#out of blades; ( tiny has spoken. )

[pearlywritings]

In father’s embrace

synopsis: HSR men as dads and what your family dynamic is like.

pairings: Blade, Gepard, Loucha, Sampo, Jing Yuan x fem!reader (separately)

tw: fluff, established relationship, implied initial mortal x immortal in Blade’s

word count: 5.2k words

a/n: Luofu Xianzhou timeline is hell, so Blade’s one is quite vague. Here’s the Genshin version!

Blade

Blade tends to say that he has no connection to his past, but that is not true and very few (mostly Kafka) know he is lying. Even with his life and death fucked up he can't simply let go of someone his heart has been always full with, of someone who he promised himself to by the altar, even if under another name, of someone, who gifted him the joy of both his previous and current life - your daughter.

The blade - a cold weapon with no feelings - should not experience being lucky, but that’s what he was, when you clutched him in your arms the first time after his return from the dead and sobbed in his chest, telling him how much you missed him, how much his little angel missed him.

Back then he should've left without a trace, maybe even coming to you in the first place was a mistake, but he just couldn't. And his resolve crumbled completely when a white-haired toddler in your arms gazed at him with the same soft eyes as yours and reached out to his face, hesitantly asking "dada?".

As much as Blade is capable - he loves you and your daughter. He is quite absent due to his involvement with the Stellaron Hunters, but you understand how important that magenta-haired woman's ability is when it comes to restraining the mara in his body. After all that's the reason why he can visit without fear of hurting you or his little girl.

Some other sacrifices had to be made - one of them was moving from the Lofu Xianzhou, but that was alright and your daughter loved her new environment. Besides, dada has been visiting more often ever since you moved! And no one really bothered or chased after you (after all, you are still registered as his wife and higher ups of Lofu know), which, you assumed, was somehow connected with a young girl that once came with Blade.

Kafka once brought up a proposition of moving you two to the Stellaron Hunters' base for Blade's easier access, but he declined. At least his loved ones should have a peaceful everyday life.

With a tired sigh the black-haired man lowers himself on a sofa in the living room of the house you two purchased to start a seemingly new life. The red-hot iron in his eyes disappears behind the heavy eyelids and for a moment Blade allows himself to relax. The little wonder, that is his daughter, ran to your bedroom to fetch some hair accessories, after you encouraged your husband to let her style his long locks.

He doesn’t move when you sit next to him, hip to hip and heart to heart. He welcomes your sneaking fingers, curling his, creating a secure lock of hands. The weight of your head resting on his shoulder is grounding and he can’t help but press his cheek against it.

It’s soothingly silent.

It almost reminds him of the past.

“For how long will you be staying this time?

Even your question, spoken in a tender, understanding voice, is familiar. You used to ask him the same thing in-between his Cloud Quintet-related missions. 

These days it’s difficult to sneak and see you during breaks though.

“Fifteen days,” his breath is even, and eyes are still shut, but he senses a smile that tugs on the corners of your lips.

“That’s a lot. She will be so happy,” and he knows that you are as well.

The rapid stomping of little feet bursts into your peaceful serenity, and you simultaneously glance at the doorway. Low and behold - the soon-to-be hair stylist is proudly running into the room, tightly clutching your jewelry box with various hair pins inside.

“Dad, I practiced! Mom says I’ve been making huuuuuuge progress!”

A tiny smile touches his pale lips - it’s such a miracle that a monster like him is blessed to have the most adorable child in the whole universe. With her and you by his side, this life gets more and more bearable.

“If mom says you’ve been, then it must be the truth,” he nods, letting go of your hand - but not before giving it a little affectionate stroke with his thumb, - sliding down and onto the floor, turning his back to the girl.

Giggling excitedly, she gives you the box, which you quickly unlock, and starts looking through the many intricate pieces of jewelry (many are your beloved’s presents), until finding the perfect one.

Having his hair being touched is weird. He was aware that the white luscious locks used to draw attention, but only you were honored to run your fingers through them, and only his baby was allowed to tug on them, making her father wince. Now it’s different - she is oh so careful, brushing, collecting stray locks and braiding, not once causing him pain.

Blade sighs again, but looks at you from the corner of his eye, catching you snickering in your palm upon gazing at something that your daughter is turning his hair into. Well, that’s concerning.

But at this very moment he can’t bring himself to care. If he gets fifteen whole days before his next mission, he is going to savor this time with his family - no matter how disastrous he’s going to look by the end of it.

Gepard

A family man. So no one was surprised when in the end the leader of the Silvermane Guards ended up with three kids - two sons and a daughter. Partly it was dictated by the rules of nobles and his family among them, but ultimately it was your mutual sincere decision.

It’s obvious he is not there for many of his kids’ first times, as sometimes his duties prevail and even the Supreme Guardian cannot help it, but he really-really tries to be there as much as possible. He appreciates the videos you send him, has every single one stored in his phone’s memory and sometimes, when there is no communication, in his spare moment he replays them to remind himself that soon he’ll return home and see his kids and you.

Only one time he really fucked up because of work - during your first pregnancy you both underestimated the soon arrival of your due date and he left on a mission with his troops, reassured that he’ll be back before the day you go into labor. The snowstorm was severe and the connection was cut, so the message Serval sent him when your water broke was not delivered. His soldiers would bring to their graves the image of a deathly pale Gepard, when many hours later he checked his phone back at the base and nearly broke the screen, trying to type his sister’s number.

After that he started taking paternity leave seriously.

You do not keep in touch with his parents a lot - there were instances where they disapproved of you, but all of his siblings are always welcomed in your house and to see their nephews and niece, because they supported your relationship from the moment they met you in flesh.

Serval is an enormous help when it comes to babysitting. It’s like her part-time job honestly - you even offered to pay her, but she declined, suggesting offering her a helping hand whenever she’d need instead. Oh, and to be the first one out of all the Landau siblings (after her brother, of course) to know about the latest updates on your kids.

The kids that are adorable. All three won the ‘blue eyes’ lottery, which, given the previous generations of Landau, is not a big surprise; both boys look like Gepard, while the girl took more after you in appearance. The man really doesn’t want to play favorites, but sometimes he is just too weak for his little princess, who looks just like her mom. She is the youngest too with a pretty big age gap between her and her brothers, who were born a year apart, so there is literally no jealousy, because your sons took their father’s example and became her protectors.

Even from a 'big bad dragon' that is their aunt…

When you step inside your house and hear the kids still fussing somewhere in the rooms, involuntarily your gaze falls to the old grandfather’s clock in the foye. Almost midnight. All three should be long asleep with Serval sending you a notification of her success. Which you didn’t receive and for that reason had to cut your date short and hurry back home.

Your husband looks as concerned as you are, locking the door and straining his ears to determine what’s going on. With both your coats abandoned, you carefully step further into the house, making your way to the line of light coming from under one of the doors.

Two jaws almost kiss the floor when you see Serval lying on the floor tied and gagged with a scarf. Alone. For a moment you fear the worst.

Rushing inside, you let Gepard search the other rooms for intruders. Helping your sister-in-law to sit is no problem, but the knot behind her head is awfully tightened. In the end you manage to yank it down to free her mouth, quickly switching to the rope constricting her hands.

“Y/n, oh my god,” she gasps, finally able to speak. “Who taught your sons to tie knots like this!? I didn’t know a sixteen- and fifteen-year olds can be so strong-”

“Come again?” Stunned, you stop untying her wrists, looking at the woman with widened eyes. Your boys did what?

“My precious nephews - whom I really do not want to strangle - took the game of knights too seriously, and when - maybe a half an hour ago? - I decided to play the dragon who was stealing the princess - my niece of three years, - they attacked and tied me!”

“Huh…” is all you can say, feeling relief wash over you. At least there are no burglars or kidnappers and your kids are safe.

When, listening Serval’s huffs of complaints, you move to untie her legs, the heavy steps of your husband are heard in the hallway, accompanied by the boys whining and begging their dad not to come to the living room, because the dragon would eat their sister.

His tall figure appears in the doorway, with your daughter in his arms, looking very sleepy, and two almost carbon copies of their dad pulling at his jacket to give them their sister back.

“Serval, what in blazes have you told them?” The judging tone and the squint of his blue eyes are directed at his elder sibling.

“It was just a game, Geppie! A silly game they turned into reality.”

“Aunt said she’d eat her,” your oldest pouts, eyeing her cautiously. “And she told us stories about the cannibals the other night-”

“Serval, you what?”

“Hey, they asked me to! Oh, thanks, Y/n,” she shrugs the loosened rope off of her. “Where did you even get this?”

“Aunt Lynx gave us,” the second son chirps, hugging Gepard’s side. “She showed us how to do knots.”

“This little-”

Suddenly you feel a headache coming. With big family come big challenges, but something of this caliber hasn’t happened in a while. It makes you smile though - you almost forgot what it was like - to raise two boys. Seems like your girl brings the borderline naughtiest out of them.

Loucha

To begin with it's worth mentioning that your and Loucha's marriage started as an unpredictable necessity. You both needed to enter the world that allowed only married foreigners' access. So, quickly figuring that your goal matches, you got married on a neighboring planet, spent a month there to make the marriage more believable in the sense of its duration and learning more about each other. Yeah, all of that just to fulfill your respectful jobs. You invented and rehearsed all the possible answers to the questions, perfected your affectionate act and were actually feeling quite comfortable around each other.

It was almost funny, when on the 'how many kids do you plan to have?' Loucha confidently answered 'two', and a couple of years later your first son was born, and then, after 7 more years, another one was too.

Admittedly, the oldest one was kind of unplanned, but at that point you traveled so much together, shared so many memories, even ended up caring for each other on a lover-like level, that you decided to give it a shot, just like you did with the continuation of your marriage.

And Loucha couldn't be more pleased. Surprisingly, he found the peace of those first years he spent settled down to raise your boy delightful. And there was something exciting about having a little wonder with a perfect mix of both of your features in your arms, as your husband's hand is resting on the small of your back, leading you through the crowds of the new planet's lively market, as the child's eyes shine with marvel, taking in his surroundings.

When Loucha suggested having another one it simply felt right.

Your sons are so lucky in the sense of seeing the universe, because their father is a traveling merchant. Sure, he doesn't always take you and your two boys with him, but whenever his deal allows him enough freedom and your kids are doing great in school and can be taken on a little vacation - you three are going with him.

Usually he gets to take care of the youngest one, since only Loucha's vast knowledge can satisfy his curiosity, while the oldest one calmly walks hand in hand with you, content with listening to their conversation and pointing out to you the things he already knows himself, receiving a soft praise from you and an approving nod from his father.

Back home the roles reverse - the oldest is spending most of his time with Loucha to learn all about medicine and healing techniques, while the youngest is more interested in sharing your hobbies. 

The two hardly ever quarrel as siblings tend to do, and it must be because of the overall serene atmosphere of your family dynamic, your soft nature and your husband's tranquil behavior. 

More than a decade ago Loucha wouldn't have imagined himself with a wife and kids. Nowadays, however, he doesn't like the thought of not having the three of you by his side.

It is a quiet afternoon. A little house you rented for a little vacation has a nice yard - perfect for the kids to have fun outside. You occasionally glance at them from the window of the kitchen to make sure everything is fine, while your hands never stop moving - washing, cutting, stirring.

At some point you are so caught in the moment of tranquility, that you do not hear your husband walking in, until he softly hums to alert you of his presence, and puts his palms on your waist.

“Smells delicious,” you smile, feeling his chin on your shoulder, and grab a piece of a tangerine you are meaning to use for dessert, offering it to him.

“Mhm, I am trying to cook what we had yesterday at that restaurant.”

Ah, right, the restaurant the kids enjoyed. He remembers how you sneaked to the kitchen and came back with a little less credits, but with new recipes and an excited smile on your face.

“Hopefully my rendition will be to our boys’ liking. And don’t think I forgot about you - those Loufu Xianzhou-style noodles are already on their way!”

“So thoughtful of you, darling,” his silky voice caresses your ear and not a second later a kiss is pressed to your cheek. “Do you need any help?”

“Weren’t you busy?” You decide to clarify, clearly recounting how he locked himself in one of the rooms earlier that day to test something. To your question Loucha shakes his head.

“All done already. And I missed you and the kids.”

“Then go and play with them,” you urge, turning to face him to offer a sweet smile. “I’ll handle it here, but the boys could use some quality time with their father.”

“You say that as if they didn’t drag us all around the city yesterday and then climb into our bed and refuse to leave.”

“I mean, it’s the first time in two months they properly see you. That last deal of yours was exceptionally time-consuming.”

“You kept me updated on them so well and those video calls we had… it didn’t even feel like I ever left.”

You only huff and return your gaze to the stove, yet leaning into his chest a little. For a minute it’s quiet, and the man is taking his time before parting from you. That is until he takes a deep inhale and nuzzles his face in your neck.

“Thank you, Y/n.”

“What for, handsome?” There is that teasing lilt in your voice he came to love. Over the course of your lives together he discovered many things to love you for, and if not for that desperate decision to get married - he thinks he’d hardly ever feel the same about his life.

“For everything.”

He leaves your side with a kiss on your shoulder and the next time you glance out of the window again - he is already there, hoisting his youngest in one arm and chasing after the oldest one with his hair swaying in the gentle wind. And your heart is at peace. 

Sampo

In all his life Sampo has managed to never impregnate a single woman and he considers that a success. For all the crap people speak about him Sampo is not an idiot, even though he acts like a fool at times. He is extremely self-aware and bringing a child to this world is probably the last thing on his list.

But no one said anything about someone else’s child, right?

Your and Sampo’s relationship is… strange, not going to lie. One evening you happened to help a scared woman to escape from some drunkards (whom you lately found out were the Silvermane Guards, sober and on duty), only for the long wig to slip and the heavy coat to slide down, revealing shortly cut but nicely styled hair and obviously male broad shoulders. The only thing the man managed to get out was a sheepish “hehe”.

And boy did that “hehe” change your life.

That day Sampo Koski got off the hook, since you didn’t comment anyhow and just let him go, which, given you were an overworlder, he found intriguing. So he dug a little bit, out of pure curiosity. Besides, this man didn't like staying in debt to someone and he needed information to see how he could pay you back.

That’s when he found out you were a single mother. An opera singer, but divorced and with full custody over a six-year old daughter.

And honestly, he didn’t give it much thought at first. He simply arranged a nice bouquet of red roses for you, paid Natasha a little for a handmade plushie and left it all at the door steps with a ‘thank you’ note.

Until a couple of weeks ago, disguised again, he didn’t stumble into a group of kids obviously bullying a little girl, mocking her for not having a father, and throwing something among themselves that she tried to catch. And he recognized the toy. And one glance was enough to see how much she looked like the woman he met only once. And against his better judgment Sampo walked to the children, easily snatching the toy and effectively scaring everyone off. Only with that little girl still being there, eyes full of unshed tears and fingers digging in the skirt of her pretty dress.

That tiny ‘thank you’ when he handed the plushie back to her and she hugged it tightly to her chest made the conman’s heart clench, and for the second time that day he sent his plans to hell, keeping her company near the house you lived in until you arrived from work.

That day he learned many things - how much your daughter loved the toy and what a sweet little thing she was, how tired a person can look and how much a throat can hurt from the whole day of singing during rehearsals, how nice a home-made dinner can be once you are invited, but most importantly - how even such a damned man like him can be gazed upon with gratitude and not from one, but two people.

From that day many other instances happened, but in the end he just stuck around. It was strange, it was new, but in a sense it was comforting, especially when you would come home - on Friday, for example, - and he’d be there, entertaining your daughter and then greeting you with a smile and a silly wave of his hand.

You don’t have a husband, and your daughter doesn’t have a father - but with his presence Sampo Koski manages to fill those voids even if a little bit.

Aeons you love days off. A morning to finally sleep in and do not run around like crazy in attempts to get yourself and your kid ready. Even breakfast wasn’t on you today, because the ‘silly man’ stayed the night and told you to get your sleep, assuring you with that confident puff of his chest that the Sampo Koski would offer you his best service, which effectively made you giggle.

Tonight he even cuddled with you, letting you bury your face in his neck and be a little vulnerable in the arms of a man with whom you had the most peculiar relationship ever. But after such equally peculiar moments you really start thinking of suggesting moving from the couch in the living room to your bedroom permanently. It’s been months already, who would’ve thought.

