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so-mordor-itis · 10 months

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Just When You Thought You Knew Everything

@comatosebunny09 ;) I'm really proud of this one, and honestly, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. (I was the anon that suggested the loneliness of Leon.)

zero

There were days when he wasn’t plagued by the terrors of Raccoon City. Days–moreso nights–where his brain cracked open the deeper ends of his consciousness and forced him to remember further back. When he was 8, watching flames bite against the wooden walls of the building he once called home. When his 8-year-old brain thought it was possible to dwindle the fire just by staring at it long enough. Leon remembered then how someone in his family, not sure who, used to comment on his eyes. That they were so blue they could swallow sparks and then proceed to remark they were definitely inherited by his father. (So kind, he thought bitterly, to be told something that belonged to you was really something that actually was someone else’s and now you’re just borrowing it.) Leon’s 8-year-old self held on to that comment, hoping desperately that it was true; that he wasn’t being fed another lie for dinner even if somehow at that age, he knew it was.

Leon realized his life was unique by the time he was 7. Stuck with another mediocre tv-dinner (though he liked those at the time), he remembered watching his father, drenched from abdomen to ankle in red, trip over himself, heaving. His father looked up, ocean blue piercing ocean blue, before walking back outside to probably continue whatever charade he found himself in. At 7, he wondered if other kids his age also had fathers who would do mysterious things. Fathers who barely spoke to them, only fussing at whatever their mother cooked, grumbling about newspaper articles, and yelling at the phone. Fathers who would look at them, just stare for what felt like hours, only to sigh and protest they never clean their room. Leon wondered if their dads also looked exactly like them but older.

He hated the dreams that slapped him in the face with unwanted nostalgia almost as much as the ones that groaned in his ears, smelled of iron and rot, and stung his eyes with the memory of smoke from cars on the verge of exploding.

At least the unwanted nostalgia never left him feeling as if he was a cadaver on the side of the road, organs made of jelly, bones crushed.

Though, Leon had to ask himself, which was worse: being reminded that he was human or having the bits of the soul he once had sucked out, leaving an empty socket.

one

You were a new, riveting surprise.

Ingrid Hunnigan, a fellow agent and communications specialist, had been transferred to a new office building temporarily, allowing someone new to slip into her role and provide him with information and, if needed, support. (“Going on vacation this early, Hunnigan?” Leon had thought to himself in a jest.) You were her replacement, according to Simmons. However, that word didn’t sit right on Leon’s tongue. Replacement indicated Ingrid was now gone and had completely vanished from sight. As far as Leon was concerned, she was none of those.

He greeted you with neutral respect, holding back the urge to create a snippy comment. He wasn’t aware of how greatly you’d treat his quips or if you’d appreciate them at all. It surprised him when you shook his hand, eyebrow raised as if he had already said something stupid.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Kennedy. I’ve heard a lot about you.” You said in a friendly manner. He couldn’t help the curiosity that was bubbling in him. People talked about him around the office?

“Oh yeah?” He crossed his arms, offering you a chance to tell him more. “Enlighten me.”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth. “Mm, I don’t know if Ingrid would be too happy with me if I told you.” His expression was so amusing: he was attempting to act smug as if he knew people were chatting behind his back about his achievements or failures. However, as you regarded his form, you knew that wasn’t the case. Perhaps in the very back of his mind, he glazed over the idea, but once the information was relayed to him, he froze.

“Before you ask,” you watched his mouth open only to snap shut. “Ingrid and I are friends.”

Leon sighed. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

You sat in Ingrid’s chair, giving it a feel. “Oh come on now, don’t say that as if you already can’t stand me.”

It was the opposite, actually. He was already starting to like your attitude, but naturally, he couldn’t let you find that out just yet. Leon needed to grasp that feeling of satisfaction before you welcomed its embrace.

“I could already hate you, and you wouldn’t even know it.” He remarked, lifting his hand lightly to mitigate his point.

“Well, damn, shoot me now.”

two

It honestly startled him how fast you adapted to his behavior. Maybe Hunnigan had given you a lecture on him, Leon S. Kennedy 101: How To Deal With His Bullshit. Your first-ever assignment as partners went smoothly. He was to retrieve data on illegal B.O.W transports, observing for any kind of suspicious activity in the vicinity of Manhattan. You made a joke about New York and how the food wasn’t even that good for those prices. He snorted, giving you some credit for your originality, half tempted to ask how you knew before he spotted something. He gave you a short, to-the-point comment on what his next actions were.

You replied. “Don’t die when it’s my first day on the job, alright?”

Leon rolled his eyes. “Already thinking about the paycheck? That’s kinda fast.”

“How else am I gonna pay rent this month?”

“Side job?”

“Don’t start.”

The next few months, he allowed himself to grow more amused with your antics, with your banter. You were funny. He had to admit it. Chatty, even. It impressed him how often you knew how to reply, firing comments of your own as if you were always loaded with something.

You grew to be familiar. A calm voice that he didn’t know he could’ve used at that moment in time.

Then you grew to be more than just a voice. A person who he missed when your shift ended, and he was alone at his desk, messy papers the only thing giving him company. A person he gravitated towards when he immediately saw your figure. Be it a gathering, a meeting, or simply seeing you during lunch, he found himself by your side.

Leon liked it. He liked having this. He knew the word for it was friendship. You two acted as if you had been friends for years even though it was the complete opposite. You clicked so easily.

That's what scared him the most. It petrified him down to his very core that this wasn't even the closest you could get to him. There were still more forks in the road, more paths you could take. A part of him froze at the idea of you pausing in front of the box of horrors he's encountered, opening it, only to be drowned by him, by his essence. As if he was Pandora's Box, and you would perish.

Those burdens were almost impossible for him to carry. How would you react to what he saw in Raccoon?

Leon glared into his bottle of whiskey as his thoughts rolled around like boulders in his head. He took a sip, allowing the alcohol to sting his throat.

Had it really taken him this long to realize you were this precious to him?

two and a half

He dreamt about his mother and father that night, and it made him wonder if fate truly had it out for him.

three

Leon's worst fears came to light when his fingers accidentally brushed against yours, igniting an inner feeling he recognized immediately. While you hadn't really reacted–maybe bashfully glanced down–it hit him fast and hard like a brick falling from the sky. He wouldn't mind holding your hand. He wouldn't mind doing a lot of things with you. Because it was you and you made him experience joy. Genuine joy. Something he thought would be nearly impossible for him to feel again.

Maybe that’s why he’s scared. He truly can’t imagine doing anything without the ghost of you being there. How funny, what a human can do to another, how easily one could slip into his life, creating an asteroid-sized crater in his chest.

However, despite that never-ending pit of fear, he remained the same on the outside. A contrast to what happened in his head. At least, he thought he continued to keep up the tough, stoic expression he managed to have all the time.

You two were having a normal exchange. Talked about each other’s days, about upcoming missions packed into your schedules, and what you were having for dinner later (he almost asked you if he could join but stopped himself). But then, the atmosphere changed and suddenly you held a look of uneasiness. Now he was concerned.

“Everything okay?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that.”

Leon crossed his arms, his usual stance. “Nothing’s up besides the files we’ve been reading. Nasty shit, though I guess I can say I’ve seen worse.” He had.

“No, not that.” You mimicked him, now crossing your own arms. He half wondered if you were doing it partly to mock him, but with how serious your tone was, that probably wasn’t the case. “You’ve been uneasy. As if you want to tell me something but you can’t.”

Come on. You can’t possibly read him that easily. “Nah.” He brushed your concern off, but he hated himself for it. For the way your face dropped. Of course, there were more things he could tell you, to plop in your lap, hoping you understood where he was coming from. “You’re cute for being concerned though.” Maybe that will turn your curious nose away for now.

“I’m cute?” You look baffled. “That’s a new one.” He could tell from the way you scoffed, turning your head to look anywhere else but at him, that got you.

“I’m full of surprises.”

“More like full of shit.”

“Ouch.”

“Still, back to what I was saying, I’m here to listen. I think you know that by now. I mean, I got wine at my place with your name on it.”

Leon wrinkled his nose. He was never a wine guy, scotch was ragged and spiky when it went down his throat and he preferred that. “Inviting me over?”

“If you need it.”

He almost took it. Almost.

“Maybe some other time.”

four

He caved when you asked again a few weeks later when he severely needed some form of alcohol after what he had been dragged into.

You poured him a glass of wine, and he watched as red covered the glossy inside to almost full. “Thanks.”

You smiled, and something burned within him, it glowed red, overflowing like how lava does when it’s spewed from a volcano. This was more than just friendship now, your every action caused him to feel something, whether it was burning or just warm. You were warm.

The wine made him feel sluggish, and vulnerable. He was only on his third glass before his brain was less rigid, slowly turning into mush.

“You okay?” You laughed a little. “You look like you’re about to be sick.” You glanced at the wine bottle with knitted brows, scanning over the label. “I hope this hasn’t expired.”

Leon waved his hand at you. “No, wine just hits me a little harder than scotch does.”

“Is that why you never drink it? Or do you just like scotch so much?”

“I just like scotch, probably an unhealthy amount.” He smiled a little, cheeks pink from the alcohol. “Never been a wine guy, but today’s special.”

“Our government is running you ragged, Lee.”

“Tell me about it. The main guy at the white house seems to really favor me now.”

“Have you ever gone on vacation?”

“Nope.”

“You should. I highly recommend it.”

He chuckled. “I got on vacation, and then what? I’m called on the second day. Perks of being the golden boy.”

Leon realized that under the influence, he was better at small talk. The fog around his brain prevented him from overthinking, allowing him to share his thoughts and his ideas. For once, he felt no burdens weighing on his shoulders. The world seemed less dark.

Until he slipped a comment about Raccoon.

“I was there.” He accidentally said, shutting his mouth immediately as you raised your eyebrows. You blinked, licking your lips in thought.

“You never told me that.”

Well, now he could no longer avoid it. His trauma, his old wounds that were constantly reopened, were now somewhat spilled on the floor. The probability of you simply letting this go was zero. Leon sighed heavily, placing his wine glass on your kitchen counter. “It wasn’t really brought up. Well, maybe it was, but…I guess I was nervous about scaring you off.”

“Scaring me off?” You held a hand to your hip, looking at him as if he was stupid, and suddenly he was whisked back to when you two first met, and you had given him that exact same look. “You know what we do for a living? The wine didn’t make you forget right?”

“Not in that sense,” Leon felt weird telling you this. Oddly confident. It was the wine–did he really only have three glasses?

“Oh.” You got the hint almost immediately. He knew you would. He was searching your expression now, but he couldn’t read it. You were thinking, your forehead wrinkling. It was cute, downright adorable.

He didn’t want to scare you off, because this was more than just friendship to him.

“Didn’t think you were interested in me in that way.” You huffed. You bit the inside of your cheek, still thinking. You approached him, placing yourself in the seat next to him, the air now so warm it was hard to breathe. “Well, you can tell me about Raccoon City. You can tell me anything. Show me your scars, and I’ll show you mine.” You said it so sincerely, he had to be inclined to believe you.

It was silly, how scared he was about his. He told you everything, and somehow later that night it led to you holding him close to your chest, fingers in his hair, heartbeat in his ear.

A night so beautiful he actually cried.

He thought back to the night when his childhood home burned. The night he willed the fire to diminish into smoke with just his eyes.

You aren't alone anymore, kid. He thought, still feeling your fingers threading through his hair, through the darker roots. Not anymore.

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ciphykiss · 11 months

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< incubus (iii)

blade x f!reader; nsfw, mdni (pls) somnophilia, slightly graphic violence

Love escapes Blade the same way dreams do, lost to hellscape, a curse, and raining swords; each one a reminder of his betrayal, her curse, and him, vengeance immortalized; it is the only thing he is allowed to feel, tastes as bittersweet as liquor once shared by brothers under moonlit nights, the reflections of crescent halos carved into bleeding rivers of a world long destroyed…

He hangs about the other stellaron hunters as a poltergeist; though Kafka trusts him (with her life, he’d presume, but also less), and the young one pesters him to pursue her games, Blade finds himself incapable of forging the bonds that haunt his sleep; the sword of a friend, the back of another, the scabbard of his master, and all the wild blood his brethren shared when they raced through the skies of Cangcheng before it befell calamity to the world-devourer, Rahu;

Why did you do it, he wants to ask, daydreams of asking; he is almost-afraid (he no longer fears, not really), facing eyes of seaglass in mourning.

For love, he who had once held his soul will reply; for love, time and time again…

—all for a promise.

The promise of his own death, as destiny’s slave had foretold—there is nothing else of want, nothing else of need. There is nothing else he desires as man would, nothing more than a wound to fester and rid him of his misery—fin.

Or so he thought.

He tells himself it is but a fleeting twinge; not quite longing, nothing more than a tug of his fate-strings, toying with him once more.

