and loading it. The walker’s growls are guttural, and it reaches down, trying to grab anything within reach.

“We should, uh, probably go now,” Glenn says urgently from across the collapsed ceiling, Sasha right behind him.

“Bob’s still stuck,” Daryl barks, his voice sharp. “Get him outta there!”

“We’ll get the others,” Michonne says, her hand already on the hilt of her katana. But before she can move, more walkers start falling through the ceiling, each one landing with a sickening thud. Your adrenaline spikes as more of the dead rain down, some of the walkers breaking apart on impact, others snapping limbs as they hit the ground. The sound of them falling through the ceiling rings in your ears, their snarls filling the air as they take notice of all of you and make their way hungrily.

You fall back, trying to keep your distance from the chaos, but then you spot Glenn on the ground. Two walkers are on top of him, and you don’t hesitate. Dropping your rifle, you pull out your knife, slamming it into the temple of the one on his leg. Glenn manages to bash the head of the other, and you reach down, yanking him up.

“Come on!” you shout, and the two of you sprint through the store, dodging falling debris. Slivers of sunlight cut through the darkness, guiding your path. Your eyes catch Daryl’s form across the way; he’s standing on crates, firing down at the advancing walkers.

The creaking above gets louder, and your stomach drops as you glance up to see something massive above you. Your eyes widen as you realize what it is—a crashed military jet, barely supported by the weakened ceiling.

“Daryl!” you scream, panic tightening your throat.

He snaps out of his focus, spotting you and the danger above. Without hesitation, he jumps off the crates, making his way toward you. You grab his shoulder, pushing him toward the exit as more gunshots echo and people shout.

Zack is at the shelves where Bob is still trapped, stomping a walker’s skull just in time. He lifts the last piece of shelving, and you reach down to pull Bob free. He’s soaked in liquor, smelling strongly of alcohol but still alive.

“Let’s go! Now!” Daryl yells, urgency clear in his voice.

You’re moving fast, but a sudden scream makes you whip around. Zack is struggling in a walker’s grip, and before you can react, he falls. You start to surge forward, but Daryl’s hand clamps down on your arm, holding you back.

“Zack!” you scream, but he’s already being dragged down, the walker sinking its teeth into his neck. Blood sprays as it tears away flesh, and the sound is sickening. Daryl’s grip tightens as he pulls you away, his voice raw. “We gotta go!”

You stumble, tears blurring your vision, but you finally turn and follow the others. Just as you make it out of the section, the ceiling collapses completely, the fighter jet crashing down and crushing everything beneath it.

The sound of metal and concrete slamming into the ground is deafening, drowning out the last of Zack’s screams.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

Later on, you make your way through the darkened halls of the cell block, your hand loosely entwined with Daryl’s. Your eyes are downcast, the weight of the day’s events heavy between you. When he stops outside one of the cells, he turns to face you, gently lifting your joined hands. You’re heading over to Beth’s cell then, where you have to break the news to her about the person she refused to say goodbye to.

“I’ll do it,” he says quietly, his fingers grazing the side of your face. You look up at him, seeing the pain etched deep into his features—pain mixed with the silent acceptance of the burden he’s taken on. His duty, his responsibility.

You nod slowly, your chest tight, and lean in, pressing your forehead against his. For a long moment, the two of you just breathe, taking what comfort you can from the closeness. You feel the warmth of his breath, the subtle roughness of his skin.

Finally, you step back, letting your hand slip from his grasp. You turn and make your way toward the old warden’s office that’s become your space. As you reach the stairs, you glance back. Daryl stands in Beth’s doorway, shoulders tense, his head slightly bowed. You can hear the low murmur of his voice, words too soft to make out.

You linger for a heartbeat longer, then turn away, retreating into the solitude of your room.

[littledeathh]

Prompt: abandoned by Mohg

The jewel of the Dynasty.

Varré writhed at your feet. You'd dropped him like a sack of potatoes and now he was lying in fetal position just before the cocoon of the Empyrean.

