#its becoming muscle memory drawing NiGHTS now

[kipcube]

love this thing. the creature

[seraphicsentences]

all mine (pt.2)

closeted/in denial abby anderson x reader

pt.1: you told me your new man don’t make you nut, that’s a damn shame.

please click here!

tags: sub!abby, dom!reader, experienced!reader, mentions of owen, tbh trauma from owen, strap-on sex, cunnilingus, 69ing, dry humping, grinding, nonexplicit masturbation, lowkey voyeurism+exhibitionism ish? there’s plot i swear.

A/N: im well aware that i apologize in every post i make and that its redundant, but im still sorry that i took forever to write.

so. some of this may sound a little familiar from the first part, but it’s simply just drawing parallels between abby’s and your stances on one another.

this gets gradually worse and worse. i think the quality started landsliding once i reached the smut. enjoy!

it’s been near ‘round a week later, and abby’s avoiding you like the fucking devil. in fact— by the way she’s been acting, you think she might even believe so. she’s never felt so inexplicably thrown off. clickers, bloaters… couple of well-aimed shots and they’re no deal. but you? the ghost of your touches haunt her day and night. she’s like a woman possessed. and she’s insatiable.

her once weekly visits to the chapel have become daily: hour-long stays spent on her knees, prayers whispered hastily under her breath, eyes darting to paranoically try to catch potential eavesdroppers.

even owen, the air-headed asshole, has been left victim, or perhaps victor, to the effects of your actions. in a desperate attempt to ease her whirling mind, or rather, to ease the painful throbbing between her thighs, abby’s seemed to have turned to her boyfriend as a last ditch effort.

abby’s newfound flood of arousal, pooling and pleading, only to be met by owen’s two incher every night have had his ego blowing up fucking obnoxiously.

“god, abby, you’re fuckin’ desperate for my dick lately,” he’d gloat, hilariously blind to his girlfriend’s infidelity.

unfortunately for abby, her pathetic resorts have done nothing to quiet the moaning mess of guilt-filled memories. if anything, they’ve done quite the opposite.

she’s been left to the mercy of her palm, heel of it digging into her clit while she’s beside the sleeping figure of owen, straining every massive muscle in her body to give her that orgasm she so badly needs.

it’s to no avail, though. stuck gasping and tearing up against a pillow, her poor pussy crying for some semblance of relief. and what’s left is a week-long edged abby anderson, ms. “top soldier”, who’s back to shooting no better than a freshly new recruit.

what’s up with that, hm?

~

2am now, in the isolated west dormitory’s showers, and abby’s at it again. her body starving for your touch; your sinful, corrupting, addictive touch, and she’s failing to appease her needs once more.

“mmph- fuck, ah-please,” abby begs into her forearm, groaning as two thick fingers plunge deep into her sopping hole, thrusting in and out messily.

it’s exhausting to fuck the way you do. even with her arms the impressive size they are, it’s impossibly demanding to reach every nerve you had reached, filthy sounds echoing along the tile walls, taunting her.

abby knows what’s coming, or really, the lack of it.

skin pink from the heat of the water, she abandons her effort, shutting the stream off with a squeak and ventures the locker room to get dressed for the night.

her mind wanders to you— that’s all it ever seems to do as of recently, and she thinks about how she almost misses your antics. she can’t place her finger on what it is exactly about you that makes her chase every teasing interaction so masochistically.

maybe it’s your lopsided smile that lures her in, or that glint in your eye she gets caught up in. or maybe it’s just that she knows she shouldn’t want you, and it’s so deliciously wrong, and that’s why she’s got to have you.

towel flung over her shoulder, abby makes her way out, only to stop in her tracks when she hears the loud slam of a locker door.

what the fuck? wasn’t the bathroom empty when she last checked??

cheeks burning at the mistaking of her privacy, she swivels the corner, furious to see who the fuck else is using the west dorm showers at this hour. of all the hours.

and, well, abby’s frozen in place when she’s met with the sight of a mystery someone’s bare back. but oh, how she recognizes you, you and your wet hair, slinging droplets down your smooth skin, trailing lower and lower and-

you cough, breaking her trance. baby blue eyes dart up, caught, as you slide your tank on, smirking.

“hey, anderson.”

that just about does it for her. abby slams an open locker door shut, almost sprinting out of the room.

and really, there’s no choice but for you to follow her, practically hunting her down as she sharply turns down random hallways, clearly attempting to outrun you. abby makes a wrong turn soon enough, and you honestly think you might burst out into laughter because of the funny way fate seems to string the two of you together.

the blonde’s backed herself into a corner, and it just so happens to be your residential corner. you can’t help but wonder if she already knew where your room was located.

“scared, anderson?” slips out of your mouth, and it feels significant, reminiscent of the week before. you stare her down, wet strands clinging to her skin to match yours, and it’s like the two of you know what’s to come with your words. the inevitable.

you’re not sure which one of you moves first, rubber band of tension snapping as your lips collide in a catastrophic sort of way. you’re scrambling to blindly dial your dorm code in and tugging abby by her shirt in a tangle of limbs and saliva.

“i’ll play nice,” you pant, “even after that disappearing stunt you pulled last week.”

abby laughs, whispering, “whoops,” under her breath before pulling you in for another dizzying kiss, tongue eagerly curling into your mouth like she’s been waiting years for a taste.

you wrap your fingers around her hair with a tug, and the low groan that escapes from the back of abby’s throat has you repeating the motion again and again as you veer her backwards to fall atop your bed. you follow, straddling her, not wanting to spend a second apart from the fucking drug that her mouth is.

your hips grind down on their own, burning and desperate for stimulation. abby, in return, wraps a strong hand around your throat, pulling you even deeper into a sloppy kiss to swallow your moans as she pushes her hips up to meet yours.

“fuck,” you gasp, clit catching against the seam of your shorts with every roll.

abby’s mind has gone blurry with arousal, drunk off the satisfaction of finally getting what her body’s begged for. every pretty noise that slips out of your mouth sends pulses of pleasure straight through her bundle of nerves, and every touch of skin has her feeling set ablaze.

but as always, she needs more.

she maneuvers you easily under her big frame, your head tipping back in a soft whine as she latches herself onto your throat, biting and soothing your skin over.

she’s lodged a leg in between your own, mimicking your position as she wildly bucks her hips down onto you. “please,” she breathes out, tears welling in her eyes with how foreign this feeling is. she can’t bring herself to care about how needy she’s acting, because to starve, is to take anything.

“just like that, baby, you’re soaking my thigh,” you coo, continuing to dry hump her leg like she’s nothing but a toy to you. the whimper she lets out at the name you call her is downright criminal, and the way her movements pick up have you groaning it out again. “c’mon baby, make a mess of yourself for me,” you grab her meaty hips, grinding her harder down against you.

“gonna-“ she gasps into your neck, before shuddering against you as she cums with a cry, muscular thighs holding you so desperately tight in place. you almost scream, caught in the iron grip she has your body in, stopped so close to your own finish. you dig your nails into the flesh of abby’s hips, hearing her moan as the pain mixes with pleasure, and echo the sound yourself as the burning in your core starts up again.

“just let me, for a minute- i need you- just stay here, shit,” you ramble, gripping her hair for leverage while you fuck yourself faster against her thigh.

every twitch of a muscle beneath your soaked pussy has you reeling, unable to wrap your mind around what a massive fucking crime it is, for another woman not to have experienced the absolute blessing it is to have abby anderson’s defined-ass thigh to grind on.

you glance down at abby, and the fucked-out expression she has on, all watery doe-eyed as she peers up at you, mesmerized, has you throbbing enough to match your heart rate.

curse after curse flies out of your mouth as she attaches her mouth to your neck again, biting down as you let go of that coil tugging on your navel.

abby’s no sooner clambering atop you, diving in to taste your sounds as she scoops you onto her lap, practically growling, “fuckin’ get over here,” under her breath.

as your vision returns, she attacks your mouth with a sloppy kiss, colliding teeth, and you’re unbearably hungry for more.

“let me- i’m gonna taste you,” you breath out, shoving abby’s back down with a push.

she falls back with a soft thud, eyes not leaving you once. “please, fuck- taste me, have me,” abby affirms, scrambling to tug her shorts off.

the massive soaked patch at the center her boxers have your eyes rolling into your skull. “shit, anderson,” you run a finger over her clothed slit, giggling as she jerks her hips up.

“shut up,” she rasps, her words harsh, but the small smile on her face says otherwise.

you grin up at her, “didn’t say anything,” before licking a fat stripe up her covered pussy.

her response is immediate, hands fisting into your hair to pull your mouth closer, actions the epitome of more, more, more.

you flatten your tongue, licking, and meshing her arousal with your saliva to entirely soak her boxers wet. you wrap your lips around where you guess to be her clit, based off the place her legs tremble when your tongue reaches it, and suck hard.

“there,” abby whines out, back flying off the mattress, and you’re so very desperate to see what other fun reactions she has in store for you, you grab at her waistband to unveil her pretty dripping pussy.

up close, face to face, you get to really admire the work of art she is. the divets of muscle adorning her thighs frame her pussy almost in a greek-goddess sort of way. light brownish-blonde curls of hair that reach out to your mouth, trying to pull you in closer. she’s beautiful. you’re in complete control of her right now, and holding the reins of such an unreal being has you groaning into her slick eagerly, hands holding her spread wide open while you feast.

you’re dipping your tongue into her sopping mess, teasing and thrusting, feeling her gummy walls flutter around every brush of the muscle. you dart a thumb up to circle her puffy clit, red, from her earlier actions, and the way abby’s legs kick up— almost hitting you in the face, has you giggling again into her pussy. the vibrations of your laugh make abby squeal, thighs clamping around your head, and then she’s tugging at your hair, chanting, “stopstopstopstop,” and you, of course, oblige immediately.

your face comes up covered in her wetness, arousal dripping from your chin as you lick your lips in an halfhearted attempt to clean yourself up. “sorry, sorry, i- did you want me to stop?” you ramble, concerned that you might’ve gone a little too far this time, getting yourself involved with a taken straight girl.

abby’s face flushes a deep red, even darker than it had been from your actions, as she catches her breath and looks away. “no, i- can you, uhm.”

you catch on to her hesitation, newer to sex thats more than just, well, dick. you rub her calves soothingly, “use your words, baby, you got it.”

she visibly gulps, thighs pressing tight around your body, “can i?” she asks, almost sulkily as her hands move to tug at your shorts.

“oh-!” slips out of your mouth, surprised, “yeah, yeah you can.”

she lets out a soft okay, tugging harder now, slipping her calloused fingers under your waistband as well so as to drag both down together. abby’s groans, low and heady, at the sight of your glistening pussy, practically dripping down your thighs from just getting her off. “this too,” she murmurs, sliding your tank off before you can blink.

she’s pulling you in closer, as if she’s in a trance, as she wraps her lips hesitantly around one of your perked nipples. the high-pitched sigh you let out is more than enough encouragement for her to continue, warm tongue flicking at it as she sucks around your breast. “is this okay?” she pulls away to whisper, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she looks up at you, eyes wide.

“fuck- yes, just,” you push her head back in, her lips abiding immediately as they gently pull at your nipple, teeth grazing the most sensitive parts of your chest as you arch your back into it, quiet moans ringing in her air.

all of a sudden you’re being turned around, confused, until your hips are being lifted up towards abby’s stuck-out tongue and you’re shaking with your face pressed to her thigh while she experimentally kitten-licks around your hole, unknowingly teasing you.

her nose brushes ever-so-slightly over your pulsing clit as her tongue passes just over your dripping mess, and it has you crying out, “there, please- right there, please,” breath hot over her own throbbing pussy.

her hips jerk up at the sensation, and you take the hint— latching your lips around her own clit and stuffing two fingers easily into her hole, moaning at the feeling of her squeezing tight around you.

it’s no wonder abby’s the top soldier of wlf. for a girl who’s only ever been with the most lacking, vanilla man ever, she picks up fast. each action of yours is borderline self-serving, with the way abby’s mimicking every move not even a moment after, so adorably eager to please.

abby had this insistent need to pull every pretty sound from you, whether she got it through grazing her teeth against your clit, or curling a thick finger against your g-spot, she was determined to hear it— to the point where you thought she might’ve even needed it. and it’s what made sex with her so intoxicating.

she wasn’t like any of the other girls you typically hooked up with, and that’s not to say the girls you usually got with were bad to fuck… they just weren’t as invested in your pleasure as you were with theirs. and as the type to get off on giving rather than receiving, this was especially new. you’ve never been with someone like you. and god, does it take the cake.

abby’s really coming to terms with all the ways she can use her especially large everythings to make you feel good, murmuring into your pussy, “‘m fuckin’ splitting you open with my fingers, pretty,” as she pushes in a third finger to your sopping hole, relishing in the squelch that comes with the thrust.

your thighs shake around her head, stimulated beyond compare as you continue your ministrations on abby’s pussy, humming mhms into it to encourage more of her bolder ventures.

“mm-fuck, can feel you choking my fingers. you gonna cum, hm?” she mumbles cockily, the high from your reactions sending her mind into a frenzy.

“shit, please, need it so bad,” you croak out, taking only mere seconds apart from tonguing down her puffy clit.

“ah- god, me too, pretty. cum on my tongue,” she says, and the fucking vulgarity of it, so downright shocking to hear from ms. straight christian prude over here, has you riding your orgasm out, trembling heat overtaking your body like a california wildfire. matched moans come from beneath you, as abby’s hips fuck up against your mouth, legs flexing deliciously as the two of you reach your peaks together, the world slowing.

you slide your body off of hers, turning around to be met with a sight to behold. your cum, all over abby’s mouth, shining on the tip of her nose, remnants leaked onto her chin— and you have not a doubt you look the same mess. you yank her into a sloppy kiss, fluids mixing in your mouths in the most animalistic nature.

“i’m not done with you,” you say, eyebrows scrunched as you take in her fucked-out expression.

“i know,” she whispers, “give me more,” she breathes out.

abby slips out of her tank, finally, using the cloth to gently wipe your face and hers, action a bit too intimate for what you guys have, but neither of you decide to call out on it.

“you gonna let me fuck you?” you ask quietly, running a hand over her chest softly, enamored, as abby shivers from your words.

“please fuck me,” she whimpers, tone all pouty and petulant as she watches your hand trace ambiguous shapes over her skin.

“so polite,” you tease lightly, pulling her in for a brief kiss before reaching over to your bedside drawer and pulling out your favorite strap, just the one for the special girl in front of you.

8 inches, hot pink, with a slight curve to it, but most importantly, never been used on anyone other than yourself, by yourself.

“it’s so-“ she stutters nervously, thighs rubbing together in anticipation as you secure the toy onto your hips.

“pretty?” you finish, unable to help your laugh as she looks at you, so clearly not thinking of your response.

“yeah,” she shrugs, “suppose it is.”

it’s quiet in the room as you finish latching the silicone dick onto yourself, the two of you settling into the weight of your impulse-fueled actions.

you gently pull open her closed legs, settling yourself between them as you tease her entrance with the tip of the toy, covering it with her cum. you then spit down onto it, twisting your hand around to coat, and hear abby ask, “what’re you doing?”

you continue to prep the toy with easy motions, committed by memory, “i know you’re soaked, anderson, but it’s still a dick you’re taking, baby.”

“i just mean- i, you know,”

you hum, “owen doesn’t put in the effort, huh? and i bet you’re not even a quarter as wet for him as you are for me,” scoffing.

“don’t-“

“it’s the truth though, isn’t it?”

“…yeah.”

“that’s what i thought.”

you thumb her clit in circles, using her slick as lube to rub over it smoothly, relishing in the way abby’s head falls back and her hips jolt up. “that’s it, ease up for me,” you murmur.

you prod again at her entrance with the toy, sliding the tip in slightly as she hisses, “‘m sti-still sensitive.”