But he is from a time before starskiffs and the banishment of desire; he can recall the legends of his great-grandmother, besotted with a man destined to live a fraction of her own, the birth of her bloodline done through the dreaming; and though he has never quite experienced it himself, he is well-acquainted with both the stories and instinct of passion, enough to know the dangers—how it drives men and women alike to madness, the brink of insanity, and back to adoration once more. He doesn’t understand it, not really, until the day he meets you.

It is all very banal, he thinks, because he doesn’t even have to look at you to know you are his. He feels it in the air—the hurried, impatient clack of your heels, sweetness of your words (even when you assail him with your questionnaire, as grating as nails on a chalkboard, he’s more annoyed at the fact that he doesn’t want you to stop talking) and the scent—

He doesn’t consider himself particularly Foxian, not after generations of outmixing had thinned the blood of the old. To his knowledge, his predecessors had only passed down their knack for artismanship; apparently, desire was part of that package, because the moment your fingers brushed over the side of his face, he could smell the aftermath of your frustration and solo-pursuit of pleasure, a lingering fragrance no amount of hand-washing could cover up. He knew he had to have you then, one way or another—something had shifted inside of him, like the maw of a wild beast being lured by first blood. Yes, he would have you—if not in the waking world, then in the dreaming, and if not your flesh, then in spirit. You’d made him realize a starvation that he hadn’t known existed; neither love nor affection, more carnal than a means to an end.

He knows this is not love; love is lost to time and his curse, gnawing away at the cadaver of his heart. Yet, he can’t help but bury his nose into the phantom of your flesh, teeth grazing your nape as he opens his mouth to devour—

Your legs curl around him in a vice that eclipses both wedding bands and vows, fingers awry in his hair; he has to bite back a sigh when you yank, sinking deeper into the skin of your collarbone to mask it. Both your strangulated hiss and whimpers have his blood rushing to his head, as distant a song as sirens ashore; he feels as though he’s in a haze, lost in a tangle of hair, threaded fingers, and not-quite flesh, and how long had it been since he’d laid in the embrace of arms—

They could not compare. A body would no longer do; it had to be you. Youyouyou, and only you.

So when you cease your pouting and opt to gather around his neck for a kiss with strands of his hair slipping past your face, he doesn’t refute—how can he, when he feels how you would’ve been his whole had he met you those long years before his demise, how he would’ve chased you to the moon just to crown you in jade and silverwing (would’ve could’ve should’ve), but now all that’s left of him is hollow and bone, and you? You’d just have to make do with a corpse.

He tells himself he’s had his fill, then finds himself chasing your sulking mouth the next night. You ask questions, you throw your fits; you demand answers, bite his lips, draw blood, and everything else under the moon. He tells himself he only needs you for your body, your kiss, but finds himself indulging you, time and time again; your more vapid queries, hazy, slow-blinking eyes, and oh, he’ll give you the illusion of domestication, letting you braid his hair, pulling you up by your waist when he wanted to taste, your lashes fluttering low at the spontaneity of his wanting.

But he won’t let you think (even for a moment) that he is something he isn’t—never whispers of sweet nothings, never a kiss to quell your nightmares (he is your nightmare), only the cold press of his mouth over your pulse, bruising teeth, and kisses that sought to devour, not guise as tenderness.

He doesn’t hope it is enough; it doesn’t matter. You have him (what is left of him), and it will have to be enough, because neither can he change, nor can he let you go.

ꨄ︎

You don’t fail to consider your demonic rendezvous could be the result of a faulty product, so you discard your fantasia for a new one; and so you sit, splayed on your bed (in proper nightwear this time), keeping vigil at your nightstand. The incense burns through the holographic figure of Lan; your room fills with the scent of ambrosial-root and alien flora, the former previously shunned amongst the commonfolk of the Luofu until Tingyun had parrotted the benefits of the immortal root as a soft drug for anxiety and insomnia; you’d made a note to chide Whistling Flames’ production quality the next time you met up with her for lunch if this dream… panned out…

The drop to your dream world is unceremonious; perhaps it’s the result of your previous night, but you find yourself with more heightened awareness than ever before (you wonder if this is what those medicus loonies refer to when they boast of “lucid dreams”). A world bathed in fog-mist and the herbal decay left by smoking pipes, your head resting on silk sheets, feathered pillows, with kiln sake cups identical to the ones bartered at Tingyun’s merchant guild resting an arm’s length away.

You sit upright, scanning your surroundings; no sight of cracked skies, rain, or the pungent blooming of spider lilies.

“...hi?” Your voice echoes through your dreamscape. You feel stupid.

Perhaps it had been a fluke; maybe Tingyun had been right. You begin to doubt yourself, gnawing on your lower lip, before a metaphorical lightbulb beams in the recess of your mind;

“...the fisherman would marry, and the Foxian, enraged and heartbroken...”

“Of all men,” he hisses into your ear, the bite of a wolf from a dark fairytale, “him?”

A fifty-fifty shot, you decide; he’d failed to kill you the last time he’d seen you riding Jingyuan’s face, allowing enough bravery for you to conjure up an imitation of the general.

It’s harder now that you’re not, well, as needy as you were when you’d first met; you envision the hair cascading over his shoulder, long and curling, a single, aureate eye, hands, calloused from battle and gripping the hilt of his war-spear,

“Enough.”

Your stomach drops. So it hadn’t been a fluke, and you were being haunted by the spirit of some deceased Foxian posing as an intergalactic war criminal you’d just so happened to think was bangable. That, or—

“So you really are stalking me,” you accuse, turning to your side. You observe him from where he stands, towering over you with his hands crossed over his chest; he looks more irked than truly jealous, maybe because you’re not half naked and in the process of climbing to a dream-climax; you rest your cheek on your palm, propped by an elbow, and sink a jade-collared foot into the water at the edge of the bed. He stares (or so you assume; it’s hard to tell by the blindfold), unamused when you flick at him, the droplets dematerializing into the fabric of his trousers. “What? Not joining me today?”

For a long while, he says nothing—in silent contemplation, while you pretend to pick at your nails in mimicry of indifference. Please don’t look at me, please just walk away, please let this be just a real—dream—you hear the ripples indicating his footsteps, crowns of spider-lilies rebirthed in his strides until he rests on the edge of the bed, black hair pooling into the silk.

You suck in a deep breath, gazing up at the now storm-cracked skyscape. You hadn't exacted the details of your so-called “plan” this far, half-expecting the circumstances of last night to have been explained by a crumpled club receipt or markered-star hidden away in some crevice of your body. You sit upright, swallowing the pounding of your heart, and brace yourself for a change of course;

He makes no movement of protest when he feels you crawl over to him, throwing the weight of your arms over his shoulders. Not even a compression, you sulk, feeling unyielding, lean muscle. Experimentally, you rest your chin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, breath fanning over his bone-like pallor; you draw circles into the water with your feet, brushing against the flower stamens, willing the thrum of your heart to quiet.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you observe, voice muffled against the fabric of his coat; he smells the same, smoke and rain, the perfume of his hair an aquatic floral that has you near-salivating and Aeons did you wish you’d meet a man of his allure in the Luofu (without the homicidal package). “Need another projection of the general to get you going?”

It’s meant to be in jest, but also to test his limits; your eyes flicker up just in time to see his jaw flex. The spindles of a lily curl around your ankle and bite, causing you to squeak and fold your legs into the bed. Okay, maybe too far. You can’t help but glare at him (not like he can see it), rubbing the now crimson splotch. Bastard.

“Not cute,” you comment, tugging at the tassels of his collar. He makes no effort to stop you, even as your hands roam his hips, pausing right below the navel, and then working up to his chest, the other tangling in the fabric holding together his garment; it doesn’t take you long to to unassemble his shirt, mouth working down his nape, uncaring of the roadblock of his bandages.

Your fingers arch at his collarbone, having spidered to a two-fingered tilt; he feels you smile, tapping a nail over his skin.

“Aren’t you being too good today?” You wonder, eyeing the faded scars scattered along his torso like a belt of heliobi; you wonder if they belong to the demon-spirit or the space criminal himself, and could he possibly be the real Blade?

Only one way to find out; and you’re determined.

“Not entertained?” You hook your legs on either side of him, then, sliding down to rest on his thighs; you feel him at large, breath momentarily catching in your throat—eyes on the prize, stay focused—before you rest on the blindfold separating the wonders of his eyes from yours. He feels incomplete, unreal; he is, but not like this. You refuse to have him like this.

“Let me see you,” you whisper, and before the weight of your words can sink in, you reach out to yank the knot fastened behind his head.

What you see has your blood turning to ice, the hairs on the back of your neck standing pin-straight, and both your hands flying to your mouth to quell the scream that threatens to perforate the dreaming; because there, where his eyes should be are inky, sightless orbs, no sign of pupil nor sclera; twin voids, like staring into the end of the world. His thighs shift, and you nearly choke out a sob.

“What do you see?” He murmurs. “Is it all you dreamed of?”

There is something sickening in his voice, encapsulating darker hues still; you squeeze your eyes shut, urging your heart to recover from its whiplash. When you open them, you stare at his mouth instead. It’s prettier, despite its velvet cruelty.

“What are you?”

He doesn’t answer, not for a long while; a stray wind blisters your cheek, enshrouding you with dark hair and the scent of him once more. You don’t remember a hand caging your hip, nor the one that had wound around your ankle, only now when he toys with the jade ornament that dangles off it; his grip doesn’t slacken, however, as if afraid you’d take off running at any given chance (he’s not wrong).

“The eyes are incomplete,” his answers are as vague as the real one, and you’re beginning to wonder just how accurate a Foxian’s charades can be. “They only see as far as they know; the rest is filled by imagination.” He smiles, then, wretched and alarmingly beautiful; “Did you see something monstrous?”

“You act as though that pleases you,” you rasp. At that, your dream demon leans in, smile taking a sharper turn as he forces eye-level contact. You have half a mind to scream, cry; conjure up a physical wall, render yourself blind. Anything to not have to glimpse into that void once more.

“Make no mistake; I am a monster.” His breath ghosts over your mouth like claws from inside a coffin. “That is what I am, what I always will be; do not dare dream otherwise. There is no prince waiting for you under this beast, no declarations of love and adoration; I am not like the ones they paint in stories. Do not expect a shelter from your nightmares; in time, you may find they and I become one in the same.”

And though staring into his eyes is akin to being swallowed by the void-whales that drift across the stars only in search of things to devour, you do; you ignore the fear that gropes your stomach, has your hands clammy with cold sweat.

“My little nightmare,” you simper, praying you come off more coy than deathly afraid, “you overestimate yourself. Did you truly think I’d deluded myself with such grandiose? That I’d expect you to fill the void of a real man, buy me a picket-fence complex, and take some revoltingly cute children to late-night starskiff drives on the weekends?” You tug at a strand of his hair, twirling it around your finger; it slips, pliant as silk, and you drop your hand in search of something more entertaining.

His fingers turn bruising; your hand dips past his navel, tugging the loop of his belt free. Absently, you trace the silver of his armor-like garter. “Don’t forget your purpose—here, you are nothing but my dream-concubine, pretty as you may be. You exist to starve me of my fantasies so that you may bring me pleasure yourself, do you not? Fighting words, for one with a goal so…”

Your hands are frigid compared to the heat of his length, giving it a shallow, experimental tug. You hear him affected for the first time, breathing ragged in your ear, and you think he might as well break your hipbone with how tightly he grips it. It is an oddly rewarding sting; you stave off the pain with a giggle, lips brushing over the shell of his ear.

“...endearing,” you finish, teeth catching the flesh of his lobe. You’re only slightly out of practice; gone are the days of experimenting with more than a sloppy, quick fuck in some alleyway of the red-light district, but having a man—spirit, whatever the hell this thing was—of such indomitability crack under your ministrations served the necessary power-high to follow through with your teasing.

You remind yourself it’s all for a greater plan; the plan that suddenly looks as hazy as your fourth shot of tequila on a holiday cruise as you fall into whispering filthy nothings into his ear.

“You poor thing,” you gloat, boring your eyes fearlessly into his; they are half-lidded now, much more tolerable to look at. He presses a thumb warningly down on your pelvis when you arch, knees planted on either side of his hips to support your weight. You grin. “Relax.”

Confidently, you brush his hair out of his eyes—sweat clings to his forehead, jaw worked so tight you know his teeth are gritted. Your hand trails off the side of his face, adoring; “How long has it been since you’ve been cared for? Months? Years? Decades? Why do you deprive yourself?”

He is much too prideful to relent, this you know; because you are not all cruel, you smile, allowing him reprieve in the comfort of your neck. Your dream demon stills at the gesture, muscles growing taut even as he allows you to move him as you please. You laugh, patting the back of his head.