"Oh, Luminary Mohg..."

You nudged his head with your boot to better gaze upon his Lord.

"Please grant the strength... you promised. I have given... Everything..."

Rage beyond what he'd ever imaged humans were capable of boiled beneath his white mask, but he ignored you.

"Please... My Lord... Please? ...Luminary Mohg..."

He was absorbed in prayer.

A powerful shardbearer, holding the runes of several demigods. Varré had eyed your weakness. Him. If he played his cards right, he could have brought in the single most powerful asset to the Mohgwyn Dynasty.

He became intimate with you, despite his rule of thumb not to get too tangled with the Tarnished he recruited. Most would've lost themselves to bloodlust before long anyway.

He may have brought you to the edge and touched you, but he knew, your allegiance was with him foremost. And not his Lord.

Yet, when he injected his Lord's blood into you, you weren't overcome by bloodlust. This posed a problem. Your self-interest, your identity, remained.

You later learned he'd swiftly returned to the Dynasty Mausoleum, awaiting you to succumb, and didn't bother seeking you out further.

He gently let go of your hand. Nothing at stake.

'You have the sweetest scream. My lambkin...'

The touch of his fingers seemed to linger. A sweet smile graced his sleepy eyes, the only genuine one you'd seen on him.

But there was no goodbye. No message.

His final words echoed in your mind.

'One day you will be elevated, deservedly! Basking — in love. ...Right, my lambkin?'

'He he he.'

From under his breath, he laughed at you.

Your "shining ray of hope", mocking you from the very beginning.

But when you approached the dark corridor, the red hue of your eyes had long vanished.

"Oh dear. A pity it's come to this. My lambkin..."

His heel clicked against the stone as he took a single step forward, out of the deep shadow.

He sneered, voice clear.

"What business does a maidenless wretch like you have here? Did you come seeking violence upon learning my esteemed position, under Luminary Mohg?"

"...You disappoint me." His voice quickly turned dispassionate. "Well, no sense in sparing your life now. I'll take pleasure in ensuring you regret this."

You crouched down and peeled the mask off him. He limped pathetically, averting his eyes. He looked as if he was a puddle of red stuck to your boot.

He made the effort to turn his head to the side to shield his face, despite the light fading from his eyes. He was curled up, his arms uselessly covering the red blossoming on his tarp, gathering into a dark pool.

You probed his chest. His hands were cold.

You balanced the weight of his surprisingly heavy head against your palm, trying to avoid grabbing him roughly by the jaw. Your fingers dug into his soft lips, contorting his eyes into a disgusted expression. He wanted to bite your finger off, but an imaginary wall firmly stopped him from making the move. Even making small groans of pain was taking a toll on him.

With your other hand, you pressed the cold rim of the smooth glass flask to his parted lips, tipping over a small stream of crimson tears against his teeth.

He shuddered, deepening the wrinkles on his tired, aging face. You fingertips pressed back into his lip, and he swallowed.

"I'm going to murder you."

In an instant, he had lunged at you, obscuring the light as he pinned you roughly, grabbing painfully at your wrists as if trying to tear you open with his nails. He could've been foaming at the mouth.

His eyes bore into you, just empty pits now, too dazed to even strangle you.

You grit your teeth.

"No, you won't."

The Great Rune loomed over your head, painting your vision red, showering you in blood. The blessing of the Formless Mother.

Varré's scowl cracked and let out a squeal of madness, clawing his scalp in despair, before pushing you into the ground and slamming your head against the rock as many times as he could muster.

His breath was heavy, whimpering beneath his fingers.

"Oh, Luminary Mohg..."

He wanted to crack your skull, but all he managed was a stream of bitter tears, the tension in his diaphragm pushing out wave after wave of viscous blood.

There were no words to exchange. Feeling sorry for him felt crooked, but pushing him just to see how his Lord discarded him may have been too cruel.