“and you’re gonna take it like the fuckin’ slut you are, anderson, aren’t you?” you tsk, pushing a couple inches more into her.

“shit- yes, yes ma’am,” she whimpers out, legs threatening to close from the new stretch.

“because even after all that time in the shower, nothing can fill you like i do,” you finish, thrusting the full length of you into her tight pussy, abby nodding repeatedly as her back arches up.

her moans pick up alongside your hips, voice breaking with every thrust as you push into that one sensitive spot deep inside with obvious expertise.

“so, s-so go-od,” she cries, hands gripping into the bedsheets as she searches for some tie back to reality.

you smirk satisfactorily, fast pace fueled by the sight of abby’s open mouth, drool spilling out the sides as her voice grows hoarse from constant use. you fuck her hard, strength channeled from the anger you bore against her homophobic attitudes, and jealousy you garnered towards owen and his idiotic male self.

you lock your eyes with abby, sweat dripping down your face as you zero down on her, slamming into her pussy with no reprieve. “no more owen,” you say, each word punctuated by another deep thrust.

“this is so wrong, this is so fucked,” abby rambles, nervous eyes darting around the room so as to avoid your gaze. her eyebrows are tugged together, head shaking no: but no to argue your words, or no to agree with them?

“has something so wrong ever felt so good?” you pant out, “tell me baby.”

“i can’t, i can’t, i can’t,” she repeats, torn between what felt right in her head, and what felt so right in her heart. “turn me over,” she babbled, not wanting to head-on face the fucking sin-filled act she was committing.

“you tried running, baby. and how’d that work for you?” you ask, fed up. “you’re still back here, a fucking mess, and all for me.”

“what’s it gonna take for you to face the fact that you’re getting fucked by a girl, and it’s so much better than anything you’ve ever experienced?”

abby’s eyes scrunch tight, trying to tune you out, but her moans still wrench out from the back of her throat, guttural and unstoppable.

you slide out finally, earning you a soft whine of disagreement, toy dripping with her slick with the tip pressed against her folds. “look at me, abby.”

and fuck. she’s never taken notice to the fact that you’ve never said her name before—but god does it sound so pretty coming out of your mouth. and god is it enough to make her wrestle her eyelids open and stare you dead in the eyes, blue clashing with the darkness you reeked in.

“say that again,” she whispers, look full of pleading. 4 letters, 2 syllables, but it has her core tensing and her heart racing a mile.

“tell me you’re mine, abby,” you breath, and she almost finishes right there and then.

“i’m yours,” she says, a single tear breaking free from her right eye, baptizing her skin, absolving her of guilt.

“good,” you choke out, bottoming entirely into her as she releases a cry. your movements quicken, ravenous, chasing the sweet whines that fill the room.

abby’s tits bounce with each thrust, and you reach down to give her sensitive nipples a pinch, making her reach an all time new height of pleasure. her chest heaves, curses slur, as she squirms under your touch, nearing an unbearably overstimulated state.

“feels- gonna cum,” she moans, barely holding on.

“cum for me,” you demand, needing to see her fall apart now more than ever as you pound into her harder, fingers rubbing harsh circles into her clit.

“s-shit,” she gasps, throwing her head back as her walls tighten around the toy, “‘m- fuck, god- fuck! ‘m cumming!”

loud squelching noises overtake the room, complete with the sight of abby writhing beneath you as spurts of her juices drench your moving cock.

her chest heaves, mouth open in a silent scream as she comes down from her high, squirming with overstimulation.

you can see the moment her brain clicks, panic in her eyes clear as her skin turns pasty white.

“i’m so sorry i didn’t mean to do that i don’t know how-“

“abby.”

“-that happened ive never done that before, like who-“

“abby.”

“-fucking pisses on someone like that i’m so sorry ill clean it-“

“ABBY.”

her eyes shoot up to meet yours, frame cowering as she mumbles a quiet apology again, so obviously uneducated in the realm of half-decent orgasms.

“you squirted, abby, you didn’t piss on me for christ’s sake. it was hot. now don’t worry about it, i’m very honored,” you chide lightly, cradling abby’s heated face in your hand.

you stand up, grabbing a clean towel and wetting it with warm water from your kettle. striding over, you spread abby’s legs lightly, running the towel gently over her worked-out center, breath hitching, hips jerking with your touch.

“why are you- you don’t have to-“ abby stutters, grabbing your wrist.

you pause, confused. “abby, i’m not a fucking dick, contrary to belief,” you scoff.

she doesn’t let go. “no that’s not what i- i didn’t mean it like that, it’s just, you know.” she waits for you to look up at her, before looking away. “you don’t have to fuss over me.”

a laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “you mean owen doesn’t-? yeah, who am i kidding, of fucking course he doesn’t ‘do aftercare,’ god, what a dick!” you groan, facepalming.

“abby, baby, this is fucking normal. owen just sucks,” you smirk, her cheeks flushing at your words. “let me take care of you,” you continue more softly, nudging her grip off as you drag the towel over her sternum next, cleaning off any remnants left from the two of you.

abby’s quiet now, eyes following your every movement, curious almost, a bit hesitant— as if she’s not sure what to do with herself in the meanwhile. she’s stiff to the touch, frame shrunken now due to the sheer vulnerability of it all. bare as the day she was born, and touched like she’s never done wrong a minute in her life.

she doesn’t know how to feel about it. wisps of hair tickle her nose, and so she scratches it, pushing her hair away, tugging it behind her ears. and you’re right there on it, wordlessly turning her around as you begin to comb through her hair loosely, pulling it into a simple braid. the same hairstyle she displays everyday, always done by her own hand: tight, knot-free, and burning into her scalp. a reminder to remain true to her virtues, live by strict rules, and not stray from the lord’s path.

but the way you braid is so different. you’re careful to tie in the tickling wisps, but not harsh. effective, but not pushing. with owen she feels like an accessory, but you make her feel like someone worth worshipping. and so, the only burning she feels is not on her scalp, but behind her eyes.

you do notice the subtle tremble in abby’s shoulders, droplets trickling down her cheeks as you weave her hair through, but you make no comment on it. certainly not with the way your own hands fumble her golden strands, fingers shaking into the knots. you tie the end of it up.

“i should go,” abby whispers, standing to grab her scattered clothes.

you remain seated, mouth opening and closing like a fish, as your lips struggle to wrap around the words your heart is singing out for.

you settle on one.

“stay,” you blurt, louder than you intended, the word ringing in the tense air.

abby freezes, hand outstretched towards her tossed shirt. her head edged just the slightest bit towards you, like subconsciously, she was waiting for you to say something.

“just- stay,” you whisper this time, more unsure. waiting for the rejection you know is to come. and while your brain is screaming for you to let her go, your eyes are hooked onto abby’s figure— searching intently for the smallest signal of her response.

you see her breath catch in her throat.

“okay,” she whispers back, and her head turns just enough for your gazes to lock, matched desperation surging.

she’s drawn back to the bed like a magnet pulled to its twin, the mattress dipping as she settles in the space beside you.

and abby feels the heat of your drilling stare, one she refuses to return. she has no more fire left in her, not for you, just contemplation. a longing for more, an urge to savor, an ache to feel.

so abby faces the door, and you face her back, waiting for the day she’ll turn around.

so what did we think guys?!?? this was 4.7k words. crazy.

ok. so notice the tear coming from her right eye during that whole end part of the sex. note that it came from her RIGHT eye. scientifically speaking, that’s a tear of joy. BOOOOOOM MIC DROP.

i, unfortunately, shot for the stars and tried to make this deeper. hard to do that when you’re not in touch with your emotions. so now you guys are stuck being confused. good luck!

anyways. the final scene is supposed to represent where they metaphorically stand in their relationship. reader is trying to bond with abby, or at least making an effort to, hence her facing abby. abby can’t come to terms with all this, but she’s trying! she’s not fully accepted the homosexual part of herself though, the side that comes out with reader, so she’s facing the door. FACING IT, not leaving through it. ;)

also, yes, owen goes in dry. it’s canon. do not come at me.

taglist:

@pricefieldsuperiority @heartlexs @graviewaviee @liaphrodite @k1ngpin42 @deadbolted @be3flow3r @mrsabbyanderson

@rob1nbuckl3ys @vivispace @bookpagecandlescent

@thelosstvalkyrie for photo creds ty baby <3

[soldiersareyourprotectors]

Eric and Ethan had always been inseparable, their bond forged through years of shared adventures, challenges, and when they got older a mutual passion for motorcycles. As identical twins, they shared striking features: piercing blue eyes, sharp jawlines, and an infectious smile. Yet, over the years, subtle differences had emerged between them.

Eric, the more athletic of the two, had spent countless hours at the gym, honing his physique to perfection. His muscles bulged beneath the sleek, black leather motorcycle racing gear he wore, a testament to his dedication and hard work. Ethan, on the other hand, had a softer frame, his body cushioned by a layer of pudge that he carried with a certain ease. He preferred the comfort of textile gear, appreciating its practicality over the aesthetic appeal of leather.

One sunny Saturday, the twins decided to take their motorcycles out for a long ride through the winding roads of the countryside. The day was perfect, the sky a brilliant blue, the air filled with the scent of blooming wildflowers. They rode side by side, the roar of their engines harmonizing like a symphony, a sound that never failed to bring a smile to their faces.

After hours of exhilarating speed and sharp turns, they pulled into a small roadside café for a break. They parked their bikes and stretched, the fatigue of the ride beginning to set in. As they sat down at a wooden picnic table, a young woman approached, her eyes drawn to Eric's impressive physique and the way his leather gear hugged his form.

"Hey," she said, smiling brightly at Eric. "You look like you ride a lot. Can I get your number?"

Eric, always friendly and outgoing, smiled and obliged, exchanging pleasantries and his phone number. Ethan watched from the sidelines, his heart sinking as the scene unfolded.

A few minutes later, a man came over, similarly captivated by Eric. "Nice bike," he said, his gaze lingering on Eric's muscular frame. "Do you come here often? Can I get your number?"

Eric chuckled and exchanged numbers again, his charm and easy demeanor drawing the attention effortlessly. Ethan felt a pang of jealousy, but he kept his feelings hidden behind a forced smile.

Throughout their break, different people continued to approach Eric, each one seemingly oblivious to Ethan's presence. The constant attention Eric received only deepened Ethan's sense of invisibility. He tried to join the conversations, but his attempts were met with polite indifference. Each interaction chipped away at his self-esteem, leaving him feeling smaller and more insignificant.

After a while, they got back on their bikes and rode home in silence. Eric was in high spirits, the attention he received adding to his exuberance. Ethan, however, felt a storm brewing inside him. The jealousy and hurt festered, but he didn't want to burden his brother with his feelings. He acted completely normal, laughing at Eric's jokes and discussing their plans for the next ride as if nothing was amiss.

That night, as they parked their bikes in the garage, Ethan knew he needed space to sort out his emotions. He made an excuse about needing some time alone and left before Eric could ask any questions.

In the days that followed, Ethan ignored Eric's calls and messages. He needed distance to deal with the pain of feeling perpetually overshadowed. Eric's concern grew, but Ethan remained resolute in his silence, determined not to let his jealousy damage their bond further. Weeks turned into months, and then years, with Ethan maintaining his distance, his silence becoming a wall between them.

Eric continued to reach out, his calls and messages filled with worry and confusion.

Yet, Ethan couldn't bring himself to respond. The pain of that day had left a lasting scar, one that time alone couldn't heal.

Two years later, Eric still hoped for reconciliation, while Ethan struggled with his feelings, the memory of that fateful ride haunting him. Their bond, once unbreakable, now lay fractured, a casualty of unspoken hurt and unaddressed emotions. Eric had been riding his motorcycle alone through the countryside all day, the wind whipping past him, the roar of the engine drowning out his thoughts. The endless road stretched before him, a temporary escape from the loneliness and confusion that had plagued him ever since Ethan had disappeared from his life. The sky gradually darkened as evening approached, the day's heat lingering in the air.

By the time he returned home, his body was soaked in sweat, trapped within the confines of his one-piece leather motorcycle racing suit and boots. He parked his bike in the garage and staggered inside, exhaustion etched into every muscle. His throat was parched, and he headed straight to the fridge, grabbing the milk and drinking straight from the carton, gulping down the cold liquid hastily.

With the milk nearly finished, he put the carton back and slumped onto a chair, beginning the laborious process of taking off his racing boots. He could feel the heat and moisture trapped inside, his feet aching from the long ride. As he worked on the second boot, a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him, and he collapsed to the floor. Panic surged through him as he found himself conscious but completely immobile, every muscle unresponsive.

As he lay there, helpless, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. His heart pounded in his chest as he strained to see who it was. A shadow fell over him, and he saw a pair of gloved hands reach down and grab his boots. The figure then moved to his ankles and began dragging him towards the bedroom. Eric's mind raced with fear and confusion, his attempts to struggle futile against the paralysis.

He was pulled into the bedroom and unceremoniously lifted onto the bed. His eyes widened as he saw the figure looming over him, a muscular man whose face was hidden behind a black balaclava. The man's presence was imposing, his movements precise and controlled as he began to strip Eric out of his tight, warm, and sweaty gear.

The man started by removing Eric's gloves, sliding them off his hands with deliberate slowness. Next, he unzipped the one-piece leather suit, the zipper's sound a harsh rasp in the tense silence. The man had to peel the suit away from Eric's body, the leather clinging stubbornly to his sweat-drenched skin. The process was slow and meticulous, the suit coming off inch by inch, revealing Eric's glistening torso and legs. The cool air hit Eric's exposed skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

Once the suit was off, the man moved on to Eric's socks, pulling them off and exposing his damp feet. Then came the undershirt, which was stuck to Eric's torso from the day's perspiration. The man tugged it over Eric's head, leaving him in just his underpants, now visibly soaked with sweat.

Finally, the man reached for the underpants, pulling them down and off with a single motion, leaving Eric completely exposed and vulnerable. The man stepped back, surveying Eric's prone form. Then, without a word, he began to strip himself, removing his clothing piece by piece until he stood in nothing but the balaclava. His muscular body gleamed in the dim light, each muscle defined and powerful.

The man inspected his own body, flexing slightly, before turning his attention back to Eric. As Eric lay there, his breath coming in shallow gasps, he noticed the familiarity of the man's physique. It was as if he had seen this body somewhere before. The man moved closer, his eyes scanning Eric with an almost clinical detachment.

He began to feel Eric's body, running his hands over his chest, arms, and legs. Eric's mind raced with fear and confusion, his attempts to speak futile. Then, it struck him —the man's body was identical to his own. The same muscle definition, the same contours and lines. It was like looking into a mirror.

Eric's heart pounded as the realization settled in. Who was this man, and why did he have the exact same body? The man continued his inspection, his touch lingering on Eric's muscles, comparing them to his own. The surreal and terrifying experience left Eric's mind spinning, trying to grasp the reality of the situation.

The man picked up Eric's wet underpants and slowly pulled them up his own thighs, positioning everything into place with meticulous care. He then took the damp socks and pulled them over his calves. Next, the sweaty undershirt followed onto the man's torso, sticking slightly to his skin. He grabbed the leather racing suit and forced his body into it, the material fitting perfectly, just like it did on Eric.

Finally, he stepped into Eric's motorcycle racing boots, the warmth and moisture enveloping his feet. He zipped them up and stood there, reveling in the feeling of wearing Eric's sweaty gear.

The man, now dressed in Eric's leather motorcycle gear and boots, laid down next to Eric, feeling Eric's naked muscular body through the gloves. He began to thrust against Eric's body through the leather gear, his movements methodical and intense.

After what felt like an eternity, the man finally stood up, breathing heavily. He reached up and removed the balaclava, revealing his face. Eric's eyes widened in shock as he saw Ethan standing there, wearing Eric's gear. Now it all made sense— the body that looked so much like his own. Ethan had been gone for two years, and in that time, he had transformed himself to look exactly like Eric.