Because he is wholly unused to affection, you kiss the side of his cheek, his hair, base of the throat, and everywhere else when he likely fractures both your pelvic bone and wrist in response to the pace you set. Surprisingly, the wrist he grips is not the one that tugs at his cock, but the one that soothes him by sifting through his roots, as if he is more cautious of adoration than he is lust; you curve your thumb over the tip, and you know he’s close, abdomen constricting, all but cutting off your hand’s blood supply;

Focus. Now’s your chance.

It’s only under the guise of utter sweetness that you manage to pry his fingers from your wrist, lacing your hand with his and releasing him from your other at the same time. He snarls, hips bucking forward at the loss, sounding more animal than man; you use your now-free hand to capture his jaw, the other still tightly wound, and plant a searing, punishing kiss.

It’s humiliating. Would have been pathetic, even, had he not lasted so long and after such a lengthy period of abstinence; and had you been a tad more sadistic. You feel him shudder, the warmth of your mouth and hand-holding too much.

You bite down on his lip. Hard.

It’s difficult, teetering the border between a kiss and mauling his lips off; a plight that has to be overcome, however, as you scrape over the wound and taste blood in your mouth. It’s done. You separate from his person with a gasp, scanning the small, but fresh (and most importantly: noticeable) graze; it would undoubtedly redden and scar, just as your welts had.

Now, all that’s left to do is waltz into your daily session with the space criminal and examine him for a matching wound. Then, you can be sure—

“You.”

…okay, you definitely hadn’t thought this far.

“…we can talk this through,” you laugh nervously, raising both hands in surrender. “Let’s—talk, yeah? Like civil people. Iwaswrongpleasedon’thurtme—”

You squeak when your jaw is tucked into his vice-like grip; you shut your eyes, screeching a mantra of wake up wake up WAKE UP—

“You have some nerve.” He chuckles darkly (yes, chuckles; you’re reciting your final wishes at this point, coupled with a few bastardized prayers to Lan, because Aeons, this had to be the last thing you heard), arm crushing you against him; he feels the same as before, relentless, unyielding, rendering you completely at his mercy.

“What did you expect,” you protest, because if you’re going to die, you might as well go out with the last word; “—when you left me so callously last time,” you finish, chin jutted in defiance.

The world above you begins to splinter; you see the fabric of your blackout curtains, spy the string of polaroids dangling from your ceiling. A wave of relief washes over you; you smile, beguiling, and roll over so you’re no longer pinned under him.

“Well, this has been lovely, but it’s getting late—early—and would‘ya look at the ti—!”

He grips your ankle, tugs; your world blurs from the sudden movement, and you drown in the scent of rain and woodsmoke once more.

His mouth brushes over yours, cold, soft—an almost-kiss. You find yourself with an insatiable yearning for those lips once more—the taste of iron and something sweeter.

Your eyes remain half-lidded in want for only half a second; the next, you find yourself letting out a noise torn between a moan and a hiss, feeling the pads of his fingers circling pressure around your clit. Your thighs clamp on instinct, shocked at the surge of pleasure; you can only stare, horrified, into dark hair and the lightly-scarred pallor of his neck.

“What’re you—”

The words die on your lips as easily as the bloom of a strangulated whine; the rare power-trip over your dreamvader had left you rather malleable, and it didn’t take long for him to deem you prepped enough to split in half. The drag of his fingers is haunting; a slow-burning candle, a lull, bandaged thumb working on your nerves while he curls two more inside.

“Entertained?” He breathes, teeth grazing over the shell of your ear the same way you had; but he bites where you had kissed, devours instead of adoring. Your dreamscape spins; you hear the phantom of your own voice in an echo chamber. “Not entertained?”

In response, you can only grip the back of his hair.

“Not quite.” You bite down into the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

“Entertained,” he rasps, and your world is collapsing; vibrations of bent, gleaming white and silver-blue; the surface below you pools, turns to void-stars. You move only with the rise of his chest, the ripple of his throaty voice; your hips move sluggishly against his thigh, knee parting you open, as if you’re in a trance. He sets a brutal pace, dragging your hips up to meet his, and the friction between your clothed heat and his is enough to have you drawing red down his back, pushed to a state of delirium you didn’t think was possible with mere grinding.

Your response is a cacophony of undulated whimpers; you keen, eyes wet and red, every nerve lit on fire, and the very backdrop of your dream world burns behind your eyes;

You search for his lips like a prisoner starved; the stars fall out of his mouth, and you catch them, outpouring into the constellated belt of a dipper.

Entertained? You feel him mouth against the flesh under your breast, voice drowned by the bell of your morning alarm and the purr of early-morning starskiffs making a beeline for breakfast courts. You’re all but a ragdoll now, held up by a single arm. You twist your neck to glare down at him, eyes itching for the waking world.

��Whore,” You accuse, a half-slur; you blink rapidly, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbone, and swear you feel him smile against your rib.

When you come to, you have ten missed calls from Jingyuan, a barrage of worried messages from Tingyun, and a notice from the Luofu’s government hospital on behalf of the reigning High Elder, Bailu.

ꨄ︎

He hears you before he sees you; Blade doesn’t have a chance to look up before you have your hand at his neck, near-strangling; a pressure that likely would’ve had the average man nearly knocked out. Your breath comes out in harsh, sobbing huffs, and you smell salty, as if you’d been crying; that, and of something sterile—rubbing alcohol?

“What did you do?” The break in your voice tells him everything he needs to know. When he doesn’t answer right away, you tighten your hold, and he finds himself both smiling and unable to breathe. “You fucking bastard, tell me what you did to him.”

“Whom?”

You let out a shrill, and he laughs, feeling your nails mark over the old scars along his throat, vessels restricting under the abuse; you land a rather solid one across his cheek, enough to have him snap to the left, though unfortunately not enough to break posture. Rather amateur in combat, were you?

“Did you kill him?” You’re screeching now, voice hollowed-out and black with rage, and a small inkling in him whispers that maybe, just maybe he’d taken it too far—but he remembers what Kafka had relayed to him, the script foretold by destiny’s slave, and his own promise, and cannot find it in himself to care. “Did you fucking kill him, you—”

Your words fail you; there’s nothing horrible enough to scream. You want to beat him bloody and tear his hair out from his scalp and kill him, twice as cruel as he had been to Danyin, but—

You fall to your knees, hands flying to your mouth.

“That’s… no, that can’t—that’s not—”

Jingyuan’s hand on your shoulder is a painful tether to reality, and you can only watch as the High Elder rubs her hands over your coworker’s molting form in desperation. The poor Vidyadhara girl looks exhausted, sweat clinging to her forehead as she tries to reanimate a body long gone.

“We found him bleeding outside his post,” Jingyuan says gravely, but you can’t hear him anymore; can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, wishing you could unsee everything. “He had… strangest look on his face… as if he’d seen a ghost… so much blood…”

You spy your own wristwatch coming undone from his now-waxy arms. It clatters to the floor; you stare at it blankly.

“I’m counting on you, friend!”

If only you hadn’t. If only you’d shut your mouth. If only you had. If only—ifonly, Aeons; would he still have been alive?

“[Name]!” Jingyuan shakes you; you wonder how long he’d been doing that, and turn to stare up at him, bewildered. This had to have been a dream, some terrible nightmare. Things like this didn’t happen on the Luofu. It was an era of peace. Things like that didn’t happen to you. Not people you knew. “...Tingyun is heading over as we speak; I do not know what has transpired, but I assure you, [Name], I will do everything in my power to get to the bottom of this, and no harm will come to you, this I swear—”

You want to laugh and cry and tear open the very fabric of reality at the same time. You? How could you possibly have been worried about yourself when you had all but caused someone to die? When you were the reason that—

“...was not something Diviner Fu foresaw. I’ll be taking you off this case, [Name], for time being, and you will be compen—”

“No.”

“...I don’t believe you’re in the right headspace—”

“No,” you repeat, and you’re already standing up, legs moving before your brain can process your destination; Jingyuan makes a motion to grab your arm to stop you, but whatever face you’re wearing has him frozen in his tracks. “I’ll see to it I see this job through. All the way. On behalf of him.”

“Did you like your gift,” he wonders, and suddenly, he is nothing short of hideous—a beast in human skin, scum, something that existed to die; you gnaw down on your bottom lip and taste iron, anything to quell the traitorous tear that dampened his blindfold and ran past his own cheek. “Had you truly let down your guard so prematurely?”

“You monster,” you whisper, finally. “How could you take someone’s life so—so—”

“Life,” he murmurs, “is only made precious through death. A lesson not all learn early, a paradise unreachable for me… ah,” he chuckles, words catching in his throat when you try your damndest to suffocate the piece of shit in front of you.

“Do you think yourself nature?” You grit, voice a clamor; “Do you think yourself above life? What gives you the right to rob another of theirs—are you even human?”

“On the contrary,” he sighs, “I give them a gift of the highest honor—the gift of death. It is all predestined, those I kill; a slave to destiny is what I’ve become. I can only yearn for the day he returns my favor—the day I may walk over the blood I’ve spilt to welcome the end which I’ve sought for… all this time…”

You feel like vomiting. You’d never understood them, neither the woes of the soon-to-be marastruck or the elders, who viewed life as more a chore than something to be cherished; something to squash under their soles. They called it the curse of the abundance, but they had become the true curse—an enemy of life itself.

“One day,” you promise, “you will fear death. One day, you will find something—someone—worth living for, and even your cruel, unbeating heart will take form, mimicking that of a real one. And I pray—I will make sure of it—you die that day, the day you fear death. Until then, I hope you wander. I hope you roam every corner of the galaxy, pushed to the brink of death and reviving once more; I hope you are always unsettled. I hope you never find peace.”

You hear the general’s men burst through the door a second later, ripping you away from the creature. He sits there, in silence and contemplation, and you’re unable to rip your eyes from his form;

His last words are amused, a murmur; the shade of summer trees.

“How odd of you to curse me with what is already reality.”

ꨄ︎

When he dreams, your hands are at his throat once more; you might be crying again, he can’t tell; your tears are corporeal, and he still can’t see you. He comes to the stifling realization that some part of him—a part that should be impassive—does not wish to see you in such a state, your sniffling drawing his ire.

“Change,” you spit, imagining your hands to pop that godforsaken throat open like it should have in the waking world, “stop looking like that. Change. Now.”

He makes no effort to move, as if your ministrations do not bother him in the slightest—just like in the real world. You let out a snarl.

“I warned you,” he says, as you begin beating down on his chest with the ferocity of a dozen wolves, “in time, you would find that your nightmares and I become one in the same.”

“I don’t care,” you howl, fists going raw in their onslaught; “Stop looking like that—that thing. It’s revolting.”

He doesn’t respond; you wail and howl until your throat runs dry and the skin of your palms ache, seemingly, an eternity; you collapse on his chest, and he feels it turn wet with your tears. You’re shaking from exhaustion, anger, something more—too much.

And despite it all, through your rage, you reach an epiphany—a welcome one; for whatever demon may haunt you, it isn’t him. Isn’t Blade. You’d seen him at your altercation, lips unmarred and sporting not a single bruise he would’ve gained in your dream world; and despite the healing prowess of Xianzhou Natives, not a single one sported regenerative abilities to that degree.

You raise your face to meet his, and cup his cheeks—slowly, softly, unlike your prior treatment. It’s a shocking change, one that has him reeling from the whiplash.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, a hoarse, scratchy apology. “I’ve been taking my rage out on you, but you—you are not him. You don’t deserve it, not really. I—I don’t know your circumstances, or why you’re here… but I don’t think you would have chosen this face. Not if you could’ve helped it.”

He says nothing. He should tell you the truth—observe as something shatters inside you once more, and have you reeling from the impact. He should break you cleanly.

But he doesn’t.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say, sounding dead. “Just—make me forget. Please. I don’t want to think of anything anymore.”

He finds you completely pliant when he shifts your form on his chest, lacking your usual bite—you say nothing when he moves you under him, hand cradling the back of your head so he can tilt you for a kiss.

Your lips don’t move against his, merely open—you shudder, curling your legs inward instead of at his waist, and he finds himself despising it. You. Him. Everything in between.

You’re crying again. He finds himself unable to do anything other than mouth away your tears, even as you whisper for more, beg, even; an excuse to kiss you once more, again and again, repeatedly; catches them right over your mouth, sweeps that can almost be considered gentle, despite that being the last thing you want (need).

“Fool,” he murmurs, blanketing you in darkness; of hair, fabric, and his hands. You close your eyes, lulled into an even deeper sleep—a dream within a dream.