His sobs ran out, loosening old blood encrusted upon his gloves into red streaks on his face as he wiped his tears away.

Bloodshot eyes, blubbering sallow cheeks, without even his mask to shield him. You had never seen him quite so pathetic and broken.

His wailing stopped and a leaden silence fell over his breathing.

"You wretched whore."

He was fixed upon your eyes.

"Is this what you'd kill Luminary Mohg for? This?"

His dead eyes approached your face, half lidded and puffy, dark with grief and years of planning, brought to a halt. You think he knew what he implied.

"Well. I have no words left for you."

A lifeless sigh. "You have brought me to the end of the road..."

His messy hair obscured his eyes, keeping still as a statue. You took care not to touch him as you tilted your face outwards, closing the distance between your lips. For once, it felt raw and human, feeling the softness of his lips and the tingle of his jaw.

He had no verve left to oppose you and stayed quiet, melting into the kiss.

You pulled back. Varré betrayed nothing. He swiftly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

In a ghostly motion he picked up his mask and slipped it under his veil, and finally he looked at you. A dull glance.

He dusted himself off as he got up and shuffled his pockets, pulling out his Pureblood Knight's Medal. With his Lord gone and his plans brought to a standstill, he had little reason to stay here much longer.

Varré glanced at the Empyrean and wondered if it had all been for nothing.

With his back turned to you, he lightly cocked his head in resignation.

"Varré, wait..."

He gripped the medal in his fingers. You truly had some cheek. He turned, blank-faced.

"What is it?"

You wanted to apologise, but the insincerity stopped the words from coming out.

"...Where are you going?"

"Back to my world – obviously..." The words dripped in snark. "What could I possibly be doing here, when you've decided to kill the very person you'd pledged allegiance to?" Your lips pursed.

"I am going back, to my world. To worship Luminary Mohg."

Oh... Of course he would. Hubris overtook you and allowed you to think you could pry him away from his Lord, if only you killed him. But you merely cut Varré off from yours.

You suddenly realised that his objective wasn't necessarily to worship Mohg, but to spread his word to other Tarnished, in their worlds.

It clicked that his plan was to spill all blood for the Empyrean, including that of other Bloody Fingers. Nerijus, Eleonora, the Sanguine Nobles had all attacked you in their invasions.

Everyone under Varré was a labourer.

[uk-tarpaulins]

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[jesterwriting]

JESTER MY DEAREST !!! I am SO excited for you that you've hit 200 followers, you absolutely deserve them AND MORE !!

If I may please request for your milestone event, Law with G/N or AFAB Reader with Dangerous Thing 😭😭😭💖💖💖 IF POSSIBLE, thank you sm for everything you do, you are integral to this fandom 💖💖💖💖💖

Congrats again you wicked awesome mofo 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

pairings: mad scientist!law x assistant!reader

word count: 2.2k words

contents: DARK CONTENT AHOY!! reanimator au, modern au, dead bodies, desecrating graves, manslaughter, codependency, unhinged!law, gore, horror elements, toxic relationships, quick mention of experimentation on animals

note: HAIII MANDIE <33 TYSM IM SO EXCITED :33 okay so. i had reanimator on the brain when i listened to a dangerous thing to start planning this request and got absolutely POSSESSED. this is definitely very spooky, even though halloween is over. i hope you enjoy <33

playlist: a dangerous thing - aurora

“Something about you is soft like an angel, and something inside you is violence and danger. I knew from the moment we met, you are a dangerous thing.”

written for 200 followers event!!

How did it come to this?

Dirt was everywhere; in your shoes, between your fingernails, in your hair. You sighed and shook your head, watching a few chunks crumble to the ground. Setting your shovel to the side, you hefted your wheelbarrow up, and wheeled it inside. It was heavy thanks to the corpse that weighed it down. Dead weight was easier to manage in your head, especially when it was already stiff with rigor mortis.

