#skull: ... you'll... bleed.....

[llamagoddessofficial]

I'm on my knees for any more crumbs with prison AU therapist Mc and Sans 🙏 the more equal(?) dynamic is just so good And to the anon that brought it up—I love you

I'll do you one better. Here's some crumbs for ALL of them

Since she's not a nurse, this Mc doesn't have a very strong stomach. Stories of Skull's crimes sometimes make her physically ill.

Generally, Sans and Mc's 'sessions' can be quite pleasant. They talk about current events, how things are going. It's only once she starts trying to explore his feelings that he starts toying with her.

... Red teases her a lot. She tries not to react to it, it's unprofessional, but he can always tell when he's flustering her. He gets this infuriating smug grin.

Since Red is a high risk prisoner, he has to have one hand cuffed to a table during therapy. He often complains that he wishes he could be cuffed alone in a room with her in different circumstances. What Mc doesn't realise is that, considering his strength, the cuffs are basically for decoration- Red just pretends he can't break out of them so she feels more comfortable alone in a room with a massive skeleton monster who openly displays interest in her.

Sans doesn't require cuffs in his sessions. And the only time he was cuffed, he snapped them 'accidentally' to make a point. It just makes it all the more nervewracking for Mc.

Skull doesn't know she's his therapist. He thinks she just really cares about him. That's why she keeps coming back to see him, right?

Red isn't the only flirt. Sans is a lot more forward in this AU, considering she knows the truth about his nature. Granted, Sans being 'clear' about something is still incredibly cryptic, but he enjoys the shock in her eyes whenever he calmly flirts with her.

Red's flirting is warm, sincere, and never crosses the line... it leaves her flushed and (though she'd never admit it) flattered. Sans' flirting is nervewracking. It makes her feel like she's a mouse, and Sans is a cat playfully batting at her, capable of clawing her to death at any moment.

Skull gains bits and pieces of speech back a lot faster with her. Unfortunately, that means he's learning how to terrify the guards. It used to be that Skull would just scream or snarl, but now he likes to say broken ominous sentences to guards he doesn't like to see them shit their pants.

He's also figured out that, when he's really upset and angry, if he screams her name enough someone will send her. It's not a great lesson to learn... but it's better than him deciding to attack people.

Whenever Mc tries to get Skull to do therapeutic art with her, he just draws the same thing over and over. The art is scribbly thanks to his tremor, but it always looks like three people; a tall skeleton, a shorter skeleton, and a human. He draws them in various positions- standing together, sitting around a table, sitting on a couch. She suspects one skeleton is him and the human could be her, but she doesn't know who the tall skeleton is.

(It's him, her, and Papyrus. His family)

Sans, for all his power and control, gets ratty and jealous when she treats other people. The first time he hears her laugh is when she realises that was why he's being moody.

She'd never seen him so delighted before.

Sans likes when she dodges his conversational traps. He'll try to lure her into talking about herself, revealing information to him, but she won't fall for it and always turns it back on him. There's not much he's been able to glean from her. It's always so fun, to play with someone who knows what they're doing.

Again, she'll never admit it. But Mc is fascinated by Sans. Most serial killers are delusional and kinda pathetic, but Sans is as if all the stereotypes of the 'genius mastermind serial killer' were true. She gets to be up close and personal, see how he works; she gets to watch his mask rise and fall in real time.

Of course, he knows she's fascinated. He uses it to keep her coming back. He's fascinated with her, too~

[blackjackkent]

Down the parsed dialogue rabbit hole again, this time looking at Ethel's Vicious Mockery lines for all the characters, and goddamn, they are brutal.

ASTARION You're one thirsty night away from betraying everyone. Deep down, you like being leashed, don't you? Is there still rat stuck in your teeth, slave?

GALE I can smell what's under those bandages, wizard. You're all rot and ruin. Come to greet death early? You'll be a lovely spectacle. Who would be jealous of you, apprentice?

KARLACH Let's pull your strings, infernal puppet. Happy to sell everyone's soul but your own, aren't you? When I'm done, even the Hells won't want you.

LAE'ZEL Your people will never take you back - illithid scum. Do you miss kissing Vlaakith's feet, gith? A toad with a tadpole! How fitting.

MINSC How quaint! The hamster has a pet. Only evil here is what's inside you, ranger. Go rub your rat, soft-skull.

SHADOWHEART You're so far up Shar's cake you can't see straight. Pathetic. Why would Shar love you when no one else does? You're no complex puzzle. Just a sad little girl.

WYLL Do you think losing that eye made you a hero? Oh, look! It's daddy's regret. Fraud of the Frontiers!

DRAGONBORN Aww, where's your clan? Bet they'd exile you for that brainworm in a blink. Bet that honour of yours shatters easy as your scales. You foul-breathed little lizard!

DWARF No flabby dwarf's a threat to me. More beard than brains, the lot of you. Bet you'd trade your friends for a trinket or two, gold-eater!

DWARF (DUERGAR) Bow your head, slave. You remember how, don't you? Grey and useless as a stone comb. I'll squeeze that stone heart until it bleeds, dwarf. Need a new master, illithid lover?

ELF Fancy yourself immortal? We'll see how long that lasts. I'll show you what a true fey does, dearie. Elves are so pretty. Pretty worthless!

ELF (DROW - FEMALE) Filthy underscum! Just another of Lolth's pretty harlots. Slaver. Sadist. How dare you judge me?

ELF (DROW - MALE) Bare your throat, spider-bait. Kneel, boy. Just like the matriarchs taught you to. Bow to your betters, boy.

GNOME Disgusting burrow rat. Bet your clan's happy you're gone! Try laughing after I rip your throat out, gnome.

HALF-ELF I wonder which parent regrets you more, half-breed. How revolting. Another thin-blooded mongrel. Half-elf. Half-human. All useless.

HALF-ELF (DROW) Even the Underdark doesn't want you, half-breed. A half-drow? How grotesque. Surprised you show yourself in public, abomination.

HALF-ORC Come now, tusks-for-brains! Doesn't this make you angry? All that bloodlust. A little tap, and I bet you won't know friend from foe! Lumbering half-orc. Twice as ugly as your parents combined!

HALFLING Come closer, little softie. You'll be tender. A tiny, sweet morsel. Just for me.

HUMAN Another human rat infesting Faerûn. A human! So desperate to be special. Pity. That tadpole actually made you interesting.

TIEFLING I'll burn you alive and everyone will celebrate. You're everyone's punching bag and no one's favourite. I see the Hells spit out another tragic little tiefling.

[bubblegumgothglados]

This is my RACK focused judgment free primer for heavy impact play. It covers every part of the body from head to toe and at no point does it say you can’t do something just the risks of doing so. I don't normally put warnings on my posts but most of my writing is fantasy, this isn't. I'm going to talk about any number of painful deaths and heaps more ways of becoming disabled.

In this primer "you" means the one doing the hitting, "victim" is the one being hit, and "tool" is the thing you're hitting with which could be a fist, foot, hammer, bat, anything. I'm writing it this way because its fun for me.

This primer also assumes you know the different types of impacts and how they affect the body, if you don't go look at my other writings.

Finally i take no responsibility for anything you do. All this information is what i could put together from medical journals and car crash reports if I've got anything wrong (and you can prove it) please let me know.

Enjoy

Head. With hits to the head, the two major concerns are concussions and neck injuries. A concussion occurs when a person’s brain impacts with the inside of their skull, this happens because the brain is suspended in fluid so if the skull stops or starts moving suddenly the brain will move out of sync with the skull. Symptoms of concussions can include headaches, confusion, lack of coordination, memory loss, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, ringing in the ears, sleepiness, and excessive fatigue. If your victim lost consciousness for any length of time and is having trouble speaking or understanding your words, you need to get them to the ER. There is no cure for a concussion but the best treatment is pain medication and activities that won’t tax the brain to give it time to recover. There are any number of ways to damage a neck, but generally it happens when a person’s neck is moved suddenly and violently or pushed past its limit. Minor injuries should heal by themselves within a few weeks but if unlucky pain and stiffness can last months or even years. For more major injuries, physical therapy or a neck brace might be necessary but only if the pain lasts longer than a few weeks. It’s also possible to hit someone hard enough to break their neck or fracture their skull but that takes a lot of force. All of these injuries can be avoided by supporting your victim’s head and neck by bracing their head against a surface or holding their head with your hand.

Jaw. It takes surprisingly little force to dislocate a jaw, you can do so with a good slap Dislocations are talked about in Note 3 at the bottom of this primer. Heavy bleeding from gums or a tooth that feels loose could indicate a fractured root. This is a fairly minor issue and if you see a dentist quickly they should be able to fix it back in place with no lasting damage. A tooth that has been knocked out completely should survive; get your victim to rinse their mouth out and rinse the tooth off and shove it back into the gap, and then have them see a dentist to make sure it’s properly seated and avoid chewing with it for a while.

Eyes. A fun combination of fragile and complicated. There's no first aid tips I can give you and it'll be real obvious if something is wrong. I will say you don't have to hit someones eye to give them a black eye, it’s bruising around the eye socket that matters. Also check Note 1 about the use of ice when treating injuries.

Nose. It’s more difficult than you think to break a nose. You definitely can with a good punch but you'll have to really commit. A broken nose isn't that serious (I've broken mine twice now) and isn't even ER worthy. If your victim is leaning backwards after breaking their nose the blood will run down the back of their throat potentially making them vomit or very sick. There is a chance a broken nose will heal in a way that restricts breathing in which case your victim may need surgery.

Cheek bone. Below the temple but above the gum line, running from just bellow their ear to their nose. Special mention to this spot because it’s the best place to hit your victim in the head (in my opinion). This piece of bone is very sturdy and not that risky to fracture. Plus, when you hit them here they have to watch it coming.

Neck. The windpipe, jugular, cranial nerves, vagus nerve, carotid arteries, and spine all live here and damage to any of these can cause permanent disability or death. Seek medical attention if your victim has trouble breathing or swallowing, or a lot of pain or swelling. Stingy tools are far less risky here than thuddy tools.

Shoulders. Note 2 on joints. The shoulder blades can either be an ideal impact location or one of the most risky depending on how it’s sitting. If the shoulder blade is jutting out away from the rest of the back, it’s very easy to damage If it’s laying flat against the back, it’s protected by a thick layer of fat and muscle.

Biceps. Top 4 impact location. The main concern is damaging the elbow and shoulder joints, if hitting in a way that will pull on those joints. Much like with the head, bracing the impact area against a surface will minimize the risk. Repeated hits to this area can temporarily disable the arm, which is fun.

Forearm. As above, the main risk is damaging the adjoining joints. There are also several important blood vessels and nerves running through this area and not a lot of fat an muscle to protect them.

Hands. Very little fat or muscle, mostly tendons, nerves, and cartilage. See Note 2 on joints. Special note to the palm, which hurts like hell but is relatively safe because of the extra muscle and fat in that area, great for punishment. Once again, stingy tools are much less risky than thuddy tools.

Breasts/ biceps. Top 4 impact locations. Thick layers of fat, muscle, and bone protect anything vital.

Sternum. That is the bone running down the center of a person’s chest that connects to their ribs. Not in itself very fragile but the cartilage that connects it to the ribs is easily damaged and will take a long time to heal. A fractured sternum will likely cause shortness of breath and pain when taking deep breaths. There's not much to be done about these injuries just rest and avoiding strenuous activity.

Spine. The single most risky impact location. Any damage to the spine risks permanent paralysis of everything below that point. As ever, stingy tools present less risk than thuddy tools.

Rib cage. Designed to protect a person’s most vital organs, the rib cage is very strong. Fractured ribs will cause pain breathing but aren't particularly serious. Snapped ribs can pierce organs If this happens, it'll be immediately obvious and medical intervention is required to prevent painful death. Special note to the 'floating' ribs at the bottom of a persons rib cage which don't connect to the sternum and are therefore much less resilient. Second special note to the spot right above a persons heart. A significantly hard impact at exactly the wrong moment in their cardiac cycle can stop their heart. They will loose consciousness and you will need to give them CPR until they can be defibrillated. This is ridiculously unlikely but better to mention just in case.

Abdomen. If you feel around your victim’s belly, you can figure out the line where their abdominal muscles sit. If you have them tense these muscles, you can hit them fairly hard with relatively little risk because the muscles plus the fat in that area create a thick layer of protection. (Pro tip: "Stay tense or this will might kill you" is not only true but hot and terrifying). Outside of that area or if they don't tense, there's real risk of bruising or even rupturing their intestines, which carries a 50-70% survival rate depending on how quickly you can get them to the ER. Symptoms to look out for are bloating, diarrhea, loss of appetite, and fatigue. Special note to the kidneys, which sit next to the backbone just below the rib cage and are very easily bruised. The primary symptom to look for is blood when peeing. As always, stingy tools carry less risk than thuddy tools.