Before you doze off, you wonder if this is his own way of showing kindness—an effort made so you would not be forced to bear the torment of seeing his face once more.

taglist: @aliceu, @hypernovaxx

a/n: this was so painful to finish mostly bc I had to adult and do actual life things >.> lmk if anyone wants to be added to the taglist! (provided ur not a minor!!) ill probably edit this a lot bc god knows i did not proofread

#this took a while bc work has been a binch & a half #U-U #blade x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #blade hsr #honkai star rail smut #blade smut

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fanficsthatmakemybraingobrr · 4 months

Text

A Night In Cairo

Chapter 4

Indiana Jones x Gender-Neutral Reader

You’re a Intern at Marshall College in Bedford Connecticut and you work with Dr.Jones, but he sucks at his job and is never there and is always behind with work making you get the short end of the stick. Then he drags you on a trip to Cairo with him.

I actually liked how this chapter turned out! i don't think it's half bad. but i am still very open to criticism! anyways i hope you enjoy! :}

link to: Chapter 1/Chapter 2/Chapter 3

Link to AO3

Regret. That is all you have right now is pure regret. You wish you slept on that damn bed. You should have made him sleep with that sad pile of comforters. You also regret using comforters, you should’ve taken the sheets you woke up in the middle night drenched in your own sweat and what feels like a broken back.

That’s also the reason you’re up so early you couldn’t fall back asleep. If you had to guess it’s probably 7:00 in the morning? Indy was passed out and sprawled across the bed, laying on his stomach hugging a pillow smooshing it against his face. He's pretty knocked out and is sleeping soundly, his face is gently illuminated by the sunlight coming through the window.

You just stare at him.

His eyebrows slightly furrowed.

You seem to be doing that a lot lately. Just starring.

His hair all tousled.

Why are you looking?

The way the light played on his face perfectly framing his facial features was intriguing.

Maybe because you've never been able to get a good look at him? I mean the time you spend around him you're always grading things or helping him plan out his syllabus day by day because he didn't do it before the semester started?

You never noticed the scar on his chin- damn this man has long ass eyelashes!

Stop it. You're being creepy, you're standing over his body like he's a cadaver or something. You turn your gaze to the window hearing the sound of busy streets, the calls of vendors and talk of passersby. An idea pops into your head. This Is your first time out of the US, why not explore the city for a bit? You tiptoe across the hotel room grabbing your things and making your way to the door.

The minute you step outside it's hotter than hell, you almost want to go back inside but this is a once in a lifetime chance for you right now. Hm? Where do you start, which direction do you walk in? You shrug your shoulders and think whatever and you just start walking. Your Arabic is pretty rusty so when you read signs you're mainly going off context clues. You start to pass by little shops and vendors admiring what they had to sell. The city really starts to feel alive as you take in the small details around you. In the background you hear people chattering, having small conversations About how busy they are today or their plans, the playful screaming of children, the sound of vendors selling their goods. You see how different areas of the city are all unique with different stores and goods available. At one point you see a small cat wandering around. You stop and pet it. You can feel it purr as you glide your hand down its back and off its tail.

As you were enjoying your enrichment time petting the stray cat you didn't notice Indiana come up behind you. He looked over your shoulder watching with a small smile patiently for you to notice him.

Wow.

It’s been like five minutes. Indiana is taken back for a moment. He finds it almost… What's the word, Endearing? that you're putting so much effort into petting this damn cat. He almost feels jealous.

“You know that thing probably has fleas?” He let slip out in a teasing and joking tone. He didn't mean to say it truly…okay maybe he did. You were a little startled when he talked, you looked up from the cat at the older man and lightly rolled your eyes and let out a small chuckle.

“Your being mean Jones!” you exclaim. Indiana walks over and kneels down next to you in the cat. He extended his hand out letting the cat sniff him, the cat let out a small meow and it nuzzled its small head into his hand. You smiled as he began to pet the cat. You noticed how gentle he was in the way he treated the animal. The cat seemed to like Indiana as much as it liked you.

“Now you have fleas” you teased back. Indy was caught a little bit by surprise by you making that sly comment but he couldn't help but smile at you.

“Yeah, I probably have some fleas now.” he said while smiling. A faint growl came from your stomach, oh yeah eating. You forgot about that. Indiana laughed as he heard your stomach growl.

“Seems like someone skipped breakfast, come on i know a place that has some great food” You stood up and the cat walked away probably to seek attention from someone else.

“Yeah, I'm very hungry.” you say with a tinge of embarrassment. Indy then smiled and offered his arm to you. You looked at him a little confused. You let out a little ‘hm?’ and then you realized, he wants you to hold on to him. You awkwardly take his arm and he starts leading the way.

“This place gets pretty busy around this time and… ya know…i don't wanna end up losing you in this crowd.” you look at him and smile. He could have just told you to stay close but you let him keep his pride.

Indy led you into a little hole in the wall restaurant that was tucked away. Once you both walked you took a seat at a table for two in the corner of the small but humble restaurant. The decor was simple but comfortable and it had a warm and cozy atmosphere. The walls were painted a warm shade, with decorations hanging from them. The restaurant was busy with locals eating and enjoying their food. You picked up the menu and realized you could only read about half of it. You looked at Indy and he had on his round reading glasses. They made him look mature and intelligent. The round frames complemented his face.

“Uh Indy i can't read the menu that well…” you say as you sheepishly look over your menu. Indy looked up from his own menu at you and smirked at your statement.

“That's alright sweetheart, I'll get us something we’ll both like.”

“Okay..” you nodded.

Sweetheart? You were frozen, you moved your eyes down towards your menu finding it hard to concentrate on it. Did he mean to call you that? Why did he call you that? You could feel your face slightly burn. You found yourself almost wanting him to call you that again.

He did not mean to call you that.

Indiana Jones, a full grown man who has plenty of lovers is failing to suppress his feelings. What's going on? He's never done this before. He doesn't slip up like this (yes he does). Did you notice his slip-up? Indy suppresses these thoughts, glazing his eyes over the menu picking something out for you two to eat. Indy picked something out, called over a waiter and put in the order. There was an awkward silence between the two of you. God this is horrible. Indiana does want to know you better, he never really has sat down and had a genuine conversation with you except once. But that was your first day on campus.

Indiana had just walked out of the faculty lounge with a cup of coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He had just gotten back from Turkey with his father. He was tired, his back hurting, he was behind on work, and did not have much patience. As he turned the corner to his office he noticed someone standing in front of his office door. He sighed as he approached them.

“I know I haven't graded exams but i'll get to them today.” he grumbled as he walked by them and unlocked his office. The person turned their head to the side in confusion.

“Um sir i’m not one of your students..” Indy stopped and turned around.

“What?”

“Sir i'm an Intern, My name is ___! I was told I'll be working with you this semester!” They gave him a smile and extended their hand out to him. Oh yeah, Indiana forgot about that. Oops.

“My bad,” he said, extending his hand to shake theirs. "I'm a bit out of it today I suppose. It's nice to meet you, I'm Indy.” Indiana Jones then sighed, still feeling tired and slightly irritable after his most recent trip abroad. He took a sip of his coffee and rubbed his neck, as he could feel the tension building up in his shoulders. He looked at the intern and forced a smile, trying to mask his tiredness. "Well then, let's get to work."

Okay…maybe not too genuine, but you two are always so busy from that point on he doesn't know that much about you.

“So..” Indy mumbled, breaking the silence. “Did you sleep well last night? I saw that you made that…nest?” You finally looked up from the table and at Indiana. You laughed as he called your bed a ‘nest’.

“Yeah it was fine, just a bit warm.”

“I'm sorry you had to sleep on the floor, i mean i would have but by the time i came out of the shoulder you were already asleep.”

“No it's okay, I really don't mind!” the waiter came back with your food and placed it on the table. You and Indy started eating and enjoying each other's company. It was nice, you told him about your life growing up and how you ended up at Bedford as his intern and he told you stories about the different adventures he’s been on ending on the last trip he took with his father.

“The holy grail?” you looked at him in shock. Indy smiled and let out a small laugh.

“I thought it was just a myth!” you added. Indy looked at you with a slight smirk on his face.

“Yeah, so did I. Even though my fathers obsession with it I never thought the damn thing had a basis in this reality. I always thought of the relic as mythical.” he let out a half hearted sigh and called over a waiter asking for the bill. You pulled out your wallet but Indy interrupted you.

“Hey I've got it.” you shook your head at his comment.

“Come on, you brought me on this trip for free! It’s the least I could do!”

“To be fair this trip is already funded by the college and I'm not paying anything either.” you stayed silent for a moment trying to come up with an excuse to pay.

“Could we at least split the check?” you suggested with a nervous smile. Indy looked up from the bill and stared at you for a moment. Then his lips curled into a playful smile.

“How about this? I pay for this meal and to pay me back and at the banquet tonight you owe me a dance?”

#indiana jones x reader #harrison ford #indiana jones

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blingblong55 · 1 year

Note

Hiho!! Just dropping a request here. Instead of tortured and beaten up, reader comes back covered in blood, head to toe because reader literally just committed mass murder on their kidnappers. The funniest thing is that the reader is just smiling while holding up the only thing they used throughout the escape which was their gift to the reader.

Also, can I request more than once?

you can always request more than once!!!

Killer Queen- 141

Gn!Reader! , Platonic! Relationship!

(The title says queen because of the song by Queen, which fits to the vibe I went for here!)

It was around 2 am when r/n walked into base. They had been out in the city that the team was deployed in. "just one this time." they said as the apple was being handed to them.

When they had gone around the market two men walked behind them, pulled them into a van and drove off. For about 3 hours r/n was captive. Not knowing how'd they get out. Until they felt the pocket knife the team had gifted them for the most kills in an operation.

"Next time it'll be me, m'sure" Soap said as Price handed the knife to them. "Keep tryin'" Ghost replied.

After about 30 minutes of looking around and making the escape plan in their heads, they found the perfect opportunity. The tall man was gone first. Then the chubby one.

He was better than I thought,

13 left.

Your knife soon penetrated the leg of one, then your hand made its way to their rifle. Blood spread fast on your face as your knife left his leg. Smeared and dripping down your chin. "and to think I was going to wear my favorite shirt today." you calmly said to the man that had your knife stuck to their throat. A man ran into the room and you quickly took your knife out of the poor old mans body. You threw the knife, penetrating his eye socket.

"ghost would be proud." you said, your legs now covered in the red liquid, "I'll be back for it, just hand tight knife" you said, your voice as if it was reassuring a child.

After some struggle, you had managed to kill 4 other men.

6 left.

Within 10 minutes you had wiped most of the building and soon returned to your knife. "thought I forgot ya' didn't ya honey?" you said as your hand was pulling the knife out of yet another cadaver. You wiped it clean and walked towards the exit. "What the hell is this?" a woman asked, the hand gun left the last bullet it contained, "a 1 shot one kill, duh" you answered.

1 left.

He was the easiest. "That was fun huh!?" you turned to the now somewhat full room of bodies, "didn't mean to kill the fun...sorry." You exited the

----

The walk was rough but you made it back, the team thought you had come back early and slept. That's why no one worried, it was a routine for you to do that.

"Guys I'm back!" you walked into the meeting room, Soap wanted a meeting to discuss your birthday. Once he stopped talking, everyone turned to the door frame, and there you stood.

Price:

He was shook for sure. Was he concerned? Yes and no

You had long proven to the team you can take care of yourself. So all he did was hand you a rag to clean the now dry blood off of you.

"Gave 'em hell kid?" he asked, and you sinisterly smiled. "I gave 'em more than hell." you replied.

His eyes once filled with pride looked at you with concern and joy. It was a sight for sure.

He gave you a cigar, soap and gaz established the new favorite one.

"Not fair." Gaz said "When you kill someone and stare at me like r/n you can have a cigar. "

Proud and concerned father vibes

He walked out of the room and patted your back as he exited.

"g'night"

Gaz:

This man was for sure scared.

The look you had on your eyes was scary enough on a daily basis, but tonight, it was worse.

At first he thought you were injured, until he saw some blood on the knife you carried on you hand.

"What a show-off mate"

He one time hid behind Price because he thought he had passed you off

For a week or so he was very cautious around you, this man was terrified for his life. He knew you would never hurt him but the pride in your eyes and the blood on you said other wise.

"Good thing I aint your partner this week." he tried hugging you but just ran towards his room.

Everyday he would leave a note on your door, "mornin' remember I respect ya and think your super cool" -your favorite soldier Gaz<3

After a while, he knew he wasn't a target, and slowly talked to you again.

Soap:

He took you for drinks that night. "called it his awakening of kindness"

When your hand played with the knife and your smile and eyes made his way, this man swore to not prank you for a good month

He was so much nicer, always complimenting you and telling you how much he loved you (as a friend ofc)

"To r/n, for being a badass and my friend...seriously put the knife down"

offered to make your bed as long as he made sure he was on your good side.

Even told ghost he was no longer the scary one, that you were and it would stay as is for his entire service

Tried asking you how you managed to escape, "leave it" you'd answer "yes ma'am/ sir" and would walk away

Safe to say that even though he already respected you, that level of respect went even higher, when at missions he would ask you to handle hand in hand combat

"Scared sergeant?" "yeah of you"

Ghost:

he was the proudest of them all.