Even underneath the tarp, you could almost see its glassy eyes staring up at you. Law would tell you that you were being illogical. It wasn’t even alive, how could it bother you? What you should really be afraid of was the inevitable rampage it’d go on if he didn’t strap it down before administering his reagent. Something about being dead really made one grumpy when they woke back up again. Maybe there was an afterlife, and it was just that good that people were furious when they woke up, half rotted, in a random man’s basement.

To be entirely honest, you couldn’t blame them for being pissed off when in Law’s presence. He seemed to have a knack for that.

A bit of anxiety wormed its way into your gut, squirming uncomfortably. Desecrating graves was not your favorite way to spend your Saturday, but when Law caught wind of an untimely death on the news, his mind was working a mile a minute. It was suffocation, no damage to the body, only a lack of oxygen to the brain. In his words, it was the perfect corpse for reanimation. It was a shame he had to wait for the body to be buried before he could get his hands on it, Law would have preferred it to be fresh.

“I’m home,” You called once you crossed the threshold, unsurprised when you got no response. You had been living with Law for six months now. Moving in had been his idea. If you were going to be his assistant, it was better to have you close, and you, so blinded by your infatuation for him, agreed readily.

The wheelbarrow squeaked as you pushed it further into the living room, down the hall, and then down the basement stairs where Law waited. His laboratory was brighter than necessary. He installed fluorescent bulbs into the light fixtures to mimic a hospital setting. You didn’t know why he felt this was so important, if you had to guess, maybe it made him feel more professional while he carved into the corpses you brought home. They were mostly animals, though on the occasion, like now, the two of you got lucky enough to host human subjects.

The room stank of blood, rot, and chemicals. You wrinkled your nose, carefully maneuvering your charge down the concrete steps. Law barely spared you a glance, looking up from his microscope before he slipped on his lab coat and covered his tattooed hands with rubber gloves. You quickly followed suit. He could be impatient at times, especially when he was excited to get started, and you would rather not get snapped at so late at night.

“This is the right one?” Law pulled back the tarp to get a good look at the body. It was dressed in a suit, arms crossed over its chest. He gave it a once over, searching for any signs of damage from the trek over, thankfully finding none. “You did well, thank you.”

Your heart swelled under the rare praise, a warm blush heating your cheeks. “I sure hope it's the right one because I’m not digging up another grave tonight.”

“You will if I ask you too,” Law said, and you didn’t bother to argue because you knew he was right. You were weak when it came to him.

No words were spoken as you worked in tandem with each other. Law linked his arms under the body’s armpits and you grabbed it by the ankles, heaving it onto the metal table. Its limbs were stiff, locked in one position. When it was reanimated, there was a significant chance it wouldn’t be able to move. Neither of you wanted to take that chance, though. Not again, at least. A black eye and a concussion were enough to keep the two of you sticking to protocol from then on.

Law left you to strap it down to dig through the refrigerator for his reagent, a green fluid glowing under the fluorescent lights. You couldn’t get its arms uncrossed, so you focused on buckling the leather straps across its waist, legs, and forehead. The dead were strong, abnormally so. If you weren’t careful, the corpse would break free and end up destroying the lab. Then, you’d be stuck living with a pissed off Law for the next month. Which you would rather not deal with. He was already cold, but whatever slivers of softness that shone through would dissipate completely.

Once you were done, Law filled the syringe with his reagent, flicking it a few times to rid it of air. He tilted the corpse’s head to the side to get access to the brainstem, then shoved the needle into the base of its skull. You watched the reagent leaked into its brain, and waited for the inevitable. No matter how many times you watched reanimation happen, you could never rid yourself of the sick feeling in your gut.

First, its fingers twitched. It was a barely noticeable movement, fingertips barely lifting off the table. Then, its eyes shot open, bloodshot and angry. Its back arched off the table as it fought against the restraints, mouth open in a soundless scream. You heard a pop, and watched its jaw unhinged, a horrible wail finally echoing through the enclosed space. Blood poured from the corners of its mouth onto the floor.

