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faun-the-fawn77 · 2 months ago

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GHOST

"Want them wearing leather begging, let me be your taste test."

Shadow x F!Human!Reader Word Count: 3.3k Warnings: SMUT, oral sex(f receiving), squirting, fingering, Shadow is the king of aftercare Desc: Living next to your older brother wasn't always ideal, considering the three chaos bringers he brought in decided to bug you at any given moment. Doesn't help that on the latest "Save the world" mission had them bringing along a new member to the chaotic household. And damnit, is he one handsome alien.

Notes will be at the end!

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MDNI!!!! I won't hesitate to go and block y'all! Any blog with no age verification will be blocked!

ALSO!!! Shadow is a sentient alien! He knows what he's doing! He isn't an animal but, in fact, an alien! You also have the option of reading this with a mobian reader should that feel more comfortable for you!

Don't like? Don't read!

Today was a lot cooler in temperature. Fall was beginning to creep its way into the current season with temperature drops in the evening and the leaves starting to turn. You'd think living in Montana would be hell with the hot summers but the autumn and spring seasons made it worth the stay.

Plus, you get to live next to your older brother, Tom Wachowski. You thought you would be the only chaos in his and his wife's, Maddie, life. You were always up to some prank. Painting their house bright yellow, wrapping their car in saran wrap, or coloring their lawn neon pink.

Prank wars seemed to happen quite often between the two of you, so when Sonic crashed into Tom and Maddie's life, the chaos seemed to never end. Outnumbered and down a super-sonic alien, you called it quits. Tom never let you live it down.

Soon enough, your brother took in another two, who were now Sonic's brothers. Tails seemed to always be there for your tech problems and Knuckles was the best to help lift whatever needed lifting.

The kids were the best things to happen to the town. Always helping the community in one way or another. Their quirks and confidence infecting the residents of Green Hills, Montana.

When the latest mission had concluded, with the heart attack that was your brother ending up in the hospital, you didn't expect another stray to end up with your brother's growing family. You had prepared Sonic's 'Bearthday' party for the others that were coming back from the hospital. They had left on such short notice, you decided to be a 'good sister' for once and set up the party.

Humming to yourself while decorating the cake, you didn't expect a tap on your back. Whipping around to face the person, you looked to see a hedgehog you've never met before. He was black from head to toe with blood red highlights in his quills and around his eyelids. He was a bit less bulky than Knuckles but buffer than Sonic. And very, weirdly hot.

"Oh! You startled me! I- uh, how can I help you?" The frosting tube in your hand was leaking slowly, the blue treat threatening to drop onto the white tiled floor of the kitchen.

He looked you dead in the eye, his lips twitching in amusement. His eyes were a mesmerizing shade of burnt umber. They were full of curiosity and a bit of smugness. Probably because he managed to startle you.

"Sonic wished for me to introduce myself to you. I am Shadow." His voice was smooth like the richest of milk chocolate. If you could, you would bottle up the voice and have it replay in your head forever.

You held out your free hand to him, saying, "I'm (Y/N)! It's nice to meet you! Sorry that Sonic forced you to come introduce yourself to me. He is a little pushy but I've learned to deal with it, only because I know he cares deeply for his family."

He hummed, taking your small hand in his gloved one. Your heart was pounding a million miles a minute. Despite the gloves, he held your hand like it was the most fragile thing on this planet.

"I've noticed. He also failed to mention how beautiful you are," he spoke with a low voice. Your cheeks ignited in heat, the feeling creeping throughout your entire body. You could practically feel the smugness radiating from the dark hedgehog. Your hand was shaking in his hold, having failed to let his hand go.

A lump seemed to be stuck in your throat as you spoke, "I-um, thank you! You're very ho- handsome! Very handsome." Your voice was shaking. You weren't used to someone being this bold yet gentlemanly.

Now, Shadow was not a very bold or direct hedgehog when it came to feelings. In fact, romantic or sexual feelings were something he has never felt. Maria was his best friend and any female working at the horrid lab was always a sour sight. When he had first shown up with the strange family, he didn't expect Sonic to get excited and push the dark hedgehog to meet this '(Y/N)'. He honestly thought that this person was just as stupid and, perhaps, brave as the rest of them.

Walking into the brightly lit kitchen, he quietly took in the sound of her voice humming to a song he didn't know. Her back was to him so he could only see the curve of her hips and the curls of her hair crawling down her back. She was rather short for an adult human, especially compared to how tall Tom was.

He truly didn't mean to startle her but, the look of shock and the little gasp from her throat had the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. She was absolutely breath-taking. Her hair framed her rounded face perfectly. Eyes were bright and such a pretty shade of (E/C). And, oh her lips. Her bottom lip was a bit puffy from biting down on it while trying to frost the cake and they were shining in the fluorescent lights from licking them.

He knew what he was feeling was arousal. While Maria did show him the romantic comedies, Shadow sought out for more books or movies lying around in the lab. Some of those incompetent workers seemed to have good taste in literature. '50 Shades of Grey' was definitely one of the more interesting finds in the lab.

His flirting was subpar at best. Everything he knew was based from movies and books. Considering he also didn't have a grasp on human emotions or even his own, he couldn't tell right away how his words and voice were affecting the poor woman.

The smell of her arousal was what hit him first. His gaze snapped onto hers, seeing her pupils dilate. Her hands were sweating and shaking. Actually, her whole body was shaking.

"How about we go somewhere more private?"

Your bed couldn't have been further away at this point. The walk to your house would have been a long one but, luckily for you, Shadow can just teleport. A dizzying experience but very much worth it for what was about to happen.

Never, in your 20 something years of living, did you think you would be in bed with an alien who was definitely old enough to be your dad. While no man has ever seemed to catch your interest, you honestly wondered if it was time to give up on the whole dating thing. Tom had wanted you to find someone as well, especially now that he and Maria are married. you know he just wants you to be happy and not so alone all the time but, you were just fine with your life as is.

Looking at Shadow, who was now looking around your bedroom with interest at the posters and knick knacks you had, you could feel a smile creeping its way onto your face. Maybe, just maybe, this was a sign that fate didn't hate you. That you truly will not be alone for the rest of your life. You didn't even notice Shadow looking at you now, his gaze looking you up and down with a smile tugging at his own lips as well.

"Interesting room. I've always thought you woman preferred a more feminine touch to what's yours but, seeing how different you all are is truly a wonder. Maria had her room full of gadgets and dresses. Yours feels more...homely," his voice wavered at the mention of Maria. You didn't know who that was but you also knew that he or Sonic would explain it to you at some point.

You smile and walk over to the record player he was looking at with hidden curiosity. Gesturing him over, you flipped the lid open. The disc that was in previously was a Sabrina Carpenter album.

"Pick whatever seems interesting to you. We can play it while we...talk," your voice lowering at the end. Shadow looked from you to the records in the space under the table. Running a gloved hand over the cases, he finally chose a Chase Atlantic album.

You quickly put the record in and carefully laid the needle on the disc. The first few notes of 'Swim' came from the speakers. You grabbed the hedgehogs hand and pulled him to your queen-sized bed.

"Interesting choice of music, Shadow. Are you sure all you want to do is talk?" You were still holding his hand, your other now rested on his shoulder and slowly inching towards the back of his neck.

A shudder ran down his spine at the sensual touch. You could practically hear his heart pounding in his furry chest. Leaning your head by his, you whispered in his ear, "Or, would you rather try something new?"

And suddenly a flip was switched. Shadow had you on your back in seconds, his hands cupping your heated cheeks and kissing the life out of you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you brought him closer, pressing him more into you and reciprocating the heated kiss. You dragged your tongue along his bottom lip, the piercing in it causing a hum to purr through his chest.

Grinding hips together, arousal pooled in your panties. You didn't have time to feel embarrassed that you were dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt covered in years worth of different hair dye colors. Your underwear was at least cute enough for this. A lacy black thong and a black bra covered in a spider web design.

His hands made their way down your body, caressing you with such a gentle touch. It was almost like he was afraid to hurt you. His gloves were scratchy, preventing him from being able to feel just how soft your skin was. They were on your hips under your baggy shirt, lifting it slowly to reveal what you had hidden.

You grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back a bit. A bit winded from nonstop kissing, you gently led your hands down to meet his. Looking into his eyes, you murmured softly, "Can you take these off?" You tugged on his gloves. He seemed to still for a moment, thinking.

He sat back on your thighs, taking his gloves off. His hands were very paw-like with the pads on his fingertips and the palm of his hands. His claws were black with fading red nail polish, pointed and dangerous like him.

You grabbed his hands softly, feeling the fur, and putting them back on your hips which put him hovering over you again.

"Don't think too hard about this, Shadow. Do what you feel is right and I'll help." With that, he crashed his lips back onto yours. His hands, now uncovered, were roaming around your midsection and slowly going up towards your breasts. Lips trailed down from your mouth, to your jaw, to the crook of your neck. Love bites started to bloom in the areas he was nipping at. Moans escaped your throat at the thought of his marks being left in places for everyone to see for the next few days. His canines were grazing cautiously against your soft skin with each kiss and lick to your neck and collarbone.

Clenching a fist in his quills, you urged him towards your neck more, wanting him to pierce the flesh with his fangs. You didn't think he'd pick up the message but, boy were you wrong. He licked a little stripe in the spot a bit under your ear on your neck before sinking his canines into it. You shot a hand up to cover the borderline pornographic moan that just escaped your mouth. Shadow was quick to grab your wrist and remove your hand, wanting to hear the beautiful sounds you were making.

Running his tongue along the punctures, he pulled away and grumbled out lowly, "Don't even think about doing that shit again. I want to hear just how good I'm making you feel, sweetheart." And with that, he went back down, trailing his kisses from your sternum to right above the waistline of your sweats. His fingers curled around the edges of them, teasingly pulling at them.

You groaned, "Shadow, please."

He smirked, finally yanking down the baggy pants to reveal the sluttiest pair of panties he had ever laid eyes on. He stared for a second before, quite literally, ripping the raggedy shirt you had on to see you had a matching bra to go with. Never has he been this aroused, even during his ruts. You were breath-takingly gorgeous. You could've fooled him into thinking you were a goddess and not a human.

You watched as his umber eyes seemed to sparkle with awe at the sight of you. You never put much thought into your appearance, thinking you were just as average as every other 20-something year old woman on the planet. Apparently, Shadow thought much more about how you looked, muttering to himself about how you were a goddess and absolutely otherworldly.

Heat rushed to your cheeks at his staring. His hands finally decided to fall back on your hips, thumbs rubbing little circles on your skin. He leaned back down with his lips being dangerously close to the string of your thong.

His eyes locked onto yours, baring his teeth with a smirk and proceeding to grab hold of the lacy underwear to pull them down enough for access to your dripping pussy. The string of arousal connecting you to your underwear caused the heat from your chest to your cheeks to rise in temperature. His hands moved from your hips down to your thighs, gripping them hard enough for his claws to leave indents. He pried them open and immediately had his muzzle in front of your sensitive heat. His nose nudged against your throbbing clit eliciting another moan from your throat. Your hands grappled for his quills or ears or something to hold onto.

Just when you thought you were ready, his tongue licked a stripe from your opening up to your clit. Your hips went to lift up when he quickly moved an arm to hold you down. He made sure you weren't gonna move before he went back to slurping and lick at your dripping cunt like a man starved. This was definitely the best head you have ever gotten in your life. Lifting your hands shakily, you ran your fingers around his pinned ears, listening and feeling his purrs vibrate through him. The feeling made your incoming orgasm hit almost right then and there. Moans were leaving your lips like a prayer, his name being most of what Shadow could make out.

The hand that was still gripping one of your thighs had wandered up closer to your entrance, experimentally dipping a finger in. The moan from your mouth and the tugging on his ears seemed to be the response he was looking for. His lips moved up your clit, sucking and swiping his tongue around in motions that had you seeing stars. His index finger entered your drooling pussy with ease. He pumped it in and out slowly before adding his middle finger. The stretch was a a bit painful, more of a burning feeling, before it turned into pure pleasure. His mouth paired with his surprisingly skilled fingers had you gripping the ruined sheets beneath you.

You gasped at the feeling threatening to burst in your lower belly, moaning out, "Shadow, wait- I'm gonna-!"

He didn't even remove his muzzle from between you when your pussy squirted out it's juices from the intense orgasm you just had. Your thighs had him pinned in place from the best ending you've had in years. His hands were clutching onto the plush of your thighs, tongue still working you through your orgasm.

Your broken moans seemed to snap him from his pussy-drunk state. He lifted his head up, looking at you with lidded eyes and a mouth covered in your fluids. His tongue swiped along his lower lip with deliberate slowness.

You fell back on your bed, bringing a hand to your heaving chest. It almost feels like you ran a marathon in 100 degree weather with hoe burned your lungs were.

Shadow watched as you tried to catch your breath. His eyes darted from your glistening lips, to your chest greedily sucking in oxygen, to your ruined pussy. While he only learned this from reading the books the adults at the lab had lying around, he knew better than to leave you laying in your own pleasure.

It was a bit tricky trying to find what he needed considering he's never been to your house before this, he brought back a damp wash cloth and a glass of cold water. He was gentle with cleaning up your oversensitive areas, making sure you were clean enough that he could move you over a bit to gather the sheets and blankets. The pile of ruined cloth ended up in a heep by the overflowing dirty clothes basket at the door to your room. Shadow was lucky that you had some clean ones sitting in the chair by your vanity that he could use to cover you.

Your body seemed to calm down from the high you just experienced, now wanting to just sleep. You turned your head over to face the dark anthropomorphic alien and just watching as he took care of you.

"Shadow," he looked over at you. You gestured him over and lifted the blanket so he could cuddle up beside you if he wanted. The flicker of doubt in his eyes made you tense. Maybe he wanted this to be a on and done thing? Before your thoughts could start to spiral to worst case scenarios, he shuffled over and crawled up into your open arms. His head was smooshed into the crook of your neck, an arm under yours and around you.

A smile broke out on your lips, lowering your arm holding the blanket to settle around your cuddle buddy. His breath soon evened out as sleep , or exhaustion, had over come him. Pulling him in closer, you curled your naked from around him, tangling your legs with his.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what fate was saving for you.

"Hey, Tails? Knuckles? Have you seen Shadow? Or (Y/N)?" Sonic asked his brothers. The echidna shook his head while Tails just shrugged.

"Didn't you tell him to go meet her? Maybe Shadow locked himself in his room and (Y/N) forgot something for your party." Sonic didn't seem to convinced with Tails hypothesis. Before the blue blur could race off to find the missing members, Tom and Maddie came out the back door with s'more making ingredients.

"Who wants s'mores?!" Maddie gestured with the pan holding the stuff, walking up to the three kids only to see them with frowns on their faces.

Maddie set the pan down and knelt in front of Sonic, asking, "What's wrong, honey?"

Sonic turned away and muttered, "Where's (Y/N/N)? I don't wanna start without her."

Sucking in a breath, Maddie explained vaguely that you weren't going to be able to show up till tomorrow. When Tom and Maddie made it inside their house, Sonic's half-finished cake and the tube of frosting dropped on the kitchen floor let them know that you were gonna be gone for the night.

Tom was happy you found someone yet, with Shadow being that someone seemed to worry him to no end. It took Maddie having to calm him down and tell him that Shadow was definitely one of the better options for you that let him relax.

Sonic sagged at the fact that his favourite person wasn't gonna be able to attend his party. That's when he stilled and his brows furrowed. He turned to Maddie again, this time with a question that Maddie and Tom weren't gonna be able to explain.

"Well, then where's Shadow?"

Guys...I fell victim to the emo hedgehog. I have not stopped watching the hundreds of edits of this man on my fyp and its eating at my brain. this was just a scratch i had to itch. its all i could think about, day or night. I'm at work and its all i can think about.

He has me in a chokehold. Anyway! Im editing the fourth chapter of my series 'ceilings' when possible! Hopefully i can get a chapter out soon!

Thanks for reading! Here's the link to my Masterlist of all masterlists!

#shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #shadow the hedgehog fanfiction #shadow the hedgehog smut #shadow smut #shadow fanfiction #movie shadow #smut

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cineatros · 3 months ago

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. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masks & moonlight ୨ৎ Sophia Laforteza

you're catnip to a girl like me

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 batman!reader x catwoman!sophia ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 headcanons!