Told your story to the rookies

even made a custom balaclava for you, called you "ghost jr." and that nickname stayed with you.

He wore your friendship tall, always telling them how everyone was scared but not him

Swore that even though you two were platonic soulmates, he would love and protect you like a lover would

"when you get a lover, tell 'em about this."

When you walked into the room, man did this guy smirk, he saw how drenched in blood you were and chuckled.

Yes, he chuckled because he thought it was so funny, you out of everyone, a class A killer

Wasn't afraid at all, he did things no one would stomach and now you were added to his good side list, only 4 people have made it in, 5 when soap wasn't annoying.

gave you more knife throwing lessons and for every Christmas that was your gift

I absolutely loved writing this one!! Thank you for requesting this!!

tags: @anonymuslydumb

REQUEST ARE OPEN!!

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waywardangel-wilds · 11 days

Text

prompt by @triassictriserratops

Modern AU. Katniss and Peeta are best friends. She keeps sabotaging his relationships and he's finally fed up and confronts her about it.

[I'm sorry, I made it hilarious]

"Prim! Ew!" I pushed her away, falling backward on my bed as she shoved her phone in my face.

"Look!" Prim yanked on my hands, which I used to guard my eyeballs from her phone. "Oh my God. You are such a baby!"

"I don't want to see a cadaver! I don't care if it's for science! It's gross!" I shoved her away and rushed for the other side of the bed, throwing myself off it.

"Oh, I'm Katniss, and I love to be a scared little baby." She mocked in a breathy voice. "Look at me!"

"You're literally such a nerd you can't even bully me correctly."

"I-"

"What the fuck Katniss?!" We both jumped, hearing the front door slam open. Peeta's irritated face appeared at my doorway. "What in the-- oh hey, Prim."

Prim stared at him with her mouth open. Hanging upside down from my bed like that she looked twelve years old again. She glanced towards me with an alarmed expression.

"What right do you think you have to come in here like that?" Prim flipped herself right side up, pushing up against the mattress to sit up and glare at him.

"Uh-" Peeta looked sheepish. "Yeah, my bad."

"Your bad?!" Prim jumped off the bed. "'Your bad'? Fuck off!" She shoved him out of my doorway. "Apologize!"

"I-" Peeta's mouth opened and closed for a moment. He turned to glare at me, "No! Ask your sister what she did!"

"Um," I tried to speak up, but Prim waved me off.

"She did nothing; you're the one who came in here like a Neanderthal. Apologize!" She insisted.

"What? No!" Peeta tried to shoulder past her, but she pushed him back. He leaned against the hallway with a groan.

"Prim, you don't even live here. Go away." He said to the ceiling.

"How-"

"It's fine. Can I just talk to him? Alone?" I interrupted.

Prim looked into my eyes, picking up that I would be fine. She turned back to Peeta. "I'm going to be in the kitchen." She walked off.

"Bye!" Peeta said sarcastically. Under his breath, he added, "Little twerp."

"I heard that!" Prim shouted back. Peeta ducked out of the way of a flying object. "Ass!"

He stuck out his tongue at her. Turning my way, his face shifted from annoyed-at-Prim to actual anger.

"So..." I picked up a book from my nightstand. "You heard."

"I heard? Oh, man, did I!" He crossed his arms, looking incredulous. "Katniss, this got back to my mother. My dad called to ask me to go with them to church. Are you fucking kidding me?!"

I cringed, holding the book close to my chest. Peeta crossed the doorway into my room and shut the door behind him.

"I can't believe you would do this to me!" He was just getting started. I could tell he was highly wound up. An all-out rant was on the way. "Did I do something to you? Was I too nice to you? Did I feed you too much? Was it wrong of me to help you pass your driving test?"

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Ouch.

"'Cause I've been wracking my brain for, like, I don't know, the past three hours trying to figure out why my best friend would throw me under the fucking bus!" The arms were above his head, oh man. "I'm in a sex cult?! Really? A doomsday sex cult. Do you have any idea how my parents are taking this? My mom was sobbing, sobbing. I don't think she's cried since 2008. My dad was saying that if I wanted to be gay, it was fine! But I didn't have to be in a cult to do it?! You told them I was in a gay doomsday sex cult?!"

"Yeah..."

"And, come to find out, it's not just my catholic parents who know this. My brothers," he started to list people off on his fingers. "My teammates, my coach, my girlfriend, Haymitch fucking Abernathy, for Christ's sake. I should thank my lucky stars that my Gammy doesn't know, she'd drop dead!"

If it was possible to cringe harder, I would do it right then.

"Are you going to say anything?" his voice got quiet. He stared at me with wide, unbelieving blue eyes. As if he were seeing me for the first time, and whatever he saw, it was freaking him out. "You just torpedoed my whole fucking life. Do you get that?!"

The book fell from my hands, and to make matters worse, I started to cry.

"I didn't mean for it to get this far!" I sobbed, my hands fluttering about my face. "I didn't even mean to say it! And then Glimmer told everyone. I just wanted her to go away!"

"What." He blinked at me. He looked crazed. "What. The. Fuck. WHAT THE FUCK! What are you saying?!"

"I was just trying to make it stop," I hiccuped, choking on some deeply intense sobs. "I never wanted to start a rumor. I swear it on my life, Peeta. I would never do that to you!"

Peeta stepped up to me the way someone would a live mine. He put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes. He still looked insane. "I." he cleared his throat. "I could kill you, I fucking swear it, Katniss. What in the world possessed you to tell people I was in a gay doomsday cult?!"

I wailed guiltily as Peeta lightly shook me. "I don't know!"

"Tell me!"

"I don't know!" I insisted, covering my face. "All I did was tell Christie you were in a cult so she wouldn't go out with you! Johanna added the gay part! I guess someone else said it was a suicide one. I swear! I'll swear it on Prim's life. Oh! Let's do a blood pact!" Peeta stared at me as if I lost my mind while I grabbed him by the shoulders to shake him back. "Yes! It'll be like being kids again! I have a knife!"

"I'm not doing a blood pact with you!" He stepped away from me as if repelled by some deep, intense force. "You're fucking tainted! Traitor! Judas!"

"I'm not Judas!" I sobbed.

"Judas!" he pointed at me.

"Peeta, come on, please!" I wiped a hand against my eyes. "It was an accident, I swear."

"Why did you say I was in a cult at all??"

"It doesn't even matter!" I bellowed miserably, turning to collapse face down on my bed. "Christie went out with you anyway."

"What does Christie have to do with anything???"

"You're supposed to be my best friend," I accused, pointing a shaking finger blindly. "Not Christie's."

"What?" I felt the bed dip. "Katniss, why are you doing this?"

"I don't want you to have a girlfriend," I moaned. I was so pathetic. "You're going to fall in love and leave me forever."

"Why would me getting a girlfriend stop us from being friends?"

"Don't you get it?" I sat up to stare at him. "I don't want you to have a girlfriend."

"Why?" He said insistently.

"BECAUSE I WANT TO BE YOUR GIRLFRIEND!" I screamed. I put both my hands on his chest and shoved him. "Why are you so dense?"

Peeta stared at me, shocked. He was half on the floor and half on my bed. "You want to be my girlfriend?"

"Yes!" I pulled on my hair. "Isn't it obvious? I moved with you to butt fuck nowhere so we could go to college together."

"I thought you just wanted to save on rent!"

"WHY?!" I tossed a pillow at him. "I could have just stayed with my dad back home."

"Oh."

"Yeah," I looked away, smoothing a hand over my messed-up hair.

"Well, you could have just said that instead of ruining my entire life." Peeta climbed back onto the bed. "I thought you knew I liked you."

"WHAT"

"What do you mean what?!"

"Exactly what I mean!"

"Oh my god," Prim rolled her eyes from the kitchen and took a long drink from her glass. "They're idiots."

#writing prompt #prompt #story prompts #thg fanfic #thg #the hunger games

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moon-buggg · 3 days

Text

Not so different after all

I wanted to explore Moon's relationship with mad scientist! Y/n a bit, so I wrote this drabble! It's the first piece of non-academic writing I've shared since middle school, so be kind lol

length- 585 words

warnings- vague descriptions of bodies and dismemberment (yn is taking organs out of a cadaver to preserve them, its not graphic but viewer discretion is advised)

Sun had asked you, once, how you could stomach the dirty work of your experiments. ‘The body is just meat,’ you had responded, elbow deep in a cadaver, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As if it were perfectly normal for humans to rifle through their own for spare parts. As if you had not been shunned from your peers for this exact transgression.

Moon wasn’t squeamish. The opening of a body so unlike his own did not unsettle him in the way it unsettled Sun. No, it wasn’t the blood, viscera, or decay that made him feel like this, like everything was wound too tight, grating and wrong.

It was you.

And watching you preserve your latest specimen (another failure, not that you would let that stop you), he could hold his tongue no longer.

“Easy. They’re all hypocrites.” The accusation is harsh and sharp on your tongue. “Did you know they had us dissecting pigs in medical school but not once did we ever oversee a human dissection? Sure the anatomy transfers decently enough, but how were we supposed to treat human patients never learning from humans? What makes our bodies worthy of preserving over pigs? That we figured out pants first?”

“How are you ok with this,” he does not gesture to the human brain currently soaking in formaldehyde, “when everyone tells you it is wrong?”

The disgust in your voice is evident. Moon had always appreciated that about you, your complete inability to mask your emotions- or was it just a lack of interest? It did not help him in deciphering you in this moment.

You continue on, either unaware of your rambling or used to his lack of response. “I mean really, who do they think they are?-”

Moon tuned you out. He'd heard this rant plenty of times before. Nothing about your sworn vengeance on and superiority over those who wronged you would help explain why you made him so confused.

Why your flippant treatment of bodies reminded him of the circus’s repair tent.

You were still talking, never once stopping your task of preparing various organs for preservation. Ever quick and methodical, your hands never stopped moving. “-ean, really, the body is just a machine!” you huff, dropping the heart into a jar like it had offended you.

“...a machine,” he parrots. You remain unaware of how his eyes bore holes into the back of your head.

“Exactly! One that I will take apart and master!” Your easy confidence about such grim matters unsettles many, used to unsettle him. He crosses the laboratory with two long steps and leans over you, observing your work more closely. A body lies cold and empty on the metal gurney, its innards laid out in jars across your desk. You’ve moved on to labeling now, penning down notes in a shorthand he’s yet to decipher. The silence is… comfortable, broken only by your pen scratchings and the quiet ticking of Moon’s internal clockwork.

You look back at him only once, a questioning but otherwise blank stare, before returning to your work. Not displeased, at least.

He continues watching as you finish labeling and move to writing in that same shorthand in a journal. He doesn’t know if you would explain it to him if he asked, so he doesn’t. He just continues to watch. And as the sun sinks in the sky, he slinks away and activates the electric lights for you before returning to his perch.

#dca fandom #fnaf dca #dca au #moon x reader #moon x y/n #mad science au #dca x reader #dca x y/n #my writing

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ashtrayfloors · 15 days

Text

SORRY I DON'T FEEL LIKE TALKING ABOUT GOLF TODAY

We announce the world first existed in the form of a human body without mouth or eyes / without limbs or lungs / without glands or genitalia / without necessity of food / without motion / without empathy / without virus or vaccine / poison or antidote / so we became the first virus / & we became our own vaccine // We became open mouths & closed eyes // We became legions of cold compassion thrumming in a spacious forever / / flailing architects constructing intricately engineered endings // Over & over // For everyone / everything // More monstrous / more energetic / more insensate / more infernal // Bodies like sword-wielding skeletons slashed apart then reforming again & again until a fire-greased weapon unfurls them for good / bodies like drainage canals / bodies like drain cleaner / bodies like ant poison / bodies like battleground states / bodies like badlands / bodies like butterfly knives / bodies like broken touchscreens / bodies like breathtaking vistas of bodily hell / bodies like empty penthouses / bodies like empty infinity pools / bodies like empty stomachs / bodies like empty eye sockets / bodies like empty food courts / bodies like empty milk cartons / bodies like empty playgrounds / bodies like empty classrooms // Where you expect to find ocean you only find whalefall / recycling / crumbling forests of bleached coral // Where you expect to find clarity & awe you find cosmetic & pharmaceutical pollutants // You can’t stop listening for sounds that will never be made again / because the listening comforts you / but the listening hurts & the comfort hurts / grinding your teeth to the rhythm of the dead refrigerator’s hum // Our sweat is cold & culpable // We toss & turn & braid with the sheets / put our ears to each other’s chests expecting to hear heartbeats / instead finding dial tones / yearning for blues & greens you’ve never found in the flesh // So many bright rooms with no people inside // So many tangles of rain molding our homes from the inside // So easy to hide the profane from the sacred / to pretend the sirens surrounding us are nothing more than silence // Your cadaver lies supine in a tranquil field of lavender //

—Adam Fell, from Strange Horizons (November 2022)

#poetry #adam fell #recently read #i love this

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archiveikemen · 7 months

Text

'His Cherished Doll' Story Event: Premium END

William Rex

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection. I do not own any of the original content. Please support CYBIRD by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

❥･• Warnings and FAQ

My body was forcefully held in the hand of a man who wasn’t Will.