Bile rose in your throat, threatening to spew across Law’s pristine laboratory. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened. You had hosed the remnants of your dinner into the drain in the middle of the floor along with bits of viscera on previous nights.

Law sighed and crossed his arms. “I knew this one wouldn’t be fresh enough for any new data.”

Still, he performed his usual duties, checking for pupil dilation, recognition of its name, and other signs of life before he flopped into his chair and scribbled furiously into his notebook. All the while, the corpse screamed. If this kept up, your neighbors would complain again and you would have to deal with placating Law’s landlord again.

As his assistant, you took care of most day to day duties. When it came to the dead, Law was in his element. With the living, however, he was lost. That was where you came in. You knew he needed you, almost as bad as you needed him. Without you, he would have been arrested months ago, though he only showed his pleasure through pats on the head or the occasional softening of his eyes. It was better than anyone else ever got from him.

It made you feel special.

“You’re still here?” Law looked up from his notebook, golden eyes focused on you. He stood and ruffled your hair, a hint of fondness in his gaze. “Go get some rest, I’ll clean up once I finish with my notes.”

“Shouldn’t you… you know?” You gestured to the corpse convulsing on the table. “It’s making a lot of noise, and I really don’t want to deal with the landlord tonight.”

Almost on cue, the front door slammed open. Your landlord had a key to the house, one he threatened to use on more than one occasion if he got any more noise complaints. You guessed this was the final straw.

It wasn’t until the stomping footsteps got closer to the basement did the reality of your situation hit. There was a man in your house who was going to discover you and the man you loved standing next to a reanimated corpse that would not stop fucking screaming. You would never see Law again. At least, not with you both in prison. You kicked the metal table in frustration, hoping the gesture would shut the corpse up. It did nothing but cause a loud bang and draw your landlord closer.

“Feel better, Y/N-ya?” Even though his tone was condescending, there was a glimmer of panic in Law’s expression.

If he put the corpse down now, your landlord would still find you with a dead body strapped to a medical table. There was no way to win in this situation. Unable to think straight through the haze of adrenaline, you decided it would be best to drive a scalpel into the back of its head, silencing it permanently yet again.

You hoped it would be able to find peace.

“Shut up, Law.” You rushed past him, hoping to beat your landlord to the stairs, only to see him standing in the doorway.

He marched down to meet you, his face twisted in rage. “You're lucky I don’t call the damn cops. How many times have I warned you to keep your sick sexual activities to yourself?”

Your landlord made it about halfway into the basement before he froze, eyes trained on the now quiet corpse. His mouth flopped open. Law was shaking, genuine fear apparent on his face. You had never seen him afraid, and it made you hate your landlord for ruining everything. There wasn’t much you had in life except for Law. You didn’t know what you would do if you lost him.

Time seemed to slow down. You watched your landlord turn on his heel, prepared to run back upstairs. On all fours, you lunged forward and wrapped your fingers around his ankle, yanking him down the steps. He collapsed inward, his forehead bouncing off the concrete with a loud ‘crack!’ You could smell the blood before you saw it, the man’s body crashing down towards you. Flattening yourself to the floor, your landlord’s weight crushed you before he reached the bottom. This time the back of his head slammed against the far wall, leaving behind a bloody stain. If you looked closely, you could see chunks of skin, hair, and brain matter in it.

“Is he dead?” It didn’t sound like it was your voice talking.

Law’s terror was replaced with barely contained excitement as he examined your landlord. First, he checked his radial artery, then his carotid. When he turned to you, a smirk firmly in place, your blood ran cold.

“He’s dead,” Law confirmed.

You couldn’t stop shaking. “I-I didn’t mean to.”

Placing his palms against your face, Law’s eyes were unwavering. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles into your cheekbones. “You did good. This is the freshest body I could have hoped for, aside from killing one myself. Now, I can get the results I need.”