Gluteus maximus. That's their butt. Hit it as hard as your victim will let you. Enough has been said about this region; I don't feel the need to recover that ground. Note 4 on bruises.

Genitals. I'm not going to get into CBT, that's a separate kink. But the vagina is very durable as it’s pretty much just flesh and fat on the outside Minimal risk, go to town.

Thigh. Top 4 impact location. Outer thigh will hurt more and bruise more. As with the head and arms, the primary risk is damaging the adjoining joints. Note 4 on bruises because this is the primary place for DVT.

Calf. As above. Shins are also a great location for punishment because they hurt like hell.

Feet. Very similar to hands. The soles of a person’s foot are intended to impact with the ground frequently and with some force, so they can take a fair bit of punishment.

Note 1. Ice. It is no longer suggested injury procedure to use ice to reduce swelling. Yes, it is effective at reducing swelling but we now understand swelling is an important part of the healing process and although ice might make it feel and look better in the short term, it actually increases the amount of time the injury will take to heal. You want the blood to be able to flow to the injury to take away dead cells and bring nutrients and energy.

Note 2. Joints. Neck, spine, shoulders, elbows, wrists, fingers, hips, knees, ankles, and toes. The reason these are almost always labeled "red" or "no go" on impact play body maps is because these are choke points for blood vessels and nerves; they are made of fragile tendons and cartilage, and they have very little padding for protection. They're also important for movement day to day and very difficult to heal properly. If a joint is damaged, you can buy braces for every joint from most pharmacies.

Note 3. Dislocations. If you're lucky, a partial dislocation will relocate by itself if you move the joint around as you normally would, not forcing it or trying to manipulate it with your hand, just moving it with its own muscles. If it does naturally relocate but you still have pain a few weeks later seek a medical professional. If you're unlucky or if it’s a total dislocation, you will have to see a medical professional. DO NOT TRY TO FORCE IT BACK INTO PLACE!

Note 4. Bruises. Normally, bruises are nothing to worry about but there are situations where a deep bruise can be a health concern. If the bruise continues to get worse after a week, there could be a hematoma under the skin, which is like a blood clot, and might need to be removed. The other possible complication is Deep Vein Thrombosis, which is a blood clot and can be lethal, if not treated quickly. With DVT, the symptoms are tenderness, warmth, and a "pulling sensation" which are pretty normal impact play symptoms. But if you're doing impact play at the level that could cause DVT, then you and your victim should know their healing process intimately, so if something feels off or isn't healing right, get them to a medical professional; better safe than dead.

[zyafics]

DEAD MAN WALKING | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing —Mafia Boss x Doctor!Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe gets injured in a shootout, he can't make it home in time to save his life. However, it's just his luck to find a medical student walking out of her shift from the hospital. When he threatens you to save him, you do, but when he returns to uncover that the wound is more deadly than it seems—time is ticking for you to find a cure or die.

Content — 18+, explicit (to be determined).

It's late.

A consequence of staying overtime. Most medical students from your program left after their shift ended, but not you. You wanted more—to shadow surgeries behind spectator glass, to listen to pagers' on-calls, to follow the path of grunt work—because you believe in learning from the bottom up. It wasn't until one of the residents forcefully removed you from a debrief and mandated you to go home and rest that you finally left.

Exiting the hospital, a cool wind breezes over your exposed arms, causing goosebumps to rise. The night is dusky and grim; thick clouds envelop the dark sky, amplifying the fainted glow of lights streaming through the open windows of apartment buildings. Very few cars are passing through the main road, despite your place of work being in the center of the metropolitan area. It's empty. Quiet. Odd.

The parking lot is mostly vacated, except for a few residents' vehicles that have to stay for their hours. You don't own a car, utilizing the city's local public transportation system instead, and thankfully, there's a bus stop across from the hospital.

Your footsteps click against the concrete, each step bringing you closer to your destination, but something in your stomach churns with nausea. Something feels off. The stillness of the night isn't a common occurrence in a lively city bursting with mayhem. But before you can calm your mind—a distinct click is heard, followed by the cold press of a metal handle against the back of your skull.

Your breath hitches.

A gruff, masculine voice orders. "Don't scream."

You want to. Desperately. But you've lived in the city long enough to know it'll do nothing. It might cause your death instead. Defying the very instinct to call for help, the bubble waiting to pop from your throat, you nod once, letting your handler know you abide by his command.

"Turn around."

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, threatening to spill. With measured breaths and cautious steps, you turn.

The sight surprises you. The man holding you in captivity is tall—and devilishly handsome. But that's not your main source of concern. It's the way he's slightly hunched over, his left hand clutching a wound that punctures his abdomen. He's bleeding. Everywhere. Staining the front of his sodden shirt, it drips onto the concrete between the cracks of his fingers.

"You a doctor?" His voice is gravel and strained as if he's holding onto his last string of life. His face is a ghastly shade of pale, uneven breaths escaping in chokes, and sweat collects on the hairline of his forehead.

"I'm–I'm a student." You answer, tripping over your own voice as he tightens his grip around his gun, his fingers trembling. For a brief moment, you consider if you should disarm him. Half of you want to help—to save a man on the brink of death, as you're training to do—but the other half remembers you're being held at gunpoint. If you try, you wonder if he's in enough pain that you can remove the weapon.

But something in his hardened gaze tells you to stay put. That his trigger finger is swifter than you'll ever be and he won't hesitate to waste a bullet.

Scoffing, as if the criteria of your resume isn't enough, he raises his arm where the barrel of the gun stares you down. Your heart skips several beats, palms growing sweaty at the implication that your lack of experience can be your end.

"I can help."

He doesn't answer, eyeing you with contempt. You're still wearing your blue scrubs, the clip of the badge hanging on your waist. You look official; a formal member of the medical faculty team. But, at the end of the day, you're still a student.

You refuse to let that be your downfall.

"I can save you," you argue, the timbre of your voice is sharp, passionate, and decisive. "Let me help."

The man says nothing. Silence stretches for the next few seconds, but it feels like decades before he makes a decision. He grabs your arm roughly, pulling you in front of him with the strength he shouldn't possess. With the gun pressed against your backside, right on your spine, he warns, "One word, one fucking scream, and I'll shoot you in the middle of the floor. Do you understand?"

You nod, swallowing the bile in your throat as you reenter the hospital, maneuvering through the floor with virtually little-to-no interactions. A blessing and a curse, the man finds an empty room and shoves you inside.

It's not a surgical suite, just a backroom with a bed and a couple of tools on a cart. You try to convince him to go to one of the rooms in the operation wing, but he refuses. When you continue to advocate, his hand grips the gun with a click—reminding you who has the power in the situation.

"Just fucking do it here," he snaps.

That's how you ended up operating on your first patient. He lays flat against the stiff hospital bed while you tear through his blood-soaked shirt, cleaning his marred skin, finding the source of the wound—a gunshot. It sits right on his ribcage, but the point of entry doesn't look like it slices through any important organs or arteries.

Despite his form, he continues to point the gun at you. His hands are steadier, but his eyes waver with each probe and poke of your tools. Your breathing is scarce, and uneven as you try to focus on the task at hand—but you can't, given the constant reminder that one wrong touch, one wrong move, can yield a tinge of pain that leaves him clamping down on the trigger.

"You can drop your gun now." You say offhandedly, trying to keep your composure and wits as you operate. "I'm not going to do anything."

He huffs, suspicion creasing his brows. "Not a chance."

"I'm saying it'll be better for you." You instruct, voicing your reason from a place of logic rather than a plight of fear. "You need to relax."

"I'll relax once you get this bullet out of me," he rasps, gripping the weapon tighter, as a child with a stuffed animal would after a hellish nightmare. Your eyes glance down at the gun, how it's aimed directly at your heart, before dropping back to his chest.

"You're not going to kill me."

He doesn't answer immediately. A pinch of fear surges through your veins before he says, "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm trying to save your life." You keep your voice steady, despite the low tremor rattling your chest. False confidence is the only thing keeping you going. "And I won't cause you harm. If I wanted to, I would've already."

Silence persists, and you take it as a chance to solidify your argument, from a humane perspective. "And I can't focus if you keep pointing that gun at me. I'll be more sloppy, and I don't want to take any chances when I barely have the right equipment as it is."

It sounds solid. At least, to your ears it does. But the man's grip on his gun doesn't waver under your advisement. You're almost certain he'll reject the idea, but when his hand slowly descends to the metal cart sitting beside him—the clank of metal-on-metal allows you to finally take a deep breath.

But before you can proceed, his now-free hand grabs your wrist. A yelp almost leaves you, but his bloodied nails dig into your skin. A warning gleams behind his gaze. "Just because I'm unarmed doesn't mean I can't kill you through other means."

You don't doubt it.

Nodding, you begin your operation. Heart thumping against your chest, you dig the forceps into the open wound, the squishing of flesh and blood fills the stillness of the room, and you navigate blindly through the gap till you graze a hard metal.

You inhale sharply, reminding yourself of your countless virtual practices, your shadowing of operations, your lucky days of standing beside certified surgeons as you hand them tools and witness the precise cut of their blade. All that training comes down to this very moment—to save yours and his life.

With a steady grip, you slowly exit, centimeter-by-centimeter, inch-by-inch, until the familiar glint of a metal gleans under the harsh operating light.

You drop the bullet, smeared with blood and a greenish hue, onto the plate next to the gun. Exhaling, you mechanically move to the next stage.

While you thread the needle through his delicate skin, closing the wound, your eyes glance down to his hands resting by his side. His knuckles are swollen and red, dried with dark blood. You can't stop yourself from asking, "What happened?"

His jaw tightens. "Why do you want to know?"

The words are sharp and harsh, a valiant attempt at shutting down any form of communication. But you persist. "I thought, since you're out of danger, you can at least explain—"

"I don't owe you shit," he barks, but this time, a hiss punctuates the end of his sentence, sending his head flying back against the bed as he grimaces through the pain and lack of anesthesia. His adrenaline must be wearing off.

Your jaw tenses, but not from his response but rather because of his reaction to his pain. Your sense of empathy has always been your weakness, especially since you're providing it to someone who held you at gunpoint and against your own will.

Deciding to redirect your focus, you're finishing the last thread of his stitching before he confesses, "Fight."

"Fight?" You echo wearily, refusing to lift your head and meet his gaze. You can already feel the heat of his stare. "Who won?"

He scoffs, but it comes out as a wheeze. "Don't be cute."

"I'm not trying to be—"

Your words are cut short by a sudden alarm blaring from the hallway. You jerk back, creating distance as you turn toward the small slanted window on the door, where flashes of men in uniforms run past.

Fear crashes into you as waves, and you turn back to the man as he turns to you—his dark blue eyes are hostile and cynical, and he regards you with the utmost suspicion.

"Who the fuck did you call?" He accuses.

Your eyes widen, "I didn't call anyone!"

"Liar."

With your erratic heartbeat in your ears, both of you glance down at the gun sitting idle on the cart. Before he even gets the chance to react, you snatch the weapon from the table, his nails grazing your hand a millisecond too late.

You push back against the opposite side of the room but because of the limited space, it does nothing to soothe the overwhelming adrenaline pulsing through your veins. Holding the gun with two hands, you direct it straight at his face.

Suspicion and doubt from both sides are at an all-time high.

He scoffs, unphased by your brave act. The gun between your hands is shaky, and your palms sweat against the heavy, smooth grip. The acknowledgment of holding something lethal between your fingertips. In his earnest attempt at getting you to give up the weapon, he mocks, "Can you even use that thing?"

You disengage the safety. "Try again."

His eyes widen, just a fraction, almost undetectable had you not been eyeing him carefully. His lips pressed together in a firm line, but almost as if you're imagining it—there's a look of intrigue.

The man pulls himself upright, shifting cautiously under the threat of your deadly aim, while his hand clutches the stitched wound. You didn't even get the chance to bandage him. It's a shame that your hard work could go to waste.

"Fucking liar."

"I didn't lie," you insist.

"The gun staring at me is making you look guilty."

"It isn't nice being on the receiving end, is it?"

His hardened features sharpen into a look of disdain, any imagination of curiosity disappears within seconds. Yet, you read into it. His eyes narrow, scrutinizing you as if you're prey to his predator, trying to gauge a formal assessment of your character. It isn't until he forces himself to look away, onto the door, that he contemplates his next plan of action.

It doesn't take a genius to decipher that the man is someone dangerous. Not just to you, but to the law. You regard his rigid posture, suggesting his uneasiness about the guards posted outside, barking orders to secure the grounds. He assumed you called the authorities, but that's far from the truth.