Avoiding the eyes of the other people present, the man snuck into a room in the mansion.

Under the room’s light, the face of the man who captured me was revealed.

(This person talked to Will earlier…)

– Flashback Start –

Doctor Cedric: Allow me to introduce myself as well. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Earl Rex.

William: Ah… Doctor Cedric Hamilton, is it? I heard that you’re very passionate about your research on developing new drugs.

– Flashback End –

Back then, I quickly thought to act like a doll, but it seemed that he had already noticed me moving.

With me still in his hand, the doctor started rambling excitedly.

Doctor Cedric: You can breathe and blink… what a mysterious lifeform!

Doctor Cedric: How did this happen to you? Are you a living person? When did this happen?

(... I can’t keep up my act anymore. In that case…)

(Before that, I want to find out even just a little bit about his intentions.)

— Will will definitely come to my rescue.

As long as I have Will, I’ll be completely fine.

Kate: Before that, please answer my question first. Why are you in such a place?

Doctor Cedric: I have been pursuing Earl Rex, because I heard that he’s funding the Royal Hospital.

Doctor Cedric: I want to ask for him to fund my research as well.

Kate: … Is it research for a new drug?

Doctor Cedric: That’s only one part. I want to know everything.

Doctor Cedric: There are still many things about the human body that are unknown, it’s so mysterious… I can’t stand not knowing all about it!

Doctor Cedric: I want to know every single thing about the human body, and that’s why I’m here.

Doctor Cedric: It’s certainly God’s will for me to know everything…

Doctor Cedric: Now… reveal it all to me. I want to know every nook and cranny of your body…

Kate: … *gulp*

William: Thank you for that passionate proclamation of love to my lover, Cedric Hamilton.

Doctor Cedric: … Earl Rex…?

Kate: … W-Will!

William: You naughty girl, having another man court you while I’m away. Now, come back to me.

Doctor Cedric: This girl is Earl Rex’s… lover? No, that doesn't matter right now.

Doctor Cedric: This girl should be presented to the medical society. She will definitely be an extremely valuable research material…

Doctor Cedric: No, no. I must dissect her myself. Anyone who dares interfere, even if it’s Earl Rex—

The doctor pulled out a sharp scalpel from his breast pocket.

(He’s pointing it at Will…!)

(Take this!)

I bit down as hard as I could on a finger on his right hand, the hand holding the scalpel.

Doctor Cedric: Ouch!?

He let go of the scalpel and it tumbled onto the ground. The one who caught my body was—

William: Welcome back, Thumbelina. Or should I call you my courageous knight instead?

Kate: It’s nice to be back, Will. Fufu, you can call me whatever you like.

Doctor Cedric: D… Damn it…

Doctor Cedric: Give her back to me… this girl is my precious research material…

William: Cedric. I heard a rumour that you have been purchasing cadavers through illegal means for dissection.

Doctor Cedric: H-How did you know that…

William: You have a long history of other crimes, shall I list them all?

Doctor Cedric: … ugh

William: You haven't committed murder. However, it's undeniable that you've committed the sin of being indirectly involved in them.

William: Craving for more knowledge is a beautiful thing, but… it can get a little too extreme.

Doctor Cedric: … Ah, ahh…

William: — Shall we negotiate? Cedric Hamilton.

After negotiating with Cedric, Will and I returned to Crown’s castle.

…

This was the condition Will offered to Cedric—

In exchange for turning a blind eye to his crimes, Cedric was to never tell anyone about me.

Although it was called a “negotiation”, he became under Will’s control from now on.

— He would never dare to commit crimes again.

(Will silenced him and even condemned him for his sins… impressive.)

Will prepared some tea, he placed me in his palm and looked at me.

William: — So, my adorable Thumbelina, is there something you’ve been wanting to ask me from earlier?

Kate: … Yes. How did you know about that doctor’s crimes beforehand?

William: How?

Kate: It wouldn’t be surprising if you knew the sins of every person in England, but…

Kate: You wouldn't be able to remember them all, would you?

William: Right, my mind is too occupied with my memories of you.

Kate: Will… please don't dodge my question and answer me.

There was a playful flicker of joy in Will’s red eyes, his beautiful lips curled into a smile.

William: The reason for going to that mansion tonight was to see that man.

Kate: Huh…?

William: I remember hearing from Roger that there wasn’t enough of the drug needed to return you to your original form.

William: Cedric was expected to show himself there tonight.

William: He's notorious for being a drug enthusiast, that’s why I thought that he must have the medication we need.

Kate: So that means…

William: Yes, this was kept a secret from you — during the negotiation with Cedric, I had one more condition.

Will narrowed his eyes, like he was about to tell me a top secret—.

William: “A man named Roger will be coming later, you will show him to the place where you store your drugs.”

William: “And give him whatever he says he needs from you.”

William: Roger should have obtained the drug by now.

William: Since it’s Roger we’re speaking of, that man most likely took all the other drugs Cedric had in possession as well.

I was under the assumption that Will attended the social gathering tonight on a whim.

(... And yet, it was all… for the sake of helping me return to my original form.)

He once again provided me with the best solution to a problem.

My heart felt so full from Will’s love, I almost couldn't speak.

Kate: … T-Thank you so much, Will.

William: Anything for my sweetheart.

William: I only want you to remember one thing.

William: Kate.

He gently caressed my cheek with his fingers that I loved so much.

William: It doesn’t matter what form you take. As long as you’re still you, that’s alright.

William: I fell in love with the beauty of you as a human being.

Kate: Will…

Will’s voice and words soaked into my heart, spurring my desires.

(... I want to kiss you. I want to be even more deeply affectionate with you.)

He gave me a kiss, as though he had seen right through me and knew what I wanted.

Kate: Mm… mm…

William: Kate.

Kate: … Yes?

William: Want to try and see how far we can take this while you’re in this form…?

Kate: How… far…?

William: Yeah, those shameful yet pleasurable things you love—.

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #cybird ikemen #otome #cybird otome #ikevil story event #william rex

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delicrieux · 1 year

Note

hello darling! soo i’m one of the Aemond gals, could you maybe write something with him? maybe the reader is from our world and just out of blue she finds herself in Westeros! Aemond is so dumbfounded - here she is, this weird girl, talking about some nonsense things, well educated in history and philosophy (another nurts obvi) with sparkling dragon-like coloured irises, so lost but welcoming everything that surrounds her, even all of him. welll as you can see - I’m so deep in it! if you decide to write something about this, thank you so much!! take care! 🌟🌟

TRAVELER | endless drabble series (winter edition)

summary: differences can actually be appealing pairing: aemond targaryen x f!reader a/n: i changed it up a bit, i hope you don’t mind!! i didn’t rly know how to incorporate our world reader into westeros, so i just made her origins unknown but heavily implied to be from sothoryos, which, to be fair, is kinda from a different world too! used 4. mulled wine from this list <3

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open for the winter prompts list 1 & 2 !

It had been a regular flight - easy winds, no storms but an odd fad of snow - when he had noticed a strange figure asleep in the frost covered plains up North. From so high up, Aemond could not yet tell if it was a bear or a human - the first would be easier to explain, but his curiosity was quipped and so Vhagar cast her wings and dipped down and what he saw proved to be quite extraordinary.

There, a woman in a dress, asleep in a ring of dewy grass. The only thing valuable seemed to be her jewels - big, heavy silver rings and long, clunky pendants made from black oily stones. Like a lily submerged underwater, he figured she had died from the cold. But as he landed, and the ground shook, so did the body, and the woman slowly, achingly opened her eyes to see the mouth of a dragon.

That waxen face now breathes with life in a local tavern. Drunken sonnets spill into the air like ale on wooden tables, and she nurses her second cup of mulled wine. The cup’s clay, chipped - she had cut her lip when she first took a sip, though it seemed that she did not notice. Aemond, sitting across from her, measures her up and down once more - so far, she had given no indication of knowing where she is, or who he is, nor did she portray any surprise faced with a dragon.

Covered in furs and deer hide, she’s finally warm enough to speak, “My thanks, stranger.” She says, and he’s fascinated by her accent, a fluid song broken by the harsh rasp of the chill. She smiles, and her jewelry glimmers in the dancing fires of the hearth.

“It’s surprising you didn’t die,” He comments, holding his own cup, “the North is not usually so kind to travelers.”

“I am lucky,” She admits, almost shyly, “though I don’t recall how is it that I got here, nor where I came from.”

“Perhaps you’re from beyond the Wall?” He suggest smugly, but she only shakes her head with a small smile.

“In the Lands of Always Winter, I do wonder what world lies there. Where it ends, and where it begins - at the same point of measure, perhaps? It’s easy to get lost in the snow, turned around all over; perhaps there are dragons there as well that breathe frost, not unlike those in the Shivering Sea?” She tilts her head at his confusion, “You’ve read the histories, no?”

“I’ve had the leisure.” He says curtly.

“Then you must know a great deal of Valyria.” She says, “Have you ever been?”

“There’s nothing left of it.”

She blinks, “...Truly? Nothing? No graves or gold or cadavers to tell tales older than time? No ancient ruins and histories lost to us, only to be rediscovered?”

“You seem to know all but of the fact that old Valyria is covered in greyscale. Or did you forget to read that page in the tomes you poured over before falling ill in the North?”

She laughs, “Are you afraid?” She lowers her head, watches him under her lashes, “A Prince, afraid of sickness. I figured Targaryens cannot be burned, thus cannot be ill. Or are those all fairy tales as well?”

He raises a brow, “So you do know who I am.”

“Hard not to when the bard sings praises of Prince Aemond One-Eye as soon as you walk in with me in tow,” Her gazes fixates on the leather patch, “what happened to it?”

“My cousin cut it out.” He retorts.

She hums, “Blood for blood. Have you taken your vengeance yet?”

“I’m a patient man.”

“Patience is a kind virtue unless used otherwise.” She empties her cup, “More, please,” She pushes it to him, “I still can’t feel my fingers.”

He looks at her rings as he holds up a hand for the waitress, “Those seem expensive. You surprise me, traveler. I wonder how they have not been stolen.”

Something shifts in her expression, and a chill creeps up from behind. The waitress pours wine and the traveler smiles, but it’s a strange smile, one he should not trust. She feels dangerous, suddenly, and he is all the more intrigued.

“Would you like to keep one?” It’s an innocent question, but it holds something dark underneath all of that loveliness.

“I have no fancy for jewelry,” He refuses easily, though his heart beats just a tad faster. If he did not know any better, he’d think it’s from nerves, “as a prince I have many and find it quite ugly. My brother would like one, though.”

She retracts her hands and her smile falls, “He didn’t save me from the snow, so he has no use for it.”

It did not quite seem as if she needed saving, but the severity in her voice urges his pride. Perhaps he’ll be a hero yet.

“Have you got a name?” He inquires, and he’s all past common decency, never had any to begin with. He wishes to know.

She thinks, “Everyone has a name, no? Surely, I do think everyone does. Even toys, the objects of our affection, and our sword, and ships, and pets, do. I heard some ladies name their favorite perfumes. It builds attachment, you never forget something or someone with a name. I must have a name, I think, only for the life of me I do not remember it. Which begs to question whether I ever had one at all.”

After a pause, she sighs, “I suppose I’m fortunate. I can pick one for myself. Become new, here, in the North. But I don’t think it important. I have no one to share it with, and no one here would like to recall me.”

“I’d like to know your name,” He says, “but only because I wish to know who I saved.”

She grins, “...Then you are free to name me yourself, prince.”

hope u liked it! xx

#aemond imagine #hotd #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #imagine #imagines #reader #xreader #got #game of thrones #request

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little-engineer-who-cant · 16 days

Text

Jason has an identity crisis, tries to fuck his way out of all his feelings and fails miserably.

Part 1 of Sirens Scream Names Forgotten by Tomorrow, Laid to Rest in Infinity

(also posted under cut)

“Be kind to the jaded souls, the ones with jagged edges and bones weary and crumbling. Be gentle with them not because you may break them to pieces with one wrong touch, not because you may cut yourself on their serrated fingers, but because the world has never known to be gentle with them. Because they have never known to be gentle with themselves.”

- don’t you think they’ve suffered enough? (j.p.)

It’s easy to slip away from that warehouse in the chaos of his own trap springing, leaving the hero and his newest child soldier with nothing but his laughter ringing in their ears. For all of Batman’s tech, his strength, his mind, there’s no way for a living and breathing man to track a phantom that doesn’t want to be found. Dead men tell no tales and all that.