Barefoot and not even glancing at the robe on the chair near the window you leave the room, rubbing at your eyes and brushing your hair away from your face. You are craving the cup of your morning drink, and so you let your legs carry you to the kitchen at first. However two voices coming from your wardrobe room instantly peak your interest and make you halt in your walking. What on earth could your daughter and your clown of a man be doing there?

And soon enough you find it out.

“Sit still, please!” The girl begs with an eye shadow palette in one tiny hand and a huge brush in the other. “It’ll smudge if you keep turning to the mirror!”

“Just can’t wait to see how beautiful I am, princess, ‘s all~”

There, on the floor among the rows of your clothes and shelves with beauty products and accessories, none other than Sampo is sitting, willingly offering his face to your daughter’s practice of applying makeup. And gods he looks absolutely hilarious.

But that’s not what exactly concerns you.

“Is that my dress?” You point at the red shimmery thing snuggly sitting on the man in front of you and that’s when the two notice you.

“Yes, mommy!”

“Say I pulled it off, right?” With a smirk the green-eyed menace winks at you and it looks even worse with poorly done lashes. You have to stifle your laughter. “Though I must admit, we had to keep it unzipped - my chest appeared to be bigger than yours-”

And that’s when you regret not bringing slippers with you - one flying in his head would be of great help.

“Sometimes I really hate you.”

“Nuh, sweet thing, you love me!”

“Well,” you step closer, grabbing a tissue to try and fix at least the overly bright blush on his cheeks, “maybe. Maybe I actually do.”

Suddenly Sampo is tongue-tied and silent, trying very hard to fight off the stupid grin forcing its way onto his face. But with thoroughly smeared red lipstick on his mouth it looks so damn comical.

“Mom, do you think pa looks pretty?” Your daughter hopefully asks, putting aside her tools, and that little two-letter word doesn’t go unnoticed by either of you. You feel a real blush burning under your deft fingers.

“Yes, sweety, Pa-mpo looks very pretty,” his head whips in your direction like you’ve just told him to go and surrender to the Belobog’s esteemed order keepers.

“...Pa-mpo?”

“Would you prefer Da-mpo instead?” Cocking your head in question, you smirk at him, relishing in the pout he is wearing at the moment. “Or maybe Sam-pa?”

“No, thank you very much,” he huffs. “Little princess called me ‘pa’, so be nice and respect it.”

And now it is you who is surprised. You haven’t really discussed with Sampo who he was to your daughter, and who she was to him - but if he is making this step of acknowledging the matter, then who are you to spoil it? Who knows, maybe things will work out quite pleasantly in the end.

“Alright, pa, I will respect that.”

“Hey! For you I am your precious popo baby, a koskiss to your lips, the love of your-”

“Don’t even dream of it.”

Jing Yuan

Yanqing would be enough of an answer to the kid question, but it is not. Sure, his young disciple is practically a son to the General, but it doesn't mean the man doesn't want his own children.

He does and he has. On multiple occasions Jing Yuan's subordinates walked in on him with a small figure sitting in his lap or perched on his strong arm, observing what the dad's been up to with his plans and documents. You scolded your husband for this many times, but the bastard only smiles and keeps stealing his daughter to work to keep him company. Or she sneaks on her own - that caused you many almost heart attacks when she was no older than a couple of decades.

For Jing Yuan it’s all good though - he gets to spend time with his baby and have you inevitably join him in search for your adventurous child.

The General has a separate folder for all the pictures of his daughter on his phone - every single one he takes and every single one you send him when he couldn’t bring his girl to some of his meetings (yet he really tried, until you put your foot down and saved many of his subordinates from the prolonging of said meetings). Even the background, hidden from prying eyes behind the passcode of your and her birthdays, is his little one, cradled in your arms, as the two of you are watching kites flying in the sky.

Yanqing at first was set on treating her with the same respect he does his mentor and you, his wife, but you quickly put an end to it, basically turning the boy into her older brother. He didn’t mind at all - if anything he is sometimes way too eager to push the two of you to go on a date so he can babysit. Often you would return to the two fast asleep either on the girl’s bed or cuddled to Mimi with toys scattered and at least two books lying on the floor. The huge lion adores the girl - sometimes you feel like it thinks of her as its own cub, and the thick mane of hair your daughter got from her father does not help.

And it appeared to be as eager to steal your daughter from you as your husband is…

“Y/n!” You practically jump when the doors to your bedroom fly open and Jing Yuan bursts inside. Immediately you notice his disheveled state - hair down and a mess, the robe he wore this morning for comfortable work in his home office is falling off one of his shoulders and a shoe is missing from his foot.

“Aeons, Yuan, don’t scare me like that,” you put a comb down on your vanity table and fully turn to face him. “What happened?”

“Is our precious baby with you?” He steps further into the room and starts looking around frantically. Okay, now that got worrisome.

“No? You took her earlier this afternoon after lunch to play in your study while you work. Have you really forgotten that? My love, you are getting old.”

You hear clearly as he curses under his breath, raking thick fingers through his hair. The golden eyes look at you and in them you spot a flicker of anxiety.

“...Jing Yuan, don’t tell me that you managed to lose our daughter.”

“I didn’t, I swear,” he winces at the full name usage, watching you rise from your seat and quickly approach him. “She was right by my side, watching the animal videos on my phone, but then I got immersed in the latest reports from the Sky-Faring Commission and when I finished whose - she was gone!”

“Uh, want me to call your phone? Maybe she still has it.”

To that he puts a hand in the robe’s pocket and brings out his device. Oh god.

“It was lying on the floor, still playing videos.”

“Okay, deep breaths,” you are not sure if you are telling it to him or to yourself, but you too take an inhale, meanwhile busying your hands with adjusting his clothes. “Even buried in work you’d still notice if a human sneaked in, right?” He nods. “And you’d notice if she left - she would’ve warned you about that.” He nods again, lips pursed and eyes staring at one point. “Yanqing is not as skilled to come unannounced and take her, and he wouldn’t do it without your permission, so-”

“Wait,” his hand catches yours and realization flashes in his features. “Mimi came.”

“...Mimi?” Before you can ask him to elaborate, your husband turns around and rushes out of the bedroom. Concerned and a little bit intrigued, you quickly follow.

In one of the rooms of your huge house the two of you finally find the lion, and Jing Yuan almost drops on the floor in relief when his girl is spotted in the animal’s embrace. 

“Is she…sleeping?” You ask, glancing from behind his broad back.

“It appears so. Hey, Mimi,” the maned head lifts, two ambers taking in your appearances and a pleased huff is let out through the nose upon recognition.

“Well, my dear,” you pat his shoulder, shaking your head, “it appears that people were right - like the owner, like the pet. Congratulations, your lion took your habit of stealing our daughter to heart. Good luck prying her from it.”

“You say it like it’s something hard to do,” there it is, a confident smile is back on his face as he strides closer to the animal, ready to bend down and get his girl. Only for that lift of the corners of his lips to be gone when Mimi growls at him in a warning and shields your daughter’s little body with its head.

You only smirk and leave the scene to go and get your phone - there is no way you are not filming your husband dealing with the consequences of his own behavior.

[catscidr]

i was thinking about dottore when i woke up again (shocker) nd then thought about what his shaving habits would be like. dont ask how my brain works cw: crack if you rly think about it. also mentions of dead ppl and some blood but it’s nothing major i promise this is just silly

dottore’s facial hair doesn’t grow back that fast because of how often he’s had chemical substances explode in his face. not that his entire face has chemical burns on it (he does have scars, they’re just more in the upper area of his face), but with how long he’s been working with chemicals, accidentally creating explosives was bound to happen.

it all worked out well for him though, because he did not want to rock any kind of facial hair and look like a messy, mad scientist (even if that’s… technically what he was)– he prefers to be clean shaven (i mean have you seen those crisp sideburns on his in-game model?)

and of course, because he’s a doctor, he has steady hands.

…which leads to him occasionally shaving his face with a medical-grade scalpel. his logic, the first time he attempted it, was that scalpels are just straight razors meant for cutting people open– and if he used it to shave his face, it would just become a fancier (and bloodier) straight razor.

(he could probably cut a man open with a straight razor too, anyways. so really– what’s the difference?)

since this man is always so busy he doesn’t have time to leave the lab to go shave and take care of that kind of stuff– and he didn’t really want to, either. his time is precious and deadlines can’t wait.

and since he’s so familiar with the dips and curves of his face (he’s made countless clones of himself, after all) he can simply sit at his desk, toss his mask off of his face, grab the scalpel he’d use for non lethal purposes this time, and look off in the distance to focus on the space between the tips of his fingers prodding at his face, the blade, and his skin to shave off his stubble without nicking himself.

it’s probably the only time you would be able to catch him off guard (if you’re even able to step into his office in the first place), but you would, most likely, be the one caught off guard instead.

what are you even supposed to do when you step into his office and see The Doctor himself with a straight, dead expression, head tilted up with a rusty scalpel to the underside of his jaw? scream, probably.

and the scream you scrumpt was enough to make him jolt from surprise. fortunately for him he didn’t cut his head off, but unfortunately for you, you had made him nick his face.

just a smidge.

a tiny dot of blood trickled down the lower part of his left cheek, curving down his jaw. you’re both staring at each other- while you had a multitude of questions begging to be spoken out to get answers (because what the fuck was he doing), his own mind is eerily quiet. all he does is… stare at you.

funnily enough, you felt miles more intimidated being stared down by a considerably more casual dottore; his face unmasked, expressionless red eyes boring holes into your face, patchy stubble on his face (from him not having finished shaving), and gloveless hands frozen in the air- one holding the scalpel, the other in the same position as before but now stunted below his jaw.

(one particular observation that bubbled up to the forefront of your mind was, stupidly enough, “so minty blue really is his natural hair color?”)

he kicks you out of his office with a flat glare and a wave of his free hand so he can finish his job.

[fairszy]

cross dressing x genshin + hsr ! ♡

how our darling boys would react to you cross dressing ! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

contains : afab!ftm reader !! MALE terms and pronoun usage !! this one is for all my fellow roseboys ~

featuring : diluc , childe , xiao , gepard , blade , + dr.ratio ! ♡

001 — DILUC

he’s in pure and utter shock at first. he wasn’t expecting to find you in his office at the winery, cutely bent over his desk in such a revealing little maid outfit. while you pretended to fake clean something — he watched you closely.

eventually one of diluc’s hands pressed right against the small of your back, letting out a small grumble as he pushes his hips into your ass. evidence of your little idea working wonders poking into the soft flesh between both your ass cheeks. he’s still silent though — hasn’t spoken yet. turning around you find him flushed bright red, matching his hair beautifully.

“you look so handsome my little firefly . . however — i don’t think i can hold back.”

002 — CHILDE

it was his idea. he proposed such an outfit from you. being the cheeky bastard he is, its no surprise that he begs you to wear a skirt in public so he can mess around with you.

that's exactly how you ended up in the middle of a mall with his hand gently grazing your thighs every now and again. he stands behind you, one hand finding your waist and the other sliding its way up your thigh.

“imagine if all these people knew what you were really up too . . now let’s find a bathroom yeah?”

003 — XIAO

he wasn’t even aware of your plans to do this. xiao was already shy and timid as it was when you dressed in nothing but baggy shirts and tiny shorts, a mini skirt? this was a whole new ball park.

he’s cooking a dish in the kitchen when you spring on him, arms around his waist and gently tickling his neck with your hair until he finally spins to see what attire you have on and his eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

“wow . . you — . . . wow. you are . . so handsome — uh . . dinner? oh it . . can wait i guess.”

004 — GEPARD

a secret fetish of his. one he’d never ever admit. behind his stone wall expressions and his intense work ethic was a man who truly yearned for the kinky and deranged things you came up with.

him being a total virgin you always took the lead. it was you who was currently sat on his lap in a light blue babydoll, grinding your hips down onto his rapidly growing bulge while he tried to keep his moans in his throat. how could he when his beautiful boy looked this amazing?

“y-you . . really don’t have to — aeons, please . . stop teasing !”

005 — BLADE

blade is . . well — he’s different. blade doesn’t give you a change to parade around the new dress you acquired. before you even get to the door he’s on you like a leech, hands slipping under the dress you wore (deliberately might i add) and groping at your hips.

you can quite literally feel how hard he is against your ass, grunts of annoyance seep from him as he attacks your neck in a feverish attempt of claiming you as his.

“such a pretty little doll . . how could you ever go out like this when every inch of your skin is fucking mine?”

006 — DR.RATIO

at first he has no reaction when you come into the room with a new outfit, he doesn’t even seem to look in your direction until he almost can’t resist. he sneaks a look when you’re distracted speaking to someone else, his eyes trailing your entire complexion.

without a word he’s suddenly out of his chair and placing a hand on the small of your back, a silent code you two had developed for needing eachothers attention. that’s how you end up in the bathroom with him, sat in his lap while he rubs his knee inbetween your easily accessible thighs.

“of course you had to be a whore and distract me from my work. tsch, someone ought to teach you a lesson little boy. might as well be the smartest man in the room.”

[scaly-freaks]

Wrote this on a whim. I don't know what it is exactly, but it IS Feyd-Rautha so be aware there is violence and bodily harm.

The Fremen language rolls down the back of the throat like honeydew on silk. It is a vat of unspoken secrets, a hiss in the dark, a revelation. When they cry out for their false messiah, the lie turns holy.

Spoken on the Planet of Giedi Prime, the honey turns to amber, and she is a fly trapped at its centre, forced to experience her own disintegration.

Last night, Feyd gave her a music box.

She lay curled up in a puddle of her own piss, and thought how wasteful. A stillsuit would have made much better use of it. But when the liquid crept across the floor and touched the burns on her face, her flesh cooled. She might have imagined that part. After all, when she awoke this morning, the burns were as red and as mangled as they were when Feyd-Rautha first struck them into her flesh in front of his entire family.

He left the music box beside her head.

Inside, were her mother's teeth.

He did not kill her mother. Her mother died ten years ago. But he killed her father, who carried her mother's teeth in a pouch around his neck. They were his lucky charm, he used to say, his deliverance. She'd wonder if he ever kissed them, just to remind himself what it felt like to kiss his wife all those years ago, to run his tongue over her pearly teeth and feel her laughter bubble against his lips.

Teeth are an intimate gift.

"Wakey-wakey, Fremen mouse." His voice is guttural, a corpse dragged across gravel, each word slick behind blackened teeth.

She saw him bite a chunk out of one of the Baron's hairless boys and the wound was edged with the same ebony that drips from his saliva. There was no blood. Just black, greased like tar and infected. In her worst moments, when the hallucinations have her gripped by the throat, she sees a black hole grow in his mouth, beckoning.

When her answer to his whistle is not forthcoming, his boot presses into her soft, unblemished cheek. The pressure of it forces the burns on the other to scream in protest against the dungeon floor. It looks smooth and polished, but as with everything on Giedi Prime, the potential for pain is woven in like veins through marble. The texture of it is like a hundred thousand tiny shards of glass, and her ruined skin feels the scrape of each one.

"You did not like my gift?"

"I adored your gift."

"Why have you not opened it?"

"I did not think my hands were worthy."

He pushes his boot down harder and a prolonged keen of pain is finally yanked from her bruised ribs. Rabban is easier to fool. Feyd sniffs out insult like a shark to blood. Her injuries are proof.

"You still have fight in you."

"If I lost it, I would no longer have the pleasure of your visits, my lord."

He digs his heel into the underside of her cheekbone and the agony threatens to blind her. Drool slips from her open mouth and blends in with the piss just inches away. She pictures tearing off her flesh and flames swallowing her in one fell swoop, burning too hot and too quick to cause pain. She would chew off her own tongue to end it if she could, but who would care for her mother's teeth?

"Then I will visit you again, sayyadina." The honey of the Fremen language turns to mockery and acid on Feyd-Rautha's tongue, an acerbic jumble of syllables that burn just as horribly when they fall onto her ears. "You will crumble like sand between my fingers. And you will become as they are, just another pet."

They.

The Harpies, cannibalistic and violent, eyes blank, mouths leering.

One of them draws forward, prepared with a knife, as she has done every night Feyd has come to visit. It feels like the worst of the punishment. She tenses, shivering like a leaf, and cannot form the words to beg him for this one thing and prove him right -

That she is breakable.

Please don't cut my hair. My father loved my hair.