.ᐟ cw: enemies to lovers, injuries, violence, kissing

mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: the elusive thief who keeps slipping through your fingers, the infuriatingly charming woman who wanders into your galas uninvited, stealing the spotlight (and occasionally your jewelry) just to see that flicker of frustration in your eyes.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who loves pushing your buttons because she adores the way you try so hard to stay composed—until one night, when she teases just a little too much, and you finally snap. and oh, she lives for it.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who loves dogs more.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who keeps stealing your enemies in the dead of night, the charming thief who loves making your job harder because she is helplessly, attracted to you and absolutely adores the way you get so righteously annoyed every time she does it.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who is your greatest thorn in Gotham, the infuriatingly skilled thief who loves stealing your weapons mid-battle because she is obsessed with getting a rise out of you—and absolutely adores the way you get so adorably frustrated searching for your missing gadgets.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who always notice when it comes to someone flirting with you, when some overconfident rookie cop or a flirtatious socialite tries to get too close. when a charming informant leans in a little too much, she’s suddenly at your side, draping herself over you with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. she would never admit she’s jealous, but the next time you see that poor fool, they look like they’ve had an unfortunate “accident” involving a conveniently misplaced tripwire—or a mysteriously emptied bank account.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: that always near your crime scene so that she could help you defeat your enemies whenever you get outnumbered.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who knows when you get hurt. the first to notice when you don’t move as sharply, when your breathing is just a little too uneven. when you stumble into your loft, barely able to peel off your cowl, she’s already there—silent as a shadow, waiting. she would never admit she broke in just to check on you, but the sting of antiseptic and the careful way she stitches your wound say otherwise. she never stays until morning, but you always wake up to fresh bandages, a neatly cleaned workspace, and the lingering scent of her perfume on your sheets.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who sometimes gossip with alfred whenever you're out of the house.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who gets pissed off—and unfortunately, sometimes takes it out on you. she always throw the first punch when her frustration bubbles over, when a deal goes wrong, when the world pushes her too far. she finds you on a rooftop, masked eyes flashing, and suddenly, you’re dodging her strikes instead of trading banter. she would never admit she just needed to let off steam, but the way her hits are controlled—never meant to really hurt—tells you everything.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: stage being badly hurt so you could take care of her.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who, despite her fury, she couldn’t stop tracking the one who nearly killed you. She’d never admit it, but seeing you so badly hurt made her blood run cold. Already halfway to Gotham’s underworld, claws out, she was ready to tear apart whoever put you in harm’s way. She didn’t need permission, didn’t wait to be told to calm down—but when she returned, anger smoldering but subdued, she watched you tend to your wounds. Only when you met her gaze did the last of her rage fade. She’d never admit it, but you were alive, and that was all that mattered.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: gave you a kitten to make sure you remember her everytime you see it.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who you caught singing on the rooftop of your building, her voice a rare melody that drifted through the night like a whispered secret. Sophia never sang—not in front of anyone, not even you—but tonight, the soft lull of her voice wrapped around you, lifting you as if angels themselves had taken hold. You weren’t supposed to be here, weren’t supposed to hear this, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, afraid that even the slightest shift would shatter the moment.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who, despite all your efforts to calm her down after a fight, still stormed around the room, her anger seething. words couldn’t reach her, and you were losing your patience. so, you did the one thing you knew would get her attention—without thinking, you grabbed sophia’s face, forcing her to look at you. before she could snap at you, you kissed her. it wasn’t gentle—it was forceful, raw, a way to take control of the moment. when you pulled away, she stood frozen, the anger melting from her eyes as she finally heard you, your lips still burning against hers. you didn’t need to speak to make her understand. your kiss said everything.

a/n: some random headcanon for catwoman sophia lolz. just read a spiderman!lara

#cineatros headcanons .ᐟ #catwoman!sophia #katseye x reader #katseye headcanon #batman!yn #katseye imagines #katseye #sophia laforteza x reader #wlw #katseye sophia #sophia laforteza katseye #sapphic #sophia laforteza #sophia laforteza headcanon

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marstonsboy · 4 months ago

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had another evil thought that spiralled out of control. indulge me for a moment:

over the years, people start arriving on a near empty plot of land west of blackwater. it’s uncertain who got there first: bessie matthews, beatrice and lyle morgan, eliza, isaac morgan, etc.— but more and more people show up until it’s something of a community. jenny kirk, mac and davey callander. then soon after, jake adler, sean macguire, kieran duffy, hosea matthews, lenny summers, molly o’shea, eagle flies, susan grimshaw. more and more in such a short amount of time. arthur morgan is the last, and suddenly the deaths stop.

after a sudden stretch of years with little newcomers, a house starts taking shape. soon enough the house is a home, and peculiar things can be found all over: a dog barking where no one can find it. echoes of campfire songs going late into the night. photos of john and abigail’s wedding, attended by what remained of their family. a taxidermy squirrel that appears back on the mantle no matter how many times you throw it out, wearing a very familiar hat. in just a few years a heartbreakingly young girl comes home, bearing a strong resemblance to one abigail marston.

then, gunshots. john marston and uncle are the next to arrive.

in the next few years, the house is eerily quiet. the residents see it falling into disrepair, but they can’t do anything about it. the dog stops barking, the campfire has gone cold and won’t relight. abigail marston is next, and though they’re happy to see her, the arrival brings up a question. what happens to jack now?

the livestock are gone, and the house is dusty, all but stripped of the knickknacks and personality that built up over the years, like someone found it all too painful to look at. john’s hat and guns, once tucked away inside a box beneath the bed, vanish the night after abigail arrives. newspapers come to the door, announcing the death of former government agent edgar ross.

soon after, a wanted poster, bearing the name “john marston jr.” and a sketch resembling the boy’s namesake so much that it has john himself stumbling back. jack was only a boy when he left, and now he’s wanted dead or alive, with a price over his head that could rival some of his uncles and aunts back in the day.

every year that passes without any sign of jack is a relief. the house doesn’t change much, still abandoned, but letters come in. mary-beth gaskill, tilly jackson, simon pearson, sadie adler, charles smith— old friends and family, checking in on him. none of them reach the recipient, as he is not home, but they’re filled to the brim with love, letting him know that he isn’t alone. that he always has a home with them, if he wants it.

one day, john spots a book he doesn’t recognize on the shelf by the piano, and he stops. “Red Dead” by a J. Marston. it doesn’t take much to figure out who that could be. he opens it, flips through, and reads it to abigail. the kinder parts get read to their daughter, ecstatic to learn about how her older brother is doing. their son did become a writer after all, even if everything he’s written speaks volumes of his grief, his anger. the loneliness he’s endured since losing his family, and killing edgar ross.

arthur morgan opens his old journal to find several entries and sketches from john, but also many new ones from jack. his handwriting is just as clumsy as his father’s, but his drawings are more refined. little portraits of the gang members that lived and scribbly sketches of what the world is becoming in their absence decorate the pages. war, cars outnumbering horses, and a very detailed drawing of a revolver none of them have ever seen before.

he’s all grown up, and good lord is he angry. he’s mourning, and hurt, and he’s lost so much, but he’s still undoubtedly jack marston. he draws dogs and writes about missing rufus, slipping strays some food from his bag whenever he sees them. sometimes he’ll write a dry, sarcastic joke that speaks of his father’s influence, or mention missing his momma’s cooking, “even though it was hardly edible,” which makes abigail roll her eyes. he hates fishing and prefers to lose hours of the day with his nose in a book. the best maintained part of beecher’s hope is the graves on that hill, which gain new flowers every week. sometimes, if they listen close, they can hear him talking, telling his ma and pa what he’s been up to, though he saves the grisly details for his book.

and when jack marston finally does walk through that door, much older than when anyone he knew last saw him but far too young to die, he is welcomed home with open arms. because no matter what he’s done, and no matter how much he may hate himself, he will always have a home here with people who love him, and who can’t wait to get to know him all over again.

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just-dreaming-marvel · 6 months ago

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Love That Burns ~ 35

LOVE THAT BURNS MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 3,090ish

Summary: You and Logan fight to save Mariko.

Warnings: wounds, fighting, near death experiences

Notes: I have loved all the reactions I've received! Please keep them coming. They all mean so much to me! This is the last chapter before we start on the two different endings! Ending 1 will come out before ending 2. Also, before the ending 1 starts coming out, I'm going to post the one-shot for this series about their everyday lives from the ten year gap.

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

You gasped as you woke up naked on the medical bed you had died on. Looking around, you could tell that you were alone. Meaning that Logan had followed through with going to save Mariko, which was what you had asked of him. You were honestly surprised that you had risen from the dead again, but you couldn't waste any more time. You needed to get to Logan.

You quickly found some clothes to wear and the location of Yashida’s birthplace. Thankfully, rich people always had a few cars lying around, and you were off. Racing to get to Logan before he did anything incredibly stupid.

~~~

Logan’s anger was fueling him forward. He needed to rescue Mariko and finish off Dr. Green. He needed to get his revenge for you. When Logan arrived at the town, he was met with Harada, waiting in the streets for him. Logan could sense that there were others nearby, hiding in the shadows.

“I see you’ve come to fight,” Harada stated, coming towards Logan. “It’s pointless. You’re outnumbered. The Black Clan has protected the House of Yashida for 700 years.”

The Black Clan began emerging from the shadows, from the alleys and the rooftops.

“Is that all the men you brought?” Logan challenged. “I’m going to get to Mariko.”

“We are grateful for your protection of Mariko. But there is one more sacrifice you must make for her family.”

“Go fuck yourself, pretty boy.”

Harada yelled, and the fighting began. It didn’t take long for the other Black Clan members to jump down and join, with more continuing to appear on the rooftops. Hard ordered them to begin firing arrows as Logan started to run through the streets. Logan got halfway through town before the arrows began to have heavy wires attached. Logan grunted as he tried to continue on despite the resistance of the wires. He groaned as a poisoned arrow hit the middle of his back. His vision began to blur, but Logan continued to move forward. The Black Clan continued to shoot wired arrows into his back until Logan collapsed face-first into the snow.

~~~

You followed the tracks of a fight in the snow once you reached the town. Your heart clenched at the sight of the clear marks of someone being dragged. You knew it had to be Logan. You continued to follow the tracks, slipping into the large house on the hill. With your powers fully restored, it was easy to take down the Black Clan members in your way. Eventually, you reached the center of the building, revealing to be a large, open lab spanning the whole building.

Glancing down, you saw Logan locked up in some machine that kept his hands facing outward. You could see him moving slightly and groaning like he was waking up. With a sudden tug, you could see Logan trying to free himself. Slowly and quietly, you began to sneak down.

“Stand back," Dr. Green ordered the nearby Black Clan members as she waltzed up. “There is no need.”

“Where’s Mariko?” Logan demanded. “Where is she?”

“Are you pinning for someone who is not your wife? For shame. Where is your wife anyway?” Logan simply growled. “Did she not make it? Too weak?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Dr. Green smirked before looking away at the giant samurai nearby. “Impressive, no? He is made of adamantium, just like you.” Logan continued to try to break free. “Oh, Logan, you know what, I get it. You’re frustrated.”

She pressed some buttons, moving the machine that Logan was stuck in forward. The machine pulled his arms forward, away from his body. Logan kept heaving breaths as the machine kept him still, drilling into him and inflicting pain.

“I know Mariko is here,” Logan panted. “I want to see her.”

"You want answers,” Dr. Green stated.

“Yes, I want answers!”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could say more, but I was hired in part for my discretion.” Dr. Green leaned forward, up against the machine, taunting Logan.

“I’m sure you were."

“That and a certain talent for combining biochemistry and metaphysics. High-grade toxins are my specialty. It helps to be genetically immune to every poison known to man, as I am. And immune to the toxin of man himself… as I am.”

“I’ll tell you what, you twisted mutant bitch, why don’t you open these bracelets, and we'll see who’s made of what?” Logan released his claws. Almost as soon as he did, the machine clamped down further around his fists, preventing his claws from retracting.

“The claws,” Dr. Green smiled. "Now we can begin. The suppressant bug you found inside of you and your wife was mine. You took it out on your own. I didn’t see that coming. Did you take your wife's out, too? Is that why she’s not here?”

“You don’t deserve to talk about her!”

“You are strong. You have courage. Real courage. But that won’t help much now.”

The giant metal samurai ripped itself free from the wires it was connected to. It stomped over to Logan, going around him, before stopping in front. You arrived on the same floor they were on in time to see the giant samurai pull a huge sword out and line it up with Logan’s claws. Your eyes widened as you noticed the sword heat up as it lifted. You rushed over and threw yourself between Logan and the samurai.

“Stop!” You shouted.

The samurai lost its concentration, hitting the back of the machine Logan was in, throwing you, Logan, and Dr. Green around while the samurai fell back. Logan grunted as he landed on his knees.

“Y/N!” He yelled.

You looked up and over at him, shooting him a smile. “Hey, handsome,” you breathed out. “Miss me?”

Logan opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, he noticed the samurai getting back up. Slamming the leftover wrist clamp against the stairs, it came clattering off. He ran over to you and grabbed your hand, tugging you up harshly to stumble against his chest. His lips quickly captured yours for a brief kiss.

“You gotta stop doing that, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, honey,” you replied with a smirk.

He smirked back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” The samurai stomping closer caused Logan to start to drag you in the opposite direction. “Run! Go!”

You and Logan ran side-by-side. You noticed Dr. Green rushing to cut you off. You threw your hands out, launching her over the railing and down a few floors in a ball of flames. Harada and Mariko rushed out of a room a few floors up.

“Go!” Logan urged, waving them off. “Run!”

The two of you began running down the stairs. The giant samurai jumped down to the level you had reached. Logan let out a roar as he flung himself at the samurai, causing himself and the samurai to fall down a few levels.

“Logan!” You screamed, looking over the railing to see him squaring up with the samurai.

You spun around and tried to take the stairs two at a time to get to Logan. You could hear him groaning, straining to keep the samurai’s sword still as he used his claws as a shield. You reached the floor in time to see the samurai pull out a second sword that was quickly heating up. Using the railing, you launched yourself onto the back of the samurai and took hold of the heated sword with one of your hands. You focused on heating the sword up further, causing it to begin to lose its shape. It dropped the melting sword and reached back. It grabbed you and threw you over the railing.

“Y/N!” Logan roared.

You cried out in pain as you harshly landed a few floors down. You could hear Logan and the samurai fighting for a few moments before you heard a thud close by. Logan was quickly kneeling beside you, checking you over.

“Are you okay?” He asked, eyes still frantically searching you over. He carefully helped you sit up.

“Honestly, I’m ready to go home,” you responded.

He let out a hearty chuckle. “Me, too, darling.”

The samurai dropped down onto the level the two of you were on. Logan pulled you up and dragged you over to the electrical boxes. Using his claws, he ruined the boxes, turning off most of the lights in the building. You and Logan quietly hid behind nearby posts as the samurai searched for the two of you. The samurai passed the two of you, allowing Logan to jump on its back and retrieve another sword it had.

“Y/N!” Logan shouted.

He tossed you the sword, and you caught it. Holding it with both hands, you began to heat it up. The samurai spun around, kicking Logan down, allowing you to cut the head off the samurai. Logan launched himself at the samurai again, forcing him and the metal monster down to the bottom floor. The samurai slammed against the wall, breaking a hole into it that Logan was launched through.

“Logan!” You yelled.

You ran down the flights of stairs as Logan climbed back into the building. You dropped to your knees in front of him, the two of you quickly wrapping your arms around each other. In a blink of an eye, the samurai grabbed your ankles and tore you from Logan’s grasp.

“No!” Logan shouted, hands barely brushing against your arms as you’re torn out of reach.

The samurai spun you around and grasped onto your hands. The metal clamped against your wrists, and three drills from each of the metal hands appeared and began drilling into your fists, right into your bones. You screamed out in pain.

“Let her go!” Logan demanded.

The middle of the samurai opened up to reveal Yashida.

“Logan-san,” he greeted. “Don't look so shocked. With you at my side, I survived Nagasaki. Surely, I could survive this.” You let out another scream as the drills pushed further into you. “It’s alright. It won’t take long.”

“What are you doing to her?!” Logan didn't know what move to make without hurting you.

“Dr. Green and I have been waiting. It’s only this armor that's kept me alive. We built it to make me strong so I can take what you would not give. And transfer your unwanted healing to my body. It’s only by mere coincidence that your wife could also provide what you would not give. My legacy must be preserved. Your mistake was to believe that a life without end can have no meaning. It is the only life that can.”

Logan was watching as the life slowly drained from your body. You were growing older while Yashida was growing younger. He couldn’t get his eyes to look away from you. He couldn’t force himself to move.

“Logan!” Yukio shouted, throwing one of the large swords in his direction.

Logan caught it, gripping it with both hands, causing it to heat up. He stood up and, with a shout, threw the sword into Yashida’s head. The metal hands retracted the drills and let you go. Logan caught you before you could collapse onto the ground. Yashida stumbled back, gasping for breath, before falling out of the building to his death.

“Sweetheart,” Logan shook you, trying to get you to gain consciousness. “Wake up… I really can’t handle this again… I need you to wake up.” Yukio slowly came over, watching the scene. “Come on, honey.”

The only hope Logan had was the fact that you were still breathing. You had to wake up. Yukio placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder.

“We need to get her some medical attention,” Yukio said.

Logan nodded, hoisting you further up into his arms before standing up. Yukio led the way out, where Mariko and Harada were waiting safely.

“Logan! Y/N!” Mariko exclaimed, rushing towards Logan. “Oh my gosh!” Mariko looked you over, immediately seeing your increase in age. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

“No,” Logan pulled you closer. “Too dangerous.”

“Logan, I have my grandfather’s business under my control. I have resources. The two of you have helped me so much. Please let me return the favor.”

“Mariko can help,” Harada agreed.

Logan scoffed. “Not really caring for your word right now, bub,” he muttered.

“Trust me,” Mariko pressed. “I won’t let any happen to either of you anymore.”

~~~

Logan snarled at anyone who tried to pry you from his arms the moment Mariko had the group escorted to a private wing of a nearby hospital. Yukio and Mariko had to work together to coax him into setting you on the bed. He insisted on staying near you the entire time.

The doctor Mariko had called in specialized in mutants, giving Logan hope and making him even more cautious. Logan’s eyes created a rotation going from your rising chest, your face, to the monitors and back. He wanted to know everything and not miss a second of anything. He stood on the edge of every room you were brought into, like a constant guarding shadow. Mariko and Yukio took turns trying to get Logan to rest, but he couldn’t leave you.

It took a few hours for the doctor to get any results from the tests they had run. The doctor informed the group that you were slowly healing and de-aging. They said that you’d be fine in a day or two and would most likely sleep the entire time. The doctor encouraged the group to keep you there until you woke up, and Logan reluctantly agreed.

“There's one other thing,” the doctor added, after updating the group. “I talked to Dr. McCoy on the phone, and he informed me of the incident that happened ten years ago when Y/N returned from the dead like a Phoenix.”

“What about it?” Logan asked.

“Was that the only time?”

“No. She did it about a day ago.”

“That would explain what we saw in the blood we took.”

Logan took a protective step closer. “What did you see, doc?”

“Mr. Howlett, your wife is a powerful mutant, but when she rises from the dead like that, it sucks away at some of her abilities. The tests we ran and compared to previous tests that Dr. McCoy had run, show that her mutation is slowly decaying.”

“Are you saying that she’s dying?”

“Not exactly. She could still live another hundred years as long as she is careful. The more she rises from the dead, the faster her mutation will decay, meaning the faster—“

“She’ll die… Can she use the other parts of her mutant?”

“Of course. But I would be wary of bringing her into any more life-threatening situations. I have sent our findings to Dr. McCoy for his records, and so that he can keep track of Y/N himself.”

Logan clenched his jaw as he stared at you, processing the information. Mariko stepped forward and placed a hand on Logan’s back.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mariko said.

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “I’ll be around if there’s anything you need.”

The doctor left as Logan walked over to your bedside. You were slowly returning to the woman he knew. But, even if you hadn’t, Logan would have loved you anyway.

“I need to take her home,” Logan murmured.

“I’ll have the plane ready for as soon as she wakes,” Mariko said.

“No,” Logan shook his head. “I need to get her home now.”

“Logan—“

“I appreciate what you’ve done. But it’s my duty to take care of her and the best way I can manage that is at home.”

“If you’re sure.” Logan nodded, causing Mariko to sigh. “I’ll go make the calls.”

Mariko left to go to as she said. Logan gently took your hand and lifted it up, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“We’re going home, sweetheart,” Logan whispered. “And we’ll never leave again.”