(Oh, but you do.)

That part hadn’t been planned, but he’s more than a little smug about handling it as smoothly as he did. Even unprepared, there was just too much that he knew about Bruce and wasn’t that just unsettling to old Batsie?

(You wanted him to know you, didn’t you? Wanted him to see past the mask.)

(Shut up, it’s not time.)

A wrench like Bruce had a certain amount of unpredictability, that was true. Humans usually did. But to fucking show up personally for a seemingly small potatoes villain like him and not just send that little shit of a replacement Robin like he’d been anticipating… you’ve changed your game a bit, huh old man? No, he’s apparently now made just enough of a name for himself that the Bat himself wanted to talk. At least the talking part hadn't changed. Same as always, it was about the smokescreen, the show. The act of making Bruce feel better about himself, like he had tried to deescalate the situation but any violence that resulted was always someone else’s fault. Never his. They all forced his hand, you see?

(Like you’re trying to now.)

What a fucking joke , like the old man would ever say something worth hearing. Trying to be reasonable, through heavy handed threats of grievous bodily harm, how the fuck did I ever go along with that? Being a child was only so much of an excuse. He’d been old enough then to understand the words that were being thrown about, he’d just been too caught up in being the Robin to Batman that he hadn’t cared about the meanings like he does now. Being on the receiving end makes him look more closely at this warped funhouse mirror that’s become his… life? Unlife?

Whatever. The specifics of his… situation … are too complicated to parse through his feelings on those right now. Not when all he wants to do is take his now warm and living fist and slam it into Bruce’s face for having the fucking nerve to bring another child into this, like Jason meant nothing. Just the first body in a God knows how long of a line of them to come. Some kind of demented conga line of dead birds; maybe he’s more like the Joker than he wants to think he is and that thought makes him snort a bitter huff of amusement under his breath then grimace at the ache in his ribs.

(He’s a vampire bat, maybe, they feed on birds.)

(Fuck.)

That’s a whole other can of worms that he is not looking into right now. Bad enough his carcass was replaced so easily. Even worse if it was planned.

If he goes down that line of thought, he might light this whole city on fire and leave Bruce screaming in the ashes, bleeding out from a thousand cuts.

No, no, no, he’s got a plan already and that’s bleeding this city dry and watching Bruce try to desperately revive its picked over cadaver the way he never tried to revive Jason’s before he gives the old shit the mercy of a bullet-

(Maybe you’re the vampire.)

-just because that’s justice . And that’s all the Batman’s after, right? All he’s ever been after, if all the lines he fed to his Robins-

(His food-)

-could be believed.

(Chewed you up and spit you in the ground, he’ll do it again and again-)

His fist raps the alley wall a few times, enough to sting and drive back the looming cloud that threatens to swirl around and become a living typhoon. There’ll be blood under his gloves from how tight he’s clenched his fist, splitting open old wounds, but that’s fine. What’s blood loss going to do? Kill him? He’s no stranger to handling a bruise or a hundred, that’s par for the course in his life now. Has been for years. A couple cracked ribs and some bloody knuckles are not going to slow him down.

No, what really fucking stings is whatever is left in that cavity inside his chest, the hole that he used to think was patched when Bruce brought him into that huge house, when Alfred smiled and snuck him cookies.

(That was the fucking dream, wasn’t it? Warm house, warm food, then you get the shit beat out of you to go fight crime.)

Turnabout is fair play and all that nonsense.

The side of his fist finds that same brick wall but he doesn’t smash into it, just rests his gloved knuckles against the abrasive surface. No use breaking his hand for a momentary fit of rage, it won’t help anything and he needs to keep his head on straight. There’s a plan here and he hasn’t gotten this far by losing his cool. It’s just a grounding point that he presses against, one that won’t crumble no matter how hard he shoves. It’s exactly what he needs because God knows there isn’t a person he can take this out on-

(Yes there is.)

(Shut up.)

But his body turns towards his magnetic north anyways and he doesn’t stop it. It was a token protest anyways. Truth will out and all that bullshit. Well, Batman didn’t get the truth tonight but someone else will. Someone else will look this horrid amalgamation in the eye and either run or treat him just as gingerly as Talia did. Like the weapon he’d spent so long honing himself to be, the monster he’d welcomed into that place that-

That still hurts. It still hurts, in that cavity inside. The part he never thought had a chance in hell of crawling out of that hole and back into his sad sack of a meat suit. Jason Todd went into the ground a whole boy, the Red Hood emerged a warped reimagining of that little corpse, grown strong and tough and-

(And you failed.)

One day, he’d finish that fucking clown. One day, he’d dig the bastard a pit to Hell next to what used to be Jason Todd’s grave, but first, he had a bigger score to settle. In the end, in the here and now, this wasn’t about the Joker or even about Jason fucking dying. It was about Tim goddamn Drake.

Because what had changed, really? What changed? Nothing. He’s died and come back, he’s been buried and dug himself out with his fucking belt buckle and nothing changed. Not even Robin changed. Tim Drake is just another child following Bruce, spouting his words, punching the people Bruce points at and all of them, both of us, were just replacements for Dick who was a replacement for the family Bruce lost. And none of them ever lived up to it, I died trying to be that and still failed to do that right-

It’s as easy as breathing, though that’s a little painful right now, slipping up the wire-frame fire escape in the darkness. Never change, Gotham, never change. A last sweeping look over the city confirms that he’s alone. Or as alone as a log ever gets in a stacked fire pit, waiting for a match to drop. Or maybe this city’s already smoldering and he’s trying to frantically pour water on it.

(If water is gasoline maybe. Then you’d be God.)

(Shut. Up.)

His ribs ache as he slips into her apartment through a once locking window, confident no one is following him, not even the little shit in a stolen suit who’d tried so hard to get the drop on him. But the kid is just that, still a kid. Jason’s been in the game for a long time, not even Bruce knows how far his reach in Gotham goes now. This isn’t Batman’s city anymore, it’s Red Hood’s. It’s his. Bruce may fight crime, but Jason grew up embedded in it. He knows it in a way Bruce and his silver spoon never will, no matter how he studies its occupants. Because he isn’t one of them like Jason is. To a grown gutter urchin, these streets are home, their busted lights a balm to his soul, the screams of brakes and people alike a familiar lullaby. Even the muted throbbing in his face is familiar, almost a comfort of home. It’s certainly not the worst hit he’s ever taken, even discounting the obvious comparison.

Her bedroom is empty like he knew it would be. It’s Friday, she doesn’t work tomorrow and it’s not even that late. Barely past eleven. Really, he’s impressed with himself, taking an early night off. His ribs will hurt like a bitch tomorrow and his cheek might be fractured from the stupid kid’s pretty solid punch before he split, but the mask did it’s job, taking most of what might have otherwise knocked him down. And he’d left the Bat and his replacement-

(God damn you, did I ever mean anything to you besides being the means to your end?)

-frazzled and afraid. A few more steps in this grand plan and the truth would come out, the web he’d been weaving around The World’s Greatest Detective would close and there would be no way out. Either Bruce would pull the trigger, or Jason would. If you pull it old man, it might not stick. Is that what you want?

At this point he doesn’t know who he’s talking to, his imaginary Bruce or himself.

Where is she? He needs a distraction from these swirling thoughts, a way out of the growing labyrinth in his head. She’s always been that since he found her, a light in the dark, a soothing balm over an open wound. She’s not part of this world, with its shrouds and lies and agendas, she’s just a girl living her life and unfortunate enough to have found the devil on her doorstep.

Crazy enough to have let him in, despite all the warning signs.

The whisper soft humming from the dark abyss beyond the doorway echoes in his ears like a siren song, alerting him to her location and he smiles under the mask. Drawing him into her embrace again, the only comfort he had that didn’t come from watching the life leave someone’s eyes. The only warmth he felt that didn’t involve him being elbow deep in someone’s chest cavity to feel it, didn’t need a slit artery or have a-

(bomb as my pyre, feeling flesh melt, unable to move, unable to scream-)

-match burning down to his fingertips just to feel something other than apathy and bone melting rage.

He watches her from the doorway, silent and shadowed. There’s no moon tonight, no star bright enough to turn on him and expose his presence or even grace him with a shadow of his own. No streetlights. She’s an office worker, not a millionaire, so she’s not in the part of the city where they keep replacing those when they inevitably get shot out. But the shirt she’s wearing is light grey, mine, she’s wearing my… Jason’s shirt, and the walking shell of Jason Todd isn’t the one who watches it float around the room like a ghost, flickering at the hem in time with the movement of her legs, the back vanishing and reappearing in time with the swinging of her loose braid.

Blue light washes over her face, staining her lips as she clicks on the kettle. It takes every ounce of his considerable self control not to stalk over, not to press his fingers, mouth, entire being against those lips to make sure they’re warm with life and breath, not washed out and cold like a corpse. He’s seen too many, he’s made even more-

(you’ve been one too, don’t you remember what it was like trying to move those stiff limbs? It took you hours to feel again, trapped in that box-)

-and if there is one certainty in life it’s that if she keeps welcoming into her sanctuary, she’ll be another one to add to the list of his sins. His hands aren’t clean and she isn’t safe. This was a mistake, he should not have come here, he should have done what he usually does. Rampage around another supervillain or five for old times sake. Grit his teeth and put his shoulder back to the grindstone to burrow his way deeper into Gotham’s underworld, chiseling away at the Batman’s iron grip until he replaces it with his titanium one instead. But no, he’s an idiot . So, he’s here, in her apartment in the dead of night, uninvited.

Jason Todd, the shy and uncomfortable man she met at a fun little nightclub, is not watching her.

The Red Hood, Gotham’s latest war dog, is.

(Is he?)

Sometimes, he wonders if there’s a difference anymore but it doesn’t matter right now. Not when they both want her. Because they’re both me but who the fuck is that anymore? Jason’s dead, the Red Hood is Joker’s, what am I?

She notices him, of course she does. She’s too perceptive not too. Sometimes, he wonders what happened to make her that way, wants to ask about the small, oddly scattered scars like knife wounds-

(too similar to yours)

-that dot her body, but she doesn’t ask about his disappearances, his odd hours, the blood and death that have burrowed so deep into him that they’re practically lovers, so he keeps his mouth shut. Her secrets are her own, God knows he has plenty. Whatever has happened to her, it’s tuned her into the smallest shifts in her carefully created atmosphere, her protective bubble, her sanctuary. She notices him and there’s no telling what gave him away. The ragged breathing behind his mask, the soft creak of leather when his fists clenched, some other presence that he can feel clinging to him like a second skin and dripping from his lips like blood as he pants-

It’s a phantom, given life by his every exhale, moving in a disjointed and phony copy of his own limbs, but it’s his and his alone. Rage made manifest, always closer on nights like these, ones where the acrid scents of smoke and gunpowder and iron cling to him even after a shower, like it's an expensive cologne and he wonders how she hasn’t guessed the truth. Or maybe she has. She’s smart, too smart, too perceptive not to.

(Then why doesn’t she run from me?)

Robin would have been good for her to find. Even an older, jaded, more independent Robin like Dick would have been better. But no, she’d picked the worst possible one, the skeletal remains of a bird too young to fly before it was launched from the nest to fall, to struggle, to die. There was no feasible way she could have known, sidling up to him and flashing him that smile, ignoring every warning sign with the single minded determination of a self-destructive spiral, but shouldn’t she have seen? Seen the blood under his fingernails-

(they’re clean, you wear gloves)

-seen the fangs in his mouth-

(they’re normal teeth)

-heard the growl in his voice that screamed run, run, run-

(Why didn’t you run?)

No, she’d looked into the lion’s mouth and smiled without fear, run delicate fingers through his mane, put her number in his phone and yanked him into her addictive embrace. She should have found Robin and maybe she’d find that little brat one day but right now she has a nightmare made flesh in her kitchen.

His hand flexes, wrapped around the butt of the gun holstered on his thigh like it’s a child’s comfort toy, not a deadly mechanism of destruction that he could so easily turn on her. Never, I never will . If a bullet kills her, it won’t be his, even if it’s because of him the trigger is pulled. Small comforts. The other fist clenches harder at the bitter thought, like the pressure will stop him from doing something even stupider than standing here. Like he can stop himself from reaching out, a demon to an angel, falling further over his abyss of damnation to reach her divine light.