The harpy gathers it into her pale fist and lifts the blade high. Just before it falls, Feyd's hand rises, a single finger held out in command. His pet cocks her head, a mewl caught in the back of her throat. They are soft with him, curious as pups. She wonders who they were when their lives had meaning and their names tasted sweet on their parents' tongues.

He signals for the harpy to drop her hair and the woman accedes without question. He reaches down to lift the lid of the music box, the teeth inside gleaming like pearls in the pallid light, and then steps over his captive's body to leave.

A soft, whirling rush follows as the harpies scurry in his wake.

Her minds falls silent again.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

i’ve always wanted to see more of lux being hurt while strapped down on a table. it’s a kind of restraint that he isn’t used to- wrists, ankles, neck all tied down which makes him unable to twist away from the pain (even if it doesn’t really help anyways) and with how much he HATES being restrained and HATES doctors/hospitals, make it a medical contraption of some kind that he’s strapped into and he’d be begging before the pain even started 😭😭😭

i know this isn't quite what you asked for, but you did inspire this, so here you go. hope that it is close enough!

Cold. Cold here. His hands are quaking, fingers knocking together like blocks of ice. He can’t feel them. He can’t feel much.

Lux ducks his head away from the concerned hand that comes to cup his cheek.

“Used too much…” He hears, although the words swim far from him. The sounds dance along the peripheries of the room. Every breath pierces his lungs, unwelcome in how badly it stings.

“...-ear us? Lux?”

He can hear them, just barely. Someone takes his chin and lifts it, and he allows it. His curls are brushed aside, and that, too, he lets happen. The tears on his eyelashes make them damp, and heavier, and he can feel that he is blinking. But there is nothing before him, just darkness.

“He can’t see,” Someone says somberly. Fingertips touch his cheekbones and wander up pensively to his eyes, and Lux flinches back, blinking rapidly.

“Sorry. Sorry, Lux. Come here.”

A cool washcloth presses to his ribs, and he hisses, brows knotting up in distress. He is already shivering where he sits on the edge of the bed that he was deposited on.

“C-co-cold,” He chatters, and cringes from his own voice. It sounds small. Frightened. He wishes he could do any better. “Co-old, please.”

Hands are on his shoulders, keeping him gently in place. Lux shrinks down but doesn’t try to escape them. “Lux, we have to clean it up. There’s blood all over you, you’re hurt…”

Indignation, tiny and brief, flashes hot behind his lungs. “I know I’m hurt,” He croaks miserably. “I - I know - I kno-ow that. Please… please, slo-ow down, I don’t, I don’t know, I - I don’t…”

Maybe there is some injury on him that is so severe, treatment can’t wait. Maybe someone was just informed of an approaching danger via whisper, and this has to be done urgently. Or maybe his stuttering, flinching hesitation finally broke their patience. Lux feels the hands on his shoulders tighten, squeezing a whimper out of him with simple pressure on the aching joints. He is pushed back until his shoulder blades press to the mattress, held down with a hand on his sternum, and Lux is instantly put in his place. His lip disappears into his mouth to chew on it nervously.

The washcloth returns, and his shivers worsen. Cold rivulets slide down his sides and soak into the bed. He was bad, he was bad, he could’ve been less annoying and then this wouldn’t be happening.

Fingers wrap around his wrists. So warm. A sob catches painfully in his throat as his arms are lifted. It stretches his ribcage, and then the congestion of blood in his lungs gets easier to breathe around - but it makes his shoulders ache so much worse, and it scares him. Doesn’t that matter? He tries to explain, tries to beg for it to stop, but the words don’t come out. His teeth feel air on them and his throat is sore, but he can’t hear any words coming out.

Someone presses down on his wrists to keep them in place. His chest is touched by something rubbery - a gloved hand - and someone else grabs his leg, the throbbing one. Lux thinks he screams, but apparently not, because everything remains quiet.

The grip on his leg tightens. Someone seems to decide not to leave it to chance whether he’ll get noisy, and presses a hand over his mouth.

Shouldn’t have used his magic in the first place. Shouldn’t have spoken up, caught anyone’s attention. This is his fault, all his fault - even if he is being helped right now, being patched up, it is worse. Worse than going cold outside, forgotten on the side of the road, struggling to breathe. Lux tries for one more sound - a whimper, would’ve been muffled against that hand, but no sound leaves him - and then he gives up, falling limp with a shudder.

[whumblr]

Hey!!! I know I just sent an ask the other day but I didn't what to forget to ask this

Can I have a drabble where jay has a panic attack because he hears some sort of sound that zayne makes (example the click of zayne's knife).

love your writing so much!!

Have a wonderful day and get good sleep❤️

Fidgety

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

Jay didn’t mind afternoon team meetings as much, really. It was a bit of a break in the day for him, half an hour to shut his mind off, sit back, and just listen. Maybe pipe up every now and then, or zone out and mull over the words for his upcoming articles, but mainly, just, listen.

Today however, he was distracted. Or rather, kept getting distracted.

Unfortunately, Peter had a habit of clicking his pen when he was paying attention. He had one of those blue pens with a button on the side that clicked the plunger back. And he was very much paying attention now.

Normally, it wouldn’t really bother Jay and he could shut it out. But, well, first, his nerves were shot, and very close in second, the click sounded like that of Zayne’s knife. A little shk with every click and he could practically see the blade flick out in his mind’s eye. He managed to reduce his flinches with every click, blinked his eyes, twitched his fingers, skipped a heartbeat, but on the inside, everything went haywire.

He forced himself to take deep breaths, keep in control, to stop the hyperventilation from kicking in. Forced himself to focus on who was speaking, on the actual words spoken – that didn’t mean they actually hit the mark; he listened intently but the panic rising scattered the words from their sentences like leaves in the wind.

Calm down. He was safe. He was here in the office. He was—

Shk

He was down on the floor, face pressed against the wood, a heavy weight on the small of his back pinning him down.

Shk

Something cold tickled over his back. Something sharp. Pressure slowly increased and the cold tipped into his skin, breaking it, a wet hot sensation bubbling up, fighting against the cold intruding as if trying to expel it. Then it repeated itself. And again. Hot lines carved into his skin with a cold instrument, by a cold tormentor. The weight draped over his shoulders. A chuckle in his ear. The call of his name, an added fake compliment how he was doing so well—

“Jay.” Dennis’ sharp voice broke through his haze and shocked him back into the meeting room. “Could you write the suggestions down for me?”

Dennis, leading the meeting, stood in front of the whiteboard and held out one of the markers. He had a concerned look in his eyes and beckoned him over.

Jay pulled himself from his own swamp of anxiety and gratefully stood. “Yeah. Sure.” He accepted the marker and Dennis held it a split second longer than necessary. His focus was still on his discussion with Terry, but his eyes briefly snapped to Jay searching his for some form of assurance before he let go and stepped forward, resuming his talk.

Jay fully turned towards the board to hide his face. He squeezed his eyes closed for a second, let out a long exhale, and uncapped the marker, facing the group again.

Shk

Something pressed against his stomach, something cold, sharp. A sharp gasp and he made a tiny jump backwards. But he quickly calmed down again when he realised it was only the magnetic tray for the eraser stuck to the whiteboard.

As one of the other team members was speaking, Dennis slowly walked over to Peter, tapped on the table to get his attention and gestured his fingers down. Peter got the message and put his pen away. A little something about Dennis Jay greatly admired. He himself would never do that, scared of being accused of making a fuss about nothing, inviting confrontation. But Dennis not only did it, he did it without even saying a word, without making the other feel bad.

And best of all: he did it for Jay.

-

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror

@susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime

@freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks

@whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion

@afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8

@withdrawingramen @lolrpop @nugget4427 @light-me-on-pyre @treasureguardingdragon

[scribbled-dream]

”Not everyone can be domesticated.”

This is an unspoken, yet deeply controversial truth. The Compact’s commanders are aware—some minds, like Androids, are deeply resistant to domestication (it is fortunate that the vast majority of Androids defected en masse to the Compact), and there are some souls so deeply entrenched in their fascist ideology that they refuse even the effects of Xenodrugs.

As such, the Compact must have a bare minimum of a military. The average Affini can short out systems and sunder steel with their vines, plant-like fibers being bulletproof, but they are still limited. This is where the Petal Blade Corp comes in.

Infiltrators, analysts, propagandists, and Sophonts who can’t leave the stench of war from their bones, taking the most advanced weaponry available to fight for the Affini.

This truth is coincided with another, blatantly spoken, almost pridefully spoken truth.

“Not all Sophonts are Pets. They must be respected.”

In this, a golden propaganda opportunity became genuine. To show the superiority of their bloodless combat, to continue the mass flood of defectors and uprisings, the Affini have realized that Humanity cannot be as easily controlled as other hivemind races. Although the concept of raw, unaligned independence is foreign to them, independence in love is not.

There are discussions. Forums with Human analysts, librarians, former social workers (as far as the iron grip of the Accord allowed). How? How does Humanity want to be treated and shown utopian love and adoration?

A singular answer.

“Let them decide.”

This is the power of the Compact. Empowering individuals to work towards the cause of a better future. For every Floret in profound, mind-controlled bliss, there are three more who work fulfilling, alert work, clinging to their Affinity through a deep, mutual respect and longing, and even more who have marriages with other Sophonts, taken in by Affini as an addition to a group of Petals but allowed to roam, and more.

The varied nature of the human race cannot be put inside a tiny, little box. The Affini know this, perhaps better than the Terran Empire ever did.

Edit: ever since I found HDG my tumblr has been exploding. Am I cooked?

[galacticgraffiti]

If You Want to Give Me Anything (Then Give In) - Part III

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x John 'Soap' MacTavish

Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 4.5k Summary: The helo ride back is intense. Price is the funniest unintentional (or not so unintentional?) cockblock of all time. bon appetit. CW: blood, gays yearning, memories of blood-licking and knife-licking, blood kink (i guess?), definitely knife kink, lewd thoughts, making out against a car, angsty ending (all will be well i prommy) A/N: Found the dividers here. Kisses to @patchmates for loving me through the ghoap brainrot.

♦ My Masterlist • If you prefer AO3 ♦ Taglist Signup

Part III

Ghost is staring at him. The whole helo-ride back to base. Dark eyes fixed on Johnny, half-lidded and sweet and full of sin. A promise to him, maybe. A threat, for anyone else.

When Price ordered them back from that building, his calm voice for once unwelcome only because it interrupted something holy, Soap’s mouth still tasted like blood: Ghost’s blood, bitter and coppery and yet the sweetest thing Soap had ever tasted.

The change was sudden, swift: Ghost pulling Soap to his feet, tugging his mask back down in a smooth, practised motion, and collecting his knife from the floor as Johnny stared at him, the taste of Simon’s skin still on his lips, the salt of his blood still on his tongue.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.” A soft order spoken through the bloodied mask. Ghost’s hand squeezed Johnny’s before he let go.

The way to exfil was quiet, and the Captain already waiting for them when they got there, tapping his foot, smoking his cigar.

“Got me,” was all Soap mumbled when Price shot him a questioning look at the blood that still stained his teeth.

Ghost’s mask was soaked in red as well, but who could tell the difference between black and blood-darkened fabric?

Price nodded at Soap’s half-hearted explanation, said nothing, though his gaze flicked between them, but then he just… shrugged to himself. Lit another cigar and fucked off to the copilot’s seat as the helo took off.

Just the three of them in here, plus the pilot. Soap pulled on the headphones, conscious of the dark eyes that had been fixed on him ever since he put the knife to his own mouth. Felt like Ghost hadn’t blinked even once, Johnny’s reflection a constant in the black ring of his pupil. 

Now, Soap finds himself staring right back at Ghost. Eyes glued to every tiny movement, to the sliver of skin that’s exposed where Ghost’s shirt has ridden up, revealing pale flesh and an even paler scar on his hip.

Soap wants to lick it, can feel himself twitch at the thought of getting to taste Simon’s skin, salty with sweat and sweet with sin. He indulges for a moment:

How the ground had felt between his knees when he looked up at Simon, begging for his knife in his mouth. How it had felt to be sliced open so meticulously by blade and gaze alike, to be disected, pulled apart and made to come undone by the feeling of Simon’s lips against his own. How Johnny had wanted, had wanted more – had wanted Simon’s knee slotted between his thighs, had wanted to grind down, to push up against the broadness of his chest, had wanted to feel Simon grow hard for him, had wanted to plead to hear the quiet, moaned whispers that fell from his lips, had wanted to push his hand into Simon’s boxers, to feel him, to know, to wrap his mouth around him and let himself be used until he forgot the cruelty of the world. Had wanted to lick the blood off Simon’s neck and know that he would be Johnny’s own to keep, that Simon’s heart might replace the one Johnny had given away to him.

Yes, Johnny lets himself indulge. Presses his lips together so he doesn’t groan when he thinks about the feeling of Simon’s hot tongue in his mouth, licking at the bloodied gash in Johnny’s tongue, sucking on it, greedily, like he would never get enough. Like this meant just as much to him as it did to Johnny.

Minutes pass that feel like hours.

At first, Soap doesn’t mind. He likes looking at Ghost. Likes looking at Simon even more. And it’s Simon now who is looking at him: His brown eyes large and softer than they ever are in battle. It takes some of the worry away that has settled in Johnny’s heart: What all of it means. He still isn't sure, but this must be something. Right? With the way Simon is looking at him… It must be.

A mean glint in his eyes, maybe, but Soap thinks that’s just a trick of the light. He thinks he could stare at him forever and be content. Count his freckles rather than his scars. Sink into the soft wrinkles around his eyes, make them deeper, make Simon smile every fucking day until his happiness would be etched into his face… Yeah, Soap would be content. Fucking elated, actually.

Simon watches him, still, when Johnny runs his finger along his lips, tracing them in the memory of the blood he spilled, and the feeling of his teeth ripping into Simon’s skin until they drew blood as well, received an offering in turn for the gift that Johnny had given so freely.

Soap isn't even trying to wipe away the blood that has long since dried, is just keeping his hands busy, but–

“Don’t.”

It’s a sharp command, even though Soap can barely hear it over the noise of the helo, in spite of the com device in his ear. Even though Ghost is almost whispering, because there are people in here with them, and they are not alone; like there is anything he could do that would make Price turn a deaf ear. Like he would care, even if it is anything. The Captain is a good man.

The word is whispered, but it’s an order nonetheless, and Soap drops his hands in his lap immediately, feeling almost ashamed by his own actions. Ghost stares at him through silvery lashes, seemingly satisfied at the immediate effect his scolding has.

Soap blinks, gazes at his own fingers like they betrayed him; stained now with speckles of dried blood.

It hadn’t even been a conscious action, just… something to do. Idle hands have never suited Soap. Neither has an idle mouth. His tongue craves a taste, something to swirl around, to play with. A piece of gum would do; even better yet a fucking lollipop. Soap has always liked the rainbow coloured ones that taste like all artificial fruit flavours run through a blender. A cigarette would be nice, too. Or, best of all– well. The thing he would like most of all, he can’t have. Not right now.

Gum is the only option he does have, but if he popped a piece of fucking gum right now, he’s pretty sure Ghost would punch him in the mouth. Put the taste of blood on his tongue again.

Fuck.

Soap can feel himself firming up properly now, cock twitching at the thought of it, what it might be like; what it was like: His tongue gliding along Ghost’s knife, worshipping a deadly blade like it’s a holy thing, worshipping it the way he wants to worship Simon. Tongueing at it, lapping at the tip the way he would at the head of Simon’s weeping cock, revel in the salty taste of it, press his face between Simon’s thighs and inhale him deeply, let himself be buried by the smell, the taste, the presence of him… the sound of him:

Would be a sin to taste you less than pure, Johnny. My sweet boy, my perfect boy. Sweet’eart.

Soap shifts in his seat, presses his thighs together. Pointedly tries to think about something else. Anything else. And fails miserably. He quietly wishes once again that he had a fag, nicotine to calm him down, tar to clog his lungs that won’t take any air in anyways; something to do, keep his hands and mouth busy–

“Stop squirmin’, Johnny.” Ghost’s rough voice, right in his ear, and Soap nearly bangs his head on the fucking metal sheet behind him.

“Fuck ye,” he grumbles, and is rewarded with a short, deep huff of laughter.

“Maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you.” Large eyes framed by golden lashes stare at Johnny as he says it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like seven words from his mouth aren’t all it takes to shatter Soap’s brain, to send it spinning off its fucking axis.