Ethan smirked, his eyes cold and calculating. "Surprised to see me?" he asked, his voice eerily calm. "I worked out every day for two years to become you. To take over your life."

Ethan then grabbed some rope and began tying up Eric's naked body, securing his wrists and ankles tightly. He stuffed a gag into Eric's mouth, muffling any attempts to speak or scream. Helpless and bound, Eric could only watch as Ethan felt himself up, savoring the sensation of wearing his brother's sweaty leathers.

Ethan picked up Eric's phone and held it up to his own face. The phone unlocked instantly through Face ID, confirming how identical they now were. Ethan grinned down at Eric, relishing his victory. "You see, brother," he said, his tone dripping with malice, "I've become you in every way that matters. Now, it's my turn to live your life."

The doorbell rang, and Ethan paused, looking towards the door. He left the room to answer it. Eric could hear the sound of Ethan's motorcycle boots echoing through the apartment, a familiar yet chilling sound. Moments later, Ethan returned, followed by two men. They looked at Eric's naked, tied-up body and grinned.

"This is him," Ethan said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "The pinnacle I promised your boss."

The men nodded approvingly. "He's perfect," one of them said. They moved swiftly, grabbing Eric and carrying him out of the house. He struggled weakly against his bonds, but it was no use. They shoved him into the back of a van and slammed the doors shut. The last thing Eric saw was Ethan standing in the doorway, a cold, triumphant smile on his face.

That was the last time Ethan saw Eric. From that day forward, Ethan lived his life as Eric. He wore Eric's clothes and motorcycle gear, slept in Eric's bed, and rode Eric's motorcycle. Ethan had become Eric in every way that mattered, and that is all he cared about.

[serejae]

margaret

myung jaehyun x doodler!reader

syno; a pencil lead you to him now

a/n ; uncapitalization is intended, some kissing, inspired on our beloved summer besides the exes factor lol :-), enjoy

it was a late night, jaehyun wasn’t home yet and you couldn’t quite fall asleep yet. so you decided to kill two birds with one stone. ever since you were young you had a hobby of drawing, it was normal for you to get asked from people to draw them. unfortunately for them your drawings don’t focus on people but rather sights. as you organized your old drawings you came across a dusty folder hidden all the way in the back of your shelf, curious to see what it is you grab it and clear the dust off. the cover of the folder doesn’t go unnoticed with masking tape messily on it with the words “DO NOT OPEN. YOURE CRAZY.” written on top. you laugh to yourself slighty and take the risk going against your past self. when opening the folder a tiny pencil falls out and all the memories suddenly flash back. picking up the pencil, you immediately sit down and go through the folder.

-

it was almost 2 years ago. you were sketching in a cafe when you got distracted by your phone that you didn’t notice one of your pencils falling out of your pencil case. someone suddenly diverts your attention away from your phone. looking up you see the most (not even exaggerated) mesmerizing man, his lips turn up slight and he clears his throat “sorry for bothering you, but your pencil fell” he said with a slight blush on his face and reddish ears. you laugh slightly and thank him expecting that to be the end of your conversation but to your suprise he paused for a second thinking about what to say

“are you here alone?”

the wise answer wouldve been no, i mean you dont even know the guy

“yeah”

“can i sit?”

-

while reminiscing the moment you played with the pencil, the pencil was special, not only because it lead you to jaehyun but the steps it took to realize you loved him.

there were 2 drawings of jaehyun. the only drawings you ever drew of a person

-

drawing 1 .

its been 2 weeks since you met jaehyun. you both had been talking regularly and you hated it: not because you disliked him or anything but rather the opposite. you found yourself developing a

crush. :-/

as you sat at your table shaking your good pencil between your fingers staring at the blank paper that seems to be staring at you back. thats when you started imagining eyes, nose, lips, a face on the paper but not just anyones face. it was myung jaehyun’s. you never had the urge or willingness to draw a person but something inside your soul was telling you to. trying to push the thoughts back you starting thinking to yourself

“i don’t even remember his face accurately”

“its been 2 weeks pfft”

*ding*

pausing at the notification you flip your phone over and the screen illuminates.

myung jae !

**ONE NOTIFICATION **

“if your not too busy do you wanna ft?:p”

fuck.

before replying back (a obvious yes) you scramble your desk for the pencil he had handed you that day. the pencil was tiny, you kept it because you kept forgetting to throw it away but once you find it you reply with a

“sure”

cant seem too desperate right?

and as he calls you and the screens connect, your met with a familiar face and start doodling. focusing on his voice and you drew, you looked up every so often studying his face.

after finishing you date the corner and shove it in the back of your drawer.

-

drawing 2 .

your crazy.

its been 9 months since you first met jaehyun and it takes every muscle in you to not draw him. you can’t feed into your delusional or into the thought that you might have a crush on him. at this point its more then a stupid crush. you would say you just really really really like jaehyun but you guys werent even dating yet and thats the problem.

everyday for these past 9 months the two of you have become incredibly close, might i add a little too close.

all you could think about was him and normally in situations like this you would draw things you like to get your mind off of whatever you were stressed about which sadly wouldn’t work in this situation

as he was what you like and all you could think about.

after a hour on debating (3 minutes) you sigh and open your camera roll, opening the album “mjae<{3” your favorite photo of him, one you didnt even know you took but there was something different about the photo

his eyes.

theres no way he couldnt feel the same about you, right?

shut up.

you stopped the thoughts and started doodling, sketching all the details on his face. youve memorized his face probably more then your own now that you think about it.

adding the finishing touches and dating it, you back away from the paper and stare at it

how does he have you wrapped around his finger so well?

grabbing your phones you search variations of questions into google

“why cant i stop thinking of a guy”

“how to know if you like a guy”

“does my crush like me????” you made sure to find one made bv a guy to insure accuracy.

unfortunately the answers didnt help you

they all lead back to love

and thats when you realized

you don’t really like myung jaehyun

your inloveeeeeeee with myung jaehyun.

jumping onto your bed you scream into your pillow and go into a rage. scrambling around your room you find a folder, empty everything inside, get tape from your desk and aggressively put the tape on there. taking your marker you write “DO NOT OPEN. YOUR CRAZY.” you stuffed the current drawing in there as well dug in your drawer for the previous one. once inside you grab the pencil that started it all and put it inside too. then shoving it to the back of your shelf.

-

a year after meeting jaehyun thats when he finally asked you to be his partner, he had asked to meet in the same cafe you 2 had met. you arrived on time while jaehyun was a bit late, you didnt mind too much though. while waiting you scrolled on your phone when you suddenly heard a voice

“excuse me?

i think you dropped this.”

you look up confused and see a bouquet of flowers with a sticky note attached to it

“be my partner? (plz)” as well a silly drawing of you and jaehyun as cat and dog. looking up you see his familiar face that has a reddish tint

“of course.”

-

you hear the door open snapping you out of your thoughts

“baby? im home!”

“at my desk jae”

you hear him shuffe his way to your desk and kisses you on the head before looking at your desk

“oh look! its the pencil i gave back to you when we first met, you still have it?” he laughed, his eyes shift over to the two drawings on the table of no other then, him.

“woah…”

he said as he picked up the drawings seeing the dated marks

“these are amazing babe, but i thought you didnt draw people?”

you look down at the pencil and smile

oh you couldn’t wait to tell him the storied behind the drawings

you looked up at the sticky note on your wall before opening your mouth

“funny story…”

[deunmiu-dessie]

▬ ⁽ 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑒 ⁾

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ♡︎: ₂˖₁ₖ ˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ♡︎: unedited----- attempted murder, fluff(??), angst. ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ꒰shade ₊⊹ gn!reader꒱

thinking of a shade, just a little more powerful and smarter than the rest, becoming your protector. little ol' you who's had severe insomnia since you were a child. ♡

shade who didnt want to at first, since it usually didn't meddle in human affairs; besides you were nothing special. ♡

shade who ignores you for the first couple of days before begrudgingly shooing away the pesky, lower demons who crawl over your body. ♡

shade who lays next to you and wraps you within its arms ˙◠˙

shade who finds immense satisfaction in watching you sleep for the first time in a long time. ♡

shade who watches as the demons instead prey on your family. ♡

shade who is too enamored with you to even care. ♡

shade who watches your family fall apart. ♡

𝒴 our lashes flutter open in the inky black room, eyes reflecting a glossy sheen from the remnants of sleep, all while the sound of your sniveling fills the darkness that surrounds you. Against your pale complexion, the deep, dark circles under your eyes become prominent, now moistened by the tears streaming down your cheeks in small rivers. You struggle to recall the last time you experienced a full night's sleep, the memory fading away as you reach the tender age of seven.

     Despite the numerous prescriptions, medical professionals, therapists, and even herbal teas you have tried, none have succeeded in lulling you to sleep. You remain confined to your bed, yearning for the day when your eyes will finally close and you’lll find respite in sleep, yet that day never arrives. Occasionally, you manage to drift off into a state of unconsciousness, albeit for a mere five or ten minutes, but it never feels like true sleep. Every now and then your plagued by nightmares—disturbing and horrifying dreams that startle you awake, leaving you gasping for breath.

Ever since you were a small child, you had been wanting, no craving to have a good night's rest– though your weren't so sure anymore. Not if the black abyss that threatens to swallow you whole almost every night is the thing greeting you happily when you finally succumb to the person that is sleep. 

    Nevertheless, you refuses to let it impact you social life. Each morning, as the sun warmly embraces you with a melancholic smile, you rise from your bed and diligently apply layers of concealer and foundation to mask the exhaustion evident in your eyes.  Peering into the mirror, you practice a smile, willing your eyes to sparkle, and whisper softly to yourself, "I'm okay."

  You're not okay, you swerve gently in and out of traffic, eyelids heavy as you force yourself to work. All you want is to sleep, to feel normal again. Deep down, you knows that what you yearn for is something you can never truly have, but yiu can always ‘dream’.

     As the day finally draws to a close, you retreat to your bed – the same bed that bears the imprint of your body from countless nights, the same pillow that holds your thoughts and tears captive, and the same dusty dream catcher that fails to capture any dreams. You're anxious for what your mind might conjure up tonight, but you embrace it with ease – slipping beneath your cozy comforter and switching off the lamp.

     A cool warmth envelops your body, your tense muscles finally finding release, and you feel a sense of relief wash over you. You nestle yourself into that snug cocoon – savoring the way it makes your eyes grow heavy with the blissful weight of sleep. It's not the kind of sleep that startles you awake in a panic every night, but rather one that feels natural and inviting.

  You're too comfortable to notice the faint outline of a body beside you, mind too far gone to notice the emaciated arms that tighten themselves around your body, pressing your form into the depths of its torso. Even if you were of sound mind, you would simply attribute any strange sensations to your lack of sleep. 

   That night you sleep for the first time in twelve years, without any nightmares to ruin the unusual but sweet moment. You, this time, don't greet the sun as it rises in the sky, no, you don't wake up until late evening, waving goodbye to the sun as it drifts away from your sight.

    Suddenly, your alarm blares from your nightstand, reminding you of your impending night shift. Dread fills you as you recall the eerie occurrences that often plague you during these dark hours– shadows come to life, items are in places you didn’t put them and customers come in faceless. 

  You feel fine today, energized even. You don't want to push your luck though; and so when you leave for work, passing your mother and older sister- who seem to be completely out of it, you grab an energy drink and wave them goodbye. 

    You worked diligently and quickly that night, your manager thoroughly surprised that your movements aren’t sluggish anymore and so he praises you enthusiastically– you can only smile in thanks as you rings up another customer. 

      The night goes on smoothly, and as the sun begins to rise and wave its warmth at you, you realize that the energy drink is still next to you, untouched. You're tired from working the night though and you clock out as soon as the time strikes 6AM. 

  Cool brisk air greets you as you exit the gas station, wisps of cold brushing  your cheeks while you walk to your car. Excitement fills you as you look forward to finally getting some rest after a long day. However, a lingering sense of caution remains, reminding you that what occurred earlier might have been a mere coincidence; and so the car ride home is made up of your thumb tapping against the steering wheel and the sound of your heart pumping quickly. Silently, you ease open the door to the house, moving with delicate steps as you enter. You gently places your keys into a bowl, its transparent purple hue catching the light. You hang up your thin jacket and slide out of your shoes, placing them in front of the shoe closet haphazardly. As you ascend the staircase, your movements are hushed, making sure to avoid any creaks on the staircase. You reach your room door, a contented sigh escaping your lips.   You plop down on your bed without a second thought, still clad in your work attire. With the room pitch black, You sleep easily. Cocooned in warmth once more, your body relaxes itself. Despite feeling a slight pressure on your body, you pay it no mind.

    Sleep comes quick for you, but not your family. The moment your head touches the pillow, their nightmares start to rear their ugly heads, their once peaceful sleep is no more. 

   The dark figure that graces you with sweet dreams, relishes in the way your skin gains color, the way your dark circles lighten and your forehead creases smoothe out. You weren't special in any way, many humans out there had the exact same condition that you did- maybe even a bit worse off than you.

 The entity couldn't resist being irresistibly drawn to you, despite its own reservations. Seeing a human with so much potential- wasted, was excruciating. So, it clings onto you tightly, using its presence as a protective barrier against the demons that are inexplicably lured by your human essence and dormant state.     However, the shade finds itself far from bored. It observes as your chest rises and falls with each breath, watches as your lips curve sporadically with sleeping ticks; and the serene expression that graces your face. It can even discern the muffled whimpers and groans emanating from the rest of your family in the adjacent hallway, as the demons voraciously feed on their fear and anguish, draining their life force. The shade doesn’t care if your family suffers for a bit longer though, now they can fill your shoes. It was only fair.   Your lashes flutter and then open at 8:19 PM, you can hear the sound of pots and pans in the kitchen just down the stairs and the soft jazz music that only plays when your mom is cooking. You slide out of bed and pad softly out of the room, stretching your body as you walk down the stairs.

"Good morning," you playfully mumble to your older sister, who is seated at the kitchen island.  Your eyebrows knit together in confusion when your sister doesn't reply. Curiosity piqued, you took a few steps closer, gasp of surprise quickly stifled. Jo-Lene’s face is pale, her lips are chapped and her cheeks a bit sunken in. Around her eyes are dark circles that the girl has never gotten before. You cups your sister's face in your hands, titling it back and forth. “ Have you stayed up late working on your book?” Jo shakes her head, softly removing your hands from her cheeks. The older of the two of you shrugs her shoulders and covers a yawn with her hand.  "I haven't been getting much sleep lately."

   Slowly, she trails off and shakes her head, taking a moment to savor the dark coffee in her cup. "You know, besides the fact that I can't sleep, I also have the most terrible nightmares," she admits. You nod in understanding, settling down beside her and grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. "You're starting to sound just like me," You tease, playfully rubbing her shoulder to offer comfort.

   With a slow fade in her voice, she trails off and shakes her head, taking a deliberate sip of her dark coffee. "You know, it's not just me. Mom and Dad struggle with sleep too," she reveals. You glance at your mother, eyes widening in disbelief. "You're not kidding," You bite into your banana before pushing it against the side of your cheek to speak. “Weirdly? I’ve been able to sleep for the past 2 days. No nightmares; and for hours at a time.” 

Your mother stops chopping up vegetables, mouth slightly ajar and eyebrows raised. “Oh! Honey, that's amazing, I’m so happy for you. How did you do it?” You can't recall doing anything out of the ordinary, except praying to sleep well.   You shrug your shoulders and chew the banana some more before swallowing. “I didn’t do anything, it just happened.” Jo nudges you with a smile. “Maybe you’re cured.” You give her a sarcastic smile, grabbing her coffee and taking a sip. "I highly doubt it, probably just a one-time thing."

   “Also, this could be temporary for you guys as well. I’m sure it’ll pass soon.” 