~~~

You needed to move, but you were trapped. The familiar weight of Logan’s arms around your waist was comforting, with his head resting on your shoulder. But you felt like you hadn’t moved in days; your muscles were stiff. As you slowly opened your eyes, you quickly realized that you were no longer in Japan. You were home. Logan’s head was on your shoulder, with his arms around you, keeping you against his bare chest. You lifted your arm and began scratching Logan’s arm. He groaned as he began to wake.

“Sweetheart?” He mumbled into your neck.

“It’s me,” you whispered.

Logan’s head lifted to fully look at you as his arms tightened around you. “You have to stop worrying me… I can’t take anymore.”

“I'm sorry. I’ll try hard not to.” Logan leaned down and kissed you softly. “When did we get home?”

“Last night. The doctor cleared you, and I wanted you home.”

You reached up and cupped Logan’s cheek. You could tell that the concern was still lingering. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I know, darling.” Logan grabbed your wrist and turned his head to kiss the palm of his hand. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Logan then explained what the doctor had found out about your ability to rise from the dead. You could feel Logan trembling as he spoke, like he was finally letting all his concerns out. Once he was finished, you pulled him to lay on top of you. Logan was careful not to fully put his whole weight on you but appreciated you holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you quietly promised Logan.

“No more danger,” Logan muttered. “No more missions.” He pulled back enough to allow your eyes to meet. “I need you safe. I need you here.”

“I won’t promise that unless you can promise the same thing… I can't lose you either.”

“I’m not the one with the habit of dying.”

“I promise I don't try to.”

“I know, sweetheart… Alright, no missions. No danger. For either of us.” He leaned down and gave you a brief kiss. “I never asked, how are you feeling?”

You smiled up at him. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll let you know if it changes, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I do have one thing, though.”

“Anything.”

“Can we stay in bed all day?”

Logan gave a hardy laugh as he wrapped you in his arms and rolled over so you were on top of him. “Sounds like a plan, sweetheart.”

Ending 1 next chapter > (days of future past - completed)

Ending 2 next chapter > (logan & deadpool and wolverine - completed)

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aliciavance4228 · 10 months ago

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Here Are A Few Things From Greek Mythology Which Not Only That Make Sense, But Are Actually Quite Briliant

1. The children of Ares (war, combat, bloodlust) and Aphrodite (beauty, sex) are: Eros (love), Anteros (requited love), Himeros (uncontrollable immediate desire), Pothos (longing desire), Harmonia (harmony), Phobos (fear) and Deimos (panic/terror); which are all of the emotions that can happen in a relationship between the foul-tempered abusive jock and the pretty girl. The ancient Greeks understood relationships.

2. Perseus is the son of Zeus. Why didn't Hera go after him or his mother? Because they're from Argos, and she's the patron of that city.

3. The story of Heracles states that Hera tricked Zeus into saying that the next king of Argos shall be the next male born. Of course, she manipulates events to happen so that Heracles's cousin Eurystheus is born first - thus making him the rightful king. But wait - Heracles has a twin. (Iphicles) So why go for his cousin, and not his fraternal twin to really rub salt in it with Zeus ("Hey, Alcmene's son is the next rightful king - Ain't no rule saying it had to be Heracles, haha!")? It makes a bit of sense actually - by making Eurystheus the next born child, she ensures that it's not Heracles. If she induced labour in Alcmene, there was still a chance Heracles could have been the first one born - and not Iphicles.

4. Why would the relatively amiable Hades kidnap Persephone to make her his bride? Well, according to some sources, he did that after asking Zeus for relationship advice. Given the fact that Zeus has raped and/or kidnapped plenty of women (and poor, minor Ganymede) just 'cause he felt like it, it isn't surprising that his advice would involve something like that.

5. Every source and most people tend to think Hades got the worst and Zeus the best of the deal when they divided up the world, but actually it's kinda balanced because all three of the brothers' domains come with some great perks. Zeus' is obvious, but consider this: Poseidon got the element that covers about two thirds of the planet, with earthquakes to boot, and for Greeks travelling by sea was something of a necessity, while Hades got all of the minerals and gemstones, and as many point out, the one biggest flaw of humanity is that the dead have always and will always outnumber the living.

6. Most stories of Andromeda mention that she was supposed to be eaten by a monster because her mother Cassiopeia blasphemed and made Poseidon mad by claiming Andromeda was more beautiful than the Nereids. All nice and good as the Nereids were supposed to be extremely beautiful, including Amphitrite, Poseidon's wife herself, but the thing comes in when you remember that the Nereids had a brother called Nerites, who was even more beautiful than them, and who was Poseidon's first serious relationship besides his wife. No wonder he got pissed off, she was badmouthing both his wife and his boyfriend!

7. There's some poetic justice in the fact that Narcissus, who saw himself as an unattainable treasure, got transformed into a flower — something that literally anybody can take and do with as they wish.

8. The anger the Olympians felt when they discovered Tantalus' crime makes even more sense when you remember that at least Hera, Poseidon, Hestia and Demeter (Hades wasn't present at the time) all know how it feels to be eaten by your own father.

For Hades' part, it certainly explains why he'd give Tantalus such a torturous punishment in the afterlife.

Made worse by Tantalus being the son of ZEUS.

9. Why are all the gods (save Hestia) prone to so much hypocrisy, violence, sexual assault, and abuse? Well, each god is typically associated with either an aspect of nature (such as the oceans, plants, weather, etc.) or emotions and biological reactions (bloodlust, love, sexuality). As such, the gods are less like people, and more akin to forces of nature; the gods, like nature, are indifferent to humanity, so sometimes they’ll harm people when they’re angry, reward people when they’re happy, etc.

10. Some of Typhon and Echidna's offspring, such as Cerberus, Ladon, the Caucasian Eagle and the Colchian Dragon were utilized by the Olympians in some way despite the fact that they were the offspring of their Nr. 1 Enemy. Sounds odd...but when you think about it, it's actually genius. It's an excellent way to prevent the monsters from running wild and destroying stuff, whilst simultaneously taking advantage of their destructive tendencies.

11. Why is Hades such a faithful husband (Leuke and Minthe were later Roman additions) when both of his brothers are pretty unfaithful? Well, Hades has a very important job that never seems to end. He’s in charge of the Underworld and since someone is always dying, Hades is always very busy which means that he didn’t have time nor interest in having affairs. Also many couples were likely to be together in death. Perhaps Hades saw through those couples what it means to be a good husband. It does help that Hades is also far more mature than his brothers.

12. Nyx is one of the few beings Zeus is too afraid to face, having let her son Hypnos get away with messing with him since he went to his mom. Why's he scared of her in particular and not other primordial deities like Gaea? Depending on the myth Nyx is the mother of many personified concepts, and that includes the Fates...aka the one force even gods like Zeus can't overcome. Imagine how outclassed Zeus'd be if he had to fight their mom!

13. Why is Hestia the least problematic deity out of all Olympians? Cronus ate five of his children, and she was in there the longest. Perhaps the reason Hestia is the sanest and nicest of the six Olympians is because she as the oldest was forced to mature faster in order to take care of her younger siblings while they were trapped in their father's stomach. Hades being the second oldest and first son similarly assumed this role as well. Then we have Demeter, then Poseidon, then Hera and Zeus. While not a perfect graph, you could graph 'reasonable behavior' as being tied to 'who spent the longest in his stomach'.

Credits: TV Tropes

#greek gods #greek mythology #zeus #hera #hestia #hades #poseidon #heracles #andromeda #tantalus #perseus #narcissus

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respectthepetty · 5 months ago

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Spare Me Your Mercy Thoughts

I have waited almost four years for this show since MDL made a placeholder for Euthanasia in early-2021, and now that it is here, I'm going to gush about all the ways I love it!

Just like a few of Dr. Sammon's other shows airing around the holidays (Manner of Death, Dead Friend Forever, and Petrichor), I'm thankful I got the first episode of Spare Me Your Mercy on Thanksgiving and the last will come on Christmas because this is the exact show I need for the holiday season since it began the entire series with Tew, the cop, having to perform euthanasia on an animal.

I grew up and still live in a rural area where cattle far outnumber the actual folks, so I fully understand euthanasia is a good death as the word implies, so I will not be struggling through the premise of this show, and I have faith the show won't either because when Tew fired the gun, the scene was peaceful.

And the show is making some pointed remarks about how things operate outside of bigger cities since Kan specifically mentioned he has about 2,500 patients. When the other officer asked the nurses if Kan had a long queue, they didn't even respond. Kan also clarified that his specialty is palliative care, so he has to monitor a wide range of long-term illnesses, so even though Tew might actually be from this place, he is now the outsider and out of his depth before he even started.

Sidenote: I cannot be mad at a nurse, even if one of them turns out bad because the way they all protect Kan from the police is the teamwork I love to see.

The red light to notify the office the doctor is seeing a patient coming on right after Kan responded to the nurse that it wasn't a murder case yet was perfection.

I already knew Kan was going to be my favorite character, but Tor is doing amazing showing the layers Kan has, as expected. Kan tells Tor he can cry and shows him kindness, but when pushed, Kan makes small digs about how people should spend the last moments of someone's life cherishing them when rudely questioned by Tew regarding the unexpected deaths knowing Tew did not get to see his mother before she died. He also made a subtle display of knowing where things were located in the house because he is in control.

The way he slid his LINE information into the conversation AFTER indirectly telling Tew he was being emotional due to his grief is why I'm excited to see another version of Manner of Death's Tan. Kan probably does like Tew but he stays focused and calculated.

He is terrifying without there being any concrete detail to pinpoint on why he is scary. Som, while describing people being possessed by evil murderous spirits, was terrified of Kan, and the transition from Som telling his story to Kan appearing at the exact moment Som was going to state what human form the evil spirits take was brilliant.

But what's even more terrifying is the treatment of the terminally ill. They are viewed as a burden, locked away, and isolated.

And Tew witnessed it. He got a glimpse of what Kan sees daily, so the show is already building up a case in defense of Kan's actions. If he is performing euthanasia, Tew could understand. He heard the goat's bell. He knew it was still alive, but he decided to end its suffering, cleanly and swiftly, which is what euthanasia is. He saw that man left behind by his family and even moved to go get him. And he was bothered when the man's daughter stated her reasoning for leaving him out there alone.

He also stopped Kan from continuing to question Som. Therefore, the true conflict has been set. Tew, whose job is to discover the truth, doesn't need it if it causes pain, but Kan's entire job is making pain manageable.

And I always want to trust a woman, but as suspicious as the director is being about everything, babygirl would be the perfect person to attempt euthanasia since the dead would end up on her table where she could claim the death was the result of the illness.

Because euthanasia is a good death.

And this ain't it.

He understands that.

But someone doesn't.

#spare me your mercy #episode one #let me go make some food #and be thankful that Dr. Sammon continues to bless us with ethical dilemmas

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skendoss · 3 months ago

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boyfriend! vein headcanons

cw: vein..., mentions of stalking, violence, vein is kinda obsessive, ooc vein (made him relatively nice 😡), mentions of sex, 18+ mdni, not proofread

- how’d you end up with this man, then? well, picture this: you met vein one fateful night on a whim. out of sheer luck, actually.

- you were walking home in the silence of the night after working a late shift at the downtown restaurant, a small group of thugs hot on your trail. you were well aware of the fact, but what were you to do? you were clearly outnumbered 4/1.

you’d been weaving in and out of bins and boxes in alleyways for a solid 5 minutes now, unsuccessful in your attempt to slip away into the night, your anxiety increasing tenfold with every passing minute.

- do you shout for help? who would come to your rescue at 1.30am? do you run and hope for the best? yes. that’s exactly what you did. straight into a dead end. you’re stuck. no way out. done for.

your only option now is to face these men head on. plead for your life, at least try to appeal to their better nature. when you turn you expect to be met with the predatory faces of the men that were following you, except.. the only thing you’re met with is the back of a tall stranger, holding an arm out to block the groups view of you.

it was all a bit of a blur what happened next - but the thugs who believed that they could take out this stranger to get to you, were swiftly taken down one by one. within a minute, all four of them were bloody, beaten and knocked out, left to rot in the dark alleyway.

you were shaken, terrified even. of course you were, you’ve never had to deal with anything this intense in your life. and this stranger - what were his intentions with you?

you watch him with caution as he approaches you, cowering on the floor with tears falling freely down your face at their own accord.

his eyes bore into yours, as crimson as the colour of his hair. he offers you a warm smile, before removing his coat and squatting down to your level, wrapping it around your shoulders and wiping one of your tears away with his thumb.

“i’m vein.” he smiles at you again, offering you his hand. “don’t worry. you’re safe now.”

- ever since the day of your first meeting, to your first date, to every walk to and from work after you established your relationship, vein is always there to act as your personal bodyguard. you will never have to travel anywhere alone.

- this man dotes on you. to the point where he could admit he’s borderline obsessed. he will absolutely not hesitate to make someone disappear if they even so much as made a snide remark about you. because you’re his and to him, you’re perfect. everyone else is irrelevant, they only get in the way.

- boyfriend!vein wants to make your life with him as easy as possible. you deserve nothing less than to live in luxury. want to quit your job? fine. he can earn enough to let you live the life you want to live. anything you want? say less, he’s got it for you.

- you get a fresh bouquet of dahlias every week, without fail.

- the man runs a modelling agency. he knows how to snap a good shot, and he has thousands of you. all candid, while you work, while you watch tv, play on your phone. his albums of you are endless. and he loves every single one.

- s e x g o d

this man worships your body in ways that you didn’t know were possible. your sex life is extremely active, very experimental and he is the biggest giver.

also has a red room. do with that what you will 🙂‍↕️

- boyfriend!vein constantly lets you know how much he loves you. either through words of affirmation, spoiling you with gifts or simply doing acts in your favour. you're his person and he wants you to know it at all times

- once you move in together, you get free reign of his bank account. go wild, friend! for you, this man’s funds are endless ✨

- boyfriend!vein who learns to cook all of your favourite meals, so you don’t have to.

- “darling/sweetheart/my love” - his go to pet names for you

- boyfriend!vein who wants to change his ways to be the best version of himself - all for you. sure, rome wasn’t built in a day, but one thing for sure is that he would never get involved in any business that could ever put you in harms way.

- boyfriend!vein who’s life found purpose the day he found you. he’s lovesick, and intends on staying that way for the rest of your lives together.

💕

note: i still loathe this man with my entire being, im sorry vein nation 🙂‍↕️ this is still subject to change, or a part 2 at least once yingdu arc has ended <333

#for you my beloved yingdu anon!#i still hate him #link click #link click x reader #link click vein #vein x reader #they could never make me like you vein #he is kinda hot

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senka-mesecine · 1 month ago

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I wanna reverse the roles a little bit but what if during the war the reader was presumed dead by barnes after a huge battle, and was never seen again, only for him to meet her again like a figure in a dream after the war?

I’m all for sappy reunions but sprinkle in a little angst ✨

The Ghosts of Ia Drang.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

The wide, dry grassland grew nothing but the dead.

It's been miles and he's gone about the business of turning each carcass sprawled out on its belly, its side, its face towards the sky, towards himself, so he could get some small measure of identification and try and assess who it was, gender, rank, serial number included, or a vague idea of age and even those with their features barely recognizable, deformed and mangled after meeting the flying end of an explosive shrapnel, a bullet straight to the mug or white phosphorous that still burned and sizzled in the hollow of a skull blasted apart, leaking into the red dust, frying their brains even as they lay butchered, necks tangled into the chains of their own dog tags, Barnes still checked, his own face split open like the side of a milk carton, the flesh of his cheek hanging limply, the wet meat slapping against the red hot meat beneath the layer of his face as he look and looked and looked; the women always outnumbered in every platoon at least ten to one, so the task of finding a female among the hundreds of piled up dead and thousands from the enemy's side shouldn't have been a difficult task from a technical point of view, but the particular deceased he was scampering over eluded him all morning, nowhere to be found. Not out in the open. Not piled up under the corpses of the men. Not impaled, bayonetted. Not shot. Not burned. The smoke filled dawn offering no answers; only uncertainty that bubbled into terror and wrath.

Thing was, you were lost.

Took a feat of willpower to stand up and collect himself after whatever piece of shit hovered above him and blasted him straight in the fucking kisser, putting one in each shoulder to top it all off, leaving him for dead; Barnes was certain, in fact, he could still feel the bullet lodged in his forehead, pulsating there like a stray, sharpened nail lodged into his bone and brain matter --- but that could be lived with. Fact that he couldn't find your remains? That he couldn't live with. Thing was, however much it filled him with primal despair, he prefered you confirmed to be KIA; clean and straight to the point. The idea you'd be MIA? Captured? Perhaps a prisoner of war, right now, as of this very moment? It made him want to rip off the remainder of the excess, malformed skin hanging off his face and throw it to the vultures and the buzzards circling the field right along with so many Hueys circling overhead; it was a victory, but he didn't feel it. In fact, when they found him, he was kneeling among the dead, a step away from peeling his own self off like excess paint. He'd be at least content finding a blown off limb of yours; an arm. A leg. So he could embrace it like a life raft and hold it for a while. Have some measure of certainty you at least bled out to death overnight somewhere in some bush. That you at least had enough intelligence to die. November 18th, 1965.

-"Barnes?"-

Someone yanks the sweat-drenched collar of his uniform.