“What?”

Ghost doesn’t move, just keeps staring at him with those fucking eyes, so dark they are almost lost in all the eyeblack if it weren’t for his pale lashes, weren’t for the whites of his eyes shining in the shadows.

“You heard me,” he finally says, quietly, just a breath in Johnny’s ear.

Soap swallows thickly, thigh bouncing up and down, trying to will down his own erection, trying so desperately not to think about it all. Trying to make it through this hellride so he can press Simon up against a wall back at base, grind into him until they’re both panting, bury his hands in his hair, in the meat of him, get on his knees and show him exactly what he can do with his mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell, LT,” he whispers.

Ghost leans forward, sudden and unexpected. Places a hand on Soap’s knee until the bouncing of his leg stills, shivering underneath the touch. Two layers of clothing between them, and yet, Soap thinks he can feel the heat permeating off Ghost’s skin in waves to match his own.

“Quiet down, sweet’eart. You’ll need the energy later.”

“I… wha- steamin’ Jesus, Ghost. Ye need tae– fuck.” Soap shakes his head, inhales deeply. Is simultaneously glad for the fact he’s wearing tac gear and fucking hates it, because every little movement he makes, hunched over as he is, has his hardening cock grinding right against the edge of his tac vest, begging to be touched properly.

Ghost leans back, keeps watching with intense eyes. Slowly, he pulls the knife from its sheath, the one that now has a dark stain of Johnny’s blood on the handle. Runs his hand along the wood, stroking it sweetly, feigning innocence.

Johnny chokes on his own spit, hips almost bucking off the bench at the sight of it.

“Ghost–”

“What? Just makin’ sure it’s still sharp. Can’t be too careful. And the handle… well. Know a little trick to get the blood right out but maybe… maybe I’ll just leave it. Nice little reminder of your… loyalty.”

Johnny’s thigh starts bouncing again, fingers drumming a fast rhythm as Ghost peels off one of his gloves to run his pale thumb down the blade. Red blooms in its wake, blood dripping suddenly from the finger, and just like that, Ghost presses it right next to the stain Johnny left on the light wood of the handle, rubs it in slowly, almost gently.

Soap’s cock jumps, and he thinks distantly that he shouldn't be so turned on by the sight of blood, shouldn’t go stupid at the way Ghost’s hand closes around the handle of the fucking knife and strokes it, slowly, deliberately, eyes never looking away from Johnny.

“Careful now, Sergeant. You’re already filthy, no sense in staining any more of your gear, yeah?”

Soap chokes, considers telling Ghost that he isn’t the one bleeding, isn’t the one staining his gear – feels the way his cock is weeping and knows it will be a lie. For a moment, he seriously debates crawling over to Ghost, to bury his face between his thighs, breathe him in to satisfy this aching fucking need, begging him to fuck his mouth with the handle of the blade, to give him the real thing, even – give him anything, his fingers, even gloved, just anything- to give him what he craves until tears are running down his face and all he can think about is Simon.

Soap huffs, strains against the straps keeping him in place. Folds his hands over his groin, surreptitiously grinds the heel of his hand against his aching cock, and– 

And stops when Ghost shakes his head.

“Be home soon, Johnny. Be good for me now.”

Soap almost whines, like a scolded fucking dog, but Ghost shoots him another warning glance. And, because he is a merciful god, slides the knife back into its sheath and into his thigh holster.

(God, his thighs, his fucking thighs. Johnny needs to feel them, wants to kiss them, trace his tongue along all the scars he knows they bear, kiss every patch of unmarred skin he can find so Ghost can feel his mouth, really feel it, and know that Johnny lov- know the extent of Johnny’s feeling. Johnny wants to press his face between them until there is no air to breathe that doesn’t smell like Simon, wants to sit between them, on them, grind his aching cock down on the muscular thickness of them until he can rub his come into the skin, make Simon smell like him, know that they belong together–)

“We better fuckin’ be home soon,” Soap mumbles to himself, almost groans when he shifts again and the seam of his trousers rubs up high against his inner thigh. “I need ye tae– if ye don’t fuckin’-”

“Alright now, ladies, keep it in your fuckin’ pants until I have plausible deniability, Christ.” Price’s voice crackles suddenly through their headsets. “You would think…”

The rest of the sentence is lost to the fact that he grumbles the words  into his stupid beard (Soap loves the Captain’s beard) and takes a drag of his less-than-up-to-regulations cigar (Soap hates the Captain’s cigars. He wants one so bad, wants to twirl it in his fingers, close his lips around it while staring Simon dead in the eye, wants to busy himself. God does he hate those fucking cigars). 

“Yes, Sir,” he responds, sounding vaguely chastised though he can’t find it in him to feel guilty. With interest, he notices the way Simon’s hand twitches in his lap at Soap’s words. Price’s voice pipes up again.

“Good lad.”

And Christ if that doesn’t do something to Soap. He’d prefer it be Simon’s voice speaking those words though, gritty and dark, with his thick accent and his cut-off consonants. Sweet’heart. Good lad.

When Soap meets Ghost’s eyes, he knows that maliciously teasing glint was not a trick of the light after all. He looks demonic, otherworldly, ethereal: An angel melting into the darkness, eyes barely blinking, never flicking away from where Johnny’s hard-on presses desperately against the cage of his jockstrap by now.

And suddenly, Soap minds the fact that this helo ride seems to take forever very much. Because nothing will ever be enough when it comes to Simon. Nothing.

Because he’s everything.

The helo lands eventually, almost without Soap noticing, too lost in all the things he wants to do to Ghost – wants Ghost to do to him, too lost in the memory of the taste of his blood that still lingers on Soap’s lips, too lost in his heated eyes that tell Johnny exactly what Simon is thinking about right now.

“Let’s go, boys!”

An SUV is parked by the landing strip across the runway. Very thoughtful- base is only a few minutes away, but a tired ache has started to creep into Soap’s bones now that the adrenaline of battle is slowly subsiding, though his body is so keyed up he is nearly vibrating.

Ghost is eyeing the driver’s seat, but Johnny quickly hooks his fingers into the straps of his tac vest and pulls him back.

“I’m no’ gettin’ in that fuckin’ thing if yer the one drivin’, LT. Fuckin’ menace ye are behind the wheel. Christ, bloody wonder I survive every time, got closer tae death drivin’ shotgun with ye than I have in fuckin’ active warzones, ye rocket.”

Ghost stares at him, then drops his gaze down to where Johnny’s hand fists his vest.

“You got a problem with goin’ fast, Sergeant? Wouldn't have taken you for the type.”

His eyes flick back up, catch on Soap’s lips.

Soap swallows, although his mouth is fucking dry, because he’s so close to Ghost, finally, and if Price wasn’t standing right next to them, Johnny would have already bent over the hood and asked Ghost to fuck him right there. Or pressed his hands between the muscled wings of Ghost’s back and bent him over instead, if his earlier words are anything to go by.

Steamin’ Jesus.

“No problem… Sir.” Soap can feel Ghost shudder for the fraction of a second before he regains his composure. “Like it fast, actually. Jus’ wanna make sure I make it oot alive. Be a shame tae have made it through tha’ hell only tae die because ye cannae keep yer foot off the gas fer a fuckin’ second, aye?”

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, MacTavish,” Ghost spits, but he’s smiling beneath the mask. Soap can tell. Can always tell. He leans a little closer, lowers his voice, doesn’t care about the way Price rolls his eyes and pointedly turns away from them.

“Like ye watched it when I was lickin’ the blood off yer knife, LT?”

“You–”

“I’m goin’ for a fucking fag, you twats,” Price announces, suddenly, loudly. “Give you a minute to sort… whatever this is… sort it the fuck out. Heaven forbid we make it back in one piece for once, gotta be at each other’s throats now? Bloody wankers, you are.”

He turns and gestures at Ghost.

“Give me a fuckin’ cigarette, Lieutenant. Come on, I know you have one.” Takes it out of Ghost’s proffered hand, lights it, takes a deep drag. Looks both of them up and down with his brows drawn together. “Gonna go talk to the pilot, be back in ten. Pull yourselves together until then, Christ alive.”

He starts walking, eyes cast steadily forward, but then he turns around once more, points the cherry of his cigarette in Ghost’s direction.

“And I’m fuckin’ driving!”

Soap snorts, until Ghost’s hands settle on his hips, pull him closer, right up against him. Soap can feel the hard muscles of Ghost’s thigh against him, the uncomfortable edges of their tac vests sliding together. Gloved fingers hook into the belt loops of Johnny’s trousers.

The air crackles in Price’s absence. They’re all alone– well. Alone as they can be, for now. 

Soap’s fingers are still entangled with the straps of Ghost’s vest, his breath warm on Simon’s fabric-covered throat.

Ghost cocks his head, stares at Johnny. Gloved fingers trail up Soap’s back, fist into his hair, and Soap can’t suppress the huff of air that escapes him when Ghost pulls, until Johnny is staring right up at him, those few inches difference between them seeming like the world right now.

When Ghost bends down, and simultaneously presses a thigh between Johnny’s legs, the world fizzes at the edges.

Ghost’s voice is dangerously low, and traitorously warm when he finally poses his question, staring right into Johnny’s soul, bullying his thigh between Johnny’s until Soap lets out a stifled whimper when his cock grinds against corded muscle.

“Tell me, Sergeant… this too fast for you?”

Johnny shakes his head, surges forward instead, inhales the sweaty scent of Ghost so deep it makes him dizzy.

“Never, LT. Been waitin’ fer it fer ages.” His hands leave Ghost’s chest, loop around his neck instead to drag him down so Soap can press his hot mouth to the mask, right where Ghost’s mouth would be.

The fabric tastes like dust and blood and sweat, but Johnny doesn’t care. Nothing could keep him away now. His hips develop a rhythm of their own, grinding down against the thick thigh offered to him as he licks and bites at the fabric that covers Simon’s face, getting more frantic with each passing second.

“Fuck,” he breathes, inhales the scent of Ghost, revels in the small huffs and the strangled sounds that escape Simon’s mouth. “Fuck, Simon- love– c’mere, fuck, let me taste ye- please- I need tae… I need–”

Hasty, trembling fingers hesitate at the edge of Ghost’s mask, silently asking permission, and when Simon doesn’t stop him, Johnny pulls up the mask, bit by bit, until pale skin is revealed, the scars that carve an eternal smile into Simon’s face, and, finally, his plush, pink lips that Soap wants to lick and taste and bruise until the world caves in.

Johnny presses up against Simon, stumbles backwards with him until his back hits the metal door of the SUV, licks into his mouth and moans when Simon’s tongue darts out to lap at the bloodstains covering Johnny’s neck, his cheeks, his chin.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, sweet’eart,” Simon mumbles, warm and sweet against Soap’s skin. “So fuckin’ good– carved yourself open for me, didn't you, all to let me taste you- all of you– Christ, you want that, Johnny? Want that again? Tell me… tell me that’s what you want, need to hear it–”

“I want that,” Soap breathes, tries to press himself even closer to Ghost, rutting against his thigh desperately, begging for it, starving for it. “Please- would give ye anything– anything tae have tha’ again, want tae taste ye again, all of ye– everything– please, love- please–”

“Mhh, good lad, Johnny.” Simon’s mouth trails along the shaved side of Soap’s head, hot tongue licking along his jaw as large hands squeeze to keep him still. “Good lad.”

Soap can’t help the shivers that wrack his body at the sound of it- finally – finally-

Simon laughs quietly, and it’s the most angelic sound Johnny has ever heard, honeyed and dark and golden like the sun. Soap can feel Simon’s lips twist into a smile against his cheek, a real one.

“That do it for you on the helo, the Captain calling you his good lad, hm, sweet’eart? That what got you all hard?” Ghost says it casually, like it’s a joke, and if Soap didn’t know him so fucking well, couldn’t read all of his tells, he would laugh and tease, and tell him Yes, it was the Captain, just to get a rise out of him.

But Johnny can hear the slight pause between Simon’s words, hear the hesitation, the fucking fear. Fear that he might not be enough, when he is everything and more.

“Nothing the Captain could say would get me hard, love,” Johnny purrs, rubs up against Ghost, presses his barely contained hard-on right up against Ghost’s hip, sneaks a hand down to trace along the outline of Ghost’s cock, finds it just as hard as his own. “It’s all you, doll. Everything you do… everything you say… everything I am– God, Simon, it’s all for you.”

Simon groans, eyes slipping shut as he leans into Johnny’s touch, pushes his hips forward into Johnny’s hands, loses himself for a moment, and Johnny is there to hold him, keep him safe, take care of him.

When Ghost pulls back, a flush has spread down his neck, the scar bisecting his lips pink and raw from Johnny’s kisses, and a small smile playing around the corners of his eyes.

“Fucking- Christ, Johnny. How the fuck–”

“ –did we get here? Did this happen?” Soap leans back, ignores the throbbing of his cock when he does, stills entirely against Ghost, cradling his scarred face in his hands and staring up at him. “Feels like a fuckin’ dream, aye?”

Simon’s eyes go impossibly soft.

“Bloody well does, Johnny.” He closes his eyes a moment, takes a deep breath, and again, Johnny is struck by the incredibility of this whole situation.

They stay like that for a moment, catching their breath; knowing time is almost up. For now.

Then Ghost shifts, breaks the spell and pulls away, though the pained look in his eyes tells Johnny he doesn’t want to, that he wants to keep going, wants to have this. Still, Soap needs to hear it.

“Simon, tell me that-”

“Boys!” Price’s voice barks across the dark field. “Get the fuck in the car, we’re leaving. Hands to yourselves, or bloody Jesus have mercy.”

They let go of each other reluctantly, squeezing into the backseat of the car, thighs pressed up against each other.

The car ride isn’t long, a few minutes staring out the dark windows, but somehow, it feels like an eternity even more than the helo did. They’re so fucking close.

Johnny can’t face Simon, can’t be held responsible for what he will do if he allows himself to look at his face, at his lips, even though they are hidden beneath black fabric and white paint once again.

Ghost’s hand creeps over, comes to rest on Johnny’s thigh, and Soap presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, leg twitching away from contact, because if Simon’s hands move a fucking inch higher, he’s gonna come in his pants like a teenager.

Ghost seems to understand, pulls his hand away, doesn't try anything else. And Soap attempts to steady his breath, stares out the dark window, thinks of trees and of calm, rolling hills, and the taste of blood and Simon’s skin and- no. Stop it. Pull yerself together, ye lovelorn cunt.

Nothing Soap tries will soothe the desperation burning in his core, the want to be touched, the need to be close to Ghost. That insatiable desire to feel Simon come apart, to watch his cheeks flush and the rise of his chest, and to taste his skin afterwards, see if he might taste like Soap’s own sweat. To kiss him so deeply Soap will feel it burning on his own lips from beyond the grave–

The car stops, the lights of the base popping up suddenly and snapping Soap out of his musings. He scrambles out to fresh air, breathes in deep like anything could steady him now other than the touch of Ghost’s hands, the taste of Ghost’s mouth.

Ghost gets out of the car on the other side, slams the door shut, nods to Price, his eyes cast down, his body hunched over.

And he turns around and leaves Johnny standing there, like a dog in the rain, as he takes off without a word, stomping into the sleeping building. Abruptly, Soap’s brows draw together.

Tae fuck was tha’, then?

Price puffs his smelly cigar and stares after Ghost, then places a careful hand on Soap’s shoulder. Soap shrugs him off, refuses to look at him. Wonders quietly if he was right after all: Maybe it’s not anything. Maybe now that the adrenaline has worn off, Ghost wants nothing to do with him. Maybe–

“Well, go fuckin’ after him, you tosser,” Price grunts and lights another cigar. “Don’t make your Lieutenant wait, MacTavish. Have your fucking head if you do this one wrong.”

Soap’s brows shoot up, and he wants to ask Price what he means – what he knows – but with the way Price stares at him, softly shakes his head and gestures towards the entrance with his chin, he knows he won’t get any answers out of him.

“Debrief of the mission tomorrow at 0-600, Sergeant. Remind him of that, will you?”

Soap nods curtly, worries his lip. And goes after Ghost, heart thundering and cracking with each of his steps.

It could be something. But if it’s not… Johnny doesn’t finish that thought. Thinks it might kill him if he did. Just legs it and hopes Simon hasn’t changed his mind after all.