So she notices. So she turns, so she sees. Sees him, towering in the shadows like he wants to melt into them. Sees the red covering his jaw and mouth and nose and cheeks, the black covering his eyes, the hood above all that. Sees the kevlar, the weapons, the gloves, the rage pulsing from his skin like a living being. Sees the truth of the man she’s been letting into her life and into her bed, a reaper come to take his due, coming here was a mistake-

He sees the truth on her face, the flicker of comprehension and complex emotion that cannot be anything but fear . Hears it, in the way her breath catches on an inhale that sounds like a gunshot between them, her to him, echoing over the actual gunshots outside. This was a mistake, you’ve fucked up-

Then, she’s slowly stepping toward him, like he’s an animal she’s trying not to spook. You’ve fucked up, Todd . This nice, kind, normal girl who was somehow able to see whatever shell of Jason was left under all of his Red Hood bravado, now being confronted with the truth that they are one in the same and something else entirely and fuck, he’s just fucked this whole thing up, isn’t that what you wanted? You knew she would never be safe-

If she runs, he won’t blame her even one bit. He’ll let her go, even though she threatens his whole plan because she knows now. But the memories of her fingers twisted with his as she dragged Jason Todd along a park path, joy in her eyes and laughter on her lips even when he stumbled… He’ll let her go. His hands are weapons that Bruce shaped long ago, people always choose to avoid him instead of crossing his path but she’s headstrong in her lack of fear. He’s a man to her, nothing more, and even if she runs from the devil, he’ll let her escape this one time just for that kindness.

She doesn’t run.

She also doesn’t take his hand.

She doesn’t touch him at all.

No, Anna kneels in front of him, eyes not wavering from his face even as her mouth is level with his groin. Jason doesn’t dare breathe, what the fuck is she doing and she doesn’t break eye contact as she opens her mouth and presses a filthy kiss to the front of his pants, tongue dragging up his inseam to mouth at his belt buckle as she looks up at him and blinks once, a question.

There’s a breathless beat where she stares up at him and Jason does his best to play off his surprise as stretching the moment like he’s considering her offer, like he wouldn’t die a thousand deaths to take her up on it.

(She didn’t run. Take what you can get.)

The syrup slow moment passes as he follows her desire into whatever abyss this is. This is why he came here, to forget. And it’s so, so easy to forget when she’s smiling at him.

Anything else can come later.

—

He wakes up the next morning sore . Both from the strain of fighting those who he doesn’t want to fucking think about right now and the intensity of his worst, or maybe smartest, spur of the moment decision that followed.

“Shit,” he breathes, watching his breath puff out in the chilly air. Her heat isn’t working again, fucking cheap-ass landlord . He rolls onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes to stop the assault of the full daytime outside, taking a deep breath.

Last night was a line that he crossed at full fucking sprint, he should not have come here in full Red Hood costume after a confrontation with Batman and his replacement-

Jason takes a slow, calming breath. Rage and panic won’t help anything, it’ll just cloud his judgment. And he’s already clouded enough because he came here last night instead of running to ground in a safe house like he absolutely should have . It doesn’t matter that he lost any potential of a tail, that he was clear of trackers, he had promised himself that first night that he would not get Anna mixed up in this. She’s a good, nice girl and has no business being close to him but he’s fucking pathetic and she cares about him and he’s drawn to her sweetness like a moth to flame. Knowing it’s going to burn him but doing it anyway.

There’s a part of him that knows she’s known something this whole time. He’s subtle but she’s smart. And now he’s blown the whole charade, breaking into her apartment at ass o’clock at night in full Red Hood regalia… god damn it, Todd. One person who cared about whatever’s left of you . It was a mistake, she’ll see that in the light of day. The bravery the dark gave her will fade. She’s a practical woman, she’ll know it’s too dangerous to let him stay.

But he’s a grown ass man who has to face the music he wrote, he can’t wallow in her bed forever. All his clothes, and his fucking mask God damn it all, are strewn in the other rooms. His dick twitches at the memory and he hates himself a little, mind-blowing sex does not make what you did okay, own up to it and face her like a man. So he takes a deep breath, pulls his arm away from his face and looks at the empty side of the bed. She’s probably been up for a while now. Rises with the sun and doesn’t even think of stopping her movements until after it sinks. Maybe she’ll give me a secret for a secret?

But that’s a hypocrite talking. Just because he busted into her apartment and basically handed her his head on a silver platter does not mean she’s going to do the same. And if she came to hide out in Gotham of all places…

If he digs, it won’t be hard to find out. But where will he be then? What good would it do? No, this is fine.

She’s Anna, that’s all that matters.

He’s… someone, but in her bed and in her life, he feels a bit closer to human. Maybe not Jason Todd, maybe never again, but… closer to the dream of it that almost feels like a memory on the good days.

He sighs, then stands up, rubbing a hand over the scruff on his jaw, mumbling to himself about needing to shave, then goes over to ‘his’ drawer in her dresser, the one where she keeps all the clothes she’s stolen from him over the months they’ve been… whatever they are. Whatever you can be when you’ve been lying to her, you bastard. Can’t be a relationship, that’s for fucking sure.

Maybe it can be.

Fed up with his own internal monologue, the very thing he came here to escape, he pulls out a pair of sweatpants and yanks them on, then runs a hand through his hair and looks in the mirror. Tired, he looks tired. Bruises on his ribs and scrapes on his arms, the beginnings of a shiner on one cheekbone from the little prick, a few hickeys scattered along his throat and collarbones. Stop stalling, he glares at his own reflection, then turns on his heel and stalks towards the bedroom door, opening it and stepping into the apartment before he loses what little nerve he has left. The King of Gotham, brought to his knees by a slip of a girl whose smile could melt ice in a snowstorm. Christ, Todd, what’ve you come to?

She’s in the kitchen again, her kettle heating up for morning tea. His heart aches as he leans in the doorway, folding his arms and watching the way his shirt rides up her thighs as she walks, a slight hitch in her step, the way her braid can’t cover all the marks he left on her throat last night, the way she stirs honey into her tea, a sure sign that her throat is raw from- He breathes through his nose to banish the image before he pops a completely inappropriate boner.

Instead he refocuses on how the sunlight catches the colors in her lovely hair, highlighting the lighter brown streaks hidden away in the dark color and showing that it is, in fact, brown and not black. A deep chocolate color that makes him think of syrup or rich, dark wood of expensive furniture that no one wants to ruin. She’s beautiful, humming to herself and smiling as she takes a sip of this still-too-hot tea like she always does, hissing a bit but then making a small noise of satisfaction that it’s just right. Taking the tea bag out and disposing of it, turning around with a bright smile and-

“Hey,” she says, still smiling, eyes still shining and crinkling in the corners in genuine delight, her voice a little raspy, “morning sleepyhead.”

“Morning,” he rumbles out, arms still crossed, waiting for her to tell him to get the hell out before he drags her into his complicated mess of a life-

She holds out a hand, sipping her tea again. “Come’ere.”

He stares at the extended hand, glances over to the open area where her living room is. He sees his Red Hood suit, carefully folded and placed on the coffee table, his mask resting on top. Bold and open in the broad daylight, not hidden away or uncomfortably left untouched. Cared for.

He looks back at her and her open smile, her quiet, understanding eyes, still crinkled at the edges, happy. Slowly, he straightens, unfolds his arms, waits for her hand to draw away, for her to flinch.

She doesn’t. He takes her hand and steps into her sunlight with a smile, with something in his chest that might be the memory of hope.

(Neither of them see their shadows lurking in the corners, looming larger than them, just as entwined. How hers looms over his in the bright rays they bask in, the darkness swallowing the sun. Just as hungry.

He may be the Red Hood, but Silena is a wolf.)

#jason todd #bruce wayne #tim drake #batman #my writing #ao3 link #as this series is rapidly approaching it's conclusion I've now decided to start posting it here too

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streaminn · 9 months

Text

My brain is bored and my mind is thinking

Say, we all know that Wednesday is lowkey spoilt right? She always expected things to go her way, you can see it in the way she barges into Weems office or how lil care she has whenever she shoves orders at the sheriff's face

So imagine what happens when someone ghosts her

It'd strike her pride because well, Wednesday is the best and she knows this. There would be no reason for why someone wouldn't listen to her nor would there be a reason for someone to... Ignore her like this either

Now that we got that, lemme set the scene

They're adults, no supernatural, just a completely modern au

Enid is an accountant. It's boring, not at all what she expects from when she was younger but all she has to do is calculate money and it's monotonous enough that she can go through days absolutely no thoughts head empty

It's not the future she wants but it's the future she got

Yoko, her lovely coworker notices how not so firey her seatmate is and offers a new chat app because nothing is as fun as deciding to troll random people

Enid squints at the name. "are you seriously telling me to E date right now?"

"pshhhh, ofcourse not!" yoko says unconvincingly. "just get on and play around with some people, maybe talking to someone other than boss and me could liven you up :D"

Enid stares, wondering how tf did yoko do that before sighing and downloading the app. "if I get doxxed, you're helping me move to a new house."

Yoko waves a hand before twirling back to her cubicle. "thank me if you find a sugar daddy!"

Enid flushes. "you know I don't swing that way!"

Yoko laughs.

The blond grumbles before tapping at the recently downloaded app. It's literally like tinder and Enid knows that this is a dating app trying to hide as something else

So in payback, Enid starting basing her profile of yoko. She wasn't petty enough to snap a Pic of her best friend so she went to Google and kind of try harded in making her profile look like an emo girl's aesthetic board

Huh, maybe yoko has a point, this is pretty fun

Oh for the days where Enid could make things, maybe she should pick up crocheting again. Tempting, she'll do that when she gets home

As soon as she was done, Enid began randomly swiping right with absolutely no care at all.

Enid still places her name as enid because.. Why not. By the time she finished her bio, she got too lazy to create a new name so actual name it is!

It takes a bit because apparently no one in this app likes edgy girls who enjoy dark walks, cadaver dogs and wine so dark red it looks like blood. Enid only liked one thing in that list and she wonders how did she become friends with someone with such concerning interests.

Honestly, now that Enid is think about it, her profile kind of sounds like a serial killer's. If they were dumb and was way too open about their interest, so it was no wonder no one was swiping on her

But as she was about to put the phone down and have some faith in people's taste in women, a match was made

Okay, concerning

Time to have some fun.

Immediately, Enid knew this must be some satire account because really? Wednesday A? Very interesting because she too didn't have pictures of herself, instead it was pretty good shots of a Gothic looking house, a lion?? A graveyard and a typewriter

Clearly they were trying to be all Dracula up in this place.

In the bio, it simply said

> author

Enid nods, she can respect sticking to the bit. She lowkey expected a historian but vampires being authors felt fitting aswell

Well, no time like the present! Why not do some classic rp for the shits and giggles

So they start talking

Wednesday types like she doesn't know how to use simply words and well, Enid would've loved to reciprocate because damn the amount of immersion is impressive but after the fifth typo, Enid gave up

And oh, she's a woman

Enid kind of expected a dude to be trolling but when she went "hello good sir, what are you doing this fine day?"

She kind of chokes on her water when Wednesday replies with a "Its ma'am and the day is going quite horridly, the weather where I am at has the temper and I can not wait to experience it first hand."

Who in the nine hells says horridly??

But hey, Wednesday is rping a vampire, Enid can't be all pissy when she's good at it

So they text and they text for days. Maybe it's been a month and Wednesday is just as weird as always, no breaking of character at all and Enid can respect the dedication. Call it escapism but enid has fun acting like she totally would not grimace at the sight of a dead body when Wednesday talked in detail about her novel. From what she's sees, Wednesday sounds like she probably didn't have much friends due to her interests and Enid gets that, so there's no harm in indulging

Until one day, she gets invited out to hang with yoko for the weekend and since she was in such a hurry, she kind of left her phone in her house

Wednesday, old money and living in seclusion, Addams isn't taking that so well. Finally after decades, someone takes her being wholly herself and doesn't seem disgusted. Normally she didn't care, she joined this app simply because her parents insisted for some sort of social interaction outside of family

But enid was different, she didn't try to change the subject, instead she oohs and aaahs at any info Wednesday gives. It's.. Intoxicating when Enid points out how smart she must be to know these type of things. Actually! She wondered more about her family history and didn't sound at all surprised when Wednesday mentions their odd background.

"it's fitting," Enid types. "that you would come from such a strong family, I'm sure they're proud to have someone like you."

It makes a part of Wednesday soar so mayhaps she was going through something when Enid doesn't reply one day.

It goes like this

- Enid - Enid answer me, I know you never go about without your phone - Enid did someone kidnap you? I've gone through channels and none of them match your description - Have I done something wrong? Perhaps a slight that I did not know was a thing? -

"pugsley," Wednesday says, pushing open be door to his room. Her hand is tight on her phone before she slides it over with a tense jaw. "I need you to do find the location of this woman."

Pugsley peers at the screen, raising a brow at the rather nondescript pfp. In bold letters is the username: Enid

the brother agrees and just like that, Enid fate was sealed. The blond was absolutely unaware of what she just got herself into, far too busy spending time with yoko

#Au Thoughts #Wenclair #Or I wanted to type in more dark Wednesday #Wednesday addams #Enid Sinclair

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