He is immediately, on instinct, ready to fight it.

For a brief second, shorter than a blink of an eye, he hoped it was you and your dumb ass; the sunup overhead is sharp and dazing, obscuring the face in a halo of blinding light and buzzing flies; rescue evac. His head is split open, from his forehead to the side of his mouth; a piece of his lip hanging and hobbling in his mouth dripping saliva, making it too painful to swallow. Like water filling his ears, the deafness clears and the once the voice that was trying to get to him becomes more tenacious and vehement.

-"Sergeant Barnes!?"-

A soldier, that couldn't have been older than himself was squatting beside him, grabbing his dog tags and giving it a turn, inspecting his face, halfway trying to pull him towards the chopper that just landed in a windy flurry of turning propellers, swaying the stench of blood westwards. He digs his heels into the mud, like someone unwilling to go. It wasn't shellshock. He wasn't fucking leaving here without finding what he set out to find; was that simple. -"You need to get that shit fixed! Need to get flown out overseas for that; you'll be on a long R&R."- The voice practically yells over the loud, whirring sound of the Huey's spinning blades and once the attempt at dragging him to evacuate failed, Barnes doing nothing but stare off, trying to make them wordlessly understand what he's lost, another man joins in on the effort of hauling him. Then four more. He kicks. Bites someone at one point, the sack of shit who's hand he graced with his teeth marks yelping in surprise; he felt himself as more animal than man in that moment, communicating displeasure with grunts, with snarling, with kicks, with hand grabs. -"They'll add another chevron to that uniform; you made it, now get going!"- One of them tries for flattery, voice strained as they dragged him, struggling, the five of them; he headbutts a man at one point, gripping the back of his neck and lodging his own forehead, split at the seams into the lump of shit, sending him thumbling back, causing them all to pile on him, practically wrestling him forward along with the groaning wounded; those lacking half of their everything. All except you. You where nowhere to be found and he felt like someone who's brain's been zapped by electricity at the prospect that evac would head out with you. You could've still been out there. He was willing to walk back to base. On his own two feet, crawling, dragging himself forward by his nails, if only there was a chance to ---

-"A serious case of CSR. Pacify him. Don't want him jumping from the chopper to his death."-

The syringe flashes in the hands of one of the team members giving the diagnosis flatly, matter-of-factly, produced like a saber of bolting thunder in his eyesight widened against the sunlight, cold and metallic; by the time Barnes turns to fight it, break the arm of any motherfucker that dared to touch him, the needle jabs, impales and breaks inside of his neck from the suddenness of his movement and he's hauled into a chopper by countless fingers, kicking and screaming; the morning, battle-borne sun is relentless and searing, obscured by the colored signal fog of aerosol particles and red and orange pigment dye, offering no respite as he lays limp on the side of the chopper held down by two orderlies, dangling his own mud-crusted, bloody hand from its side, mid-air above the field, the vista disappearing underneath him in a blur, hoping, somewhere, somehow, in his folly that you'll reach out from the ground, taking it, coming with him.

Barnes's grip remains empty, tormented by a phantom hollowness.

Nothing but crimson smoke passing through his fingers.

---

A year in recovery has him hitched.

Yeah, he got married in Japan during a springtime that wept.

Figured a balm was needed, like an antidote to a gaping, gangrenous wound that called out to him with your voice; anything to avoid him going mad and smashing up the hospital or tearing the hair from his own scalp, killing people with his bare hands, ripping up the building one brick at a time, looking for someone to blame, turning every sick bed until he saw a mere shadow of your face, even if by accident, half-dead, as mangled as he was --- anything except being out there, out of his reach. Nobuko was a good woman, might've even said he'd relate to her and that she related to him, half of her family as bent out of shape and as cancerously disfigured from the blast of '45, making his ugly mug seem good by comparison while she treated him, stitch after stitch, operation after operation, reconstructive surgery after reconstructive surgery, metal plate after metal plate --- a sort of life could be made here under different circumstances, perhaps --- but he laid awake at night in his own marital bed, his framed wedding photo on the nightstand, with half of his face practically mummified on it, as a stark reminder he didn't have as much as a pocket picture of yours, unblinkingly staring up at the dark ceiling, overtaken by six months of nonstop insomnia and post-recovery pain, kept up an almost otherworldly adrenaline, thinking of you in some animal cage, bamboo drilled under your nails, emaciated, raped ten times a day, weeping in some pit, crawling with shit, piss and insects and he gets up one morning with his shit already packed like someone who's insides were tied with a metal wire dragging him forward not unlike a force stronger than earthly gravity itself. All he tells Nobuko is that he'll be back in some indeterminable time when he's done fighting; what he truly meant was that he needed to find you, alive or dead, even if it's the last thing he does in this lifetime. Even if he needed to turn every square meter of the landmass you got lost in, border to border, into to a glass garden wasteland.

---

July 4th, 1969, the ripped off page of the calendar revealed the print.

What could be called a makeshift office at the back of the barracks, halfway above ground, all concrete and brick and halfway dug below ground, a foxhole's soil lining the groundwork instead of a floor, a low window against an even lower ceiling looking out towards basecamp, its glass flashing, on occasion, illuminated with zaps of light emanating from the fireworks above, blinking throughout the night, darting through the night sky like an angry fire southwest of the Cambodian border --- a dented metal cup tray doubling as an ashtray overflows with crushed cigarette buts as he mules over stacks of papers; One folder box, two folder boxes, eighteen folder boxes later and still scouring ever missing persons report in the last in five years; the one lonesome positive about Lieutenant Wolfe was that he was so easily intimidated with nothing but a lingering stare when push came to shove that getting him to use the outreach of his rank to give Staff Sergeant access to this material was easy pickings --- what Lieutenant Wolfe could not do is do the work of a miracle and produce a paper with your name, anything that got stacked in some archive confirming you died somewhere, in some hospital, in the back of some military vehicle, in some chopper en route to somewhere else, that someone found you, years ago, months ago, any time at all. The fact that the ground seemed to have swallowed you that day has been like a leech attached to the back of his spine, where he couldn't rip it off, getting fat on sucking his blood. He hears O'Neill coming down the steps, recognizes him by his general sound, but chooses not to react, looming over the desk, the oil lamp flickering beside him, the long shadows of his face swallowing up the mountains of paperwork.

-"Hey-a, Bob-o, what'cha up to there, huh?"-

The Irishman tries with humor, on hand leaning over the table sheepishly.

Barnes says nothing. Sees no point in saying anything.

As if it was not abundantly clear what he was doing.

What he was doing for years now.

-"Not gonna come out with the fellas, uh-oh? There's gonna be broads!"-

Red offers with some vestige of insecure hope in his voice and Barnes looks up at him, merely shaking his hand as a negative. Didn't even want to dignify it of a full answer, even though this was retort enough. -"Eh. Nah."- More of a sound that a response; the only grace he accepted from O'Neill was the cigarette he handed him along with the service that came with operating a zippo; the footsteps that follow are hasty, overly eager; he instantly recognizes them as Wolfe's. The Lieutenant appears in the dim, orange light of the lamp like a mouse carrying a bite of cheese too big for its own mouth, placing a manilla file on the table, next to all the others. That would be the nineteenth one in a row. And that was just today alone. -"The folders you requested, Sergeant."- Wolfe fidgets setting the documents down, like he wasn't sure what to do with himself afterwards, now that his usefulness for the task at hand has briefly concluded, so anticipated, he tries for pleasantries, decked out in his college casual wear, he looked as out of place a weasel stuck in a chicken coop; Barnes was seldom in a mood for this nonsense. Now, less than ever before. -"You men shouldn't work so hard. Bad for morale."- Wolfe quips jovially, climbing out of the foxhole and it takes a world of willpower for Barnes not to visibly roll his eyes at the man's attempt at poster platitudes, so much so that his bitterness, however unspoken seeps through to Red who grumbles into his chin, once the Lieutenant is out of earshot, giving him a long, sour stare. O'Neill knew. O'Neill was about the only one Barnes told. He knew for years now. -"Sorry fuck in his sorry fuck sweatshirt from the Ohio college of sorry fuck sciences."- Red mutters venomously and something about those choice words felt like indirectly support for Barnes's cause juxtaposed against the clueless notion he should just unwind; not that Wolfe understood just why Barnes needed these stacked up documents in the first place.

Red places a hand on his shoulder, the shadow it casts over his torso as long as a veil.

Barnes stares the gesture down, contemplating it.

The sounds of blasting fireworks outside cutting through the silence.

He catches a fidgeting O'Neill longingly staring between the window and him.

He knows the words that were going to be spoken before Red ever opens his mouth.

-"So, Sarge, you mind if I ---"-

Red wanted to leave him alone as much as Barnes wanted to be left the fuck alone, the cementing of the agreement wordless and mutually understood once O'Neill removes his hand from his shoulder, taking a hint and scurrying up the stairs, no doubt feeling eclipsed and out of his depth down here, leaving him with his paperwork and lit cigarette for company --- every minute spent down here was a minute he was weaker for leaving you out cold to suffer; every minute spent here was a minute where you could've been alive yet better off dead and he didn't know which of the three evils he prefered less out of the 43,830 hours contained within five years you were missing.

Yet, despising the idleness like a mortal foe, he opens the file Wolfe brought him.

Starts reading over the sound of music and ruckus taking precedence outside.

Tonight wasn't going to be a night he slept, like many more before it.

Not that Barnes minded the nightmares.

At least in them, he could see you.

---

Buôn Anh of the Chư Prông District spread out northwest.

Go west enough and march long enough, Barnes thought, and he could walk back into it like a grocery shop; slam open the glass door and demand what's his --- the scene of crime and death - Ia Drang Valley on the outskirts of many villages, some eighty clicks from their current position while they were carried airborne over the vast, open grassland riddled with holes in the soil filled with water like a land of countless artificial, newly formed lakes caused by bombardment meant to extinct; he kills his own burning impatience by imagining you standing in the swaying, yellow plains covered up to your waist, your hand raised to wave the Huey off with a smile like a bride anticipating her groom to return, looking up from a rice paddy in place of the straw hat broad with a baby on her back that stares up at their chopper; You weren't there, but his mind could still paint you there like a specter brought on by the blinding mirage, not that he ever forgave your folk for allowing you to come here in the first place. Your pappy, your ma' and the rest of your blood relation should've all been stood up to attention and spat in the face for not locking you into your room the second you got the bright idea of enlisting. He squeezes the handle of his own M16 at the notion until he could feel the blood circulation in his gripping fingers practically cut off. The villages in the district were suspected of harboring NVA and all sympathizers along with a contingent of Soviet arms. He wouldn't deny that what they were about to do would be a pleasure. One American life was worth a village of these pieces of shit to him. Your life was worth the whole fucking country. Fuckin' apeshit, his brain chastises him, a married man goin' AWOL over a dead woman. What were you gon' do when you find her? Alive or dead.

If you were dead, he'd kill these sons of bitches right back so long as his arms and legs could serve him, and when they were done serving him, he'd kill them with his fucking teeth until they break.

If you were alive ---

-"Sergeant ---"- Lieutenant Wolfe interrupts his reverie by pointing to the village down below, huddled in the back of the chopper; the sudden flash of adrenaline Barnes felt at the prospect of all the possibilities of you being living causing him to shoot the college boy a haunted look he was well aware looked half crazed because he could feel it, his eyeballs painfully wide; thankfully, the men were used to that by now. Wrote it off to him simply being him. -"Up ahead. Elias's squad will meet us at the vantage point on the other side of the river."-Wolfe stands up, half bent at the spine, his head reaching the ceiling of the helicopter's interior as he laid down the law with the firmness of a limp dick; sometimes, admittedly, Barnes envied the snot nosed kid --- his weightless stupidity and clearness of mind. Nothing bogging that brain down but his own flaccid self importance and a rank bought by daddy's money. He wishes he was that young and that dumb; so that he could walk out of here with you in tow. Life and its fucking complications; he probably wouldn't have even had a chance of meeting you if it wasn't for the war the same way he wouldn't have lost of you if it wasn't for the war. -"No rough stuff this time; we just get in and out. Confiscate the arms if we find any and get a move on! Understood?"- Wolfe explains, almost yelling over the sound of a helicopter in flight, sheepishly grazing Barnes with his rapidly blinking, squinted gaze, like these words were intended for him and his men in particular. -"Sure, top dog."- Barnes mutters in confirmation with all the acidic sarcasm of a viper concealed as respect as the Huey flew low, the close proximity of Ia Drang Valley still smelling the same as it did five years ago and before the chopper even hits the ground, Barnes finds himself being the first one jumping out.

His hand isn't as empty as it was half an eternity ago.

Dangling bleeding fingers out of the chopper, grasping at the smoke.

This time, he comes totting an M16.

---

-"What you did in that village was unforgivable, Barnes."-

Captain Harris leans back, away from the tidiness of his desk, while Barnes stood on attention, arms crossed behind his back, legs akimbo; he didn't think what he did two weeks ago was unforgivable, even though he didn't intend to argue his point with a superior officer. If anything, his actions were tit for tat. Not that anyone here would understand that. The payback of it all.

-"And this isn't the first incident ---"-

The good Captain comments, looking at him square on, with fatherly concern.

Wouldn't be the last incident either.

-"But, I keep putting this off because you're a talented soldier and the field needs talented soldiers."- The older man's index finger points at a folder containing what would've been a report leading to a court martial as emphasis just what he meant by 'putting off this' and Barnes stares, profusely, chin raised, at the manilla file; What difference did it make? He wasn't going to be stupid and pretend he wanted to land himself behind bars, but would a genuine life ever really even be possible even if he played the game clean, finishing his tour of duty and finding himself relieved? Would he ever be able to exist normally again? Put him in front of a firing squad and it would've made no difference. -"You and Elias keep this squad at a balanced equilibrium like two pillars; remove one and the whole shebang crumbles and we'll have fifty caskets flown out of here within a week. You think I want that for these poor kids?"- Captain Harris's wrinkled brow furrows and the man crosses his arms on the edge of the table, his ring studded fingers entwining. Nah, Barnes didn't want no poor kids to die; just the pieces of shit who stole you from him, along with every cow, every hen, every old honcho, every old haggard woman and her bastard, barefoot brat in tow. That's all. The Captain stands up, something weary about him, and Barnes's eyes follow him, standing still to watch the man take position in front of the window, staring out into the barrack's courtyard only to turn towards him, chastisement peppered with honest concern. -"But, I can't have you waging a holy blood crusade unchecked and unchallenged when there's protestors on every street back home threatening to knock down the doors of the White House."- Barnes frankly didn't care if they set the darn place on fire and he decides to say just that, with all his chest, off the records. Any country that sent off women to get lost in the jungle, never to be found again, instead of rightfully staying home and raising youngins, making some sack of shit happy, deserved at least some of his ire. -"Let 'em, sir, all due respect."- Barnes retorts flatly, looking on straight ahead, towards the white wall and Lyndon's framed, monochromatic photo hanging on a screw. -"But, why?"- Captain Harris comes inquiring with genuine confusion, a moment of silence, the older man's mouth opens and closes into a hard pressed line, like he got it.

So, he's heard the story then, huh?

Barnes had to wonder just how the Captain found out.

Probably through O'Neill, who told someone else, who told someone else.

And here Barnes was, planning to take this to the grave with him.

-"You'll find, Sergeant that five years is a long time to survive, for anyone."-

Harris remarks, the empathy in his voice undeniable, but Barnes, concludes the flash of brute realism to be stinging, leaving a hollow pit in his stomach, finding the irony of it all by itself profoundly ironic; yeah, it was believable that you died, but he wanted some confirmation and concrete evidence. He didn't want to keep living with questions unanswered. How could he? Then again, was it wrong to hope you could still be alive? People can survive things. -"I did, sir."- He remarks openly, using himself as an example. A man shot seven times technically shouldn't exist as a possibility, yet here he was, standing and still in commission, watching the older man lean over the work desk, taking a hold of one of the documents there, scribbling something at the bottom of the paper --- could've been a dishonorable discharge, could've been prescribed visitation to the army shrink. Either or, Barnes didn't think anything could or would stop him. -"Don't consider the R&R a reward; consider it a forced leave for everyone's sake. Yours included."- Captain Harris stares him down through greying ashen flaxen eyebrows and Barnes's shoulder's drop; he had to find some humor in the situation --- Rest and Recreation was never something he indulged in so much so that this was more of a punishment than anything else; would've prefered it he was given a beating than this shit and he wondered if Captain Harris knew. Saigon, the paper says, once Barnes takes it from the man. He was given seven days in Saigon. Fuck's sake; what the fuck was he going to do there seven days away from all the action? Seven days away from the front where he could've been more use to everyone; more use in looking for you. -"And Barnes?"- The Captain's voice stops him while he's in the middle of turning on his heel and saluting himself out of the office. What was it? A warning for him not to waste any friendly civilians meanwhile? Barnes clicks his boots together. -"Yes, sir!"- He stands back on attention, crossing his arm behind his back again, as per habit, his other arm pressing the folder detailing his leave to his chest, squeezing it a little too hard for comfort and catching himself doing it. Unexpectedly, there's something unspoken in the Captain's eyes, like he meant to say something grand or impactful but choose not to, gulping down any and all niceties. This was, after all, a disciplinary measure. Not a picnic.

-"Godspeed, son."-

Is all the older man settles on.

Robert Barnes was fine with that.

---

Monsoon season, Saigon, and he still doesn't sleep.

The buzzing air is as hot as an oven.