Part II ⮜ ♦ ⮞ Part IV

I've added a CoD option to my taglist!

taggies for those stuck in the brainrot with me @ulchabhangorm @pinkiemme @purgetrooperfox @certified-anakinfucker @patchmates

[ninyard]

I love ur account 🫶🏾 and btw could we have a yapping session about vic ? Or more lore about rowan and lilya, I really love ur ocs bc they’re so interesting!

Oh YES!!!!

this is my excuse to talk a little about vic because i've haven't spoken about her much at all

She's the only one of my ocs that doesn't play exy - she can, if she has to for whatever reason, but the Moriyama's found she was far more use to them working with a different branch of the family than the sports/exy side.

Victoria 'Vic' Mesman is the daughter of a Dutch family that works for the Moriyama's in a similar vein as the Wesninski's did. Her family moved to the US when she was just a baby, and the Mesman's are one of the families on the west coast that carry out hits and the messy work that needs doing. Vic is just a few years older than Neil, but when she was just a kid, her parents realised there was something very wrong with her, quite early in her development. She was showing all the signs of a psychopath, a sociopath, whatever the right word is for a child who was sadistic from the time she could walk. She was killing animals instead of playing on the playground, she was learning how to cry to get what she wanted when she wanted it. When her peers were learning the ABC's, Vic was learning how to manipulate the adults around her.

Vic can do a thousand different accents perfectly, she speaks more languages than she can count, and she is a very skilled and very competent hit man for the Moriyama family. She’ll disguise herself as anyone just to complete a hit, and that’s what makes her such a reliable asset. It’s her ability to be whoever she needs to be, speak however she needs to, to get things done.

Vic doesn’t feel emotionally attached to anything bar the occasional obsession here and there. She works with poisons and silent hits most of the time, but her preferred method of killing is using a tiny blade of a knife. She loves blood, the feeling of blood, the smell of blood, and nothing makes her feel better than watching the light drain from someone’s eyes.

She met Riko for the first time when she was 14 or so, and they clicked almost instantly. He saw the evil in her eyes and felt intrigued by it, she saw the power he had and wanted nothing more. She frequently did personal hits just because he asked her to, and she was the person who managed to dig up so much dirt on Andrew for him. A short brunette wig and a kind California accent got her his files, her ability to be charming incredible and entirely manufactured. Her way with words, her persuasion skills getting her almost anything she wants, almost all the time. Vic will do anything for Riko’s approval.

Vic is kind of my villain character, in a way. Idk. She’s a terrible person and capable of terrible things. Kind of obsessed with her a little bit.

[luneariaa]

☀︎ 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 | 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝

❥︎ - ; x ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

❥︎ - 𝐭𝐰 : ᴘᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ. ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴀʙʙᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜱᴡᴏʀᴅ. ʙᴀʀɴᴀʙᴀꜱ ɪꜱ ᴇᴠɪʟ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ɢᴏʀᴇ (?) ɪ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇ. ♡︎

☾︎ - 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

-✰-

The rain falls steadily, creating a soft patter whenever it hits the wet ground. Their bodies soaked up slightly due to the rain, yet they didn't have any intention of stopping their journey for now. (Y/N)'s body is a bit sore due to killing several creatures along the way before. It didn't help the fact that her bandaged shoulder wound aches a lot-- the rain just added to the stinging sensation. She refuses to tell him yet, for fear that she might worry him even more.

The sudden sounds of several people screaming have interrupted her train of thoughts. Glancing up at Clive, she had taken notice of his darkening expression as his eyes are still staring ahead cautiously.

"Come on," he urges her not too long after, taking the lead while the two went towards the source of sound. She tried to ignore the burning sensation on her shoulder as she follows him; their clothes sticking uncomfortably against their skin.

The pair moved in a rather fast pace, before they halted to a stop all of a sudden.

"Stay behind me, (N/N)." Clive merely spoke in an almost commanding tone once they arrived at the suspicious-looking area.

She began to look confused and a light hint of frustration, "What, why? I can handle myself--"

"Because I suspect that this is a trap for us." He states simply yet in a firm manner-- tightening the grip around his sword and continuing to observe their surroundings. She obeyed without hesitation while trying to remain calm and looked around as well.

He notices a movement close to the rather large tree and it immediately draws his attention. (Y/N) wanted to help at the last possible moment, but Clive took a protective stance and told her to stay behind him.

The movement came from the King of Waloed himself, who had emerged from the shadows.

Barnabas Tharmr.

"Barnabas." Clive retorts venomously, growling at the mere sight of the dark king. He has a complete unhinged aura surrounding his very being, a smirk gracing his face.

"Hmm.." He hums in amusement at the two.

"Instead of trying to finish me off, why don't you focus on your precious little lady here? I could have EASILY finish her off instead..."

The air grew tense as he spoke even more.

"She is YOUR weakness, is she not?"

Her eyes widen a bit at the words he have spoken, preparing to defend herself even more despite the aching pain she felt on her shoulder. Clenching her jaw ever so slightly, the young lady tries her best to hold back her tears. She couldn't even bear to look up at Clive's expression.

But she could tell that he's very ticked off. He could feel his soul burning with rage at the words he threw upon his sweetheart. Clive couldn't bear the sight of his beloved being hurt.

Is it appropriate for him to call him his beloved though? He did plan to confess his undying love towards her as soon as they got out of there, and to a nice, proper place.

The words that keeps spewing from Barnabas' mouth is enough to make her feel even more unconfident towards herself-- as if he's straight up taunting her.

"How pathetic can you be? You even choose to keep this poor lady by your side. Is this your very wise decision?"

His remarks are enough to trouble her frail mind and emotions. She was briefly distracted by it before she turned her attention back ahead. Clive releases a rather loud scoff-- charging towards Barnabas swiftly, who grins wickedly at his actions while drawing his weapon as well.

"You will pay for everything you've done!" Clive spats while swinging at him with every ounce of strength he possesses. The only thing that stops him momentarily is when he could feel the sharp blade grazes a tiny bit of his cheek.

Clive easily avoided Barnabas' attack by getting up and striking him again before he could hit him further. All the while, she keeps mentally debating on whether she should stay put or help him. She doesn't want him to be mad at her actions-- she wished to fight too.

But her thoughts got cut off when Clive stumbled back from the fight-- realizing that he has now fallen to the ground with a groan of pain escaping his lips. Barnabas has casted some sort of spell to temporarily tie him to the ground.

"Clive-!" (Y/N) cries out in terror, rushing towards him without a care on what might befall to her very being.

Though, she freezes in her tracks once she notices that Barnabas has reappeared in front of her-- the tip of his blade is dangerously close to her stomach. He smiles maliciously at her once she's stunned at her position; pushing the blade deeper into it, her weapon dropped to the ground.

Clive struggles to free himself from the magic ropes, unable to bring himself to witness the horror and devastating sight of his beloved-- slowly being murdered in his very own eyes. The way Barnabas drew her in while driving the blade even deeper is enough to fuel his anger more.

Yet there is something so painful when she stood there helplessly-- she knew she couldn't do anything anymore.

As if she has accepted her cruel fate.

"Look at you; willing to fight me despite your current state..." He laughs evilly, pushing the blade a little more. Losing her ability to speak, she coughed in response to the horrible feeling.

"Pathetic."

At this point, blood pours out from her body. Barnabas didn't mind that his hands might get dirty in the process—not at all. He would've killed her even earlier, but it was Clive's expression and struggle that pushes his motivation further. It was amusing to him.

The way he screams to her with a tearful gaze-- the feeling of sorrow and agony is evident in his eyes. Oh, how Barnabas is sure that Clive will hold himself responsible for her possible tragic end.

Leaning his head a bit towards her ear, he began to whisper as his eyes are focused on Clive. "You should probably listen to your darling knight next time, sweetheart." Her eyes merely widen at his words, unable to respond.

"He's begging for mercy." He taunts for one last time, before withdrawing the sword from her stomach with such force. She falls almost instantly when he lets go of her, her own pool of blood surrounding her.

Helpless, miserable... She didn't want to die this way. Not yet. Everything seems out of reach to her, so far from her very own grasp.

She lets out a bloody cough while her eyes are starting to get blurry-- not being able to see or even hear clearly at this point.

Is this how death is supposed to be? It feels so... odd. Empty, even. The pain that she experiences from earlier slowly vanishes into nothingness as her eyes slowly close on its' own.

Forgive me, Clive.

-✰-

The hill that she currently stood upon is indeed breathtaking; various types of flowers blooming almost everywhere. (Y/N) held onto her necklace; a silver, sapphire-colored star, which was given by Clive on her last birthday.

It really means a lot to her. She loves the necklace dearly.

Despite the lovely view, however, she couldn't help but to feel as if something is missing. One that is so far and hard to reach. A small, sad smile graces her features at the mere thought. It feels so serene to her soul, yet the feeling of longing is evident to her heart.

Her eyes flutter shut momentarily, feeling the soft breeze as it passes by. Oh, how she misses the feeling of peacefulness-- almost forgetting on how it really feels like.

A small squeak escaped her lips when a pair of strong arms embraces her from behind; almost losing her balance. Of course, she knew who it was. The way he wraps his arms securely around her form-- turning her around slowly without breaking the hug, just so he can rest his head on top of hers.

"Clive," she managed to speak almost breathlessly. "You..." Her voice starts becoming shaky as she stops herself from continuing further, trying her best to blink away her tears. Clive simply holds her tighter, not wanting to let go. His expression changes to a deeply concerned one as he notices the drop of her expression.

"...You came for me, did you?"

Clive brushes her tears away that has fallen tenderly as he spoke. "Of course I did. I have promised you before-- I will always be looking out for you, remember?" She doesn't answer straight away but managed to reply with a small nod.

"I'm so sorry..." She apologizes quietly with a tinge of guilt, trying to contain herself while avoiding his gaze at the very moment. With a soft sigh, the ravenette man cups her cheeks delicately once more with both of his hands.

"There's nothing to apologize for, (N/N). You have not done anything wrong." The warm and loving gaze that's present in his eyes is enough to give her a bit of reassurance.

"But I was selfish! I'm weak; I couldn't even bring myself to... tell you the truth, back then." It was at this point that she has decided to be honest with him about her true hidden feelings. If she didn't-- she might lose this chance forever.

"You mean a lot to me, Clive. I'm so sorry for having these feelings for you; you deserve someone far better--" He silences her ramblings by placing his lips against her soft ones gently. Frozen for a few seconds by the sudden unexpected contact of his lips, she eventually melts into the kiss-- wrapping her arms around his neck. It gives her the feeling of complete warmth and security by the kiss, along with the way he wraps his arms around her form. It makes her feel safe and protected.

The two gradually separate themselves from the kiss after several moments, slowly opening their eyes to face one another. Though, it didn't last long when she was the first to break the eye contact-- wiping a bit of her tears that she didn't even realize has fallen.

"My dear, I shall never forget the day I fell in love with you. You deserve all the love and happiness within this world. You worth so much more than you can imagine. Without you, I never would have made it this far."

Clive's hands drew her even closer and eventually came to rest around her waist, holding on to her tighter than before-- refusing to let go of her just yet. (Y/N)'s eyes widen slightly, feeling the warmth emanating from his presence alone. She wants to say something; anything, yet she's tongue-tied at the moment and her mind is jumbled up with countless thoughts.

"You have to leave. You shouldn't be here." The slight tone changes in her causes for Clive to be taken aback. Why would she request something as such...?

"I don't want to separate myself from you. Not now-- never. I love you too much to do such thing." He sincerely admits, stroking the back of her head gently. She wants to push him away from her, but... her heart tells her otherwise. Slowly, she lifted her head up while bringing her hand to his face-- to which he leans into her touch as she caresses it softly.

"Clive… You don't belong here. Not just yet…" The tears are flowing down freely from her eyes at this point. "I'm truly sorry… Please forgive me. I hope you understand."

He brings one of his hands up to hold onto her hand that's on his face. The painful expression that's displayed on his face-- she couldn't bear to look at it any longer. She could feel her heart clenching in sorrow upon the sight in front of her.

It just breaks her small, fragile heart even more.

"We will see each other again someday, hopefully..." (Y/N) manages to murmur, avoiding his stare while shaking a bit.

Clive was about to respond; anything, just to make her stay, yet he went against the idea as he notices his beloved begin to slowly fade away, dissipating into tiny crystal shards that soared upward into the sky.

No matter how desperately he tried to grasp a part of her, he was unable to do it at all. His heart aches terribly at the realization. He feels so powerless... Tears are running down his face, his body trembles slightly. Why can't he do anything to stop and prevent her from going? Everything is happening so fast.

Does he not deserve happiness at all...?

As if he snapped back to reality, Clive could feel on how sticky his gloved hands were-- along with the metallic smell that's present in the air. When his blue eyes fell downwards, however...

It was at that exact moment; he became painfully aware of how his beloved's blood was staining his gloved hands. Her head was rested on the front part of his shoulder, motionless. He choked back his own tears at the sight, before carrying her limp body into his arms gingerly and put her somewhere safer-- next to a large tree, the surroundings are filled with a bit of flowers.

Once he sets himself down near her, Clive instantly buries his face on the crook of her neck; finally releasing a rather loud sob as he held onto her body tightly. He wants to believe that she's still alive somewhere. That she would return to him eventually. Not in the condition as she is right now-- no, he refuses to believe that.

Yet he's painfully aware about the situation right at this moment. He could live in denial as he wishes to, but the painful truth will inevitably catch up onto him.

"Come back, please... Forgive me for everything..." He whispered to her pleadingly, not getting any reply as he had anticipated. Tracing her slight cold, pale face with his hands, he places a light kiss on her forehead.

Clive couldn't take it anymore-- the awfully hurting feeling in his heart, so he screamed as loud as he could. He doesn't care about anything anymore; he just wanted the pain and everything to end. The scream echoes throughout the forest, and into the silence of the night. He tries so hard to control himself while cradling her body close to him; breaking into a sobbing mess after as his body shakes uncontrollably.

He's lost. He's so lost. It's all his fault.

"(Y/N)..." He chokes out her name before his eyes slowly darkening in anger. Though, he remains gentle with her lifeless form as he brushes her hair tenderly; his eyes are now sharply focused forward.

"I will get my revenge, I promise you." Clive vows to her almost quietly, "I will make him pay for everything he has done to you... He dares himself to take you away from me."

He inhales shakily after, not stopping his little actions while kissing her lips lovingly as possible.

"When I get my revenge, will you forgive me then?" Whispering out the words, Clive rests his forehead against her with a small sigh-- moving away a little from her after a few seconds as he averts his gaze towards the moon above. The stars shine so brightly around the moon, creating a beautiful scenery to gaze upon.

She would've loved this... He thought to himself, feeling a tear slipping down past his cheek and onto her hand that's on his lap.

I will avenge you... I swear it on my very own soul.

𝐞𝐧𝐝.

-✰-

© 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚜.

[get-shit-onlol]

@snowy-wife

Hey.

I would be a lot more careful if I were you in speaking about us— because we have held our tongues for the last two months about you for the sake of keeping peace. But you obviously have not been able to get us out of your head since your meltdown, so let’s talk. I would read until the very end if I were you.

Let's start by stating the obvious: you are deeply disturbed. It’s evident by a quick scroll through your blog that you suffer from a multitude of mental ailments that contribute to your low impulse control and lack of self-awareness. You are fat; you post openly about not keeping up with your hygiene, you have lip piercings, you write about your desire to harm and kill animals, you take to substances and blades when you’re upset, you are incoherent, you live in a disgusting house— more could be said, but the overarching theme stands. You are the essence of low quality, the absolute bottom of the barrel. And you think Eric and Dylan are in love with YOU?

You are in no place to speak about either of us, or anyone else in the world for that matter. You are fucking scum. Low IQ, deluded, extremely mentally ill scum. We pity you in all honesty, you must have endured a lot as a child to have turned out so unbelievably backward. But you don’t deserve any sort of empathy, especially after your repeated posts about us since July, and the gall to insult our looks today, but failing by calling us “imbreded”, a terrible attempt at saying we look “inbred”. The jokes write themselves. You’re one to speak considering the things I’ve listed above. I can guarantee, in any and every world, we look better than you on our worst day than you do on your best. That’s precisely why you won’t show your face, you are fucking hideous, and you know it. Showing a picture of yourself would erode any tiny shred of your credibility left concerning Eric and Dylan.