  Little did they know, this temporary situation was about to become a never-ending nightmare. Days turned into weeks, and your restful slumber continued while the rest of the family suffered from sleepless nights. As sleep deprivation took its toll, the atmosphere in the house became increasingly tense. Your fathers short fuse ignited violent outbursts, leaving you helpless as you watch your family crumbled before your eyes. Initially, you played the role of peacemaker, but as time went on, resentment grew.

   As the weeks pass, younotices a shift in the house. Your family seems to be keeping their distance, observing your peaceful sleep and well-rested demeanor with suspicion. Slowly, they begin to direct their frustrations and animosity towards you.

  You learn to sleep with your door locked, especially after a harrowing night where you wake up to an alarming pressure against your neck, feeling your father's chubby, thick hands squeezing your throat. Determined to protect yourself, you start sleeping with your door locked and even go as far as barricading it, when your mother begins sleeping beside you, clutching a knife tightly between the two of you.   Your once close-knit family becomes a source of fear and suspicion, leading you to distance yourself and cut off communication. Preferring solitude, you opt to order food instead of joining them for dinner and secretly slip out of your window to go to work. You’re consumed by terror when it comes to your family, but you refuse to surrender to the sleepless nights you endured in the past.

 Even if it kills you, you think your family can suffer for a little longer. You’ve dealt with severe Insomnia since you were little, and you were still sane. As a sharp knock resonates through the door, your body tenses. You hear your sister's gentle, drowsy voice calling out, "Are you awake?" Though cautious, you respond with a soft hum, ensuring Jo-Lene can hear you. “I want to apologize. Mom and Dad have gone a bit crazy.” You cut Jo off with a scoff. “A bit? Dad tried to strangle me and Mom isn’t any better.”  Jo is silent for a moment before sniffling. “You're right, which is why I think you need to leave.” You blinked owlishly at the door, eyebrows furrowing. “What? What do you mean?” 

   “Mom and Dad have set up an account to transfer money to you.” A small envelope is slid underneath your door. “Find a motel to stay at until you think you’re ready for an apartment.” You bite the inside of your cheek, contemplating your decision.  "Ok, then what.” Jo shrugs despite you not being able to see her. “We’ll see each other on Holidays?” She jokes softly but you don't laugh. 

   “For how long?” 

   “Until we can figure out this whole situation.” 

   You hum before getting out of bed and grabbing the envelope that has the credit card in it. “Okay. I’ll leave.” 

   You leave in the morning, without saying goodbye to your family and without looking back. You smile softly at the faint, dark outline of the entity next to you and sit on a bench in front of a bus stop. 

  “ Thank you.”

[mak-be-ghouled]

It's Funny, Isn't it?

Pebble Angst (ft. Mountain)

WC: 600

He/They/It Pebble, He/Him Mountain

Thank you @thatfuckinjester for inspiring this and your incredible angsty brain

What happens when an Earth Ghoul Begins to fade away?

Pebble already knows it’s going to happen, has for a while now, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Everything hurts so much more than it used to. Everything is so much slower now.  

His muscles and joints calcifying, now solid bone. They’re heavy and achy and they know what’s coming next. Its body is petrifying, he can feel it every time he draws in a breath. Every time he blinks. Every time their heart beats. Things that they never once thought about. Things that happened subconsciously. Suddenly so difficult. Suddenly impossible. And yet, somehow, they're still here. Still alive. 

He really has accepted it. Welcomes it. Hopes for it. Begs for it.  

At least maybe as a statue he’ll be free again. 

He makes his way to the garden late at night. When they know no one will be out. he doesn’t want them to see it. Not yet. Not like this. He doesn’t want to hurt them anymore. 

Pebble fights to draw in one final breath, to commit every smell that makes up home to memory.  

And finally, everything goes still.  

After so much torment and fatigue, the Earth has accepted it as her own again. 

Welcomed it into the freedom that is her. Pebble has returned home.  

Regained a purpose. 

And fuck if he isn’t he most beautiful statue in that garden. 

Pebble has become more cared for now than he ever was when alive, or when he was still breathing at least.  

Mountain visits often. Trims back the vines that threaten to choke them. Breathes life into the flowers and berries that ordain Pebble’s statue.  

Pebble’s body. 

Mountain is adamant that Pebble be covered anytime the sky threatens to pour down on them. He couldn't fathom watching Pebble erode away, not for a second time. 

Mountain has placed Pebble on a pedestal. Worships it like a God. 

Mountain doesn't realize how much he is hurting Pebble now. He’s prolonging their pain, and at this rate Pebble is sure they will spend eternity here. Trapped.  

It's funny, isn't it? An Earth ghoul being taken over by their very element. 

If only Mountain would let him erode away. To truly return to the Earth. Pebble may finally be free. 

But Mountain is trying so hard to show Pebble the respect they deserve. He never was quite as close to Pebble as he wished he was. He feels like he owes it to Pebble now. To apologize for not being the mate the thinks he should have been.  

Pebble just...reminded him too much of his Pit life. Of the resentment he faced. Of the resentment he assumed Pebble faced too.  

And yet, it seemed like Pebble was doing so much better than Mountain could ever dream of.  

Getting too close just...hurts. 

Or hurt. 

Now, Mountain has to make it right, and the only thing he can think to do, is to honor Pebble’s statue. To protect it. 

Maybe it even brings him a bit of peace. Becomes a nice routine.  

But he's not protecting Pebble. Not anymore 

Truthfully, Pebble wants to appreciate Mountain’s effort. They really do. But it’s only hurting him more. Only prolonging the torture. 

Why can’t Mountain just go back to before? 

To loving him the way Mountain used to love him? 

That was all Pebble wanted.  

All Pebble needed.  

They needed Mountain to stop trying to love him in a way he thought was right. 

They needed Mountain to love them like he did before. 

To let go of the pain that he so desperately molded into love. 

To just 

Let Pebble go. 

[savage-rhi]

Duality

Chapter 10: The Message

Summary: Sawyer Kiddo has walked a razor's edge as a hacktivist for several years, driven by the loss of her family in the Raccoon City incident. Haunted by past choices and fueled with desire for vigilante justice, Sawyer's work takes an unexpected turn when she ventures to Spain and crosses paths with Luis Serra—a man with blood on his hands long thought to be dead. Together they unravel a web of corruption and face an impending bioterror threat, fighting not only monsters but also the darker elements of their humanity. As they delve deeper into each other's pasts and the conspiracy at large, Sawyer begins to sense something unsettling about Luis—something that might be even more dangerous than their mutual enemies.

Read on AO3 Here

"C'mon…" 

Luis's voice barely escaped his lips, a hushed plea directed more at himself than the specimen under his eyes. His hands hovered over the micromanipulator, fingertips trembling as they gripped the control knobs. Each minuscule adjustment translated into even tinier movements of the fine-tipped instruments, guiding them with a precision that could only be fueled by pure spite or insanity. Luis wouldn't be surprised if he held elements of both emotions, swallowing as his anticipation grew. 

The parasitic specimen held fast on the left side of the petri dish and began to writhe as Luis carefully stabbed it, injecting a serum he had spent many sleepless nights perfecting. His heart whipped in his chest as the translucent worm took on a faint purple hue, its insides becoming more visible as the seconds ticked. He could see everything down to its tiny heart beating fast. 

This has to work...

After weeks of failures and watching his efforts crumble, today had to be different. Luis could feel it in the air that luck was on his side. 

When the serum was fully distributed, Luis withdrew the needle, surprised that the creature remained calm—stable, even. He waited for a minute and watched for any signs of distress. A tiny glimmer of hope ignited within him, acknowledging this was already a huge milestone. Most specimens didn't get this far. 

Luis tore his gaze away from the lens just long enough to fill another syringe with blood, muscle memory guiding his hands while his mind stayed locked on the possibilities unfolding before him. He administered the red blood cells into the petri dish and quietly returned to the microscope to watch the worm's reaction.

He was so engrossed in the process that Luis didn't notice the lab door creak open.

"Dr. Serra," a voice broke through the silence, jarring him.

"One moment." Luis's response was curt, almost a whisper. He couldn't afford to look away now, not when the worm was inching toward the red blood cells, its newly purple form shimmering under the light. The cells seemed to call to it, drawing it in as the creature slinked closer. 

Then, the battle began. 

White blood cells suddenly emerged like soldiers on a battlefield, converging on the worm with force. Some lagged, tending to the red cells first, while the rest charged into the fray.

Luis watched, transfixed as the tiny organisms carried out their mission. He couldn't help but marvel at the sight, his lips tugging into a small smile despite the suspense coiled in his gut. He started naming them in his mind, and each cell and the worm became characters in a micro-universe drama. Luis knew he shouldn't anthropomorphize them, but it was a small comfort in his exhaustion. He couldn't help himself, naturally loving spinning tales to keep his mind sharp.

Luis quietly noted the white blood cells were ruthless, latching onto the worm as it squirmed frantically to escape. Of course, it became overwhelmed and started to die, freezing in place while its attackers continued the pursuit. Then something incredible happened—the serum within the worm began to anchor the cells to it, drawing them into its body. He counted at least fifty individuals joining when the metamorphosis started, the cells fusing within the worm to create something new. Its body increased a few millimeters, tendrils extending from its sides as a soft glow pulsed around the worm like a blinking star in the silence of space, and then it moved again—a creature reborn. 

Luis exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. His hands shook as he reached for a sterile petri dish housing another worm specimen without the serum, transferring the newly altered creature with a pipette. He switched out the dishes, adjusting the microscope until the two worms came into focus, side by side.

The purple worm wasted no time latching onto its counterpart with savage intent. The tiny struggle before Luis felt monumental, like witnessing a war of titans in miniature. He swallowed hard. This was it—the culmination of all his work, his sacrifices, and his sleepless nights. As he watched the purple worm overpower its rival, its tendrils sinking into the body like thousands of little daggers, Luis felt triumph for the first time in ages. 

"C'mon, c'mon…" 

He spoke too soon. 

The purple worm had been so close, but the light faded like a candle snuffed out by an unseen hand. The once-vibrant color turned ashen, its life draining away, leaving nothing but a shriveled-up body. The other worm seized the moment, slinking away from the threat as it broke free from its rival's grasp. 

"Jódeme!" The curse tore from Luis's lips. He yanked his hands away from the device, frustration boiling over while he slumped back into his chair. His head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. (1)

"Another failed test run?" 

A soft voice pulled Luis back to the present. He'd nearly forgotten Dr. Smith was in the lab with him. He hummed in response, the sound more of a weary exhale than an answer. For a moment, he didn't have the strength to speak.

"And then some," Luis finally said. He forced himself to sit up and spin around to face her, his eyes trailing up to meet her concerned gaze. Smith offered an apologetic smile, and he couldn't help but smirk, though it didn't reach his eyes. 

"I don't recall asking for a pity party now, Olivia."

"I wouldn't stoop low for your amusement, Lulu." she shot back, her attempt at lightheartedness faltering as she shook her head. "Maybe it's time to put Singularity on the back burner for a while. Work on something else, get a fresh perspective. You've been at this for six months, honey." 

Luis frowned. The idea of abandoning the project, even temporarily, struck a nerve. He lost count how many times the other members of Team 6 tried to lure him away from his baby, and he wasn't having it. 

"No, I can't do that now," he insisted, his tone proud as he sat up straighter. "I'm this close! I can feel it! And you know me—I can't let go of an idea once I've sunk my teeth into it."

"An idea? More like hyperfixation," came a tired voice from the doorway. Luis and Smith turned to see Dr. Clouret shuffling in, looking like he'd been running on nothing but coffee and frayed nerves.

"Hey, Soldadito!" Luis greeted, forcing a smile as he waved. Clouret shot him a withering glare, muttering a French curse under his breath. (2)

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Clouret grumbled, his eyes darting to Smith. "Olivia."

"Yeah, Jean?" She raised an eyebrow.

"How are things in Sector 3?"

"Peachy as ever," she sighed, the exhaustion in her voice mirroring his own. "Chief Alvarez has been riding our ass hard to accelerate the intelligence growth in the T-Virus-infected rabbits."

"She's a piranha like that!" Luis quipped, his tone edged with sarcasm. Even as his peers laughed, the sound felt hollow in his ears, the humor doing little to alleviate the sense of defeat clinging to him.

"She needs to get laid," Clouret huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Might improve her mood."

"Speak for yourself!" Luis retorted, trying to inject some fun into his voice, though Clouret's glare almost made him regret it.

"Anyway!" Smith quickly interjected, stifling her remaining giggles as she steered the conversation back on track. "We've made some progress, but the bad news is if she wants us to meet the Tyrant Theory deadline, we're going to need three more researchers on deck."

"That shouldn't be a problem. Why not take Junior here with you?" Clouret gestured at Luis with a snort, grinning at the man's expense. "He's been nose-deep in bugs and worms for ages. It's about time he got some air."

"Y'know," Smith chimed in, her grin widening as she turned her attention to Luis, further cornering him. "I was just telling Dr. Serra he should step back!"

"Tempting, but no thanks!" Luis shook his head, forcing a smile. "As much as the T-Virus gives me a tent like it does you and the higher-ups, it's not my thing."

"Alvarez is eventually going to slam you headfirst into viral applications kicking and screaming, you know that, right? She's not a patient woman." Clouret sighed, already going through the motions to prep his station.

"Jean has a point," Smith's grin faded into a frown. "Everyone knows parasites are your bread and butter, Luis, but Umbrella's pushing for more viral tests these days."

Luis sighed. “Yes, and? Dime algo que no sepa…” (3)

"I'm not saying your theory on exploiting parasitic properties to boost immunity isn't a good idea, but Project Singularity hasn't hit the ground running since your last trial, and you know the funds are getting slim, thanks to the American branch. I don't want to see you digging money out of your pocket to keep it alive. And we all know how it breaks your heart when our volunteer subjects fail the tests. You gotta give yourself a break from all the suffering, Lulu."

Luis's shoulders slumped; she had him beat there with the latter remark. He remembered what became of the last Jane Doe that he worked with, the poor woman infected with blood flukes who signed her rights over to Umbrella to try and save herself from late-stage schistosomiasis since she couldn't afford hospital treatment. Although it had been weeks, he still couldn't get the screaming out of his head. He couldn't forget how one tiny flaw in his serum cost someone their life. 

"I know," Luis finally admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. His free hand fumbled through his lab coat for a cigarette, something to distract him from the growing sense of failure chewing at his gut. He placed it between his lips, wetting the end while he dug for his lighter and stood up.

"If it stops everyone's bitching for a while," Luis mumbled, resignation in his voice, "I'll put in two shifts for Sector 3 this Thursday and Friday. As long as I'm only working at the main lab station. I don't think I can stomach poking and prodding anything for a while after today."

Smith's face lit up, her gasp filled with relief. "You mean it?!"

Luis nodded. He cupped his left hand around the cigarette's tip, flicking his lighter to life with the other. The tiny flame seemed inconsequential compared to the fire burning within him, yet he welcomed the distraction.

"Hé, hé, hé!" Clouret suddenly exclaimed, snapping his fingers toward Luis. "Not in here!" (4)

Luis couldn't help but laugh.  "What are you, mi padre?" 

He threw his arms out to challenge Clouret before tucking his hands into his pockets. As he walked past Jean, Luis blew a cloud of smoke toward his face, catching the grimace on his colleague's features just before a box of pipettes was hurled in his direction.

"That's coming out of your check!" Luis teased as he exited the lab.

“Manger une bite, Serra!” (5)

"Enjoy your break, Luis!" Smith called out. "Thanks again for volunteering!"

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, Luis allowed himself to feel a little swell of pride as the nicotine hit his tongue. The smoke drifted pleasantly through his nostrils, and he headed toward the recreation hall, craving a moment of peace.

A hand gripped his waist, freezing him mid-step. Luis's brows furrowed as he turned, facing an older woman whose expression was a storm of anger and urgency.