Insomniac reveries in front of the lowered shutters of his hotel room turn into binge smoking and binge smoking turns into binge drinking only for him up and leave in the middle of the night, breaking house conduct, deciding to wander the rain-drenched, stormy streets at like someone forcibly removed from his natural habitat, a fish thrown out its waterbowl, left to flap around aimlessly on a carpet until it suffocates and dies. Unlike the likes of Bunny and O'Neill, reason why he never liked R&R is because he simply never knew what to do on R&R, finding the idleness stupidly murderous and weirdly degrading, and in several years of active warfare every time he was sent anywhere was because he was sent there by force by the higher up, a sort of cooldown when things got too hot, the establishment getting involved, convinced it's not good PR for a soldier to be continuously on the battlefield 365 days in a year after 365 in a year without break; not without his brain getting fried --- Barnes figured it was the opposite for him, going out at night into the sprawling neon labyrinth of the city, when all the animals like him came out as well was enough to melt his grey matter. All the whores eying him carefully, the swaying drunks parting like the red see upon sighting him on street corners and the pimps plying their wares from open bar diners that worked 24/7, blaring music late into the night, the occasional pedestrian's face in the blur of the crowd reminding him of yours. A moment's flash, Barnes imagines himself seeing someone with your hair, your nose profile in stride, a movement of hand, maybe your voice as you shout to someone else, only to pinch himself mentally, reminding himself it was just some hooker calling for her John. Degenerate sacks of shit. Barnes bitterly reminds himself, in a bleak sort of confront, begrudgingly; this wasn't a complete waste of time, though --- seven days of this trip. The first three alone he's spent looking through every hospital in the vicinity, every asylum, every morgue, every homeless shelter, every graveyard depo, every sanatorium in the vague hope you could've gotten found and ended up admitted somewhere, that someone knew something, that someone has seen you in the mass of people pouring in damaged from the frontlines, amnesiac, addicted, broke, handicapped, heads broken in, their minds lost.

He supposed he might as well turn to God.

Barnes thinks, eying the old, abandoned Catholic colonial building converted into an Christian Missionary Alliance church looming large on the end of the street, crushing the cigarette underneath his bootheel in a puddle of muddy water reflecting moonlight and the obnoxiously flickering street signs and walking into the stony, partially flooded courtyard, his footsteps coming down in loud thuds against the overgrown green moss shiny and slick with water, the sounds of music, rickshaws bouncing against the wet cobblestone streets, bike bells and motorcycle engines revving up along with the general chatter from down the block echoing through the bowels of the heavy, stony walls enclosing the open hall that's seen better days approximately a century ago, when the goddamned French were still around and running the show. The fuck was he expecting God to do for him that he couldn't do for himself? Reality was, and he should've fucking faced it by now, that you died somewhere as a POW and that your demise was long, gruesome and torturous and the he could do nothing about it except continue living with that fact for the rest of his life before the machine's that he was started breaking down and he ended up putting the barrel of a gun into his mouth or goading someone else to do it for him. Thing was, this war was on the verge of ending; he could feel it in the air, the general attitude, the sensation on the streets and what then? If he couldn't keep killing these motherfuckers who took you, what else was there to do? Maybe go seek out another war and keep killing them there, by proxy, because someone somewhere had to do pay; Barnes looks up at the dilapidated, shelled out ceiling dripping rainwater adjoined to what seemed like a church sanatorium or a Friendship Monastery, alerted by the footsteps of a lone, aged nun walking down the midnight corridor beside the form of a woman sitting on the ledge of a cracked cement balcony alive with the sounds of them crazies making a mania-filled ruckus in their rooms, overpowered by the distant shouting of what he could only assume was a night-shift doctor; the woman in the sack-like, old sick gown looks at him for a moment, catching his form down below and there it was, that zap again. The zap he felt in his brain five years ago while he was turning the wounded and the dead at Ia Drang Valley, looking for you, as feral as a kicked dog.

The woman's shocked face twists in confusion and she practically cries out.

Incomprehensibly.

-"Robert? Robert!? Is that you!?"-

You shriek off the veranda, and yes, you, it was you, that or he has gone completely dinky dau and he was flat out imagining you or hallucinating you in a maddened after nights spent not sleeping, face and voice and all; before he can even take in the fact, you've already jumped into action like someone stabbed by a bayonet before one of the patrolling nuns could even stop you, practically running down the foyer in a fever, disappearing behind several orange lightbulb lit pillars in a flash, only your footsteps audible in the darkness, leaving him convinced he could tear the building apart one brick at a time by the time you land on the bottom of the steps leading up the second story; an asylum above a church; a misshapen hospital patient gown slightly too big on an emaciated body, an old pair of clogs on your bare feet seeming like they were borrowed second hand from someone or found in a charity bin. Your hair cropped short choppily, in a haste, randomly growing in all sorts of directions like someone who was shaven at one point to prevent lice only to start healing back into themselves, both literally and figuratively. Your sunken eyes that seemed like they've seen some shit still undeniably yours, though and shiny with tears as you halt in the humid courtyard, taking him in as the orderly nun tries to grab you by the shoulder, causing you to flinch forward, back towards him. If someone had a feather, he thought he could be flat out knocked out with it. There's a loud, deafening fast train running through his head, cutting a bloody valley through his brain with its whirlwind speed, causing the plate lodged into his skull to vibrate in his brain.

Barnes sees red.

The ghosts of Ia Drang coming alive.

-"Bobby!"-

Your voice cracks, halfway a whimper, halfway a scream.

He doesn't even register when you lunge yourself into his arms.

He only speechlessly feels grabbing you hard enough to break bones.

So, this is where you were? For five years?

From hospital to hospital, sanatorium to sanatorium?

-"Your poor face!"- You remark at one point, hiccupping with distress, having gone through fuck knows what, the contemplation of that rendering him more animal than man as he wondered if you'd still want him like this, causing the whole world to fall off from its own axis as you were cradled against his heavy, labored breaths, sweat against sweat, overtaken by sobs and faltering knees, all skin and bones in his embrace, reaching up to touch his scars for the first time, hovering your fingers mid-air in contemplating and flinching away, like you didn't dare caress him there, not without permission or the understanding it didn't hurt when it hurt every day since he was blasted in the mug; fuck hesitating with anything right about now. He grabs your fingers hard, needing a confirmation that they were flesh and blood and not a goddamned mirage, placing them on himself, holding your hand to his face; the old, sour-faced Quaker nun is out of breath behind you, mere steps away, like you've put there through an actual ordeal, making her chase you, obviously angered by the presence of an uniformed soldier on the premises; fucking peace-loving hippie. -"You know this man?"- She asks with subdued niceties, outraged and ignored, ready to reprimand and you sink deeper into his arms like something a part of his own ribcage; the floodgates desperately opening in a sound that revibrates across the hall, rendering you a weeping, shaking, shivering mess.

Yeah, you knew him alright.

He knew you too.

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koiiiji · 6 months ago

Text

halloween special! fantasy AU

tw ; long post, hints of unhealthy behaviour

starring ; Sangho Choi, Yoo Wooin, Joker, Kwon Hyuk, Chris d'Char

author's note i feel like i went a little too far.... MDNI!!! AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS DNI, I WILL BLOCK YOU

Sangho Choi

dark elf

the aftermath of the battle lay heavy on the camp. bodies of the wounded were scattered across the muddy grounds, the air thick with the scent of blood and ash. Sangho strode through the chaos, his armor still smeared with grime and blood, his expression unreadable, calm as always. the Moriquendi (dark elves) commander moved like a force of nature, cold and unwavering — a stark contrast to the exhaustion that gripped his troops.

he had led them to victory, but at a cost. the dead outnumbered the living, both the humans and dwarves who fought alongside them counted their losses, and just as the Moriquendi mourned dead ones in silence. Sangho, ever composed, was the eye of the storm, his reputation as a warrior known throughout the realms. despite the losses, his people looked to him with deep respect. they always had.

he had earned that respect — not through birthright or privilege, but through sheer strength and leadership. the Moriquendi might have been forsaken by the gods, forgotten and separated for centuries, but Sangho had become their pillar of power, their anchor, the one brought them all together again. his connection to his people was ironclad, built not on divine grace, but on blood, grit, and unrelenting will.

Sangho had no need for magic, for poetry, for the lofty ideals of the highest elves. he had the blade. and that was enough.

but as the silver banners of the Calaquendi approached the camp, a bitterness stirred in his chest. he stood tall, his posture rigid as he watched them ride in — untouched by the dirt, by the blood. their horses were pristine, their armor shining like the stars, and their faces were serene, as if the horrors of war had never touched them.

they hadn’t fought in this battle. they had only come now, after the dust had settled, with their supplies, their medicines, their immaculate presence. it was an insult, in a way, a reminder that they saw themselves as above it all.

but it wasn’t the Calaquendi warriors that made his jaw tighten.

it was you.

you rode at the front of the procession on her snow-white horse, a figure of grace and elegance. the princess. your silver hair cascaded down your back, catching the last rays of the setting sun, and your soft eyes surveyed the camp with a quiet sadness. you was everything the Calaquendi were — untouched, unearthly, and so far removed from the blood and dirt that clung to Sangho and his people.

it had been years since he had last seen you, but the sight of you was enough to stir something deep within him. something he had long tried to bury...

he had been a young elf then, barely into his teenage years, when he had been granted the rare privilege to train under the Calaquendi’s finest warriors. it had been an honor, or so everyone had told him. a rare opportunity for a Moriquendi to learn from the higher elves, to study the art of combat, leadership, and strategy.

they had treated him like a curiosity — an outsider, lower. he had heard the whispers, felt the judgment. the older elves had made no effort to hide their disdain for the Moriquendi, for the path they had chosen long ago.

but you had been different. you had shown him kindness, even as a child. your curiosity about him had seemed genuine, your warmth in stark contrast to the cold indifference of her people.

you had even tried to teach him magic once, your face full of innocent excitement. "it’s simple, Sangho," you had said, hand glowing with a soft, golden light. but the magic had never come for him. his people had no connection to it, no divine light in their veins. the magic that flowed so easily for you would never be his. he had felt like a shadow in your presence, a reminder of the gulf between them.

and though you had never mocked him for it, it had planted a seed of resentment in him that had only grown with time.

Sangho tore his gaze away from you as your contingent dismounted. his expression remained cold, controlled. he had long mastered the art of concealing his thoughts, of keeping his emotions locked behind a calm exterior. but seeing you again — untouched by the war that had scarred him and his people — it stirred something dark inside him. a flicker of jealousy. of anger.

and yet, something else.

you approached the gathered commanders, your voice soft but clear as you addressed them. "we have come to help," you said, tone calm, diplomatic. "our healers will tend to your wounded. we have brought provisions, weapons, and aid for the battles ahead."

Sangho stood at a distance, watching you as you spoke. his armor was still stained with the blood of his enemies, a stark contrast to your pristine appearance.

and as he watched you, that familiar ache stirred in his chest, the same one he had felt all those years ago when you had smiled at him and tried to teach him what he could never possess. you was everything he resented, everything he envied.

and yet, he could never bring himself to hate you.

you caught his gaze, soft eyes meeting his across the camp. for a moment, the world seemed to still. your lips curved into a small, familiar smile, the kind you had given him all those years ago — full of warmth, of recognition.

"Commander," you greeted him, voice gentle echoed in his head. the sound of your voice, calling his title in his head, sent a chill down his spine.

he inclined his head slightly, his expression remaining cold, though his heart raced beneath the surface. "Princess," he replied, his voice low, edged with a bitterness.

Yoo Wooin

pirate

the cliffs were a place of solitude, where you often came to escape the noise of the coastal town. tonight, however, when the sun had almost disappeared below the horizon, and dark blue heavy clouds foreshadowed the storm, the wind screamed through the rocks, carrying whispers of danger as you peered out at the sea. moon wasn't shown yet, but the crashing waves couldn't hide it from your gaze — the legendary ship.

it looked like something out of a nightmare. dark hull was barely visible in the distance, but it's tattered black sails were unmistakable. the ship that had haunted the town’s legends for centuries.

you had only meant to look. just a glimpse, out of curiosity. no one could have warned you how close it would come to shore tonight.

as you turned to head back up the cliffs, the sharp crack of twigs underfoot made you freeze. before you could even gasp, rough, filthy hands clamped over your mouth. the scent of sweat and saltwater hit your nose as you struggled, panic surging through veins.

“shhh, lass, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” a gruff voice snarled in your ear.

your eyes widened in terror as you was yanked backward, feet sliding helplessly on the slick, rocky ground. two men held you tightly, their laughter low and malicious. one of them, burly and reeking of rum, grabbed your wrists, twisting them behind your back painfully as the other kept his filthy hand pressed firmly over your mouth.

“look what we found wanderin’ near the cliffs,” the first man sneered. his breath was hot and foul against your cheek. “tet the captain’ll like this one. she’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

terror tightened in your chest as they dragged you down the narrow path, where was the boat beached.

your muffled cries lost to the storm.

your heart raced as the ship came into view again, when your kidnappers rowing back to the ship, and all the warnings from the townsfolk echoed in your mind. the ghost ship wasn't just a story. it was real — and you were being taken aboard.

the men hauled you up onto the deck, laughing and exchanging crude comments about you as they did. wood beneath your feet was old, splintered, and smelled of rot and seawater. panic surged in your chest as you was thrown down onto the deck, your wrists still bound with some dirty rag behind you, mouth dry with fear.

your breath came in short gasps, and when you looked up, your blood ran cold.

there, in the shadows, was him.

Wooin stood at the helm, leaning casually against the ship’s railing with an almost lazy posture, his black hair tousled by the storm, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. his eyes were sharp — too sharp — and his grin was… wrong. wicked. crazy. it was a smile that held danger, and something far darker. and before you could even struggle to your feet, his sliced through the air, dark and sharp.

“now, now, what have we here?”

“looks like you boys brought me a little gift,” he drawled, eyes locking on you with a gaze that sent shivers down your spine. “and here i thought tonight was going to be boring.”

pirates laughed as they shoved you closer to him. “caught her spyin' near the cliffs, Captain. figured you'd want first dibs”

Wooin crouched down in front of you, his grin widening as he looked you up and down. his gaze was dark and predatory, lingering a little too long on your trembling form. he leaned in close, the scent of seawater and smoke clinging to you as he cocked his head.

“you wanted to see the ship up close, sweetheart? well, too bad, we don't let go of such precious things like you back,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “though i gotta say, you’re braver than most. or maybe just stupider.”

his fingers trailed along your cheek, smudging the dirt the other pirates had left behind. his touch was cold and sent a wave of fear rippling through you. “you’ve got a pretty little mouth,” he mused darkly, thumb brushing against your lips. “i bet it can do real sweet job, don’t it?”

you jerked your head back, heart pounding wildly in your chest, but that only made him laugh.

“oh, feisty, i like that.” Wooin’s grin twisted into something even darker, and his eyes flickered with amusement. “you might last longer than i thought.”

he stood up, his hand curling around your arm as he pulled you to your feet in one quick motion, yanking you against him. “what's your name, little mouse?” Wooin asked, his voice soft, almost sweet. but the sweetness was poisoned, mocking. when you didn’t answer right away, his grin faltered, and his expression twisted with impatience.

before you could speak, Wooin's hand shot out, gripping your jaw tightly, forcing you to meet his gaze. his eyes were wild now, gleaming with something dangerous and unhinged.

“don’t be shy now,” he growled, his fingers digging into your skin. “you’re gonna tell me your name, or i’ll have my boys get it out of you another way. and trust me, sweetheart, you don’t want that.”

your heart raced, and you managed to stammer, “it’s [y/n].”

“good.” Wooin released you with a smirk, standing back up. he turned to his crew with a wicked grin. “what do you think, boys? think we can make use of her?”

the pirates around you roared with laughter, and Wooin stepped back, letting his eyes wander over your form again with a wild glint. “don’t worry, sweetheart. i’ll make sure you’re well taken care of. you’ll just have to earn your keep.”

he threw a wink at you, but it wasn’t charming. it was crude, full of filthy implications. “we’ve got plenty of work for pretty things like you aboard the Sabbath.”

you struggled against the ropes around your wrists, heart pounding as you felt the weight of his words. there was no escaping the look in his eyes — dark and unrelenting. this wasn’t just a game to him. it was a hunt. and you was his prey.

but then, just as quickly as his touch had been possessive, he pulled away, mercilessly ripping off your outer dress, which you covered yourself with, slipping out of the house, leaving you only in a thin, white night dress. he slowly held the cloth to his nose, inhaling the scent of perfumes and oils, rolling his eyes with perverted pleasure. the second later he turned to his crew, spinning on his heel and threw the coat into a crowd of pirates. “still warm and smell like woman, boys” he barked to his men, his tone light but commanding.

the crew burst into vile, disgusting laughter, stretching and tearing the fabric, trying to snatch a piece for themselves, while the captain took the main delicacy.

Wooin grabbed your arm, roughly dragging you after him in captain's cabin, and shot you just one look, his grin sharper than ever. “I’ve got a few things to take care of, sweetheart. But don’t worry. I’ll find time soon to… get to know you better.”

Joker

hunter

the forest was thick, dark, and damp, its shadows pooling like ink beneath the heavy canopy. you’d been warned to stay away from the hunter’s paths, to keep to the glades where the light filtered through, safe among the trees and the chattering birds. but curiosity and confidence had tugged you deeper into the wild, to places no forest nymph dared venture. and now here you were — ensnared, tangled like prey in a coarse net that cut into your skin each time you struggled.

you’d heard the rumors, all the horrific things that were said of him. some called him a monster, some a demon, a creature more vile than ogres, with hands heavy enough to crush bone and a heart darker than the forest’s shadowed depths.

a man.

rumors said he hunted fae-folk for sport, skinned nymphs and fauns alive to sell their wings and antlers and sometimes even kept it as twisted trophies. so you lay frozen, terror blooming inside you as footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, until he was there, looking down at you with a gaze as indifferent as a hawk's, cold and calculating.