You say that you respect the dead more than the living, and pride yourself on your spirituality and your “ability to connect with the other side”, yet you talk about Eric and Dylan in the vilest ways that nobody should ever be spoken about, dead or alive. You live in a fantasy realm that has nothing to do with love. You claim that nobody could ever “love” them the way that you do, yet you dehumanize them every time you talk about them— speaking of them in a way that is only reflective of a horny, depraved girl who doesn’t have anyone else to project these feelings onto, because she can’t find someone to have sex with her. It’s understandable that you being overweight and not taking care of yourself repels potential love interests, but throwing all of your feelings onto two dead boys isn’t an acceptable coping mechanism, along with berating two girls who love them inside and out. Do you think Eric and Dylan would choose a girl who only wants to own both of them as sex slaves, or would they choose two beautiful girls who have never spoken of them in a way that wasn’t pure love? You couldn’t write for Dylan without oversexualizing him in his birthday post, writing disgusting paragraphs about BDSM you want to do with him— a dead 17-year-old boy. You’ve even gone as far as to say the ONLY reason you WASH YOUR FEET is for him; you call Eric your “meatbag” and your “submissive little bitch”. How can you love someone yet speak of them as if they’re nothing but a fucktoy? These two boys died by suicide because they were treated so horribly in their lives, just for someone like you to come onto this earth and drag them through the mud more even after death. It’s more than unfair that they suffered such torment in life, and even after death, they’re disrespected and shit on relentlessly by some lunatic like you. The men that are our angels are spoken about so fucking nauseatingly by you. It’s worse than hate. It’s complete dehumanization, the furthest thing in the world from love.

Beyond how you talk about them in such a stomach-churning way, what discredits you so much is your claim that you are “posthumously married” to both of them, yet you post incessantly about wanting to fuck or date a new person every day— and there is no possible way that you can accommodate to both of their needs with one personality and one physical appearance, on top of their intricacies such as astrological charts, upbringings, values— the list continues. Eric and Dylan are both vastly different individuals with different preferences in women. You are not two people, only one. You are by no means perfect for either of them, not even a close fit for their souls. That aside, they would not share the same woman beyond the grave with so many other options available, their perfect counterparts in front of them in every realm; emotionally, mentally, spiritually, romantically— and the two of us as best friends.

The friends you make and keep are those who are barely teenagers, if that, because they are young enough to be tricked by your false claims about metaphysics. You are a combination of things, and none of them positive— a liar, a sore loser, and clearly amid some mental health crisis that creates your false belief about BOTH of the Columbine shooters falling at your feet, struck by love. They are not touching you, they are not fucking you, they are not sitting on your bed and cuddling you to sleep at night. If you had the slightest clue about metaphysics, you’d understand that it takes regular spirits so much energy to do such a slight thing to show their presence, which is a unanimous agreement amongst people who have lost their loved ones and legitimate mediums.

The only time that people are so adamant about their unwavering belief in something not reflected by reality is when experiencing schizophrenia or psychosis. Your entire shtick is built on lies, fantasies you live out in your head, and some inconclusive illness that causes extreme delusions, whether you want to close your eyes and pretend or not. Your sheer resistance to exploring the fact that this is a problem created by your sick mind says everything about who you are. Even with an abundance of proof in front of you from two girls who are worlds better than you, you still fall asleep at night thinking you are undeniably the little princess of both of the Columbine shooters. You know who you are; you are a repulsive, pathetic excuse for a human being. Something they would never touch. You can cry, scream, bitch, and moan all you want— but you will never have what we have. Divinity placed us in the hands of Eric and Dylan. Take it to your candles and your sage, your shadow figures that prance around your room. This is something that can never be changed.

You need a doctor, a visit to the psychiatric hospital for a long time, and a heavy cocktail of antipsychotics, but that won’t fix all of your issues. I hope you sleep well surrounded by the mimic spirits you’ve invited in that prey on your vulnerability. It’s like watching a naive young girl in her tankini trying to seduce the attractive, teenage lifeguard at a hotel pool. You think you’re irresistible, hot fucking shit when no one wants to touch you. It serves you well, you’re such a nasty person inside and out, and you’re only deserving of bad energies you’ve named “Eric” and “Dylan” who are preying on how sick and sad you are. We were given handcrafted love by the universe, set for us long before the boys were ever born. Your “spirituality” is manufactured, and it won’t change a damn thing.

I implore you to stare at yourself in the mirror for a long while and pick out all of the things, mind and body, that Eric and Dylan would despise about you, which would be nearly everything if they even knew who you were. Know your place. You are worlds different from us; you cannot compete with your negative entities, while we have them both. So let me reiterate myself again: Dylan will not love you. Eric will not love you.

Before you start spam posting your account about your desire to murder both of us, know how stupid you are to have left a good enough paper trail of your personal information. Some things have been gathered from today after we were notified about your post, and other things sent to us by someone you have considered your friend. Be careful who you trust. We have no problem upscaling this to a legal issue if you can’t control your tantrums, and we know exactly where to take it.

— Eric’s Wife + Dylan’s Wife

[thedepthsoffandomminds]

The lost Princess of the ocean - seven

Masterlist

Zoro and Nami took another shot of whiskey at the same time.

Nami looked around herself.

“Where is y/n, she didn't follow us in here?” She asked. Zoro huffed.

“Probably flirting with that waiter.” He spat out.

“Yeah I doubt that.” She scoffed back at him, “Come on, the girl has been glued to your side since the moment you saved her. She has only spoken to me once and that's because she had no other choice.” Nami explained.

“She knows him, that means she knows this place and she didn't tell us.” Zoro argued back.

“She's bloody traumatised, what did Kuro say she was with the white shadow assassins? Who knows what they made her do. When you're held like that, you do whatever you can to survive.” Her words hit her own heart as well as Zoro's.

“I dislike you.” Zoro pressed his jaw together.

“Guys, meet my new best friend.” Usopp staggered over to them, bring a tall man with him.

“What did you say your name was again?” Usopp asked him.

“Which one of you is Monkey D. Luffy?” The man asked.

“Who wants to know?” Nami quipped.

“You're Dracule Mihawk.” Zoro stated.

“I have business with your captain. If you know what's good for you, you'll hand him over.” The gravelly voice was almost melodic.

“We don't know anyone named Luffy. Right, Zoro? Zoro?” Nami said. Zoro stood.

“I've been following your career since I was a child. It's an honour to finally meet you, sir.” Zoro's voice had deepend.

“Thank you.” Mihawk smiled.

“Which is why it pains me to inform you that tomorrow you're going to die. I, Roronoa Zoro, challenge you to a duel to the death.”

“I've never heard of you.” Mihawk said.

“They call me the Demon Pirate Hunter.

But my lifelong dream is to best you in single combat and become the greatest swordsman in the world.” Zoro straightened his back.

“You're serious.” The warlord felt a tinge of excitement creep up.

“Accept my challenge.You'll see how serious I am.”

“Very well. Tomorrow at dawn. And when I'm done with you, pirate hunter, I'll take your captain.” Mihawk agreed leaving the bar.

“What the hell did you just do?” Nami growls.

Mihawk stomps out of the restaurant passing your bench and you stand.

“Please don't fight him.” You try to say it with command. His yellow eyes narrowed onto you.

“What is it to you?” He towers over you.

Nami searches for Luffy and Usopp tries to find you but you are nowhere to be found. The sun started to rise over the horizon. Nami was still angry at Zoro and Luffy for continuing this ridiculous duel, whilst worrying about you. Mihawk walked onto the wooden platform, holding you by the back of your neck. Your hands were bound in front of you.

“Monkey D. Luffy. I'm surprised the Marines would require my services for such a small package. Though I do like your hat.” he laughed.

“Enough.” Zoro growled. “Give her back”

“Oh with pleasure, she was simply my insurance that you would not back down. So many do lose their fight before it begins.”

Mihawk pushes you forward and you slowly step across the platform, passing Zoro to stand beside Luffy. Your eyes meet with his for a moment.

“Let's begin.” Mihawk draws a small dagger barely inches tall.

“What is that? I'm here for a sword fight.” Huffed.

“I don't hunt rabbits with a cannon.” His opponent quipped.

“I'm no rabbit.” Zoro draws his swords.

“That remains to be seen.

The fight begins, Luffy unties your wrists, his eyes flicking worriedly to the duel. You couldn't look, even the chicks of the blades made you wince.

“You're strong,” Mihawk muses, “But fighting isn't all about strength.”

“Stop talking and fight.”

They move like a practised dance, spinning and flipping around each other, blades glinting in the rising sunlight. You hear the warlord taunting Zoro.

Zoro's voice cuts through the noise and you hear his footsteps pound against the wood. There is a beat of silence and then gasps all around. Turning slightly you see Zoro being held up by Mihawk, the tiny blade embedded in his chest.

“Why don't you retreat?” Mihawk asks.

“I can't,” he thinks once again back to his childhood friend. “or my dream will be lost forever.” He has to force himself not to look at you.

“You're brave. I'll give you that. So I'll do you the honour of killing you with Yoru.”

“That's more like it.” Zoro grunts, placing two black swords in one hand and putting the white between his teeth. They charge at each other but Zoro.has no chance to fight back he lands on his knees and his two black swords fall.into many pieces. The metal hitting the ground and changing around him. You bury your head into Luffy's shoulder and he holds you close to him. Zoro uses his last sword to help him stand, before replacing it at haj waist and turning.

“Come on. You're defeated. Why do you persist?” Mihawk asks, a glint of admiration in his yellow eyes.

“Wounds on the back are a swordsman's greatest shame.” Those words cut through you. Nami grabbed Usopp's hand as her heart jumped into her throat.

“Magnificent.” Mihawk smiled wide and swung his sword, landing a blow across Zoro's chest knocking him to the ground.

“Zoro!” Luffy screamed out rushing over to his friend and dropping to his knees. You stay rooted to your spot.

“Monkey D. Luffy, what's your goal?” The Warlord asked from behind them.

“I'm going to become the King of the Pirates.”

“King of the Pirates, hey?” He seemed amused, “That's a much more treacherous path than even defeating me.”

“I don't care. It's what I'm going to do.” Luffy said through gritted teeth.

“Maybe you will at that. This world could use

a few more wild cards. Roronoa Zoro, it's too soon for you to die. Grow strong and come find me.” You feel bile rise up in your throat at his words and you watch him walk away. The others crowded around Zoro, lying on the floor.

“He's losing so much blood.”

“He's gonna be okay.”

“Hey, Zoro, can you hear me? He said it's too soon for you to die.” Everyone seemed to be talking at the same time.

“Luffy.” Zoro spoke at last, “If I fail to become

the world's greatest swordsman you'll be disappointed. Right?”

“You could never fail me.” Tears fell from Luffy's eyes.

“Never again. From now until I beat him.” He raised his sword into the air with one hand. “To become the greatest swordsman I will never lose again!” Zoro's eyes closed.

“Zoro? Zoro? Zoro!”

Everything seemed to freeze as you watched the three of them lifting him off the floor and rushing back to the ship. You manage to make your feet work enough to get ahead of them and open every door in their path to the mess hall where they place him on the counter.

You looked down at the blood on your hands. You weren't sure when you had touched him but there it was decorating your skin. Your ears echoes the voices around you as you watch him. At some point Luffy leaves, coming back moments later with Sanji and Zeff in tow.

“Are you kidding? He needs a doctor.” Nami yelled.

“Do you wanna save your swordsman friend or not?” Zef growled, pushing them all aside and dropping equipment on the counter, along with a bottle of whiskey.

“Is that to sterilise the wounds?”

“Hell, no. That'd be a waste of really good liquor.”

you can't really be sure what is happening in front of you but at some point you had been sat down at the table. Sanji came into your view.

“Hey, hey, come on you need to move now okay.” He took hold of your hands.

“Is he gonna be okay?” You hear Luffy asking. Zeff sighs.

“Look, I'm not gonna lie to you. He's lost a lot of blood. It might be too late for him. He's got one foot in each world right now, caught between life and death. You have to find a way to keep him tethered to our world. Talk to him. Tell him stories. Sing him sea shanties for all I care. He may not reply, but at least he'll know his crew are still with him.” Those words drifted through your mind as you followed them carry Zoro to your cabin and place him on the swinging bed.

Sanji stays with you when the others leave.

“Did he save you from the assassins?” He asked. You shake your head.

“No from Axehand Morgan.” You say.

Sanji has many questions but his intuition was smarter than asking them. The way you had flinched when he came up to you in the restaurant, the slight shake of your hands when you were alone. The Chef had first seen you in very different way, his heart broke for all the pain you must have felt. He walked out of the cabin and back to the kitchen where he began preparing food.

Usopp came waltzing in with his nose in the air, “Mmm. Something smells delicious.”

“I just thought everyone'd be hungry, man.

Plenty we didn't use.” Sanji explained, “Never waste food.”

“Cool.” Usopp's face lit up at the sight of so much food.

“What's the matter? Don't like fish?” Sanji asked Luffy sitting at the table.

“I love fish. I just need to get Zoro's sword ready for him. You know, for when he wakes up.” Sanji glanced over at the Captain.

“He's, uh, pretty badly hurt, man. There's an itty-bitty chance he might not wake up.” He said cautiously.

“Zoro's the strongest fighter that I know. No way he's gonna let some warlord guy beat him.” Luffy proclaimed.

“Well, you've gotta eat. Come on. If you don't want the fish, I got two-inch T-bones in the kitchen. Or, uh, maybe you're in the mood for saffron risotto?” Sanji tried to coax him away from the blade.

“I normally would get both, but I really gotta get the Waddy Itchy Monkey ready for him.”

“The what?” The chef pulled in his eyebrows.

“His sword. It's got a name.” Luffy explained.

“Oh. Why?” Sanji asked.

“I don't know. He said it was kind of special.” They all shrug. Sanji twists his knife in his hand looking between the two men.

“What's the girl's story with him?” He asked.

Luffy's eyes lit up with the excitement of telling the story.

“We were all inside the Marine base in Shells Town, I had generously freed Zoro from his bonds in the square. I hadn't seen her myself. Zoro wouldn't leave until he had freed her. Brought her along with us like a true hero.” Luffy pounded his chest with his fist in a prideful boast.

“She's pretty nervous still though,” Usopp interjects, “she hardly speaks except to Zoro. It's like they've become one person.”

“She speaks to you though.” Luffy observed, “you know her?”

Sanji licked his bottom lip and laid the knife down.

“Not really, about a year, maybe two years ago she was here with the White Shadows. They didn't let her eat until they had all finished and gave her their scraps. I've never seen someone so sad. Every movement from those men made her tense and flinch.” He knew this wasn't his story to tell.

“Her name is y/n y/l/n.” Luffy said.

“The princess?” Suddenly Sanji understood more than he wanted to, “I didn't know, she always looked so-” he sighed heavily.

“Hey, Sanji, can you cook Zoro's favourite food?” Luffy broke his thoughts.

“Sure. What does he like?”

“He really likes rice balls and beer. What about rice balls soaked in beer? Can you make that?”

Sanji laughs, “I can make anything. Just tell me what you want.”

“I want him to eat so that he gets back his strength But I also want him to sleep so that his wounds can heal. Or maybe, maybe he just needs some water. Right? After all of that fighting, he must be awfully thirsty. But, you know, he's probably also tired, so, so yeah, we should just let him rest.” Luffy had confused even himself. Sanji leant himself on the counter.

“Being a captain, it's the toughest job in the world, okay? Zeff once told me that making decisions is what separates a captain from the rest of his crew and he was one of the best pirate captains that ever sailed the seas.”

[akittyboy]

Another Life (part 3): the monster

Sweet Home FF | Hyunsu x Eunhyuk

And the truth is, Hyunsu feels annoyed for having been strung along by Eunhyuk's little spiel just now, so he gives in, just a tiny bit.

.

.

.

He rolls his broad shoulders menacingly and with one practiced motion shakes out his wing. The monster hisses in relief as a cluster of bristling, heavy bones falls with a loud thud against concrete, curved and trailing several feet beyond his back, sending a blast of chunky dust through the air. The force smacks against Eunhyuk's front, ruffling through his inky hair and causes him to blink harshly against the fine debris, before he manages to restore his blank expression.

Seems like Hyunsu finally got fed up with him. Eunhyuk's lips twitch faintly.