So cold. You were so cold. Unable to keep from shivering, you curled your knees up to your chest. Law pressed a recorder into your hands and gave you a smile that would have been reassuring if it wasn’t for the grim mania settled in it.

“I need you to record.” Your fingers pressed the button of their own accord and Law patted your head as praise.

“Administering my reagent now,” He said. Just as before, Law tilted your landlord’s head so he had access to the brainstem before injecting him with the green fluid.

“Five seconds, no response.”

It was so quiet, you could hear your own heart pounding.

“Ten seconds, no response.”

You saw a fingertip twitch upward. Law must have seen it too because his grin was a gash across his normally stoic features.

“Fifteen seconds, reanimation begins.”

Your landlord howled, body convulsing and twisting. Before you could blink, he punched Law in the mouth, sending him reeling. Blood trickled from his split lip as he scurried away. When he saw you, still hyperventilating on the steps, he tossed his lab coat over your landlord’s head and crawled in between you and the rampaging corpse.

Your landlord roared, halfway between a scream and a sob. You were scared he would continue his rampage like other subjects. To your surprise, he curled himself into the corner, rocking back forth as he cried. Distantly, you decided he had the right idea. All you wanted to do right now was cry.

Law made his his up the stairs to you and wrapped his arms around your shoulders. He was chuckling while he cradled you against him with bloodied hands. His fingers left deep red smears across your face as he wiped away your tears.

“You’re in shock, but I need you to do one more thing and then I’ll take care of you, I promise.” He gently took the recorder from your hands and replaced it with his cellphone. “Call the authorities and tell them we were attacked in our home. The basement was off limits and we found this. Tell them that our landlord went crazy and attacked us.” When you gave him a shaky nod, he pressed his forehead against yours. Repeat it back for me.”

“Found something weird in our basement. Wh-When we asked, our landlord snapped and attacked us.”

Law’s eyes softened. “Good enough.”

It was a lucky thing for Trafalgar Law that you always did as you were told.

[kestalsblog]

MerStan Part 2 🧜‍♂️

Part One

For those of you who liked my Merman Stan drabble from a while ago, I wrote a little more 🙈 I just love mermen too much!

Eric never really knew how any of the wild bullshit that went down in South Park happened, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to spend his Saturday night hurtling down the highway in Kenny’s truck with a kidnapped merman in the back. This was the definition of “everything was a blur.” Kyle was shouting hysterical orders at Kenny in the front seat, Kenny was swerving in and out of traffic in an attempt to dodge any police cars, and Cartman was in the backseat trying to look to the rear to make sure the merman was okay.

Kenny hadn’t been thrilled about filling the back of the truck with water, but it had been the only way to guarantee the merman’s safety during the chaotic drive from the restaurant back to Kenny’s place. Cartman was more concerned about the giant plastic tarp they’d been forced to strap over the merman’s makeshift pool in an attempt to hide him from other drivers.

“If we get arrested, I’m so killing all of you, starting with you, fatass!” Kyle shrieked when Kenny took a violently sharp turn that had the wheels squealing on the tar. But Cartman knew Kyle well enough to guarantee he was probably at least a little high off the adrenaline right now. The rescue had partially been his idea, after all, and he’d been the one to take out the security cameras while Eric and Kenny worked on destroying the glass.

Carrying the frightened merman had been the most difficult part because he’d panicked as soon as he saw Kenny’s glass cutter and realized all the water was spilling from his tank. He’d thrown himself toward the bottom of the tank in a desperate attempt to flatten his body under the draining water, and Cartman knew they had to work fast.

It would have been faster, though, if the merman wasn’t so heavy. Despite his lithe torso, his tail added what felt like a billion pounds to his weight. Slipping all over the flood of water and stumbling in the darkness of the closed building hadn’t helped.