"We need to talk."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Luis shirked back and grimaced, a shiver racing down his spine while an intense ringing began to infiltrate his ears. Every blink of his eyes seemed to tear apart the fabric of space. The overhead lights blazed brighter until they scorched his senses, and reality itself blurred and distorted, slipping through his grasp. He wasn't here. He wasn't real—he was unraveling.

"I didn't come here to create monsters!"

"Dr. Serra, you knew exactly what you signed up for when you were brought onto this team."

Those were the last words heard before Two Legs shot up from bed with a gasp, his chest heaving as if he'd been submerged underwater. His hands and arms jerked, his senses spinning while blinking rapidly, desperate to anchor himself. The hotel room slowly became focused, the vibrant shades almost too vivid for him to keep staring at.

As Two Legs woke further, the parasite clawed his way back to the present, grounding himself with the scents around him: his clean sweat mingling with the pillowcase, the lingering tobacco in his jacket, and a crisp, minty smell drifting from the bathroom.

Swallowing hard, he repeatedly pinched his shoulder, confirming that this wasn't another trick of "the other place." During these episodes, it was always difficult to tell what was real and what wasn't.

"Hey, you good?" 

A sweet vanilla and floral musk suddenly yanked Two Legs from his train of thought as he turned his head, staring at Sawyer like a deer caught in the headlights. 

"What?" 

"I asked if you're okay. You gasped like a fish out of water just now." 

"Oh," Two Legs swallowed, his voice rough as he cleared his throat, scratching his neck. "Just a nightmare, is all. Y'know, the stuff we dealt with yesterday. Sorry."

"No worries…" 

Two Legs followed her with his eyes, torn between a glare and soft regard, while Sawyer returned to the bathroom without another word. The door was left ajar as she resumed brushing her teeth. She was already dressed in fresh clothes, and the plaga was surprised at how deep he must've been sleeping, for his senses should've picked up on her movements long before now. He shook his head, snapping out of his trance to fixate on his shaky hands, constantly reminding himself that he wasn't lost. 

Luis had worked on countless assignments for Umbrella, enough to where Two Legs could recount most of the research by heart—hell, he could probably write a book on it if he cared enough about his host's career pursuits. The only vested interest he had in Luis's work pertained to details related to his kind, and this was the first time he'd come to hear of Project Singularity—whatever it was. It clung to Two Legs, biting at the edges of his mind as he thought back to the purple serum, the color striking not only for its unnatural tint but because Two Legs knew he had seen it before. A quick memory bubbled up of Luis hastily brewing last-minute samples to aid a group of people back in the village.

Ada, Leon, Ashley…

The names repeated in his head several times, and he wondered if it was the same substance he had used on the worm.

No, what Luis used… 

The sudden sound of the sink turning off jerked him back to the present. Two Legs' attention snapped to Sawyer as she stepped out of the bathroom, her movements purposeful while she approached the desk where a laptop rested. He squinted, trying to make out what she was doing, only to flinch when something came flying toward him.

"Dios mio!" His hands shot up on instinct, catching the object with a practiced ease. He found himself staring at his lighter.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." Sawyer quipped, her voice teasing but filled with something softer. 

"I have a sense you're lying about that, but I'll accept your peace offering," Two Legs replied, his smirk brief as he glanced between the lighter and her. "I'm surprised."

"About what?" 

"That you didn't destroy it." 

"Trust me, I thought about it," Sawyer admitted, her voice tinged with fatigue as she rifled through a spare suitcase pulled from beneath what would've been Mobley's bed. She sat on the floor, unzipping it quickly. Inside, a backpack filled with first aid supplies and spare clothes. She pulled out a pair of dark jeans, studying the waistband for a moment before tossing them along with a black t-shirt in Luis's direction.

"Eh?" Two Legs mumbled, watching the clothes fly onto the end of his mattress. 

"These should fit you," Sawyer said, her tone distant as she continued her search. "You can put your dirty clothes in the blue biohazard bin by my bed. A cleaner from VITA will incinerate them later and decontaminate the room."

"Shouldn't we have done that yesterday to avoid potential infection?" Two Legs asked.

"Probably would've been smart," Sawyer replied with a faint shrug, digging through the backpack again. "But I have strips in case you're worried. I took one earlier; it was negative. If we caught something from Soldado's hideout, we would've turned into monsters by now."

Two Legs tilted his head in confusion. "Strips?"

"Yeah, y'know, the ones you spit on to detect the presence of RNA genetic material from viruses?" She looked over her shoulder at him, her brow furrowed. "I thought being an Umbrella researcher, you'd know that."

"Well, uh-" Two Legs stammered, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "I'm not exactly an early bird, at least not until I've had coffee! Forgive the brain fog."

Sawyer's lips formed into a small, reluctant smile. "Makes two of us."

She tossed a small box of strips toward him.

"Gracias," Two Legs murmured, stretching with a yawn. He absentmindedly tucked the lighter into one of his jacket pockets, almost forgetting he'd slept in the damn thing. As he got up from the bed and cautiously approached her, he couldn't shake the memory of nearly getting whacked on his way out the door last night. 

"I, uh, have a question."

"I probably have an answer,"

"Heh," Two Legs blushed, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Are we…okay?" 

Sawyer's movements stilled as if his words had struck a nerve. She blinked a few times before she understood what Luis was asking. Slowly, she scooted back from the suitcase and turned to face him, looking up at him with a guarded and fragile expression.

"Do you want an honest answer?" Sawyer asked. 

Two Legs nodded.

"No, we aren't…" Sawyer breathed. "But…"

"Pero?" (6)

"I'm sorry I lost my temper and for pulling the gun on you. I should've tried to talk to you first, but I was scared." Sawyer swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. She hesitated to speak further, unable to believe she was apologizing to an Umbrella employee. But here they were, both caught in a moment that felt surreal. 

As the initial shock of her confession faded, Sawyer continued. "I'm sure you've done plenty of fucked-up shit on Umbrella's behalf, but…you helped me. So…let's end this on a positive note."

Two Legs was caught entirely off guard by her response. He had braced himself for hostility, maybe even another attempt on his life, but this? This felt different. His brain was flooded with dopamine and adrenaline as if his body had been starving for relief. The sensation was puzzling—and the plaga wondered why he suddenly felt simultaneously calm and excited.

He realized he'd been silent for too long.

"For the record, you body slam like a beast. I'm sure I won't need a chiropractor anytime soon." Two Legs forced a laugh, trying to borrow a bit of Luis's wit to ease the suspense. When he saw Sawyer give in a smile, he felt another small wave of dopamine, making his heart ache in a way he wasn't prepared for. "Anyway, thanks for clearing the air. So…what does this mean for us moving forward?"

"You go to the UK, I go to the States, and we pretend we never met." Sawyer's smile faded as she gave a dismissive shrug, her words solemn and final. "You won't have to worry about VITA coming after you, at least not from my end. Consider it another thank you."

"Just like that?" Two Legs furrowed his brows, pursing his lips.

"Yeah."

"Yeah…?"

"Were you expecting something else?"

Her question stunned him, making Two Legs blink and shake his head. "No, no, I get it. I just wanted to be sure."

Sawyer's gaze remained stable, her eyes narrowing slightly as though she could see straight through him.

"Luis," her voice was almost gentle but no less insistent. "You gotta promise me I'll never see you again after today. Can you do that?"

Two Legs felt his heart skip a beat. He didn't like how easily she saw through him, how she seemed to know there was more to his words, more to the hesitation that lingered in his silence. A part of him wanted to lie, to tell Sawyer what she needed to hear and go through the motions of escorting her to the airport. Yet another side—this part that had begun to crave her presence beyond seeing her as food—resisted. Then, the sudden trivial thought of being forgotten terrified him almost as much as the idea of giving up the hunt.

This wasn't just about the chase anymore, and that realization, more than anything, scared him in a way he couldn't fully articulate. He was so damn confused. 

Before Two Legs could speak, a sudden wave rippled through his body, seizing his muscles and pinching his breath. The sensation was forceful as if a current of electricity had jolted him from the inside out, leaving him stricken. Without realizing it, he stumbled to the window nearby. 

The parasite from last night—t he other plaga —had called out to him. 

It's near…

Two Legs eyes darted over the nearby buildings, desperate to locate the source of the disturbance. His left hand gripped the windowsill tightly, fighting against the overwhelming urge to chase after it. He was so consumed by the need to get a visual that he didn't notice Sawyer rise to her feet, her eyes glancing between him and the outside world, trying to piece together what was happening.

"Luis?"

"Hmm?" 

"Are you good? You just glitched out for a second there."

"Sorry," Two Legs swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. He could feel the stress rolling off him in ripples and realized he might've come across as strange—dangerous even. He needed to backtrack and regain control. The last thing he wanted was for Sawyer to discover what he was. Or worse, for his cousin to pinpoint his location and claim his quarry. The thought of the other plaga eating her made Two Legs' blood boil as his territorial feelings from yesterday resurfaced. No, he wouldn't let that happen. Not after putting so much work into keeping Sawyer alive for the right moment—or...he wasn't sure anymore, about hunting her. It didn't seem as sporting as it once was. 

"Luis?" Sawyer called his name again gently.

He quickly spoke up, not wanting to linger any longer in his thoughts.  "Last night after our argument, when I went for a walk...I wasn't alone. Someone was watching me. I tried to chase them down but lost them in the rain. Now, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched again."

Sawyer's eyes widened slightly. "Shit, really?"

"Yeah." Two Legs finally turned to her; a frown etched deep into his face. "I should've told you sooner, but it slipped my mind."

"Don't sweat it," Sawyer shook her head, letting out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Do you think they're with Soldado?"

"I don't know, but it's possible." Two Legs sighed, his gaze sweeping the room while he pieced his next move. His tone shifted, taking on a forced lightness as he formulated a plan. "Looks like you still have some packing to do. How about this—I'll go around the block a few times and make sure we're safe before heading to the airport. Sound good?"

"Sounds risky on your part," Sawyer murmured. "It could be a trap."

"It might be, but better me than you getting caught. I know these streets; I can handle whatever comes my way." Two Legs forced a grin. "For all we know, it could just be an angry ex of mine."

Sawyer blinked, caught taken back by the remark as she snorted. "How the hell did you jump to that conclusion?"

"Think about it!" Two Legs laughed. "If you were an ex and saw me sneaking a random American into a hotel in the dead of night, you'd probably feel jealous or curious at most!"

Sawyer scoffed, shaking her head as a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Me thinks you're giving yourself too much glory in the romance department, pal."

Two Legs chortled and smirked. "So we're pals now?"

"That's not what I—shut up."

"You didn't say please!"

"Por favor," Sawyer crossed her arms, looking at him with a faint grin. "That good enough for you?"

"Well, you spoke my mother tongue, so why not?"

Despite the playful exchange, Sawyer felt uneasy. Luis's plan made sense, but something about it felt off. Yet, Sawyer couldn't argue—she had her responsibilities to contend with: keeping VITA property safe, cleaning up the room, and giving Mobley and Kari one last chance to make it to the rendezvous point before she had to report them officially missing. Telling Maestro was one thing, but the paperwork was another beast she wasn't looking forward to slaying.

"One hour," Sawyer said, her voice firm as she held up a finger to drive home her point. "One hour to see if there's anything worth sticking around for. After that, I'm gone with or without you. Okay?"

"Absolutamente!" Two Legs responded with a grin that lit up his face, his excitement almost childlike as he clapped his hands together. The energy radiating from him was like that of a dog about to be let off its leash, eager to run wild. He began shedding his clothes, flinging them aside in a chaotic blur to toss on the new ones Sawyer had given him earlier. (7)

Sawyer's breath caught in her throat, her cheeks heating as she quickly turned her gaze to a spot on the wall, the sight of him almost naked too much to handle. The rustle of fabric behind her only amplified her discomfort, and she cursed herself for not averting her eyes sooner. Beneath the embarrassment, she was curious about Luis's unabashed ease, wondering if he stripped so casually in front of everyone he met. The thought made her briefly cringe. Although the furthest from a prude, Sawyer couldn't imagine being this comfortable around a complete stranger. 

Two Legs, oblivious to her unease, finished changing some seconds later and smoothed down his jacket after zipping it up over the black tee. When he turned to face her, now fully dressed, Sawyer couldn't help but be momentarily struck by how normal he looked, well—for a guy with long, unkempt hair and a beard. The realization reminded her just how little she knew about him. She was almost tempted to crack a Jesus joke but reminded herself that getting cozy like that with a former Umbrella employee wasn't wise, let alone went against her principles.

"Do you want anything to eat while I'm out? I can grab us something on the way back." Two Legs asked, his tone light as if their tension had evaporated entirely. 

The kindness in his offer caught Sawyer by surprise. It was strange how nonchalant he was behaving toward her, considering she almost blew his head off with a gun last night.  She hesitated, searching his face for any hint of deception, but found none.

"No, I'm fine," she murmured. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "But...coffee would be nice. Y'know, for the brain fog."

Two Legs smile widened at her callback to his earlier remark about not being an early bird, and he nodded eagerly before heading for the door. 

"One coffee coming up! I'll be back soon."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Sawyer released a breath. The room instantly seemed emptier without Luis. She shook off the lingering awkwardness and went over to her laptop, turning it on and letting the system boot up. It was better to start her missing report draft now than to work on it at home, figuring she'd get the painful parts out of the way.

Now sitting in front of the computer, Sawyer's fingers quickly moved over the keys. She logged onto the VITA network, searching her inbox for a reply from Maestro, but nothing appeared. She hummed in disappointment but figured he was busy and decided to check the archives for that one government document on Luis. While it didn't have much on him, Sawyer hoped to find more clues about his past dealings with Umbrella, but she didn't get that far, being met with a blank screen. 

"What the fuck?"

She tried a few roundabout ways to get in but kept getting the same results. There were no codes, buttons, or whistles—just a void staring back at her. 

A frown tugged on Sawyer's lips. It wasn't like the system to be unresponsive, and for a moment, suspicion crept into her mind, but she rationalized that it was probably a glitch. Despite all the tech advancements VITA had at its disposal, they weren't immune to site crashes like any other online organization. 

"I'll worry about it when I get back to the States, I guess," she muttered, her finger hovering over the trackpad to close out. At the last second, Sawyer stopped, watching the screen flicker, the darkness giving birth to an all-white text message in capital letters.  

"Meet me on the rooftop. - Rebus"

"Sweet Jesus," Sawyer whispered. Kari was here—in the hotel. At first, she wondered if it was a trick or wishful thinking until another message appeared.  

"In case you're skeptical, here's Soldado's code: 'Are you enjoying the splendors of Spain?' Please hurry. - Rebus"

Sawyer stood frozen for a moment, the reality settle in before wasting no time preparing to meet Kari.  She ventured and grabbed the backpack from the suitcase, hastily stuffing it with additional first aid rations in case Kari needed any wounds tended to, a couple of cell phones, and some euros on hand.

As she packed, Sawyer's mind raced with questions—how Kari escaped the Dires, how she survived Soldado's self-destruct sequence, and if she found Mobley or if the son of a bitch was with her. Each thought piled on top of the last. Before letting her thoughts run away, Sawyer paused to write a quick note for Luis, letting him know where she was in case he showed up early. 

With the note left on the table, Sawyer locked the door behind her, clutching the key tightly before slipping it into her pocket. She reminded herself that Luis had a spare and swung the backpack over her left shoulder. Not that it mattered in the end, given they wouldn't be here much longer.

Sawyer bolted down the hallway to catch the elevator at the end, wondering what kind of tale Kari had in store for her and if she'd have the strength to tell Kari what became of Samuel. Whatever was to come, she knew the conversation would be challenging, and she had no idea where to begin about Luis, much less how Kari would react.

For now, Sawyer allowed herself to bask in the joy that someone on her team was alive. That was enough to keep the loss of Samuel at bay, and the stint that happened in Colorado. 