"Careful. Don't be too fast to jump to conclusions," the not-quite-Hyunsu warms with a crooked grin as he turns around and starts dragging the heavy thing behind him while he stalks forward, closing in on Eunhyuk, gaze bright and unyielding, a little feverish.

There are loud cracks and snaps among the vibrating bones — blades — feathers. A low hum that never ceases.

"I still want to kill you. Don't think I'll spare you just because you've been following Cha Hyunsu around like a goody-two-shoes. You're still a manipulative rat, even if you can't die as easily anymore."

The monster cocks his head to the side, the motion too sharp to be human, squinting at Eunhyuk. His dark eyes glimmer with a sheen of electric blue, brighter than the sky.

"Now, why don't you ask the question that you really want the answer to?"

Eunhyuk's expression doesn't betray any of his thoughts. With his hands still stuffed in the front pockets of his jacket, he merely tilts his head thoughtfully and hums low in his throat, keen eyes staring appraisingly at the macabre imitation of a wing attached to Hyunsu's human body.

It wouldn't be the first time. Eunhyuk always looks. Dissecting. Fascinated by the fact how a scrawny teenager has managed to overcome his fears and grow into such a fierce protector. He accomplished something that even a once human Eunhyuk, with his many years of meticulous studying and number of prized awards and scholarships, could never achieve. And perhaps, Hyunsu was already more compassionate than many other people could ever be when the gruesome infection first broke out. The monsterization might be a way to bring forth people's true nature, but the real monsters have always been there, hiding amongst them.

So each time Eunhyuk sees Hyunsu like this — teetering on the edge of his humanity, bearing the weight of everyone's agony like some martyr, trying to help all of these foolish, selfish people — it sends an apprehensive chill down his back. Because he's the last one left of them; the Green Home survivors. It's special. It has Eunhyuk's lungs in a harsh pinch whenever he's unable to confirm with his own eyes that Hyunsu hasn't completely lost himself to the disease of human desire. That he can still be a little awkward, soft spoken and sometimes a bit too shameless, but most of all stupidly stubborn and unexpectedly kind, to the point of sacrificing himself for the sake of others.

Sadly, the only one Hyunsu doesn't care about is himself. 

He's always ready to die, to slink away like a sick animal when no one watches.

Sometimes Eunhyuk wishes that he could just give Hyunsu a good shake, and then take his pain away, scrub the blood off his scarred hands to give him a clean slate. A new home. A different life.

But then Eunhyuk lets the numbness take over, feeling its cool fingers tickle over his rigid mind, erasing the taste of charcoal on his tongue and nothing of this truly matters.

Eunhyuk adjusts his stance to better face Hyunsu's looming form, legs apart and shoulders at ease under his puffy windbreaker jacket. He's not looking to pick a fight, but Hyunsu's monster always makes a fairly good attempt at worming his way in under his skin.

"Thanks, and you're just as annoying as ever, but don't worry, I'll take all of that as a compliment. Doesn't it hurt to bring it out, though?" Eunhyuk asks with a glance at the wing, disregarding the rest of the monster's provoking spiel. "Just because you can, doesn't really mean you should. You'll be completely useless if you tire yourself out before we even get started. Didn't you want to check if there's any monsters worth bringing back to their human state in this area?"

Eunhyuk nudges his head pointedly in the direction of the overgrown forest, looming beyond the road dotted with overturned cars and the abandoned ruins of the suburbs they've chosen as their temporary holdout.

Hyunsu's deadly feathers bristle for being told off, immediately standing on end. The whispers grow louder, dripping with saccharine venom, coating his mind with oozing blackness. Let me take full control... Let me teach him a lesson... Together we're much stronger than him. He can't keep us trapped anymore. Imagine the wonderful screams splitting from his lips as we rip his chest apart and crush his breastbone into pieces. The bones in his wing rattle menacingly against each other like planks of wood, like loose teeth. The closer Hyunsu draws, the more he manages to tower over Eunhyuk, casting a shadow over his face. He smells of raging fire, like an inferno, full of sulfur and ash, and Eunhyuk tries not to choke on it.

Hyunsu's eyes have been reduced to two pinpricks of icy blue at this rate and that's how Eunhyuk definitely knows he's lost Hyunsu to the monster — for now. It never lasts long. Hyunsu is strong.

"What's this? I didn't know you cared that much about your little hunting dog. Have you been practicing how to get into touch with your emotions? Uprooting some useless memories again?" The monster drawls with an arrogant tilt to his chin, upper lip curling disdainfully. "You know, it's rude to give false hope. You're not exactly in any state to run a charity here."

He drags his wing closer to his body with a loud scrape against concrete as he speaks, unsettling a few birds that immediately take flight across the sky. The well-defined muscles in his shoulder strain under the scraps of his shredded sweater, working overtime as he raises the cumbersome thing and hurls it into the air. Eunhyuk doesn't move out of the way and if the monster is surprised by that, he doesn't show it. The cluster of singed spikes and bones sprout with loud squelches, reaching even further as they curve and fold around Eunhyuk's frame with reverberating creaks and snaps, cutting him off from the rest of the world. 

Eunhyuk looks on with disinterest at the way the giant wing trembles with restraint around him. The monster is visibly impatient to crush him to a pulp, to push the vibrating blades into his flesh and destroy the source for Hyunsu's strength. Yet, he doesn't, just forces Eunhyuk to hold still and be at his mercy within the deadly cradle of his wing.

Eunhyuk doesn't mind. He knows that Hyunsu is in there somewhere. 

And even if something does happen, then he wouldn't have it any other way. At this rate, they've seen and done too much. Dying now or later wouldn't matter.

An especially ugly spike singes way too close to Eunhyuk's left eye and a giddy leer splits Hyunsu's face apart like an ugly mask when the monster within notices with keen interest how Eunhyuk doesn't even flinch, holding his ground resolutely. Perhaps merely ripping his chest apart and breaking all of his ribs wouldn't be satisfying enough. There has to be something that would make him sob and writhe disgracefully in the dirt at their feet.

"Hyunsu is not a dog," Eunhyuk states calmly, closely watching the beast before him.

"Right," the monster replies wryly, ripping his gaze away from the tiny laceration that now mars the highest point of Eunhyuk's cheek, right below one of his sharp eyes. "I'm not sure whether I should feel insulted or grateful for your sentiment after all this time. But I bet Hyunsu will appreciate it more. He's such a simple guy," the monster shakes his head ruefully with a dramatic sigh, dark locks of hair fluttering around his face. "Give him a hand and he'll happily take the whole arm. He's quite laughable, really. Clinging to you two like some lovesick puppy..." He chuckles, glancing down. "Even I can't stand him sometimes, and we share the same space. How pathetic."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to stay alive," Eunhyuk says patiently, not allowing the monster get a rise out of him, nor letting him unnecessarily insult Hyunsu. "If we somehow helped him to live through this whole collective nightmare, then I'm glad. I'm sure Eunyu feels the same. Hyunsu saved our lives on many occasions, and not only us, but many other people as well. It's only right that we pay him back now. Please don't belittle him like that."

"Tch..." Hyunsu's face contorts into a grimace, lips twisting with distaste. But then the monster perks up, blue eyes shining with glee. His gaze sweeps along Eunhyuk's tall body from head to toe thoughtfully. "If paying back is what you want... then should I tell you about his desire? What he's most afraid of gaining and losing? Cha Hyunsu is a part of me, after all."

"I'd rather have Hyunsu tell me himself." 

Eunhyuk holds his ground. They have already crossed so many blurred lines, at least with this one they should perhaps go about it the right way — if there even is a right way for anything like that.

The monster pouts. "Now look who's the one not being any fun. You know, it makes me upset, the way you two always talk through me, playing your little avoidance game. And then bitch and moan about all the deaths you've caused, using that as an excuse. Well, how sad for you two—" He giggles shrilly. "Your human lives are so tragic. Why do you always complicate things so much?"

Eunhyuk huffs dryly but lets the monster rant, waiting for him to get it out of his system. Nowadays, he mostly acts out when Hyunsu is upset, so in a twisted way, it's Hyunsu trying to tell Eunhyuk something that he otherwise couldn't or were too hesitant at to initiate.

Other times it was just the monster playing shrewd tricks on them.

"Are you done?" Eunhyuk asks cooly when there's a lapse in the monologue, subconsciously pleased to see the monster clench his jaw and look away, for once having no snide comeback. "I take that as a yes. So, what is that you want me to do? Never mind Hyunsu."

"I want you gone and out of Hyunsu's life," the monster spits at him. The bonelike feathers tremble threateningly around Eunhyuk with repressed force, the smell of ash and sulfur spiking in the air. "Stop stringing him along. He's better off without you."

The months spent in wilderness with little Yisu have been so far the best time of their lives. There had been no sketchy schemes to use Hyunsu as a specimen for unsolicited research, no entitled humans greedily demanding his help, who then in the blink of an eye turn their backs on him and try to kill Hyunsu in a stroke of white fear when they get a glimpse of his other self. In the blaze of summer heat, it had been just the orange sun shining on their backs and an endless horizon, void of any humans, stretching before them as they hand-in-hand waddled unhurriedly through the tall, wispy grass by the river bank. 

He wants that moment back.

"Are you sure? It sounds more like you're just jealous because you don't get any attention from either of us. Why don't you stop acting like a petulant child and fully accept Hyunsu, the way he's let you in?" Eunhyuk challenges as he takes a forceful step forward right into the monster's personal space, past the long feathers that claw at his clothes and into the curve of his bristling wing where the spikes are smaller, sharper, more lethal. Where the scorching air is hard to breathe, coating the depths of his barren soul.

<< previous part | next part >>

[twiceasfrustrating]

Deal With a Devil

Rating: Mature (for some violence) Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Gen Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Relationships: Barbatos & Solomon Characters: Barbatos, Solomon  Additional Tags: Omnipotence, Minor Violence, Demon Summoning Summary: Solomon is willing to give anything to get back what he lost, even if it costs him his immortal soul and a headache. A/N: If the game won’t give me their backstory, I will write it myself. Word Count: 2153

Some things were worth whatever risks came with them. That's what Solomon told himself as he finished dragging his finger through the sand in front of him. The symbol he'd made was ancient and nearly forgotten, a borrowed darkness from another land, a relic that time had tried so desperately to hide. If his gods wouldn't aid him, he would turn to the horrors of a different making.

His hands trembled in anticipation, his mouth going dry and the nerves blurring out his vision. He had already come so far. He had already come too far to turn back. Even knowing that, he was terrified. What would become of him after he went through with this? Would he still be king of his people? Would he still be beloved and revered for his wisdom? Would this even work? More terrifying, what if it didn’t?

That was the one outcome he couldn’t accept.

With one final breath, he steeled his nerves and grabbed the knife from his side, slicing into his palm and letting blood drip along the blade before stabbing it into the last spot in the circle.

“Hear me, denizens of darkness, you who are born of shadow and you who give birth to it.” Solomon began to chant the words he’d found, ignoring the lump in his throat and the feeling of dread in his gut. “Hear me and do as I command. I call upon you to send forth one of your number.” If he could even manage it. “I summon the demon Barbatos.”

As soon as the last of the words were out of his mouth, frigid air whipped past his face from the symbol on the ground, twisting and blowing his hair about as magma pulsed through his veins and burned him from the inside out. He doubled over, crossing his arms in front of his chest to try and contain the feeling that his organ would expand and burst inside of him. All of his muscles, from the ones in his feet to the one behind his eyes, felt like they were being stabbed with millions of tiny needles that were pushed in slowly and deeply.

He couldn't help but puke from the pain, not even noticing that the harshness of the frozen wind was like a razor cutting and pulling away layers of his skin while the blood that oozed out boiled and raged and burned what flesh it could still find. As something inside of him began to slosh around, flooding his organs and drowning him from the inside out, he couldn't help but consider his own mortality. 

This is how he was going to die.

"If that's what you want, there are significantly easier and infinitely less painful ways than this. Don't you think?"

Solomon froze at the voice he'd never heard before. It was like a song, or perhaps a scream? A man or maybe a woman? Ancient and young simultaneously. His limbs shook as his body began to fail him and the sound of the voice breaking down his mind. 

Despite the stabbing pain, he flicked his eyes up to see who had spoken to him. Before him, inside the symbol he had drawn, stood a man. No, not a man. No man bore horns like wings or a tail that glistened. No man has claws so deep and teal for fingers or arms and legs marbled in black and teal with white lightning coursing over then. No man had eyes that seemed to hold entire galaxies. No, this was no man; this was a demon.

"Barbatos, to be exact. At your service." He bowed low and deep. "I'm impressed to see you've yet to die. Usually, I arrive to a corpse or three when I come to the human realm. Color me intrigued." He smiled in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Solomon tried to speak, but all he managed was to cough up some of the blood filling his lungs.

"Ah, yes. Just because you're not yet dead doesn't mean you aren't dying. That's unfortunate." The demon stood upright, tall and proud with a lackadaisical smile still on his face. "You may want to fix that."

Were all demons so capricious?

"Can you not, yet? I do suppose this is the start of the timeline…" He appeared to ponder something with bemusement. "I always join at the worst moments. I really should start toward the climax. That's where all the delightful rising tension is."

His eyes peered downward, lips frowning slightly at the edges. "You can do better than this, can't you? Or, you will someday, at the very least," he said as he reached a foot over the outer rim of the symbol without so much as flinching.

Solomon, even through the pain, felt shock. The symbol he drew wasn't only meant to summon the demon, but to keep him contained so he wouldn't prove a threat to those that called on him. This demon, however, was able to step over what should have been his most steadfast barrier of safety.

"It's not much of a barrier, really. Nothing like what you will make when you're more accustomed to your magic. Although, even then my staying in place will be more out of camaraderie than your own power. Assuming you live, that is. Which, you must, given what will be. Unless we're in an offshoot timeline, in which case you should probably pray to your God now because we're about to be eradicated from existence."

Solomon wanted to respond, but his body was too broken to hold a conversation.

"Ah, yes. I should fix that first or else this truly will become a discarded timeline." Barbatos held his hands in front of him, palms up and open as he caught a book that seemed to fall from the sky.

"Traditionally, at least at this point, aiding a human would be ridiculed and looked down upon; superiority complex and all. However, if one were to get a hold of a demon's grimoire even the most powerful of us would have to humble ourselves." He dropped the book in front of Solomon. "Oh my, it seems you've found mine."

It was suspicious how easily this demon seemed to be aiding Solomon. He had expected a creature more nefarious and cunning. 

"There is no point in playing games when I already know what will happen. You and I shall be phenomenal partners in the future and I would rather begin this chapter on an amicable note rather than an antagonistic one." His tail flicked behind him as he grinned knowingly. "Please take the book, or else I'll have to divert to a different reality where you do and, therefore, subsequently don't die. We'll consider the pact made and the terms agreed upon once you touch it. Fair for both parties, don't you agree?"

Without any negotiation, this demon was trying to seal a deal that Solomon hadn't agreed to. Even dying and in pain, he knew agreeing to such terms was a terrible decision.

"There are no tricks, I assure you. I already know what the terms of our deal shall be and am acting within them. Relationships are built on trust, you know. You simply have to trust me."

Solomon couldn't say trust came easy, especially in this moment. However, he knew where he stood. He was crawling closer to death with each passing second and wasting even one more meant he would lose everything he so desperately wanted. So, even if he didn't trust Barbatos yet, he would have to rely on him.

He reached out a shaking hand and placed it on the book. As soon as he made contact with it, a new searing pain shot through his nerves and straight into his heart. 

Solomon swore out loud, almost too shocked to realize he no longer felt like his inside were flooded with thick blood. 

"Yes, for all intents and purposes, you are better. Or, rather, this you was never injured because they never had the courage to offer part of themselves to me. Unfortunate, but it means a spare body was lying around. Everything else of importance has remained the same, so it is what it is."

Solomon shook in anger, both at the roundabout way this demon spoke but also at the realization that he had gotten himself involved in something far beyond even his limited understanding.

"Are you unpleased? I thought you wanted to summon me. That's why you went out of your way to find my summoning circle, is it not? I only showed up because I thought you were invested in the future we'll have together. If not, I would much rather go home. The king is liable to set something on fire if I'm gone for too long. He's nothing like his great grandson, unfortunately."