“caught yourself in a trap, didn’t you?” his voice was low, almost lazy, devoid of emotion but carrying a harsh edge that set your heart racing faster. he crouched, studying you with the cool, detached interest of a creature observing something wounded, something lesser.

you couldn’t hold back a soft whimper, the plea tumbling out in a trembling whisper. “please… please don’t eat me… or… or sell me, or… take my wings.” your voice shook, barely above a whisper, but you couldn’t help it. every ounce of courage had leaked from you, leaving only desperation.

his expression remained unchanged, his eyes traveling over you without a hint of sympathy or mercy. he clicked his tongue, almost in disdain. “sell you or eat you, huh?” he scoffed softly, as though the very idea bored him. “too small to do any of this to you...”

he leaned closer, his face shrouded by the hood he wore, but even then, you could make out the glint of something dangerous in his gaze, a still cruelty inherent to human, that made your skin prickle. he pulled a long, thin knife from his belt, its blade dull and wicked-looking. your heart pounded faster, your breath quick and shallow as he dragged the blade along the net, slicing through its binds with practiced precision.

but he didn’t stop with the net.

as he worked, he let out a slow, almost mocking sigh, his tone low and chillingly void of anything warm. “i never thought fae-folk would be this… naive. falling right into a trap. maybe all those rumors are true. that you’re not as clever as you all like to pretend.”

he cut through the last of the net, letting it fall loose around you, and before you could think to scramble free, he had you by the wrists, pinning them above your head with a grip that felt like iron. you writhed, pulling against his hold, but his strength was unyielding, and his gaze never shifted, never softened.

“look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself, though there was a cruel twist to his voice. “tiny thing… so fragile.” the knife moved again, glinting faintly as he drew it closer, tracing it along the edge of your silken garb, dragging it just close enough to raise the fine hairs on your skin.

the first cut was slow, methodical, stripping you of the flimsy fabric with a disturbing calm, his face as devoid of emotion as it had been when he’d found you. his touch was cold as he worked, peeling away every last layer of your garb until your skin was bare beneath the dappled light filtering through the foliage of the trees.

your throat tightened, a frantic plea catching in your throat as he studied you, his gaze a chillingly dispassionate assessment of your form. “what are you so afraid of?” his question was flat, the hint of a smirk nowhere to be found, replaced instead by an unsettling, empty gaze. “i told you i wouldn’t eat you. or sell you.”

he tilted his head, as though considering something, his eyes roaming over you with a detached curiosity, nothing soft or familiar to be found in that stare. “i’ve seen plenty of your kind before,” he continued. “fragile little things. quick to beg, easy to break.” he tightened his grip on your wrists, as his other hand slips to your chest, cupping one and tweaking your nipple, watching as you flinched, his expression as cool and collected as before.

with a final, dispassionate glance, he dropped your wrists, letting you fall back against the forest floor. you felt the earth cold against your skin, and for a moment, you dared to believe he might leave, that his curiosity had passed.

but he didn’t move. he just stood there, studying you in silence, as if weighing his options, calculating something you couldn’t comprehend. finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper, chillingly calm.

“run.”

Chris d'Char

draugr (scandinavian zombie)

the moment you stepped into the cave, you felt something watching. air was thick with the scent of earth and decay, damp and oppressive, pressing down as you pushed further into the cavernous dark. your heart pounded, but you pressed on, forcing yourself to ignore the prickling dread. you were here for a treasure whispered about in a village. most wouldn’t have dared come this far.

yet, the stories didn’t come close to capturing the reality.

the flicker of your torch swept across a wide, shadowy space — a stone altar strewn with tarnished gold and faded relics. you were about to reach out when the cave itself seemed to exhale, a sound so low and menacing that it sent an icy jolt straight through you. and then he emerged from the shadows.

the figure was massive, towering, and unmistakably dead. his armor, dark and corroded, seemed to weigh him down, each piece like ancient, heavy iron strapped to bone. his shoulders were broad and hulking, and he moved with an unnatural stillness that made every muscle in your body seize in place. the hood shadowed most of his face, but his eyes… they gleamed green, faintly lit with a supernatural glow that pierced the darkness with an intensity that made you want to run.

but you couldn’t.

your legs felt rooted to the ground, every part of you alive with a fear that bordered on primal. his gaze fixed on you, narrowed and piercing, and he moved closer, each step slow, deliberate. the sound of his boots echoed against the stone walls, mingling with a faint rasping that you quickly realized was his breath — deep, hollow, and cold as death itself. the closer he came, the more you felt the chill radiating from him, a cold that soaked through your skin, settling into your bones, making you feel like prey frozen in the gaze of a predator.

“you…” his throat, mouth and vocal cords were clearly damaged, and sound coming from him was more like wheezing and coughing with something rumbling, a sound coming from his chest. yet it was a deep enough, gravelly rasp that sent an involuntary shudder down your spine. each word felt like stone grinding against stone, a sound that wasn’t meant for the ears of the living. “another thief come to desecrate my tomb?”

he loomed over you, nearly a foot taller, and though his face remained mostly hidden, you could see the lines of hardened bone, twisted by time. he looked like something that had clawed its way out of the underworld, not just some story told to frighten children. you could feel his anger like a physical force, pressing against you, filling the air with a menacing weight that made your breath hitch.

“i —” you stammered, barely managing to find your voice. your hands shook, your mind racing with excuses, explanations — anything that might soothe the wrath of this ancient creature. “i didn’t think — i mean, i didn’t know you were… real.”

the words sounded foolish, childish, even to you, but you could feel his gaze intensify, piercing and unwavering.

“you mortals never think,” he growled, taking another slow, deliberate step toward you. you pressed back against the cold stone of the altar, every instinct screaming to run, yet trapped by his gaze. “and yet you come, chasing gold and glory. seeking what you have not earned.” he let his words hang in the air, thick and heavy with disdain.

as he spoke, you noticed the faint gleam of a blade strapped to his side, its edge worn but sharp, and you had no doubt it would slice through you in a heartbeat if he chose to use it.

“what… drives a mortal to invade a place meant for the dead?” he croaked, his tone less angry now, but still dripping with suspicion. there was a twisted curiosity there, mingling with his disdain, as though he were scrutinizing you, searching for an answer that would make sense of your presence here.

you swallowed, trying to steady yourself enough to speak, though your voice trembled as you answered. “i… i heard about the treasures here. i thought it was just…story. just an old story to scare children.” you hesitated, meeting his gaze as best you could, even as a chill washed over you, every inch of your skin prickling with fear. “i didn’t think… that it would be guarded.”

he tilted his head, an unreadable expression crossing his shadowed face. his lips twisted into what might have been a sneer, or perhaps a smirk — it was impossible to tell. “it was men who came before,” he hissed, almost to himself. his gaze flickered over you, as though he were assessing something different, some detail about you that set you apart from the others who had come before. “yet here you are. foolish…”

his tone was chillingly indifferent, a touch of dark amusement cutting through his fury. as he took a final step, closing the distance between you, you could feel his cold breath brush against your face, a touch that felt like a warning as his eyes bore into you. his voice dropped to a low, rumbling whisper. “do you know what fate awaits those who disturb the peace of the dead?”

you shook your head, not trusting your voice. every instinct screamed to flee, yet you were captivated by your own terror.

Chris’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and in that silence, you sensed something change. he was still terrifying, still monstrous, but a flicker of curiosity had joined the malice in his stare. it was as if your presence had stirred something within him, something that hadn’t stirred in centuries.

“tell me, mortal,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful, “what makes you any different from the fools who came before you?”

and as his eyes met yours, sharp and unyielding, you felt as though you were being weighed, measured by an ancient creature. he was no mere guardian, no simple guard to be outrun or outwitted. he was a spirit bound by death and anger, as much a part of the treasure he guarded as any piece of gold. and yet, against every instinct, every shred of reason, you felt the barest hint of intrigue flicker in his gaze.

Kwon Hyuk

poltergaist

moving into the apartment was a compromise between your budget and your nerves. the place wasn’t much — peeling paint, narrow halls that sighed with age, the endless creaks that echoed even when you were alone. but rent was cheap, and as a student, you needed cheap more than you needed comfort.

it started innocently enough — little things, easily explained. doors closed just after you left them open, faint scratching sounds from within the walls, lights flickering overhead. you convinced yourself it was nothing, brushing it off as an old building settling. but then, the noises became louder. clearer. as if someone — or something — was listening, waiting.

the feeling of being watched crept into your bones. you’d catch glimpses in the corners of mirrors, shadows moving when you were perfectly still. a prickling sensation would crawl up your spine when you turned off the lights, only to grow stronger, more pointed. some nights, as you lay in bed, you swore you could feel cold air ruffling your hair, a whisper-light touch that disappeared when you jolted up to check. each time you looked, the room was empty, but the feeling of dread lingered, thick and oppressive.

then, it escalated.

you came home one evening to find the kitchen in disarray — cups and plates carefully stacked into a pyramid on the counter, all balanced so precariously that you only had to breathe near them for it to come crashing down. it felt like a taunt, a child’s game, and yet it left your hands shaking. you cleaned it up, all the while feeling the icy weight of unseen eyes watching, almost amused.

in the following days, the disturbances grew darker. doors no longer merely closed but slammed, hard enough to rattle the walls. your belongings would appear in places you’d never left them — your phone in the freezer, your books stacked upside down, your shoes arranged in pairs by your bed. one night, you found the word HELLO written across the bathroom mirror in streaks of condensation, though you hadn’t showered.

each night became a test of endurance. scratches appeared on the walls, faint at first, but then louder, more insistent, like nails scraping down to get your attention. the sound would follow you from room to room, echoing in the dead silence, growing fiercer when you tried to ignore it. then the lights began to flicker not randomly but in patterns, on and off in a slow, mocking rhythm that felt like it was waiting for you to notice.

and you did.

one night, exhausted and desperate for sleep, you turned off the lights and crawled into bed, willing yourself to ignore the eerie sensations that had become part of your every day. just as you started to drift off, you heard floorboards creaked, as if someone was cautiously tiptoeing closer and closer to the bed. a weight pressed down on the foot of the bed, heavy and cold, slowly sinking in beside you. your body froze in terror, heart racing as you held your breath. the bed dipped, creaking under an unseen presence, as if someone had settled right next to you.

you lay still, paralyzed, as icy fingers trailed up your arm, tracing your skin with a sensation so foreign, so unnatural, that it sent a chill down your spine. the cold touched your cheek, feather-light and lingering, like the brush of lips against your skin. your breath hitched, and the room fell silent. the pressure lifted, but the feeling of something lurking stayed, hovering just outside your reach.

that was when the messages began.

written in dust on your desk, scrawled in barely-there letters:

miss me? i’m here.

they showed up on your bathroom mirror, traced in streaks of moisture, smeared across your textbooks in faint pencil. each word a reminder that you were not alone, that he was there, hidden in the shadows, watching, listening.

one evening, exhausted and drained, you decided to ignore the signs. you’d convinced yourself that it was all in your head, a trick of nerves and exhaustion. but that night, he grew angry.

the temperature in the room plummeted, your breath misting in the air. walls shuddered as something invisible began slamming doors, cabinets, drawers, every corner of the apartment alive with rage. a framed photo fell from the wall, shattering at your feet, its glass shards scattering like ice. you stumbled back, your heart racing as the lights flickered, plunging the room into pitch black.

and then, in the silence, you heard it: a low, chilling whisper close to your ear, so close that it brushed against your skin.

don’t ignore me.

you screamed and stumbled away, turning on every light in a panic. but the apartment remained quiet, the air heavy with a quiet menace that settled into your bones, making it clear that the walls themselves seemed to cling to you. and as you glanced back at the broken glass, you saw a final message scratched into the dust beneath your feet:

i wanna play.

and you knew, with a sickening twist in your stomach, that this was no ordinary haunting. that he — whoever he was — wanted you there, bound to the apartment just as he was, with a twisted affection buried in every scrape, every chill, every whisper.

MASTERLIST

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barelylivingscholar · 1 year ago

Text

Arlecchino, with a daughter pt.6

I've been training my combat abilities with some of the harbingers, namely Signora, Pulcinella, and of course, Pantalone. I had not expected the sudden collaboration due to the tension around me. Whenever they are able to get to hang around me, it always end up with the question, "Is Regrator treating you well?" or the casual "You are free to live with me, if Regrator isn't able to accommodate you." Things like these makes me feel... Weird, but it is good to be wanted. But I wish it didn't feel so suffocating all the time. Lately, I've been having more nightmares, and panic attacks about the Knave... Making me grow restless and more ambitious to be able to heal from it... It was never easy from the start. Everything about the Knave makes me feel sick. I never cared to understand the reason behind her actions, because in the end, what is there to know, when her intentions were never pure from the start. Both Pantalone and Pulcinella told me about what's to know about her, and it makes me more angrier that the Knave was capable of doing such things... They fed me lies, lies that spiked my hatred for her. Until one afternoon, I fell into darkness. Endless darkness that had consumed my entire environment, different from Snezhnaya, everything appears endless, and devoid from any form of life. Enemies were fast approaching, I had to dispatch them. I draw my percussion-lock rifled musket, and started to fight off the horde. Occasionally switching to my rapier as my bullets began to wane... I became outnumbered, and surely enough I was swarmed with creatures that I have not encountered, some that were familiar. I was bound to be dead. The feeling of dread creeps up on me. In truth, I was scared to die, because I had just rediscovered my will to live during my time with Pantalone. It was too early, for me to perish without even getting the chance to see the Knave fall from her grace. It doesn't fuel my urge to fight at all. What rekindled my fighting spirit was when I saw someone, fighting their way up to reach me. I had to match their movements, I couldn't afford to lose here. It seemed like hours of endless fighting, but we managed. I lived. I collapsed from exhaustion. The mysterious woman caught me before I could land on the ground. I awoke to a woman observing a medallion...? I couldn't tell since my vision was blurry. The woman took notice of me when I slowly regained my consciousness. I see her holding up a vision. She stared at me blankly, then tossed me the vision. It was a geo vision. I sighed in relief knowing that I wouldn't have to use a delusion. For almost dying, they decided to grant me power? It was getting ridiculous. I then looked up to the lady, and thanked her for saving me from the verge of death. "...Thank you." The unknown woman sighed. "What led you here was your high ambitions." I struggled to grab a hold of myself as I feel the weight of of my actions from before. The woman sighed at the sight of the young girl slowly attempting to get back up. She was not supposed to be speaking with the girl, as she had no desire to speak with weaklings. But after seeing the girl's ability to withstand horde after horde, she decides that she is worthy to communicate with. The girl looked up at her, confused as to what she meant by that. She then elaborated further. "People do not easily fall here. Certain conditions are met before being able to traverse this realm. I barely even processed the words before responding, "...Which is why I'm here. Is there any way out?" She observed the girl who does not seemed to be disturbed by the events that had unfolded. "There is. But time will pass in long periods before you are able to get back to where you're from. Time passes differently in here." Again, the child's indifference to her situation has her interest peaked. She was eerily calm for a child.

I felt numb. Knowing that I'll be stuck here for months, or even years, decades... While the world that I'm supposed to be would pass for only days, or even weeks. It was supposed to drive me crazy. But it didn't. Maybe I wasn't recovering from the shock fully. "Oh... Okay then. I'm left to fight endlessly with creatures from the abyss, then?" Making the woman before her raise an eyebrow at her nonchalance. But the woman concludes the young girl's peculiar behavior as a side effect from already being corrupted by the abyss. "Not necessarily. You are the source of something being awakened." I wanted to ask more questions, but from the looks of it, the woman had no interest in holding long conversations. So I decided to keep things short. "I understand." Bowing my head to show my gratitude, the woman then halted me. "You're not going to last long without proper training. I'll train you in exchange for you to make things more interesting during your time here in the abyss..." This wasn't something that I can say no to, I barely knew my way around here. So of course, I accepted. Without knowing how brutal, harsh, and mind-breaking the experience was... Days have passed, with endless fighting, sparring with Skirk, with little to no breaks, I was bound to become mad... The thing that kept me from becoming mad was how the effects of the abyss kept altering my mind. I was not used to not being plagued by nightmares, thoughts, and especially the horrors of what I had experienced before... It felt peaceful, too peaceful that I start to see changes that I didn't know that I myself, am capable of. The abyss had changed me, in a way that I could not comprehend how. A month after endless fighting, I had gained some sense of morals. It had never occurred to me before, so this was likely due to the abyss's effects. Things felt out of place, as I was drastically changing into another person that I had not anticipated to be. I was never even the type of girl to put morals, above all. Despite my upbringing influencing who I was before, why did it suddenly all change to becoming righteous, and just? Since when was I ever a good person? Becoming virtuous was not part of the plan. Skirk was no stranger to the changes as well, noticing how my answers have changed from time to time. While we were on break, she asked something that made me think deeply about it. "You're strange, for a young girl who is but a child." "I am aware. I don't fit the standards of a "normal child." I was never normal to begin with. "A child from the hearth, raised to be a soldier for the Fatui, the mentality of a soldier, yet has the fragile mentality of a child. It is no wonder that the abyss was unable to corrupt you further into madness... You were already unstable, from the start. It is a miracle that your arrival to the abyss had changed you for the better. Tell me, after the effects of the abyss, what's your next move?" She could tell I was contemplating about how I will be able to move now that my ideologies have changed due to the temperament of the abyss... I summoned the geo percussion-lock rifled musket and shot it manually towards the opponent's head. "I'll remain in the Fatui. Changes will be made, regardless of the Tsaritsa's will. Justice is to be served, regardless of the ignorant, consequences are made. I am no different from the people who had fallen from the abyss. Being in an organization that is corrupt and unethical is ironic to begin with, perhaps I am there to inflict conflict, I will continue to cause tension and bring disharmony to them. My definition of rightness will be the standard, to all."

It had been 4 months since, and I was finally able to return to where I was. But this time, someone who I had not met before approached me. Judging from the description that Skirk, Pantalone, and Pulcinella had described him, this maybe is "Childe." He approaches me and enthusiastically greeted me. "You must be the disciple that I've been hearing from the old man and Regrator. Nice to meet you, I'm Childe. But you can call me Tartaglia." Before he could talk more, I cut him off. "So you're the one who is also a pupil of Skirk's." Making his eyes widen from shock; he was ecstatic to meet another student of his former master. But held back since you were still young. Too young to fight. "Oh, another fellow student of my former master! So I wasn't wrong about you falling in the abyss. 4 days have passed since your fall at the abyss. I assumed you know about how time works differently there, right?"