Notes:

1. Jódeme! = Fuck me 2. Soldadito = Soldier boy 3. Dime algo que no sepa = Tell me something I don't know 4. Hé, hé, hé! = Hey, hey, hey 5. Manger une bite = Eat a dick 6. Pero = but 7. Absolutamente = Absolutely

[wehaveimagineshere]

Heyyyyy it's Couldn't Sleep aka inciting Carlos request back at it again. I was wondering if I could ask for a sort of pseudo-followup I guess? Where the reader has a nightmare about their not-so-great childhood and Carlos comforts them and tells them it's ok to cry and they're finally safe now. I uh....... didn't have a great night. cptsd for the win. Anyway love you, Ren. Hope you have a good day. Again, thanks for writing my other prompt. I'm gonna try and get a nap in today I'm still so sleepy.

I'm so sorry this is coming out so late! I hope you were able to sleep and you've been getting okay sleep since you sent this in. CPTSD is not fun ever, and I'm so sorry you have to struggle with it. Remember that you're strong, courageous, terrifying, and you can shake the world off its axis if you put your mind to it <3

But most of all, you're safe. Especially in Carlos' arms <3

~*~*~

It's a prison that you can almost forget about.

Its claws can become almost blanket soft, a whisper against the skin. Its footsteps can fit almost perfectly into your own, the same shoe size and indent in the sand. Its voice can become nigh indistinguishable from your own, praise and happiness flowing freely.

But in the end it is still a prison. Its claws still sharp, digging canyons into your arms, your chest. Hounding your every step, threatening to trip you up. Telling you foul and disgusting lies, wrapping you into a world of darkness and fear.

It is a prison you have yet to find the exit to, as you go from one room to another. As you are once again forced to relive what should only be distant memories, distance feelings, the claws digging deeper and deeper into your flesh. You try to remind yourself of the people who matter, who care about you, but it tries so desperately to hold you in place, to keep it company in the rot infested darkness. Choking you, trapping you.

And all you can do is scream. Scream into an endless void that swallows your very sound, your very heartbeat, what makes you you as you endlessly struggle, the blood endlessly pouring down your limbs and pooling at your feet.

An endless ocean, suffocating, thick--

Your eyes fly open as you jerk up, lungs struggling to suck down air as you scramble backward, back hitting the headboard, eyes darting to asses the threat, to find the exits--

"The door is over there, and it's open."

You hear him before you see him, a small gesture capturing your gaze as he points. Fear roots you in place, eyes boring into his, watching his body language, his expression, waiting for--

He's at the edge of the bed. No, he's standing at the foot, arms up, palms pointed your way.

Something eases in your chest.

"You're okay," you hear him say as the fear crashes, leeching your limbs of energy. "You're safe, sweetheart."

Glancing once more about the room, you note the drawn curtains, the cracked window. The rumpled blankets at the foot of the bed and to your side, too far away for you to have done it yourself. The water bottle on your bedside table, unopened, and indeed the bedroom door ajar.

Looking up once more, you finally take in Carlos. Shirtless, hair askew, shoulders tense, you recognize the look he's giving you as your muscles finally relax.

"Carlos," you whisper, dragging your knees up to your chest and hugging them tight.

"Hey, honey. I'm here. What do you need?"

All you can do is reach out a hand.

He moves slowly, deliberately, giving you all the time in the world to shift away as he crawls back onto the bed, hand grasping yours and bringing it to his chest, pressing your palm above his heart.

"You're safe, sweetheart," he repeats, bringing his free hand up to gently wipe away the tears you didn't realize had escaped. "You're home, with me. And I won't let anything hurt you, you know that."

You nod.

He reaches over, gently drawing you against his chest, loose enough so you can back out if needed.

Instead you melt into him, the tears coming freely, wracking your body as sobs escape. You're so tired but so wired, your brain struggling to align itself out of the dream and flashbacks, trying to remind itself that you're safe now.

You've always been safe with him. Especially as Carlos tucks you in close, his heartbeat now in your ears, a steady, constant rhythm in your life.

"You're safe," he says again, quieter, as his fingers run across your shoulders, your back. "You're safe. Take a deep breath." You do, holding it until until he says to let go. As you take your fourth breath he reaches to grab the water bottle. "Here. Take a drink."

It takes a moment to open the cap, but the cool water sliding down your chest helps ease more of the tension, cooling the stove heating your blood. Sighing, you set the bottle down and rub your face. "I'm sorry."

"For what? Having a nightmare? I get them too."

"For waking you up. For..." For the fear, the sadness, the helplessness, the anger, for a damaged version of yourself. "For this."

"And what is this?" he asks, brushing more tears from your cheeks. "For how amazing you are? For how you're ride or die for the people you care about? How badass you are every day?"

"I--"

"Sure, maybe you put dye in my shampoo once and I walked around with green hair for a week. But it was Saint Patrick's Day. Most people wear a green shirt or something, I had green hair."

A smile tugs at your lips.

"I had people come up to me going, 'Carlos! What awesome hair!' and I went, 'Thanks! My partner gave it to me!' and then got to listen to how smart and cool they thought the idea was."

"You put dye in my hot chocolate and turned my tongue blue in retaliation."

"We're not talking about that right now."

This time you chuckle, and the sound prompts Carlos to kiss the top of your head. "Wanna help me brainstorm ways to turn all of my coworker's tongues blue?"

"Do I get anything out of it?"

"Aside from being the mastermind? Maybe a kiss or two. Depends on how well your plan works."

Shifting your head up, you give him a smile and kiss his jaw. "Deal."

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets Day Fifteen

Chosen Prompt: Throwing Up

CW: Vomiting, blood, prior consumption of human flesh

When the full moon has faded, and pale morning dawns, Hale is lost to all the world until there comes a sudden lurch. From the depths of unconsciousness pain claws at his body, the teeth of it caught at his stomach. Its sharpness jolts him from the thick black of sleep, leaves him blinking skyward into the branches.

It’s autumn now, and the morning is cool. Hale stares up into the sparsely dressed branches, the leaves falling more by the moment. The branches bounce idly in the soft of the breeze, leaves spiralling downward to the hard forest floor. This is a moment that ought to be peaceful, but the cold touches Hale in a way that feels vulnerable, and he cranes his neck to peer at his body, holds his breath like a curse. He’s naked, brown skin marred with fresh scratches, blood dried onto his flesh. A flash of a memory — leaping forward through thorns and persistent thickets, snarling in pursuit of the creature before him.

Hale cannot recall what he hunted, the prey to which his wolf form gave chase. All he knows is his teeth taste like iron, his tongue coated with the blood of some creature.

This happens, sometimes, on the nights he escapes. He’s had birds and small creatures, knows the tang of their blood. He remembers their bones after a while too, when he’s safe in his bed and at the mercy of flashbacks. The wolf is always alive inside him, and it takes a sick pleasure in displaying its memories.

The pain in his stomach grows brighter. It’s the pale white of winter, tinged yellow like bile, and it roils through his gut until it threatens to rise. Hale gags, makes the mistake of closing his eyes. The gesture mutes the morning light, propels him back into darkness. When Hale’s eyes are closed, he sees as the wolf. His breath trembles badly as he watches.

The creature before him was large — not a bird, not a woodland creature gone astray. He sees it in flashes of crimson and black, its long legs, its dark hair. He hears the sharp pitch of its cries, sinks deeper into the memory and remembers its panic — its fear. Delectable flashes of terror gone sickly, the wolf as entranced as Hale is abhorred. The creature looks quickly over its shoulder, eyes wet as it screams and it begs. This, the wolf shows him, was its crucial mistake. The creature, looking backwards, loses its footing. It meets his eye and it crashes to the ground. It bleeds before the wolf is upon it, knees scraped by rocks and arms snagged on branches. The wolf sets about it and it begs for its life. It —

Hale forces his eyes open and his stomach lurches, a pain more insistent than any he’s known.

A human. The creature the wolf took its teeth to last night was a person, no different than Hale now.

Alone and naked on the forest floor, birds chirping endlessly overhead, Hale retches. His muscles contract, a painful warning, the walls of his chest pulling tight. His oesophagus burns and his mouth tastes like bile. He rolls onto his hands for the coming expulsion, but nothing emerges just yet. His arms shake and something writhes deep inside him, his stomach contracting and the agony clawing deep. The pain is dull and incessant, suffocating as he gasps uselessly for air. Every blink sends him back to the night, to the euphoria of the wolf as it reigns. His arms turned to legs that pin its prey by the shoulders. His hands turned to claws that rip easily through skin. And his mouth — become a weapon — teeth slick with hot blood, vibrating with the timber of his victims screams until they fade, until the blood doesn’t pump so much as it spills, slick and warm and delicious and sickening.

Hale’s body lurches violently, his back arched painful and quick. The contents of his stomach draw upwards. Iron hits the back of his throat, thick and wet and red to the taste. His chapped lips part. The contents of his stomach flood into his mouth, paint the forest floor crimson when they spill from him. He groans and gags and chokes on the liquid. His body aches sharp from his throat to his stomach, and the panic goes straight for his eyes. They well, wet and aching as he vomits. One incident immediately followed by another. This one leaves fragments of bones in the leaves. Everything is red and wet, putrid as it pours from his mouth. The third brings up masses, pulpy and pink, strings of muted blue shot through them. Veins.

Each instance of vomiting eases his stomach, like his body’s way of purging its wrongs.

He sobs through the worst of it, gone dizzy from shock. He stops peering down at the things he brings up, squeezes his eyes shut tightly instead.

His body trembles badly, his memories gradually reconstructing a face — the features of the person he murdered. Hale doesn’t pray — not since his infection — but this morning he pleads to the gods. Don’t let this be the remnants of a member of his team. Don’t let it be someone he loves.

He hangs his head when it’s finally done, weeping at the memories that pull at him. Blue eyes, dark hair, someone taller than he is.

In the back of his mind, the wolf laughs lowly. Hale promises himself that they’re not the same being, that his soul and the wolf’s are distinct. But when the horror fades he remembers the glee of it, ghosting through him as if it were his. It’s not, he tells himself.

It is, argues that voice, as dreadful as the taste of internal organs that coats the roof of his mouth. He shudders, spits pink bile onto the ground. And all the while, the wolf’s voice sounds more and more like his own.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event

[kisha-myers]

Author's Note: Ive decided to title this - My Anxious Mouse - I think it fits decently 😅 Also, I will TRY to update 1 chapter a day IF I can help it. I've got 2 kiddos under 6 🥴 they keep me on my toes and need my help often. If you have any questions, whether that be about this fanfiction or me, feel free to comment them below! I'm gonna try my hand at a tag list as well (if you want to be added to that PLEASE let me know). Without further ado, let's get on to the good stuff!

Chapter Three: Broken Memories

You had been placed in the back seat of the humvee, your seat belt secured for you as your brain still tried to catch up to what all was happening. You registered the vibration associated to the ignition being turned over, felt the jerk of it all in motion, but as you looked up towards Ghost and König you weren't fully certain what their intentions were. Your dad had always told you to be mindful of those around you, having been a retired navy seal, he knew people were capable of many horrible things.

"They will use your timidity against you - always be vigilant. Men especially, they'll see you and instinctively see prey." His words echoed repeatedly through your rapidly clearing mind, the events of yesterday and today finally catching up to you. You equated it as your body's own version or shock - you just hadn't fully come out of it yet to register much of anything aside from now being in the back of a vehicle with two complete strangers heading to God knows where.

Fear was the first emotion to crash into you in a rolling tidal wave, it crushed the air from you lungs and had your muscles tensing painfully. You curled in on yourself, drawing your legs up slowly, your arms wrapping around them as you buried your face into your knees. Panic was the next emotion to force its way into your consciousness, burning through your veins like a raging inferno that threatened to burn you alive. It caused your stomach to churn mercilessly and spit to pool in your mouth, threatening catastrophe should the contents of your tummy be spewed all over the sanded beige interiror. You forced yourself to calm down as much as you could, opting to breathe in deeply and focus on your senses.

Grounding techniques hadn't always worked for you in the beginning, there were many times you just had to let the panic attack push you to pass out. Through countless years of therapy and many many many sleepless nights, you had learned how to use the technique to soothe you. You started with the sensation of touch, letting the pads of your fingertips brush along the seam of the fabric seat you currently resided on. It wasn't exactly soft, but it wasn't rough either - it was somewhere in between, designed for functionality over comfort you'd guess. You continued to move your fingertips across the seat slowly, letting yourself become familiar with the texture before moving onto your next sense; hearing.

You tilted your buried face slightly, opting to keep your eyes closed to not dull the other sense. The engine, you noted, purred almost in an animalistic way. You knew little to nothing about cars but you were sure the upkeep on this vehicle was immaculate. You turned your head completely, letting your right ear rest against your knees, you face now facing your door as you eyes remained closed. Rain crashed against the windshield leisurely, the rhythmic pounding a comforting sound. The sound of passing cars made you smile, reminding you that although you were here, you still remained in a public place.

Feeling slightly more relaxed than when you started, you decided to continue on, opting to have the next sense be smell. It was strange, you thought, that the interior of a military vehicle could smell like fresh pine and sandalwood. Perhaps it was due to the week old carfreshener that hung from the review mirror, or maybe it was due to their cologne - you weren't entire sure, but you enjoyed the scent nevertheless. There was a sense of familiarity there, notes you could quite place but knew you had smelt it before. It was slightly sweet but nutty, almost like a pistachio cream filling or vanilla almond milk. It wasn't you, your body wash consisted of fruity scents like orange bliss and tropical punch. Your shampoo wasn't any better as it was watermelon and berry scented. You inhaled deeply, letting the fragrance that left you perplexed relax your tensed muscles. You decided you liked that smell, the notion causing a tender smile to burst forth across your lips.

Your heart had calmed enough that you felt it was safe to open your eyes, effectively moving onto the next stage of the technique. Slowly you lifted your lids, blinking a few times to clear the blurriness from your eyes. The first thing you saw was the window, buildings and cars passing you by as the rain glided down the glass. The yellow hued glow bathing the world around you in a somber essence. Stop lights changed from green to red, reminding you subtly of Christmas for the briefest of moments. You watched the world around you silently, eyes watching the raindrops leave little trails as they slid from their position.

The somber silence was broken by the faint buzzing of a cellular device, effectively bursting your bubble of raindrop appreciation. You lifted your head, turning it just in time to see Ghost pull free his phone and tossing it to König.

"You talk to him, my patience is already thin." He growled, making you nearly jump out of your skin. König shot him an incredulous look, heaving out a sigh and sliding the green phone icon over before placing the phone against his ear.

"Guten Morgen Sergeant." He forced between clenched teeth, shooting another annoyed look at Ghost when he saw the man's eyes crinkle in smugness. Johnny's bark of a laugh filter through the receiver loud enough to be heard by you. Your eyebrows shot up, mouth slightly agape - you knew that laugh, had heard it most of your life. Questions started rapidfiring through your cranium as you tried to remember everything Johnny had ever told you about his military career.

You knew he had been assigned to a military task force, Task force 141 his paperwork had said, and that he was under the supervision of a woman named Laswell. You knew his Captain, had even had a few opportunities to talk to him over a cup if tea he had so graciously offered to make you. You recalled he was nice enough, a little blunter than you'd expected, but he cracked a joke or two and helped settle your nerves.

You vaguely remembered meeting a rather rambunctious Gaz, but he had ways been busy running errands for their Captain he had been unable to sit and chat with you. The rest of his team had not been present on base at the time but you remember Johnny talking your ear off about his Lieutenant. He was fond of the man, always speaking highly of him - you'd begun to think he was bi with the way his eyes glazed over and his lips would turn up slightly at the corners in mirth.

"Sergeant, while your banter is usually entertaining, now is not the time. It's been a long night, we'll brief you when we get there oh!" Königs blundering of surprise made you jump again, effectively pulling you from your thoughts once more as you snapped your eyes over to him. He was already looking at you, eyes crinkling in the corners the only thing you had to go on to aid in your assumption he was smiling at you, "We have a civilian with us. She was displaced when our apartment caught fire, she will be staying in my room - would you meet us when we get there to show her where it is?" You looked away from him, eyes going back to your window to watch the scenery change.