Solomon couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"Because I already know the script. It's already hard enough to wait for the proper prompt so the timeline remains consistent. If I had to wait for it to be said out loud, I think I would get too frustrated to tolerate this conversation at all. I'm not the man I will be someday. He's much more tolerant of the slow pace of all of you living in the present moment after he stops looking through time. I'll practice." Barbatos kneeled down to Solomon's level and tapped on the book. "This is an aide. You'll need it for our pact; for the time being, anyway. Until you become the greatest sorcerer, anyway. Simple enough once you begin to ignore death of your own volition rather than my generosity since you'll have all the time in the world."

"Now you speak," Barbatos finally ended.

The first thing Solomon finally managed to say was a string of curses and expletives.

"Strange. I expected something more profound."

"What have you done?" Solomon finally managed to ask, eyes wide in horror.

"I forged our pact. That was the point of our meeting. Mutual benefits symbolized through the carving on your flesh." He seemed to think for a moment. "Your heart in your case. That's the only thing I would accept."

Solomon took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and make sense of this conversation. "How am I alive?" He knew he'd been grievously wounded from the inside out, but there wasn't a trace of it left. Whatever Barbatos was going on about, he had to understand it.

"Because this body is fine."

He didn't understand that part.

"Think of it this way. You are here, at point a, at the moment, but if something happens to you that causes you to die," Barbatos narrowed his gaze before stabbing his long claws through Solomon's torso and grabbing his heart to pull it back out. Solomon gasped in surprise before his vision went black. Then he blinked and everything was back to normal, Barbatos with an empty hand still clutched around a heart that wasn't there, "that's when you jump to point b, where a body that isn't dying is waiting to receive your consciousness. Understood? That's part of the pact we made… will make?"

Solomon would have to ignore the fact that he had nearly died twice tonight. "We haven't even spoken about a pact yet." 

He knew about pacts from the text he'd found; the same that taught him how to summon a demon in the first place. He knew that were a barter between a demon and human, but he'd yet to offer anything in exchange for this demon's power.

"But we will. After this script ends, we'll establish what we both want. I simply couldn't wait and went ahead with it before you could actually die on me. Speaking of which, this script is starting to bore me, so would you mind starting at the beginning again so we may have that conversation? I really must get back before My King does something unimaginable. Such an act would really upset my one-day Young Master."

Solomon opened his mouth to voice his desires, resigning himself to whatever in the world this conversation was, only to have the demon raise a single sharp finger against his teal lips and shushed him.

“I would so love to hear what it is you’ve summoned me for," after all, he needed to hear the desire voiced out loud at least once to keep the timeline consistent, "but you'll have to wait for about… 67 more words.”

Solomon's lips sneered back, anger boiling inside of him after all the strange mind games and past, present, future speak the demon had made him put up with so far. “Why not?”

“Because,” the edges of Barbatos’ mouth pulled back, exposing his toothy, unholy grin, “someone who shouldn’t be here is still watching.”

And don’t you agree that it’s rude to intrude on someone else’s private affairs?

[sweatandwoe]

🎉Happy 1 year anniversary SI!🎉

Thank you guys for all your support! New Chapter will be out on Monday most likely (worked a lot this week so only got to tiptap a bit)

as a tiny treat here's a small preview of it

-

“He’s lenient with you.”

You know that. A conversation that is never discussed, but it reminds you of the last time you held a blade in your hand. The way your fingers shook, even within the next few days after it had happened when you had been cutting up vegetables for dinner. 

Harming people was not in your nature. There was little point in it. 

Still, you keep your mouth firmly closed, while green eyes rake over you. Alone together; Silco is not here to protect you from barbed words and too sharp of smiles. So you only give her a glance. Angelique takes it still, her own gaze lighting up, while she takes a puff from her cigarette. “It will be his downfall I imagine. You or his daughter.” 

“I don’t think he will ever have a downfall.” The words are easy because it is simply the truth. Though you fret and worry, Silco has always had ease in ruling Zaun. The longer his rule came to be unchallenged, the more it because status quo. So now you turn to her, holding her green eyes with your own. “Everyone who tries seems to lose things about themselves. Friends, family…”

A jaw. 

Angelique’s gaze lights up, her eyes flicking over your face. She blows out a puff of smoke, leaning in close enough to have your spine crawl. The smoke curls around each word while it strokes the air, closing in on your face. “Spoken like a fool in love.” 

[closingwaters]

PARTIES: @ronin-for-hire @closingwaters

TIMING: Current

SUMMARY: Teagan sleepwalks again and runs into Fang on the bridge while she's out on patrol.

WARNINGS: Parental Death and Sibling Drath mentions

Teagan tossed and turned in bed, sweat beading on her face. Her expression contorted into one of worry and fear, and her breath labored over what lay beneath the surface. She was having another nightmare, running as fast as she could through the trees in Hay. Just a few yards away, Teagan could see her childhood home. For a moment, she paused. 

Deep down, she knew the end. She knew going back in would only lead to that closet, to the blood pooling under the door. Still, she couldn’t change the ending, no matter how much she tried. It was always the same. Either Teagan ended up behind a door or she could never quite reach the house. She didn’t know which one was worse. 

Just as her body walked in the dream world, so too did her body in the physical realm. Teagan, while still asleep and in her pajama bottoms, tank, and no shoes, maneuvered out of bed and found her way outside. She walked and walked, trying desperately to get to the house, but it looked like it was one of the nightmares where she wasn’t fast enough. The path constantly grew longer, and never-ending. 

Teagan choked out a cry, urging her feet to move faster. They wouldn’t respond, feeling like they were trudging through molasses. Meanwhile, Teagan’s physical—and unglamoured— body had managed to find itself on a bridge toward Old Town. She couldn’t know that though. Not until she woke up and had evidently pushed someone onto the ground. 

It hasn’t been a good week for Fang. In fact, it has been one of those horrible weeks that felt exhausting and at the same empty. She wasn’t behind on her rent this time, but the worry and concern that she hasn’t been on a job in a while, which could make her behind her rent next time, weighed heavy on her head like the crown of a haunted queen who did unspeakable things to remain on the throne. It’s also been a week filled with period dramas, a weak attempt from her to alleviate all that stressful thinking. 

So, tonight, she tried to remedy that fact, going on a run in her slayer get-up. They called her the Fanged Oni, which was both ridiculous and a little badass to her. Fang was pretty sure it was because of the oni facemask she wore, though maybe the katana helped reinforce that persona as well. She tried to remember if she’s ever spoken Japanese to any witnesses, but as far as she could remember, she’s only over done so before beheading an undead bounty. No witnesses there.

As she arrived at the bridge that connected the two halves of Wicked’s Rest, or at least Old Town to Downtown, she took a breather, looking over the waters that solemnly crashed against the structure below. It reminded Fang of home, of her past life, not her first life as a child unaware of the dangers of the night but her second life of ascending to what she was now, prior to getting trapped in this part of the world. Like the bridge, she stood her ground against the waves of undead she had to slay to keep Tokyo and Osaka safe. Like the waves, she threw herself at the monsters, but it never really feels like any effort she made slowed them down, slowed their threat and danger to a useful minimum. “Gotta love existential bullshit at night.”

Fang’s reverie was interrupted by a body shuffling toward her. On instinct, she unsheathed her katana, ready to strike, but when a tiny little voice at the back of her head told her to take a second look, she restrained herself. She didn’t look undead. She looked like something else. Like something she’d encountered before but never really killed. Because they weren’t undead. The woman didn’t even look like she was in control of anything as well. What was going on? 

“Are you all right?” Fang slowly sheathed her blade in its hilt, using her gruff, Batman-esque voice to speak to the newly arrived, taking a step back each time the other woman took a step forward, closer to her. “Do you need help? I don’t want to hurt you, but if I have to—” It took a lot of control to keep herself from harming the creature but Fang held true to her decision, even as she was pushed down on the ground. 

The pain never got easier. It was a feral and hungry thing, in need of devouring every last bit of whatever host it lay in. Most days, Teagan felt like it was a ball of energy that bounced inside her. She could feel it. The aches, the stings, the heaviness. It moved with her. It grew with her. She wasn’t sure it would ever stop. It persisted even when her growth spurt was over, and it was persisting then. It was ravenous and all-consuming. Asleep or awake, it didn’t matter. The grief would eat at Teagan until it was satisfied, slow her world until there was nothing left.

Was there anything left?

Teagan pondered on that as she looked around the old Welsh Cabin, at the massacre she had to help clean up. The bodies twitched, and she swallowed, taking a step back. Like her grief, it appeared her family was hungry too. Their mouths opened impossibly wide, a void deep in their throats and eyes dead and vacant. For a moment, Teagan thought they may crawl to her and rip her apart to consume, but something arguably worse happened.

They screamed for her.

The calamitous wailing snapped Teagan’s heart. No matter how hard she pressed her hands to her ears, the sound didn’t dampen. She had to run, she thought. Run! 

Bursting into a sprint, she felt a wall stop her, and she crumpled. Cold, hard ground welcomed her, and the blurry world around Teagan came into view when the claws of her dreams set her free. “W-what?” Not again, she screamed in her head, looking at her surroundings to find that she was on the ground with someone in a strange outfit. Fight immediately took over, and Teagan dug her claws into the stranger.

In retrospect, Fang would have sliced the woman’s head off. But she wasn’t undead. Nor was the slayer being paid to waste such a good kill. Rule number one of being a slayer-for-hire: Never kill anything for free. Especially when you’ve got rent to worry about, and Fang always had rent to worry about. Even when she didn’t. 

Fang groaned when the creature attacked her. A quick, brief scream of pain followed but was immediately ended when the slayer channeled the pain to fight back, striking the fish monster with her katana’s hilt. Once was a warning. Twice was to get the fuck off of her. Finding an escape by rolling to her right, Fang ended up on one knee, staring her attacker down. The slayer gritted her teeth, clenching her jaw, as she took a moment to check her wound. “That wasn’t nice,” she growled, before pointing her blade at the damned thing. “Final warning: Come at me again, I’ll slice your head off.”

Even as the bluff left her lips with ease, she knew she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The last time Fang encountered something similar to this creature, she was still in Japan. She had tracked another yokai in Fukuoka and had made a mistake of chasing after it alone. When she came to, she was being resuscitated by a kappa, Sir Mix-a-Lot. She was the one who gave it that name. Because kappas like big butts and that one couldn’t lie. At least not to her. 

But Fang’s current attacker was no kappa. It was similar but more beautiful in a strange way. There was something about it that made the slayer stubbornly not want to hurt it. Even though it was hurting her. Something she just quite couldn’t put a finger on. At least not yet.

The hilt to her stomach wasn’t unwarranted, Teagan knew that much. She had attacked with no regard to who was in front of her, and now she was staring at the sharp end of a…sword? “S-sorry.” She swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath to let her glamour cascade over her body. She looked human again, and was wearing what was obviously sleepwear. Finally, Teagan began to explain. “I got startled is all. I was asleep in my bed and now I’m here.” Looking around, Teagan tried to find any markers she recognized. All she saw were trees and the bridge she was on, but she could decipher the sounds up the river just beneath them. She couldn’t be far from her home, she thought. 

“Where are we?” Teagan tilted her head curiously, brows creased together with confusion and worry. She needed to get back home. How did she get out anyway? The shackles should’ve–the shackles! Teagan raised her wrists to her eyeline and saw just how raw and bloody they were. Okay, so the shackles were out now. 

With a groan, the nix let herself fall back on the ground and covered her face with her hands. Frustration was mounting over and it was all Teagan could do to force herself not to cry. At least the getup the person was wearing was a good enough distraction. She decided to focus on that. “What are you doing out here in that outfit anyway? Are you some sort of superhero? Never seen one before in the flesh.”

Fang slowly lowered her sword, squinting as the creature transformed into a more familiar form. Too familiar. “Do I know you?” It was the least important of the questions she could have asked, given everything that her now-human former attacker had shared with her, but Fang was a less troubled by the sleepwalking and more curious about her identity. The slayer did just encounter a dream eater not too long ago. Was this Ariadne’s doing? 

And then it hit Fang. Just like that. While her mind had taken a step down the lane of recently familiarized associates. “You’re that pretty girl online. With the different-colored eyes.” Also the confidence of an expensive sugar baby, but that was beside the point. Or was it? “We’re on a bridge. Not sure what its name is but it’s the one that connects two halves of the town.” Not the very best description. More vague than she intended. But that was all that came to her at that moment. 

When the other woman looked like she was about to bawl, her “muddied” hands on her face, Fang quickly returned her katana back in its sheath. Carefully, she took a few steps toward her, uncertain as what to say or do. “You all right? You need help?” When she heard that quip about being a superhero, however, Fang heaved a sigh. She hasn’t heard that one before, though mostly because she never really revealed herself this long to anyone that didn’t die shortly thereafter. Taking off her oni facemask, she stowed it in the inside pocket of her jacket. “No, just a cosplayer. You’re not human, are you?”

This person wasn’t Xóchitl. The only other person that was sent a picture of the nix was that odd stranger that wanted to make sure Teagan wasn’t a goatee, or something like that. Was her name Mica? Or was that the random friend she mentioned? It was hard to recall. At any rate, Teagan wasn’t sure they even shared names. They hadn’t had the chance to get together for a fun-filled night either. Although, Teagan wished they had. Especially when the other’s face was revealed. How was everyone in this town so damn pretty?

No, she had to focus.

“Yeah. Pretty girl online.” Teagan nodded, crawling slowly to the edge of the bridge, leaning against the partition so she could rest. “You’re the grumpy woman who likes to frown.” A chuckle escaped from Teagan. One that lacked any real humor in it. “Still interested?” She flashed a sarcastic look at the woman, a knowing one that said she figured the answer would be a no. “I’m Teagan. Can I have–” A pause. It was a force of habit to settle into her fae instincts, but Teagan thought it best to not bite the hand helping her. “What’s your name? Or does that only come after a second sleepwalking meeting?”

Fang snickered. Grumpy woman who likes to frown? Not the worst description anyone has even given her. Most of the worst ones were in different languages, cuss words in native tongues speakers believe she wouldn’t know. Whether it was intentional or not, it was creative. Only makes the listener grow madder in confusion. Still does its intended purpose. What were those words the Austrian spat at her after she cut off his thumb? Fang couldn’t even remember, only that once he spoke them with vitriol, it was like her katana had a mind of its own. A quick slash. No sound. Just a muscled man crying in pain like a child. Good times.

“Interested in what? You already fucked me up,” Fang thought that was creative, grinning from ear to ear as she looked the other woman over. If she wasn’t well aware of the supes, maybe she would’ve said no straight away and ran in fear like that Austrian. But let’s face it, years fighting supes, working with some of them? It wasn’t impossible for something along those lines to happen. “Fang,” she liked what she was seeing, so what’s the harm in giving out a name? Fang might regret that, but she can just add that one to an already growing list. “Maybe we should get you home, Teagan. Might be safer inside.”

Teagan chortled at the joke, tension being cut as easily by Fang’s joke as she imagined it would be for her katana to cut anything else. She was a funny lass. Cute, too. “Good one. Maybe you are a superhero. They’ve always got those good quips.” A chuckle came easier then, Teagan’s chest no longer tightening at the startling realization of waking up in a different place. Fates. She just wanted June to end.

“Well Fang, I think you might be right.” The nix groaned as she rose to her feet, legs still wobbly from the effects of panic. “Should probably get home. Fate knows who is out here.” Taking a deep breath, Teagan nudged Fang’s shoulder playfully with her own. She grinned tiredly, meaning her words to only be taken in jest. “Maybe your arch nemesis will spring out of nowhere and make the night worse. We better hurry back to my cabin. Get safe under those covers, eh?”

That chortle made Fang smile. Not the kind of smile she always did for others, the polite business-like smile, but the kind of smile she didn’t even know she makes. Shaking her head, she tried to brush that superhero comment off. It just wasn’t her style, even though she’s gotten it from others, including Sara. Superheroes do things for others, lay their lives on the line for useless ideals. Fang would only do things for others if she was getting paid. Maybe years ago, sure, but these days? After her mentor’s death? If there had ever been a superhero inside of her, she was long dead.

“No arch nemesis, fortunately,” Fang feigned a cough before fixing herself up, dusting her clothes off of the dust that had settled on it during their scuffle. If there were even any left. “No lovers, too.” She took one long look at Teagan again, not even the least bit concerned of the woman’s other form, and licked her lips. It was that kind of night, huh? She deserved a break every now and then, especially since the last one was, what? Like a year or so ago? “You do owe me a massage…or something else.” A wink and a grin and they were off.