You didn't even have time to consider it.

Now, you're weighing all your options. If he disarms you, you'll be forced to submit to his will. That's not favorable. If he leaves without your help—which is unlikely—he'll be trotting through the halls, trying to build a cover and dodge the heightened security. That won't work either. And, if he escapes—there's no doubt he'll come back for vengeance. You can't have that either.

"The hospital is going into lockdown," you explain, keeping your gaze on his. "No one can come in and out that's not part of the staff."

He locks his jaw. One of your hands descends from the handle, moving to the pocket of your scrubs. "They're going to require a scan at each exit point, so you'll need a badge."

You remove the badge from your body, unraveling the clipper from the fabric. His darkened gaze follows while you slowly extend the tag—a peace offering of some sort.

His hand clenches by his side before his other hand reaches forward and snatches the badge from your grip. He takes his time examining the small plastic and the card inside, then lifts his head to meet your gaze with an unreadable expression. "Why?"

"I told you, I didn't call anyone," you say. "But I can tell you need to leave. I can get you out because I don't want any problems."

His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling in unsteady beats. He doesn't say anything for the longest time, chipping away at the escape, before he drops from the bed and stands to his fullest height.

"I can't go out looking like this."

He's right. You practically shredded his shirt as you were trying to save his life. If he walks out, half-naked, barely stitched together with a bandage, regardless of the classified badge, they're going to question him.

Glancing around the room, you find a lab coat on a hook and throw it at him. He slips his arms through the long, white sleeves and covers himself up—looking presentable. Almost. If not for the light bruising on the side of his face, the swelling on his bottom lip, the swollenness of his knuckles, and the dried blood staining his fingertips.

But they won't look closely.

You think.

You back up as he steps forward, closer to the door. Peeking outside the hallway, when the coast is clear, he departs, clutching the badge in one hand and his wounded chest in the other.

It takes a few moments for it to pass, for you to truly grasp the gravity of your situation. When you finally do, you lower your aching arms, drop the gun back onto the metal cart, and exhale the largest sigh of relief.

—

It's been a week since the hospital incident.

You received a new badge, under the false pretense that you misplaced the last one, and you've been returning to a routine. You refuse to do overtime without a familiar acquaintance tagging along, and you've been catching rides from your peers from the hospital.

Afterward, the news disclosed a shootout that happened on the streets a couple blocks down from your workplace. Three people died, and the police are investigating the matter. It didn't take long for you to connect the dots of who shot who, and who walked out alive.

You've been busying yourself with life. From attending classes to producing research, to working late-night shifts at the hospital. It's been a ruthless cycle, that you've barely had time to breathe.

Walking home from one of the nearby cafes, where you're studying for your upcoming exams, you take a short stroll to your apartment. It's getting late; most of the street parking is taken, few people linger on the sidewalk, and the street lamps cast a soft glow against the brownstone of the apartment complexes.

This is a safer neighborhood, much more than your place of work. The crime rate is relatively lower, but that doesn't stop you from being on edge. Especially with your recent incident. You're cautious of your surroundings, checking every little shadow, and listening out for heavy footfalls. Your paranoia reaches its all-time high.

But nothing happens. Not today, not yesterday, and certainly not tomorrow. You turn the corner to your building, the familiar shade of your apartment allows you to catch a breath of fresh air.

Until you hear the familiar click, followed by the hard kiss of metal pressing against the base of your skull.

All the hair stands up. Your nerves are humming with fear. And you pray it's different, it's new, but your wishes are shattered the moment the gruff, harsh voice greets you, his mouth against your ear.

"Miss me?"

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[yandere-wishes]

⭒ㅤׂ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ʀᴜɪɴɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇㅤׂ ⭒

⭒⌒★ Yandere!Dune Men x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓏𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒴𝑜𝓊 ♡ ｡ ゜  

☾⋆ Paul Muad'Dib Atreides | پل معادب آتریدس

He dreamed of you again tonight. Something cathartic laying across the sands. Your touch haunts his skin, tracing scars and stars across his cheeks. He wonders what you see him as, something sacred or something exotic. Neither matters so long as you love him...

Paul's a volatile star, always one breath away from exploding. You're scared to touch the golden boy, lest your fingers return burned and your skull rattles with the echo of the cosmos. Still, it's hard to miss the devotion when his lips grace your knuckles. Hard to miss the cacophony of his heart as it reverberates across the desert. 

ᯓ★ Leto Atreides | لتو آتریدس

Leto kisses butterflies into your shoulder, the taste of your skin feels like nectar on his tongue. His mind is always racing vying for your affection, your attention, your adherence. He traces your name across his star maps, each letter scribbled in a melancholy blue. You grace his chambers again tonight, it feels so wrong to only see your silhouette, to not feel your love bleeding like his does. He kisses you again, something akin to devotion. He needs to feel you under him again, needs to feel the softness of your flesh under his fingers. Something in him shatters, something inside him rearranges. You make him feel so erratic. Why must he love you this way?

𓆩⚝𓆪 Duncan Idaho | دانکن آیداهو

his lips taste of chaos, he pours his passion into you. 

He feels you rattle inside his bones. Feels you coursing through his veins like unaltered spice. He's on another mission, laying in the sand and daubing your essence into constellations. He dreams of your fingers running over his muscles pushing adoration into him with a rusted kitchen knife. Your eyes never gaze at him for long. And yet each stare holds the weight of a nebula. He falls asleep to the phantom melody of your sweet voice. Dreaming of returning to you once more. 

༺🕸༻ Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen | فید روتا هارکونن

There's a blade in his hand, blood marring pale fingers again. In every droplet, he sees your face. Phantom pains rampage when he hears your name. He dreams of you holding a knife to this chest, breaking the skin, and riving through muscle. Each night your ghost plagues him. Hurting him in all the ways he craves. He dubs you ecstasy, overdosing on everything he wants to do to you. Everything he wants you to do to him. He etches your name upon his bones, dedicating each open wound to you. He's going mad over the notion of you between his sheets, limbs entwined in a bloody mess. His tongue craves the taste of your flesh, starved like the trees on Arakkis. He must have you, he will have you. 

-`𖤓´- Stillgar | ستیلگار

Stillgar's love is a desert tune, the winds rustling through the grains before the breaching of a sandworm. He falls harder and harder with each soulful gaze. He's spent his whole life chasing prophecies that he's forgotten how to wholly love something not written in blood and legend. He prays upon every star, that the maker has written your names together. That maybe some prophecy exists where you are to become his. He watches you sitting across the dunes, watching as the sunset pales compared to you. He whispers prayers beneath his breath, hoping you'll be with him soon. 

݁˖☘︎ Gurney Halleck | گارنی هالک

He stiffens under your touch, under the sonority of your voice. His battered heart rattles in your presence, the air in his lungs freezes and he momentarily forgets that he is a soldier, a protector, a tool carved to fight for the Atreides. He's not meant to love, to crush, he's meant to kill, to teach, to follow. A weapon in every sense of the word. And yet he'd throw the world at your feet for a sliver of your attention. Gurney can't help the flames that grow within him. The raging pyro each night when he catches a rogue glimpse of you through the crack of your door. He wishes to kiss you, to hold you. To make you his in every way he knows he can't. 

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

63 / 2.6k / soap soulmate au, part 12

...

Trapped at the base of the mountain, you spy your window of opportunity to bolt to the treeline. And you take it.

The adrenaline pumping through your body blunts the pain of the crash. You've scarcely made it into the shadow of the enormous fir trees when a bullet shears past your head and splinters a tree branch six inches away from your ear. Shit. Someone saw you.

You sprint as deep as your lungs can carry you. Then you press back into the nearest trunk. Behind you, two pairs of boots stomp through the snow.

"Saw someone come this way," one voice says. It's not KorTac. "Got a runner."

"There," the other voice says. The sound of a rifle sliding past cloth. Their steps get louder and close in on your position. The voices are low, but the snow carries them to you, crisp and clear.

"Can't let this one get away," one of the men says.

"Oh, we won't."

You tear deeper into the trees, weaving between trunks and jumping over fallen branches. Bullets spray out from behind you. One punches through your side. You stumble, fingers brushing the snow, but don't go down. Johnny's voice echoes in your skull. You'd better live.

The two men on your tail follow. They're relentless. It's clear they have no reservations about cutting down a fleeing, unarmed target. You push onwards, your breathing ragged as you run, ignoring the way your every movement sends a wave of pain down your body. You take cover again, this time behind an enormous fallen log. But you know they know where you are.  Behind you, they spread out to circle up and flank you. You grip the shard of glass still in your hand. It's all you have, and it won't be enough.

"Don't try anything," he says. "We've got you now."

Red mist explodes out of his chest. He stumbles and pitches forward to the ground. You don't have time to see where the shot came from. You lurch toward his body, pull the shard of glass across his throat, tear his rifle off him, and return to cover. You look down the scope and search for the other mercenary. You see him taking aim at the one who shot his teammate--Horangi.

Before he can pull the trigger, another single shot rings out from Horang’s rifle. Blood splatters from the man's head, and he goes down.

Behind Horangi, you see two more of them take cover and aim their rifles at the two of you. You press yourself against the fallen trunk, aim, and squeeze the trigger. It takes you more than one squeeze in the haze of adrenaline puppeteering your exhausted body, but you strike one in between the eyes. The other stumbles out of cover to run, and Horangi puts a bullet in his back.

Then the forest goes quiet. Horangi glances back at you over the top of the log. "You alright?" he says.

"Alive." You straighten up, but you don't drop the gun. "Is it clear?"

Horangi glances around "For now," he says. "Let's make ourselves scarce before that changes."

You grip the rifle harder and stare at the roll of zip ties on Horangi's belt. He's your former teammate. He took you prisoner. You let him. Maybe taking what you thought was your only way out is why you see now how things could be different.

Horangi's eyes sharpen. "Careful, rookie," he says, his voice low. "Don't do anything stupid. We're on the same side."

"You're gonna cuff me again."

"That's the idea." Bullets, blood, and shards of wood and needles litter the snow he walks through. "Don't make this hard. I don't want to have to hurt you."

"No. I'm not going back." You widen your stance, pointing the rifle at him.

His eyes narrow. "Careful with that."

You keep your aim steady on him and say nothing.

He watches you, evaluating your grip, the tension in your arms, the cold look on your face. Then he nods toward the bleeding wound on your side. "How long do you think you'll last out here with that?"

"That's not your concern."

"Yeah," he says. "It is."

He regrips his rifle in both hands, shifting his weight. This time, however, he keeps his distance.

"Drop the gun," he says. "Then we'll discuss this without the risk of friendly fire."

You don't back down.

He lets out a short sigh and glances up at the trees. "You really can't just make things easy, huh. You really gonna shoot me?" he says. "After I just saved your life?"

"Yeah."

"You're bluffing."

"I might be," you tell him. "If you wanna take that chance."

He assesses you. A long beat of silence passes.

"That's not like you," he says finally, voice flat. "Your code is quid pro quo. I saved your life. You owe me."

He walks toward you. He's calling your bluff.

You squeeze the trigger. Once, twice. One bullet lodges in his chest plate. The other finds its mark in the joint of his armor--the weak point where chest plate meets shoulder plate. Red sprays out into the gray haze of snow and pines.

He jerks as he takes the shots, curses, and staggers. You're full of nasty surprises today. But his training is the same as yours--when an asset gets mean, KorTac gets worse. He doubles down, pushing himself into a sprint.

You squeeze the trigger again, bullet punching through his armor's elbow joint. Another three pulls produce nothing but empty dry clicks. Shit. He barrels toward you.

You throw the gun aside and reach for the shard of glass, your makeshift knife, but it’s too late. He grabs you, close enough to tear the glass out of your hand, sweep your knees, shove your face into the snow, and force the air out of your lungs with his weight on your back.

Still, you struggle for your freedom, clawing the snow for any kind of grip. Ghost's knee on your back comes dimly to mind.

Before you can get free, Horangi digs his knee into the bullet wound at your side. You bite down on a scream, gritting your teeth against the pain exploding across your body.

"Enough," he says in a low voice. "You're done."

You can barely focus through the pain. Your vision blurs and your muscles tense and twitch blindly against his hold. He lets up the pressure only once the initial wave of pain subsides and you've let out a shuddering gasp.

You lay still in pain for a long moment. When he grabs your hands to cuff you, you strike.

He’s not expecting the elbow to his nose. Then you drive your fist into his kidney--between the panels of his armor--and twist hard.

He grabs you anyway. But you yank your forearm--slicked with blood from your side wound--free from his grip and take off. Blood dots the snow behind you like a trail of scarlet breadcrumbs from the crash site.

You’re on your feet and running through the trees. You’re coasting on adrenaline alone. He’s right at your heels. He catches up.