Eric worried some that the merman would become aggressive once in their arms; he wouldn’t have blamed him. But instead he just shook all over and inhaled terrified, gasping breaths while his big eyes opened and then shuttered over and over. His loud, ragged struggle to breathe was awful to listen to, and even in the dark, Eric could see his gills widening. He’d told Kenny to haul his ass faster. They had to get him to the truck they’d filled with hose water.

Now they were turning into Kenny’s driveway, then the garage, and all four of them were scrambling to open their car doors and check on the merman’s condition. Eric was certain they were equally worried that he might not have survived the journey.

Everyone released a breath when Kyle pulled back the tarp and they saw the merman, staring at them with his head half underwater, corralled into the furthest corner. Getting his massive tail to fit had been a challenge, and Eric’s heart hurt some seeing how he’d been forced to curl the elegant tailfin into brutally small dimensions to stay hidden.

“Go start the bath,” Cartman barked at Kenny because why the hell were they all just standing around when the merman looked petrified and uncomfortable?

“The bath or the hot tub?” Only Kenny was ridiculous enough to have a full-sized hot tub in the center of his house.

“The hot water might be too hot. He came from cold water originally,” added Kyle.

“You think I’d buy a cheap hot tub where I can’t control the temperature?” “Oh, shut up! Just go get it started. He’s in pain,” snapped Eric.

“Wow, never thought I’d see the day when Eric’s the one to remember empathy first,” sneered Kyle while Kenny jogged off to prepare the hot tub.

“Only when it concerns a hot guy!” he shouted from inside. Eric flipped him two birds he couldn’t even see.

“Don’t worry,” Kyle said, turning his attention to the merman with a softened tone. “We’re going to get you out of there.”

They hadn’t thought anything past this point through yet, but Eric was thankful they were at least all on the same page about putting an end to the merman’s suffering. He was a deathly silent creature while he watched them. The darting motion of his pupils was the only noticeable movement, though Cartman noticed that if he focused closely, he could see the rapid jitters of his gills and fins.

For all the merman knew, he was about to face something much worse than what he’d already experienced. His opinion of humans couldn’t be too high. Eric hated to think they were accidentally triggering his trauma of being caught in the first place, but sometimes you had to get a little worse to get better.

If the merman understood English, he would’ve tried to explain, but there was no indication he had an idea what any of them were saying.

“Water’s ready!” Kenny called, and a few minutes later, he reappeared to help with the arduous chore of unloading the merman and carrying him to the hot tub. “I need an eternal nap after this,” he muttered.

After a difficult, awkward struggle, Kenny took the merman from under the arms while Kyle and Eric took on the tail together. This time, the merman fell limp and closed his eyes, but Eric could see where he was clearly trying to regulate his breathing as they moved through the doorway. Obviously he’d learned from last time that hyperventilating out of water only cost him more precious oxygen.

Cartman could practically feel his relief when the three of them dumped him into the water. Immediately, he dunked his head and disappeared from view. Thank God Kenny had a fairly big hot tub, but Eric noticed how the merman was determined to keep his long tail underwater even though he’d have more room if he let it flop freely over the side of the tub.

“What do we feed him?” asked Cartman. Surely the poor guy was starving by now. They had no idea when he’d last been fed.

“Uh, I have some of those fish flakes you give pet fish,” said Kenny. Kyle’s objection was quick and harsh.

“He wouldn’t be eating that out in the wild, would he? We need to replicate his natural diet as best as we can. He probably eats other, smaller fish.”

“I might have some sushi?” Kenny went to look while Eric and Kyle stood at the edge of the hot tub, staring down and waiting for the merman to reemerge.

“He really is beautiful,” murmured Kyle after a moment, and Cartman glanced over to see how his eyes were following the subtle motions of the merman’s flickering tail underneath the surface. Every now and then, Eric saw the faint blue glint of his scales catching Kenny’s dim overhead lights.

“Guys, all I have is some uncooked shrimp I planned to fix next week,” Kenny said, reappearing with a disappointed expression and a plastic container full of the shrimp. As soon as he peeled the lid off, the top half of the merman’s head resurfaced. His water-colored eyes targeted the shrimp, and then he lifted his entire head and shoulders.