I nodded in response. "Yes. I know about it. Did anything happen while I was gone?" He chuckles. "Oh, a lot was going on while you were gone." Her expression hardened. "The Knave went ballistic on Regrator, you should've seen it in person! As well as La Signora, and the old man! Three of them were on Regrator's neck, chewing him for losing you." He stopped chuckling when he saw that I was not amused, at all. He scratched his head, his expression showed a nervous smile. "Well... I did tell them that maybe you fell into the abyss... Neither wanted to believe it until the old man made me look for you, but now you're here!" Making me shake my head and sigh. "The others haven't stopped searching, but I'll send someone after to tell them the news. But before that, why don't you hang out with me and share some stories with me as Skirk's pupils?" The man is persistent, he doesn't look like he'll take no for answer due to his eyes beaming with interest. "Lead the way." Looks like I'll be spending time with this strange man... We arrive at a dessert shop in Snezhnaya, he offers to buy me desserts despite my protests since I had enough mora to buy myself one... I was irritable to be honest since Tartaglia, treats me as a kid. He insists on calling him by his name. "After this, I'm going back to Pantalone's base." I say, he then responded, "Aw come on, I have been waiting to finally meet you. Let's chat more." I denied his attempts to stall me. "Tartaglia, I have to return to my mentor. He's looking for me, right?" He then counterargues, "But I already told an agent to inform them that you were found." I huffed at that. He only gave me a brotherly smile, to which I find annoying. "You know... If the Regrator mistreats you, I can-" I can't believe this is happening right now. I cut him off saying, "No. I'd rather stay at Signora's or Pulcinella's." I displayed a deadpan look, making him pout. "I have younger brothers and sisters for you to play with!" He attempts to bargain. "Erm... I'd still stay at Signora's or Pulcinella's." He looked determined to convince me. "I can be your big brother." Not sure if I want this guy to be my brother at all, he was overbearing. Too much for me. "No." After the back and forth conversation, he maintains a friendly aura during the exchange. The young girl was not an ordinary kid. She seemed too mature for her own age. Of course, the knave had something to do with it, she's crazy after all. Pantalone's a business man, so how can he take care of the child? The only sensible option here is him or the old man. But he's capable, he has his own siblings after all! He just needs to convince the girl to pick him over the others... She shouldn't be exposed to the Fatui at such an early age! She should be playing with toys, just like his siblings at home, protected, and sheltered from the harsh conditions of this climate. The Fatui is not a place for children. He of all people know that, except for the Knave. Who raises children to be child soldiers. But if it's the Tsaritsa's will... He can't do anything about the orphans of the Hearth. But he may be able to do something for this kid... He now sees why his fellow harbingers are fighting for this kid. He doesn't intend to lose at this custody case that they were having, even if no one looks at it that way. But he'll win. No matter what.

An: Kid gets thrown in the abyss, comes back out as fixed(?) 🤐🤐🤐 Not Childe at joining the ongoing child custody battle... 😶 *goes mia for days again* TOODLES!

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #platonic genshin impact #platonic genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin impact x reader #pantalone x reader #fatui harbringers x reader #fatui #genshin #arlecchino x reader #childe #childe genshin impact #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia genshin impact #childe x reader

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 1 year ago

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The Grand A-Z List of Whump 2/3

This list contains ~174 items listed I to Q

As always, I heavily encourage people to research topics thoroughly when writing as it is important to avoid stereotypes/misinformation. This list's intention is not to glorify/romanticise sensitive topics in any way.

This is a comprehensive list of injuries, Illnesses and tropes - including those from the Whumptober 2023 trope vote!

All submissions are listed in italics, and those who wanted to be tagged will be included at the end. If you have any more submissions: please send them via DM/my ask box.

[A-H] [R-Z] [NSFW List]

List below the cut:

ICU

Identity reveal

Ignorance is Bliss

Ignoring an Injury

Immersion foot syndromes (Prolonged exposure to damp and cold)

Immobilization

Immortal healed wrong

Immunodeficiency

Impalement

Improvised medicine/treatment

Indigestion

Infected (Blood, Wound, Tattoo etc)

Infested

Injured caretaker carrying an even more injured whumpee.

Injured whumpee instructs caretaker how to treat them.

Injury Discovery

Injury Revelation

Insecurity

Insomnia

Insults

Internal Bleeding

Interrogation

Interventions

Intimate whumper

Intubation

Involuntary whumper

Isolation

Isolation/Quarantine

Itching

Jailed

Jamais vu (The experience of being unfamiliar with a person or situation that is actually very familiar.)

Jealousy

Jet Lag

Jumping (to safety, forced to jump)

Just dying in general.

Keeping quiet because the enemy is nearby

Keeping the whumpee awake

Ketosis (body burning fat for energy)

Kidnapped by the opposing team

Kidnapping

Kidney Stones

Killed! (Again and again and again for the lovely immortal whumpees<;3)

Kneeling

Knife through hand and into wall/floor

Knocked Out

Lab Rat

Laryngitis

Late realisation

Left for dead

Leprosy

Lichenberg scars/Lightning strike

Limited Medical Supplies

Live-Streamed/Broadcast torture

Lobotomy

Locked Up and Left Behind

Losing a Bet

Loss of appetite

Loss of reality

Lost (In the woods, city etc)

Lost voice

Low Blood Pressure

Lumbago (lower back pain)

Lupus

Lured into a trap

Lying

Lyme's disease

Lymphoma

Magical exhaustion

Magical healing

Magic whump (using spells to harm someone)

Manhandling

Major Character Death

Makeshift Splints

Malaria

Malnutrition

Manhandling

Mauled

Measles

Medical trauma

Medieval Torture

Memory Loss

Meningitis

Menstrual Cramps

Mental illness after being kidnapping (and addressing it)

Migraine

Military lovers

Military whump

Mind control/Manipulation

Miscommunication

Missing

Missing Person

Mistaken Identity

Misunderstanding

Mono

Mopping a sweaty brow with a cool cloth

Mudslides

Muffled Scream

Mugging

Multiple Sclerosis

Multiple Whumpees

Multiple Whumpers

Mumps

Muscular Atrophy

Mute

Muzzled

Nailed to a wall or floor

Nails digging into palms

Nail marks left in the whumpees skin

Natural Disasters

Nausea

Near-Death Experience

Necrosis

Neglect

Nerve damage

Nerve pain

Nightmares

No anesthesia

No goodbyes

Non-responsiveness

Nonhuman whumpee

Not allowed to die

Not Realizing They’re Injured

Nowhere else to go

Noxious (gas/fumes)

Numb

Numbness/Paralysis

Obsession (with finishing the mission, the whumper obsessed with the whumpee etc)

Open Fracture

Orthostatic hypotension (low blood pressure when standing)

Osteogenesis Imperfecta (brittle bone disease)

Outnumbered

Overdose

Overworked

Oxygen Deprivation

Oxygen Mask

Packing a wound

Panic attacks

Paralysis (this could be temporary or permanent)

Paranoia

Parent caring for sick child

Parkinson's

Passing out from pain

Passing out in arms

Permanent injuries that affect them long term

Phantom pain

Phobias (could lead to character stumbling and hurting themselves in an attempt to escape their fear)

Photographs/Polaroids ( Especially if they're of the kidnapped whumpee)

Physical Therapy

Piercing ripped out

Pinched nerve

Pinned Down/To The Wall

Plague

PMS

Pneumonia

Pneumothorax

Poisoning

Polio

Possession/possession recovery

Post-exertional malaise

Post-ictal confusion/any other symptoms (after a seizure)

POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome)

Power Fatigue

Praise (especially if it's from the whumper)

Pregnancy (morning sickness, self-conscious, hot flushes, tired and sleepy, general malaise, swollen feet, weird cravings...)

Presumed dead

Prisoner Exchange

Protecting friend from the whumpees own team (bonus points if doing it while injured)

Psychological Torture

Psychological Whump

Psychosis

PTSD

Pulled Muscles

Puncture Wounds

Q-Fever

TAG LIST: Thank you very much to the following people for submitting ideas! (I apologise if some tags did not work, I'm not sure why tumblrs not letting me tag you!)

#whump #a-z list of whump #long post #extra long post #death tw #ptsd tw #illness tw #injury tw #angst #writing #prompts #whumpblr #a-z #a-z of whump #i-q

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rafeysvenicebitch · 24 days ago

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🔪030, bad ending masterlist

CW: sadness, depression, hopelessness, Rafe goes to jail, unwanted and arranged marriage, angst with a little fluff

The day they took Rafe from you was the day your heart stopped beating.

Your father had found you both, and there was no running this time. The authorities stormed the villa in the dead of night, dragging Rafe away in chains while you screamed, clawing at the men holding you back.

“Y/N!” Rafe roared, fighting against them, but he was outnumbered.

You fought, begged, pleaded. But it didn’t matter.

Your father had won.

⸻

Anastasia “Fairy” Cameron

Your daughter was born in the late spring, a fragile little thing with Rafe’s piercing blue eyes and your soft features. Her golden hair curled at the ends, the same shade as her father’s when the sunlight hit it just right.

You named her Anastasia, but from the moment Rafe first heard her name over the phone, he called her Fairy—his little magic girl.

She was your only joy in the cold, empty house they had forced you into.

⸻

A Prison of a Different Kind

Your parents made sure you had no choice. They sent you back home, locking you into a life you never wanted. You were sold off to another man—Viktor Romanov, a Russian businessman with deep ties to the mafia. He wasn’t cruel, but he wasn’t kind either. He was distant, treating you more like an ornament than a wife.

He never hit you, never screamed. But there was no love. No warmth. Just a contract, an obligation.

You went through the motions, lifeless, your only solace found in your art and your daughter.

You never stopped writing to Rafe.

You never stopped calling.

And when Anastasia was old enough to speak, she would always ask, “When is Daddy coming home?”

You would press the phone to her little hand, let her hear his voice.

“Soon, Fairy,” he always said, voice thick with something unspoken.

He had a long time to go.

⸻

The Visits

You lived for the days you got to see him.

Anastasia would run to him the moment the guards let her through, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck. She would bring him hand-drawn pictures, cards with little hearts scribbled in crayon.

“Daddy, my other daddy is a meanie,” she pouted once, climbing into his lap. “I don’t like him. I want you.”

Rafe swallowed hard, his hands gripping her tiny back as he looked at you. The sadness in his eyes nearly broke you.

He had been gone for so long.

You had been forced to live without him for so long.

And yet, neither of you had truly let go.

But time was cruel.

And Rafe had so much left to serve.

So all he could do was kiss his daughter’s forehead and whisper the same lie he told every time.

“Soon, Fairy.”

Taglist: @strawberries-and-lots-of-kisses @memoirofasparklemuff1n @rafesbabygirlx @susanhill @slut4you @moneybaby07 @sarahsangelicdoll-recs @sarahsangelicdoll @iluvblue-blog1 @hnelizzie @st4rgirlmar1e @skel-skell

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cbs-scorpion-coffee-shop · 2 months ago

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The deeper layers of Jacob Kowalski

Most people see Jacob Kowalski as just another side character in the big magical world of HP. Just comic relief. I disagree. Not only does his character have many deep layers to unravel, but he is also the most fit to be the main character. Lemme explain:

When he is introduced in the movie, Jacob seems like a regular, everyday dude but we quickly find out that he's just... not. He is pulled into a world full of danger and strange creatures where he has little to no power but he doesn't react quite like a regular person would react. In the beginning of the first movie when he takes the case to his house, he is assulted by creatures that he had never seen before and knocked unconcious and what is his reaction? Does he fear them and doesn't want to be near them again? No. He wants more. He wants to pet them, and feed them, and know them. All of them, and befriends the funny english guy raising them. He is repeatedly almost killed by said creatures multiple times and still comes back for more. When he is arrested by a magical government and his friends are sentened to die, what does he do? He breaks into said prison full of wizards fo free his friends. At the beginning of the third movie when Lalo pulls the facade to convince him and he comes out to help her, he is outnumbered 3 to 1 by bigger men than him and you know what he does? Does he show any sign of fear? Or try to give a speech about morals? No. He looks left and right to see if anyone else is watching and then is like "lol I'll let you have the first shot". Near the end of the third movie when he is hit with the crucio curse by Grindelwald, he takes it like a champ and doesn't scream in pain like most people do. He's a fighter. He's not afraid to throw or take a punch.

Most people also think he lives a regular life but that's not the case. We see his situation very briefly before we are thrown into the action. He works at a factory but wants to start his own bakery so he goes to the bank to take a loan but fails due to lack of collateral. He's not doing well financially. When he takes Newt's case back home we see that he lives alone in a small apartment and that he had a portrait of his grandmother on the wall, and he says in the bank that this is her recipe. He apologies to the picture as if it was her. Baking connects him to his grandmother who is most likely dead. We also learn that he works in a canning factory. And these are things that we have seen of Jacob's life or are alluded to. But you know what we don't see? People. Friends. Family. We only know his grandmother is dead. We don't see any family or friends or anyone who has any sort of aquiantance with Jacob Kowalski at all. He is alone. Completely and truly alone. Jacob doesn't have a regular life. Jacob doesn't have a life. He's trying to build one.

In the beginning of the second movie, Queenie enchants and basically almost roofies Jacob and he instantly forgives her. He goes along with whatever dangerous stuff he is put through. Is it just because he doesn't want to work in a factory and wants a life of wonder? Even after he opens the bakery, he still goes along with magical stuff, and at the beginning of the third movie his bakery is like a desert. He doesn't feel like it anymore, and it only takes a little bit of convincing for him to go back. No. Here's the reason:

Jacob Kowalski fears being alone.

He will do or give or endure whatever it takes to be with these people. Even if he is heartbroken or hurt, he will always come back, because he has nothing else.

Jacob barely thinks anything of himself. At the end of first movie he says: "We all know Newt only keeps me around cus..." only to be surprised that Newt actually likes him and acknowledges his help and is grateful for it. In the beginning of the third movie when Lalo comes, all he keeps saying is "I'm this pan. I'm all dented. A dime a dozen. Just a shmuck" We Later learn in his conversation with Newt we learn that he doesn't like his life right now. That working in a factory like this is killing him from the inside. Jacob isn't just "okay" or "going along" with what's happening in the movies. He wants this. He loves this. He was completely alone, living a dull, meaningless life and suddenly he is pulled into an exciting adventure with wonderus creatures, magic, action, friendship and even love.

For the first time in years, Jacob Kowalski was truly alive.

And yet he gives that up, and agrees to be obliviated and return to his old situation where he, in his own words, is dying from the inside. For the good or for the bad, Jacob will always put himself last.

Then we learn something in the conversation between Newt and Jacob that makes it all make sense: We learn that Jacob actually fought in WW1. Jacob Kowalski isn't just a regular muggle.

He's a solider.

The reason Jacob is so strangely okay and adapting with whatever happens to him in the franchise is because this isn't the first time this happens to him. This isn't the first time he is thrown into a dangerous, unfamiliar situation, with new machines and gimmicks fo operate, people that he doesn't know and a conflict that is arising between powers outside of him.

He will forgive Queenie instantly for abducting him and treating him like an object because he doesn't want her to leave him. He would put himself in danger with strange beasts because he gets to be with his timid but funny comrade best friend. He will risk getting killed and put through the crucio curse so he could save the country world and be a war hero with his battalion group.

Jacob Kowalski is a solider discharged from the most traumatic conflict in history. He has no living family and all his friends from the army are dead. He has lost everyone and everything. No one loves him. No one even knows him. He is at the lowest of lows physically, mentally and financially and lives a life that's killing him from the inside. He wants to live. Truly live, and this franchise is all about him grasping the first opportunity to do so. He would rather be treated like an object than left alone. Get killed spending time with friend than not spend time with him at all. Die in public humiliation and excruciating pain fighting another war with his friends than die alone.

Jacob Kowalski is a man who wants to live.

#fantastic beasts #fantastic beasts and where to find them #jacob kowalski #newt scamander #queenie goldstein #tina goldstein #writing #character analysis #character

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dumpfrontdesk · 1 year ago

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my super awesome detailed headcanons about dahlia (and damn) as a town because i can fully see it in my head because my brain is so huge (i have brainrot, send help!)

*ahem*

- dahlia's a very gloomy town, and it's raining more often than not. usually, it's dark with an overcast. sunny days are a rare thing in dahlia, must to the benefit of a small portion of the population (the fanged variety).

- many business holders in dahlia hold an 'informed unempowered' status, especially if they've been in the area for a long time.

- there's alot of failed development projects in dahlia, half-completed construction projects litter the towns edges.

- dahlia is in a dry county! (for non-american's, a dry county is a place that can't sell alcohol). if you want booze, your heading to the next town over.

- due to being a cornerstone city, the empowered population of dahlia outweighs that of the unempowered roughly 3 to 1.

- dahlia's home to many large cemeteries, some saying the dead outnumber the living in dahlia.

- dahlia's a town with an aging population, but, ever since closeknit set up camp, that's slowly changing.

- damn's campus isn't very large, it being nestled about 5 minutes outside of dahlia, out in the woods.

- there's a suspicious amount of blood drives in dahlia, running out of local clinics. 50% is going to people who actually need blood, the other 50% going to feed the vampire population in dahlia and the surrounding areas.

- on the topic of blooddrives, damn is littered with posters encouraging students (expection of demons) to donate. they're filled with stupid says like, "keep the feast off the street, donate today!"

- dahlia's a dying town, but, it was more impressive whenever wonderworld was still a thing.

- any real-estate development that try to start in dahlia or the surrounding area is *quickly* snubbed out by skyside.

- there's alot of shadowy overhangs in dahlia, and places to hide almost! most just think it's the local architecture, but it was truly designed with vampires in mind, incase they get caught in the day.

- it's not uncommon for some really big dogs to show up in dahlia's pounds, but, they're always gone the next day.

- the locals of dahlia are private individuals, and it's not a very welcoming place.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted vampires #redacted dahlia #redacted headcanons #redacted werewolves

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gripefroot · 1 year ago

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Sleepy Law?

For once, he doesn’t wake when the sun hits his face.

For all his pretending and blustering and attitude, he’d been tired. Of course. The more he protested something, the more it was true. Something about a man that saw danger around every corner if he lowered his guard for even a moment, even with you.

There was something comedic about the juxtaposition. His barking from the afternoon before: “No, I’m not tired! I’m fine!” compared to the sun rising long past dawn after he’d been out cold for nearly fourteen hours. But it was less amusing when the dark lines beneath his eyes were so visible, when the bright sun cleared his face into something almost boyish.