You both go down hard again, falling through open air for a moment before you hit hard, wet snow-crust. As you struggle, he wraps the cord of a zip tie around one of your wrists and grabs your other. But you slide it free again and dig your red fingers into the snow.

"Just let me go!" you wheeze back at Horangi. "Just say I died in the ambush."

"Hell no. Nothing personal, rookie, but you made your choice. We’re turning you in dead or alive."

The radio on his hip spits and crackles. Warped voices come through. Then real ones in the distance. Shouting. A rough, Scottish brogue. The cold air burns your lungs as you suck it in.

Horangi reaches forward for your other wrist again. You turn and sink your teeth into his gloved hand. He yells. Soap’s voice is nearby. Your vision blurs. The adrenaline is wearing off. You can’t get free to run.

A shout of your name. Close.

"Johnny," you say, your voice a breathless gasp. "Johnny, I'm–"

But Horangi grabs you before you can say anything else. His gloved hand clamps down over your mouth.

"Don't move," Horangi says into your ear. "You move, I put a bullet in his head."

He has to be lying. But you don’t move. You can’t make yourself do it if it means even the slightest chance of putting Soap’s life at risk.

He pulls you up to your knees. You find yourself staring at the rocky side of an eight-foot ledge. No wonder you and Horangi fell so hard. You must’ve tumbled down this drop. If not for the snow cushioning your fall, it would’ve taken you out of commission.

You see Soap coming toward you. Your chest aches with relief before something dawns on you. On your knees, even through your pants, you realize you're not kneeling on just snow. It's ice, not loam, under the layers of powder. Pure ice. The surface of a frozen river.

"Stop!" you shout, seeing Soap rapidly approaching the high bank. "Don't come any closer." The deep, echoing snaps of cracking ice echo around you as if to punctuate your point.

Soap slides to a stop at the edge. His eyes go from the gun at your head straight down to the snow-covered ice. Comprehension dawns on his face. If he drops down to the already-damaged surface below, it will break and plunge all of you into the black water underneath.

His eyes flash to Horangi. “Let her go.”

“Back off,” Horangi says from behind you. “Right now, or I shoot her right here.”

That makes no sense. He’s bluffing, you know it. But you also know Soap won’t risk your life. His expression hardens.

The ice groans again. Your life is on a timer. You can’t outrun or overpower Horangi. You need to find another way.

“Your buyer,” you say lowly to Horangi. “I want to talk to your buyer.”

Horangi's grip on your neck doesn’t loosen. His silence is all the answer you need.

"Call him up. I want to talk to him."

"You're not in any position to negotiate.”

Tension rolls off Soap like a physical force. He’s coiled like a viper. His team approaches around him, all of them trying to analyze the situation. If he weren’t outnumbered, you suspect Soap would rush forward anyway, damn the risks. He looks ready to tear Horangi limb from limb. If he had a clean shot, he’d take it. But he’s not fool enough to give Horangi a reason to hurt you, either. It’s a stalemate.

"You let me talk to him or I'll make sure this ice breaks before either of us make it to shore,” you hiss.

Horangi considers it. You can't give him the time to think his way out of this. You lean your weight onto one knee--putting more pressure onto a smaller surface area of the ice. It cracks again.

“Dammit, don’t!” Soap snaps, taking a step forward. Ghost’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

Another moment of silence. Tense. The cold wind whistles past your ears. You hear the deep groans and snaps as the ice warps.

Then Horangi scoffs. "Still trying to out-bluff me?"

He yanks you back, sliding you toward the shore, trying to keep you from putting weight on the ice. You throw yourself in the opposite direction, slamming yourself back against the cold surface. The crack of pain against your spine reverberates through your entire body.

You try to get to your feet. The crackling sound, like snapping cables, is everywhere. Horangi is cool under pressure, but he holds his shoulders more rigidly than you’ve ever seen him. He walks toward you with the zip tie still in hand.

You struggle to your feet and go at him. You drive your weight into his body and fight like hell to keep you both on the river, where you have leverage. He fights to throw you onto shore. You’re so close to getting away. You just need an opening.

Soap shouts. You don’t hear what he’s saying. Despite your injury, You use every bit of your weight and speed as if to force both of you thought the ice. You keep moving, slipping out of his reach every time he tries to grab hold of you. Every time, the ice and it shifts with a snap, threatening to break and send you both tumbling into the dark water below. In the tangle, you get close enough to grab blindly at his belt and pack. You aim to grab his handgun. Your hand closes around something else--a frag. Almost as good.

You jerk back and hold it up so he can see it. Your breath is shaky now, coming out in uneven puffs. It feels like all the body heat you have left is bleeding out of the wound in your side. But it works as intended. Everyone quiets. Even the ice stops crackling. Horangi’s eyes narrow.

So you pull the pin. You keep your finger on the switch, but you and everyone else know the explosion would blow you, Horangi, and anyone else on the ice to hell.

"Call the buyer," you say quietly. "Or you won't even have a corpse to trade."

He looks at you with a cold, even glare. You know what he's thinking: you might be bluffing, you might not. And after the way you’ve been acting, he isn't willing to bet his life on it.

The cold wind whistles between you and raises goosebumps on your numb skin.

Finally, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. He says something into it quietly. Then he looks at you, steps forward, and hands it to you.

You take it. You don't have to tell him to back off--the live grenade in your hand is enough warning for him. He walks backward off the frozen river and back onto shore to give you all the space you’d need to blow yourself up.

As soon the pressure of his weight is off the ice, the creaking ice shifts and settles again. You feel lightheaded with the loss of blood. You sway but manage to keep your balance.

"Hen, please," Soap calls. "Go with him. Just stay off the ice." Never thought he'd be saying this, but he'd rather you be in someone else's custody than dead. He wants you to come to him so badly, but he's much further up the riverbank. There's no way for him to jump down to you without cracking the ice; there's no way for you to get up to him one-handed. You won't be able to climb the icy rock and earth separating you. The only way is downriver, and while Soap's eyes sweep every part of the river in sight, he can't seem to find a solution. When you don't react, he looks to Horangi instead. "Take her off the damn ice!" he shouts.

Horangi crosses his arms and says nothing. The message is clear: he did what he could; you're the one forcing his hand.

You hold the phone up to your ear. To your chilled skin, it's warm to the touch. You hold it with both hands, leaning it against the frag and cupping the other hand around the receiver to catch your voice amidst the wind. You swallow, trying to wet your mouth enough to rasp out a few words. But it's the man on the other end of the line, your buyer, who speaks first.

"Hey, 86." Graves. You can hear him smiling around your old Shadow Company call number. "Heard you're in a bit of a predicament."

...

← previous part / [part 12] / next part →

part 1 / more Soap / masterlist

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirteen —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

"Twix."

Blue says your name in a single exhale of relief. You didn't expect her to be awake. She sits with her legs outstretched by a barely-there fire as you enter the cabin, the busted door groaning shut behind you. Fatigue sinks you to the floor beside her. You're about to curl your numb hands within the long sleeves of your new jacket, but the burn on your fingers makes you wince from the friction.

“You're filthy." She reaches for your hand, gently inspecting the burn. "And someone hurt you."

"Well, technically, I hurt them."

Blue shakes her head, the tone of her voice hardening the moment she drops your hand. "You shouldn't have gone."

"It was important—"

"It was stupid. You saw how those guys tried to kill us!" She huffs out a breath before snapping her gaze back to the flames. "You... you didn't tell me you were leaving. You didn't even say goodbye. I just woke up and you were gone.”

"I didn't want to wake you this morning because you needed rest,” you reason.

"That's a shitty excuse," she grumbles back, gesturing to the pink bracelet on her wrist. "I may not have a lot of friends, but I do know they're supposed to tell each other things like this."

Your eyes trail down from the burnt skin on your fingers, red and bubbly, to the cheap, plastic beads encompassing your wrist.

"You're right," you speak softly. "I should have told you."

A few minutes lapse in thick silence. In the midst of it, you swallow a few chalky pills to help with all the pain. You've been conservative in using them so far, but with your additional score of medicine, you figure you can afford some relief. There's no way you'll be able to sleep with your bitten wrist throbbing incessantly.

You're about to lean against the wall and let your eyes flutter shut when Blue speaks again, this time her voice so quiet you wonder if you're imagining it. 

"You know, I was excited to go on this trip," she whispers, still looking at the fire. "I even secretly hoped we'd run into other people, just because—" she pauses to swallow, "—because I never get to meet any. And the ones we have met, my dad always kills. Except for you."

She drags her sleeve over her face and it’s now you notice she is crying. A knot forms in your throat and, after the day you've had, you struggle to find the right words. 

"He kills them for a reason," you settle on, voice equally hushed. "A lot of people are—"

"A threat, I know." Blue repeats the words like a bitter mantra, then looks at her bandaged leg. "What does it feel like?" she asks after a moment, sliding her glossy eyes to yours. “Killing a person. Ghost told me it feels just like killing an animal or a Grey."

You inhale, then fix your stare to the dark ceiling. "No— I don't think it feels the same. It's much worse. I still get sick from it,” you admit.

"How many have you killed?"

"I don't remember anymore, but not that many." Certainly not as many as Ghost has. "It was always in self-defense. Always because I had to."

"I wish nobody ever had to," she says.

"I know. Me, too.”

With a sigh, she carefully scoots closer to you. "I'm sorry for getting mad. I just want to go home.”

"Don't be sorry. I’m the one who is sorry." You shake your head and offer her a shoulder until both of you have your backs against the wall. Her hair tickles your cheek. A small hand slips around your waist in a tender embrace, her fingers latching onto the fabric of the jacket. The sore muscles of your core flex instinctively from the touch before you finally force yourself to relax. It’s just Blue.

"Your dad says we're going back tomorrow,” you whisper, jaw grazing the crown of her head. “Sleep. It'll be a long day again."

"A long day for you maybe," she murmurs against your shoulder. "I get to ride on his back."

"Lucky you." You drape the heavy blanket over your bodies. Together you are warmer, if only by a little. 

Deft wind whooshes through the trees, kissing your wet skin. Splotches of wriggling orange and red follow the water's current, along with a trail of brown muck as you scrub your breasts, hair, and cheeks. The sight of fish makes your stomach grumble. It's been far too long since you've had anything but squirrel and deer and berries, but this is not the time or place to ponder a way to catch one. The blue wash of early morning lightens with each second that passes. You wring out your hair, rewrap your wrist, and put your clothes back on before carefully climbing up the slope, satisfied enough with your icy bath.

"Ready," you announce, blowing a white breath into your hands and rubbing them together. Ghost crouches down so Blue can teeter onto his back. The backpack full of ammo hugs his front. He appears exceptionally bulky with all the baggage, and yet, he makes it look effortless.

Together, you head towards the infamous bridge, if one could call it that. Silvery fog makes it hard to see more than ten meters ahead of you, but Ghost seems to have the area memorized. Your hands ball up in your pockets, feeling empty and useless. With no bow, you have to rely on Ghost to get you back. It's a weird thing. Though, you suppose if there's anyone you'd want to be stuck out here with, it would be him. His presence alone offers more safety than the measly knife around your ankle.

"Ghost, we should go behind her," Blue says when you reach the beam.

He steps aside to allow you on first. "Try not to go for a swim this time."

A flush of pink bites your cheeks, though you blame it on the cold. It's hard to believe just four days ago you slipped off this thing. With his hands preoccupied, Ghost can't hold onto your shoulders like before, but he lingers close behind and repeatedly orders you to keep your eyes on the bank. 

Once you're all across, a calm quiet settles, a vast contrast to how talkative Blue was the first time around. It makes you absentmindedly pick the skin around your nails. By the time you reach the road, you've looked behind your shoulder at least ten times, half-expecting to spot a burnt face hiding among the trees. Squirrels prattle by. A starling calls above your head. But no people. You force your eyes onward and take a deep breath.

"So, uh, would you rather get mauled by a bear," you break the silence, stepping over a stray tire, "—or be struck by lightning?"

It takes a second for Blue to respond. "Oh. That's a good one. Do I have a gun while the bear attacks me?"

"No. No weapons. Just you and the bear."

"Then lightning." She pats Ghost's shoulder. "Could you take a bear?"

"On a good day, maybe," he answers.

"What about you, Twix?"

"No," you instantly scoff, kicking at a rock. "A bear would rip me apart. I would choose lightning because it'd be quick."

"Okay, I have one," Blue quips. "Would you rather be ripped in half, or fall off a tall building?"

"Ripped in half by what?" Ghost asks, tilting his head back.

"It doesn't matter." You can hear the roll of her eyes.

"It does matter. Might change my answer."

"Fall off a building," you interject. "The way down would suck, but I bet you don't feel a thing once you hit the ground."