“Maybe he smells it,” whispered Kyle with excitement. The three of them were like schoolchildren who’d just discovered a hungry, needy kitten on the outskirts of the playground. Every movement was careful, every word spoken in hushed breaths. When Kenny slowly peeled out a shrimp, both Eric and Kyle glared when he was a bit too loud with the task and the merman withdrew slightly.

“Should I just . . . toss it in the water?” asked Kenny.

“Let me try handing it to him. I want him to trust us,” offered Cartman. He also selfishly wanted a closer look at the merman, though he wasn’t too surprised when he took the shrimp, came closer, and the merman, watching his every move, retreated to the other side of the hot tub. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He tried to make his voice smooth and comforting. Again, it felt like speaking to an injured animal. He hoped he wasn’t demeaning. The merman didn’t exactly seem like an animal.

Cartman extended his arm to hold out the shrimp, and the merman straightened up like the water was electric. Eric smiled when he saw how his nostril’s expanded as he sniffed out the shrimp’s scent on the air.

Either Kenny or Kyle gasped behind him when the merman slowly drifted from one side of the tub to the other. He inched closer to Eric, struggling to maneuver the tail as he went. Cartman wholeheartedly expected him to take the shrimp with his hand, so he was stunned to near-paralysis when the merman craned his long, pretty neck forward and gently accepted the shrimp from his fingers with his teeth.

His teeth were much like a human’s he saw, but maybe slightly sharper. Cartman couldn’t resist a shudder when the severe edge of one grazed his fingertip, followed by the caress of a petal-soft lip and the warm touch of his tongue. It all happened so quickly that Eric was still trying to recover from the interaction while the merman zipped backward away from him, sinking into the depths with his cheek stuffed full of shrimp.

“S-Should we give him more?” asked Kyle, clearing his throat. Eric forced his frozen head to move to look at his friends and saw they were equally as captivated. “Uh, I can try giving him this one,” Kyle said next.

“No way!” said Eric. “It’s my job to feed him. You can clean out the water.”

“Oh my God, it’s not like we’re keeping him here forever,” Kenny interrupted them. “But someone’s gotta feed the poor guy.”

The merman saw Kenny open the container again, and his head popped back up. This time it was followed by the flowing ends of his tailfin, which giddily slapped the water a couple of times. Looking closer, Eric saw that his eyes appeared marginally different than before—the pupils were smaller, almost thin and predatory, as he watched the shrimp pass between their hands. Somehow even this feral look only added to his beauty.

Before Kyle could steal his glory, Eric offered another shrimp to the merman. This time he lunged forward, a cold hand clamping around Cartman’s wrist in seconds. Eric cried out in surprise, almost dropping the fish. Both of his friends came to his sides in case he needed help, but the merman didn’t attempt to hurt him. He simply held him in place as he strained his mouth toward the shrimp between Eric’s fingers.

The merman’s fingers, enclosing his whole wrist, were long and surprisingly strong. Eric could feel the cold webbing between them, which was somewhat gelatinous to the touch. A cold, jellylike substance wasn’t exactly what Eric would think of as appealing, but somehow right now, it was. But nothing compared to when the merman sunk both his lips over Cartman’s fingers to take the snack into his cheek again. Still grasping Eric’s wrist, he pulled back to slice the shrimp to quick slivers with his sharp teeth and swallow.

Eric might as well have become gelatin himself when the merman, seemingly not done with the beloved flavor, covered his fingers with his mouth again and licked them clean. His skin was almost freezing, but his mouth was burning hot.

And then, just like that, he was done with his meal and done with Eric. He flashed the wild eyes up to him for a brief instant and then dropped his head under the surface so all any of them could see was the iridescent black wisps of his hair bubbling about his head.

“Oh God,”  someone said after a moment—Eric had no idea who.