Houses got less and less before barb wire fences and pop up buildings painted the signature hunter green took over. You were no military brat by any means, your dad had long since retired from being a seal just a year after you were born. You shake out of your stupor long enough to witness the phone being placed into the await skeletal gloved hand of Ghost, his grumbling of impeccable insults under his breath almost enough to make a giggle slip past your lips. A few you'd put away for a later date, having been too perfect to let them be forgotten.

"So..." You say softly, the way you nibbled on your bottom lip muffled your voice slightly, "You two know Johnny MacTavish I take it?" You tried to sound nonchalant, unbothered, but the vexation from yesterday was still a present smoldering rubble within your chest. You visibly saw Ghost stiffen by your tone, his hands clenching the steering wheel so hard you wondered how it didn't just simply break. König looked back at you, his head tilting just enough to convey his curiosity, making the giant of a man who had to hunch slightly to even fit in the car look like a little puppy.

"Ja, we are all stationed here together." He simply replied although you read the question that lingered on the tip of your tongue. You offered up a bitter smile, your right hand coming up to rub your forehead as you sighed softly.

"Johnny was the guy who stood me up. I've know since I was in diapers - he was friends with my older brother before he died while deployed in Iraq. Waited a whole two fucking hours before he called just to check in. I'm upset by it." You muttered under your breath, tilting your chin down and resting it on your knees. You failed to notice both of them exchanging an ire filed stare, silently communicating with one another to teach the Scotsman on how to properly treat a lady.

"So you two dating or what?" Ghosts blunt question fills the silence, hanging over your head and dousing you like a bucket filled with ice water. You grimaced - you loved Johnny, but he wasn't your type. He was handsome yes, you'd never deny that - you couldn't - but he was far too outgoing for your own personal tastes. He loved to go out and explore things, mingle with anyone and everyone - your anxiety was far too out of control for any of that.

"No. He's like family, and it wasn't a date. He called me two nights ago to let me know he was on a temporary leave and wanted to hang out together and catch up. It's been almost a year since I got to see him and I was really looking forward to it and I wanted-" You stopped yourself from finishing that sentence. You wanted many things, but the number one thing was you wanted you brothers dog tags back. Johnny had offered to take them, keep them safe on him as a way to help you heal. At the time of his death you were just barely eighteen - you had just graduated when you saw them. They wore the standard military issued uniform, faces perfect masks of stern indifference. One made the mistake of meeting your eyes - their eyes, you noted, were filled with unshed tears and that is what broke you. Seeing the devastation in their gaze made you knees give out, you remembered the pain that resonated there, the way the concrete bit harshly into your flesh and the warm viscous liquid that made your dress sticky.

That pain was nothing in comparison to the pain that lacerated through your chest. It was as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around you you squeezed with everything it had, your lungs releasing all its contents in a 'whoosh', mouth going dry, all the moisture poured from your eyes like a flooded river down stream. He died a hero they had said, one kneeling in front of you - yoy had recognized him from one of the pictures your brother had sent to you while he was deployed, Declan he'd introduce himself as. His hand had found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze before crushing you to his chest in a hug. His companion - Nathan he said - was busy speaking in a hushed conversation with your dad.

'He died a hero, y/n.' You vaguely remember them saying, telling you that he'd even earned the purple heart of bravery. It was meant to comfort you, knowing be died doing what he was passionate about - but it didn't. It left you feeling hollow, empty, like a piece of your very soul had been ripped from your very being and now the seams of yourself unraveled. It was around that time when your anxiety had begun to rear its ugly head, a wolf in sheep's clothing leading you to the slaughter.

A wayward tear slid past your water line and down your cheek, your jaw clenching tightly as you swiped it away with a sniffle, "I uhm." You cleared your throat loudly, refusing to look at either of them, "Johnny took his dog tags for me. My mom didn't want them, my dad said he didn't deserve them and our little sisters didn't understand their significance so they were supposed to go to me along with his flag. I was drowning in my grief that Johnny offered to hold onto them for me until I was ready to fully process it - said that all I had to do was ask him for them and they'd be mine. I wanted to ask him yesterday but... but he stood me up." Your voice faltered at the end, your lips pressed firmly together in a pensive line to keep your bottom lip from trembling.

The silence that filled the humvee was deafening, Ghost and König were at a loss for how to comfort you. They all knew the risks of war - of the loss it brought. They'd seen countless soldiers be killed in action, each of them having retrieved a few hundred dog tags to be returned to families as a way to offer some semblance of closure. They shared another look, one that declared they were both going to beat the snot out of Johnny when they had the opportunity to.

The rest of the ride remained that way, you lost in your broken memories of your older brother and his endless teasing, and them sharing silent conversations through gestures and looks. You didn't know it right then, but the two peeved males nestled in their seats had come to an agreement. Not only would the kick Johnny's ass, but they'd make sure he'd fix this - that he'd make this right. After all, they couldn't let their little mouse loose herself - not when she had fallen so willingly into their hands.

Your life was going to change drastically... you just were unaware of how much that'd be.

Tag List

@lianyanhongcheng

@kdkj122920

@grizzersmamma

[astromechs]

hi, this show went off the air 22 years ago but i can't get it out of my head, so here we are; also on ao3!

Logan says it's no one's fault. That they've had their struggles they've faced together and alone, mostly alone over the past year, and there are bigger things. He even smiles just before she turns on her heel, tells her to keep her pager handy and that he'll see her around, kisses her on the top of her head before he lets her go; she manages an agreement and a smile back, and keeps it there, tears held back, until she's well out of sight, because for all that she's put him through, she feels like she owes him at least that much.

But Max knows the truth; anything her hands touch will always wither and die.

There are things even a cure can't fix.

She twists the throttle, motorcycle roaring to life under the metal touching her fingers, but it won’t last. Gas is harder than ever to come by these days, so if she were to even give into an impulse to pass Terminal City and keep riding, she wouldn’t make it far. It’s essential trips only now, for that practical reason, for a thousand other reasons that have everything to do with the people, her people, inside, who she has a responsibility to protect.

To keep alive.

(That won’t last either, though, will it? Because anything her hands touch will always wither and die. They’ll be cold like Tinga, too late having long since happened before she could manage to get anywhere, or they’ll be like Ben, life and warmth fading right under her fingertips because of her own efforts, but regardless, it will always end the same, no matter a cure or a fight.

There’s no defense against a curse entrenched even more deeply than DNA.)

Buildings rush by her that she doesn’t really see; tires squeal against pavement through twists and turns of a route followed more by habit and muscle memory rather than her active attention. Wind whips hair around her face and stings tears in her eyes at its impact; she blinks them away, furiously, keeps her head held up rather than ducked, and by the time she powers the motorcycle down and leaves it behind, there isn’t a single lingering trace of them on her face.

Her steps are quiet as she passes groups of children sleeping while adults keep watch and heads huddled together to, undoubtedly, formulate some kind of strategy, but apart from a few nodded acknowledgments, she doesn’t divert her focus from the only mission that’s on her mind: getting to the roof.

It’s colder here than it’d been on the streets, and even with a jacket, Max is forced to curl into herself to keep warm; she sits with her knees tucked to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, not bothering to look up to a night sky that’s covered only with clouds. Not bothering to direct her attention to anything at all, really, at least until —

Footsteps in her periphery, faint at first, but growing louder by the second as they draw closer to her.

They manage to plod in a way that gets under her skin, so she wouldn’t need a visual confirmation of an identity to know exactly who they belong to. But she wouldn’t even need that to know; there’s only one person she knows who consistently manages to find her at the moments she least wants to be found.

She grinds her teeth together as Alec’s form comes into view.

Go away, is the immediate thought that sputters out before it reaches her mouth, choking on the fumes of its own petulance. What the hell are you doing here? Is the next attempt, something that, over the months, has become familiar and easy while she hadn’t even known it was happening, but she lets that die, too, because she can’t let herself settle into that kind of complacency. That’s a mistake she’s made too many times.

In the end, with her knees still tucked to her chest, she turns her head and tips up her chin enough to meet Alec’s gaze. Asks, “How’d you find me?”

Even to her own ears, her voice is as worn as the rest of her. For someone who barely needs to sleep, she’s so fucking exhausted.

The line of Alec’s mouth is thin and contemplative, and his eyes are much the same as they search her, assessing; she can practically see the gears that are turning in his mind, because they’re the ones often turning in hers. You can take the X5 out of Manticore, burn the whole place to the ground, but….

She drops her eyes to her feet, something hard and sticky lumping in her throat.

“I can see in the dark, too, you know. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, Maxie.” Without waiting for an invitation, he steps through most of the distance that remains between them, lowering himself down to sit next to her. Their arms are just short of actually brushing, but even so, the warmth from him radiates to her, seeping under her skin to the point that she almost forgets there’s a chill.

It could be a comfort, one she could lean into, but she doesn’t, instead swallowing hard to remain unmoving. Still, she doesn’t lean away from it, either.

That may be the worst part.

The wind cuts around them, and for a time (she doesn’t know how long), that’s all that breaks up the silence. At least until Alec, being Alec, can’t help but find some way to step into it; of course he can’t. “Figured you’d be up here brooding when no one heard from you for a while.”

Before she can find the will to stop it, there’s a tug at the corners of her mouth, somehow flickering to life over the death she carries, turning the chill in the air and what sits in her into practically a memory.

Though she follows the script of what has become their back and forth, rolling her eyes and scrunching her face, the objection she ends up voicing is half-hearted at best. “I’m not brooding.”

She feels, more than sees, Alec lift a shoulder in a shrug; she hears, more than sees, a smile creeping in for him, too, however small. “Speak for yourself.”

And when she feels an arm wrap around her, feels a hand rest on top of hers shortly after that, she relaxes rather than stiffens, leans into it rather than away; she doesn’t have the energy to do anything else, not when she’s so fucking exhausted. She exhales a long breath and closes her eyes, resting her head against a heartbeat that’s steady in a mess of a world that’s anything but.

It’s not a comfort, and she won’t delude herself into thinking that it is, but maybe, even if just for a moment, it would be nice for something to live in her touch for once.

[dyrewrites]

Find the Word Tag

Wherein @aziz-reads comes after me, specifically, with these word choices...

I'm tagging @rmgrey-author @illarian-rambling and @writingrosesonneptune

Your words are: Curl, Tap, Fall and Whisper

My words are: Yearn, Few, Tense, and Bounce

Yearn (tw: reference of child trafficking)

She laughed, at him, at me, but Lucient removed his mask and smiled. Wide and sharp he smiled at me before turning on her and, as I left the room, I was treated to the sounds of her screams. Now, I understand that those reading this tale might wish to know just how she died. After all I shared of her you may yearn for all the gory details. And that is a fair want, for who in that situation was the monster; the one renting a child out to horny aristocrats, or the one come to bite out her throat for it? But I didn’t see her death, and so I cannot relay it. Her life, deserving as it was, did not meet with my teeth that night. Her last breath was Lucient’s to take and, while I can say now that all the rest were his too, in the aftermath of those memories...it felt shared. I yearned to see each and every face that tormented him bloodied and screaming. I hungered for the taste of their life, their ragged, choking breaths dying on my tongue.

Few

“You certain, sogno mio?” the words earned another swoon before I could finish, and all my concern for why he was in that tub in the first place melted as I did, “I took so much...you could use a bite back.” “Mm, after,” he leaned forward, as much as the small tub allowed, welcoming the sponge I set on him and sighed at its touch, “we have a few days voyage still and I would test this new heat of yours as often as I am able before we arrive...” And while that definitely appealed, I wondered, “If all we consume is blood, and we can feed from one another—” “We can’t,” he cut, “not for long, or we will grow ill and become stiff as the corpses we are often compared to.”

Tense

So it is I you worry of? No eyes bothered us, none followed our closeness—and he held me so very close—but I noticed theirs. Men and women were partnered and attached to whomever they pleased, giggling loud and proud, there were even groups so closely entwined there could be no guess as to their intentions or relationship. The freedom of it sang to me, in a heady rhythm through the throng of them, and I couldn’t help the smile or the arm I wrapped around my own partner. He gasped at my tighter hold but leaned into it and I hated the cat face he wore for depriving me of his smile. Yes, treasure, he continued, you are in danger so long as we’re here. But we cannot die, I reminded with playful hope of a laugh, or some ease in his tense muscles. I earned a chuckle, tight and short, there are worse things. Just keep close and try not to talk to anyone without me near.

->under the cut is bloody and naughty, you have been warned<-

Bounce

With my gasped plea he swooned, squeezing his legs tighter around me, aiding the drop of his hips. And I met him in it, in the rougher, harder rhythm he took, rising to do it again and again, our moans shared as he offered his neck, “Take it, take me and be mine.” I needed no explanation for what he meant, no guidance, my lips worked without it. My teeth, sharpened then, longer than any man’s should be, sunk so easily into his skin, into the veins beneath. And that salt-sweet blood bubbled through tooth and gum and flooded my mouth, coating my tongue. Salacious the drip of it down my throat, the squirm of it through my veins that I moaned with more than the rhythm of his bounce, more than his nails in my shoulder, I ached and all but screamed into his neck with what filled me. “Yes,” He moaned through my draw of him, through my rougher thrusts into him as I gripped his back and the back of his head, aching to force more of him into me—more of me into him. “That’s it, treasure,” he whispered, voice weak, “take all of me…”

[polutrope]

#15 feign love Maeglin/Idril Gondolin

Thank you -- this one was a stumper! But I do like a challenge. I have given it my best shot, I hope you like ambiguity and unresolved emotions. 

From this prompt list. 

On the escape from Gondolin, Idril struggles to make sense of her relationship with Maeglin. 850 words. Rated G. Mention of canonical character deaths.

* * *

Idril’s shoulders ache. She does not know how long they have been walking when she becomes aware of it, but now she can think of nothing but the weight of Eärendil straining the muscles of her arms.

She strokes back fine locks of golden hair from her son’s forehead. “Do you think you can walk for a bit, my jewel?”

His blue eyes are wide but unseeing, as if he is forcing himself awake to avoid the darkness. He shakes his head. 

Meleth draws up beside them. “I can carry him a while, lady,” the nurse offers. 

The woman is already burdened with packs, heavy with far too many of Eärendil’s things that Idril could not bear to leave behind. Useless things, toys and trinkets that will serve no purpose on the road, if they even make it beyond the passage’s issue from the mountain.  

“No, thank you, Meleth,” Idril says, and hoists Eärendil onto her hip. 

Her gaze is pulled back over her shoulder at the long line of followers. She hopes to see Tuor moving among them, but the line disappears behind a bend in the rock. For now, she has only the resolute beat of her heart to assure her that she will not have to face their uncertain future alone. 

In an effort to keep her mind occupied, Idril catalogues the items in Meleth’s pack. 

A blanket woven by Nordhil, wife of Duilin, who was not there when they descended into the ground while Gondolin cracked and rattled and hissed above them. Idril suspects she chose instead to fall with the city when she learned of her husband’s death. 

A model of the Mindon Eldaliéva, made by Turgon, carved from aspen that grew high on the slopes of the Echoriath, and gilded with gold from deep within the veins of the mountains. When set out at night, a gem set in its tower, cut and given life by Enerdhil, catches the light of the stars and gleams white.

Idril squeezes her eyes shut to dam her tears. What good had she thought it would do to carry all these memories out of the wreckage! She blinks again, but the thoughts march on. 

The last of Eärendil’s things Idril packed was a cloth bag filled with many tiny blocks of various materials—wood, bronze, steel, polished stone—that could be fit together to create gates and towers, castles and bridges; and, for which they were not intended but which her son liked best, abstract geometric forms evoking the shapes of birds and beasts. Eärendil spent hours with those blocks spread out over the floor, happily chattering to himself, assembling and reassembling.