"But you'd look like a dead bug," says Blue.

"I don't care what I look like. I'll be dead."

Ghost clears his throat. "My turn, then."

"No! You have to pick one," she exclaims. 

"Building," he drawls. A shadow of movement passes to the right of you. You naturally flinch closer to them, but it's just a doe hunkering down tall weeds that reach out of the concrete. A chuff of breath leaves your lips as you look away, only to find Ghost staring at you. For a few seconds, his eyes flicker between you and the deer before he goes back to focusing straight ahead. 

"Would you rather," he begins, "—chop off all your fingers, or take out your own eyes?"

"What do I use to take out my eyes?" Blue asks.

"Knife."

"I guess my eyes," she winces. "I mean, I'd rather get rid of two things than ten."

They both glance at you expectantly. A frigid gust of northern air takes hold of your hair, so you tuck the unruly strands behind your ears. "Uh, fingers," you decide after a moment. "I could probably live without them."

In the village, the air stinks enough for Ghost to come to a halt. Before, he was able to pass right through. This time, a group of fourteen or fifteen Greys seems to be trapped on the main street between a crumbled wall and a fallen telephone pole. He has to decide between expending ammo or time. It's not long before he nods to a small building and the three of you scale the rusted fire escape. From the safe distance of the roof, he takes out the Greys one by one with an accuracy that barely leaves a dent in the ample stockpile of cartridges. With the route cleared, he's saved at least an hour or two of precious daylight. 

The fog lifts. The ambery sun tries to peek through the clouds, but the sky is bent on staying grey. By the time you are back, your blisters have blisters. Blue has fallen asleep, cheek smushed against the back of Ghost's neck. Relief, thick and palpable, tastes sweet on your tongue. The fence, the rabbit hutch, the much-cozier cabin; none of it is home to you, but still, it calls your name in a welcoming coo. 

You have to aim Ghost's flashlight so he can unlock the gate. Blue stirs, but her eyes remain closed even when he pushes inside the cabin. It's shrouded in darkness. You prop the flashlight on the table as his boots scuffle against the floor.

He puts her to bed. As he does, you feel around for the sofa and nearly choke when your worn fingertips graze shabby fabric. Not icy water or solid wood or muddy ground, but something soft. You're about to sink into it, your bones desperate for the springy cushions, when he returns to the threshold of the hallway with an ugly, flannel sheet in his hands. 

"Here."

It's hard to be certain if you thank him or not; your brain conjures up the words, but your voice doesn't seem to function quite right. One thing is certain: you accept the sheet, tuck it on with urgency, and then lay down, burying your face in the crook of the pillow and arm. You kick off your boots and let the darkness take you, swift and heavy. It could be a coma or death disguised as sleep, and you figure you'd still slip into it without fuss. 

Those first days back are quiet. Blissfully uneventful. You sleep and sleep. In fact, you don't move from the couch except to relieve yourself and eat a little. Ghost and Blue don't seem to do much, either. Or maybe you just don't notice.

At one point, you wake up to a small stack of shirts beside the couch. All black. One long sleeve, the rest short. You change into one and continue sleeping. 

At another point, Blue hovers above you with a whisper that draws out a groan from you. "Hey. Ghost is making me skin some rabbits. Apparently, it's the only chore I can't get out of. Do you want to help me?"

"I think I'm good." You stuff the pillow over your face to make your point. 

"You've been sleeping for three days, you know."

"I could go for another three."

She takes the hint and staggers away. Walking now. You hear her right leg drag a little.

The sleep is good until it's not.

On the fifth night, you're no longer fatigued enough to keep the dreams squandered. They start as whispers. Hoarse and gritty. Then they get louder and louder, shouting your name until they are so loud it feels like someone is screaming in your ear. Different voices blend into an indecipherable cacophony. One screams in pain; another in anger. You feel someone's cold fingers take hold of your neck and are finally pried awake, flying up against the couch with fiery pants burning through your lungs. But all that's there is a dark room.

Sweat clings to every inch of you. It feels like everything is on fire, and all you want to do is cool down. You haven't bathed since the river. Catching your breath, you swing your legs down and quietly pad to the bathroom where you hope a little water is left. Luckily, in the glint of moonlight, you find a bucket used for washing hands and scoop some to your face. Then, you comb it through your sweat-laced hair. 

You unwrap your wrist and brush your fingers over the bite. You dab some water on it. You can't see well, but you feel the constellation of congealed scabs beneath your fingertips. Scars. Wounds. Your nostrils flare as a you wonder if one day you'll be so covered in them you won't even look like yourself. It's a good thing there is not enough light to spot the reflection of your face in the mirror, because you're not thrilled to greet the one now on your brow.

On your way out of the bathroom, something solid and immobile blocks your path. You startle backward, sucking in air as you peer up at a masked face. Ghost. It's Ghost. You haven't spoken to him since getting back, and in this moment, you long for the ability to push past him, but his wide shoulders consume the narrow hall. 

It's silly to think you can avoid him when you sleep in the same space now. The thing is— you have no idea what to think of him. Before, it was easy to settle on fear of how easily he could snap your neck, and annoyance for how he treated you. And then, when forced to, you could engage in a pragmatic conversation about how to keep yourselves alive.

But now, you don't know what you are supposed to feel around him, and you have spent zero time reflecting on it so far.

"Sorry. I was just, uh, washing my face."

"In the middle of the night?" he rasps, tilting his gaze down.

You teeter back a step, keeping a healthy bubble of space between your bodies. You're not sure why he hasn't just moved out of the way, or what he would be up and about for at this hour, but briefly, you wonder if he is suspicious of you. If after everything you went through, he still thinks you're trying to do something and might send you back to the shed. The three of you relieve yourself outside the cabin since the plumbing doesn't work, so it certainly does seem odd that you'd be in the bathroom during the night. 

"I was sweating a lot." Inwardly, you curse at yourself. "I mean, I haven't bathed since we got back, and I..." You trail off in a whisper.

"And you what?"

"I don't know." You fiddle with the hem of the oversized shirt he gave you. "I'm not trying to kill you or your daughter in your sleep, though, if that's what you're thinking."

He simply stares at you. It feels like he can see right through you, and your eyes drop to your wool socks. Then, he murmurs, “I wasn't thinking that."

"Okay," you reply carefully. "Could you... please move, then?"

Finally, he steps out of the way, but you feel the burn of his eyes on your skin as you brush past him. 

"Twix."

You pause, looking back. "Yes?"

A shake of his head. And then: "Take a proper bath tomorrow. You could use it.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Will do." 

With that, you crawl back onto the couch.

[sexyapostate]

Auntie Ethel's Race-Specific Vicious Mockeries

Because of this post by rpgchoices, I figured I'd compile all the other Vicious Mockery lines Auntiel Ethel can hit the player with. These don't include the origin companion specific ones. You can find those in the linked post.

DROW ELF

Filthy underscum!

Just another of Lolth's pretty harlots.

Slaver. Sadist. How dare you judge me?

DROW ELF (MALE)

Bare your throat, spider-bait.

Kneel, boy. Just like the matriarchs taught you to.

Bow to your betters, boy.

HALF-ELF DROW

Even the Underdark doesn't want you, half-breed.

Surprised you show yourself in public, abomination.

A half-drow? How grotesque.

DWARF

More beard than brains, the lot of you.

Bet you'd trade your friends for a trinket or two, gold-eater!

I'll squeeze that stone heart until it bleeds, dwarf.

DUERGAR DWARF

Bow your head, slave. You remember how, don't you?

Grey and useless as a stone comb.

Need a new master, illithid lover?

DRAGONBORN

Aww, where's your clan? Bet they'd exile you for that brainworm in a blink.

Bet that honour of yours shatters easy as your scales.

You foul-breathed little lizard!

GNOME

Disgusting burrow rat.

Bet your clan's happy you're gone!

Try laughing after I rip your throat out, gnome.

ELF 

Fancy yourself immortal? We'll see how long that lasts.

I'll show you what a true fey does, dearie.

Elves are so pretty. Pretty worthless!

HALF-ELF

I wonder which parent regrets you more, half-breed.

How revolting. Another thin-blooded mongrel. Half-elf. Half-human. All useless.

HUMAN

Another human rat infesting Faerûn.

A human! So desperate to be special.

Pity. That tadpole actually made you interesting.

HALFLING

No flabby dwarf's a threat to me.

Come closer, little softie. You'll be tender.

A tiny, sweet morsel. Just for me.

HALF-ORC

Come now, tusks-for-brains! Doesn't this make you angry?

All that bloodlust. A little tap, and I bet you won't know friend from foe!

Lumbering half-orc. Twice as ugly as your parents combined!

TIEFLING

I'll burn you alive and everyone will celebrate.

You're everyone's punching bag and no one's favourite.

I see the Hells spit out another tragic little tiefling.

These were included in the dialogue document and the races listed are exactly what's in the dialogue's trigger flags.

PLANAR (githyanki, warforged)

What kind of botched portal brought something like you here?

Are you lost, little one? Maybe your soul will make it back home.

I'll banish you for good, outsider!

RARE (aasimar, dragonborn, firbolg, genasi, githyanki, half-drow, half-orc, tiefling, triton, warforged, yuan-ti pureblood)

I'm one step closer to wiping your kind off Faerûn for good!

Freakish thing. I bet everyone stares when you walk by.

Not a lot like you. You'll be my prettiest trophy.

BEASTIAL (aarakocra, kenku, lizardfolk, tabaxi, tortle)

Think you're a person because you're walking on two feet? Adorable.

Can't wait to throw a collar on your neck and make you my familiar.

I'll tan your hide, beast!

BONUS: MINSC? FOR SOME REASON? I don't know why there seem to be unlabeled Minsc-specific Vicious Mockeries. Maybe Ethel played BG1/2 and just really hates him.

How quaint! The hamster has a pet.

Only evil here is what's inside you, ranger.

Go rub your rat, soft-skull.

[llamagoddessofficial]

How about headcannons for fae Nightmare are fav Winter King??

You're in a relationship with two Nightmare's, really.

The first Nightmare is the King. Overwhelmingly powerful, aloof, wickedly intelligent, stern but with a strong sense of justice, (privately) very caring and gentle. This Nightmare is the one you spend the vast majority of your time with. He flirts like a courtly prince... he ballroom dances with you on glittering midwinter nights, he reads you poetry by dwindling firelight. He gifts you the finest gowns and furs, matched only in craftsmanship by his own, he puts crystal necklaces around your neck and silver rings on your fingers. He kisses your knuckles and takes you on long romantic horse rides, he has a winter flower garden made for you, he wraps his cloak around your shoulders when you're tired. This is the Nightmare that has been tempered by hundreds of years of rule. The man he shows the world; the man he wants to be, for you.

... Then there's the other Nightmare. The one underneath. The one that never recovered from the wound to his skull, nor the betrayal he felt after.

That Nightmare is furious. Ragged. Desperately tired, hates everything but you. Wildly possessive - barely holding back from clawing out the eyes of anyone who looks your way. Starving for your love, but absolutely terrified of what that means. Wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go.

Generally, the first Nightmare is excellent at covering up the second, he's had centuries to practise. But you catch glimpses. That's the Nightmare who sees a courtier aggressively flirting with you at a feast, and takes them outside to beat them within an inch of their life and leave them bleeding in the snow. That's the Nightmare that drinks a little too much wine and won't let go of your wrist all evening. The Nightmare who draws you like he's trying to capture you forever in the paper; the one who pulls you closer to him in the middle of the night. The Nightmare that stares jealously at people who make you laugh, only just covering his tracks and laughing along when he realises he's being intimidating.

He's very gentle with you. He'll never raise his voice at you.

He's got a surprisingly playful side. For all his gloomy seriousness, he seems to take quite a bit of joy in teasing you. The other skeletons are jarred by the sight of you teasing him back - that's a luxury no one else in either kingdom can afford.

Killer has his stray cats. Nightmare has his beloved horse, the eighteen-hand beast that bites off hands and kicks in heads. She has an obvious soft spot for you. Only you and Nightmare can mount her.

Nightmare also has some (equally beloved) massive hunting hounds who resemble dire wolves more than dogs. They look terrifying and vicious, coming and going from the castle as they please, often disappearing as a pack into the wilderness for days. When Nightmare isn't around, alongside the usual trio of Killer Dust and Horror looking after you, you'll have some massive fluffy good boys as excellent bodyguards.

Nightmare can be... difficult. He isn't very good at expressing himself; he lies about how he feels to make you feel better, getting the truth out of him is getting blood from a stone. He's a romantic, he wants to look after you, he wants everything to be about you. He's happy when you're happy and his own wants are far too messy and scary to unpack. Gifting you another set of sapphire earrings is much easier than admitting he's massively insecure and just wants you to stay in bed with him all day, cradling his skull and telling him you care.