He pushes himself too hard. He always did.

The sun warms the bed, too, making it too hot for this time of year. But rather than get up and disturb Law’s rare rest, you stick a foot out of the blankets for some coolness and move closer to him.

Every moment is precious. Every stolen evening, every late morning pried from the clutches of fate and time. “I’ll be back in three days,” or “I’ll try to be back by summer solstice.” Sometimes he made it, sometimes he didn’t. When he was late, the nights he should have been there were spent at the window, watching weather roll across the sea. Each blot was his ship returning - until it wasn’t. Anger and resentment broiled like hurricanes, then, but by the time he eventually came, gratitude that he was alive and safe and present overwhelmed everything else. Besides, greeting him by throwing a pot at his head wouldn’t guarantee he’d ever come again.

This parting had been the longest yet. A year at sea, with only two headlines months apart to prove he had drowned or been killed or wasted away from some disease. No, he was whole, relatively healthy (if thinner than before) and walking up the crooked steps to your house, he’d even smiled.

“I was worried you’d moved away,” he’d said. His sword balanced on his shoulder, which was unusual. Before, he’d left it on his ship.

“How would you find me then?” you’d teased back. Clay dried on your hands from a half-finished project, but it could be completed later. Law could only be greeted now.

“I’d follow the dead greenery.” He nodded at the yard; yellow patches now outnumbered green, the first victim in dumping leftover glaze that didn’t fire the right color or scraps of impure clay. He hoisted the sword from his shoulder to set by the doorframe, where you stood, and that was when he’d smiled.

It was fortunate he’d never minded mud on his clothes.

He smelled of brine and fresh air. Not the most pleasant, but beneath it was him, and difficult to pull away.

“Mind if I stay over?” he’d asked between kisses. Your foot had caught on the lip of the door, stumbling backwards, but his arms had kept you upright and squashed against his chest.

“Have I ever?” The words came out strained. His kisses stole breath as much as they stole sanity. Rugged as his worn coat, harsh as the tattoos long-memorized.

“There’s a first for everything.”

“Well, not today.” Your hands on his chest, feeling him like you would mounds of fresh clay. Something he’d joked about before: his lips twisted, ready to joke again. “Do you want to wash up first?”

“Yes. Then I have a present for you.”

Surely not the sword. What use would you have for a sword? Spending days and nights with clay, turning pots and glazing and firing them in the tiny hut nearby wasn’t the life of a warrior, and living alone in a rickety cottage on a bluff above a port town so small it could scarcely be called a port not the prime target of pirates.

Law had ducked his head beneath the water pump in the yard, not even waiting for you to fetch a bar of soap, and yelped at how freezing cold the water was.

He had, miraculously, survived.

But no present came. Dinner had been eaten early between yawns and crabby remarks about how he wasn’t tired. Then he’d gone straight to your bed, knocking into tables on his way, and halfway through what had sounded like a salacious invitation he’d started snoring. Pants still on and everything.

So you’d smiled and washed up quietly before crawling into bed next to him. It was easier to sleep when he was there…

He clutches a worn pillow to his face, stretched out on his belly with his torso bare. Lingering flakes from a sunburn grace his shoulders, and a new scar stretched over his ribs. Your fingers want to trace it, but you don’t, hovering in the air above the graceful shape. You’ll learn it better soon enough.

“Were you going to say anything or just keep staring?”

Oops. His even breathing had ceased. Lifting your head, you see his eyes slitted open, glinting beneath his long lashes.

“You have a new one,” you say.

“Of course you noticed.” His voice is a rumble, fresh from slumber.

“Of course I noticed,” you repeat, cheeks warming with embarrassment. But the corners of his mouth lift in a lazy smile. “It’s huge.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Can I?” A vague request, but he understands. Law responds with a grunt. His kind of affirmation.

The new skin is smooth beneath your practiced fingertips, but where new meets old a thick, calloused rope of skin rivers around his ribs. Like a snake of clay to be shaped into a handle or a spigot. A handsome scar, to add to his others. Your fingers trace back up around his waist and to his back, to the very end of the scar. His skin breaks out in goosebumps, his ragged inhale breaking your concentration.

Immediately you pull your hand away. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He rolls onto his side, taking the interest of the scar away to face you. His eyes are more open now, but not by much, his hair sticking out every which way. Law props his head on his hand, surveying you with just as much scrutiny as you had him. But why? You have no scars, no discernable differences to clock from last year.

The bed is small, not really built for two, but it has never bothered you or him. He can never be outside of arm’s reach. Instinctively your hand traces over his chest, finding comfort in the pattern of him. Patterns that find their way onto cups and mugs and bowls whenever missing him hurts too much. Most sold, some kept. You stop over his heart.

He’s smiling again.

“How long can you stay?” you ask.

His smile disappears. It takes your contentment with it.

“I have time,” Law says.

Time. The only thing that could give you enough of him, and the only thing he couldn’t give. He gave his attention, his company, his loyalty, and his affection. Your hand rises to his face, stroking over old whiskers on his cheek with your thumb. He catches your wrist, holding it to nuzzle your palm with his nose, and then his lips.

“You smell the same,” Law mutters, eyes closed. “Like the earth.”

“You smell the same,” you whisper back. The effect of his nuzzle is the same as you touching his scar: goosebumps race up your arm and down your back. “Like freedom.”

His eyes open. Dark and assuring, and always a little sad. “C’mere,” he grunts, and reaches for you.

It was like he’d never been away. Nothing forgotten, nothing misremembered. His mouth finds the right places on your throat, your shoulders; skillfully he thumbs away the sleeves of your shirt to bare more skin to him. If anything proves his absence, it's how quickly the heat between your bodies becomes unbearable, how your blood pulses almost painfully. With a whimper of a sigh, your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, his hair tickling your chin.

“All in good time,” he promises your breasts, hand coming up to cup one. If you weren’t already so dizzy from the prelude, you’d tease him for addressing them rather than you. It had been an excellent joke for so long…

Soon the only noises are your soft pants, his quiet groans as the reacquaintion became clumsy. Clothes hit the floor, blankets pushed away, the awkward patters of skin-on-skin. No matter how bright the morning light through the window, there is no time to feel shamefully naked: only wonderfully so, and perfectly worshipped. His hair is thick between your fingers, his mouth hot on your sternum, and then your belly button.

“But,” you lick your lips, wishing your throat wasn’t so dry and creaky. “But, we just - ”

“Just what?” Law kisses the inside of your thigh, eyes darting up to your face with a quirk of his brow. “Don’t want me to?”

“I do, it’s only - ”

“Only what?” He prompts when words fail you. His hands cradle your hips, lifting and straightening them before him like a treasure map.

“I want you,” you manage to whisper. The sun makes his black hair red at the edges, a trick of the light.

“You’re getting me,” Law says. “And I’m getting you. Let’s start slow, huh?”

As if you could refuse him when you aren’t a puddle on the bed. Slow is the last thing you want, but he made it sound like a dream. It is a dream; fast or slow or hurried or lazy. Always enough to make the little time you have sweeter. And never enough. Always and never, always and never.

“Let me know,” his voice is as jagged as his scar, his hands shaking until he digs his fingers into your thighs. “Let me know…if you want me to stop.”

He doesn't look like a man who could stop. And the pounding, the rushing - you couldn’t have asked him to stop for anything.

His knees hit the floor with a thunk. Yours go over his shoulder as he sucked in a trembling breath, his shoulders twitching enough to make the dark lines look like they were convulsing.

“Oh…” is all he says, and it’s the same noise you make when his lips touch yours, his tongue barely a hint of a caress. Your spine arches, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. He takes the hint, delving in with less ‘slow’ and more ‘I-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-year.’ He remembers. He remembers; every bit that makes your head spin and he does it like a conqueror, until the sheets are fisted in your hands and your breathing has gone frantic.

“Law.” Your head twists to the side, air growing scarce and body feeling out of control. Wild and frenzied like an animal, jumping at every stroke of his tongue. “Please, oh - ”

He knows. He knows, he remembers. With a reverberating grunt that you can feel through your legs and belly, his fingers grip your thighs. It doesn’t feel possible, but the intensity swells and grows like the waves of the sea.

“Stop biting your lip.” Law’s pause is enough to bring you down enough to comprehend his words. “Stop that. I wanna hear you. Here.”

One of your fists is unclenched from the sheets, to weave your fingers between his, instead. A grip on reality, an anchor while sensation crashes through you. It’s only a moment later the wave hits: the force of pleasure battering through your body again and again. He doesn’t stop. He never does, not while each of your cries echo to the roof and back down again.

When it becomes too much you gasp, and he stops.

He knows.

Law lifts his head, kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and wiping his mouth on his discarded shirt. He smirks. “If nothing else,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t just made you climax with more fervor than a hurricane, “that makes me want to take you with me.”

Take you? With him? Where? Not on his ship, surely.

Your expression must betray your bafflement, because he gives a rough laugh, tossing his shirt back down.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Surely you’ve thought of it yourself.”

You hadn’t.

His head tilts to the side, smirk fading.

“You don’t want to come with me,” Law says.

“No!” you blurt. “I mean - yes! I mean…that’s not what I’m saying. I’ve just never thought of it before. I hadn’t thought it was…possible.”

“And if it is?”

Your heart hammers, from the aftershocks of orgasm and his question. “Possible?”

“Yeah. If I asked you to come with me.” He climbs over the bed on all fours. Normally you admire him; his tattoos and sculpted muscles. But your eyes are riveted on his face, on the strange sincerity shining in his eyes.

“What would I do?” you ask.

Law stops, hovering above you. You’re effectively trapped, but rather than confining, it’s comforting. Boundaries to bump up against, walls to keep you safe. His hair flops over his forehead, shadowing his features from the sun.

“Let me lick you anytime I want,” he jokes.

So maybe it wasn’t sincerity after all. But you laugh, anyway, because laughing with him is always delicious, despite the heavy disappointment in your stomach. Reading into his joke would only hurt more. So you wind your arms around his neck, bringing him down for a languid, salty kiss. The weight of his body resting on yours transcends everything else, the craving for him lighting through your veins like popping fireworks.

“How do you want me?” he asks before his teeth sink into the side of your neck. With his erection jabbing into your leg, the idea of options is surprising.

“Like this,” you say. “Just like this.”

Law releases your neck, his hips tucking between yours with familiarity. When his forehead rests against yours, his eyes are deep and bottomless for a moment before he closes them.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. His hands unwrap your arms from his neck, bringing them down to the pillow to pin in place. “I’ll take you with me. You don’t have to do anything.”

Does he mean that? Would he take you to sea just to…to what? Is he tired of coming back to this small island? Are you no longer worth it?

Where is this going? A question flung into the stars, night after night, when Law is there and when he isn’t. Hope is difficult to cultivate year after year, but it blooms all the same at times like this.

Where will you take me?

A few thrusts gets him inside, enough to keep going. A few more have you moaning, tense in his grip as you move your hips to take him further. He groans, the further he gets, adding his own noises to yours. If this is where time stopped, if this could be forever, this is what you’d choose. Time and time again you’d choose. The sense of fullness, of complete joining - nothing has ever, ever, compared.

Law stops when he’s fully sheathed, panting for breath as his grip loosens on your wrists. Then his eyes open again; a mix of fierceness and tenderness that makes your heart want to explode.

“Hey,” you say softly, wriggling your arms free to cup his face. He blinks several times.

“Hey,” he says back, uncertain.

“Thank you for coming back.”

He huffs a laugh, a hint of a smile bringing more brightness than the sun. Resting his elbow by your head, he dips his to kiss your mouth. “I can’t stay away,” he says between that kiss and the next.

His thrusts start slow, almost teasing. But they build fast, soon stroking a speed that breaks free as his kisses turn biting and his fingers find your hair. However he did it, each touch is a thousand starbursts at once, deepening the sensation in your core to spread across every limb, every muscle, every cell. Each stroke brings a small gasp from your lips to spill between his.

“Don’t stop,” you beg at a higher-pitch than normal. Fingernails dig into his shoulders, hanging on for purchase as the legs of the bed scrape across the floor. Not the first time he’s done that, but it makes you want to laugh, all the same.

“I’m not gonna!” His tongue is heavy against yours, his taste filling your senses. Touch, smell, all of it. With a shudder the bed hits the wall, and your shriek of unconstrained laughter has Law dragging himself away from you with a glare. But who wants to glare in the middle of sex? With another laugh you pull his head back down, lifting your hips against his for an angle that turns that kiss into a careening gasp.

He knows. He knows, and remembers. He doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t slow. Your climax springs without warning, unable to continue the kissing in this condition. He doesn’t seem to mind, his head lowering to rest by yours as his groans start with a rumble.

He continues long enough after the end of your orgasm for the delicious sensation to begin again before he jerks to a stop. A few more thrusts break his voice into a shivering bleat.

The battering against the wall stops. And aren’t you so glad you have no neighbors?

Your fingers run up and down his damp back, noting every rise and fall of muscle as he catches his breath. Even now, his weight isn’t uncomfortable. Because it’s him. It’s him and he’ll never be too much or too heavy. Blissfully your eyes drift shut, blocking out the morning light the tufts of black hair trying to cover it up.

Law litters kisses along your hairline. Behind your ear, above it, and to your forehead, which must be as sweaty as his back. It doesn’t stop him.

Then he kisses your eyes; first one, then the other.

“Look at me?” A soft-spoken request.

Look at him. And see what you don’t want.

Your eyes open, hating that time brought this back.

But Law smiles. He smiles as he gently smooths down your hair, his eyes skating over your face as if to memorize every pore. “Do you love me?” he asks.

Now that is a question! Tempting you laugh, but you don’t.

“Do the stars love one another?” you ask back, not quite hiding the bitterness in your voice. “Tracing and chasing their paths across the sky, never to touch except in dreams?”

Law says nothing to that, but waits.

“I love you,” you say.

“That’s all I need,” he says.

“What about what I need?”

His face untwists from his smile into something confused, something a little belligerent. “I asked if you want to sail with me,” he says. “But I…”

“Didn’t mean it,” you finish. These conversations were like walking on broken glass. Delicate. Tentative. Someone was always bound to be hurt if rushed through. “The sea isn’t for me,” you tell him, hoping it will prevent a shard from breaking skin.

But it seems to, anyway. Law frowns. “I wish it was,” he says.

So do I. But more than that, I wish you were for me. Not just sometimes, but always.

He peels away at last, though if you had your way, he’d be in your bed forever. But he doesn’t go far: striding to the side of the bed where his pants had been tossed irreverently, scooping them up to rifle through the pockets. He pulled out something glinting, concealing it in his fist as he grins, returning to bed. Curious, you prop yourself onto an elbow.

“Hold out your hand,” Law says.

Dubiously you look for deception in his face, and see none. You put out your hand.

Something cool and clinking drops into it. When he moves his hand away you see gold. Gold coins, strung together on a gold chain. A small one.

“I can’t wear bracelets,” you say, bubbling into laughter. “Law! It’ll get covered in clay in ten seconds!”

“It’s not a bracelet, you menace.” Law laughs, too, seizing your hand to pull your arm straight. He takes the bracelet-not-a-bracelet back. Evidently you’ve been judged too nonsensical to appreciate the gift yourself: he loops the chain around your upper arm, securing it with warm fingers.

Oh. Not a bracelet.

“I’m not stupid enough to get you a bracelet,” he says, quirking a brow in your direction. “Or a necklace. You’ve complained about those hanging into your work too. This won’t fall or dangle, so I thought it was the best option.”

“You know what else doesn’t dangle?” Your fingers trace the gold coins. They’re hammered for texture; thin and delicate, reflecting the sunlight beautifully. “A crown. Next time, I want a crown.”

Law’s laugh breaks into a bellow, filling every corner of the room with his mirth. You can count on one hand how many times you’ve heard that noise coming from him, and it prickles your skin with pleasure.

“Fine,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Next time, a crown.”

“Thank you,” you tell him. “For the gift. I mean it. I’m sorry for teasing.”

“Don’t be. I love it.”

“Do you love me?” The question blurts out without thinking. He jolts in surprise, eyes widening. “It’s only fair,” you say, trying to soften the abruptness of it. “You asked me. I get to ask you.”

But his answer doesn’t come. Not right away.

“Well, I’m not bringing jewelry for every woman in town,” Law says at last.

“I hope you’re not licking them, either.”

He glares. You smirk.

“I’ll answer your question,” he says. “But not today.”

“When?”

“When I return.”

“Is there a reason you’re delaying?” you ask. “Do you need to break a prior engagement first? Let down any other lovers?”

“No,” Law says. “None of that.” His teeth dig into his bottom lip. Something your teeth would like to do. He runs his fingers through his hair, sticking it on end. “If I tell you I love you,” he starts. Pauses. Takes a deep breath. “If I tell you I love you then I can’t leave. I wouldn’t.” Another pause, one that sinks his words past dread and into misery. “And I can’t…I can’t stay. Not yet.”

“So,” you say. Your voice cracks a little. “You get to know I love you, but I have to wait in suspense for however?”

His smile returns like the dawn. He leans over to kiss your forehead, wafting his manly scent over you. Inhaling deeply, the scent brands itself on your lungs. Never enough. “Luckily I know you like surprises. Besides, I thought you’d figure it out by now.”

Figure what out? Could he be any more vague? It was like searching for answers from a squirrel. A handsome, generous squirrel, but a squirrel all the same.

“Oh, stop pouting,” Law laughs, attempting to smooth out your frown with a thumb. “Does the stream out back still have fish in it? I’ll catch breakfast.” He rises before you can answer, grabbing his pants once more. This time to pull them on.

Ugh. Pants are the worst.

“I’ll cook them too, if you want,” he says, buttoning the waistband with nimble fingers. You drag your eyes from his navel up to his face, with a very intelligent,

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He smiles. “You have clay beneath your fingernails.”

Law disappears out the door before you can retort, and the view of his backside in his tight pants erases all thoughts from your head.

#trafalgar law #trafalgar d law x reader #one piece #drabble requests

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