They had been a gift from Maeglin on her son’s sixth begetting day. He had kneeled on the floor beside his little cousin as Eärendil dumped the trinkets on the floor; smiled when Eärendil gasped and squealed in wonder and excitement; returned the child’s embrace when he, bouncing on his tiptoes, threw his arms around his shoulders.

How Idril had wanted to believe that Maeglin’s love was true, and generous, and kind. Of Eärendil, of Gondolin, of its people, of its King—of her. 

But it had all been pretence. From the day that Maeglin had lost a mother at the hands of a father; lost that father at the hands of an uncle; lost, to his mind, all kin but her, it had been but a pretence and a balm for the yawning emptiness in his heart. And all that emptiness, he reserved for her. 

It was too much to ask of a single person—but even then Idril might have filled it. She had been tempted. Whether out of pity or loneliness or in rebellion against her dreams, she had been tempted. But Idril, too young when the tale began to enter it as an actor herself, had been audience to the defeat of a people who had set out to defy doom. She would not. She was obedient to the wisdom of both heart and mind. 

She was obedient to the canker of foreboding in her heart that she carried with her, silently, through the years.

Memory has her clutched now in its grip. She is brought back to that moment on the walls of the city, the horror of not knowing which of her husband or child or kinsman would be the first to fall onto the rocks below.

Maeglin has her pierced with his keen eyes. “Ever didst thou feign to love me!” he cries.

Then he falls.

Dredged back up from memory, the words strike her now hard and with precision, as his words ever did. Had she? Did her silence make her no less guilty of pretending than he?

“Ammë?” Eärendil’s voice pulls her back, and she realises she is clutching him too tightly to her side. She loosens her hold.

“Yes, love?” Idril murmurs. 

“I can walk for a bit now.”

She smiles back at him and sets him down, closing her hand protectively around his. Steels herself against questions.

Later, perhaps, there will be time. For now, they press on through the mountain. 

* * *

On AO3

Meleth is the nurse of Earendil named in The Fall of Gondolin. Nordhil I made up. Enerdhil is the jewelsmith who, in one version of the story, made the Elessar. Yes, Maeglin created a LEGO prototype.

This has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for a while because, like Idril, I have been unable to make sense of this relationship in a way that doesn't make one or both of them look really bad, which I didn't want to do. So I decided to just wrap it up and keep it ambiguous.

[raedear]

Moon spirit 3 moon spirit 3 for gods sake moon spirit 3

This is another one where I think maybe I'm starting from the wrong point and I should scrap it and start again:

Joe feels like the star of every bad horror movie sitting down to Google something the audience already knows to fear, but he doesn't know what else to do. He can't even begin to guess at what Nicky is. He has no frame of reference for the moon blinking, for strange men promising him temporary safety for his soul, for shadowy cults taking human sacrifices. Entirely without his knowledge or consent his world has shifted, and he doesn't even know where to begin in righting it on its axis.

No matter what he searches though, no matter what combination of Nicky and moon and soul and sacrifice he combines, he finds nothing even remotely similar to what he went through. In a moment of embarrassing desperation he even finds himself looking up “is the moon Italian?” before he admits defeat.

He does find news reports hysterically chronicling the disappearance of and subsequent search for a billionaire pharmaceutical CEO and his board of directors. When he watches a video of the young magnate's TED talk, Joe recognises his high voice, the slight lisp to his Rs. Behind him in every public appearance is a tall black man, broad with muscle Joe recognises from his gym. It doesn't answer the why, or the how, but gives him an idea of the who.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Nile demands the third time Joe spills coffee directly into his keyboard. It shorts out with a particularly pathetic pzzt sound, and Joe drops his head to his desk.

‘Nothing,’ he mumbles into his wrist support. Nile doesn’t even deign to acknowledge it. Just waits in silence. ‘Not been sleeping well. It’ll pass.’ It’s not untrue. It’s just not true in the way Nile clearly takes it to be.

Joe has no trouble falling asleep or staying that way. It’s his dreams that are giving him problems. His dreams twist and turn on themselves in a way he's never encountered before. The slick sickliness of fear turns over and over in his stomach until it's something else entirely. Until the memory of chains around his wrists and ankles or knives held against him becomes the memory of Nicky's lips on his neck, Nicky's body over his, the bright appraisal of Nicky's impossible eyes. He wakes up torn between terror and wanting, and doesn't know what to do with the remembered sensation of Nicky's cool breath on his overheated skin. Although, if it was only his dreams Joe would probably be coping better. But it's not.

'Are you getting the train home today?' Nile asks without looking up from packing her bag. 'I'm going to the gym, or I'd come with you.'

Joe got the train home yesterday. Just before he boarded his train, he looked across to the other platform just in time to see a man step off of the railway bridge. He was tall, with dark curly hair and a coat not unlike Joe's own.

He also had a face not entirely unlike Joe's own either, and when he caught Joe's eyes with eyes Joe had only ever seen in the mirror or on his mother's face, he had smiled.

'Probably,' Joe lies, and walks to the bus stop with his headphones in and his head down as quickly as he can.

The nights are drawing in, it's dark almost as soon as he leaves work now. He used to love this time of year, but now, in this strange new world he's found himself in, he doesn't know how to feel about nights with a moon that hasn't changed phase in a week

Mind when this fic was supposed to just be a silly excuse for smut. lol.

[warpedlegacywrites]

happy dadwc friday Duchess! How about a prompt for Cullen coping with addiction/recovery 🥺😭💖

❝ All the things that I ran from I now bring as close to me as I can. ❞

happy writing :3

Happy @dadrunkwriting! Thanks for this prompt. Here is some slightly circular narration about Cullen's withdrawal, with a focus on his early nightmares post-lyrium.

CW for torture, sleep deprivation, claustrophobia, psychological torture

Sleep isn’t a problem at first. In fact, for the first week or so, he barely notices a difference. His dreams remain blurred, unfocused. Filtered by the last filter he’d taken in Kirkwall. His last one ever, so he keeps reminding himself, though practiced hands still reach for the vial at his bedside when he wakes blearily with the dawn. Muscle memory. Habit. Conditioning.  Sleep isn’t a problem, even after the symptoms start setting in. When his reaching hands shake so hard they can barely grip the glass of water. The water he gulps greedily down, while wishing it were gleaming blue instead of clear. The water he can’t seem to keep down, retching it back up moments later. No, even when his insides are on fire and his whole body is racked with the searing pain, sleep isn’t a problem.  It’s not until the worst of the pains and the cravings subside, when the Song is little more than a half-remembered tune in the back of his skull, and his body can actually, truly rest. That is when sleep becomes a daunting, dreadful torture. 

Every night, when he lays his head down, he knows what’s coming. He’ll try to stay awake as long as possible, reflexively wincing away from the pain. But inevitably, his eyes will close, and he will open them again in the blood-stained halls of Kinloch Hold. Torchlight flickers over bodies, too many to count. 

The light is tinted by the magically manifested curtain of his cell. A slender column holding him captive. Too narrow to do anything but kneel or stand – he can’t even properly sit, let alone lie down. No matter how many hours, days, nights pass, no matter how his feet and legs and back ache. He remains standing until he can bear it no longer, and then he kneels in prayer. His knees are bruised and bleeding. He’s exhausted. More tired than he’s ever been. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understands he’s still asleep, but the fatigue is just as he remembers it. He doesn’t recall how he ever managed to sleep, if he ever did. 

His cell is round, affording him a panorama view of the carnage. Every so often, a new body will race through in an attempt to reach the stairs to Cullen’s right. They’re always cut down before they clear the first handful of steps. Every time, Cullen tries to warn them. Every time, his voice doesn’t penetrate the perimeter of his cell. He hears its echo bounce back and forth over his head, driving him mad with his own voice. Every time, the demon emerges from the shadows it hides in. Razor claws rake across torsos, drawing forth gushing red. The room is infused with the smell of blood. Fresh and stale, the stone is saturated with it. Eventually, Cullen stops smelling it. But as tortured with guilt as he is over his failure to save even a single soul, watching them die is still the lesser evil. 

Because when the demon is bored waiting for new victims, it amuses itself with Cullen. It knew his desires almost the instant it captured him. All his training was for naught – Desire is a powerful demon, and it read him like an open book. It cackled, mocking his boyish infatuation. It delighted in taking her form and parading around in front of him in her skin. Calling to him in her voice, whispering in his ear, while standing well out of reach. Sometimes wanting, willing. Others, screaming in pain. Spitting vitriolic hatred at him. But always beyond his reach. 

He can beat his hands against the curtain of magic until they bleed, scream until his voice is raw and his throat is like cracked glass. But he will never break through it. 

Until he wakes, covered in sweat and hands aching from gripping the sheets so tightly, his throat sore. Surely, he must be screaming on this side of the Veil as well, but if anyone has ever heard it, they keep it to themselves. He will wash his face with cold, clean water, drink from the canteen he keeps full at his bedside, and dress for his day. 

And the next night, it will start all over again. He will try to stay awake, and then he will fail. He will try to warn his would-be rescuers, and fail. Try to escape, and fail. No matter how he tries to outrun his failures, they follow him, relentless and tireless. 

Until one night, when he looks down at the blood-soaked bodies at his feet… and there is no cell to separate them. He reaches a hand out, tentatively, and meets no resistance. He steps forward, and is not repelled back. A sob escapes him before he can stop it, though he clamps his hand over his mouth to prevent more sounds from betraying him. Yet no demon appears. It’s only him, and the corpses of his colleagues. 

He turns to the exit, and he’s halfway across the room before his steps slow. Stop. He turns. His eyes travel up the staircase, stopping at the door at their peak. There’s no way out of that room, he knows. He’s conducted Harrowings and Rites of Tranquility from inside that room. There is no escape but the way you’ve come. 

There is no escape. 

Step by step, his feet carry him to the base of the stairs. He watches himself climb them, as if observing from the outside. He screams at himself, pounding against the rounded wall of his cell, tries to tell him no. Turn around, run away. Escape. But it’s no use. 

He watches the demon emerge from the shadows, claws impossibly long and razor sharp. No matter how he screams and pounds and begs. There is nothing he can do to stop what’s about to come. Cullen watches his hand come to rest on the doorknob. Watches it turn. Watches the demon’s arm raise, and strike. He feels the burn of its claws in his flesh. 

And then he wakes up. 

He flexes his fingers, releases their death grip on the sheets. Rises with a struggle from the low cot given to him when he’d arrived at the base of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Drinks long and greedy from the canteen. Splashes his face with cold water. And pushes aside the flaps of his tent to start another day. 

Tonight, he’ll do it all again.

[achy-boo]

Akimistu

“Tsk..Why do you look at me like I’m about to do some crimes? Get out of my face and leave me alone”- Akimistu

— Profile

Akimistu- 5★

Title : Master of Eternal Cursed Nightmares

Path : Destruction

Combat Type : Quantum

Faction : None

Introduction : The older brother of Ryoichi and wanted criminal from unknown place. A man who desperately wants his little brother back unknowingly that he had inevitably cause his own flesh and blood to lose his memories.

— Story

Character Details : The older brother of Ryoichi and a wanted criminal from unknown place. He is the man who desperately wants his little brother back unfortunately never knowing about his inevitable part of his sunshine’s amnesia.

Character Story I : Akimistu has once a normal life like any normal kid. A caring mother, a stern father and a younger brother named Ryoichi. He foolishly thought that his life will continue this way..oh how wrong he is later on.

Character Story II : Every bad thing to Ryoichi make him more cold but protective of him. His family is falling apart due to his mother cheating on his father and birthed an affair baby. He hates it but he want to save Ryoichi from the abuse he have endure until one fateful day.

Character Story III : In Central Starskiff Haven, he was taking a stroll with Ryoichi and his father when suddenly Ryoichi ask him about their mother. Being the older brother, he answered Ryoichi and their father...in a fit of jealously and anger struck Ryoichi on the back of head with a metal pipe. The scene is chaotic...the screams, the shouts..all he remembers is holding Ryoichi's unconscious body, praying to whatever Aeon to save his little sunshine with teary eyes filled with desperation.

Character Story IV : Years have passed since the incident and Akimistu become a wanted criminal in Xianzhou Luofu after his father was arrested for crimes he commit. An cruel and heartless assassin with cold persona but deep down, he is still the same...the same older brother who only wants his younger brother back. Little did he know, that same younger brother remembers him and wanted the same thing: to be reunited once again.

— Ability

Basic ATK: Never Wake Up

Skill: Nightmare’s laughter

Ultimate: Eternal Darkness

Talent: Moonless Melody

Technique: Wrath of the Night

— Eidolons

1. Worthless Naivety

2.Moonless Melody’s sorrows

3. Peaceful Sleep

4.Songs of the sinned

5.Lullabies of Misery

6.Eternal Nightmares

— Character Lines

First Meeting : Hm? Who are you? Ah whatever. I’m Akimistu. Are we done now?

Greeting : Oh hello…Let’s get over with..No I’m not guiding you…find someone else

Parting : Farewell, may the dreams bring you happiness before the nightmares make its presence know

About Self - [Loneliess] : I always a loner, unable to help others due to…my ability. It’s always been like that since…my sunshine gone missing

About Self - [Nightmares] : Unlike other people, they had dreams but for me..I had nightmares…every time I sleep, I had nightmares but oddly enough…those nightmares give me peace and dreams..horror..

Chat - [Crystals and gems] : I love collecting crystals and gems…they always remind me of my sunshine…I hope..I can find him..

Hobbies : Stargazing and drawing is one of my hobbies…oh and play some music or instrument is my other hobbies

Annoyances : Noisy people who kept asking me about why I have my snake near me or ask me about something very personal…ugh…I hate people like them

Something to Share : Do you know that Ryoichi never really forgotten about me due to his amnesia? No? Hmph…well he must have not trust you enough to reveal that?

Knowledge : In our family, blood vow is more important and efficient than any old traditional vows. Blood vows are forever yet the vow can be either come true or unfinished

About [March 7th] : Her name sounds stupid…too noisy…so I just pretend she doesn’t exist but why is she staring at my waist, hips and muscles???

About [Ryoichi] : Ryoichi is the only sibling and family I had…without him, I go insane. I need him back…I..I want to make up for my sins..to redeem myself

About [Blade] : He kinda reminds me of a certain…person. No I am not saying anything else but I do hope that he will get his wish…

About [Alice] :Ryoichi’s friend? She is very interesting hell I even made a blood vow to keep her secret at bay. I do hope that she is free from that woman’s clutches…

About [Aristarkh] : The sleeping artist?? Ryoichi told me about him. But something tells me..that Aristarkh is not his real name. Ahah..Let see what his journey will lead and end

— Combat Lines

Battle Begins - Weakness Break : Go to sleep eternally

Battle Begins - Danger Alert : Huh? Do you have a death wish?

Turn Begins I : Aight…let’s go

Turn Begins II : Oh~? You want to experience the nightmares?

Turn Idling : Do you hear that? That’s the nightmares…being impatient for once..so hurry up!

Basic ATK : Go to sleep and never wake up!

Skill : Hear the laughter of the nightmares!

Hit by Light Attack : Weak. Did you have something better?

Hit by Heavy Attack : HAHA! That is what I am talking about!

Ultimate: Activate : The light has faded away...

Ultimate: Unleash : Come with me into this world...of eternal nightmares and darkness

Talent : Let the moonless melody put you to sleep!

Downed : No! Wait! Ryoichi…

Return to Battle : I can still redeem myself....

Health Recovery : The Nightmares appreciate it, my friend.

Technique : Come and feel that wraith of the night

Battle Won : Hmph. What an interesting battle…

Treasure Opening : Here..You can keep it

Successful Puzzle-Solving : Oh? So you like puzzles? Eheh..just like me

Enemy Target Found : Another poor soul and meal to the nightmares

Returning to Town : Let’s part ways. If you need me, you know what to do

@queen-of-twisted @yukii0nna @txemptress @fair-night-starry-tears