... All that being said... you will never know loyalty like his. Many people say they would 'wait a thousand years' for their partner.

He actually would.

[shotmrmiller]

johnny en las almas

It feels like the man with the skull mask had just left when another person traipses in through the broken front door. He's not as sneaky as the big boy— the shattered glass of your windows crunching under his boots with each step. With each inhale, his breath is ragged and uneven, his teeth clattering together due to the biting cold of the rain pouring outside.

Peeking through the crack of the closet door, you watch the muscle-bound soldier with the mohawk moving cautiously through your home— first going left towards your bedroom, then right towards the bathroom.

"Picked up some tape." Scottish accent. Is he talking to himself?

A brief pause settled in the air, interrupted solely by the faint noise of him rummaging through the cupboard.

"If I have to wrap a gift?" He has a radio, then.

Following that, he falls silent, continuing his search for supplies when the plastic bucket you're sitting on unexpectedly caves in, causing a loud and startling noise. Shit. Shit shit shit—

"Out, palms flat on the floor, or I break yer neck." His voice is like steel— hard and cold, much unlike a few minutes before when he was bantering with whoever it was.

You push the door open with the crown of your head to keep your hands flat on the floor as you fearfully crawl out, craning your neck to look at him.

"Creepin' bloody jesus. Cannae be scarin' me like tha', coulda killed ye."

Perhaps it's the overwhelming stress of everything that has unfolded today— from the unexpected arrival of Americans to the uncertainty of becoming just another statistic that leads you to respond with an unwise touch of sarcasm.

"So sorry, friend. I'll be sure to let you know when I leave for work tomorrow, yeah?"

He surprisingly chuckles, wincing when his shoulders shake. "Aye, sorry, sorry," he extends a hand toward you. "Terrible hidin' spot, though."

With a single motion, he effortlessly raises you to your feet. "If you're friends with a bear-sized man that wears a skull mask, he told me the same thing."

As you glance downwards, brushing off the dust from your knees, you fail to notice the piercing gaze he directs towards you. "He came through here?"

"Mhm," you confirm. "Picked me up like a dog and threw me in this closet behind him. He saved my life, though."

Straightening, you glance up at him, only to finally notice the openly bleeding wound on his right arm. "May I?" you gesture at his injury.

His hesitance is obvious, the corner of his thin lips pulling downward and dark brows furrowing so you confess, "I'm a nurse. Well, was, until I came here. I swear to know what I'm doing. Come with me, I've-" but whatever you were about to say is smothered by his hand, fingers digging into your soft cheeks, and uses his other to place a finger over his mouth.

Silence.

He turns his head to the side; an unsettling stillness descending upon the two of you. Suddenly, he's roughly grabbing your wrist and dragging you to the bedroom, where he presses you firmly against the wall closest to the door.

He whispers harshly into your ear. "Do. not. move."

Trembling with fear, you instinctively curl up, shrinking into yourself as if trying to disappear from sight. Luckily, whoever they were left as fast as they came— merely using your home as a shortcut.

Mohawk man takes no chances, however, so you're effectively pinned under him for a considerable amount of time until he deems it completely safe.

The small grin he gives you after is apologetic. "Sorry."

You irritably soothe the ache on your cheeks. "It's alright. Can't wait to get out of this pisshole, though."

He's acquiescent after, letting you quickly clean and dress his wound. "I have no more bandages so this'll have to do." The sound of fabric being torn echoes in the bathroom. "Get seen for this injury as soon as you're able, otherwise you'll have a nasty infection on your hands."

He huffs out a small laugh. "Dinnae ye mean arm?"

Charming. "Your friend left through the back door. That's all I know."

"Aye. Thank ye." He quickly hops off the counter, jogs to the back door, and with one last glance at you, he disappears.

-

"Gimme a sit-rep." Ghost says over comms.

"Outside...Gated alley."

[artytaeh]

for those who read a little of my panicking about how huge the original lorenzo berkshire headcanons post was— here it is: random hcs + lorenzo as your boyfriend.

this man is so carmen - lana del rey coded. i can't say if i love lorenzo berkshire or not, help.

(l.b.) RANDOM HEADCANONS :

⭑ a big fan of herbology. to avoid some stupid comments, lorenzo insists that it's out of fascination for dangerous plants, like the devil's snare (enzo thinks that they're disgusting); in reality, lorenzo really likes to see different flora, being knowledgeable of the romantic language of flowers. one of his favorite plants are the ones meant to be pleasant and pretty.

⭑ so petty. if lorenzo has some nemesis or a rivalry, he would be try to mess up the guy's relationship, by convincing his girlfriend to cheat with enzo. prefers to punch someone emotionally rather than a physical scar.

⭑ if he has a rival that happens to be a girl, well, lorenzo finds it somewhat attractive to banter with someone. might be a one-sided rivalry, since the girl might genuinely mean those comments, while lorenzo is trying to flirt with her and get an angry make out session.

⭑ the biggest gossiper around school. as i've said before, lorenzo knows all versions of the story; might be the type of person who's a friend to all, friend to none (the slytherin boys are an exception). if you want to know something, you'll go to lorenzo berkshire. if he doesn't know, he'll know by the end of the afternoon.

⭑ became a prefect during his sixth year, because he hated umbridge with a burning passion— even though he put on a polite smile to keep himself away from umbridge's radar. even though he was offered the position of prefect at fifth year, and even had some slytherins trying to convince him to accept, lorenzo only took that place as soon as umbridge was gone.

⭑ the biggest fred and george weasley's fan. always had an eye out to testify their pranks, and gave side-eyes to draco whenever he was rude to the twins. their biggest defender, and a bit embarrassing whenever he tried to speak to those 'gryffindor legends', as he calls them.

⭑ became more of a fanboy during his fifth year, and didn't shut up about the twins until the end of the year, praising them for the chaos they created before running away from hogwarts. lorenzo is telling this story to his kids, i promise you that.

⭑ would genuinely try to become friends with his friends' girlfriends— if theodore brought his girlfriend to hang out with their group, lorenzo (and blaise) would be the first one to welcome her into the group. he sympathizes that new groups can be scary.

⭑ attends to every party, nevermind the house hosting it; as a slytherin he'll always claim that the snakes throw the best ones, even though he really likes hufflepuff's ambience. lorenzo stopped going to gryffindor parties as soon as the weasley twins left hogwarts; lorenzo tolerates any kind of music, but fuck, gryffindor makes his ears bleed out.

⭑ isn't that competitive with quidditch matches; if anything, lorenzo is the wise voice that keeps mattheo from hitting his bat straight to another player's skull. instead of being furious that slytherin lost, lorenzo has the tendency to blame himself.

⭑ could and would enter a fight if necessary. one of lorenzo's reasons to swallow his temper (in front of everyone, at least) is to keep his reputation; the other one is to keep his handsome face intact of cuts and bruises.

⭑ frequently excuses his worst actions by convincing himself that he'll change for the better, as soon as he meets the one. lorenzo would never hurt someone that badly — (maybe he's just as selfish as his mother, bellatrix lestrange, inheriting her tendency to abandon everything to pursue her own happiness. as soon as they she feels fulfilled, who cares if others get hurt?) — right? all of his bad habits, all of the things he's done; it will all be gone as soon as he's with her.

and since we're mentioning the one, lorenzo grows anxious in relationships; he contemplates whether this girl is his true match, and becomes paranoid that he's wasting his time on her, instead of the girl meant for him. to decide, lorenzo usually does a list of pros and cons about this recent fling— he'll decide to give it a week or longer than that, after considering what he wrote.

⭑ criminally pretty. the slytherin boys made a scientific study about this infuriating talent of berkshire's heir: managing to look good in any. possible. photo. no matter if lorenzo tries to look silly— he ends up looking good. so unbothered if people take photos of him or keep silly ones; enzo knows that he looks good.

⭑ 'liquid smooth - mitski' vibes. lorenzo was born to be pretty— if he's no longer pretty, if he's not stunning, or not feeling like himself that day, he will have a breakdown and throw some things around the room. for all his masks, lorenzo wonders if the only genuinely good thing about him is his appearance— if he loses it too, what will be of him, with nothing else to love about lorenzo berkshire?

⭑ so unlucky with animals— care of magical creatures isn't the best subject for him, since they seem to smell lorenzo's bullshit miles away. there was this one ravenclaw's cat that almost clawed at his cheek, when he tried to kiss his owner... well. as much as lorenzo tries to win them over, cats give him a specially hard time.

⭑ that being said, lorenzo only has an owl as a pet, specifically to be able to send letters. even so, lorenzo makes sure that she (he named her artemis) is well groomed and taken care of. he always has treats for artemis back on his dorm room, to reward her hard work.

⭑ one of his hobbies is exploring muggle london, and other cities mainly occupied by muggles. lorenzo genuinely believes that the wizardy world is much more interesting, however, he likes to experience muggleborn's life as well— lorenzo is genuinely interested on their method of living.

⭑ his favorite places at hogsmeade are honeyduke's and zonko's; there is yet to be a hogsmeade trip where lorenzo doesn't bring some honeyduke's treats with him— he usually brings extra for his friends, if he notices that one of them is having a hard time.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

(n.) L. BERSKHIRE : as your boyfriend :

this man has experience and a big heart that wants to love, fueled by his (sometimes, extreme) expectations of falling in love.

gives gifts 'just because'; the berkshire family is wealthy, and lorenzo genuinely never had to look at a price tag before; he'll do it even less for the sake of your smile.

however, lorenzo finds more value in handmade gifts, perceiving them as having more emotional value and effort, than something bought at a store. in random days, he'll gift you something that reminded him of you— in special dates, like month anniversaries or your birthday, lorenzo will work on handmade gifts.

some examples are: love letters, bracelets that he got younger years teaching him how to make, photo albums of the two of you, etc.

would have matching plushies with you, though. lorenzo would try to find little outfits for them, specially wedding themed ones; if you happen to be upset with lorenzo, he'll take his plushie to your dorm, and put the two of them on top of your bed, ''kissing.''

not the type of guy that would yell and start a brawl, should someone flirt with you in front of him. lorenzo will open a smile, and say: 'i know, right? my girl is so attractive.' in a way that might leave the other guy embarrassed.

... the thing is, as soon as you're back to your dorm room, and lorenzo catches him alone— mysteriously, it seems like he was a bit unlucky. infirmary wing, unable to go to classes? lorenzo wonders what happened to him. specially because the guy wouldn't be an idiot to land lorenzo in detention, much less try his luck with you.

loud lover that feels no shame about his relationship with you. lorenzo is a romantic person, treating you how he seeks to receive the same treatment from you: he wants you to be a proud girlfriend, the same way he is, showing off his beloved, letting the whole school (and even scotland) know that you're his.

is very attentive about dates. lorenzo knows that life as student of hogwarts is never uneventful, and that your responsibilities grow with age. even so, lorenzo makes sure that you two have a full-on date, with dressing up + planned out activity, at least three times per month. it's a sacred rule to him, that allows your relationship to remain romantic and interesting for both of you.

some of the petnames that i see lorenzo using for his loved one are: sunshine, sweetheart, angel, pretty girl. only ever uses your name when it's a serious conversation or an argument.

heavy gossiper. so mean about it too— would laugh at other people's unfortunes then make a serious face and nod as soon as you reprimand him. he's still laughing inside. as soon as he gets new source of gossip, lorenzo is running to find you.

study dates don't work with the two of you. if he gets a glimpse of you, lorenzo gives up on reading whatever annotations to look at you with heart eyes.

if there's someone you don't like, lorenzo will probably find some bad stuff about that person— just in case, you know? if there's ever an argument between you and them, you already have ammunition to strike them with! lowkey loves badmouthing other people with you. it's his favorite thing to do.

has so many friends that are girls, however, doesn't give them any chance; lorenzo is aware of his reputation and that his many flings might leave you insecure. would genuinely distance himself from a girl for the sake of your relationship with him, or change his behavior near her.

gets nervous when you watch his quidditch practices; lorenzo finds it harder to focus on defending quaffles, knowing that you're there to watch him. will ask you what you thought about the practice— discreetly fishes for some praises here and there.

whenever there are slytherin matches that he plays as a keeper, lorenzo and you will match outfits; it doesn't matter if you're not a slytherin, you will wear slytherin's colors on that day, with lorenzo's jumper on your body and his surname, berkshire, written on your back.

speaking of matching outfits: loves to match with you, or at least wear the same palettes, at least whenever the two of you go for a date together. it's a simple yet cute way to show that hey! we're together! and a happy fashionable couple!

a really good person to go shopping with. not only does he cover any cost without looking at the price tag (lorenzo doesn't want you to spend your own money, since there's no reason to) but he's really good at giving opinions. as i said before, this man dresses so well, so he has a good sense of fashion and an instinct over what works, and doesn't work. what colors favor you, and others that don't you justice.

if you're cold, and it happens to be a chilly weather outside, instead of giving you his warm clothes for the rest of the date, lorenzo will temporarily give you his coat and seek for any clothing store to buy you something warm.

l : sunshine, are you cold? come on, let's buy you a pretty coat. warmer, preferably.

🗯️ : can i choose a scarf for you?

l : of course, sweetheart. let's see if we can find a scarf that matches this new coat of yours.

this becomes a fun game; if one of you buys something, then you'll get something matching for the other. not only does it had to your collection of couple-matching-clothes, but also feeds his large wardrobe. dating lorenzo berkshire comes with extra luggage to pack new clothes, i promise you.

so patient when you're getting ready. lorenzo doesn't mind waiting longer until you're satisfied with your outfit— he knows the struggle, believe me. will help you and give you some opinions (if, and only if you ask.), not wanting you to stress over not feeling pretty enough. even if you had specific hours to leave the castle, enzo knows that any reservation can be postponed, so there's no stress on his part.

passive-aggressive. you know the term, right? unfortunately this is how conflict starts on your relationship; something deeply bothers lorenzo, he gatekeeps it to had some bitterness to his heart, then verbalizes that something is wrong by an unrelated comment.

has a hard time understanding when he's in the wrong, even though he will gladly apologize first to be in good terms with you — even if lorenzo isn't truly apologetic. he priorizes a good ambience in your relationship, than having the world knowing that he won a stupid argument.

kisses you silly. this man is so affectionate; sometimes you're just talking about whatever, and lorenzo will dissociate as he looks at you, cupping your face before peppering many kisses to you cheeks, nose, jaw, chin, lips— anywhere.

lorenzo prefers slow kisses, enjoying the moment without a rush, teasing you by giving you some glances and breaking off the kiss to smile, before tempting your lower lip. couldn't care less if it's in the middle of a hallway, or behind a tree in the courtyard— let people see that you're two teenagers in love!

speaking of physical contact: lorenzo is a bit picky over who touches his hair (he spends a stupid amount of time to make sure that it looks pretty), but loves it when you fix his hair for him. doesn't mind it if you twirl his hair between your fingers, he thinks that's sweet.

loves to hold hands, yet you'll find him walking around with his arm around your shoulders more frequently. also likes to have you sat on his lap, rests his chin on your shoulder and will have you there, even when he's spending time / chatting with his slytherin friends.

if someone's hostile with you, you have five counted seconds to defend yourself before lorenzo jumps to your defense. did someone point out an insecurity of yours? lorenzo is making a nonstop list of things that that person should be insecure about. won't apologize either— they're the one who started!

loves cliches. if you don't know how to dance, lorenzo will teach you during some sleepover to his dorm; helps you learn the steps by having your feet on top of his own, arm around your waist, hand caressing yours as you two giggle and tease each other for your clumsy first try.

would be so pouty and even pushy, if you don't feel like going to parties with him. lorenzo adores going to those— genuinely because he has fun, nevermind how chaotic it can get. besides, he wants to brag about his girlfriend! :( might suggest that you're embarrassed of him, and that is the reason why you'd rather stay in your dorm. (dramatic much, berkshire?)

walks you to classes, only failing to do so if he has classes with professors like snape, on the other end of the castle. this man is punctual, leaving slytherin's dorms early to walk you to the great hall, having breakfast together without a hurry, then walking to class while holding hands. genuinely gets better scores in assignments of classes that you don't have together— he gets distracted if you're there!

now that we're mentioning cliches, there was this one time in october, that you decided to spend the afternoon in the library to study, since it was raining outside. lorenzo came to your side, closed your books and gently took them from your grasp— then, he tugged you to follow him, lifting you by the waist to get the two of you under the rain.

lorenzo spins you on his arms; now that both are soaked with the cold rain, he makes a curtsy, asking you to dance, 'would you conceed me the honor of dancing with you, my lady?' only to kiss your hand, before tugging you closer to him, being that sickeningly sweet couple that brings jealousy to others.

not to your surprise, some other pairs did join you in the courtyard, dancing and jumping over the wet floor.

to mcgonagall's disapproval, she had way too many students skipping next day's classes for being sick.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

౨ৎ the boys, the girls, they all like ▉, he laughs ♡ ͡

like god, his mind's like a diamond, he's still shining . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— lorenzo berkshire is a topic that has been on my drafts during these last days. general headcanons of lorenzo were supposed to be posted first, but i'm still working on them </3 so i plan to post it tomorrow. 🗯️ tysm for reading. ♡

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[auspicioustidings]

Hello there I have another questionable idea 😁

So 141 confusing reader home for a safe house and breaking in and the sleep deprived nurse reader is just like 😐 and patches them up cos they are hurt and that’s the start of an very interesting relationship

Thank you for everything you are doing and remember that you are amazing

Drink water not coffee

🎃anon

Pumpkin! Ohh so this is similar vibes to this which I never wrote because sometimes I love a concept but am rubbish with execution :')

I have, however, tried my best to give you a little bit of your ask <3

Hippocratic Oath

Words: 550

Nah, for real if someone was breaking in you didn't care but they could at least be fucking quiet about it so you could go back to sleep. You had not slept in an actual bed in fucking days, only catching what could barely be described as a nap in the cots at the hospital between emergencies. 

“Find a first aid kit, we need to get him stable!”

Oh come on. The people robbing you were injured? Stupid fucking hippocratic oath. Technically it said nothing about having to help people who had broken into your house, it just said you couldn't harm them. So if you laid here and ignored it then Apollo couldn't say shit. 

…God fucking damnit. You dragged yourself out of bed, honestly too tired to react to the gun pointed at you with anything but a withering look, and went to pull the first aid supplies from their place. 

“Who the fuck are you?”

“This is my house skull mask, who the fuck are you?”

There was a man with a mohawk bleeding all over your couch. You grumbled about that a little but dutifully knelt by him and started to cut the clothes around the problem area so you could clean it out and stitch him up. A heavy tactical vest was on the floor, leaving him in just a t-shirt. The other young man was pushing a wad of bandages to stem the bleeding. Good, he was doing a good job. 

Kyle looked at Price who only furrowed his eyebrows and nodded, giving him permission to follow your instructions. So that's what he did. 

“We get a bonnie medic with safehouses these days Captain? Cannae say I'm complaining.”

“Shush or you'll wind up biting your tongue off when I do the stitches” you said, prepping the needle and thread. 

You looked quickly around his get up, seeing he was wearing jeans with a belt and undoing it. 

“I've definitely seen a movie like this” the skull mask man said which you elected to ignore.

“Tell me more LT.”

You shoved the belt in the man's mouth and he took it between his teeth immediately. Not his first rodeo then. Made sense, they were probably soldiers. He was a model patient as you stitched him up, not squirming at all. 

Your focus overrode your exhaustion for long enough to give each of the others a once over, making sure there wasn't anything else serious you needed to treat. By the time you got to the last man, the one your patient had called Captain, you were completely dead on your feet and your eyes were starting to sting. 

“Thanks luv, c'mere.”

Being scooped up by some military man who had broken into your house really should have caused some sort of fight or flight response, but you had nothing else left to give. You were asleep before he even made it to the bedroom, putting you right back under the blankets. 

–

Your alarm never went off and you frantically called in to work to let them know you'd be there as soon as possible only to be told in no uncertain terms you were on leave for at least the next week. 

It was with some shock that you emerged from your room to find that dream wasn't as much of a dream as you thought.

“Let's have a little chat about the next week hm luv?”

Ah fuck.

[cyxnidx]

Y'TASTE SO SWEET !

characters: Tartaglia, Dottore, Pantalone, Wriothesley, Neuvillette

contents: vampire!reader, blood play, marking maybe, slight masochism, nicknames (sweetheart & baby in childe's, darling in neuvillette & pantalones.) neuvi's is a little smutty. (all of them are but his is a little more.)

a/n: THIS TROPE SENDS ME INTO ORBIT EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

"ay, sweetheart?" childe calls out to you, waving a hand in front of your face. "you alright?" he asks, not noticing how you quietly kiss at your teeth. you look at him for a moment, eyes almost putting him into a trance-like state while you move slowly, placing yourself into his lap. you run your fingers along his face, and down the nape of his neck, lips following soon after. chuckling lightly, he speaks slowly. "y'hungry, hmm?" he hums, a choked groan coming next when he feels your teeth poke into the side of his neck. you close your eyes, drinking each drop as needed while his hands instead stay on your hips and waist, lightly tracing shapes into your soft skin. soon enough, he feels you bite down harsher, harder and impossibly deeper, earning a bunch of strained curses from him. "fuckfuckfuckfuck, baby-" he hisses softly. "gentle, gentle." he reminds, rubbing your back gently. meanwhile, he felt the once spacious area in his pants get tighter by the second.

a giggling mess, dottore grips your hair tightly, eyes practically rolling to the back of his skull as you drink his blood from him. he can't help but push your head further, adorning the feeling of you drinking from him. he closes his eyes, honing in on the feeling of you sucking the blood out of him. which, compared to your traditional, 'mad-scientist and sadistic' dottore, was quite a surprise what he said next. "harder. bite me harder, fuck-" he mumbles softly. doing as he said, you sunk your teeth ever deeper into his neck, adorning the next few low moans and groans he gave. though, you released soon after, dragging your tongue over the now bleeding-out holes on his neck. "y'know, for somebody like you, you taste quite sweet." you tell him, running your tongue over your teeth gently. "why'd you stop?" dottore frowned, for the first time you've ever think you've seen him. "keep going." he tempted. "if i keep drinking from you without giving you breaks, you'll die dottore." you tell him, pinching the bridge of your nose before preparing to get off from his lap. though, two pairs of larger hands keep you on his lap, pressing his erection into you. "keep going, damn it."

wincing slightly, pantalone couldn't ignore the stinging feeling on his forearm. looking over, he couldn't help but slightly smile when he saw you pressing your mouth into his muscle, blood slightly spilling out the sides. "why, hello darling." he says calmly, enjoying the current sight of you indulging yourself in his blood, almost like a snack. you take a few more gulps before moving, licking the rest of the blood off. "so sweet.." you'd mumble, smiling when pantalone presses a kiss to your forehead. "i'm glad you enjoy it, darling."

wriothesley can't help but groan quietly when you decided to push him into an empty room of the palace and roughly bite into him. you take in his blood, ignoring the way he continues to hiss at the sudden stabbing feeling as blood courses from his neck and into your mouth. "fuck- arent you supposed to be helpin' neuvillette with papers or somethin'?" he asks meekly, a shocked moan erupting from his throat when you bite down. he understood it was a sign for him that he should probably shut up and let you have a bit of a snack, but he can never quite leave you alone. "oh, c'mon." he teases, "g'na have to bite harder if you want the right response-" and before he could properly finish his sentence, his statement turned into repeated curses when you clamped down harder. "aalright, i get it.." he mumbles, craning his head back further as a way to let you have more access.

"please don't stop." you heard the man under you whimper. in one hand, you had his cock, stroking him at a steady pace. and the other, was holding you up over him as you drank his blood. the stimulation of pleasure, paired with a bit of pain, always intrigued neuvillette to an extent. but never did he think he'd get to experience it. "keep going, please, ohmygod, fuck." he'd whine, bucking his hips into your fist as you bit down harder into his neck. "y'so good t'me, darling," he praises, hand coming up to tangle his fingers in your hair. bucking a few more times, he cums all over your fist, head falling back as he still held you to his neck. "thank you," he mumbles softly, grip softening from your hair, falling limp. he closes his eyes softly, slipping into sleep due to the lack of blood and overwhelming sensation tiring him out.

[captainlunaxmen]

Frustration

Finan x fem!reader

Hi! I got this idea last night and thought to write, to ease the wait for the next Finnick's chapter.

Hope you'll like it, let me know❤️

Summary: The Reader can't stand when Finan opposes himself to her involvement in the group's plans.

Warnings: mention of bleeding, mention of sexual assault.

I can feel a headache growing in my skull, Uhtred and Finan have been fighting for far too long now.

I take a big gulp of ale and stand to join them and put an end to it. I get in between them, separating them.

"Would you please stop, now?" I demand, i turn to Finan, "I am going. End of story."

"No you're not." He insists and I deeply sigh, more frustrated then before.

"They don't know her! She can blend in better than us." Uhtred almost shouts out of frustration.

"He's right, Finan, it's the only way we can find out about their plans." Sihtric chimes in, supporting our plan.

"She can't." Finan insists, "no way."

"I can't?" I ask, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"You've not trained enough. It's too dangerous." Finan insists, hard expression on his face.

"Excuse me?"

"She's more prepared than me." Osferth supports us too.

"That doesn't say a lot..." Sihtric mutters.

"She's more than prepared, Finan." Uhtred declares, "she's going."

"End. Of. Story." I add, walking away, ignoring Finan's furious eyes.

I don't understand him, Finan never talks to me, never cared before tonight, and now he acts all mad about me going into the enemy's camp.

I file off my sword, ignoring whoever came in with me.

"I didn't want to ask in front of them, but.." Uhtred's voice is close, "are you sure you want to do it?"

Want... not can, at least he believes in my skills.

"I'm sure, lord." I look him in the eyes, "I'm sure."

"That's what I wanted to hear." He smiles, "all set?"

"Yes, lord." I nod vigorously.

"Let's send you off then!" He cheerfully pats my shoulder, then hugs me.

I say goodbye to everyone as I walk towards the camp. I feel a particularly angry stare piercing my skull as I walk off, but I decide to ignore it.

--------------

Well, that didn't go as planned.

I hold my bleeding arm as I hide from the Danes chasing me. I need to take the longer route to get back to my camp, so I can lose them.

I take a deep breath once I see in the distance Uhtred's camp, one last effort and I'll be safe.

"She's back!" I hear Osferth voice calling the others.

Once I arrive at the camp everyone else is already gathered there to greet me.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Sihtric exclaims.

"They didn't find out I work with Uhtred, if that's what you're wondering." I groan as I sit, Osferth is already kneeling beside me to check on my arm.

"Then what happened?" Uhtred asks, alarmed.

"Nothing particular." I answer.

"What?" The familiar hard tone of Finan is present.

"Nothing."

"That doesn't look like nothing." He insists.

"Am I about to die, Osferth?" I innocently ask the monk.

"Uh... n-no... it just needs stitches..." Osferth hesitantly answer.

"See?" I tilt my head, pointing at Osferth, "it's nothing."

"Y/n..." Uhtred sighs, "what happened?"

"One of the men wanted to 'have fun' with me as he said it." I explain, "I dared to say no."

"What?!" Finan exclaims, but recollects himself immediately.

"But I got the information you needed." I turn to Uhtred.

"I don't care about that now." He says, "are you okay?"

"I'm saying I'm fine. It was nothing." I insist, "they keep the hostages in a chariot, sort of, not many and-"

"You need to rest." Finan interrupts me, earning a glare from me.

"I said I'm fucking fine." I snap at him.

"He's right." Osferth agrees with his friend, "you did lose a great amount of blood apparently. Stay warm and I'll get you something to eat."

"I..."

"Do as he says, you'll tell us later." Uhtred orders. I groans out, but accept the blanket Sihtric brings me.

"Told you." Finan mutters to me and walks off before I could tell him something.

I groan in frustration and just sit there warming myself as I wait for Osferth.

--------------

I ate and they finally let me share all the information I gathered. Now we just need a plan to rescue the hostages.

As we plan I keep sensing Finan's eyes on me, and everytime I look up he stares, furious at me.

"Can I ask what's your problem?" I interrupt Uhtred.

Everyone looks at me confused then move their attention to Finan as well.

"Finan, she's coming too, I don't want a repetition of what happened the other day." Uhtred states.

"You saw what happened." Finan insists.

"I got back with information." I state the obvious.

"You got injured!"

"It was merely a scratch!"

"You're staying here!"

"I am not!" I shouts, "I'm part of this just as you are. I am coming. I am capable, I'm not a fucking child!"

I stand and walk away.

"Y/n..!" Uhtred calls.

"No. Call me when he decides to treat me with respect." I turn around and walk off, away from them. Away from Finan.

--------------

I enjoy the solitude, looking up at the sky when I hear footsteps coming closer.

"I told you my condition, Uhtred." I say.

"Not Uhtred." Finan's voice catches me off guard, I turn to look at him, he looks tired.

"What do you want?" I ask, turning away.

"I... I guess I wanted to apologise." He says softly.

"You guess?" I scoff, "more like Uhtred forced you."

"No... he just sent me off to think, and I cane to the conclusion that I owe you an apology." He sit beside me.

"Okay..."

"So... I'm sorry." He says softly.

"For...?" I urge.

"For looking out for you too much." He says.

"What?" I ask, confused, I stand up looking down at him, "looking out for me? Are you serious?"

He stands up too, and now he's the one looking down at me, since he's taller.

"Yes.."

"You thought that treating me like a child, was looking out for me?" I ask, frustrated.

"I was..."

"Shut up." I say walking away again, but stop when he grabs my wrist and turns me back to him.

"Talk to me." He almost pleads.

"Talk to you?!" I widen my eyes, "you're the one that doesn't talk to me... you don't talk to me, you ignore me, you treat me like a child, you treat me like I'm useless and incapable of helping... like I'm not part of this group and you ask me to talk to you?"

"I've never... I didn't mean it." He tries to explain.

"Then why? What did you mean?" I ask him. He just stares at me, so I insist, "so? Are you going to say so-"

His lips on mine cuts me off.

I'm stunned for not even a second before I kiss him back. Once his hands are on my body I can't think of anything else, but him.

I move my hands to his face, caressing his beard to pull him even closer.

Eventually we both need air and we pull away just enough to breath, but not too far.

"I'm sorry for treating you like a child." He breaths heavily as he apologies.

"What?" I ask, the kiss got too into my head I completely forgot what was going on, he chuckles and caresses my hips, leaning his forehead against mine.

"I'm sorry, my love." He repeats.

"It's.. it's okay." I say, still catching my breath.

"It's not, I shouldn't have treated you like that." He looks at me in the eyes, "I think the world of you, you're the best with the knives and you're definitely part of this group." He leave a quick peck on my lips, "I was afraid. And when you got back bleeding... I couldn't see anything else."

"Thank you." I say, stroking his cheek with my thumb, "just don't treat me like that ever again."

"I won't." He kisses me again, "I promise you." Another kiss, "fuck, I promise you."

He keeps kissing me and I chuckle at his eagerness.

"Okay... mmh.. okay, Finan." I say between his kisses, "contain yourself."

"Oh you're asking the impossible here, my sweet." He keeps kissing me, moving slightly down my neck.

"We still need a plan to rescue those hostages." I say and he stops with a sigh.

"You're right... as always." He nods.

"But I mean..." I start and his face lightens up, "once they're safe..."

"Yes?" He urges.

"Well... we'll see." I wink.

"Don't play with me, woman." He jokingly warns me.

"Or what?" I tease.

He smirks and wraps his arms around my waist pulling me completely against his body, he put a hand on my cheeks and just kisses me more deeply than before.

"I'm glad tou made up, but we have hostages to safe, c'mon!" Uhtred's voice startles us making us pull away.

"Coming, lord!" Finan calls, then he turns to me with a stupid smile on his face.

He pulls away and takes my hand leading me back to the camp.

Before he lets me go he pulls me to him once more to whisper into my ear.

"Once they're all safe, I'll take care of you myself, love." He says and walks to stand with Uhred, not before giving my ass a small smack.

I look at him shaking my head and then I sit next to Sihtric, who looks at me with a knowing smirk, I slightly shove him before our attention is back on Uhtred explaining the plan to us.

And this time, Finan doesn't have anything to say about my involvement.

[necstasy]

implications of dark paul; implications of manipulation + the voice; riding; dacryphilia; lisan al-gaib paul; & PAUL ATREIDES MDNI 18+

it's no surprise that after drinking the water of life, paul atreides has become a different person.

harder, more rigid, more demanding. he sees the way more often than he just sees you. he hears the voices of those who came before him more often than he hears you. but anytime you try to walk away, when you attempt to leave him with the burden his capable shoulders should be able to carry alone, he turns his focus to you. he sees you. he hears you.

and it's good for a while. you two are good for a while.

until he falls back into the pattern.

all the while you're trying your best to be there for him. you're trying to satisfy all of his needs, even when he's detached from this world and on another one.

still, somehow he's receptive. his hips pushing up into your mouth even when his cobalt eyes are watching the ceiling of the tent for nothing in particular. his hand still buries into your hair, rough palms pressing into your skull until your nose is buried in his pubes, suffocating you with the faint scent of musk and a familiar burnt cinnamon. these are the times where he pleads that you be with him, whether he's here with you or not. when you'll climb onto his lap and sink down onto his cock which stands at half mast, softly riding him until he's hard within you. when you'll scratch at his shoulders, pull his hair, sloppily kiss his unreceptive lips—anything to try and get the attention you so desperately crave.

but paul is gone, burdened with visions of the way, distantly watching your breasts bounce with your effort through the haze of visions. sometimes, when you cry and plead for him to come back to you, he'll sink a hand between your thighs and rub your clit and you appreciate the one touch so much that you're letting loose without much warning.

then there are the times where he's here. and his presence is too much. he's too much. he forgets that while he is the supposed prophet, you're just you. with no part in a fabled prophecy, you carry just as much weight as the next fighter. you don't have whatever it is that paul has weighing him down, doubling the gravity of arrakis until he's too firm and still upon the desert. you also don’t have paul’s strength. his durability.

it's the times like those where he's slightly merciless, shrouding his insatiable desire and his almost forceful attitude with praises designed to placate you. designed to mislead you.

forcing his hips into yours with a little too much enthusiasm. he sends you up the cloth beneath your back each time, friction from the barely covered rocks rubbing against your back uncomfortably. your eyes sting, the feeling bleeding down into your nose and throat with a threat you don't want to come true. you can't waste your water like this, to do so would be shameful and disrespectful.

you’re sure that paul, the lisan al-gaib, doesn’t care. he wants what he wants, and you’re going to give it to him. even if he has to use the skills of the bene gesserit to make you do so.

[heartfullofleeches]

Man imagine bustomer walking in and just seeing a bigass human monster long arm legged cat with a zipper??? Just staring.

Customer: *pays for item and rudely hands the money*

Lynel: *whispers behind them menacingly* …Say keep the change.

Customer: *shits their pants and on the brink of tears* mommy…

Lynlas tricks/enjoys messing with customers by pretending to be a statue propped up in Witch Reader's lobby/living room. In a normal household, a cat human creature held together by zippers may seem like an outlandish choice for decoration, but it feels right at home in the witch's possession.

-

"What a peculiar figurine...."

Aged fingers map the teeth of the zipper scaling the length of the statues face. They trail to its mouth, curled in a wide grin - unsurprised by the give of its teeth given the zipper's impression of there being something else underneath. The illuminated iris of its singular visible eye pokes through the shroud of darkness that is its sciera. Curiosity blossoms a new as attention is directed towards their right eye. A tab dangles from the sealed lid - small, hole circle scars in the skin indicating some of of former injury. The point of a needle, perhaps?

"Pardon me...."

The collector stiffens- Entering from the kitchen, floorboard's creak with each tap of your advancing steps. Standing before the older gentleman, you present him with the cup of tea requested from your lists of refreshments for guests. A smile dawns your face, yet it does not reach your eyes- They point away from the man, knowing and calculating. The watchful gaze of someone waiting for another to misbehave.

"Do you like them? Lynlas has been with me for some time now. They are the best companion one in my line of work could ask for."

The name of the figure lingers on the collector's tongue. "Lynlas....I beg you- I'll pay ten - twenty times more than what I came here for. It would be a marvelous addition to my collection."

Your face tightens, smile shrinking into something akin to a grimace. "I'm afraid they are not for sale."

You stumble - grounding a foot backwards as his hands perch onto your shoulders.

"Money is not an issue for me. Name your price, I insist!"

Your eyes once again dart towards the figure - a flicker of panic flashing over your otherwise relaxed expression. "Sir, please refrain from putting your hands on me. They do not want you-"

"Surely you can bare to part with it! You can fill your home with similar novelties with the money you'll gain-"

"Agh!"

Scolding white pain shoots through your hands, bleeding down your arms as scorching liquid seeps into the sleeves of your shirt. The tea cup crashes to the floor with a loud crack - your body falling to its knees along with it. The agony is fleeting, hurt morphing to terror as the tear of a zipper racks through the walls of your living room.

"Lynlas.... It was an accident."

Nails scrape along the wooden floor, bones snapping and cracking into place as the statue reaches its full height.

"Lynlas.... He is a senile old man. Do not attack him."

The collector turns as hot breath fans the nape of his neck. A long, greyed tongue unfurls from the backs of pointed teeth.

"Didn't you hear, old man.... I'm not for sale."

"LYNLAS!"

-

The feline's ears press flatly against their skull as they scrub blood out of your prized rug. Sniffling, it looks up at you - eye wet with tears.

"I'm sorry for ruining your favorite rug again, Master... Can I still sleep in your room tonight?"